The Price of Love

[ChainedDragons 1374]

Spoiler

 

[Disclaimer: The purple/pink text are Bron's thoughts]

𝔗𝔥𝔢 𝔓𝔯𝔦𝔠𝔢 𝔬𝔣 𝔏𝔬𝔳𝔢

“Remember that when you leave this earth, you can take with you nothing that you have received-only what you have given: a full heart enriched by honest service, love, sacrifice and courage.” [Saint Francis of Assisi]

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Du are a father now. As a mother, und parent meinself, there will be times where du have to put your children, even before yourself. If du intend to stay, are du willing to make the sacrifices needed for them?”

 

"T'ey'd sooner turn t'eir own blades on ye; ye'll ne'er quite belong, to 'em."

"You are a tool to be used until they no longer need you. You see what life you have here - your friends, and your country. One day, you will turn around and be all alone."

 

"Bron please, leave with me - we can't stay here."
 

I am tired of running.

There is no where for us to go.

I have to make a choice.

 

Bron held Solveig's hand with a gentle grip, each of them holding a babe in the opposite hand as the Magistrate glowered down upon them. The fire light illuminating the imposing church art of depicting souls swirling upward to the seven skies that no cursed child could ever hope to reach.

 

"You were bid several times that you were to never sire a bastard and set an example for your kin that a case could be made that your kind are able to be redeemed. I state plainly now that you have failed."

 

We are treated as animals. We are expected to live and not love, to not make families of our own. Where is the love the true faith so decrees to voice? In what world is having a family make ones entire grouping of people irredeemable? I suppose it is this one. If it is a crime to love, so be it - I will break the law again. And again. Your words, Your God do not dictate my path. He lost that privilege when he abandoned us to the darkness he allowed to fester in this wretched world of his own making. 

 

Bron looked behind him as the steps of entering Dragon knights caught his attention, the back ground noise of companions protesting filling his ears. The rope binding his muzzle shut itched his skin as the frown on his face only grew deeper with the passing of his sentence. 

 

"Your left hand will be removed that you may never raise it against Idunia. You are forbidden from getting a replacement in any way. Your tail will be cut off, if you wish to live amongst men, you may at the very least try to fit in. This is your penance, these are the lessons that will stay with you forever. Do not let me see you here a third time, for even GOD's mercy runs dry."
 

Mercy? This is GOD's mercy? What a joke... All this, for daring to have children to call his own.

 

Bron's eyes flick to those in the stands. His friends from Argenost, Tir'glas, across the very continent, even his family. Within short order the Magister commanded the devil to be taken to the barracks for his punishment, leaving him precious few seconds to caress his wife's cheek one last time with his own hand.

 

"This ruling is a farce, he should be executed!"

 

"What is going on here?"

"Do not cut his tail, it will paralyze him!"

The devil was quickly growing overwhelmed by the numerous voices arguing over his fate. He lowered himself to his knees, bowing his head.

Why was he trying to pray? - God would not answer. That naive hope of someone... something, being out there in the world that could hear his out cry for comfort. For something. Why were his people cursed to walk a path without guidance while the rest of the world squanders their own gilded roads?

 

"Boromir will cut the hand and the tail."

Bron's head snaps up at this deceleration. He could see the sickening look in his friends eyes. Boromir had been the most vocal, the loudest defense of the devil. And now he is being made the executioner of Bron's penance. He wasn't going to actually do it, right?

Soon he found himself pushed to his knees, the large crowd that had been attracted by the spectacle in the first place watching. Whether most cared for his fate or only wished to see the block run black with his blood was up in the air. So many people.. from Idunia.. Argenost.. the Empire. Every where. 

 

"Do you want the rope off?"

Bron nodded, allowing Boromir to pull the rope muzzle from his face. Giving a small shred of dignity back. The devil splayed his fingers on the wooden block, feeling his heart pound in his chest as he tried to prepare himself. He hadn't realized he was screaming till his eyes flicked down to see the hazy visage of his hand laying on the block as black blood spewed forth like ink, coating the cobbles. That hand would no longer create weapons or armor... nor would it compose music or art. It would never caress his loves face again. The devil slumped to the ground, barely registering that the removal of his tail had been denied only for all his quills and what little of his horns were left to be removed too, driving his body to drown his consciousness in darkness. He had no idea the Knight commander was ordering onlookers to keep back lest they wanted to die for interfering with Arthur and Boromir carrying him to the hospital.  Hours would pass but when he awoke he found himself in a room, staring up at the ceiling as many bodies would come and go, speaking with him. Apologizing for something that maybe could have been prevented.

"I am sorry Bronadron.. you are stripped of your squire rank and are no longer permitted to pursue knighthood."

Numb. He just felt numb.

Why did being numb have to hurt so much?
When finally left alone to recoup his strength, the devil let the pitiful whimpers fill his space. His dreams were just that. Only dreams.
He had fulfilled one dream but killed the others in the process. 

This is the price of his love. 

[RP: Word of what had transpired in Aldunn has likely spread throughout Idunia, the Empire, and perhaps beyond... birds fly as fast as lips speak.]

[Sandman_Plays 659]

{!}
 

Reserved

[KidKrinkles 2043]

It was always Victor's folly to have sympathy for the devil,

 

it was what got him in trouble most of all,

 

and yet, it was still hard for his heart not to ache at news he awaited.

[Flynnigan 267]

Inti’s face soured in rage as she heard the news. Rage. Hatred. How could they do this to her dear friend? 
 

She had many thoughts. Thoughts she knew she couldn’t share for the sake of her family. But oh, she felt them all the same. If she had it her way… no. Inti closed her eyes, taking a long, deep breath. 
 

She should go train. After she sent a letter to Bron.

[kuebiko 684]

Spoiler

The biggest "I told you so" of Azuras thusfar begins to transpire. Thirty years in the making.

 

Off in a garden there are two slices of chocolate cake laid out, and a third plate empty. 

 

Was Numendil more misleading than the Hells themselves? After all it's written right on the wall. A devil's soul is already condemned to the hells, one might as well indulge in the blessing. Give up your soul, and you will be given power. In that power you can damn other creatures too - you could damn that priest. How long has it been since Nickolai last thought about the Screowls living in their home? What about that hedgehog he saw before he could even walk?  Both eyes of light and the claws of the dark were surely set onto the purple devil. He knew this well.

 

The white haired devil's hand closed around a sheet of paper lined with threats from a certain Iron Princess. With a twitch of an eye and a voice within the back of his head, there was the reminder. Always. Even without a tangible presence to see a path through, one had already been chosen. The path that had the jade devil scorn his horns and trim them until the veil sat right and he could find himself watching over his son once again. An old promise had to be kept but it did add humor to the idea of "Bron" having a bastard.

So why was it so frustrating to stand in the light of the world, suddenly surrounded by the people who had spent so long trying to kill him - who now bore witness to the mutilation of his child? The fact they were even willing to try and work a deal, to see Nickolai continue to live, whittled down the bitterness of loathing. 

 

The Hells were the easy way out, and he pushed for the harder path just as Nickolai - to take fate into his own hands. The Hells were behind him. That meant finding a way to act in good. To the drawing board he went.

[LazyBacon220 600]

Lucîzôr had never been considered to be a serious person. In fact, he made it his goal to bring some life, joy, whimsy, as he would call it, into every situation that he stumbled upon. The youth, armed with a dagger he had scammed a poor soul out of as a child, an aquamarine flute that always sat ready at his hip, and simply wit, skipped on the gothic streets of Alduun toward the Church. He scanned the gathering crowd, arriving late to the proceedings (or perhaps on time), and began making small talk as arguments ensued. Lucîzôr watched on, speaking his mind, lips thinning in dismay as he realized what was taking place. He frowned as the penance was issued by a man who loved the sound of his own voice more than he loved the flock he claimed to show mercy to. He frowned as the judgment was moved out of the Church because "GOD's WILL" could not be completed in GOD's own home.

 

And as the judgment began, Lucîzôr played music, for that was the only thing that could calm the fire in his soul. 

[Wolfy-D 467]

Grimm takes a few long breaths after hearing about his friends current state. Eventually deciding to take a break from his hiatus and temporary return to Idunia.

[Maiyun 362]

Ardirnien cast a baleful glance to the nearest gossipers, grumbling road-men who found themselves disappointed that the foul devil had managed to escape execution once more. She listened, as was her way, with a keen eye and clear judgment for what moral complacency was rowdily expressed overtop jeering and the clanking of wooden mugs.

She examined her hand, noting how her veins had grown more prominent, an impatient tap of her fingers betraying her rising frustration. 

With a sharp screech, the pale-haired woman rose from her chair in a violent movement that saw the feet scraping against the ground. It provoked the briefest of silences, a lull in nearby conversation the only acknowledgement that came her way. 

 

A handful of shimmering coins clattered against the surface of the table. Then she was gone.

[TomFunks 756]

 

Pharazôn had withdrawn into his garden, his eyes half-lidded and dulled with fatigue. Of the Magister, one could say much, yet none would dare remark he lacked the zeal of a shepherd. Too, was it doubtless that this piety made fists of his guiding hands, an obsession with the accursed which left his flock fervent for the wrong reasons. Those silvers drifted high, gazing upon the white tufts which drifted far from the chaos of the day’s events.

The Crown Prince nestled within the jeers and cries of his folk, exchanging whispers with Iudas. His promised crown had yielded him much in his life, with little obstruction. Ambushed, was he then, to the stubbornness of the Wick. Even so, a vow was to be kept.

He recalled his father’s words when he had first left the palace, touring the citizenry. A gloved hand drifted into his sight, pointing to a man of lavender, horned and sore to the eyes. Grimacing, the young Prince turned his head away, only for the High King to guide it back.

 

“We have made a promise of safety to him,” he informed. “We are to keep it. Do you understand?”

 

Eventually, the Magister relented. A tail unsevered, an agreement reached. Punishment imposed, certainly, yet it were penance which treated the Callaghan equal as any man. The Arthalion pondered his father’s mercy for a time before falling to slumber against the chrysanthemums, a promise kept.

[Cally 1080]

Too now, had the Admiral been shepherded the news by a chore-boy in her office on the docks. The hot tea in her grasp had gone unmistakably cold even despite its residual warmth in her palm. 

 

Penance, is that what they call mutilation now?

 

Thought she, as her dark hand on the tea's cup loosened to return to its saucer. Green, paling eyes glancing over words that made her stomach turn.

 

For how much, even without him being there did she defend Nickolai from this? Even in the birth of his babes had she defended him and his actions as a result of the cruel punishment he had already been given; the inability to wed.

How she held Nicky's mother in her arms after the prospect of keeping the twin babes he sired for experiments, her sacrifice to put herself as a daughter of a cursed child had been denied. She was too old, after all, too much without vulnerability.

 

 

Her trust in the presiding clergy waned violently once more. 

[TheOnlyTub 550]

The Temple cast a long shadow over Alduun. Its towers rising far above most of the architecture of the city and its imposing figure visible on the main road as soon as one entered the city.

Within the Temple sat only a man.
 

 

A pious man whose words carried with them the weight of the faith that he bore within his heart. His words carried not malice, but conviction. Not cruelty, but purpose.
He was orthodoxy, he was conformity, he was guidance, and he was the righteous hand of Aeradar from which mercy and punishment were doled, and he was Iudas Wick, Magister Artifai, Bishop of the Church of the True Faith, and Kohen of the Priesthood of Owyn.

[Two2the 365]

[The Black Lubba 563]

Within Lorraine, sat in the small kitchen of a home, a trio spoke of the devil and his beloved’s misfortune. One had been present at the trial, until she could no longer stand to hear his cries and fled from the place herself. Their voices laden with sadness, the mood heavy. 
“They should have fled when they were able to..” it was all the Illatian woman could think.

[The Vulgate Cycle 577]

Lord Arthur Marsyr was a man of Aeradar. He remembered when he was a boy, before the fall of the hillfort, that his loyalty to the church was absolute. Completely, utterly. He wondered now if that church he imagined ever existed. Or if it was nothing but that, the imaginings of a boy. He did not know, but as he poured over the events of the day in his mind, the flame sparked anew. Maybe it was an impossible dream. Maybe he just had to try a little harder. Irregardless, it must be fought for, and he would grasp for it until the end of his days.

He slammed his fist on his table so hard that everything on it jumped. And heedless of the mess and of the worries that plagued his soul, he walked out and onto the roads. He had work to do.

[Marthia 273]

r