There was a great swooping sound as the covers over him were tossed aside and his legs thrown out from over his mattress. With his elbows planted down on top his knees he ran his face through his hands, bending down to run his fingers through his hair finally stopping with a pair of scrunched fistfuls, and a sigh. He stood.
After spending a short while tying his hair back in a braid, he clothed himself in his Sipahi garb and left from his chamber. The hour was late, likely midnight by now. And as he toured the palace's grand corridors, his mind continued to wander. It had drifted away from the horrors of the Cold Night and moved on to more encompassing things... their last meeting of the Divan had been carried out under great tension. Though he of all people would be the first to advocate for more military strength, he had tabled a more delicate approach to the heightened restrictions that had been placed on the populace, citing the freedoms which the god-emperor Gerra had worked so diligently to implement. Though the decision was ultimately up to those of the Divan itself, the council of influences that surrounded them were also to be appeased. Gerra's methods had worked in two ways, for the governed, and also for the governors. He'd not consolidated power quite so tightly, and so when faced with the issues at hand in their current days, Ashuanar felt pressured to take measure that even he did not think necessary - or even appropriate in some cases.
Still, the well-being of the Empire as a whole rested on the shoulders of he and oh-so few others.
He came to a mural on the wall. It was of he, and those others of the current day Divan, and of course Gerra as well. But of all those depicted on the display his eyes rested only on one... the artist had done well to capture her beauty.
With his hands behind his back he dwelt there for a time in the dim torchlight, over the span of which a number of late night guards passed by, some going one way and some going the other. All the while his thoughts dwelt on the one whose image his eyes could not pull themselves from: Wielder of The Fists of Aramekh, Grand Vizier of the Stars - now Empress-Regent of the Empire, Medja.
He thought he could handle it. But, in this, not even the Band of Serqet granted him any guidance or strength. Perhaps he was simply too young, as for an Abtati he was still quite so. Though it was that her free spirit was verily something he admired and cherished, it was also something that had, over time he'd found, wounded him. There was no amount of strength in his veins that he would not give, there wasn't an ounce of his soul he would not pour, and yet... it was not enough. Was any one for another ever enough? He did not know...
His hand reached to the image, hesitated, and then withdrew with a great weight that felt as though it might split him. His eyes fell for a moment, and then with a lifted chin and a heavy breath he turned away, and once again - wandered...
The sparse cloud cover overhead parted, and the light of the moons washed over the torchlit city. There was no such hour when Ragash truly slept, and as Ashuanar strolled through the western sectors he encountered many kinds of passersby. There were some carriages being pulled about, but most traveled on foot. Some traveled in groups or pairs, some alone, and most were intoxicated in some form or another. Music played from a number of different establishments, and the activity within each spilled out into the street. There were also many late night vendors, each selling tobacco, paraphilia and other peculiar wares from the storefront kiosks. The western sectors were always the most lively, and Ashuanar began to find comfort in the business of the late night. Out here like this, even in garb that identified him as a Sipahi to any who knew them, none would suspect him to be who he was. Or at least, that was how it seemed.
Wisteria
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