The Poisoned Crown (SyndiSparklez)

16.6: Interlude

AN: Apologies for Short Chapter--more reasons below.

Helgrind had not been the best of mayors. The best of leaders. He had not done much for Asphodel. He brought nothing, save for his tragedy and mistakes. Perhaps, he had been not the best brother. Nor the best husband at times.

Sometimes life seems much longer—there seems to be more time to act, to change, to repent.

But life wasn't long enough.

And before you know, those chances to change are gone.

The chance to become a better father, to be everything he didn't have and more—was gone. He hadn't been a bad father, but he hadn't been focused on being a father at all.

Until Andor was gone.

And Helgrind felt the guilt set in.

His entire family. His life. His blood.

Were dead.

And grief is an empty word for the tumultuous raging sea he felt lost in. Felt abandoned in.

The Historian could empathize with him well enough, the man had been through much and would suffer greatly, but he turned a blind eye as the town brutally beat and murdered Helgrind.

He held no sympathy for those who given a chance to make themselves anew, to thrive in a different light only to weep and bemoan the past. A flash of a thought entered his head and he realized with a small start he would be a hypocrite towards his own surrogate to say that.

Jordan couldn't see ten feet in front of him with how bad he was buried in the past. The Historian had considered many, many options for fixing that—but with the current climate and the issues befalling him all stemming from the Champion of Dianite—there was not a lot of power he held.

Spark and Jeriah had been taking more and more autonomous actions, and he is unaware of either of their locations, and even worse—in the dark on Spark's motives. The lunatic had taken him for a fool. Botan watched, emotionlessly, as Helgrind knelt—fists and kicks doing much on his frailer, older body. Reminscient of a prayer, Botan shook his head as he saw the man mouthing words.

He was lost to his grief—imagining the sweet chance his soul was taken by any of the gods, given a chance to see his family and ascend to their world. That he would find his family whole there. Botan considered him in this moment more deluded than Spark about family and more a fool than Jeriah about justice.

There was nothing to be had. No gods to claim his soul. His pledge was useless to his family blood—for Ianite was gone. Dianite—his bastard of a son—would hardly look-up from his plans and Mianite, his favorite, but hardly sharpest of children would not care for the life of one—even if of his sister's blood.

But let the man have his delusions. Everyone imagined their reality to a degree—but only some could shape it to be just.

The Historian sighed, entered the library and was greeted by the disheveled and absurdly distraught Jordan.

Spark.

The Historian pursed his lips, unsure of whether Jordan knew, or if he was still in the dark about...certain matters. Jordan, despite his apparent stress, still seemed relatively in control of himself, so Historian let his hands remain powerless and instead watched as Jordan sighed, gripping his hair and breathing out sharply.

"There's something wrong with me—that...Taint," Jordan murmured and the Historian let him continue as Jordan began to shake. "These are Ianite's champion powers---but I can't feel Ianite, I can only feel this...Taint."