The silence in the master bedroom was unbroken, save for the occasional flutter of an old book page being turned. For a while, the blood from the soaked linen sheets dripped rhythmically on the floor; tiny crimson drops, like rubies raining from a golden sky. Now, however, this chamber of carnal lust was silent.
Outside, cicadas were singing their monotonous, melancholic song, under the blazing sun. Now and then, an occasional faint footstep was heard, as some poor soul passed hurriedly by, to find shelter from the unforgiving heat; but the lavishly decorated bedroom was silent.
Then, out of nowhere, like a sudden crescendo, the bells from the central courtyard started ringing. In perfect tempo, one clang after the other, they heralded, like a funeral procession, the passing of the fourteenth hour. Each toll was replied to with a faint tap of his index finger upon the stem of his long-emptied wineglass --a soft, unheard echo. When they stopped, so did he. He rose, rested the glass on the ivory end-table next to him, and returned the book to the shelf, where it belonged. Among the rest, it was now the only one not covered in dust.
"Fourty-two minutes..."
He paced slowly towards the grand harp and ran his fingers softly along its strings. A work of art, built to create art, this poor instrument had now become little more than another piece of decoration in this estate of vanity. He brushed off the gathered dust, and sat on the black, cushioned stool. His fingers caressed the strings gently, breathing life back to the masterfully crafted instrument. Slowly, the silence crept away, replaced by a soft sonata. Downstairs, the front door opened with a faint creak. Amarthor had just come home from work. The man smiled, as he continued to play the harp.
"Thirty-six minutes..."
Amarthor paused as he stepped in his house. He listened, confused for a moment. Bariel knew not how to play the harp. Neither did any of her friends, not that any of them would be visiting at this hour. Cautiously, he walked up the stairs. The music became louder as he approached the closed bedroom door. He stuck his ear against it, as if to confirm what he already was certain of --the music was originating from the other side of the door. Unsure, he turned the knob, and flung open the door.
Like a statue made of stone, Amarthor froze where he stood. There, on their grand double bed, his beloved laid motionless; still. Her throat slit wide open, her eyes plucked out and placed into her outstretched palms; a crimson rose resting over the blood-soaked sheet that covered her body. He felt dizzy. Stumbling inside, confused and lost, he staggered towards Bariel's corpse. All the while, the music played. It was not before he had reached the bed, that he realised he was not alone in the room.
The piece ended abruptly, cut in half. Crow stood up and walked calmly around the harp. As Amarthor's bewildered eyes glared at him, he reached the ivory table, and poured two glasses of wine. "Sit," he motioned at one of the recliners, his tone ambivalent between suggestion and command, as he rested himself on his chair. Amarthor stood still. His mouth twitched, then twitched again, incomprehensible sounds coming out of it, like a babe trying to form its first words. Crow waited patiently for the realisation to sink in, and not long after, Amarthor finally managed to stutter a sentence. "Y... You.. k-k-ki... killed her..."
"Twenty-three minutes..."
Something clicked inside him. He repeated those same words, again and again, the short, simple, three-word sentence springing him awake. His uninvited guest smiled. There was formality and warmth in his smile, but his eyes were cold, devoid of any feelings. "Consider it a favor. You knew. All along, ever since the very first day, you knew, and you did nothing. You did not stop it; you did not even care to try." In an instant, his pleasant smile had vanished. He brought the glass to his lips, savoring the sweet scent of the wine. It had regained the right temperature. "Your inaction forced my hand. Now... Let us chat."
There was a mocking undertone in the man's words; faint, but just obvious enough for Amarthor to spot. He felt strange; a feeling he had not experienced in a long time. He felt something burning inside him, a growing anger, coupled with the cacophonous clangs of denial against logic. It confused him, it infuriated him... It made him utterly predictable. Unable to fully understand his emotions, unable to explain them to himself, much less put them into cohesive words, he let out an angered growl, and hastily reached for the sword that was hanging next to an armor stand. "I would not do that," his visitor suggested calmly. "That is a decorative sword. It is not even sharpened --believe me," he nodded towards Bariel's corpse laid on the bed, "I checked." Amarthor had already crossed halfway across the room, blunt sword in hand, when he stopped. Logic had triumphed over emotion, however briefly, and it was logic which forced him into self-preservation. He stared at the man for a long moment, before sitting down, doubts still clinging on him, just as he clinged on the hilt of his expensive, dull blade.
"... Is it money you want?" At that, Crow could not help but reply with a genuine chuckle. "Ever the savvy businessman, Amarthor... Buying yourself out of every situation is always the first choice, is it not? I fear the situation is somewhat more complicated." He stood up calmly, glass in hand, and made his way towards the window. Outside, the streets were empty. "What, then? Lands? Titles? What do you want from me?!"
Crow smiled, still looking outside the window. Far into the distance, he could see the harbor. A ship was docking. "You have really managed to make a fortune out of the trading business in these last ten years... Once a nobody, now... One of the biggest suppliers of copper and iron to that cesspit you call a city. We are short on time, so I will make this brief." He turned his back to the window, and nodded at three bloodied daggers on the table. "Do you recognise them? You should. They have been forged with your ore." Amarthor stared at the daggers, unsure about the man's point, if he even had one. He opened his mouth to question, but his words were cut short, as his mysterious guest went on. "As I understand it, the law of Gondor is pretty strict when it comes to unlicensed arms dealing. I purchased those blades for pocket change, in a nameless back alley. Blades that, without your supplies, would be impossible to craft. So, answer me this simple question... How many people have you bribed to turn a blind eye to your dealings? For surely, if the officials wished you behind bars, you would be. Yet... Here you are; a free, filthy rich man."
"You still haven't realised it, have you? Here. Let me help you connect the dots. You supply the ore necessary to forge weapons to the Port City. You also supply ore to its black market, at a price lower than that of your competitors, mainly because you tend to work your 'imported' sailors to death. Then, the black market does what it does best... And to cut a long story short, unlicensed weapons are released to the public. Unlicensed weapons, such as those I used to kill your beloved whore. So you see... You armed my hand."
Amarthor looked at him. He just looked, unblinking, motionless. Conflicting thoughts raced in his head, each trying to escape through words, and failing. The man in front of him knew, he knew everything, and his intentions were still not clear. That worried him most of all. He feared the worst, and his version of the worst was being killed. "So," he stuttered, "have you come to... to kill me?" Cold sweat raced down his balding head.
"Fourteen minutes..."
"Kill you? I killed you this morning when you drank your tea before leaving for work." At that moment, Amarthor felt his world crashing down. He started crying. "No... I have come to ask you a favor. Comply, and I will give you the antidote. I will leave, and you will never see me again." Just as sudden, a tiny ember of hope rekindled in him. Amarthor was intelligent, manipulative, sly. Yet he, like all men, had his weak spots, his pressure points. And he, like all men, could be played like a puppet by one who knew just what they were. "Anything! Just spare me!" He shouted, making it so obvious that he was hooked, that Crow had difficulty maintaining a straight face.
"Very well... Write a document directed at Pelargir's bank, in which you demand that half of your savings be transferred to Cerhon." Amarthor blinked, genuinely surprised. "Cerhon... The botanist?" A soft nod confirmed his words. "I see you are quick to confirm that you know him. Yes, the botanist. Quickly now... You have about five minutes left."
Amarthor's eyes widened in shock. Hastily, he scribbled an official document, signed it with a trembling hand, and sealed it with his business stamp. Logic had long since abandoned him, so overtaken he was by conflicting emotions, so dazed and confused by the sudden twists and turns of events, that he did not pause to consider there was no evidence to support any of the man's words. He was blind to the strings from which he was being dangled.
It did not take him long to complete the document. He held it at the man, looking at him with eyes glimmering with hope and despair. "It's done, now please... Hand me the-..." At that moment, a sudden pain thrust through his chest. He gripped it, coughing violently, uncontrollably, as the walls suddenly started spinning around him. He fell from his chair, landing softly on the thick, expensive carpet. His cough worsened, and he started spitting out blood, as the pain became increasingly intolerable, spreading gradually through the rest of his body. "B.... But you.... You said..." he managed to stammer, as his vision began to darken. He should still have time, the man about whom he knew nothing said so. Suddenly, in a moment of dying clarity, he realised.
Crow paced slowly towards the door. He opened it, pausing for a moment to cast a last glance in the wealthy bedroom.
"Cowards die a coward's death."
He closed the door behind him, and walked down the stairs. Outside, the heat was insufferable.
Once more, the palace of vanity was drowned in silence.
[Originally written by the player of Crow (Derakoth)]
