A Night of Remembrance

It'd been a long time since Málmr had last heard the murmurs of pleasant festivities. The last he'd attended had ended in tragedy and flames, and the memory lent him a certain tension as he sat on the outskirts of this little village's stargazing night.

Helvinski was more a hamlet than a village, but it was close enough to Faline to receive the occasional visit from the Order. Too often it was the neglected corners and cobwebbed cellars that hid corruption no one wanted to report. He hadn't been back since he'd taken down one such corrupted mage poisoning Helvinski's village well, and it was only due to that old grace that he was able to sit here tonight.

Málmr was here on behalf of the Order, dressed in his armor and symbols as a Mage Protector, and he wasn't blind to the distance the people of Helvinski kept from him. He saw the wary side-looks, the gritted teeth of those who had their family taken away in recruitments, and the occasional wonder at all his scars that weren't voiced aloud. Málmr didn't begrudge them their thoughts, especially not tonight.

What a discovery, to suddenly know that the stars Málmr had spent most of his life looking up to were influenced by the monsters that shook the land below. He'd always looked up to the constellation Kvistr, the one who'd shone above his birth and governed him as his stalwart anchor amidst the storm of his life, and wondered if she'd been a person once like him, and if she'd shared the fate he might one day succumb to, like every other corrupted mage he took down.

He rarely gave thought these days to the tusks that felt heavier in his mouth as the days passed. But he did tonight, and he barely knew how to process it all.

To give celebration to the monsters that had passed was a strange concept, one he wasn't surprised rankled Miriam's sect. But just as he deserved to consider the fates of those that had fallen in battle, so did Helvinski. So he sat and watched, ready for anything to go wrong with mild patience. Miriam's ilk looked down on gatherings like this, and with the track record of festivities going wrong over the last few years, he didn't exactly blame the sentiment of either side of the tension.

He looked over the candles floating over the duck pond to add their flickering lights to the sky's reflection, the storytellers that told of the few hunts they knew from heart, the free-flowing kegs of ale and wine, and the soft flute music that felt right for a night of remembrance. It wasn't sound that wanted to catch attention or be necessarily called joyous, but Málmr could see the smiles on those that drifted past.

One such fellow might've been enjoying themself too much, given the circumstances. Where Málmr's familiarity of them came from was hard for him to discern until she came close, cheeks ruddy and laugh far too shrill for someone of her battle-hardened frame. His brows furrowed. Wasn't Flavia the mage-knight bedridden? He hadn't heard of her return from her years-long slumber, but maybe she had a right to stumble over the line of indulgence and crash through groups to interrupt - alright, no, perhaps not. He rose to his feet with a sigh, sending a small prayer to Geirr that dealing with a drunkard would be the worst of the night.

She was chattering someone's ear off about all the things one couldn't do in death and how everyone shouldn't take the smallest things for granted - touch, taste, the ability to speak to each other, what wonders they all were - all things that Málmr would've agreed with, had the person she had her arm around wasn't clearly uncomfortable under her arm.

He'd almost made it to her when a commotion from the far side of the glad took far greater priority in its shouts of protest and crashing sounds. Málmr frowned, squinting through the gathered crowd, and once there was a break as villagers were roughly shoved back, he saw it.

Withfinders, calling this gathering heresy and a disgrace to the Archon. Málmr rubbed his singular hand across his groaning face and tusks. Would they ever have one quiet night without fools to ruin it?

"Oi!" growled Flavia from behind him, rushing forward after releasing the poor man under her grip. "What're you playing at?"

Of course her involvement started a ruckus, and of course Málmr stepped in as fists were raised and insults thrown. A shimmering shield wall was thrown up between the parties before some were about to launch themselves into blows, costing him no more than a small bruise that bloomed across his forearm like ink on a page. The parties gasped at the show of magic, turning to him as he walked up, asking, "What's all this?" and giving them a chance to explain their foolishness.

One of the Witchfinders, one who had to shrug off hands holding back his shoulders and arms as if he'd been moments from launching himself at Flavia, snapped, "Finally, someone who'll see sense! All of these heretics need to be arrested and brought before the Archon for their corruption worship."

"Get it right - it's death worship," Flavia snarled back unhelpfully.

"It's neither of the two." Málmr pinched the bridge of his eyes. "It's a night for star-gazing, of which I've been supervising."

"Oh yeah? And what's this we hear about glorifying the monsters the Order's brought down with songs and the like?" The Witchfinder spat. "What's with all these decorations we usually only give to the Patrons! Huh?!" He wheeled on the crowd, making them flinch with the hissed accusation: "Heathens!"

"That's enough." Málmr raised another wall between him and the villagers, making him reel back on him instead.

"Are you - You're with them?" The Witchfinder snarled. "Ugly Wild Mages like you should crawl back to the clans you crawled out of if you're just going to -"

"Watch your words, lest you beg a curse for your insults." Flavia snarled back, pounding her fist on the shield wall to startle the Witchfinders on the other side. "Take one look at him - how many beasts has a mage like him taken down? How easy would it be for him to take you down?"

Unhelpful. Málmr's mouth set in a grimace as the Witchfinders behind their upstart leader started eyeing him warily, and the leader scoffed, full on authority his Witchfinder pin brought him. "He wouldn't dare."

Málmr slowly sighed through his nostrils.

He could feel all eyes on him, waiting for whichever side he took. Would he, a mage of the Order, go against the Archon and risk his safety if false word spread of his corruption-sympathy, or would he aid in arresting all present to stop the ideas they spread? Even if it seemed harmless now, empathy to corruption at the wrong moment was destructive. He'd seen that first-hand with Iphemedea and the criminal Antioch.

In the past, their judgement and readied hatred of the position he stood on would have sent him spiraling. Tonight, all he felt was a steady calm, and a heart that didn't care beyond doing as he thought was right. His fear had been ripped from him, and he was grateful for it as he created a third wall underneath the Witchfinder's feet and said, "I would."

Cheers rang out at his back as he escorted the Witchfinders off the village premises, and insults and threats were thrown at his face. The Archon would hear of his treachery, so on and so forth - he paid little attention, knowing his reputation would be a buffer to these troublemaking nonmages.

He just didn't care, he realized distantly. He threw them all down a grassy hill to roll disgracefully down into the dark, and he went back to his seat with as much calm as he started with, pleased to hear the flute music start up again, the sound a little bolder with their unwelcome guests thrown out. He didn't turn the entire village warm to him in that one act, nor did he earn applause for any of it. They still kept their distance, but in a warmer way than before.

Flavia stopped by with a fresh tankard of mead in her grip (which he managed to pry away when she was busy chatting), and he did manage to ask what she'd meant about death worship and her almost cheerful air about the topic, and he pieced together that her years-long brush with death (which he guessed to be her slumber, unaware that he was speaking to a possessing ghost rather than Flavia herself) had brought her clarity. A mage's fate was either death or corruption, and it was a lovely thing to see that end framed in a good light like tonight. It pushed the fear of it back, for just a little while, she smiled.

He faintly smiled back as she departed, knowing she was right. Death or corruption. That was all that awaited them.

It was an hour later that the elder of the village stirred up the courage to approach him, offering up another tankard when he hadn't touched the one pilfered from Flavia. He'd been the one who had seen Málmr at work with the monster in the village well, and he offered thanks for doing the right thing by them, as a mage should.

He nodded to him as well, unable to dredge up a smile this time. He nursed the sweet-smelling tankard atop his knee, untouched, as he looked over the celebration, and then up at the night sky, where his predecessors silently watched over them all. Waiting for more to join them in their glimmering graveyard.

He took a sip of sweet mulled wine and watched them all back.