He stared at the page until the words blurred and ran together -- as if by refusing to focus on them, he could erase their validity. He didn't want to look. He didn't want to see them there -- stark black on pale parchment, the ink faintly smudged as if the author had been in a rush to finish. So cold and impersonal, those words -- how could a few strokes of a pen bring his life crashing down around him?

Parnassus was under siege. Parnassus. A small city on the outskirts of Edessa, with perhaps thirty thousand citizens. It had no real strategic value, save that it was the largest city that close to the border. And that map. He thought it had been a fluke -- how was anyone to know that the ancient scrap of paper had been accurate? He'd made sure Elidi was sent there because he thought it was far enough out of the way that the Varati wouldn't bother.

And now it was under siege by an army that, from all reports, hovered around twenty thousand. The Varati would raze it to the ground.

And his Elidi was there.

Cassius sank back into his chair as if he lacked the strength to remain upright. The piece of parchment fluttered down to his lap, released by lifeless fingers. Wings rustled at his back, barely voicing his agitation, and his pristine white feathers sagged against the floor. He sat there and stared at nothing, and the young mongrel slave who had brought the latest stack of missives almost -- almost -- felt pity for the Augustin patriarch. He had never seen the icy-eyed Aegian look so desolate. But it was not his place to question the Deus about what had brought such hopelessness to his demeanor, and so he merely cleared his throat, uncomfortably, and waited to be dismissed.

The absent wave of a hand sent the messenger scurrying from the room. The door clicked softly closed in his wake, and Cassius was alone. Alone, moreso than he'd ever been before.

"Elidi," he whispered into that suffocating silence. The sound was drawn from a throat gone dry and hoarse -- no mellifluous orator's tone, that, but a pained plea. His fingers found the message in his lap and tightened, wrinkling the parchment, crushing the words written thereon. If he squeezed tight enough, maybe he could erase the truth of them -- destroy them in his fist and blot out all memory of their existence. But no, they were seared into his mind, and no matter how many times he denied it, he couldn't escape them. The Varati had attacked Parnassus, where his wife was stationed, and there wasn't a blessed thing under the skies that he could do about it. Despite all his power, authority, and influence, he was utterly helpless.

That brought a different kind of pain -- a stinging, angry bitterness that his vaunted position should mean so little. Before this moment, the war had seemed justified -- as much as war could ever be justified. The Varati had wronged the Empyre. His own cousin had been attacked and held prisoner by them. They had nearly killed the Princeps of the Aegis, and then they had demanded atrocious compensations for the "injuries" they had suffered. Before this moment, he had been a firm advocate of war -- for he had nothing to lose, after all. The Princeps had been the one to lead the Empyreal raid into Varati territory, and if anyone were going to take the fall for his overzealousness, it would be Lysander. Yes, he had worried when Elidi was called off to war, but it was a nebulous, undefined worry. He had felt certain she would be safe.

He had been wrong.

Cassius thrust the crumpled piece of parchment onto his page-strewn desk and leaned his face into his hands. He clutched at his hair and felt the trembling in his arms, felt the tightness in his throat, and knew that his precious control was crumbling. Thank the lares that no one was there to see. He had not wept since his little sister, Leda, died nearly fourteen years ago. He had mastered a stone-faced neutrality to rival that of a Varati's, and yet it meant nothing compared to this unbearable ache that filled him. And strangely, the part that most tormented him was not the danger that Elidi currently faced, but the fact that they had parted badly. All that anger, all those lost chances. All he had wanted was to love her, and all he had done was drive her away.

And now he might never even get the opportunity to say good-bye. She might already be dead.

He didn't want to contemplate that thought. How could it be possible? He had risen that morning, filled with a smug assurance and a new sense of purpose, for finally, he had the information he needed to get Lucian off the throne for good. With a new Emperor, the Empyre might be rejuvenated -- surely anyone would be better than the recalcitrant, impetuous boy-child they'd been forced to appoint, simply because they'd had no better candidates at the time. But that had changed, and he'd been given new hope. He'd been enthused and eager to meet with other members of the Aegis about the matter, to brief them about the other candidates he had "discovered." And for the first time, he had not anticipated the morning's mail with dread, apprehensive about what news it might hold. For the first time, the danger to his wife had actually slipped his mind, and it wasn't until he read those three simple lines that his world had fallen apart.

Varati army of approx. 20K has invaded Edessa.
Engagement at Parnassus.
City under siege.

Even now, as he sat comfortable and warm in his sumptuously appointed chambers there on Civitas Dei, his wife could be lying wounded and bleeding on the frozen earth. Or worse. He didn't want to think about the other possibilities. He couldn't. He wanted to go back to that state he'd been in before he met her, where nothing touched him and nothing ever mattered. Why couldn't he summon that emotionlessness and rebuild those icy walls? Why could he only see her face in his mind, with those warm, coppery eyes, that teasing smile, that soft, husky laugh... the way she had been when she still cared for him. But she had changed him, and there was no going back.

Cassius squeezed his icy eyes shut and felt moisture seep from beneath their lids, and in his heart, the flame that had flickered and stirred to life was snuffed. She had given him hope and love, and he had lost both. It wasn't ice that he hid behind now, it was despair.

And the only part of him that didn't succumb to that desolation was the tiny, angry, bitter seed of revenge.

FIN  

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