Reason sat on a grassy knoll, overlooking the bustle of forum attendees packing up their belongings as they readied to make their long treks home. They brought their knees to their chest, hoping it would quell the ball of dread that had yet to unravel.
Their gaze drifted upwards, squinting from the stark blue of the sky. Ashy-backed swifts, transient travelers from the south, chittered and dipped over the field as they chased after their bounty of insects. It was hard to feel envy towards these creatures, carrying themselves frantically on trembling wing from meal to meal, each day a struggle to feed oneself whilst dodging the talons of predators above and below. If anything, Reason felt a kinship.
Below, the Valerian banners flew proudly in the breeze, their bold purple hues unmistakeable. The Rogalians milled around, preparing to travel. A bitter taste welled up in Reason’s mouth. Not towards any one individual, never, and they’d be remiss to say they did not have their soft spots. The brave chef, Tiff, for one, always lit up any room she graced. The Jokiers remained pillars of support for Rhyme, and for that Reason was beyond grateful. Even the band of porters, discreet as they were and yet more earnest than most people they’d encountered. If Felix was anything, he was reliable.
The Lady’s words on sin did not sit well with Reason. Another Rogalian banner exerting its will on a people whose culture they did not comprehend. Call it cultural heritage.
The Old Gods were cruel and frightening; Reason gathered as much from hushed whispers. Still, they were as much of the land as the mountains and forests of Njordir, shaping their way of life and old traditions, harsh but *free.* It was just another component of their culture that the Throne wished to smother, and it made Reason nauseous to think anyone would be complacent.
Holy fire, burning away each perceived imperfection until left polished like glass, pristine and palatable.
Further still, others picked through the parts of forum razed by the Inquisition. Dark spots on dusty ground denoted where blood had pooled too thick to drain overnight. The bitter taste in Reason’s mouth soured to hatred. Memories of chain and hot steel raced through their mind and their hands began to tremble once more. Burned patches of skin prickled from the slightest movement and brush of cloth.
Cruelty masked by holiness.
Reason tore their gaze away from the wreckage below, watching the swifts again. A small cloud of gnats caught the attention of the flock, the little birds screeching as they swooped for their prey.
What had the Inquisition done here other than salt Njordir’s wounds? One scouting party that attempted to go feed a starving populace without explicit permission returned beaten to a pulp. Reason struggled to wrap their mind around why God’s will would mean hundreds go hungry until a single heretic was burned, no explanation sitting well with them.
Still, Runeheim persevered. Those under threat were saved, not from expectation of return, but out of compassion and love. When Father Erasmus and Reason kneeled beside the despairing peasantry of Haedpor Village, it was not as clergy and civil servant, trying to demand the villagers would continue to spin like cogs to feed the reich, but as countrymen, brethren, family, there to help restore a connection to the land.
O’shea wouldn’t have cared. O’shea would have kept his head down, would have scoffed at indolence or been sent by the Fire Guild to threaten with greasing flame until the cogs no longer squeaked.
Flame still lived in Reason’s heart, but it took a different form. Tender, burning, overwhelming. Perhaps splitting the soul meant there was room for something more to grow, lonely and hurting as O’shea once was, bouncing from one warfront to another. Different banners, all a part of the Throne’s will.
A high-pitched squeak and fluttering snapped them out of their musing. A swift that swooped too low had gotten tangled in a bramble, its long wings fluttering helplessly against the ground. Taking pity, Reason stood up, picking their way towards it through the tall grass.
Reason was almost there when they froze. A few paces from the swift was an emperor adder, coiled and poised to strike, its head fixed on the fluttering bird.
Nature should take its course, Reason thought. Cold adrenaline rushed through their veins at the sight of the snake, knowing it would be a poor decision to suffer its venom over this, yet the cries of the swift tore at their heart. Against their better judgement, they crouched, careful not to make any movements that would provoke the adder. It was stupid, but they stuck their hand into the bramble, wrestling with the prickly, whip-like branches to snatch the bird out.
They could feel the flutter of the swift’s heartbeat as it lay flush in their palm for a few moments before it caught enough wind under its wings to take off into the sky.
The adder lay unmoving as Reason slowly backed away.
Reason sat back down in the grass a safe distance away, their hands shaking again as the fear drained from their body. They’d already lost sight of that swift, identical to the few dozen gracing the skies.
Njordir was wild and free. Rife with conflict and archaic ways, perhaps even to its own detriment, but ways that should allowed to **be,** ways that can and should be fought for. Just as Dunland deserved a chance for its sovereignty, so did Njordir, so did Runeheim.
Any less, and they may as well have let the Inquisition burn this whole place to the ground.
