Posted 07 October 2003 - 02:31 PM
*pops up out of nowhere and waves*
Hi, all!
How in the world are ya?
Some of you might remember the first time I posted this piece, about a year ago. It was meant to be the prologue to a novella that… well, never got written.
But it seemed to fit in rather well with this quiz topic. (It's not in banter form, though. Sorry!
) So I thought I would submit it once again, as one-shot glimpse into the clouded mind of my darling Helm-Boy. Hope you don’t mind.
So without further ado, a very…
very drunk and angsty Anomen. Enjoy! (again!
)
*pop*
Anomen stared silently into his glass. It was almost empty again. He moved the small tumbler in a slow circle, watching tiredly as the amber liquid climbed the sides of the glass in graceful swirls, then dropped again into the shimmering whirlpool of gold. It was almost hypnotic. Of course, anything would have been at this point.
How much had he drunk that day? He'd emptied one bottle earlier that day and was well into the second. Originally he'd counted the glasses as he downed them but had lost track after the fourth. There was no more need after that. He could feel the effects of the cheap whiskey on his mind. He knew he was drunk. There was a pleasant numbness to his thoughts now, more than welcome after the hours… no,
days of pain.
How many days had it been? He had lost count of those after the fourth, as well. A week, a month… It scarcely seemed to matter. It seemed as though the whole thing had happened only moments ago, and yet at the same time, it felt as though it had been years since he had last looked into her eyes. Looked into those deep blue eyes, and saw the truth.
Anomen closed his own eyes with a sigh and rubbed a large hand over his face. It would do no good to think over it again. She had made her feelings clear. There was nothing he could do to change that.
Helm knew he had tried.
Anomen took another sip from his drink, frowning as the whiskey bit at his tongue. It burned as it slid down his throat, leaving behind the acrid taste of too much alcohol and not enough hygiene. An unexpected chuckle broke from his throat, and he shook his head slightly, seeing in his mind's eye the pathetic spectacle that Anomen Delryn…
Lord Anomen Delryn had become.
He had neither bathed nor changed his clothing for days. His deep brown hair fell over his forehead and shoulders in limp, matted clumps, and his beard was untrimmed and ungroomed. He smelled of sweat and alcohol, a combination that was all too familiar in the taproom of the Copper Coronet, but not at all common to the generally fastidious cleric. In the past, Anomen would have been completely appalled at the very thought of sweat stains dirtying the costly silk of his shirt, but there they were, dark and damp and smelling no better than those of any other common drunkard.
No better than his father.
He frowned again.
She had brought him to this. She with her tainted blood, her bloodless heart. She led him to the path of vengeance, and then forced him to walk it alone.
Anomen's hand tightened unconsciously around the tumbler in his hand, and the ancient glass groaned softly under the pressure. The sound encouraged him, and he pressed his fingers together still further, narrowing his eyes slightly in satisfaction as the glass shrieked under his grip.
She had walked with him to his father's house, had agreed to help him find his sister's murderer. She had followed him to the monster Saerk's ill-gotten estate, had stood by while he murdered an innocent child. Surayah. Then her father. Then each and every guard. A guest. The cook.
A spidery pattern crept over the surface of the glass from under his hand, its spreading fingers catching the light and glittering like threads of silver on a background of smoke.
And then, when he had cried to her in his guilt and anguish, she had turned away. Leaving him alone.
With a sharp report, the tumbler shattered in his palm. He curled his fist around the shards of glass, ignoring the fiery bite of pain as the whiskey-soaked splinters entered his skin. He pressed his fingernails more firmly against his palm, tightening his jaw as the first faint shadows of scarlet touched the edges of his fingers. His hand trembled under the strain, but he held it still, waiting for what seemed an eternity before finally releasing his grip and letting the injured limb lay weakly on the worn surface of the table.
He sighed tiredly and closed his eyes, letting his head drop forward until his face was hidden under a filthy curtain of hair. What a fool he had been. What a complete and utter fool. He had trusted her. He had believed her. He had loved her.
And she had betrayed him.
Anomen opened his hand and glanced toward his bloody palm with a somewhat disinterested expression. The thought of using a spell to heal his injury flashed briefly through his mind, but he pushed it away with a frown. Both his love and his Order had pushed him away. Why offer his God the opportunity to do the same?
He curled his hand into a fist once more, loosely this time. No. He would tend to the wound in the traditional manner, or perhaps seek help elsewhere. He would not offer a prayer, but he now had the money to buy one.
He smiled bitterly, pulling a few coins from his pocket with his uninjured hand. The cruel irony was that it was the very murder of Saerk, and the subsequent vengeance by his son Yusef, that had taken Lord Cor Delryn from this world and placed his son on the shaky throne of a dying empire.
Yes, fate had a sense of humor, it seemed.
Anomen took a deep breath, then let it out slowly and pushed his chair back from the table, tossing the coins onto the weathered surface. They bounced once, twice, then settled comfortably among the blood-painted remains of the shattered glass and lay still. Anomen stared at them thoughtfully for a long moment, then rose from his chair and turned toward the door.
It was time to move on.
