• PM To Join • No Death Note

[Faith Augustin]

30th Saun, 716

Songstamp:
Chasing Cars by Snow Patrol

There was no note with the body, which was strange. Usually there was a note or a letter or something Faith thought to herself as she washed her hands. The care with which she moved was very typical of the young woman in question, and never moreso than when she was working on a corpse. The blessed and holy nature of this work was of utmost importance to Faith and so she attended to the careful movements needed to ensure that her hands were scrubbed clean with as much attention to detail as a surgeon before an operation. Had the carriage brought him here? Did she need to go and find out? She wasn't sure and she smiled to herself as she considered that she was doing it again. Chasing carriages in her head. No need to do so, not at all, just focus on doing what she was doing, the rest would come later. Once she was sure that her hands were clean, Faith walked through into the room where the corpse was waiting.

It was a clean and clinical place, that room. With tables for four corpses at any one time and enough space around them that a group of undertakers could be working on each table without jostling each other, it was a large space. The floors and walls were scrubbed clean by the slave Jamal kept and therefore the place had the constant smell of disinfectant and, of course, it was cool in here. It had to be, to slow down the decay process in the corpses which spent their last breaks and trials in this room being prepared by the slave.

There she was, the slave who would assist her. Small and waif like, dressed in black clothes which did not fit her at all. It was, of course, herself that Faith saw, the quiet slave who knelt in position, waiting for orders. Faith walked into the room and looked around. There was just the one corpse, that was good. She preferred being able to give her full attention to each one, and when there was more than one of them in the room, she felt that her attention was pulled in those different directions.

"Will you assist me, please?" she asked and the slave nodded, standing. She didn't speak, Faith knew, she wouldn't speak at all. Maybe she couldn't, Faith wasn't sure. On this trial Faith had her long black hair piled up and pinned back in a high loose ponytail that was held in place with a hair comb. She was wearing her black work dress, one of two that Master had bought her for while she worked. She moved over to the table, smiling at the slave kindly "Please, prepare the equipment for washing first?" she asked and she watched for a moment as the slave moved to do that.

Satisfied that her assistant was doing what she wanted, Faith moved to the table itself and she put her hand on the chest of the corpse, still covered by a sheet. "It's alright. I'm here to help you" she whispered. "It might seem strange but, I will make your time here as easy and...ohhhhh" the last noise a gentle moan as she moved the sheet from the corpse's face and she saw who it was. "Oh... oh I am so sorry" she whispered to him. Leaning forward, she placed a gentle kiss on his forehead, lingering in that kiss for a moment as she closed her eyes. The thoughts and emotions that whirled around in the young woman at that moment defied description of definition.

"I had so many hopes" she whispered to him. "So many hopes. I wanted to tell you, one trial" gently, she stroked back his hair and looked down at him. Faith never cried, never. But tears sparkled in her mist-grey eyes in that moment. "But even if I could, I didn't know the words to explain to you the depth of how I feel. But now... I just ... I can do this. I can do this for you. I wanted to look after you in life, but ... I can do this for you" she blinked twice, forcing away the tears which threatened and looked up as the slave brought her the tray with the components for washing him.

"Thank you" she said, quietly to the slave. And then, to the corpse she spoke quietly "I'm going to do everything I can to make sure that you pass in comfort and with dignity." all she wanted to do was to lay down next to him, to curl herself against him and feel what she felt. But she answered to a higher authority, she had a duty and the privilege of working in Famula's name on him, of all people.

"I'll look after you, and tell you everything that's happening, alright. There's no need to be afraid. I'll be praying, washing you, preparing you for the final journey." and she picked up the comb, starting there and began to comb his hair, making sure that her movements were gentle and would not have hurt him were he alive and able to feel.

[Malcolm]

The comb caught on the knotted ends of his jet-black hair, thick and curly, it had grown down to touch the lower part of his neck where glowing, almost invisible lines fanned out across the back of his shoulders in the pattern of a spider's web. This was a man marked by the immortal of dreams, blessed with the gifts of Nyvora. A four inch scar lay hidden in the hair above his left ear, and to follow with one's eyes as the sheet was pulled away, tired flesh would reveal more badges, earned in the midst of fighting, of doing his job as a knight to keep the people of Rynmere safe.
A scar the width of a dagger on his collar, still rather fresh, hadn't lost its colouring yet and turned white like the translucent scuffs on his hands and wrists. Under his left arm another long scar traced the length of his ribs, only inches from connecting with the ugly, twisted valley which cut a winding path from his left side to the top of his belly button. The flesh on his forearms was soft and mottled where they looked to have been burned long ago from the tips of his fingers to the points of his elbows. On the inside of his right thigh was a two inch scar where he had been clipped by the end of another blade, but the scar below his right hip looked to be the most interesting of them all.
Many, many years ago, before the fighting arena and the slavers of Rynmere had started marking their champion fighters faces with the cross of a sword, the brand, a lot bigger at the time, had been burned into the flesh of the thigh under a man's right hip. This was the mark of a true gladiator back in its day, and wherever he went, all must treat him as a free man, for he had done his time in the arena and earned the mark to prove it. Freedom, the white sword had served as a daily reminder.
A lingering kiss to his temple summoned the man to wake, the green of his eyes milky with death, grey tracks drawn through orbs where upon his death, they had been bloodshot. There were no new wounds to announce the door through which life had fled, but dry blood circled his nostrils and drew thin, wandering paths from his ears, to lose themselves in the forest of his hair. Whatever had killed the man, it had been of his own doing, most likely through the prolonged use of a mortalborn ability, which more often than not, saw his eyes, ears, or nose bleed.
Malcolm blinked, confused by the strange empty feeling in his chest where his heart ceased to beat, nor did its familiar echo thud in his neck and ears as it so often had at rest. He turned his head to look at the woman about to prepare him for pyre or grave, before pointing his gaze at the slave helping her, quickly discovering the difference between them, even for all their similarities. The woman on his right looked clean and well dressed, while the other, less so, looked to be only half a person. Clues hidden in the small details, the way she avoided eye contact or speaking, head down and focused on her task with shoulders hunched slightly.
The knight tried to sit up, only to find that he had no power over his body whatsoever, nor was he able to lift his head again, realising now that it must have tipped rather than turned by his own will. From here it was difficult to tell where he was or why Faith's dream had made him the man under the white sheet, he without a death note. The tracks along the edge of the table looked to be stained or coloured with the faint remnants of blood, perhaps not his own, but enough to tell him where he was. "I'm dead?" Malcolm asked, but couldn't look to Faith for reassurance, though must now be content to stare at the slave's back, the one who wouldn't look at him.

[Faith Augustin]

His hair was tangled and she started to work on it. She made sure to put her hand on his hair, holding it away from his scalp so that it wouldn't hurt him. "It's alright, see? I'm not going to hurt you" she whispered to him. But as she combed his hair, as she started the most basic of preparations, she started to see his life unfold before her. Like a story, like a spider's web weaving out in front of her in a tapestry of scars. "Oh.. Oh, Malcolm" she whispered, her hand moving with slow deliberation over first one, then another, scar. As she slipped the sheet from him she considered, and then spoke the simple truth that she was thinking "I have thought about the moment where I moved a sheet and saw your body a hundred times" she whispered to him and she smiled. "And you were always alive and vibrant. I am so sorry, but it is what it is. We will make it work, yes?" It was important to her that they did, because... well the because was simple "It will be the only time that I am ever alone with you like this" The explanation fell from her in a voice which shook with emotion, but she showed no other outward sign.

As yet, she hadn't seen the scars below waist level yet. She couldn't quite bring herself to lower the sheet any further.

So, she worked on combing his hair and, as he blinked she looked down at him. It should be strange, maybe, that he was blinking and dead at the same time, but Faith was completely nonplussed by that in this moment. It was, after all, what it was and ever had that been her mantra. But she carefully lifted his head so that it was back to where it should be as she leaned over him and combed.

"Hmmm? Yes" she said, in response to his question, finishing off combing his hair with a smile "You are dead, yes. I am going to wash you now, then anoint you and then Famula will be able to find you more easily" a gentle hand stroked his cheek her face smiled down at him with kindness in her eyes. "I am so sorry, Malcolm. There were a million things I wished to tell you in life and...honestly there were a lot of things that I did not understand and dreamt about asking your help with. But we do not have that luxury, because you are dead" it appeared that subtle about such was not really Faith's forte.

"I am going to wash you and anoint you. The slave here will help me" she explained kindly, her hand caressing his cheek with a gentle touch "But before I start, is there anything you wish to ask or speak about?" she wondered. After all, she reasoned, being dead had to be at least a little confusing.

[Malcolm]

Death felt strange, not quite as he had imagined or experienced before. It seemed odd to him that he was so aware, and yet helpless to command his own body. Was this not something else, an overdose, too much wine, or had he just fallen off his horse again? The knight tried to go through the motions, retrace his steps and come to some sort of conclusion as to how he had ended up on Faith's table, but anything before he had opened his eyes was none but a blur to him.
Awareness, what a terrible thing, and at such a time as this. The dark haired woman spoke of her desires as freely as if she were discussing the price of vegetables in the marketplace and Malcolm found himself tempted to smile. How bizarre, he thought, of someone so young and, well, not unattractive, to see him in such a light. "I suppose I should warn you," he spoke in jest, "but I'm sure it is nothing you haven't seen before in your line of work." He felt the weight of the sheet across his hips and was thankful for some sense of retained modesty, if nothing else.
"Wash me?" He felt his upper-body shake with mirth. "The gods don't mind if I smell, child. Death isn't pretty, believe me, I've seen enough of it in my time."
He looked at her again and rolled his eyes, already having forgotten her profession after acknowledging it only moments prior. It was then realisation struck, Famula, the goddess in chains. "No, no, no!" Malcolm tried desperately to fight the woman, only to find his lifeless limbs unresponsive. "No!" He yelled at the top of his lungs, and were he able to, would have thrashed like a fish out the of water on the table. This followed by cryptic shouting in a long lost language known to very few. "Not Famula, not Famula!" He pleaded, eyes wild with fright, like a desperate, unpredictable young colt backed into a corner.
"I beg judgement! I beg!" He protested and felt his eyes burn, the sensation of threatened tears so real, and yet there were none to be spilled. "Vri!" He roared, "Vri, I beg judgement! I beg... I beg... I..." His pleading died down as he then succumbed to a strange calm, gaze fixed on a burning candle in the corner of the room.

A woman in chains, her long, silver hair glowing in the moonlight. Crooked iron bars, twisted like the shattered bones of a long dead corpse. Blood poured over a beggar's feet. A river of sand. An upside down noose reaching for the stars, and a child holding a golden crown over an old tombstone. This had been his vision. "Show me your feet," he called to the slave, "I need to see your feet."

[Faith Augustin]

She spoke to him of her feelings for him as easily as she would at any point ever. After all, he was dead and that meant that here, in this moment was her only chance to do so. To not do so now would be to deny any possibility of ever telling him and, in truth, had she not dreamt of this moment, of speaking her truth to him since that trial in the gardens? And when he spoke of the sheet and that he should warn her? Well, Faith let out a low chuckle "Indeed. All sorts, shapes and sizes come here to us. Death is the great equalizer, after all" and it was an absolute truth to the pale girl. "I would hate to make you uncomfortable, though, especially now. They do not usually talk back" she explained. And it was the truth, she would not speak her thoughts so easily to anyone who was alive, even in a dream. Every dream that she had shared with Malcolm to this point (even though she did not know then that they were dreams, and did not remember now) she had been aware of him as a man, as a mortal with thoughts and feelings. But here? Well here it was much more simple "When we met in the gardens and I told you how to cook beef" she said, her hands moving to finish the gentle combing of his hair "I had barely left this place for an arc. Before that, I had been in the slave school in Athart. I was in your world. But here? Here you are in mine" and here, more than anywhere, she was comfortable.

"Except of course, it's not mine any more" she spoke quietly and then smiled at him "Maybe they do not care about your state of grubbiness, but I do. You will be clean" she almost told him off her voice certainly held a gentle admonishment to it, "And I have lived with it all my life. We clean the dead to help the living. There is nothing to do for those who have passed, not really. They are already gone. So I believed when I was her" she said, motioning to the waif-like slave. "That's who I was when I met you. Do you remember? But I am not her any more. Now I am a painted whore, I think" why would he remember, she reasoned? There was no need to, none at all. She was a moment in his life, one there and then forgotten. His impact on her? So much different.

And she would have said more, but she mentioned Famula and he grew upset. Faith dropped the cloth she was washing him with and she placed her hands on his face; a gentle caress that held his gaze. "Malcolm. Nothing... nothing if you do not wish it" she assured him. Famula would take him if she would with or without Faith's anointing and prayers. "I will do nothing you do not wish.. shush... shush" of course, that was a good part about the dead not talking; they didn't get so agitated. But she held on to him and reassured him as much as she could. "Judgement. You wish judgement? That is what will happen, I am sorry... " but he did not, he grew more and more agitated and Faith thought that perhaps, judging by the way that he spoke and the way that his eyes moved (or she perceived them as moving.. come to that, she wondered, how *was* he talking... best keep an eye on his mouth in a moment or two) she rather thought he was not seeing here.

So, she turned his head to the side, so that he could see the floor and she looked up at the slave. "Show him your feet" she said and the slave did, standing barefoot in his sight. Faith too moved around and stood next to her twin, her own bare feet there. Clean, both of them. "Listen to me, I promise you, I will do nothing you do not wish. Just clean you, all I will do. We do not force our prayers on those unwilling for them. Death takes us all the same way, it is alright... will you let me wash you now?" at no point did her voice raise, the pale woman stood, and both of them, slave and painted whore by her reckoning, both tilted their heads to the side in identical gestures.

[Malcolm]

The man seemed to calm down and closed his eyes for a time. There had been no blood on the slave's feet, she was not the one from his prophecy. "I remember you," he smiled. "We met in the garden as I was making my way home after a lecture... You weren't wearing any shoes," Malcolm recalled as if the fact were terribly strange, the vision of blood poured over feet blinking within his mind once more. The man fell silent.
Faith explained that she was no longer that woman, the one he had run into in the garden, or the girl in rags he had dreamed of once prior. She was now a painted whore. "Lady of the night?" He pondered out loud, opening his eyes to glance between the two of them. "Don't worry... We all do things in life just to survive, things we aren't always proud of." Malcolm thought back to his time as a slave and sighed.
"If Famula comes to take me, I will not rest," he watched Faith, who he had allowed to continue cleaning him once more, giving the nod to say it was okay. "It is Vri I wait for... And the judgement of Pre and Pier. I will only find peace in the arms of my sister, and I cannot rightly say that Famula will give me to Jesine when she is done."
Again he was quiet, content just to watch and listen as Faith took care to make him presentable, but for who? Would any of his loved ones come to see what remained? Did they know? Had he died close to home? There were many questions he knew the painted woman couldn't answer, and so the words lined up on his tongue only to be swallowed down, leaving a sour taste where they had hoped to be given breath.
"I had a son," Malcolm smiled at the memory, eyelids heavy. "With a golden crown, hair just like his mother's," he blinked slowly as if the thought of the boy had lulled him into sleep. "He was so quiet, he never cried, and for the longest time we were convinced he wouldn't speak." Malcolm's fingers flinched, and he seemed to fall asleep. "I only regret that I will never see my grandchildren..."

[Faith Augustin]

The delight that shone in Faith's eyes as he told her how he remembered their meeting might well be disproportionate to such a simple thing as remembering her. But he had remembered her, that she wore no shoes. The smile which lit her face was genuine "The shoes my owner made me wear hurt my feet, so I took them off" she recalled. But he misunderstood her next words, or in fairness they were not clear at all she considered. "No. I have a new Master. I share his bed" she explained and motioned towards the raggedy slave girl. "When I was her" she spoke with a soft tone and concentrated on her job; currently washing his arm. "I had never done that, never been prepared to. He sent me to training, in the House of Roses." Her voice was calm and casual, but there was more to her words.

As she finished one arm, she started on his shoulders and sighed slightly "I think that maybe I am two people you know" as she always did, she spoke to the corpse, perhaps as much to fill the silence as for any other reason "I grew up referring to myself in the third person. It was... It was harsh. But I knew myself. Not a person, not anything other than what I was allowed to be. But now?" she sounded almost irritated "But now I wear these clothes, and they symbolise all the things that are different. Master tells me I am a person, just a person who is a slave" she sighed "I am confused and I do not know what I am. Is it bad that I like being treated like a person?" she wondered as she finished the slow process of washing his top half.

"Vri? Your sister? Pre and Pier? I thought... aren't they the names of Immortals?" she asked with a glance at him. "Are you related?" she wondered. Nothing, in truth, would surprise her because, as far as she was concerned, he was the most remarkable of men. But related to an Immortal? That would be impressive, even for him. "A son? I can contact him for you if you'd like" her voice was kind, the thought of leaving behind a loved one must be almost too much to bear. "And as for your grandchildren, well, if I live I can visit them and tell them that I was with you here, and that your wish was to see them" she would do, without question or hesitation if he wished it. "You could tell me something for them, just from you?"

Having finished the washing of his top half, and resisting the urge to stroke his cheek since he was talking and everything, Faith sighed slightly. "I know it's silly, because you are dead" she glanced at the sheet covering him "But they don't normally talk you know and I have had the most intense feelings for you since I met you" Silver grey eyes were serious as she turned to him. "I know that I am young and foolish and experiencing things for the first time. But no woman has ever loved like I love you. Ever. And I will not wash any lower, it would not be right" although a peek wouldn't have gone amiss, the mischievous side of her mind reminded her but then she looked at him and, looking into his eyes, she simply could not. "But if you do not mind, I will dress you. I can do that without looking" and then she *did* blush a little and waved one hand in a rather fruitless gesture "There. Are you comfortable with that?" she would wait then, to see if he was. Because, to her mind, this was the last gift anyone could give another and dignity was paramount.

[Malcolm]

Malcolm smiled and watched the woman with tired eyes as she finished cleaning him, all the while listening as she spoke about her experiences and dedication, how much she card for him, and what she was willing to do after he was gone. The sensation to reach out and take the woman's hand in his own was so strong, that for a moment he believed he could. When the lifeless limb denied his wishes, he closed his eyes again and let the minor bout of frustration pass before turning his gaze on Faith once more.
"He is with Famula now, she took him long ago," the man blinked slowly, feeling whatever strength that remained in his body, slipping away. "She is close..."
In his mind the man had shared many words with Faith and stories, all of his favourite stories, memories of the golden haired boy, adventures at sea, the customs of the tribal women in the far south, tales of the immortals, and the feats of common men. Pulled between a state of consciousness and enteral slumber, Malcolm felt his strength ebb, his last waking moments granting him the ability to close Faith's hand in his own.
"They are the breath in our lungs and the blood in our bones. We all live to serve," he murmured, eyes closed as he now lacked the will to keep them open. "Don't live to serve, Faith... Serve to love. You will discover who is deserving and what the difference is soon."
Malcolm's fingers fell away from Faith's then to lie against the table. "I have served tyrants, temples, and kings, fables, prophets, and whims. In service to others we find ourselves, but in love," the man mouthed and fell quiet for a long time, body limp and lifeless, his face a mask without expression.
A bright, blinding light filled the room and as the world dimmed again Malcolm stood beside the table looking down at his lifeless body, the shell that had once harboured what he now was. A young boy, who couldn't have been older than seven, clutched his left hand and wrist tightly. "I waited for you," the child looked up at Malcolm and smiled, the gesture returned by the man. "Can we go home now?"
"Let's," Malcolm lifted the boy into his arms and looked across the table at Faith. "Thank you," he mouthed without giving the words breath and turned to leave the room, and the small green-eyed boy lifted his hand in timorous wave.

[Faith Augustin]

When she remembered this dream in the waking world, Faith would remember it as a gentle time; intensely personal and intimate as it was every time that she prepared a body but this time so much moreso than usual. Magnified by a significant amount, most certainly as far as she was concerned because of her feelings for the man she tended to. They spoke together and he told her that the golden haired boy was with Famula. Faith looked at him and gently reached to put a stray strand of hair back in place. "She is always close here" she said, looking around the room and smiling. The Immortal was most beloved to Faith yet, as much as she did not understand Malcolm's urgency in not being anointed in Her name, Faith respected it as his choice. But he must know, certainly, that everything Faith did here was in Famula's name; it was her way of being.

As Malcolm took her hand in his, Faith looked down at their hands there together for a moment and she listened to his words. Serve to love? She would discover what the difference was and who was deserving soon? As he spoke, her gaze stayed on him, even though his eyes had closed and he seemed to be passing over. His hand fell open and she resisted the urge to grab at it, to hold on as long as she could. To feel, just for one more beautiful moment the feel of him as he held on to her of his own volition. But she let his hand fall; this time was his time, she would not impose on it or force more than he had to give her. So, his hand fell and yet she felt the cold touch of it still.

His service, to so many, Faith did not doubt. And in service, one found oneself but in love? What did one find in love, she wondered as his soul slipped away and his words fell silent. With a careful and gentle touch she placed his hands over each other, crossed over his chest and as she did she gave thanks that his last seconds were thinking of love. "Rest well and find peace" she whispered "You deserve it" no doubting it, as Knight Captain he performed feats of great daring and as Professor he inspired and taught the masses. But to her? He would always be the man who had told her that she was free. Free to learn, to be a person. He had instigated a change in her which she would always be grateful for. Because he had given her something that she had never had; hope.

The light, totally unexpected, almost blinded her and Faith automatically covered her eyes with her arm. But as it died, there was Malcolm standing next to his own body and holding the hand of a young boy. Oh, he did have a golden crown, Faith thought and she looked at the two of them, watching and saying nothing. When Malcolm mouthed his thanks to her, she looked him in the eyes and smiled. Just for a moment she felt that they were equals and the young woman was astonished at what that felt like. It was ... wonderous. So, she watched as they walked out and she returned the young one's wave with a gentle opening and closing of her hand to him. Sighing deeply, as they exited, she looked down at the body and shook her head. Even in death, he had been the one to give her a gift.

[Whisper]

Faith

Peer Review

Story: 4/5
Collaboration: 5/5
Structure: 5/5

Awarded Knowledge

Malcolm: Kin to Immortals?
Mortician: Cleaning the Dead
Mortician: Don’t Force Prayers Upon the Dead
Mortician: Respect for the Dead
Talking to the Dead
“Serve to Love”
Working With Someone You Used to Know

Extras

Loot & Losses	[/color]xxxxxx	Injuries
None	[/color]xxxxxx	None[/color]

Malcolm

Peer Review

Story: 4/5
Collaboration: 5/5
Structure: 5/5

Awarded Knowledge

Faith: Lady of the Night
Nyvora: A Body That is Not Your Own
Nyvora: Awareness
Nyvora: The Scars of Being Blessed
Nyvora: The Sensation of Death
Slavery: The Scars of Earning Freedom

Extras

Loot & Losses	[/color]xxxxxx	Injuries
None	[/color]xxxxxx	None

Comments

So 4/5 for Story as it took me a little while to get into the swing of things and completely understand what was going on here. Does this make sense in the context of the two characters’ plots? For me, I do not know too much about them both, it took me a while to understand and the site is running quite slowly (as we all have noticed!) so I found it difficult to jump around your CSes to find information which might be relevant to help me place it better. As a stand alone thread, therefore, it was slow for me to pick up. I’m still not even sure if Malcolm is actually dead?!

However, other than that, I thoroughly enjoyed it. As always, the writing was wonderful, the language flowery and I loved how calm I felt through the whole reading, especially your posts, Faith. It all felt very slow and wavy and drifty and… all that - just how I imagine a dream should be!

As you can see, I have provided feedback and reasoning behind my review. If you have any questions, comments or criticism about your review, feel free to send me a PM and we can discuss it.
Thank ye.

[/color]