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The days had been mostly gray recently.
Gray skies, gray mountains, the looming grey wall with the slowly weathering faces of heroes, grey mist rising from the river…
Halandil Fang trudged home through a world that had been dimmed, a spark cruelly snuffed out. In his mind’s eye he saw the panic in his brother’s eyes, the sound of the drop echoing in his ears.
Now he had to go home, comfort his daughter, make sure everything was ready for the funeral. Today would be busy. Tomorrow his brother would still be gone.
Thjazi had always done his best to shield Hal from the terror and violence of the life he’d chosen. Sometimes Hal had resented it; sometimes he’d been grateful. He’d been able to live his life, study his craft and raise his children while Thjazi had become a ghost and bogeyman to those in power.
And here at the end it was left to Hal to pick up the pieces.
Something had gone wrong. Certainly those around Thjazi had their plans to slip him from the noose. Hal had known his own attempts would likely bear no fruit. But even the great Thjazi could not escape death this time.
Hal wiped his eyes. He could perform strength, be there for his children and those who would gather to mourn. Maybe Thaisha would be waiting when he got home. At least she would come soon if not.
Taking a breath, Hal climbed the hill into the Rookery. He glanced towards the theatre, his theatre, now, tasting ash in his mouth. Thjazi was gone but perhaps he could turn his grief into something else.
The spark Thjazi Fang had carried was out but embers had been left behind. A man could not live the kind of life he had and leave nothing behind. This was the end of one man’s life but the birth of something new. Those in power hadn’t ended the threat, merely sowed seeds of their own undoing.
Gray smoke lay smoldering underneath dry timbers.
Not today, though. Today was for mourning. Today his family needed him. Hal took another breath as he reached his front door, squaring his shoulders and stepping inside.