rainbowfic | vienna orange, #9: an element of forgiveness.

Title: An Element of Forgiveness
Author: S. / sunfright
Color: Vienna Orange, #9: "Shouldn’t there be screaming, praying, crying, anything at all?"
Styles & supplies: Panorama, charcoal, life drawing
Story: Baked Earth-verse
Wordcount: ~1400
Rating: Teen
Warnings: Non-violent war crimes, war themes, vaguely implied slavery in a fantasy setting.
Summary: In general, he may not be guiltless, but in regards to this war, he's innocent as a baby.

AN ELEMENT OF FORGIVENESS

“Shouldn’t there be screaming, praying, crying, anything at all?”

The flatland surrounding the town of Calgari, lying on the border between the West State and Reece, has been reduced to nothing but scorched earth.

He rides through the rising dust clouds covering the main road in a blanket of brownish grey, the sweaty flanks of his white stallion sticking with sand particles and dirt. They’ve covered the one and a half day’s distance between the Capital and Calgari at a gallop, leaving the previous sunset and arriving tonight. Passing by the mostly destroyed city gates, Sarica notices the little details around him with practiced ease now, as if war seeps into your bloodstream in order to stay; that woman there, sweeping her doorsill from the inside, staying in the safety of her house, because by now it has become common knowledge – the Reecians never invade the privacy of Efithian homes. Above that, are they? Above what, are they.

Sarica’s upper lip curls.

It's early June, this fall’s harvest had only just begun spouting before the battle fell upon these lands. The heat had been promising, until it became a viable flame. What the sun had nourished of crops for these people, representatives of Efith in its entirety, over the course of a year, Reece – with their newly equipped rebel army – had burned to the ground in half a day.

There is nothing left. Except, it seems, to ask for further help from Mergan. More provisions. More military support.

More to pity.

Following the city wall at a trot, his gaze moves over the barren ground that surrounds the town in the wake of the blaze, showing the touch of a fire priest who is in all his ridiculous power of their own making. They could as well have burned down these fields of wheat, these fields of barley themselves. The blame falls to the same, regardless.

A shout from behind him makes Sarica turn his horse to face the High Priest from the Earth Temple nestled in between the hills three towns over. He was told to expect the man to join him when he left the Capital, seeing as they will have to deal with the quality of the earth here quickly, if anything is to be salvaged. His expression is dark, his thick, black beard having caught dust specks and crumbling flakes of ashes. Once he comes up on the side of Sarica’s horse, he greets him, legislator, but doesn’t idle.

“This isn’t only Otanius’ work,” he begins and Sarica feels his eyes narrow rather than widen. “Even with his powers, he couldn’t have covered these grounds so fast.”

“What are you saying,” Sarica inquires, although he already gets the gist of it. There were more and more come from somewhere, don’t they? More are bred. His horse shakes its head and he tugs at its reins once, hard, forcing it into submission. It dances aside.

Dust is clinging to his eyelashes. Sarica blinks, he blinks again.

“He must have begun teaching our methods to those in Reece with a gift for it,” the priest replies.

That’s when Sarica smiles, a hard-edged, humourless smile, and he lets his eyes roam the surrounding fields once more, taking in the devastation that this town has suffered, it will be years before it has returned to its former glory, if ever. If the war shan’t swallow it up, sacrifice it in the name of peace and prosperity. In the name of counting their wins over their losses. This is the furthest the Reecian rebels have moved up into the country.

Yes, Calgari sets a very poor example and those aren’t things to be forgiven.

Neither are rogue fire priests, naturally. Sarica has waited for an excuse to fight fire with volcano eruptions; Otanius just gave him one. If that be his purpose in this tragic tale of betrayal and bloodshed, then let it be thus. Let it be done.

“Only initiates of the Temples are allowed to learn cult teachings,” Sarica reminds the High Priest needlessly, because the words must be spoken for the rest to be allowed, everything that will follow as a consequence. The man nods solemnly, this has not escaped his attention either.

Otanius is a heretic now. The punishment for treachery towards the Temples is unmeasured, usually the Mysteries are left to judge which in most cases means mercy – but Sarica says, he shall gladly be the fist of the Mysteries this time, he shall gladly be their sword and their club. He shall be their general, he shall be their guide.

Up ahead, Sarica’s appointed captain gallops closer, halting his horse close enough to speak easily. “Legislator,” he greets him, fist to his heart in respect, “what are your orders?”

How do we proceed, he means. Sarica looks from the High Priest to the soldier, the smile gone, an unbothered, relaxed expression having overtaken his features. It will be settled now. If not for good, then for the time being and isn’t the time being the most anyone gets?

If one wants more, one will have to take it for oneself. Territories aren’t the only claimable spoils of war. Efith knew this long before this particular conflict, they have built their cities on the backs of the spoils of former times for centuries. Such was the life that Sarica relieved Timachus from. Here they see the thanks he receives in turn.

Paying heed to how not a single flame has been left alit, the ashes cold and coloured in blacks, Sarica doesn’t look at his captain, Arasmus, as he speaks. “Do we still command the regions around Iracus in Northern Reece,” he asks.

“And all the roads leading to the main city of the region, too,” Arasmus informs him, still awaiting his orders. It’s evident in his voice, although he doesn’t hurry the legislator, a good couple of paygrades above himself. There is rank between them. However, in the end, they are equally expendable – one captain can be exchanged for the next, one legislator for another. Sarica knows they whisper about this war when he can’t hear them, they call it his, the fighting as well as the fault for it.

Still, only one thing is his in relations to this war. Everything that keeps them apart bears the blame for every step he has to take to get him back.

Sarica has studied law for years. He could define a defendant with his eyes closed; he is not it. Surely, he isn’t guiltless in general, but in this? Oh, in this, he is innocent as a baby and he sleeps like one as well, have no doubt.

“Collect the full company,” Sarica tells his captain, waving one hand to make the High Priest follow along as he walks his horse back towards the road, still dirty, still covered in dust clouds. The High Priest, as the only one, covers his nose and mouth with his tunic as they are immersed on all sides by the sizable storm. “Send for as many sacks of salt as you can find, then cover every field in the area in the stuff. Leave the earth white.”

“But –” the High Priest gasps, tunic falling away, his beard grey within seconds. Is that how war ages you? How will Sarica look in another couple of years? He will soon have seen his 43rd summer. Turning his head, he catches the High Priest’s gaze and holds it, quirking an eyebrow.

“But?”

“In just a few weeks, our priests will have regrown what was lost here,” he continues, uncertainly. “Legislator Sarica, salting their fields will leave the earth barren for years!”

A slight snarl. His captain, fortunately, is already reversing, turning his horse to collect his men and be on his way. They’re left alone again, the High Priest of the Earth Temple and Sarica. “I suppose, then, that Otanius will soon have to teach them how to harness the element of the earth, too,” he says coldly, pushing a hard fist against his heart in greeting, before following at his captain’s heels, leaving the High Priest behind to his own moral qualms. They are not Sarica’s. Neither will they be Sarica’s problem, will they?

By rights, he should send his orders back to the Capital for approval, but he has men enough working for him there that if they act first, approval will follow, sure enough. So, Sarica doesn’t ask for permission. The Mysteries are merciful, it’s said.

Certainly, asking for forgiveness won’t be the issue.

vienna orange, #9: an element of forgiveness.

no subject