otomevillain

[furymint]

wc: 1,165 | @sonderjack requested Masquerade, Command, n Broken for Nol (word prompt meme)

Masks circled in the center of the room, matching themselves to the monikers on their dance card, and waited for the music to swell. Nolanel reassured a woman that he was not the Douglas who promised her the next dance; his name is Feran and no he does not dance; he has no mask because he is a guard. She peered askance at him through her eyelashes. Nolanel excused himself. As he turned, her fingertips swiped over his heart. One of his badges swung after catching on her painted nail. He shuddered.

A violin gave the first soft note and the room’s attention swung to the center. He gave way to annoyance. His vigilance remained on the crowd through the first act of the song afore it found the woman.

She stood against the wall of the room, speaking with a dark-haired man. Her hand rose to her neck to toy with the hair there. Deliberately, her finger looped around the silver chain at her neck, tugging a red pendent free from beneath her collar. A dragon claw dangled from the metallic clasp. She grinned cold as death as she replaced it and reached for a wine glass.

Nolanel’s vision dotted. He took a breath and reached for the knife at his side. Too many people. Do not throw. Do not fear. Sound drained from his senses as he approached. She giggled something to him and lifted her glass in toast.

Nolanel grabbed her by the arm, twisted it, and slammed her against the wall. He pressed the knife against the side of her neck with enough pressure to redden the skin. Her breath caught. She froze. Nolanel removed his weapon to tear her collar aside and snatch her necklace. He pulled it taunt against her throat and spun it to the front. Only the metal clamp remained.

“Damn you!” He returned the knife to her neck and wrenched her arm deeper. Nolanel glared over his shoulder to the man she spoke to. Gone. Idristan approached, fists clenched, blade not drawn.

“Ser Feran,” he called. “Stand down.”

“No, captain. There’s another. Hyuran man, blue cloak, curly black hair–”

The woman squirmed and wailed, red faced in fury. Nolanel strengthened his grip, reeled her into him, and bashed her back into the wall. Her forehead pounded into the stone. Blood weeped around his knife. “Lucky you swallowed that fucking thing or I’d slit your throat right here. Make no mistake, they’ll carve it from you.”

Idristan shoved his way through the gaping crowd. He set his hand to Nolanel’s shoulder and clenched it at the pressure point. “That’s enough.”

“She’s a godsdamned witch, captain.”

“She goes to the Tribunal.”

“She goes to hell either way.”

He allowed Idristan to tear him away, using the momentum to rip the woman aside and to the floor. She sprawled, coughing, to the golden marble. To keep himself from kicking or spitting at her, he ripped the first pin from his chest–distinguished service–and threw it at her face.

Someone else spat his name and grabbed him by his aiguillettes. Ephemie dragged him away. She cursed him over discretion. “Think, Nol! No blood. My gods. C'mon, out!” Ignoring the rest of the world’s cries, she stormed from the hall to the street. She released him there.

He stopped. Within a minute, the temperature caused his grit teeth to chatter. He slapped a hand over his eyes and pulled his shoulders closer to his neck. Emotion shook him; he cried and moved away.

Ephemie matched his step and placed her hand against his back. “You all right?”

He spoke as he marched, breath coming in ragged spurts. “I–I’m–pissed. The unmitigated disrespect of all it–to flaunt a draconian rosary in the sight of Halone and her believers–at a banquet for orphans. That all them trust in her innocence over my word–that she still lives–I know what I saw. Seen those things more than any of the folk in that godsdamned room. I know I’m wrong about so many things, but I know what I saw. She–She thought I was one of her own.“

The plates of his armor flashed yellow under the light of the Last Vigil’s street lamps. He continued into darkness, observing the fog swirl around his feet as it rose from the Brume. Nolanel cracked a piece of ice from the railing and clenched it in his fist, temporarily calmed by the pain. Fury stabbed his heart and he threw the ice to the pavement just to see it shatter.

“I got no power here. They trust me outside of the city to kill heretics, but here they call me rash. I’m a disruption. I’m morbid. It’s what I’m supposed to. Why else were they thinking the knights were there? To flank doorways so they can nod at us as they walk in? We have to protect them. We can’t always do it behind closed doors and seventy malms away in some nowhere land they can’t see.”

Ephemie approached him and flicked his pauldron. She backed into the railing and sat atop it, fingers curling around the chilly metal for support. Her breath fogged afore her as she sighed and let her head hang slack. The scores of pins in her hair glowed like gold around her thick braid. “It’s stupid as turkeys, but anger ain’t for home.”

“But it’s my anger. I won’t destroy it because people think it’s improper once I step through the Arc of the Worthy.” Nolanel snapped more icicles free to smash them as he continued talking. “Eliminating crazed apostates makes more sense than sensibilities. We ain’t complaining. They can accept what that means at face value. I am what I talk like and look like and act like. They want a soldier. I am one. They know how I talk and look and act but once I do it in front of them, I’m morbid. I’m fucking sick’s what I am. You know that.”

He threw the last piece of ice into the sky. Ephemie stopped him from grabbing another. "Nol, what you’re saying’s important, but you’re digressing from what just happened. I know it’s hypocrisy. But you can’t make someone bleed out on the dancefloor–their death’ll put a stop to the ball and that’s what they want. All them people were safer in that hall. Get them outside and it’s naught but them and the night.”

Nolanel allowed her to hold his wrist. He bowed his head and clenched his eyes shut.

“I’m sorry, Eph. I get it. Gods, I–I’d die for them but I despise them some of the time. They ought to hurt. Sometimes. Once? All I see of them is bloody numbness. Straight to the wine and the–the unreal smiles. I’m wrong and so’s that. But I am not numb. That’s the least I can do. I don’t know what else I want, ‘cept I’m glad I’m out of that bin and out with you. I’m sorry, Eph. I’m just sorry.“