This Bull Won't Burn (Open)
May 31, 2013 15:24:49 GMT
Post by Baelor Karatus on May 31, 2013 15:24:49 GMT
"Give in to the flames, you poor bastard. Stop fighting them, you're already dead." The thoughts raced through Baelor's head faster than wildfire, his eyes taking in the sight before him as his fists clenched tightly. Another night, another foolish non-believer who had opened his mouth to the wrong person being fed to the ravenous fires of R'hllor. It was becoming a ceremony of sorts, something to be done whenever the Red Priestess felt morale was slipping too low, whenever faith was waning. Burn someone who only stood guilty of standing before the Seven, the faith they had been born to, their fathers had been born to. Burn those that dare question the new way of things, burn those that dare cherish their ancestral beliefs. It was fast becoming an all too common answer to something that was hardly a problem in the first place. And within his own mind Baelor could barely stomach to grapple with the problem, the questions it raised within him. Was this what he was fighting for? Did this same fate only wait to be unleashed upon the whole of the Seven Kingdoms when Stannis would rightfully ascend the Iron Throne? Would the holy places of his Faith be fed to the fires, would those too devout to turn their back be burned? Was he waging a war against his own Gods?
"Robert, you bastard, why did you have to die on us...?" Things had been so much simpler in that war. They hadn't been fighting to save souls, they hadn't been fighting in the name of some New God. They had only been fighting to get rid of a mad tyrant who deserved all that had come to him. This war? Baelor was becoming more and more unsure of it with every passing day. He didn't believe in this Fire God, he paid no homage to R'hllor and he never would. In his heart he was being told that to stand beside a man who allowed such crimes to be committed in the name of this God was not a man worth standing beside, but that tiny whisper was always crushed without hesitation. Stannis was his Rightful Liege-Lord. Perhaps these burnings did serve a purpose beyond his understanding? After all, Baelor had never claimed to be a highly educated man, he couldn't read and barely knew his numbers. He was a soldier, simple as that. Matters of faith such as this seemed to be beyond his area of expertise.
But it still didn't sit right in the pit of his stomach, an instinct his Father had always told him to follow. "A man's mind may lie to him, but his heart will never let him be misled. Listen to your heart, Baelor. It will keep you in the light when others will try to lure you to darkness." The voice of Lyle Karatus filled his mind, and for a split second Baelor allowed a smile to fall upon his lips, despite the stench of a man burning, the sound of his screams falling to soft, pitiful cries for mercy. His humor came from the irony of his Fathers words. These followers of the Red God wished to drag him, as they claimed, into His holy and everlasting light. Not darkness. Though, would his Father have said such a claim is merely darkness hidden beyond the guise of light? The thoughts continued to race through his mind, all the while Baelor's eyes remaining locked upon the man as he finally lapsed into silence, as death finally released him from his torment and ushered him away to the afterlife. "Seven take you..." The whisper fell from his lips softly, so that only Baelor and his Gods could hear the words, though the heresy of such careless words could have very well have found him upon the stake next had the wrong ears heard it.
As the man fell to death, Baelor realized many of Stannis's court departing, no longer feeling the need to stay for the rest of the ceremony. The deed was done, the heretic burned for his words and deeds. Baelor, however, found himself firmly rooted to the spot. Whether it was out of a sense of loyalty to a fellow man refusing to turn his back upon the Seven, or simply because he felt someone should stand vigil upon the corpse, Baelor refused to leave. He would stay until the pyre had turned to little more than smoldering embers, until the mans body was nothing more than dust. If Baelor could give him nothing, at least he could give him that. Pulling the heavy ax, Mail-Breaker, from it's sling upon his back he handed it off to the young Squire standing beside him. Next Baelor unclasped the heavy iron rings holding the bear-pelt to his chain mail and he too handed these off to the Squire. "Take these back to my chambers, I won't be needing them tonight." Without another word, Baelor strode forward on powerful legs, his form coming to a stop as close as he could physically stand coming to the pyre.
Without a word the Squire quickly retreated away from the scene, leaving Baelor and a sporadic few remaining with the raging inferno. The Bull himself stood so close that his chain mail was beginning to become heated, the tiny rings starting out as uncomfortable, than quickly becoming painful against the thin wool of his tunic beneath. Sweat beaded down his face, his flesh turning first a soft pink color and then a bright red, yet despite the pain and discomfort Baelor did not flinch, did not move away. Something in that moment held his place, held his focus upon the fire. This man had felt what he was feeling and so much more, but what had been his crime? Nothing that Baelor himself did not stand guilty of. They had both loved the same Gods, they had both refused to bend the knee to this new R'hllor, but it was by chance, fate, and perhaps the grace of the Gods themselves that Baelor stood here while this man stood dead, engulfed in flame. As if to solidify the brief feeling of madness that had seemed to come over him, Baelor extended his left hand and laid it upon the chest of the dead man as he burned, and it was in that moment he felt pain unlike any he'd felt.
The searing of the fire as it kissed his flesh brought a shocked intake of breath from The Bull, yet he did not withdrawl his hand, he did not flinch. Pressing his palm against the dead man's chest, against the place his heart still should have beat, Baelor felt in that moment a connection he had never felt to another. Not to his wife, not to his children, not to Robert Baratheon; he felt an overwhelming sadness take him followed by a fierce pride that this man had died in the fire rather than fall to his knees forsaking his Gods. These thoughts had all ran through The Bull's mind in a fraction of a second, and as soon as they had come they where gone, the intense feelings being whipped away by pain. Yanking his hand from the flames, he took a few steps back, his eyes wide at the deed he had committed. Why had he done such a thing, why had he been so foolish? He had no answers, only the briefest of memories of what he'd felt in that flash of time. The sadness, the loss, the love, the pride; was it his Gods? Looking down upon his left hand and forearm he saw the blisters of burns forming, and flexing his left hand painfully, he felt the reassuring pain that it had all been real. Not some foolish hallucination.
But what had it all meant?
For hours Baelor stood there, watching the fires as the mans body disappeared, as it as devoured by the flames. First it became an unrecognizable and charred black corpse, then slowly, piece by piece, it had fallen away to ash. In the hours of the night, during Baelor's vigil, he had cast aside his chain mail and leather armor which lay in a heap upon the sand. His light wool shirt had been cut to pieces, the material wrapped tightly about his left forearm and hand, but he had never left, he had never looked away for even a moment. As the last pieces of the man fell away to ash, as the fire quieted to a smoldering of embers, Baelor finally turned away. His eyes where bloodshot from smoke, they felt raw, but he himself felt energized. He felt revived, as if in that brief second in the night he'd been graced by his Gods. In the face of the faithfuls horrible death he'd been given his reason to hold fast to his own faith. His Gods had spoken in the face of R'hllor's very sacrifice. The notion of it brought a small and satisfied smile to his face.
It was almost shocking to find his thoughts interrupted as the dawning sun crept over the horizon, bathing him and the beach in it's virgin rays. Turning to look across the sea, Baelor watched the sun climb into the sky. In that moment he found his mind racing, thanking the Gods for all they had given him. Thanking them for Rosalyn, her warm smile, her soft laugh, her beauty that hadn't faded even a little in their long years together. Thanking them for his Heir, Dashiel. Thanking them for giving him a son who was fierce and proud, noble and strong; everything a man could ask of a son. Thanking them for his precious daughter, Emma. The girl had quickly become his very heart, the embodiment of his soul walking the lands of the Seven Kingdoms. How could he ever turn his back upon his Gods? They had given him more gifts than he could ever understand. They had made a warrior of him, a beast upon the battlefield, and from that beast they had carved a loving father, a caring husband.
Walking forward on weary legs, Baelor felt the cool touch of the sea as he walked out into the waves, stopping only when the water stood at his waist. Lowering his left hand into the water, he cringed as the salt and cold brought a jolt of pain, but in the pain he found comfort, meaning. Looking back to the horizon, he let another satisfied smile cross his features. Truly this night had been one sent from the Gods, and if they could speak to him in such a manner, then he would continue on. He would continue to wage war in the name of Stannis and the Royal House Baratheon. He would continue to break the enemies of the Rightful King upon his ax until they had all either fallen to their knees in servitude or their backs in death.
Closing his eyes, Baelor let the sounds of the lapping waves, the crying seagulls fill his ears. It all seemed so distant in that moment; the defeat at Blackwater Bay, the panic of a war nearly lost. They weren't beaten because they weren't dead. As long as he drew breath there would always be one who stood behind Stannis, ready to destroy all those that dared to stand in his way. The thoughts brought an odd sense of serenity over him, a feeling of intense calm that seemed to slow the very speed of times. The lapping waves felt as if they took a hundred centuries to reach the shore, the crying of the gulls sounding as if it would never end. Was he delirious from the pain, from exhaustion? Was he feeling a spiritual high that the heretics of R'hllor felt, that they chased in their burnings of men and women? Smiling softly to himself, Baelor let his weight carry him backwards, his eyes opening to look upon the stark blue sky above, the plump white clouds drifting languidly along; and all of it obscured in an instant as he fell into the water.
The cold sea rushed across his frame, his eyes stinging as saltwater filled them, but he kept them open despite the discomfort. All the sounds became muted, and as a total silence descended upon him beneath the waves he felt once again that intense sense of pride return, though this time not for his Gods, only for his King, Stannis Baratheon. Baelor remained beneath the waves for what felt like a lifetime, scenes of battles waged for House Baratheon racing through his mind, words spoken to him by Robert and Stannis both, men who in another life Baelor would have had no place to even gaze upon, let alone have words with. A feeling of tightness gripped his chest as his lungs cried out for oxygen, yet Baelor denied them. Just for a little longer, just to push himself, to always see the limits of himself. And then he could take no more, and suddenly and violently he exploded from beneath the waves, his chest heaving as oxygen flooded down his throat. Water running down his frame, bloodshot eyes starring out into the distant horizon, standing up to his waist in the sea; in that moment Baelor felt truly alive for the first time since Blackwater Bay.
He felt ready to do what needed to be done in the name of Stannis Baratheon.
"Robert, you bastard, why did you have to die on us...?" Things had been so much simpler in that war. They hadn't been fighting to save souls, they hadn't been fighting in the name of some New God. They had only been fighting to get rid of a mad tyrant who deserved all that had come to him. This war? Baelor was becoming more and more unsure of it with every passing day. He didn't believe in this Fire God, he paid no homage to R'hllor and he never would. In his heart he was being told that to stand beside a man who allowed such crimes to be committed in the name of this God was not a man worth standing beside, but that tiny whisper was always crushed without hesitation. Stannis was his Rightful Liege-Lord. Perhaps these burnings did serve a purpose beyond his understanding? After all, Baelor had never claimed to be a highly educated man, he couldn't read and barely knew his numbers. He was a soldier, simple as that. Matters of faith such as this seemed to be beyond his area of expertise.
But it still didn't sit right in the pit of his stomach, an instinct his Father had always told him to follow. "A man's mind may lie to him, but his heart will never let him be misled. Listen to your heart, Baelor. It will keep you in the light when others will try to lure you to darkness." The voice of Lyle Karatus filled his mind, and for a split second Baelor allowed a smile to fall upon his lips, despite the stench of a man burning, the sound of his screams falling to soft, pitiful cries for mercy. His humor came from the irony of his Fathers words. These followers of the Red God wished to drag him, as they claimed, into His holy and everlasting light. Not darkness. Though, would his Father have said such a claim is merely darkness hidden beyond the guise of light? The thoughts continued to race through his mind, all the while Baelor's eyes remaining locked upon the man as he finally lapsed into silence, as death finally released him from his torment and ushered him away to the afterlife. "Seven take you..." The whisper fell from his lips softly, so that only Baelor and his Gods could hear the words, though the heresy of such careless words could have very well have found him upon the stake next had the wrong ears heard it.
As the man fell to death, Baelor realized many of Stannis's court departing, no longer feeling the need to stay for the rest of the ceremony. The deed was done, the heretic burned for his words and deeds. Baelor, however, found himself firmly rooted to the spot. Whether it was out of a sense of loyalty to a fellow man refusing to turn his back upon the Seven, or simply because he felt someone should stand vigil upon the corpse, Baelor refused to leave. He would stay until the pyre had turned to little more than smoldering embers, until the mans body was nothing more than dust. If Baelor could give him nothing, at least he could give him that. Pulling the heavy ax, Mail-Breaker, from it's sling upon his back he handed it off to the young Squire standing beside him. Next Baelor unclasped the heavy iron rings holding the bear-pelt to his chain mail and he too handed these off to the Squire. "Take these back to my chambers, I won't be needing them tonight." Without another word, Baelor strode forward on powerful legs, his form coming to a stop as close as he could physically stand coming to the pyre.
Without a word the Squire quickly retreated away from the scene, leaving Baelor and a sporadic few remaining with the raging inferno. The Bull himself stood so close that his chain mail was beginning to become heated, the tiny rings starting out as uncomfortable, than quickly becoming painful against the thin wool of his tunic beneath. Sweat beaded down his face, his flesh turning first a soft pink color and then a bright red, yet despite the pain and discomfort Baelor did not flinch, did not move away. Something in that moment held his place, held his focus upon the fire. This man had felt what he was feeling and so much more, but what had been his crime? Nothing that Baelor himself did not stand guilty of. They had both loved the same Gods, they had both refused to bend the knee to this new R'hllor, but it was by chance, fate, and perhaps the grace of the Gods themselves that Baelor stood here while this man stood dead, engulfed in flame. As if to solidify the brief feeling of madness that had seemed to come over him, Baelor extended his left hand and laid it upon the chest of the dead man as he burned, and it was in that moment he felt pain unlike any he'd felt.
The searing of the fire as it kissed his flesh brought a shocked intake of breath from The Bull, yet he did not withdrawl his hand, he did not flinch. Pressing his palm against the dead man's chest, against the place his heart still should have beat, Baelor felt in that moment a connection he had never felt to another. Not to his wife, not to his children, not to Robert Baratheon; he felt an overwhelming sadness take him followed by a fierce pride that this man had died in the fire rather than fall to his knees forsaking his Gods. These thoughts had all ran through The Bull's mind in a fraction of a second, and as soon as they had come they where gone, the intense feelings being whipped away by pain. Yanking his hand from the flames, he took a few steps back, his eyes wide at the deed he had committed. Why had he done such a thing, why had he been so foolish? He had no answers, only the briefest of memories of what he'd felt in that flash of time. The sadness, the loss, the love, the pride; was it his Gods? Looking down upon his left hand and forearm he saw the blisters of burns forming, and flexing his left hand painfully, he felt the reassuring pain that it had all been real. Not some foolish hallucination.
But what had it all meant?
For hours Baelor stood there, watching the fires as the mans body disappeared, as it as devoured by the flames. First it became an unrecognizable and charred black corpse, then slowly, piece by piece, it had fallen away to ash. In the hours of the night, during Baelor's vigil, he had cast aside his chain mail and leather armor which lay in a heap upon the sand. His light wool shirt had been cut to pieces, the material wrapped tightly about his left forearm and hand, but he had never left, he had never looked away for even a moment. As the last pieces of the man fell away to ash, as the fire quieted to a smoldering of embers, Baelor finally turned away. His eyes where bloodshot from smoke, they felt raw, but he himself felt energized. He felt revived, as if in that brief second in the night he'd been graced by his Gods. In the face of the faithfuls horrible death he'd been given his reason to hold fast to his own faith. His Gods had spoken in the face of R'hllor's very sacrifice. The notion of it brought a small and satisfied smile to his face.
It was almost shocking to find his thoughts interrupted as the dawning sun crept over the horizon, bathing him and the beach in it's virgin rays. Turning to look across the sea, Baelor watched the sun climb into the sky. In that moment he found his mind racing, thanking the Gods for all they had given him. Thanking them for Rosalyn, her warm smile, her soft laugh, her beauty that hadn't faded even a little in their long years together. Thanking them for his Heir, Dashiel. Thanking them for giving him a son who was fierce and proud, noble and strong; everything a man could ask of a son. Thanking them for his precious daughter, Emma. The girl had quickly become his very heart, the embodiment of his soul walking the lands of the Seven Kingdoms. How could he ever turn his back upon his Gods? They had given him more gifts than he could ever understand. They had made a warrior of him, a beast upon the battlefield, and from that beast they had carved a loving father, a caring husband.
Walking forward on weary legs, Baelor felt the cool touch of the sea as he walked out into the waves, stopping only when the water stood at his waist. Lowering his left hand into the water, he cringed as the salt and cold brought a jolt of pain, but in the pain he found comfort, meaning. Looking back to the horizon, he let another satisfied smile cross his features. Truly this night had been one sent from the Gods, and if they could speak to him in such a manner, then he would continue on. He would continue to wage war in the name of Stannis and the Royal House Baratheon. He would continue to break the enemies of the Rightful King upon his ax until they had all either fallen to their knees in servitude or their backs in death.
Closing his eyes, Baelor let the sounds of the lapping waves, the crying seagulls fill his ears. It all seemed so distant in that moment; the defeat at Blackwater Bay, the panic of a war nearly lost. They weren't beaten because they weren't dead. As long as he drew breath there would always be one who stood behind Stannis, ready to destroy all those that dared to stand in his way. The thoughts brought an odd sense of serenity over him, a feeling of intense calm that seemed to slow the very speed of times. The lapping waves felt as if they took a hundred centuries to reach the shore, the crying of the gulls sounding as if it would never end. Was he delirious from the pain, from exhaustion? Was he feeling a spiritual high that the heretics of R'hllor felt, that they chased in their burnings of men and women? Smiling softly to himself, Baelor let his weight carry him backwards, his eyes opening to look upon the stark blue sky above, the plump white clouds drifting languidly along; and all of it obscured in an instant as he fell into the water.
The cold sea rushed across his frame, his eyes stinging as saltwater filled them, but he kept them open despite the discomfort. All the sounds became muted, and as a total silence descended upon him beneath the waves he felt once again that intense sense of pride return, though this time not for his Gods, only for his King, Stannis Baratheon. Baelor remained beneath the waves for what felt like a lifetime, scenes of battles waged for House Baratheon racing through his mind, words spoken to him by Robert and Stannis both, men who in another life Baelor would have had no place to even gaze upon, let alone have words with. A feeling of tightness gripped his chest as his lungs cried out for oxygen, yet Baelor denied them. Just for a little longer, just to push himself, to always see the limits of himself. And then he could take no more, and suddenly and violently he exploded from beneath the waves, his chest heaving as oxygen flooded down his throat. Water running down his frame, bloodshot eyes starring out into the distant horizon, standing up to his waist in the sea; in that moment Baelor felt truly alive for the first time since Blackwater Bay.
He felt ready to do what needed to be done in the name of Stannis Baratheon.
