When Kings and Queens Celebrate, Peasants Weep
Wary eyes looked up to watch the young Templar as he rode past where their owners stooped over some bit of rubble or, more often, a motionless body. He ran his gaze over them, dissuading would-be challengers and assuring others that he meant no trouble. Both looked away quickly.
Solitude smelled of blood and piss. Whatever enchantment might have had it smell of roses as in the old songs were long since broken; the mages who cast them long since dead, or fled. There were only men of Men in the streets; there were neither women nor children to be seen. Those that remained went about their tasks quickly and as quietly as they could manage. It was clear that there had been trouble recently. Blood stained the center of streets, the corners of blocks, and the feet of watchtowers, all places where guards would have stood. Black and grey cloth stained darker than night covered uneven piles on carts or, more often, on the street; men sat sorting through piles of mail hauberks and greaves, swords and axes, cutting Stormcloak sigils from the cloth that surrounded them. A handful watched over the grim operation, clearly little more than peasants in stolen wargear. Merchants sifted through their broken wares, searching for what could be salvaged and making stock of what had been stolen. Only a few others dared to walk the open streets, clearly the victors of the struggle. Even the innocent hid when victors paraded.
Isus was the only man ahorse; there were no other horses that he could see, save one daft and his own. It seemed a small wonder now that he had seen so many in flight along the road from the gates upon every kind of steed, dapper and warhorse alike. He had seen fewer of the poor: that would come in the days that followed if it did at all, for the war had left many with little to flee with and fewer places to hide out the return of the storm of war. Kings and queens spoke of divine rights; peasants just prayed for rain and healthy children. Not Men nor Mer nor Beast could carry the righteousness of the Divines in their claims. He could feel the envious eyes of the men in the streets. Violence was part of the most primal nature of Men, alongside greed. When let loose, they often flew together. A heady mixture of bloodlust and avarice hung in the air, coated over with the poor perfume of the justice of mortals. It stank.
As he turned along the path to the Blue Palace, shouts drew his attention. Few merchants would brave such circumstances, even among war profiteers. By now, most of those brave enough to be about had cleared up what they deemed the essentials and fled for safer places. Most, but not all. One such unfortunate was not being prepared to pay for that mistake with his life. Isus could not see him, but his cries of pain filled a small square where broken and abandoned stalls stood. Shattered wine bottles surrounded what the Templar presumed was the merchant’s stall. All about him was a group of men who had gathered to vent their anger. He lay beneath their boots now, suffering the full measure of their wrath. “Traitor!” cried one. “Stormcloak filth!” declared another. Any protests the man might have made under better circumstances were replaced by his howls of pain.
Taking his horse’s reins more firmly in hand, Isus shouted and spurred the animal forward at a rapid pace. The warhorse brought him into their midst, separating the merchant from his abusers. Retreating a few paces, they regarded the newcomer with bloodshot eyes behind which their primal drive to draw their weapons and cut him down warred with a deeper instinct that cautioned them. One of them stepped forward, his mail hauberk rustling as he did. “Go on, Imperial,” he said, waving a hand, “This had nothing to do with you. Let us finish with this traitor and be done with it. Solitude will be better for his death!” Isus said nothing, merely holding the man’s gaze. Emboldened by his silence, the remaining three men edged forward. “Get out of the way!” one said, reaching for his holstered axe. Sliding his sword from its scabbard in one smooth motion, Isus brought it into a ready position. At this, the assailants paused.
These were no soldiers. Isus could see that. They were dirty, ill-kept, and did not carry themselves like soldiers. The armor they wore was not theirs, but clearly looted from the fallen Stormcloaks. Desperation backlit the rage in their eyes. The war, the sacking of Solitude by the Stormcloak army, would have left few real soldiers and these were none of those. They were out of their depth and knew it, trapped between sheltering in the madness of unrestrained violence and the inevitable grief that accompanies the first murders men make. Isus could tell all of this with a glance. The men gripped the hilt of their weapons with unsteady hands made for tailors and smiths. They would break easily. Leveling his sword, Isus intoned with all the voice of the Emperor and a servant of the Divines, “By the Rule of Akatosh, the Mercy of Stendarr, and the Balance of Zenithar, begone! In the Name of Talos, begone!” Unsteadied by the sudden appearance of an armored Knight whose skill and experience far exceeded their own, the men turned and fled, though the leader cast a venomous look over his retreating back.
When they had gone, Isus sheathed his sword with a sigh that was cut short by a nearby cry belonging to a feminine source. With a turn of his head, Isus took in a small girl emerging from behind the abandoned merchant stall, trailed by a woman with an outstretched arm and eyes filled with fear calling, “Tanya!” His gaze followed the girl to the man’s side. Dismounting, Isus stood beside the girl as she knelt and grabbed the wounded merchant’s hand, tears running down her face freely. Then the woman was there as well, kneeling beside him. The man was clearly close to death. As he looked on, shame made Isus want to shut his eyes, to turn away. Had he been a master of Restoration, he might have saved the merchant. But he was not more than a journeyman and only a master could save this man. He would die because Isus was not strong enough.
“Maria,” coughed the man, reaching out and touching her cheek.
“Tobias,” said Maria, “How could this be? We worked so hard since the war, survived all this... How could the Divines be so cruel? Is this Talos’ punishment?”
“Shh,” he replied, “Do not say such things. The Gods have been good to us. We must have... have faith.” Turning to the girl, he said, “Take good care of your mother, Tanya, for your father. It... it is just the two of you now.”
Choking, Tanya said, “Yes, father.”
“Tobias, you can’t go!” cried Maria, laying her head down on his chest, “I...”
“Shh, Maria.” soothed the man. “Only the Gods can decide when that time comes. And that time has come for me. Pray, fetch me a priest.”
“Who?” she sobbed, “What priest is there to be had in Solitude now after the Stormcloaks...”
Striding forward, Isus knelt next to the dying man. “I am ordained in the eyes of the Divines.” His voice caught in his throat for a moment, then he continued, “If you are prepared, I will administer your last rites.”
The man chuckled wetly, blood spattering his tunic. “They have been good to me: they gave me a moment more with my family and sent me a priest when my time came. Thank you, Templar.” His eyes fluttered closed for a moment. “I am ready.” Turning to the two women, for surely now the young might be considered among the old, Isus said, “Please step back. The last rites are only for the priests, the dying, and the dead.” Maria looked back at him with empty eyes. “We are all dying,” she replied. But she wrapped her arms around her daughter and moved her away. As this was done, Isus saw that a crowd had gathered.
Turning back to the man, Isus leaned in so that only they and the Gods could hear, and intoned the last rites. When he was finished he said, “It is done. You can rest now.” He made to pull away, but the man grabbed his arm with a strength that belied his state and pulled him closer. The merchant’s eyes glazed over and when he spoke it was not with his voice, but with the voice of many, as a choir from beyond. “Isus Makarus, Knight-Templar of the Divines, hear us.” Entranced, Isus heard them. When it was over, the glaze left Tobias’ eyes.
Standing, Isus looked around at the gathered crowd, knowing that they only guessed that the rites had just ended and knew no more than that: perhaps it was better that way. He climbed atop his horse once more, but before he could set out, he heard Maria’s voice again. Looking down, he found her gazing back up at him, eyes filled with grief and pain. Tanya stood beside her. The widow’s lower lip trembled as she said, “Justice, Templar, justice.” He heard the crowd echo the word. “I beg of you,” repeated Maria, “Justice.”
“What justice would you have?” asked Isus solemnly.
“These men who killed my husband.” she replied, desperation in her eyes.
He paused, and then said, “As the Divines will it, so I obey.”
“And another.”
“Another?”
“We are poor, Templar. We have nothing. When the war came, it took everything we had. But then things got better for a while. We made a little money and Tobias put it into wine to sell. But then this madness, just when we though the war was over. And a man, a Nord, took what we had left; the few bottles that we had left. The thugs wanted wine we didn’t have, so they tried to take Tanya and Tobias tried to stop them.” Tears rand down her face. They were the first Isus had seen her weep since they met. “If that man had not taken the wine, maybe Tobias could have placated them; we might have been able to recover from this. Now Tobias is dead and we have nothing.” She fell to her knees and grabbed Isus’ greave. Through tears she cried, “I beg of you, Templar, justice for my husband; justice for my family!”
Raising his head, Isus looked to were the sun fell upon the Blue Palace and back down to the woman, then to Tanya where she stood a few feet away from the exchange. She looked back at him with piercing eyes. There he saw no grief. The tears the young woman had shed were now dry. He had seen the look she gave him now. Many times. He knew that it had once filled his own eyes. Looking back down at Maria, he said, “The Divines will it and I am their servant.”
“Thank you, Templar, thank you.” said Maria, her voice breaking. “The Divines go with you.”
“Always, Maria,” he replied, adjusting his reins, “always.” Heeling his horse, he set it to a trot, and then stopped it next to Tanya. She looked at him with those eyes and he leaned down to speak in her ear where only they and the Gods could hear. “When that day comes, go to Ebonheart and call upon the Divines at their altars in the garrison chapel. They will hear you.” Finished speaking, he looked in her eyes and beheld the nothingness there. But then, he had not expected to see anything. He leaned back.
Spurring his horse on, he made for the Blue Palace. Behind him, he heard Maria for the last time, her words echoing in the street and in his ears, “Remember Templar, justice!”