1347, The Backstage Bistro. Fort Praesidium
Calves screaming, Jahandar examined the firearm laid before him. An hour of running around the dirt-paths of the fort had taken its tole on his reserves of pain tolerance, and he considered taking a painkiller. Turning away from Hailey, he allowed his features to relax and a deep sense of sadness seemed to almost ensconce him in its dimness. Swiftly reaching into the familiar pocket, before he knew it the thing was travelling down his esophagus.
One in time is worth nine. An old adage from the apothecaries when he was in the service. Best to think of it like that, and not the other way, the way he might ascribe the behavior if he saw it in another. Those thoughts were of ill-consequence and served no purpose, no matter what way you looked at it. Best to focus on something else, Jahandar determined. Now turning to his right, he offered an apologetic smile to Hailey and mumbled a greeting.
The last few days were a blur of crisis and medication. The arrival of the Venerated Inquisition Corps was disturbing. Even though he had done nothing to gain their ire, the immense power they represented was an incontrovertible sign of the times. A herald of the trials to come, he witnessed alot of new behaviors in the Fort's denizens. There was avoidance of public gatherings, a general suppression on the Market, and most importantly alot of fear. It effected even him. Speaking of, it was time to collect himself.
Reaching into his jacket again, he fished free a pack of Foundry-Select cigarettes, this one half-full, and of the four cigarettes visible in the small hole on the top of the paper-wrap pack, he fished out a very specific one. A fine blend of Gleamgrass and Tobacco, of his own making. He had returned to his mundane studies of alchemical and biological chemicals and their effect. This little treat was the first of his creations in this new era of self-progress.
Drawing the cigarette to the candle and puffing on it, it came alight with a puff of acrid smoke. Fixing his posture upright, he took a long drag from the cigarette and simply closed his eyes, relishing the sense of peace that was setting his lungs alight. Passing the smouldering smokable to Hailey, he began to rub an oil rag along the length of the rifle's stock, the natural oils soaking into the wood material a fraction at a time.
Engaging in a small, meaningless conversation with Hailey -- the humdrum topic of recent weather. The conversation was carried on as though there was not a squad of heavily armed and armored Inquisition Infantry down the block, bored out of their minds as Jahandar well knew from his own service--and given writ to do whatever they felt. A strange glance, an instinctual glare...that would be all that was needed to sanctify a holy ass-beating at the hands of those boys upon some unsuspecting daytaler.
FIXING his gaze on the painting, he studied it intensely.
Taking another mouthful of sweet smoke into his lungs, he appreciated the black obelisk. Darker than coal, and rising to the highest heights. Clearly a representation of Naum's Republic. The rule of the Warbishop was coming, and it had arrived at the very doorsteps of even this remote set of hovels. He could only imagine the tension in barracks across the Republic. Many were incensed against Alexandrov, but would they have the courage to put their money where their mouth is?
There was no point in dwelling on that any further. He could not control it, therefore he had resolved to put it away from his mind. To focus on himself--strengthening his body and mind for the trials to come. The trials that Ikashev had forsaw, and that Jahandar himself had read about in ancient scripture, were setting upon them even in this instant.
His lower lip quavering for a moment, he curled his free hand into a fist at his side, dropping the oil rag which he had threatened to remove material from the Rifle with. Calm yourself. Calm yourself. Do not panic. There is no need to cry. This is the waking world in which we live. Cruelty and uncertainty are the counter-signs at your post, soldier.
Drawing in a deep breath and grounding himself upon a foundation of self-talk, he turned his gaze to the looming obelisk once more. Perhaps it could be true, what some said. That the abyss is darkest before it recedes. He certainly hoped so. His heart ached terribly as he considered those missing from his life at this very moment. What he wouldn't give to pull back the curtains and see Ikashev and Drusilla chattering away on the sea of pillows in the adjoining room.
But, things would not change until he manifested that change. That much was clear. He had to bring his family back together or he threatened to lose it all. Even Ikashev. This was his moment to shine; internal strength was needed. He believed absolutely in his own power and will to surpass this. He thought back to all the struggles and triumphs in his life; the struggles far outweighing the triumphs.
Every charging opponent, every document he signed and processed. All the documentation required for the long deployment in the quiet sectors. Every person he shackled, threw before a magistrate, and resigned to their fate. They all haunted him, but in their own way they were a rallying cry in the recesses of his mind. He had done great things, things that had helped people, and the terrible things he had done, he survived.
In a warzone, survival is the only metric that counts. He had only been surviving; but was it even worth it, surviving to be here in this moment, in this place, agonized by memories? The people he had killed. He was no killer---atleast he told himself that. He just killed people for a living. And his mistakes as an officer towards the end---things were getting quite bad with the apothecaries then, too---haunted him. He never knew of any person under his command to have been killed as a direct consequence of his decisions, but he could never know.
The late nights of what-ifing the day's deeds. Should they have asked for grenades to clear that defilade? Perhaps Karlov would not have ended up with three feet of pike sticking out of his back. Perhaps Karlov's mother would have had her son for another winter. Even if it was just one winter--or one day, or one minute...Karlov's mother would have done anything to have her child to savor the sweet air of life, but he had done his duty. He had given all that he had, even the very air in his lungs.
Jahandar thanked God he was no infidel or heretic. He knew he would meet with Karlov again some day, far from this place. Yonder where the water is sweet and the weather warm, they would meet again like comrades. His stomach turned at the thought of seeing any of his old comrades at this moment. He did not know if there ever WOULD be a moment he could face them. They had been brothers in arms. They had fought and died side by side through the worst imaginable conditions. Those conditions, and that time, haunted him so much he did not know if he could face a living reminder of what Hel must surely be like.
And now, as his reward....ta-dah! Instead of being strong and dextrous, his body had begun to fail him---many injuries during the course of his service had, he now considered, been mismanaged by the Apothecaries. The apothecaries on the front lines were all so young---so young, and unknowing, unprepared for the horrors of war. Even less prepared for the horrors of undeath. How do you bandage a man whose flesh has been clawed from his ribs? No amount of education or learning could prepare you for such things. Thus, he did not blame them. No more than he blamed himself---less, actually.
But, he was gaining his body back. He only feared he was losing his mind in the process. The long isolation during the autumnal months had brought him back to life from the brink of a living-death, but his heart and soul still ached. The anguish of not knowing if Ikashev was safe. Not being there for him. Not looking over him. He had failed his goal. He had failed his task, and in those days he felt utterly worthless. In hindsight, he could tell to himself that he had saved his life through his actions, but that salve upon his aching emotional wound was a little under-powered.
With salves, pain, and medicine now on his brain, he resolved to take another two painkillers. He needed to relax, and more importantly---he needed to feel good. The world was so dim now, hardly anything brought him pleasure. Nothing, it seems, could make him feel good. Even interacting with his loved ones---it only brought him grief that he could not be that much stronger for them.
And the other man---the man who had threatened his family? His blood boiled. He had to see his blood to be a man, he knew that for sure. But he could be patient. Years of service in the infantry had leant him an infinite capacity for waiting. And so he would wait. He would gather his strength, in body and mind. He would tend to his faith, and bring holy-water to his brothers in arms of THIS screaming moment in his life. He would become good enough. He would overcome this, and in his heart of hearts he knew that he was meant to be here.
The painkillers threatened to catch in his throat. Reaching for the nearby bottle of vodka, he loomed and walked sluggishly towards the pillows. He was starting to feel tired. That was a good feeling---a strange one, in this modern day. In the camps with Ikashev, he slept like a baby. He slept in the same tent as Ikashev, every night, and every night they shared stories. Dreams. Ideas. Hopes. Jokes. Joy. Happiness. That was it. Happiness.
When the recruiter came into their tent that morning---waking them both, he balled his fists. They wanted Ikashev. He was small, and could fit into tight spaces to repair the machines of the Legion. Crying out, he told them they would not. He struck the pudgy prelacy man directly in the mouth. A tooth came free. He knew the man would be angry; and likely, he would kill both Ikashev and Jahandar now. Stupid! So stupid. So sorry, brother. I failed you. But not quite.
The man was -smiling- now! Jahandar was a fighter. He had blood lust. "A hot-blooded westerner? I'll double my bounty for this!". The man was no legionnaire, but a merchant. He dealt in flesh, and here in this tent he had found his pound of it. This obese cretin was looking for boys just like him and Ikashev. But if he went, Ikashev did not. And so his brother would be free. Though he would bear the chains of servitude for ten years, at the end of that ten years he would get to invest himself into a farm, with his brother, and perhaps a pleasant wife.
BLINKINGLY he realized he had been staring at the painting for nearly a half-hour. Hailey had gone home for the night, and Mahsid was snoozing in the adjoining room, his obnoxious snorring now noticed. The painkillers were working. There was that, atleast. He sank a little deeper into the pillows, and stared at the empty seat across the table from him. The one in which Ikashev always sat. He stared on at the empty place at the table, and he threw himself into the gaping maw of rumination and emotional pain. The painkillers blending minutes into moments, he was utterly lost in it.
And it felt deserved.