No Love Lost

Politics make one used to false appearances; to those who say one thing and mean another, or mean the same but act contrary to it regardless, and aren't sure where or when or how, exactly, they went quite this wrong.

Mòrag has been sure of herself for some dozen-odd years, but she constantly, constantly, fears that it may not, in fact, mean anything. What she is sure of: her self-identity, her total competency, her commitment, her determination; her person and her personality, and the solid stolidity of all that she imposes. But what that means, outside the frame of the Empire?

Unclear. Fretfully unclear. And Mòrag Ladair is not an individual who is often seen as fretting. But Mòrag Ladair is an individual who frets.

(Brighid, it cannot be ommitted, does visually fret, does tic and temper, does move and emote despite being unblinking. But Brighid does not fret.)

The fretting makes Mòrag wonder if she herself is a false appearance, at times - how long ago has she left behind adolescence? How close in the recent past?

She has known of Fan la Norne for some years. Fan la Norne has been a Blade of the Praetorium for many years longer, but she does not walk with veneration; her step is not a stride.

Should a religious figure, subordinate though she may be (the Goddess is a subordinate, oh yes, it's true), partake of any martial fragment? Is the stereotypical priestess-forme Blade allowed that, or allowed the lack thereof?

Many years, yes? But even a goddess is not born at the edge of forever, when the Architect lives dormant in the sky.

Such useless fury, she'd surged, when she ran past Fan to chase the Tornan getaways. If she were really as mature as she thought herself, as she ought herself, as she pretended, she would have stood back, watched the power suppressant work, and collected herself. No need to be overly wise and prescient about the status of the newcomer, but more enough so that she didn't fumble her way towards the woman with her whips awkwardly unsheathed would have been satisfactory.

Fan la Norne looked back at her with empty eyes. It wasn't surprising; even if there were a hidden malice to this non-Indoline Indoline agent, she would be cunning enough not to show it. They'd make sure of that. Even if she couldn't decide it for herself, she would be everything they wanted her to be, and no more.

Wouldn't she?

It was frightful, all that tranquility. It still is, as the days pass and the meetings progress.

Fan la Norne is beautiful, and her winsome, plaintive appearance is compelling. Mòrag knows this. Mòrag observes it and is allowed to observe it because she is a military agent. One thing she has never complained of in her work is a dearth of people to meet, countenances to contort.

Fan's appearance. Not necessary for enrapture, but in this case somehow remaining a vital, if somewhat dead, part of it. Mòrag does not believe that it is a false one for the simple reason that...there's nothing else underneath.

And what of she herself? If Fan la Norne - Haze? - is true and clear as a jade vase, but thrustless, is Mòrag Ladair, Special Inquisitor, more brave than she is true?

This woman is not her mirror. Not in any way, Mòrag insists, not any more than any person is a mirror of any other. She only serves to make pensive reflection because of how empty she is.

Mòrag looks at her and loves her, in a pitiful way, in the way that you love your own fear, because it is private and personal to you.