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“With faith in the order not guiding your way, what reason do you have to chase death in this manner?” D asked him one evening, huddled around a small fire in the western slopes of Liurnia.
Rogier, ever skillful in flowing through conversation as a stream over rocks, knew he could not respond truthfully.
Though an amicable pair, and well-matched fighters in their shared pursuit, their purpose forked in such a manner as to tear them apart. This question, asked so earnestly of him, cannot be answered in kind if he'd like to keep their comfortable arrangement. He needs D by his side in order to observe those who live in death with relative ease. And D knows this as well, that he is a scholar at heart.
D does not know the far reaches of his heart.
Now, there's nothing ignoble about a knight of the order and a carian scholar disagreeing on a spiritual matter such as that of a proper death. It'd be more unlikely if their ideas aligned. If it were only ideas to Rogier, he'd be more at leisure to share.
For now, he resolves to tell a story to his dear friend. Whatever answer he finds within the lines will be of his own construction, more palatable.
He tilted his head to smile at the other, seated beside him. The firelight flickered, giving his own eyes the illusion of life and warmth - the gold the other believed in.
“You believe in prophecy, yes? In a way, minding the words of finger maidens and the guiding light of gold is in nature a prophecy self fulfilling, so I only ask you this rhetorically. Well likewise, I'm sure you have at least heard tell of certain old stories; the destiny of Carians governed by the stars.”
D nodded slowly, encouraging Rogier to continue.
“I personally find it holds little credence. Though the words of the two fingers and stars have aligned before in matters of great significance, my life is of little note to such forces.”
His voice takes on a hushed tone, and though D can hear the played up drama in his delivery, the way Rogier turns his gaze from the fire and the dark of night sweeps back into his eyes makes him listen closely nonetheless.
“In what speck of the night sky wherein my name was writ, it was in blackthorn script, trailing on eternally.”
He smiled, mirthlessly. On a cloudless night, it came to him in dreams, twisted faces wreathed in roots. He’d wake with soreness in his limbs and an ache to his core.
“My friend, as little as I may believe that the stars, in all their stillness, have anything of consequence to say for a fate such as mine, I fear that I too cannot resist their song.”
D knows the contours of his companion's unaffected mask: the shape of his easy smile, the earnest-like crease of the eyes and slope of the brows. The firelight may be playing tricks on him now, how it creates the faint illusion of a quiver in those features. Were he to believe his eyes, he'd think Rogier to be afraid of this shadowy future hanging over him. He neglected to comment on it, not that Rogier would ever acknowledge his own little tells but to make efforts to hide them better.
D cannot save Rogier.
Rogier knows this well. All he can do, with cool desperation, with florid script descending into pooling ink, is save himself the destined death he's known longer than life -
That which has been written since long before his birth in stars unreachable and unmoving;
or carve out his name from that damnable sky.
He knows he will not succeed.