The Enemy Within (WHF Witch Hunter Quest)

XXVI - Homecoming

The atmosphere within the coach is excruciatingly awkward for the first leg of the journey, you and your sister staring at each other in silence save for the brief intermission where you retrieve your belongings. You try not to feel like a convict returning to the jail when you emerge, nor an exile snatching one last glimpse of home as you roll through Altdorf's towering gates. Above all else, you try not to dwell upon what awaits you at your destination, and the horrifying prospect that your father's soul might not rest easy after his troubled death. Your best intentions come to little without distraction, of course, but what is there even to talk about? You have not spoken with Maria in years, have not laid eyes upon her in longer still. You hardly know the woman who calls herself your sister, and in that at last you find the seeds of your salvation.

"You were taking violin lessons," you say at last, startling your traveling companions out of their fugue with your abrupt words, "did that amount to… well, ah, are you still practicing?"

"Oh yes," Maria shakes her head, a wry twist of a smile promptly betrayed by the bleak tone of her words, "I'm as fine an amateur as you will ever find. A shame I will never perform outside the odd social function, but the performing arts are no place for a darkened reputation."

"I see," you cough, feeling a sudden surge of awkwardness, "If I had aught to do with that, then…"

"Oh, hush," Maria sighs, "Your deeds have hardly helped, but the family name has been tarnished by accusations for some time now, and far beyond our lonely branch of the blood at that. Some, I think, have more merit than we would like to accept, and we've done ourselves no favours grasping so desperately for Ubersreik while Jungfreuds yet remain in their demense."

You nod slowly, displeased but far from surprised by the news. The Von Bruner line is more accurately described as a tree with many branches, its roots securely planted in the ancient past and its manifold limbs spread out in all directions. Much like a tree, however, rot in one branch threatens the plant entire; there are cousins you have never met who likely curse your name, and kin you know nothing of that have tilted the perception of others to your favour or your woe.

"I see. Yet surely there are those troupes who care less for such stains?" you venture after a few moments, "Indeed, if rumour and perception is to be believed, there are no end of those who would actively court the scandal."

"Brother, please," Maria snorts, shaking her head, "'tis bad enough that my reputation suffer for the deeds of others without going so far as to tarnish it myself. What manner of career could I build from such obviously tainted blocks?" Again you nod, a touch more sombre this time. You cannot fairly blame your sister for focusing on the implications such an association would have for her career, but it is a little disappointing that she does not appear even remotely tempted. Clearly it is not any great passion for the art itself that moves her, only what it may be able to bring her. "But enough of me. What of your career, brother?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, joining the priesthood is certainly a respectable path, and a position within the Cult of Sigmar the most traditional," Maria explains, her faint frown betraying confusion that she has to explain it, "But surely you do not intend to spend your whole career hunting witches and burning heretics?"

"It is a worthy path," you say stiffly, though now is not the time to expand on the full extent of what your role actually entails.

"I'm sure," Maria says dubiously, "But the Cult has many worthy paths, many of which are likely to bring much greater fame, prosperity and responsibility than a mere templar could ever expect to see. Do not tell me you are so shy as to quail before a bit of public preaching?"

You grit your teeth, biting back on the first bitter and instinctual response that threatens to claw its way out of your throat. You did not choose the Templar's path out of some plan for eventual promotion, you chose it because you sought redemption, because there was no other way you could live with yourself. If Maria cannot understand that already, having seen what you did and since learning why, there is no amount of angry shouting that will communicate it to her.

To her credit, your sister evidently realises this is a sore point, and elects instead to change the topic. You spend the rest of the ride conversing about the sights and sounds of Altdorf, and it is only at the end of the day when you have disembarked and sent the driver off to arrange rooms at one of the inns that she brings the topic up again.

"Who is your sponsor?" she asks, and when you look briefly baffled she sighs and clarifies, "Not your hierarchical superior, most likely, but your patron, the person who watches your career and provides guidance on your path."

"Must I have one?" you reply, assisting the maids in unloading the coach and ignoring the faintly disapproving looks you get. Your sister's servants are not yours, and so you do not feel it proper to impose the burden of your luggage on them.

"Unless you mean to tell me that you have led a mediocre life unworthy of any regard by those above, yes," Maria says tartly, folding her arms as she waits for you to finish, "Every career a man might turn his hand to offers mentors, patrons and guides worth listening to, and I will not believe a Templar's life so different."

You consider the notion for a bit, handing your luggage off to the staff of the inn and leaving them to take it up to the rooms before following your sister through to a private dining room. Most inns of any quality maintain at least one, though it is fortunate indeed that there are no other nobles or particularly wealthy nobles travelling this road tonight to contest you for it.

"I suppose that would be Witchfinder General Wälder," you say at last, pulling out the chair for your sister so that she can sit herself gracefully down, "He promoted me to the rank of inquisitor not that long ago, granted me access to the Temple's funds and other resources in order to maintain a staff."

You wonder for a moment how the others are getting along, Max and Elvyra most notably. The General promised to find them light duties and keep them on the payroll during your convalescence, but you haven't had a chance to check in with either of them since it began.

"Wälder… not a name of any great renown, but I suppose the Templars have their reasons," Maria nods thoughtfully, "And why did he choose to promote you, then? There must have been any number of other possible names to fill the position when it opened."

"He favours my insight," you reply, taking your own seat and nodding to the servant who comes to bring you two the wine, "My willingness to reserve judgement, to not act until it seems the situation calls for it, instead of caving to the pressure others might feel that they be seen 'doing something'."

"Ah, so it was an ideological choice," Maria nods approvingly, "and it sounds as if you have chosen the correct faction to side with as well. The moderates are clearly in the ascent of late, for all that some proclaim they have overstepped with the mutant edict."

"It is a matter of faith and principle, not politics," you protest, shifting uncomfortably in your seat.

"It can be both - indeed, one would be hard pressed to find the politician who makes their choices without at least considering faith and principle alike," Maria waves off your protest with an idle hand, "Now, explain to me the position that the other factions within your order take, and I will be able to advise you. After all, if I can boast a prominent templar as a brother, more than a few barred doors will open in my path…"

-/-

The mood sours as you draw near your destination, what ground you and your sister managed to claim swiftly rolled back in the face of bitter nostalgia. Your family estate lies outside one of the small villages that exist to feed the hunger of nearby Ubersreik, and the closer you get the more familiar the sights and sounds that pass through the coach windows become. Here are the trees that you used to climb, there the fields where you were taught to ride, all of it sweet and painful in equal measure. You have not been back this way in close to a decade, but you feel like you could draw the outline of the estate walls and its ornate gate from memory.

When the coach draws to a halt and you dismount in full regalia, the first reaction from the staff of the manor is fear. The second is stunned recognition, spreading out from the older members of the retinue like ripples in the pond. It seems you are not so greatly changed from your teenage years as you might perhaps have supposed.

"Well, let us be about this," Maria says briskly, hiding her nerves beneath a confident mask as she comes up to join you, "Hopefully it can all be resolved in a day or two."

You nod absently, barely even hearing her words, for you have just caught sight of the mark upon the lawn and nothing else can hope to rival it for your attention. There, just a dozen paces away from the path, is a section of bare mud where all grass has been charred away. You hardly need to ask to know that it is where your father's pyre stood all those years ago, but the sight of it still takes you breath away.

"Ah, that," Maria says quietly, shaking her head. "The groundskeepers have tried to conceal it, but nothing grows there now, and attempts to cover it up seem to provoke the most vicious of responses."

You nod stiffly, your heartbeat so loud in your ears you can scarcely even hear her words, but before you can reply an angry voice cuts across the scene.

"You! You dare to come back here?!"

Rikard has grown tall but not broad with the passage of years, slender shoulders and a narrow chin giving him an almost serpentine look as he stalks across the lawn towards you. His skin is pale and almost waxen in the manner of a man who sees the sun but once a week at best, and such is his fury that his whole body trembles as he walks. You say nothing to him as he approaches, and when he draws to a halt and backhands you across the jaw you turn your head with the motion and little else.

"Hello brother," you say quietly, working your jaw and feeling the soft ache spread from what you suspect will probably be a fairly mild bruise. Your brother did not, it seems, continue his studies of the sword, nor maintain the exercise routine that your old tutors prescribed. You could probably pick him up under one arm.

"Don't call me that, bastard," Rikard spits, quite literally, in your face. "Get out. Leave now, before I call the guards and have you horsewhipped and driven forth a vagrant!"

"Rikard!" Maria protests, one hand raised to her mouth in shock, "What has come over you?"

"Me? What has come over you, sister, to bring this bastard back here?" Rikard rounds on her, his eyes wide and filled with rage, "You know full well my thoughts on the matter, and you defy me all the same? And for him?"

"I am not a bastard," you say evenly, dragging his attention back to you as a lodestone does the needle, "nor am I a traitor. I heard of the situation with father, and I…"

"You don't get to call him that," Rikard growls, his eyes narrowing and turning hard as he stares you down, "You betrayed this family and forsook your name the night you sent my father to the pyre, and now you come striding back through those gates wearing the same uniform as the men who burned him? You are a wretched little worm, unworthy of name or honour, and every day I weep for the naivety of the young fool who thought to call you brother."

It is too much. Your heart is pounding, your hands trembling, your mask of composure already beginning to crack. You have no name for what boils in your gut and curdles behind your eyes, for it is rage and grief and shame and hatred all in one, but it cannot stay there. You must act, now, and let it out before it consumes you from the inside out. Before it burns you as you burned your father.

Article:

Choose one:

[ ] Punch Rikard
You came here to save your father's soul, and now your wretch of a brother dares imagine his wounded heart and bitter pride more important? No. This ends now.

[ ] Plead with Rikard
Your pride is worth less than your father's soul. Let Rikard think of you what he wills, so long as Pietr von Bruner can be laid to rest at last.

[ ] Walk Away
You will not abandon this cause, but neither can you stand here and take this abuse. Walk away and find somewhere quiet to vent before you do something both you and Rikard will regret.

[ ] Write in (Note - Markus is very emotional right now, and neither he nor Rikard are presently capable of considering reasoned arguments.)