Open The Market The Festival of Sorrows, a Bully Harbor Holiday

[Colonel Harvon M. Jere]

At the arm squeeze and her emphasis on joining him as a vixen rather than as a minister, the Colonel's head swam a moment with possibilities and his mouth went a touch dry.
This charming woman may be wanting more and sooner from him than he even expected, though suggesting she'd like to borrow him from the Bella Vulpinsula was pretty telling already.
He placed his other large paw over hers as they strode through Satire Square and past the pedestal of Chester Larzenbright at its center, where a young rat and stoat were engaged in a spoken word performance, a "two-act, two-person tragidrama on the concept of grief", as the painted words on the board next to them called it.
His big multicolored brush wagging, the old soldier brought his date through a good portion of the Market and its surrounding area until they came upon a row of old, weathered walls, pockmarked with time and painted partially with a faded mural depicting a corsair ship and a bleeding heart with a cutlass through it, topped by a grinning ferret skull wearing a red beret.
"Coaliton will Pay" said the text along the cutlass blade. "We Don't Forget."
Soft, thick green vines traced all over these stone walls, and certain sections stood out just enough to serve as footholds.
Jere led her behind a tall bush that obscured much of their view of the crowd, intending to help her up if need be.
They came upon a lanky old ferret in overalls trimming the bush with a pair of rusty shears, and the mustelid's bushy brow raised at the sight of them.
The Colonel snorted and, taking Dusk's paw in his, said, "Hello, Dregnose."
"'Day, Colonel." The ferret looked to the Rainblade-Ryalor a moment, then turned back to his work again, wise enough not to stare. "Minister. Enjoying the holidee, are ye?"
"We are, Dregnose. Keep up the good work, and ensure us our privacy. I will have a bonus for your discretion next week."
"Understood, Colonel." He saluted them both without looking at them, clearly nervous as he slowly snipped a branch. "Enjoy your day."
The military fox looked to Dusk, searching her face again, before his mouth broke into a crooked grin. "Do you need a boost up, my dear? I think you will like what I have selected for us. It is a soothing place, rarely disturbed."

 

[Duchess Dusk Rainblade]

Dusk felt a thrill race through her as she walked through the squares with the Colonel, a giddy high racing through her veins. There was something transgressive about what they were doing, a thrill of the forbidden that took her back to her youth, to days when a much younger vixen would sneak out onto the beach with a bottle of wine stolen from her parents' cellar and a todd or two for company. Her heart yearned for that young soul, wild and free, so full of life that she could barely contain herself. She'd developed an appetite for living at a young age, chasing one high after another all around the world, through the beds of wealthy todds and the fortunes she stole and squandered along the way. She'd chased it for years, not realizing until she finally stopped in one place that she'd actually been running from something the whole time.

And now it had caught up to her. Age, wisdom, responsibility. It had sunk its teeth into her, ripping at her flesh, leaving lines and scars wherever it touched. It had warped her body, making it a cage for that wild spirit that had once roamed free. Now she could only reach between the bars of her prison, grabbing desperately at the freedom she'd once known. Time had made her a minister, wife, and mother; it had erected those cage walls around her, trapping her within. All she had left was to grasp at those in the cages next to her, trying to find some freedom in reaching beyond her cell, even if it was just into another beast's prison.

Dusk actually blushed like a schoolgirl at Dregnose's knowing inquiry, and his even more knowing statement of willful blindness. Part of her considered how to silence him; after all, it would be far more ruinous to her reputation than the Colonel's if the beast talked. The Imperium, for all the progess it had made, still held its femmes to a far different standard than its males. She pushed that thought away as the Colonel offered her a paw up, an offer she readily accepted. "Please," she confirmed, setting her paws on the misplaced stones. With a powerful lift from the Colonel, she was able to scramble up, pausing at the top to marvel at the hidden space she'd never noticed in the midst of the city sprawl, then quickly scrambled down the other side, waiting for the Colonel to join her and show her about this secret domain.

 

[Perila Z. Mogul]

The Colonel watched as the fetching vixen in the dress and veil disappeared over the side, and then crooking a footpaw into a familiar space, he heaved his own bulk up, slowly and steadily and still with some amount of grace that belied his age.
He grunted as he hauled himself up to the top, and then took a moment from his height before leaping down to his lovely and dangerous companion.
The Longpaw Cemetery hadn't seen much use since the 1720s, beginning as a private cemetery commissioned and owned by Pyrostoat Memorial Hospital where deceased patients and failed experiments were buried largely in secrecy. One such patient, Pyrus N. Longpaw, then purchased it following his dramatic escape, and kept it as a sort of private sanctuary where he could jabber at ghosts and engage in sea demon worship.
A circle of dessicated crab carapaces could be seen at the center of the space, with old melted candles and small bones at its center.
Huge willow trees hung ancient and sprawling, pushing against the thick walls and knocking over crumbling headstones with their roots in their desperation to spread.
Columns of headstones stood in rows amongst the partially-trimmed grass, most text illegible or just barely- 'Naughton Goode', 'Devby Fire', 'Y. Lourd', and 'Will I. Survipe' among the few that still visibly bore names.
There was a bench facing the center of the cozy old graveyard, an old thing just beneath one of the tall willows.
The bench was made of stained, cold old marble with a chipped plaque that said 'Pyrostoat Memorial Hospital- In Memory of Thaston P. Hughes, who Was Mad' on its back.
Some of the paths, mostly dirt with some chunks of cracked stone still remaining, were lined with small red and white roses.
At the far back was a tall, rusted iron gate, obscured by overgrown bushes similar to what Dregnose the gardener was trimming outside, and a small gazebo with another Pyrostoat plaque and a partially-collapsed roof.
The Colonel took the dame's paw in his own and ran his fingers over hers.
With how tall and thick the old walls were, the cemetery was its own small, mostly-silent sanctuary. Little of the Festival interrupted it.
"What do you think?"

 

[Duchess Dusk Rainblade]

As Dusk observed the details of the first scenic cemetery, her blood ran cold. As Minister of Misanthropy, she'd been the first to turn Occult Division from two beasts shoved in a broom closet to an actual division of M.A.U.L., and with that had come an awareness of certain omens and portents. The products of madbeasts, especially, were regarded with extra caution, for what some saw as insanity, others could see as a terrible, frightful lucidity. They even had their own phrase for the organization: "Mundi Arcana Ultra Limes." The world of secrets lies beyond the threshold.

Dusk couldn't keep herself from shivering, one paw going to the jade broach at her collar, touching it for luck. Her other paw she felt the warmth of the Colonel's larger paw close around as he stepped closer to her. She could feel his warmth close to her, the heat of his breath cutting through the coldness of this place. Stop being a fool, she berated herself silently. You hooked up with the deacon's son in your parents' crypt not two hours after the funeral. If anything should have gotten you cursed, it was that.

A small, cruel part of her whispered, Maybe it did. You've never felt truly happy since, have you?

Dusk felt the panic rise as only seemed to happen when her own mind began to speak back to her. She knew all too well the family history of disorders of the mind, most significantly her niece Armina, whose name was still invoked to frighten the kits of Bully Harbor into obeying their parents. Maybe they'll say it about you too one day, that cruel voice whispered, its tone low and laced with amusement. 'Eat your vegetables, or Dusk Rainblade will get you.'

Shut up.

You know why you believe in all of this, don't you? The curses, the occult. You know that none of it is real, but you want it to be. After all, if there's something else to blame, it means that you aren't. You know that if there's nothing else out there, then that means every awful thing that's ever come from your life is all your fault.

Shut up!

You want to be mad. You want to be possessed, or cursed, or haunted. You want anything but to accept the truth: that you've destroyed every good thing you've ever touched, all with your own paws, and there's nothing and no one responsible but you.

"Shut up!"

She blinked, realizing that she'd said that one out loud, barking it at the empty bench. She shuddered and retreated into the Colonel's arms, turning her face away from the bench and into his chest as she clutched at the folds of his coat for support. "I'm sorry," she murmured, guilt lacing her words. "That wasn't at you. This... This place is lovely, and secluded, but... I don't think it's the mood I was hoping for." She hesitated before asking, surprisingly meekly, "Can... Can we at least sit together and talk? Someplace other than that bench, please." The carnal desire she'd felt building in her had been extinguished, but, at least, her desire for the Colonel's company had not. Perhaps that was what had been missing about the Festival beyond these walls: no one was listening to each other, only speaking. Perhaps what Dusk had really been looking for all along had been a real connection.

(Well, that went in a completely different direction than expected, sorry!)

 

[Colonel Harvon M. Jere]

The thrill in the todd decreased as he instantly sensed the vixen's tension, that tell-tale scent of fear, that sharp "Shut up!" that cut through the quiet.
How disappointing, he thought, that the Minister of Misanthropy could not appreciate a good cemetery.
The Colonel held her close to him, wrapping strong arms around the form that, once seemingly so powerful, now felt so small and vulnerable against his chest.
His rough, rumbly voice sought to soothe as he nuzzled her ear, speaking softly.
"All is well, Minister. You are safe here. I have you."
He walked her past the bench and down one of the overgrown paths, his tail brushing past humble ranks of roses as he passed, tilted, petals waving.
They went around to avoid the circle of crustaceans, passed a statue of a little winged fox kit troubador bearing a trumpet, and came to the gazebo.
The plaque on one of the old white marble pillars simply read: 'Pyrostoat Memorial Hospital: Be at Peace.'
It was overgrown with spade-leafed vines of a rich, dark green, long grasses and dandelions poked from around the collapsed section of roofing in the back, and the floor was a cracked mosaic depicting a vixen in a dress seated on a windy, grassy hill overlooking the sea.
The Colonel bade her sit there with him on the steps, whispy clouds passing across the bright blue sky above them. His black, red, white and gray tail curled over hers.
"It may seem a place of tragedy, my friend." he said. "But the beasts here know a peace the likes I only dream of. They rest after a long voyage. That circle of crabs, there. Old Longpaw used it to speak to his love. Some think it communion with a demon of the waves, but I know better. Pyrus Longpaw was a captain; his only love was the sea. A lot of my loves..."
Jere swallowed, looked away a moment before returning to her in their closeness. "They have left me over these long, hard years, to be seen again when it is my time. They populate many places just like this. Do you see, my dear, why I would bring a fine woman here? I never intended much intimacy here, only... to share a private moment with a woman of intrigue and power that I admire. For... visits of a more intimate nature, I possess a humble manse in Zann's Backyard."
He smiled a long vulpine smile at her, then. "As I am certain you know, given your station. And it is a manse you are always welcome to visit, given I am there to show you the warm welcome you deserve. Do forgive me for upsetting you with my... peculiar choice of haven."
The Colonel nuzzled her ear again. "I am a strange todd. I am sure your Ministry possesses a thorough file listing all of my peculiarities."

 

[Duchess Dusk Rainblade]

As the Colonel led her to a secluded gazebo, Dusk could see the charm emerging in this place. There was a beauty in desolation; she supposed it came from a mortal fascination with death, and curiosity to see what the world would look like beyond the confines of one's own existence. The abandoned places of the world gave a hint of life after all life had ended.

Sitting with him, listening to his words, Dusk could feel a warmth coming back to her. 'Gates, she had missed being courted like this, treated both as a femme to be respected and desired. She'd pursued beasts of the Colonel's age many a time before, of course; in her younger years, she'd moved through their ranks like a butterfly, liberating them of good and, more often than not, their lives in the process. None had possessed the Colonel's particular charm, that emotional steadiness that stood as a beacon, a lighthouse on a rocky outcropping, battered by unbowed by wind and sea and storm. She found herself huddling close to him, seeking shelter in his embrace.

She chuckled at his remark, admitting, "Perhaps. Perhaps I have been remiss in not perusing it for myself. A man of such interesting and singular taste, after all, must have experienced quite the remarkable life to develop such."

Dusk grew quiet, listening to the stillness of this place, wind carrying only the faintest hints of the world beyond its walls. She'd once dwelled in gardens like this, secluded beyond castle gates, with the todd who had become her husband, the father to her kits. Theirs had been a different kind of seclusion; they retreated from the world not for privacy, but for safety. They had each been out in the world enough to know its dangers and have made enemies among them. When they'd come together, it had been as two bitter, jaded beasts, finding compatibility in their disdain for the world beyond. Both had lost nearly everyone they cared for; in each other, they had grappled with that grief, but had never conquered it.

The Colonel, Dusk realized, was different from Talinn in that way. Talinn was all wounds and scars, suspicious and resentful of the world that had hurt him so. He'd made Dusk his place of healing, the vessel into which he had poured all of his worry and insecurity. He'd needed her, and she'd needed someone to need her. The Colonel, she knew, didn't need her, but desired her instead. That felt easier for her than being with Talinn. It was less emotional work for her; she didn't need to soothe his pain with her body and words, only to be there with him. He shared of himself, not expecting her to sweep away the pain and make a balm of her love. A relationship that expects nothing, and promises nothing in return. A small part of her had to acknowledge that contrast. She would never be to the Colonel what she had let herself become to Talinn... but, perhaps, for now, that was all that she could manage.

"This place is beautiful," she admitted, settling in against his chest, bringing her legs up to rest on the gazebo bench beside her. "I can see why you like it so much. I may not be one to dwell upon death, but I certainly admire a todd who can look upon it as a friend and not a foe." She let a sigh escape her lips as she nuzzled his coat. "So many I know, so many I cared for, were taken from me before their time," she admitted. "I find it hard to see any peace in their deaths, when I know the violence enacted upon them, and left in their wake. I know that mourning is for the mourners, not the mourned; the suffering is ours, not theirs. I suppose... I envy you the peace that you feel. I wish that I could bear the slights and injustices of the world with such handsome stoicism."

 

[Duke Talinn Ryalor]

The Duke of Westisle, on this day of Sorrows, walked alone in his portrait room in the Ryalor Estate, increasingly resembling more of a fort than a home, the one area he insisted candles be lit for every hour of every day, without exception, whether he was present or not. It was also one he visited on this day, every year, without exception. After all, it was a sacred shrine, the one to his failures. The one where that the ghosts that haunted him every night in his sleep could get their vengeance.

Each walk began the same in the same way, as if he were taking a stroll down his life, as he made his way to the first picture, relatively recent, that of the last Emperor of Fyador, Cyrus the Mad, his father, and his mother, one of his favored concubines, holding a pair of kits in her arm. Talinn stared dully up at the beast who had ruined his family’s life for a moment, before flicking over to the kind, blue eyes of his mother, the one person in this world who had ever loved him unconditionally. The one he had failed to protect, by not being good enough for his father to abandon his schemes to love him, by not being strong enough to save her from the pirates that eventually killed her and held her for ransom.

He bowed, in the Fyadoran manner, whispering a word that rarely left his lips. Sorry.

“At the end of the day, I was not good enough for my father’s love to overrule his ambitions, and I was not strong enough to save you, mother. I’m sorry.”

The next portrait was of a strong, proud, older arctic fox in his traditional Fyadoran military garb, a golden sash of honor across his chest. His uncle, who had saved him and his brother from death countless times, raised him, and spent his entire life trying to fix the damage his brother had wrought. He had always cleaned up after his nephew’s messes and mistakes. And when the beast standing before his portrait had been unable to even fulfill the basic duties of raising his own kits, the old beast had stepped in, especially for his eldest, Alwyn. And what had he been rewarded with? A blade through his chest, by the very beast who had protected for his entire life.

Another bow, another whisper.

“I know, deep down, I was the family disappointment, the second choice, the backup. But you still loved me, you still trained me, you always picked my brother and I, right or wrong, cleaning up after our mistakes, even at the cost of your own family. Everything you did, you did for the family. I tried...I tried to make you understand why, at the moment of what should have been our greatest triumph, I made the choice I did. If I had been a good enough orator, maybe I could have convinced you. If I had been a good enough swordsbeast, maybe I could have disarmed you instead, and then we could have talked when our tempers were not so strong. If I had been a good enough father and ruler, you could have spent your last years relaxing, instead of taking over my duties. I’m sorry.”

Walking again to next example of his weakness, the bow was even deeper, and his breath caught in his throat as he looked up in shame, barely holding back tears.

The next portrait was older, made in the 1720s, but still looking as fresh as the day it was painted. A smiling, handsome young todd, much resembling Talinn, holding the paw of a darker-colored vixen, pregnant with a tattered ear, looking up at him lovingly, radiating love and warmth.

“I am the lesser son, brother. You were always a better beast than me, in so many ways, and in the end, I could not even do you the honor of protecting Tanya and your kits as I should have. She is out there, estranged from me, except for when I can offer her money before she goes off to who knows where, and you know what? She is right to do so. She cannot trust me to protect her kits. It should have been you, here, I should have died in your place. I’m sorry.”

Another illustration, another failure, but this time, the tears that had been held back began to flow, and his fists clenched in rage as he bowed.

A young, beautiful white-furred vixen in a precious gown, with green eyes, happily smiling and finally at peace next to three kits, a small, orange-furred vixen rubbing their heads as well.

“Armina…no, Vaelora. You went through so much, but in the end, you became a true Ryalor. Weylin, you tried your best to help me. And...and...-” he paused for a moment, wiping the tears that new fell freely, “just like Falun, I could not protect you, I let that bastard hurt you. I...made sure you were avenged. He suffered. But that cannot bring either of you back, not ease the pain you suffered because I was too blind. I’m sorry.”

Finally, he arrived at the portrait of Dusk and his young family, back before the Revolutions of 1748, his face wet, his eyes red. The deepest bow of all of them, and he opened his mouth to speak, but then closed it again, as something finally snapped within him. No, there was still time. Still time to fix things. There had to be. His blue eyes hardened. Not another failure, not again. Clenching his teeth, the Minister of Innovation stormed off to his study, heart filled with mixed emotions, as he began to write a letter, then sealed it with both his ducal seal and his Minister’s seal. Then, he wrote one word on it, stuffed it into his pocket, hurried out. He would fix things, if he had to die trying.
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The Ministry of Innovation had little in the way of spies and soldiers, but Talinn still held the loyalty of his own personal Mistcloaks, the shadowy elite of House Ryalor, loyal to him personally, one the few assets still under his control per his agreement with the Empress. Dusk had her agents, and they were good, but Talinn had also been the Minister of Misanthropy, and knew both how to use them and to evade them. When he called upon them to find her so that he could deliver the letter in person, they had delivered the location in short order. A gazebo, near Pyrostoat Memorial Hospital. He hurried there immediately, ignoring the calls of his Mistcloaks to wait for him, saying they had more to tell him. It was urgent. Their relationship had been...rocky...the last ten years, due to what he had been forced to do, but now, on this Sorrow’s Eve, he was going to fix it. He was not going to let this be a failure.

I will show her, I will show her that this time, I am serious about pushing back. There has to be a way. I have done my duty, the Empress must know this, and it is time for her to come home. It is time to make things right.

Pushing through the gate leading into the gardens and the gazebo, the echoing calls of his beasts in the distance, he hurriedly searched for his wife. There was still time. Time to fix things. It would be messy, but they could do it. His weakness would not be the downfall of the family, not again. Turning around the corner, he spotted his wife, a rare smile across his face and light in his reddened eyes as he saw her, still as beautiful as they day he had married her, or, at least so he thought.

“Dusk, I-”, and then, he noticed her pose, and who she was with. Colonel Jere, of Pricklee Pointe, who she was. Who she was...Talinn froze at the sight. A look of genuine, true shock crossed his face, as if he had been hit by lightning. His trembling paw lowered, as if to go for his blade, the thing that most beasts would expect the infamous traitor and proud duke to do, to challenge her paramour to a duel and to strike him down and perhaps her as well, but instead it went into his jacket, removing the letter. His black paw trembling, he held it out, but due to his weakness, it fell to the ground. All he could do is look at her, and, quietly, just enough for the two sitting there to hear, he spoke.

“I...Dusk, I was trying to...it was the only way to make sure our family…I never...” he choked, stammering the next few words, barely able to think, barely able to breath.“I...you were the only thing I ever freely chose…I...I am sorry.” The Minister actually staggered, almost about to faint from the shock and the sickness working its way up his throat. He just looked at her, his pained face pale, then slowly, unsteadily backed away, leaving the letter where it fell. He walked, as if in a daze, back down the path, his mind unable to handle what he had seen. Urk. Yes. That is where he would go, to the Hide. It needed to set sail by tomorrow. That is what he needed to do. This was all a figment of his imagination, surely. It had to simply be a bad dream, which he would wake up from aboard the ship, it could not be real.

On the ground, in the path leading to the Gazebo, the letter was still there. It had only word one written on it.

Dusk.

@Tanya Keltoi @Duchess Dusk Rainblade

 

[Colonel Harvon M. Jere]

"It is not easy." The Colonel admitted. "But to be so familiar with death as we are, with that assured end always waiting just beyond... one must learn to make their peace with it. The dead do not suffer, do not struggle. It is the duty of the living to shoulder their burden, to do what they cannot, from enacting revenge for their demise..." he nodded to the scene before them, the wind rustling the grasses, the clouds passing serenely overhead, the inquisitive birdsong. "... to enjoying what they cannot."
Jere held her close to him, enjoying the comforting feeling of her body against his, the smell of her in the air, her pretty features. It felt so natural.
Slowly, gently, he raised a paw to her veil. "Might I?" The question posed with a certain quiet shyness, born from a desire to lift it to better gaze upon her and... perhaps lean in for something more.

The Colonel's head snapped up as the other todd approached, and his features hardened at the interruption upon this quiet moment between Colonel and Minister.
Jere's heart thumped swiftly, and he tasted a hint of iron in his mouth as a snarl formed on his features.
Rarely did he and the Minister of Innovation interract, and when they did it was in civilized spaces full of other beasts of importance, where either of them could easily slip away from the other after sharing whatever few words they had to. Everytime they interracted in these environments, the Colonel spoke as little to him as possible, had to actively fight to restrain himself from the hatred built up in his heart since the Fyadoran fox had betrayed the Imperium and served Bully Harbor up to Amélie on a platter. Jere had fought long and hard against Amélie's forces at that time, had watched many good citizens die.
When he had no other choice, he'd pledged his fealty to Amélie for the sake of continuing to serve his beloved home.
Talinn Ryalor, he never forgave.
Colonel Jere's nose flared, his back straightened, and though the large fox continued to hold Dusk close to him, it was evident he was ready to go for the sabre at his side at any time.
"Minister Ryalor." Colonel Jere said, his deep voice cold as ice and his green eyes shining dangerously. "You intrude."
As Talinn's paw lowered, the Colonel removed his paws from the vixen and set her gently upon the stones, before rising to his full height.
The Colonel stood tall and imposing in the old gazebo doorway, brush swishing, muscles tensed and poised for action.
The rows of medals on his stiff green Imperial Army jacket winked and glistened in the afternoon sunlight.
The Fyadoran, however, seemed to only have eyes for his slighted wife, and Jere watched as the Minister of Innovation turned and left, seemingly emotionally pulverized.
"Aye, best you part!" The Colonel called after him, his even voice booming within the confines of the small cemetery. "I will see you when I need my guns repaired or a new polish for my boots invented. Traitor!"

 

[Duchess Dusk Rainblade]

Dusk listened to the Colonel's perspective, a small seed of something she'd thought she lost creeping into her heart: hope. Hope that beasts could be better, hope that death was not meaningless, hope that the time spent on this world could be worth more than a neglected tombstone. Hope was such a rare commodity in Bully Harbor, and even more rare in Dusk's life. Everywhere it had tried to take root, it had withered and died. She didn't even know if her heart had any fertile soil left to offer it anymore. She looked up into his eyes, her heart racing as his paw went toward her veil. The way he looked at her, the way he desired her, as if there was anything in her worth desiring anymore -

She started, pulling away at Talinn's voice. Her eyes went to her estranged husband - and the expression on his face made her heart shatter. She saw the trembling, the misery, the regret, self-hatred, agony... Everything in his face, in his bearing, was everything she'd ever wanted to see. She had lain awake for so many nights over the past ten years, imagining him prostrate before her, begging her forgiveness. She'd wanted so badly for him to come crawling back to her, professing his regret for betraying her so.

She'd wanted him to come crawling back to her.

She'd wanted him to come back to her.

She wanted him to come back.

She wanted him back.

The expression in her own face, she realized, the Colonel's back to her as he hollered after her husband, matched Talinn's exactly. Regret, self-loathing, agony, misery, isolation... How long had she been carrying it around? For ten years, she'd kept away from him, inflicting punishment with her absence... But punishing who?

Her eyes went to the Colonel, noting the fastidiousness with which he kept his uniform, his upright indignation at the traitor Talinn intruding upon his sanctuary, the absolute certainty of purpose in his service to the Imperium. Had she wanted him because he was a good beast, or because she was a terrible one - or because she wanted to be terrible? Talinn had betrayed his oaths, yes - oaths to the ministers, oaths to his allies, and yes, his oath to Dusk. She had betrayed a million oaths over her own life, but none that mattered anymore. That had set her apart from Talinn, made her better than him, unapproachable, a figure to represent his guilt, keeping him at bay. He could never be worthy of her because he'd betrayed her... Not unless I betrayed him too.

She felt the tears in her eyes as she rose, walking to the Colonel, and put a paw on his shoulder. She couldn't bring herself to meet his eyes as she looked down at his chest - each medal on his uniform a shiny reminder of the differences between them. "You are an admirable beast, Colonel," she murmured quietly. "You are loyal, honorable, kind, a pleasant conversationalist, a deep thinker, a true soldier and a gentleman - one deserving of a beast whose worth can match your own. Perhaps, in another life, that might have been me." She turned away, one paw sneaking under her veil to daub at her eyes. "I pray that you will forgive me someday for misleading you so... And that the next beast who meets your eye will be worthy of your gaze."

She slid past him, kneeling only briefly to pick up the fallen letter, and she left the cemetery by the gate, not pausing until she'd lost herself in the deep alleys of the Trenches. Then, she finally, with trembling paw, opened the letter. Line by line, she read through the letters and digits, rearranging them according to the code that she and Talinn had once invented between them, used to communicate everything from small notes for daily affairs, to long letters sharing the deepest and truest corners of their hearts. By the end, her tears were wetting the page, and she slid down, alone in the alley, to bury face in her arms as she sobbed.

Merry bloody Festival of Sorrows.

 

[Colonel Harvon M. Jere]

The Colonel's broad shoulders slumped slightly at the vixen's words, knowing she was saying goodbye.
"You are a fine, strong and worthy woman, Minister Rainblade."
The todd told her, fighting to keep his tone even, now, as her paw slipped from his shoulder. "If you change your mind... you know where to find me."
Slowly, Dusk strode away, down the same path as her husband.
The old iron gate clanked shut behind her, the chain once wrapped securely around it prior to Talinn Ryalor's intrusion sliding out of the bars and dropping to the ground.
Jere heaved a heavy sigh, and sat back down on the steps, rubbing his paws together and working to prevent his mind from slipping to dark places. Instead, the old fox's mind then dipped its toes into thoughts of violence.
"Talinn Ryalor..." he muttered, lowering a paw to drag his claws across the old stone, leaving marks. "A pathetic joke of a todd does not deserve a vixen of such caliber. A pity she does not see that."
The fox tarried there a while, once again feeling very much... alone.
To Pricklee Pointe, he supposed, to bark orders and shed blood for his only true love.
"Ave Bella Vulpinsula." He snarled, and stalked from the cemetery, slamming the gate shut behind him.