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6/14/2025, 9:46:54 PM
>>6257286
The holding cell could hardly hold him. Even with the presence of the armed guards on both sides of the wall, their spears held proudly, and an absurdly-pleased Blessed Blind sitting opposite him, rubbing her bandaged hands with utter delight, Ibardo still holds his relic weapon comfortably on his lap.
He feels less comfortable inside his heart, but for reasons far different from his current plight.
No prison of matter could hold him.
But he is an old codger, growing dotard in his ancient age: he has served the will of the Sun-Birther well, if that had been his honour, and he would bow graciously to death when it came for him.
His disciple, on the other hand, is young and about to face a storm like she has never seen. Alone, she would break. Supported by Ansàrra, she might bend.
But it shall be painful, and that is the reason why his hands are joined in prayer still.
“Pleading for your release? No grovelling and crying will help, I’m afraid. That time has passed.” Teases Astoria’s voice. It has grown grating to his ears as of late.
“Release will come, either from bars or bones,” he replies in a soft voice, opening an eye only for the benefit of the other man who is now being allowed to come in. “It is not up to me. This is a lesson you and the Amaranthines would be wise to learn once and for all: the Kiengiri could not direct the path of the old sun. Much less so the new one.”
Astoria clenches her teeth, like a kid whose favourite toy has just been denied.
The man finally walks past the rows of guards. He is dressed in the simple white and golden-linen cloth that is the province of a head of family, not betraying his high rank. His hair still black even with his youth well-past him, his blue eyes hard and affixed to Ibardo.
“It is the fourth time I find you in a cell, Mastro Delebasse,” he says, bowing his head to Ibardo before he does so to Astoria, whose hands clench with barely-concealed annoyance. “None seem to hold you for long.”
“Perhaps I have just grown thinner with age,” he chuckles. “It is good to see you again, Guarnieri.”
[cont.]
The holding cell could hardly hold him. Even with the presence of the armed guards on both sides of the wall, their spears held proudly, and an absurdly-pleased Blessed Blind sitting opposite him, rubbing her bandaged hands with utter delight, Ibardo still holds his relic weapon comfortably on his lap.
He feels less comfortable inside his heart, but for reasons far different from his current plight.
No prison of matter could hold him.
But he is an old codger, growing dotard in his ancient age: he has served the will of the Sun-Birther well, if that had been his honour, and he would bow graciously to death when it came for him.
His disciple, on the other hand, is young and about to face a storm like she has never seen. Alone, she would break. Supported by Ansàrra, she might bend.
But it shall be painful, and that is the reason why his hands are joined in prayer still.
“Pleading for your release? No grovelling and crying will help, I’m afraid. That time has passed.” Teases Astoria’s voice. It has grown grating to his ears as of late.
“Release will come, either from bars or bones,” he replies in a soft voice, opening an eye only for the benefit of the other man who is now being allowed to come in. “It is not up to me. This is a lesson you and the Amaranthines would be wise to learn once and for all: the Kiengiri could not direct the path of the old sun. Much less so the new one.”
Astoria clenches her teeth, like a kid whose favourite toy has just been denied.
The man finally walks past the rows of guards. He is dressed in the simple white and golden-linen cloth that is the province of a head of family, not betraying his high rank. His hair still black even with his youth well-past him, his blue eyes hard and affixed to Ibardo.
“It is the fourth time I find you in a cell, Mastro Delebasse,” he says, bowing his head to Ibardo before he does so to Astoria, whose hands clench with barely-concealed annoyance. “None seem to hold you for long.”
“Perhaps I have just grown thinner with age,” he chuckles. “It is good to see you again, Guarnieri.”
[cont.]
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