Of One Mind

 

The Dutiful

 

On the first day of her forced vacation, Zashan had wandered the streets of Oglios. From the precinct in the warm upper corners of the Cobblestone Ring, she walked all the way down to the Frost Ring, on the very edge of the city, where the cold was pervasive and weekly maintenance a necessity to avoid long-term damages to buildings. The people here were mostly orcs and emberlings, and the occasional grishar roamed the alleys in packs, mistrusting and mistrusted. Though no matter what species, all had to face the cold. In the Frost Ring and beyond, anyways.

 From time to time, Zashan’s gaze turned backwards, towards the city centre. At its very core stood the Suntower, a massive obelisk reaching for the sky, adorned with faintly glowing golden veins snaking on the whole of its length; a beacon in the night visible by all for miles around. More than just a pretty sight, the landmark was the reason Oglios could even exist in the Frostbanks’ harsh environment. The cold was a persistent threat, both for the living and the structures they dwelt in which required constant upkeep. Food was scarce, with agriculture being largely unfeasible; the violent winds often proved hazardous for unprepared travelers, and occasionally for well-prepared ones as well.

The Suntower radiated warmth in a large area around itself, protecting the area within from the elements. Warding the citizens from evil, some would say. Snow could not penetrate the invisible dome, nor could hail. The initial settlement of a few dozen people that subsequently became Oglios began centered on the obelisk and grew outward from there. Naturally, the city’s elite secured their estates close to the center where the heat was highest, while everyone else did their best to stay comfortable within the five Rings, and only the most unlucky or incompetent drifted ever so slowly towards the final edge. Everyone knew it couldn’t last, but no one liked to talk about it, or think on it with anything more than a casual musing. For most people, there were always more pressing concerns, like keeping your family happy and safe and fed and clothed and warm and alive and... 

Even while growing up, Zashan had known that the finite amount of space of Oglios would become a problem, but no one openly worried about it. It wasn’t something to think about too hard, they just had to pass it on to the next generation until they couldn’t anymore.

As the darkness of the night engulfed the streets, the air in the Frost Ring turned noticeably chilly. The market stalls closed one by one while children were ushered to their home by their elders. Most workers wandered the streets in search of a bar or parlor to settle in and forget the day away, while others stepped carefully yet briskly, intent on reaching their destination, one full of loved ones, though not always warm enough. Zashan settled for The Moose, a sturdy-looking three story club which sported a large, clamoring sign above the entrance: “Wanna cut loose? Go with the Moose.”

Cheerful songs carried far into the night with the support of ingested moonshine, floating out of well-lit windows which let Zashan spy patrons already well into the consummation of their evening revelry. She joined in, intent on forgetting, as the eponymous Moose watched the proceedings from its head mount nailed to the far wall right next to a notice detailing that grishars were not welcome in this fine establishment.

The evening bled into a morning, then into another day, and another. In the afternoon of the fourth day, Zashan woke up in a carpeted basement, reclining on soft pillows among five snoring sacks of meat. The parlor was owned by a pudgy old woman who pressured Zashan into paying extra for the overnight stay and made no attempt to hide her displeasure. Zashan stumbled her way to the streets, her head threatening to explode. She remembered puking before it occurred to her that she should probably go back home.

The hike back was miserable in many ways. People took great care to avoid her path, the frosted cobblestone made her slip several times, and her insides were moving in a way that could only signify a rapid exit before long, by any means necessary. Finally, her body felt like one big bruise, the likely result of a few drunken brawls. On the bright side though, —and there always was one— the temperature rose progressively as she got closer to the Tower, and she also found a stray cigarette in her new coat, the one she had woken up into. She bunched up her fiery hair and pulled it close to the cigarette, lighting it after some finicking. Violet smoke came out of the other end as the leaves burned and she took drags. The calming effect would come eventually, but in the meantime she tapped on the smoke’s color which became as fog suspended in the air. The color came alive within her, insisting to be released, so she let it all go at once with no guiding thoughts. Colorful shapes appeared around her, a swarm of children playfully chasing a mischievous dog, a man dancing in his underwear within the privacy of his own home, two orcs watching the sunset at the edge of a cliff, an explorer lost in the blizzard, testing their courage...

A girl with tusks only beginning to grow past her chin clapped her hands and made a ridiculously happy sound before pulling on her father’s sleeve, and soon several people were staring at the display with ready smiles.. Zashan released the rest of the color into an angry puff of purple smoke and hastened her walk, leaving the child’s disappointed sigh behind. She just needed to be alone for a little bit, and everything would sort itself out. 

Her home smelled of dust and forgotten things. In the corner of the living room, a tepid flower quietly lived its last moments, understanding Zashan would not nourish it as she collapsed on the one chair still able to serve its function. The rest of the day was spent in a hungover daze; she paced restlessly from one room to the other, stopping on the bed occasionally to release a few tears, hitting the wooden walls here and there, screaming guttural sounds until her throat was sore and the neighbors acknowledged her..

Morning was almost upon her and she still hadn’t slept. Laying down fully clothed on her bed, she admired the perfectly still ceiling for a while longer before a distant shout coming in through her window called her into action. Time to face the music.

The precinct was a newborn, as far as buildings went. The people of Oglios multiplicated without a care in the world, and that much unbidden free will always had consequences. In this case, that meant the construction of a new precinct and the hiring or training of staff to operate within it, all after the crime rates had increased sufficiently in the area. Not that anyone was counting, they just liked to pretend that they did, the ones in charge. 

Zashan walked across the white stone floor and through the large office room, passing by several occupied desks. Early though it was, crime never slept so neither did the Crownguard, and neither did the Office of Inquiries. Most were finishing up on paperwork, and she spied Klaven having a sit-down with a bleary-eyed couple in the corner. Thankfully for her, the night crew tended to be quieter than the regular one, a small mercy for her pounding head. Once at her desk, she checked her drawers just to occupy her mind, but unfortunately things seemed to be in order. The desk closest to hers had been cleaned out, immaculate as fresh snow. She stared at it for longer than she had intended to but only stopped when a careful cough made her turn. Dasican, an overweight and old elf with a crinkling voice stood there, papers under one arm and holding a cup of steaming something. 

“Careful it’s hot,” he said, pushing the cup into Zashan’s hands. “Though you don’t care, do you?” She did not, her kind not as easily frayed by heat as some others.

“Thanks.” The pause drew long. “Were you waiting for me to show up?” 

He waved his hand in the air dismissively before answering. 

“Girl, anyone in this room smelled you coming.” He paused for a while, trying very hard to make it meaningful while concealing his disgust of whatever it is she smelled of. His gaze stopped on the empty desk opposite hers, and Zashan’s eyes followed. He sighed.  “Look, what happened… We understand. Lots of them won’t be man enough to admit it, but it’s the truth. I’m happy that you’re back.”

She didn’t answer, not sure she wanted to be there. Not knowing where she wanted to be.

 “Still,” Dasican continued, “you shouldn’t see the chief like this. Let me get you something.”

He waddled over to his desk and retrieved a small bundle in his bottom drawer before handing it to Zashan. Inside were a few threads of green grass, a rarity in Oglios, especially that specific shade. She eyed Dasican quizzically, but he only shrugged.

“My wife works in the greenhouses. She sneaks some of those out from time to time, she knows how clumsy I can be...”

Outside the Ring, snow tended to cover vegetation, and what came in and out of greenhouses was heavily monitored since food was so sparse. Zashan took in the sight for a moment before tapping the color and infusing it. Green was useful to clean stains and smells away, to purify, but it wasn’t magic. Still, using the color this way felt decadent, like she was burning paper. Cleansing herself only made her notice the layer of filth that she had removed, which only amplified what remained to her own senses that had grown used to the stench. The nausea came unexpectedly, but Dasican clearly had experience with this sort of situation and was prepared with a nearby container. She bent, holding the container in her hands until the feeling passed. Once back to a relative normal, she tried to be casual.

“I didn’t know you knew how to infuse,” Zashan said, trying to make it into a question.

The elf shrugged. “Oh you know, you live as long as I do and you pick a few things up.”

They both were uncomfortable. He wanted to do more for her perhaps, but she couldn’t ask so much of him. So they settled for avoiding eye contact and embracing the awkward silence instead.

“I’m alright, Dasican.” Zashan finally said. “It’s hard, but I’ll ride it out.”

“Do you… Want to talk about it?”

She did not. What was there to say? Her partner with whom she had been in a secret relationship with had been killed on the job because she had not had his back. Sneaking around had been fun for a while, but they both had been considering coming clean and asking for a reassignment. It would have been worth it in the end, so they could be together. She would have quit the Crownguard for him in a heartbeat, had he asked. She had seen first hand what the job did to people eventually. Even Dasican, who was more well-adjusted than most, had his own scars. And he had gotten lucky. But she wouldn’t tell anyone about Bertram and her. They had shared something powerful, and speaking of it out loud would dilute the feeling, take away the meaning. No, she couldn’t risk losing that connection. Dasican was well-meaning, but politeness had driven him to talk to her, or perhaps comradeship, nothing more. He didn’t actually mean to help. So she was all alone. Again.

“It isn’t your fault,” Dasican continued when Zashan did not immediately answer. “Whatever happened, it isn’t on you. You know that, yes? We’ll find the fuckers, and they’ll regret what they’ve done to Bertram.”

Zashan recalled vivid fantasies of finding the culprit, cutting their tongue, plucking their eyes, burning their ears, sawing their legs, and most importantly, making sure they would live long after she was done.

“Please, Dasican,” she said instead. “I don’t want to talk about it. I just want things to get back to normal.” And in the back of her mind a banshee was screaming that they should find the evil ones and make them give the true normal back.

The overweight elf apologized softly and said one thing or the other before returning to his desk.

Zashan must have gotten up and sat back down a dozen times over when the captain’s office opened and the woman herself walked out. Captain Ilianeska had an easy charm that could overpower many tangibly harder and more powerful things, but also had a ruthless streak and a temper to match. 

“Officer Kord, I’ve been waiting for you to come in,” the Captain said to Zashan across the room. The look on her face did not reflect the politeness of her words.

Zashan stood up and walked to the captain’s office, trying to shield her superior from her smell as much as she could. It did not work.

The door closed, Captain Ilianeska sat on her side of her desk while Zashan remained standing.

“Reporting for duty,” Zashan stated.

The Captain looked through her with knowing eyes. “Take a seat before you trip on yourself,” she calmly said.

“If it’s nothing to you Captain, I’d rather stay standing.”

“Very well,” Captain Ilianeska sighed. “I have two things for you, Kord. First, you’re being assigned a new partner. Fresh from the Crownguard garrisons.”

Zashan’s frown must have been quite the sight, as the Captain changed course.

“What is it?” she asked.

“Pardon, ma’am, but I don’t think having a new partner right now will work very well for me, or my duties,” Zashan answered, trying her best to sound diplomatic.

“You want to go solo for now, then?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I hope you do not think me stupid enough to fall for that, Kord. The first chance you get, you’ll be trying to solve Bertram’s murder on your own, don’t think I’m not aware.” 

Zashan considered lying, but what was the point? “Yes, I would... Ma’am.”

“You’re not the first, nor will you be the last to think you can discard your biases and do the job yourself. Would you let a victim’s next of kin go frontier justice?

“I don’t want to kill them, ma’am.” Zashan said, her voice cold. She wasn’t lying as far as she knew, but no way to be sure until the moment she had them in her grasp. “I can bring them in. I need this.”

They stared at each other for a few long seconds, the silence only interrupted by the muffled yet loud crying coming from the office room. The Captain broke it.

“No you cannot, Officer Kord, and I do not give a fuck what you think you need,” the Captain growled. She spoke over Zashan as she tried to retort, stopping just short of yelling. “Give me a reason to fire you, Kord, I dare you. Sorrows, this would go straight to the Governor’s office. Besides, we both know who is responsible for your partner’s death. How long has this been going on, hmm? How long did you think you could stay high on the job before it caught up to you? And now you think you can ride in here and demand for me to jeopardize this precinct? You think I owe you anything? Let me be clear, Kord, if you were anything more than a glorified thug I would have reported you months ago.”

The Captain waited for a reaction, anger perhaps. Instead, Zashan looked down, her hands forming into fists and turning from dusty red to light brown from the pressure she put on them.

“You’re wrong,” Zashan said softly, shaking her head. ”You don’t understand.” 

“Oh, but I do. I may not be able to prove it, but I have seen your habits,” the Captain said dismissively, scorn barely veiled. “You’re a disgrace, and I can’t have that kind of attention on us right now. So you are going to fulfill your new administrative duties and be on your best behavior where you cannot cause any more harm. And do get along with your new partner, Sunbreaker knows he will need all the help he can get if he has you for a role model.”

Zashan stood there for a while, trying to process this new development. She couldn’t feel anger, or outrage, or sadness, or anything. Really, she should have expected this but she had been too busy not thinking about anything to notice. Articulating any thought felt like pushing a giant boulder uphill, and the headache she had thought defeated pulsed fiercely in the back of her cranium. She came out of her daze as Captain Illianeska finished her final thought.

 “Now get the fuck out of my office before you leave a permanent scent on the flooring. And close the door behind you. Sunbreaker preserve us...”

Zashan closed the door behind her as ordered and looked in the void for some time, keeping all thoughts away. When she finally started making her way to her desk, she realized the office room was almost empty, a rare occurrence when the end of the night shift and the day staff’s arrival did not quite match. Klaven was accompanying the grief-stricken couple back to the entrance, and Zashan could almost hear the exact words he’d be using.

 Rest assured we will do the utmost to find whoever is responsible for whatever happened to whoever it is that something happened to. 

Getting flowery was fine, just as long as they did not engage individually or promise to find the culprits no matter what. That would be a mistake. A rookie mistake.

At her desk, Zashan started by putting her papers in order, then dug into the available caseload. There were always unfinished tasks around the precinct, filing away field or evidence reports, reading through transcripts of interviews, manning the entrance, cleaning, weapon upkeep… The more interesting part was assisting a fellow investigator to figure out a piece of a puzzle, but that would not be in the cards today.

The Captain thought her incompetent. So what? She didn’t need her approval, even more so when it was becoming very clear Illianeska had more in mind than actually solving crimes. Climbing the ladder was busywork, wasn’t it? But wasn’t being put on desk duty what Zashan had wanted? Some time to grieve, to find her footing again. And yet a hole still burned through her chest, the pain that had been invading her mind for the past five days, confusing her thoughts and priming repressed primal instincts, pushing her towards the one true path of glorious revenge. Her loyalty did not belong to the Crownguard, it never had. Her only duty was to Bertram, and everything else was just in the way. This frame of mind was all she had left of him, all she had left, period.

As time slipped by, many elements worked in conjunction to muddle Zashan’s mind, though she would only realize it in retrospect. The most prominent of them, accumulated lack of sleep over five days, ended her shift sometime in the morning as it caught up to her and she collapsed on her desk.

She dreamed of Bertram and his wonderful clay sculptures, and she destroyed them all when they turned on her.