Hatred

IV.

She hates his kindness.

Her mind, fogged with senseless grief, refuses to work at normal efficiency. The Storyteller does not let her see the body until it's been cleaned for burial and placed in its well-crafted casket. She is left alone to grieve, but she cannot bring herself to weep. Her tears were spent in the Legendary Fire, dried by the flames that claimed the life she once knew. She can only look at the familiar visage, eerily still in its repose, and feel the despair that wracks her every limb.

There is an empty casket in the Labyrinthian lichyard for the alchemist Belduke, who is buried with quiet ceremony. She is forced to leave with the others who come to pay their respects. High Inquisitor Darklaw has no real ties to Sir Belduke, and there is still a murder to 'solve'. She cannot, however, bring herself to visit the crime scene. Instead she wanders aimlessly through the city streets, staring without seeing, hearing without listening, the way he once had.

Waking from her stupor, she finds herself standing in front of the Courthouse. Her feet must have taken the path by habit; there is no reason to be here. She stares up at the building in the gray dusk, trying to find answers in the stained bricks.

Why? Of all the deaths he could have chosen for himself, why a poison that would ensure his last moments were of unbearable agony? Why die at all? Had he not spared her a single thought at the end? Or... or had their fight, and the subsequent rejections, been the catalyst to break a mind already weakened by so much sorrow? Is it... my fault?

She has not eaten in days, nor has she slept more than an hour or two since being told the dreadful news. Her head aches, awhirl with thoughts that won't cease, memories that refuse to be pushed aside. It's impossible to concentrate; in her weakened state, her limbs are like jelly. The smallest push—of breeze or errant human—is enough to send her stumbling onto the Courthouse steps. Her empty stomach flips, a wave of nausea rising in her throat, and then she falls into blessed silence.

When she comes to she finds herself in the Audience Room, reclined on the Storyteller's throne. A long, shuddering exhale escapes her lips, and with it goes all the remaining strength in her limbs. She is alone with her emotions at last, as well as the start of a pounding migraine. Still, the tears do not come.

The Storyteller comes, a steaming cup held carefully in both hands. She stares at him, her face expressionless. Inside, a heated fury unlike any she has ever known sweeps through her from head to foot, cleansing fire that temporarily purges the pain. This was all his fault—his and that damned Story. Everything—her family, her title, her name—had been sacrificed for someone who all but refused to acknowledge her own father's existence.

What would she lose next? When would it end? It had to end at some point, did it not? How could he not see the pain his Story was causing?

"Eve? Are you alright?" Despite her rage, her heart gives a lurch at the sound of her true name. No one, save her father, ever bothered to use her name. And now he was gone. Never again would she hear his soft, kind voice. They hadn't spoken in months. How long had it been since she'd last told him she loved him? The pain threatens to consume her entirely.

"Lady Darklaw. You need to drink." The Storyteller's tone changes as he presses the cup—tea, she realized—into her hands. Mr. Cantabella's well-intentioned, rather simple gaze is lost in the façade, an unyielding ruler once more. She has an overwhelming urge to throw the hot tea in his face.

"What are you giving her?" At the sound of Sir Barnham's voice, she struggles to sit upright. Her head protests with a violent throbbing that took her breath away, stars twinkling in her vision. She sinks back to the cushions, gripping the cup with all her strength as her body sways on the spot.

"An herbal concoction, nothing more. There's no need to concern yourself," he adds, turning to where the Inquisitor stands in the doorway to the Audience Room. "Our High Inquisitor is not ill, merely exhausted. A good night's rest is often the best cure in these cases." He looks at her pointedly, waiting until she takes an obliging sip. "You have overworked yourself," he scolds, as though he does not know the real reason behind her current state. "You're lucky Sir Barnham found you on the Courthouse steps before the dew fell. You might have easily caught cold."

"But...." She fuzzily remembers being at the Courthouse, falling to the steps, resting her spinning head for a moment on the railing. "How did—?"

"He carried you here, of course." The Storyteller turns away, hiding his face from them both. "Due to... current circumstances... he thought the fastest way to ensure your recovered health would be to have it written into the Story. Thankfully, 'tis not as serious as first feared."

"Forgive my haste." Sir Barnham steps forward, hands stiff at his sides. He still wears his armor, hair mussed and face ruddy from the cold night air. How had he managed to carry both the armor and her? The thought of being carried anywhere like an invalid—especially by him—is utterly humiliating. She quickly takes another drink from the cup, pretending it is the steam, rather than her own embarrassment, that burns red on her cheeks. "You are not hurt?" Genuine concern shines from his eyes, causing her heart to twist in a not-quite-painful way behind her sternum.

"I am not." Clearing her throat, she takes another, slower sip. "I'm fine." Whether she wants him to or not, he cares for her in the same way that he cares for the rest of them. Perhaps more. She can't imagine him carrying anyone else to the Storyteller and practically begging for their health. The realization does not sit well with her.

He's growing far too close for comfort.