Record of Ashes War

Chapter 25 - If Only

Agrienne's hair hung before his face. He breathed through his teeth. The smell of alcohol made his nose twitch. Wine stained his trousers and his coat and his shirt in dark blotches. He tapped his heel against the wooden floor, trying to beat away the incessant screams of his own thoughts. Strangely, the pattering of wine drops spilt across the red oak table and dripping to the floor sounded louder than anything else. It drove him mad.

Agrienne snatched at the bottle laying on its side and brought the tip to his mouth, downing what little of it remained. He slammed the bottle down on the table, sharp cracks appearing in the glass. Lamp light reflected off its dark and glossy surface, revealing shadowy figures of the Whitefire inn's dimly lit common room. One of the finest inns in the capital he was told. He'd rented it out all for himself.

It was a Flaming slob.

Tables here and there, some on their sides, others upside down and cracked. Not a single chair upright save for the one Agrienne sat on, every cushioned seat torn as if claws had raked their surface. Shards of broken glass and wood lay scattered. Paintings on the wall had either fallen or were tilted. And standing in a dark corner was the fat bald innkeeper and his three thin and flat daughters —all of them with blonde hair and wearing cheap sky blue tunics and skirts, the eldest likely barely reaching her later teens.

They stood there —just Flaming stood there, huddled in the corner, moaning, muttering, whispering, as if there wasn't a filthy room to clean up. "Shut up!" Agrienne demanded, throwing the bottle in the corner. The girls cried and ducked as the glass struck the wall where their heads had been not a second before, shattering and spilling shards upon their backs and before their feet. "I said shut up!"

Filthy commoners. Filthy inn. Filthy everything. If only Lera were still here, then even a filthy room would become a divine one. Agrienne tugged violently at the laces of his wet shirt. So very suffocating. He roared as he slammed a fist down upon the table, causing the girls to cry out again as their useless father pushed himself further into the corner. The lamps shook and the lights in the room shifted.

Dead. Dead. Dead.

It had to be a lie. Just when Agrienne's servants had finally discovered clues on Lera's whereabouts, they learned that she was dead. Over seventeen years without her… If only his family had helped him then. If only they hadn't been such wallowing pieces of Flame Scorched pigs! It’s a lie. It has to be a lie. It was just another woman named Lera. Not my Lera. Just another one. Another Lera who worked in a brothel and had brown hair. Worst of all, she'd been dead for some years yet.

Agrienne repeated the same comforting sentence in his own head until he came to believe it. Not my Lera. That's right. His Lera was still out there somewhere. Out there with his son. Or not. Agrienne didn’t care about any child he did or didn't have. He only cared about her. He only wanted her and the throne. Only wanted to stand atop the world and be acknowledged, revered, and worshipped, rather than just be 'that bastard Caranel'. Stand on top with Lera as his queen. For now, just the throne. For now, seduce Dahlia and then kill her. And then use every Flaming soldier in Xenaria to seek out his Lera. Yes.

But how had this other whore named Lera died? They said she'd been killed by Trillian sympathizers. By people who'd labelled her a darkspawn. Lera Zz'tai. What if it really had been his Lera? Why else call a random whore a darkspawn?

"Ugh," Agrienne groaned. He couldn't think straight. His head ached as if struck by a sledgehammer. He repeatedly slammed the table until he heard a sharp crack. He needed more drink. Or something sweeter. Agrienne lifted his head and peered through the strands of his mop like hair. His eyes passed over the girls in the corner. Plain and thin. But the eldest. The eldest stood closest to a lamp. She had long blonde hair that just barely seemed brown with the dim lighting and Agrienne's hazy vision seen through the strands of his own dark hair. "You," he pointed, voice sloppy. "Come here."

The girl shivered where she stood, her legs quaking like those of a table poorly nailed in and holding too much weight on top. Agrienne stared at her, imprinted his memory of Lera upon her face, and spoke again. "I said come here!" The girl didn't move. He slammed his fist against the table. The room shook. A hanging painting crashed to the floor. "Someone bring that wench to me now or I'll have everyone's head roll!"

Two of Agrienne's soldiers who'd been standing guard before the entry to the common room marched forward. Their expressions were grim. Almost apologetic. They reached the corner and grabbed the eldest of the innkeeper's daughters before dragging her across the room, her brown shoes scraping against the floor as she pleaded incoherently. The soldiers left the girl before their lord and returned to their post. She whimpered before him, hands clutching the length of her tunic.

Agrienne examined his dessert. Thin, pale, fatless. Nothing to grip. Nothing to enjoy. But his head throbbed. He stood up and gripped the back of the girl's neck before pressing down on her lips with his own, free hand tugging on the collar of her tunic. The girl froze as if paralyzed, not responding in the slightest to his kiss. Not responding to Agrienne Caranel's, the most handsome man in Xenaria's kiss. Angered, he bit her lip hard. She yelped and pulled away, face twisted in fear. Agrienne licked his lips and tasted her blood. He tugged hard against her tunic until it tore. She screamed as he kissed her neck and began pulling at the strings of her small clothes. Her skin had a faint soapy scent on it.

He pushed her down against the table, tears rolling down the sides of her face and whimpers escaping her bloody mouth. Somewhere from the corner, her fat father pleaded Agrienne to stop. But he stood there in the shadows, unmoving like craven mice. Agrienne tore away the girl's clothes until her torso lay bare before him. She stopped moving again, only sniffling every once in a while. He kissed his way up to her neck as his fingers traced all the way down to below her torso. His eyes met her fearful pair. There, lying with her back upon the table, her blonde hair was clear to him. His image of Lera was shattered.

"Flames!" Agrienne roared. He pulled away and flipped the table with all his might, dropping the girl to the floor where glass shards awaited her, the table falling onto her bony back. Agrienne stormed off, thrashing at every glass bottle in sight. He hit a lamp as well. It fell and shattered, lighting the alcohol damped common room ablaze. "We're leaving this damned city," he told his guards as he stomped out of the inn, uncaring for the few pieces of expensive clothing he had left in his room.

No matter how he tried justifying it, no matter how many lies he told himself, he knew that the Lera he was chasing was now dead. Dead and killed by Trillians. "Trillians. Flaming Trillians." He seethed.

I'll ruin them. I'll ruin all that they stand for.

They had taken away his beloved. He would take away everyone's faith. He was Agrienne of High House Caranel. Lord Agrienne. I'll plunge this land into chaos. I'll be damned if I don't use every ounce of my wealth to defame and ruin this Goddess. I'll take everyone's faith and turn it upside down. I'll snuff out this divine hope that they cling to and love as they snuffed out my Lera's life! He didn't need everyone's faith to break. Just enough to cause riots and burn cities. Just enough to poison the minds of Xenarian citizens so that they would never again be happy. If he, their rightful king, wasn't allowed happiness, wasn't allowed to have Lera, then mere peasants had no rights to happiness either.