Date: December 29, 1999
Place: Chamber of Stars - Delphic Citadel - Haven
Cast: Cassandra, Cassius
Scene: Elidi has been missing for two months now, and though Cassius had sent Zephyr and his men to comb the forests north of Haven for her, there has been no sign of his wife. Thus, he tries one last tactic as a means of locating her -- he seeks out the most powerful clairvoyant in Delphi, in the hopes that her Sight will succeed where a search party has not.

Chamber of Stars - Delphic Citadel - Haven:
      Located at the pinnacle of the tower, the ceiling of this chamber slopes inward like a pyramid. Furnishings are almost nonexistent, consisting of a few woven mats decorating the floor, covering parts of the mosaic extending wall-to-wall. Thousands of small, colored tiles illustrate a compass rose showing the four cardinal directions. The northern section is dark -- like the mountains that stab at the horizon far beyond the walls of Haven. South is blue -- like the vast ocean stretching away from Haven's harbor. Green represents the west, where a thick forest hems in the farmlands that produce food for the city; and finally, east is gold, where the wind blows fresh and warm in the summer months. It is not too far a stretch to say that the compass represents more than mere direction; for Delphi has always been a place where the four races could mingle freely, as equals.
      The walls are shaped from a stone that is almost as clear as quartz, so that one may glimpse the entire city. Starlight or sunlight shines above, depending upon the time of day, and students often make the long trek up here to study astronomy, or merely feast upon the view offered by a small balcony that overlooks the city.

The note had arrived early this morning, conveyed by a breathless mongrel messenger from the Palladium, garbed in the silver-and-blue of House Augustus. It had been written in the flawless handwriting of one who's spent a lifetime dictating such missives, and the words had been courteous, if succinct. A request to meet, at the Sibyl's earliest convenience. And privately -- suggesting that the matter was personal, and not between Delphi and the Empyre, but rather two individuals.

The messenger had awaited a reply, and had borne it back with all haste; only an Empyrean could put his speed to shame. The agreement had been to meet here, in the Citadel's famous Star Chamber, with its unrivaled view of the sprawling city below. When the sun is at its zenith, the guest arrives.

Cassius touches down on the balcony, half-visible through the translucent crystal walls of the tower, and straightens hair, clothing, and wings before stepping through the arched entrance to meet with a purveyor of destiny.

For the hour chosen, there is little life within the tower -- many of its occupants consumed with mid-day meal or studies and lessons. The Sibyl is, in fact, the only sign of life within, an argent shadow sculpted in sunlight huddled off to the south side of the room. Despite the cool breath of autumn that slips in upon occasion, the generous illumination within is a contrary warmth that balances to a comfortable temperature.

Cassandra's own reply had been hasty in turn, looping scrawl of a more careless hand responsively (if not a touch verbosely) offering to meet so very soon after the message was received. The angle permits her to both look out upon the mantle of oceanic blue and observe the balcony out of the periphery of her gaze. And like clockwork, she slips out of the lightly clasped reverie when Cassius arrives, small chin tilting upward as she turns to observe his greeting.

"Deus," she murmurs, even before he manages to cross the border between balcony and chamber, voice thick with the shards of distraction that live on even after a dream is shed. Even a thinly wrought smile is managed, lending needless light to the eyes that already seem intensely pale by sun's scrutiny.

His study is frank; curious. The last time he had come to speak with her had been before the war, before the insurrection, before the Empyre was defeated and had to surrender to a self-proclaimed god. Back when the Empyre was proud and pompous, and sure of its own might. Much, one might imagine, like this man himself. The last time she saw him, he was polished and pristine and cold; but now some of the polish has worn off, and he is not so proud.

Cassius inclines his head in greeting, and his orator's voice is subdued; it no longer demands attention, but requests it. "Domina," he murmurs, then cocks his head to the side. "Or shall I refer to you as 'Sibyl?' Which is proper? I apologize for the short notice, and I thank you for meeting with me so soon."

Well-nigh translucent lashes skim down as Cassandra studies the man, the child-sized wings at her back stirring reflexively. There are a thousand and one things that curious eyes might feed upon, for the halfbreed seems particularly interested in the progressive effects of time. The duration has apparently been kind on herself, personally -- though distraction remains, it no longer chokes her demandingly in its possessive grasp until she seems a sliver of reality about to perish. This shamelessly intent scrutiny is what causes the delay in her own reply, eyelids finally skimming upward again. "Cassandra is... 'proper,'" she returns blandly. "I am here representing myself and not the Citadel." Deceptively casual by voice, the knitting of her brow seems to deepen at Cassius' mannerisms. She shakes her head, finally, lifting the cloud of neutrality away and leaving a faint amiability in its wake. "It was no inconvenience, Deus."

"Good," he answers. Then, unable to resist, he remarks, "You stare at me so raptly, domina. Do you see some fate looming over my shoulder of which I am unaware?" The words were meant to be lighthearted, but they fall short; something lurks within those pale-ice eyes that could best be described as fear. And there are lines of strain and fatigue on his face, more recent than can be attributed to mere age. He may project an attitude of calm and composure, yet that is a facade; a seer's eyes can see so much more.

Cassandra's head angles a touch to the side, stirring up silver in slithering whispers at her back as hair likewise stirs. "You do not wear the mantle of your future on your shoulders, Deus," she observes bluntly, unrooting herself from her comfortable corner to draw a few paces closer while still maintaining a respectful distance. "It is the Past that I see, a sight that I imagine is laid out for even mundane sight. I was thinking that... I liked your spirit, but it does not seem so bright now."

With so many gruesome visions of the past, present, and future laid before the eyes of a Seer, the subtle truths are often wielded with an unknowing sharpness. Unspoken questions remain within the thoughtfully perusing eyes, as the regard skims along his features -- familiar, and yet changed. He may not mourn for himself, but she empathetically bears a touch of that loss in the weighted corners of lips downturning.

He barricades himself behind unseen walls; the cool, aloof, impenetrable facade is an armor, but it is so much flimsier under a seer's gaze. As if realizing this, his feathers bristle and his wings unfurl partway; as if he means either to shield himself or take flight. He may be tempted to do both. But he stands fast and stamps down any hint of unease that might show on his face; unaware that a clairvoyant need not look there to find her answers.

"No," Cassius murmurs. "No... it is not so bright. That is why I have come." And before he even speaks the words; speaks her name, there is an image torn from the aether itself. A woman with a fiery spirit; swift and sharp as a knife's blade, bright and warm as a candle's flame. Then a darkness, as if that light were snuffed out. She knows before he speaks the words, that, "My wife is gone. I wanted... I hoped... that you might... find her."

An ashen moth drawn to this candle's flame, it seems to inspire a sudden, rapt warmth upon her features. "Your wife," Cassandra repeats hollowly, looking both at and beyond Cassius in a gaze that rapidly unfocuses. "Yes, she has a spirit that would have matched your own. Perhaps... even outshone it, at times," she remarks mirthfully, quickly turning from him to seek out one of the few chairs found within the room. It serves to conveniently mask thoughtfulness as well, as a mind sifts through sights foreign, leaving her noncommittal back facing towards him in the shifting.

Finally, she turns again as she perches within the seat, small wings fanning out on either side of her to cradle filmy wing tips within her lap. "Flying up from discord, he instead finds the heights of the storm still awaited him. But... where is the eye of the storm, Deus? Where will it be if you do not find your wife?" Odd wording, as the halfbreed seems to but graze over truths and elects to speak on them elusively. It is, perhaps, not a very positive sign for a woman who so rarely avoids the heart of the matter, for lack of decorum and patience.

He is not the same man that once demanded information about the Sibyl's one-time student, the boy-Emperor, Lucian, whose light was snuffed at far too young an age. Then, he never would have begged.

He is drawn after her, doggedly following and listening to her words; seeking for some kernel of understanding as one might pan for gold in a riverbed. He does not sit, but stands poised behind another chair, hands resting on its back as he watches her. Rather than answer the question, he asks a slew of his own. "Do you see her? Do you know where she is?" Cassius hesitates. "Do you know if she... lives?"

After a longer pause, the Aegian and patriarch of Augustus breathes, "Please. Tell me what you know."

The changes in his manner seem to spark the embers of uneasiness upon her fair visage, hands lifting to give a few absent tugs to the feathers that nestle near her sides. "Deus, please," Cassandra responds thickly, squirming under his scrutiny. She can see only the past of the woman, abysmally lacking sights of either the present or the future. But as for what that means...?

"I suppose it would be too dangerous to be brought out to the area in which you landed? It... might help me learn of her whereabouts." The halfbreed pauses awkwardly, leaving an uncertain, ragged hem to the edge of her words. Though hair and feathers cloud the sides of her face for a moment, they slide away as she straightens and offers plainly, "Are you certain you do not wish to sit in the chair? It is what they are there for."

His palm slaps the back of the chair in frustration. "Yes, I know what they are for -- what I don't know is where my wife is!" The calm facade cracks, showing a fissure in his composure where anger, fear, and desperation leak through. He was desperate enough to come here, to Delphi, to meet with a woman he once maligned for his own ends.

And with his lapse of calm, myriad images float to the seer's mind: Lucian shot, falling, a bloodstain blotting out the image of an eagle on a tile floor... the bloodstain becomes petals, drifting from a dying rose... a fallen goblet, an infant's smothered cries... a child's screams, and a black swan crippled in flight; forever grounded.

Each vision is superimposed by another, none lasting more than a split-second; rapid as the dance of a candle-flame beyond closed eyelids. Then his voice cuts into the mental barrage, "I cannot take you to where we landed because I don't remember. I remember the storm, and I remember being found, but of the time between... nothing."

The outburst serves, at least, to wipe that discomfort from her features, leaving a tight-lipped tautness in its stead. But even that is fleeting in the eruption of visions that follows, controlled calm slipping away as she slips beneath the depths of sight. Each split-second serves as an additional blow of distraction, and by the time his voice intercedes, Cassandra finds herself in need to leave her own chair. Hands leave her wings to brace on either side of her, propelling her upward to a wobbly standing position.

"Losing your temper with me is not going to help me see where your wife is any easier, Deus. If anything, you are making me privy to sights that you probably do not wish me to see," the Sibyl snarls tightly, heavy-footed steps drawing her away a few paces. To calm racing thoughts, to drink of the breeze that flows in from the balcony, until the paltry color that had risen in her cheeks has faded again. It also provides a moment to steer her thoughts back towards their intended target, though the granules of scenes form a taunting memory that languidly creeps on the edges of her consciousness.

Behind her, he is silent. Maybe her rebuke chastised him, but far more likely, it was fear and uneasiness, prompted by that reminder of secrets he may wish to keep hidden. There is the sound of an indrawn breath; mastery over a control that is fraying at the edges, and then a series of quiet footfalls.

"I apologize," he offers near her shoulder. "I meant no insult. I..." He releases another sigh, accompanied by the whisper of feathers as his wings shift uncomfortably. "I would ask the gods to grant me an answer, but their voices are strangely silent. I have nowhere else to go, domina. Nowhere else to turn." Pride crumbles, and once more he asks, "Please..."

Just that, for there is no more to say.

How much longer can she avoid the shaving of truth that she possesses? It would seem as though time, as fickle as it is, is no longer on her side. Cassandra shakes her head at Cassius' apology, swallowing a few more breaths of air tinged with cool before turning towards him. "It was... startlement speaking. M-My own apologies, as well," she manages thinly, the edges of her words fraying to submit to pressing silence. Perhaps elusiveness was as much for herself as it was for him, for how her own spirit is chafed each time she finds herself the conduit of poor tidings.

"I see very little," the halfbreed begins, a disclaimer of sorts. "But... I see only what has come to pass, and nothing of how it might be. Your own flame sputters in the storm, but her own... extinguishes, by my eyes." The blade of truth seems dual-edged this time, tone bleeding from the wounds that are laid upon the words behind.

Ice-blue eyes shutter in a blink. Pale already, his face is suddenly ashen, and in a bare thread of a whisper, he repeats, "Extinguishes...?" Cassius blinks again, and one hand fumbles blindly to grip the curve of the archway for support. "She... she is dead?"

Cassandra will not -- cannot -- answer that for him, but offers instead, "That which we see is symbolic, Deus. But... I can think of very few ways in which to interpret a candle's flame being snuffed out." The weight of reluctance tugs at her every syllable, elongating words with awkward twists of tongue and mind. A corner of the world lies at their feet by the vantage of this chamber, and how favorable any of those places would seem compared to meeting these questions levelly. It is almost as though she takes ill news personally, fingers capturing each other at her stomach and knotting tensely. "I... am sorry, Deus," she adds softly, releasing the pangs one by one in the merciless presses of teeth to her lower lip.

"No..." At first it sounds like a denial, but he goes on to assure her, "No, I... asked." His face is the color of chalk, and but for the one hand clutching the archway for support, he might sway unsteadily on his feet. The words hit him with all the force of a blow to the stomach, yet the ache is higher up.

Fighting the constriction in his throat, Cassius manages, "I... thank you. At least I..." he swallows, "...at least now I... know." And ignorance is bliss. He closes his eyes, struggles to breathe, to think, to focus beyond anything but that looming certainty in his mind. The warning that a seer's vision is not always accurate means nothing; hope cannot survive against the avalanche of guilt and fear and despair her words loosed. It is snuffed, and some part of his spirit dims a little more with its absence.

And how she will mourn the shedding of a fraction of light for him, though his brief appearances into her cognizance have been but a blur in a sea of faces and memories. The original flame within him appeared to have imprinted on the back of eyelids as if she had directly gazed upon the sun too long. Cassandra stares at Cassius for a lengthy period, uttering a thousand silent whispers that echo her pained apology. Each word that is conjured up seems ill-placed and rapidly discarded, leaving her in this awkward silence. The Sibyl's blanched features are a lamenting symphony of pain and regret, indiscriminate in the facial muscles that are played upon.

There are no tears, no agonized denials, no wild displays of grief. Just that chalky pallor and those labored breaths. Then, at last, when Cassius feels a strength leak back into his limbs and is no longer in danger of reeling, he straightens marginally and releases his death-grip on the archway. "Thank you," he says again in a hoarse rasp. "I will... relay the news to -- to her family. And mine. And..." He pauses, finding it difficult to focus long enough to complete a thought aloud. "In the absence of..." He swallows. "There is no... proof, beyond your words. I do not know if that is... enough. I will let my men continue searching, until they find... find..." He can't even say the rest; just leaves it at that. Eyes close for an extended moment, and finally he murmurs, "I have monopolized your time long enough. You've been... generous."

Generous? The twinge that inwardly strikes her is the silent protest to that odd phrasing. Too-wide eyes follow each of Cassius' motions, in a measure of concern and lingering contrition. "I can... send word to you, if I See anything else, as well," she offers, jaw working numbly to drag on certain words. Cassandra extends a hand forward, though it never quite reaches the intended arm -- even in grief or the heights of discomfort and pain, some Empyrean and Varati folk are rather particular about having a halfbreed lay a touch upon them. "Is there... anything I can get for you, before you leave?" It creates a fissure within her conscience -- delivering the harsh blow of doleful information and sending the poor soul on its way seems no more merciful than breaking a bird's wings and pushing it off the balcony to fly. Or is this the fledgling empathy within her that makes this all even a more unpleasant task than it once seemed?

"No," he answers, with a quick little shake of his head. Again, speaking becomes a chore around the tightness in his throat, but he perseveres. "No, that is not necessary. You have... other duties to attend to, and I..." I have to go home and tell my family that my wife is dead. One does not need telepathy to read that thought on the Aegian's normally-impassive face. His wings shudder at his back, and a feather is loosed to settle on the chamber's multi-colored floor. He takes a step toward the balcony, murmuring a hoarse, "Vale, domina," to the halfbreed that watches him with those wide, sea-colored eyes.

"Vale," Cassandra returns in a barely audible intonation, skittering over to collect the feather on the floor before it blows away, and wrapping spindly fingers around it. As she straightens again, she follows in Cassius' shadow to observe his departure. The Sibyl has, albeit unwillingly at times, often found herself as much a witness of sins as of fates. If she believed in gods, observing this shadow of the former Deus Augustin might convince her that some higher power had finally passed judgement for the sights that had spread across her vision today.

Regardless, it is not a matter for her own condemnation, and there is no hesitation to mar the sympathy that lands upon the Aegian as surely as the sun's own light: a quiet parting where awkward, unwieldy words fail.

And though he professes not to believe in the gods, that is not necessarily true. He believes in them all too well -- and that they have turned their backs on him. The faces of those stone gods in the Palladium are as cool and impassive as Cassius could ever hope to be; austere, unfeeling, distant... unattainable. These are the gods that rule his world, and they make a prison of it. His sins are his own doing, and so is his penance; it is a kind of justice, even if it exists nowhere but in the confines of his own mind.

He steps out onto the balcony, composed without if not within. Silver-white wings spread for flight, and the noonday sun glints off feathers as pristine and pure as snow. Those wings, his birthright, his status, his wit -- all were gifts that any of a dozen would have counted themselves fortunate to have. Yet they did not bring him happiness, and nor will they ever. He always wanted something more, and it led to a prison of his own making.

No matter how far he flies, he'll never escape it.

FIN  

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