Arx, After the Reckoning

There was a bard, long ago, who wrote a simple line: "Love is a rebellious bird." It will not come when it is called, and it shows up when you least expect it to, squawking and demanding your attention. An uncontrollable thing.

But I was thinking on that line again. Love - why should we try to control it? What is in our nature that brings us to do so? I remember chasing birds as a child, running down the streets after them and laughing giddily as they flew around me, away from me, a cacophony of wingbeats, song and cries.

It was their freedom I reveled in.

Let us be more like giddy children when we find it - and when they fly away and leave us be, let us remember how we felt as children. Disappointed, perhaps, but still with the widest grins of our lives plastered to our face, because it had been so much fun.

Lately there seems to be a trend of people I meet pretending to not know who I am and being smug about this "secret" knowledge when they reveal they have known the whole conversation.

What strange behavior. A few, at least, make it interesting.

I wanted to take a moment to thank all of those who have offered me their sympathies and support - as well as their criticisms - whether in public or private. There are still a few letters I need to respond to, but they have been read, and it has meant an incredible deal. I have trust that with a good faith effort, a solution will be found.

Once upon a time, there was a spider. This spider was a free spirit, having long ago set sail on a wind and let it blow her to wherever it might, with little care for where she had ended up. Her life was a simple one, a dangerous one, but a pleasant one - and in one evening, everything changed forever. We don't need to tell the details of the story - we all know them, now.

What's important is what happened to the spider after. Disbelieved, forgotten, ignored, unable to live the only life she had ever known, there was a time when she felt herself lost, and felt despair closing in.

It was during this time that the spider had a dream. She woke up in a formless field of white, standing on nothing, but still standing, clinging to nothing, but holding on. And she heard a voice - perhaps it was her own, in a way - speaking to her.

The voice said, "What he did to you will never go away. No matter how long you live, the nightmares will come. It will always hurt. Even if your body is fixed, the scar in your mind will never fade."

"I know," said the spider. And as she said these words, shapes began to emerge out of the endless white. Dark figures, terrifying ones. Monsters and demons, or at least the hints of them, and the spider knew that these would be her constant companions going forth.

"You are angry. You will always be angry," said the voice. "Even in the happiest times of your life, even if he is dead, the anger will linger and fester."

"Yes," said the spider, and as she spoke these words, her eight legs each became wreathed in flame. Always threatening to consume her, but never quite doing so. She had always left her mark, wherever she had been, whoever she had been with - scars and broken hearts and upturned lives. That would not change. But the flames were so much more potent now, and that, in itself, terrified her.

"It can never be made right," spoke the voice.

Here, the spider paused. Instead of responding immediately, she considered that statement for a long while, all while the heat of her fury and the darkness of the world surrounded her. Finally, she spoke. "No, it can never be made right." The darkness around her seemed to grow stronger, and sharp, wicked blades and claws became visible. "But -" she began, and here the danger seemed to pause for a moment, as if it were regarding her. "But," she repeated, her voice stronger now, "I can do everything I can to make it as right as I can."

The blades and claws? They changed. No longer were they wicked weapons that would threatened to tear her apart. They were still there, but the metal became purer, took on a sheen. Elaborate, gilded hilts and sheaths formed around them, and the claws became attached to not monsters, but noble beasts of the wild: still dangerous, always dangerous, but things to be looked at with awe rather than fear.

And the spider began to realize: she was in control of what her life would look like.

"You are choosing the most difficult path," the voice intoned. "There will be pain beyond belief. Not just for yourself, but for those close to you, and for those who surrounded him. Do they all deserve it?"

"I am, there will, and I can't answer that last one for myself," the spider said. Here, the whiteness made its biggest shift yet. No longer was it formless, but a steep mountainside, covered in stones and pitfalls, treacherous loose ground, ragged bare brush and almost no sustenance. The spider did the only thing she could do: she began to climb. Every step would be a struggle, she knew. But when the other option was to sit there and quietly die? That was against everything she believed.

"Each of them will have to make their own choices, as I am making mine," the spider said. "As he made his. Not everything will be like I want it to be. I might die, I see so many ways that I might die. But at least I know I will have done so fighting for something that matters."

"Why does it matter?" that voice asked. "What's the point?"

"I am not going to lie," said the spider. "It's for me." And she grew a little in size, and she also grew in strength, but there began to be whispers in the air. Other voices.

"You are selfish," they said. "You are a fool," they said.

But the spider wasn't done. "It is about me, yes, but it is also about all of those in the world who are like me, and all of those in the world who are like him." No longer was the spider alone, for now the side of the cliff was covered in hundreds, thousands of other creatures, of all shapes and sizes. Some lashed out at each other. Many lashed out at themselves. But she saw them, and she knew what they were - they were all the others who were suffering without redress, who were weakened and pained and hurting just as badly as she was.

Most of them weren't like her. Most couldn't do the things that she could do. And so, her climbing grew faster, and she began to shine. As she did, the drab rocks around her changed. Some became gemstones. Beautiful mineral veins ran through the drab mountainside, coming to life, and she focused and tried to make the climb itself a thing of beauty.

"You are going to miss out on so many things because you are doing this," the voice told the spider. "You are going to destroy so many things that could be wonderful in your life."

"I will," said the spider. "And there will be times I will be distracted - because I am not perfect - and maybe I won't be quick enough, and maybe more people will be hurt because of that." Even as she said this, she knew it was true, and more death became a part of her world. A stand of white trees appeared to her side, corpses scattered throughout, her presence there completely absent. The spider knew guilt, for how many of those lives might she have saved if she stayed focus? The spider knew regret, because she should have been there. She knew that what happened there was, at least a little, her fault. "I'm sorry," she whispered.

Those words did nothing. Her apologies wouldn't change this world, what had happened, or bring people back to life. But even with him gone, that didn't truly change what she had to do. There were enough others like him in the world, and if he was capable of doing what he had done, then so were they. She needed to make what had happened as right as she could.

"They are going to try to tear you apart and tear you down in every way they know how. They will use your flaws against you, reframe your strengths as weaknesses, insult you and try to rip you apart," said the voice.

"I only ask for what is rightfully mine. They cannot hurt me worse than he did, and how they treat me will tell the world far more about them than it does about me," said the spider, and the flames around her grew bright and hot with her determination. "You cannot burn what is already aflame."

"You are flawed," the voice told her. "You share many of the same traits he did."

"I am, and not everything I do will be right, not everything I want will be perfect. All I can do is admit to my mistakes when they come and try to be more," said the spider.

At that moment, the spider made it to the top of the mountain. She could finally see the world around her, but it was murky, chaotic, conflicted.

"This is not a good time," the voice whispered to her. "How are you more important than any of that?"

"It will never be a good time," said the spider, and she screamed what had happened out from the peak of her mountain, where everyone would be able to hear it.

A million voices screamed back, and she fell silent, watching and trying to understand.

Finally, she heard the voice come through clear over it all: "What kind of world do you want?" And she knew that this had been the question from the beginning. This was the only one that mattered.

"I want a world that's better," said the spider. "I want a world that is full of light and life, love and happiness, where it's understood that pain is part of life, but where that pain does not have to define the life of anyone else in the way it has mine."

The chaos below changed, still frenetic, still constantly moving, but now instead of being terrifying, it was mesmerizing. Like swirls of water filled with golden powder that sparkled in the sunlight as it churned - it was still dangerous, but it became a beautiful thing.

"I want a world that's better," repeated the spider. "A world where we, each and every one of us, do better. Whether hero or monster, you live your life to the fullest and seek excellence, and shine brightly and truly. A world where we hold people to account who fail to live up to the very standards which they claim to live by."

The darks of the world grew darker, the lights of the world grew lighter, and everything around the spider was shown in vivid contrast, the dull blendings of the world fading away. It was so intense it sometimes hurt to look at, but there was no doubting that it was alive.

"I want a world that's better. A world where fear doesn't prevent justice, where birth doesn't mean victimization, where cruelty does not thrive just because it has power behind it. A world where we are all able to become our full potential."

The spider looked behind her, and down the mountainside, and she saw the beauty of the other creatures who had appeared. Not all would make it where she was, and many would destroy themselves, but that didn't mean any were less beautiful, and she found herself defining them by that rather than their pain - even when that was so obvious.

"Then fight for it, Celia," said the voice.

***

Bliss started awake after that dream. Her shoulder was in agony, a sheen of sweat across her body, and her bandages needed to be changed. But there was really only one thing on her mind.

"I want a world that's better," said Bliss, into the cold night air. Nothing changed. But this, she now knew, was how it began.

You are so quick to jump to a conclusion, Sir Gerard, without hearing my response. I have accepted Sir Preston's offer of Faith mediation.

And yet, Vowkeeper was bet against me. And yet, had I lost the duel, I would have been expected to hold up my end of the bet - as is the honorable thing to do. And yet, Gloria guided my blade to victory.

And yet, a Voice of House Telmar promised to repay me what had been done to me, and what was done was a crippling and a theft.

The issue isn't whether the scumstain of a man that was Everard Telmar had any right to bet the sword, as much as the allies and sworn servants of House Telmar wish to make it seem that way. The issue is whether House Telmar is a house of its word or not.

I have offered no statement as to whether they are or aren't. I am simply making my personal dispute with them public, as I have kept it quiet long enough. Should the Radiants ask me to step down as Softest Whisper, I would do so, but for now, I can personally recuse myself from all decisions that might affect our treatment of House Telmar. Whisper House remains neutral.

I swear, accepting the judgment of the gods in my future lives, that the following is true to the best of my memory. May the Sentinel look on my words and see the Truth therein. Should proof be required, I am happy to give the signed testimony which I collected to any who might ask for it. I am done living in the shadows, and I will happily answer any questions and partake in any investigation regarding the matters which I will put to parchment here.

It all started with a ball six years ago. After I became Bliss, but before I held the titles of Champion or Whisper. Anyone who cares to look into my history can learn that I was wounded after a ball, but the story that was told is not complete, and it is not quite what happened in any case. This is the real tale.

The Ball of the Wall, House Telmar called it. I didn't know what it was being held for at the time, I was simply a wandering duelist who was bored and looking for something fun to do. When I heard that this was going to happen, I decided that I wanted to be there - whether or not I was actually formally invited (I wasn't). It was fairly easy to talk myself in. I grew up alongside the Fidantes, and was able to pull off being noble well enough that no one really questioned letting me in, and the outfit that I wore was really quite spectacular. Some of my first seasilk ever was in that corset, and I am not ashamed to say that I looked amazing.

It was rather the event, particularly given how stark and stiff the Telmarch tends to be. The ballroom was beautiful, filled with Peers in their finest dress and their attendants, with food and drink galore to wow and impress. Resplendent is the word I will choose for it - for splendor was everywhere. Particularly on the face of one woman, a beautiful blonde whose name I never learned that night, but have since discovered is named Lady Brunhilde Steelhart. She is a distant cousin of the family, and fled Arx some years ago along with many others. But I digress.

She was the most beautiful person in the room. When our eyes met, I knew she thought the same of me. It is hard to describe this kind of feeling unless it has been experienced by another, but there are sometimes moments where eyes meet, and you feel something inside of you twinge, knowing without a doubt that you two are going to wind up in one another's arms by the end of the evening. Romance sings at its highest at these times, and I have never been the sort of woman who avoids the call of a feeling so intense. I am one who constantly searches for such things.

I started to make my way over to her, getting one glass of wine, then two, then three. I noticed she was speaking with some men, but thought very little of it, and when I approached her, I brushed her shoulder lightly with my fingers and asked if she wanted to dance. She said yes almost without hesitation. The first dance, our eyes never left each other. The second dance, our lips met, with no regard for who saw or what they might see. Intense passion and desire that neither of us shied away from - until he pulled me away from her.

You see, dear readers, what I had not known at that time was that this ball being held in the Telmarch was in honor of a betrothal. The betrothal of Lord Everard Telmarch ... and Lady Brunhilde Steelhart. It was Everard's hand that found my shoulder and yanked me off of her, and when I protested loudly, it was Everard who realized that there was no reason for a woman who was so clearly a Lycene commoner to be at the ball. He and his friends bodily dragged me out of the ballroom, throwing me outside.

I do not think it surprises anyone when I say: such a thing would not stand for me.

So began a back and forth. At first, Everard's friends joined in, but soon, that rather arrogant traitor decided that he would handle me on his own and told them to leave off. We began snapping insults and taunts back and forth at each other, but he couldn't keep up and became more and more visibly frustrated. Soon I was spinning songs about him, mocking him, and his friends were laughing with me, not at me. This drew the attention of the crowd, more and more came out of the ballroom to see what was happening, and by the end, we had an audience of at least a dozen nobles and scores of their attendants. Many of these are the ones who have provided the sworn and signed testimony on what happened next which I am able to offer.

After all, Everard was cocky - perhaps the best description of the man there is. All of this for a man who couldn't even kiss properly enough to hold his betrothed's interest. The challenge shifted to that of a duel, and I was willing to bet one of my big toes, and more and more as it kept escalating. Finally, Everard had had enough - he issued his bet, and he charged at me.

And he lost the duel against me in seconds. In front of everyone.

After betting Vowkeeper, the heirloom sword of House Telmarch.

To say that the crowd was stunned is an understatement. I've never heard a louder gasp, followed by a more potent silence. But I had won the sword. I walked up to Everard, claiming my prize - the beautiful thing that it is - and left. Really, I thought I had gotten far enough away before I started my celebration.

I was very, very wrong about that.

It was when I was heading back to my campsite, drunk and out of my mind, that Everard Telmar and Addison Ashford found me. I could beat Everard easily in a duel of honor one-on-one when I was only a little tipsy, but defending myself against both of them, in an ambush, when I was still recovering from such a night? I hate to say it, but I didn't stand a chance against them. What they did to me in that forest was brutal, it was vengeful, and they were trying to make me hurt and pay for having shamed Everard so publicly.

Everard ran my shoulder through, knowing that I am a duelist, trying to ruin me and my career.

Everard stole Vowkeeper from me, and they rode off into the night.

There was nothing I could do about it but bleed.

When I first tried to tell this story, no one believed me. Everard had told them he'd had another duel of honor with me where he won it back, and he was Lord Commander of the Iron Guard and, at the time, the Sword of the Telmarch. I knew I had to build my reputation, I knew that I had to be a woman of honor, one of my word. I hope, in the six years since this happened, I have done so.

***

This is my story. This is what happened to me.

House Telmar, make this right. Fulfill the promise that your heir, Voice and Sword, Lord Ansel, made, when he said that he would repay the wrongs that Everard had done to me ten times over. I have given you chance after chance to resolve this peacefully.

Prove that you're a House of your word. Prove that you're a House of honor.

I will not be ignored. I will not be pushed aside.

I will not be forgotten.

Heavily depends. Is your opponent going to honor their bet? Or are you the only one actually risking something?

These past few months, I keep finding myself pulled away from Arx. Usually just a trip of a day or two outside the city, to fight some duels somewhere or be personally present for some negotiations. When I have been in the city, I've stretched myself as thin as possible with attending to some other matters.

Needless to say I am a bit tired.

Oh gods damn it.

Weight that heavy tends to be made easier with drink, with song, with dance. These are the things I have found that help me cope when things become too much - as well as the company of people who are, truly, exquisite. There are, of course, places in this city you can simply be yourself without expectation. They are always worth remembering.

A few words of advice on how to make the world a better place.

1. If you are the representative of your family's honor, don't make bets you never intend to fulfill! This is a Bad Idea.

2. If you are the representative of your family's honor, don't vow to repay someone ten times what has been done to them and then when they ask you to just repay what they are actually owed, refuse. This is also a Bad Idea!

3. If you find out these things are happening in your family, don't just ignore the problem and hope it goes away! Fix things. Give people what they are owed, even if it hurts you, because whatever loss of honor there is in that, it is far less than knowingly wronging someone every single day a situation goes unresolved.

You would think these are lessons that do not need to be spelled out, but some of the Peerage is really quite bad at being noble.

And for that, it always seems to be someone else who pays the price.

I have so many questions about this "Catharsis" coming up.

1. Does anyone think this will actually help anything?
2. If I hear about something said during a catharsis that makes me want to issue a challenge to that person, what's to stop me? The rules don't apply to those of us not going, after all.
3. If you're too cowardly to say something without being willing to issue or be issued a challenge over it, is it even worth saying in the first place?
4. Is the eve of a major battle really the time to stir up resentment?
5. Isn't letting things out in a constructive way a large reason we keep our Black Reflections?
6. Who wants to go to an event that is just people whining? If I want that I can go literally anywhere in the city at literally any time.

What utterly pointless tripe.

I am writing far less these days. It's not that I am lacking inspiration to do so - not that at all - but a combination of a lack of time and far too many subjects, many of which are sensitive, all of which I want to give a proper exploration when I do write. This makes it difficult to put quill to ink and pick one.

Case in point: I have just taken half an hour to decide what this second paragraph is going to be about.

There has been a cascade of thoughts in my mind of late, feelings and emotions, goals and conflicts. There has been a lot of change recently - some of which even managed to unbalance me - and yet, I feel only inspired to more. More wine, more love, more laughter, more tears, more fighting, more bleeding, more chasing anything that feels real enough, that's intense enough, that my body and mind both sing in harmony at the beauty of it all.

This one isn't quite there. Perhaps that is why there is a trail of ashes behind me.

Some days are worse than others. Most of the time, these days, I am able to move on, with no more than a passing thought given (there is always a thought), an acknowledgement of the scar as I twist my shoulder to get dressed, a few small twinges of pain here and there.

Then there are the days like today. They usually happen when I have been talking about it more, when the nightmares come back. That night, so long ago, where everything was going so well until suddenly it wasn't.

The sounds of their horses behind me, the sudden realization that they were coming for me, the pure panic that coursed through me as I tried to defend myself even when I knew that, this time, I wasn't going to make it out.

The triumphant sneer on his face as he ran my shoulder through, watched me collapse as I understood that I was ruined, feeling the warm, wet blood pouring down my side, the agony beyond anything that I have felt before or since as they left me to die.

I woke up screaming today, my face wet with tears. I needed help getting dressed, my arm is stiff and useless right now. It will get better as the day goes on. It's in a sling. None of this is new.

So I repeat the mantra that I've learned helps, the truth of the situation: I didn't deserve this. It wasn't my fault. I didn't deserve this. It wasn't my fault. I didn't deserve this. It wasn't my fault.

I didn't deserve this.
It wasn't my fault.

Yes, they had their reasons. Their reasons make what happened even worse. I didn't deserve this. It wasn't my fault. I did nothing wrong.

And the pain begins to fade, and is replaced with anger and determination.

This is the most I have ever written publicly on what happened to me. For the longest time, no one would believe me. This is only a small fraction of my story.

But trauma is an unusual thing. Trauma has a way of playing in our minds, again and again, of whispering its lies to us, of making us believe that what happened was something that we deserved, or that we should have been smarter, or known our place, or any number of things. Some days, we believe these ridiculous untruths. Some days we fall apart again. We are allowed to do this. We shouldn't feel ashamed for being human.

I am not the only one in this city, by any means, who has experienced trauma. There have been two major wars in recent years, assassinations, monsters, and we are waking up and understanding just how terrifying the world we live in is.

I have heard that in a land far, far to the east, they repair their pottery with gold, turning the cracks and flaws into something beautiful and unique. Resilience is beautiful. Our flaws can be made to be beautiful.

I don't hide my scars anymore. My pain is as much a part of who I am as anything else, part of this great song that is my life. It is a reminder that no matter how terrible the world is outside of our walls, the monsters within them can do so much. It is a reminder to not stay quiet. To demand people be better. To be better, myself.

I very distinctly remember drinking many bottles of Mercier Mead years ago and have one in my cabinet right now I'm looking at.

Am I hallucinating this?!

I realized today that I have spent far more time on the road, out of Arx, this year than I have since I came here. The Champions tour, the multiple excursions deep into the Gray Forest, the Twilight Court, Ostria, the Mourning Isles, the Oathlands.

Today my feet are itchy again. Restless. My mind filled with daydreams of seeing new places, new sights, learning new things. I need to find something to fulfill this wanderlust.

Where haven't I been yet? What haven't I done? I certainly need to make those lists smaller.

We do. I would rather not explain the full details here, for obvious reasons, but mine involved a number of foods and drinks that easily stain, white cotton, reciting a list of rules, all while listening to a conversation and being grilled on both knowledge of what was discussed and what might happen if it gets out after.

For extra challenge, may I suggest she try doing it one-handed? Extra points for singing and dancing.

Week two of Whisper training is undoubtedly a difficult one.

I was an only child. My mother wasn't in the picture, my cousins and uncles and aunts - well, the war with Southport was hard on those of us who lived in Tor. Very hard. I was young, back then, but I remember planting roses in honor of the ones who fell in battle (mine usually didn't live), and I remember watching my father focus more and more and more on training the troops. He taught me what I needed to know, he cared for me deeply, but he was a soldier through and through.

I didn't have the family of an orphanage, I lived in the keep but wasn't one of the nobles, but I wasn't truly in the Commons, either. Alone and halfway in between the two worlds - it's a common thing for a Whisper, really.

Family means such different things to different people. It's been a favorite discussion of mine with the Peers, who are so defined by who they are born to, the history they have, the future they seek.

Sometimes, it is an inspiring thing to watch. Many of those listed here have noted family ties that they revel in, and their families bear only pride in what they have done. Noble houses who live up to their values. A true shared connection.

But others, I imagine, are more difficult. It's not an accident that they struggle. The legacy of treason and stain of dishonor live on in some families, where the generations butt heads against one another, the appointed heir publicly seen as a disappointment by the father, the father seen as a tyrant that is fracturing the family. Things will likely need to be completely set right before these families begin to heal.

I ran away from home when they tried to control me. My old name is easy enough to find out, but the one I have now is my choice. The family I have now - it is my choice.

Family carries expectations, along with the bonds. Family carries reputation. I may not have had blood siblings, but I have the home I've forged for myself.

I will not marry, in all likelihood. I will not have children. But I have my freedom, and it is all I could ever want.