Post by Marto Copperkettle on Apr 30, 2022 19:48:21 GMT
Continuing after the events of ‘Soul Driver’ — Marto, Zola
🌲 Co-written with Zola Rhomdaen 🌲
🌲 Co-written with Zola Rhomdaen 🌲
When Marto descends the stairs for a late breakfast that morning, the first thing he spots in the crowded tavern of the Three Headed Dragon is the bluish-green crown of crystals, catching a glint of sunlight from outside, and the drow woman it comes attached with. Zola, dressed in breezy, lime-coloured dress, is leaning across the bar, speaking to the dragonborn bartender about something he couldn’t make out.
He has a moment where his whole body freezes and he is back in that vast open space where they all were brought to. Marto is fully clothed now unlike then, but it’s the anticipation of knowing he has a mere few seconds before she will spot him, of feeling exposed that roots him to the spot. Perhaps a part of him is tired of lying and that’s why his legs don’t respond to his brain’s half-assed attempts to get them to move.
Then Zola looks up and his chance is gone. Her face breaks out into a cheerful smile and she bounds over to him.
“Marto! Good morning. Sorry, I hope I haven’t caught you at a bad time. Have you had breakfast yet?”
“Morning Zola,” he says half smiling, doing his best to quell his nerves. “I haven’t yet, actually. Would you like to eat together?” Glancing around, he doesn’t like how crowded it is.
“Yes, I’d like that very much.” She follows his gaze around the room then looks back at him. “Or perhaps we can order room service?” she suggests.
“Yes,” he says a little too quickly, then laughs. “I mean, if you’re comfortable with coming up to my room? I think it’ll be better for what we’d want to talk about…” His smile slowly fades as he speaks, watching Zola’s face carefully, wondering when she would start asking things. Hoping she might, dreading she would.
“Of course,” the drow replies. Her friendly grin does not falter, though her amber eyes seem to be searching him, as if looking for hints of what is about to come. “Please, lead the way.”
Marto nods and begins to head back up the stairs. He is sans armour this morning. Instead he is wearing brown, soft leather breeches, a loose, pale yellow, light linen shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and a tasteful waistcoat embroidered with green and blue thread. His blond hair, slightly unkempt as if he hasn’t done a full morning routine, brushes the top of his collar lightly, hiding the new mark he discovered upon waking the other day.
They get to the first floor, walk along the bannister interior before turning down one of the alcoved hallways where more rooms in a quieter part of the inn can be found. When they get to his door, Marto pulls out a key, unlocks it, and opens the door, gesturing for Zola to enter.
“Welcome to my new temporary abode.”
The window faces north west overlooking the enclosed area behind the Dragon. There are a few people enjoying brunch in the cool shade of the patio, their conversation drifting up and through the open window. In one corner is a wash basin with a mirror and some grooming tools laid out beside it, clearly untouched. By the door hangs Marto’s empty pack, all of its contents supposedly in the chest at the foot of the bed. The table is small but would comfortably sit two for an intimate meal. To the right is a medium sized bed, a rather large affair for a halfling Zola thinks. It is unmade, but there’s an air of restless sleep to it that is unmistakable.
Marto softly pushes past her. “Ah, sorry. I should have fixed this,” he says, going over to the bed and quickly putting it into a surprisingly quick and almost picturesque neatness. He looks back at her. “I don’t have much in the way of decorations yet but I might get some from the Greengrass celebrations happening over the weekend. Flowers on the table or something.”
“Oh, please don’t worry. This is a nice abode you have,” Zola says as she glides over to the small table and sits down, hands tucked politely on her lap. “Greengrass sounds fabulous. We have our own celebration of spring in the Witching Court. I hope I can go home in time to catch it…”
An awkward silence hangs in the air between the two of them. Zola shifts in her seat, smiling again. “So, last night… That was one Hell of a strange dream, wasn’t it?” she says, a little too cheerfully.
She sees Marto wince and look away. “It sure was… something, yes.” He slowly walks over to the window doing his best to keep his voice even. “Though I don’t think it was a dream, not really.” Turning around he leans against the windowpane and tries to remain relaxed. “Who were you talking with?”
“Ophanim. The dumb one. He told me he used to be a fashion designer in Phlegethos until Rahmiël came and recruited him. He’s shallow and stupid and full of himself, but… strangely good company.” Her smile turns wistful. “Is that weird? To say something like that about someone so evil?”
“No it’s not,” Marto answers quietly. “So you two talked about… the Hell fashion scene?” That was such a strange thing to say. “And Rahmiël. That’s the female devil we fought in the cave?”
“Yes, that’s the one. Ophanim and I talked a little about everything, really. He wanted to know why I’m helping the Selûnites and so on and so forth, and he allowed me to ask him questions in return.” She pauses to take a deep breath in and out before asking, “What about you? Who did you speak with?”
She fears she already knows the answer, but she waits for a reply anyway.
“Adhyël.” It hurt to say his name to her. “We talked about-…” Marto’s voice cuts off as if a hand is cutting off his air. He clears his throat and tries again. “…love and desire and how the end is coming. The end of this cycle, this fight. How I was going to bring some friends and head down to Phlegethos and kill him and his pals. Though it may kill me I would see this through to the end. And… if it would stop it, if it would mean you could be safe, Zola,” he finally looks up at her, “…if it would mean you would survive this, then I would sacrifice my body and soul to make it so.”
The smile on Zola’s face melts away, replaced by a mix of bemusement and deep concern. “You talked about… love? What do you mean sacrifice your body and soul?” she asks. There is a dreadful feeling building up inside her with every word that comes out of her mouth. Her mind races through many different possibilities — none of them good — but runs into a dead end of confusion each time. The paladin stares at Marto, her position having unconsciously shifted to, quite literally, the edge of her seat.
“I will do whatever it takes, whatever is in my small arsenal of abilities to protect you, Zola. I’ve been marked twice now. If I wasn’t damned before then I definitely am now,” Marto says.
He is suddenly unbuttoning his waistcoat, tossing it to the side, then pulling his shirt over his head. With his arms still in the sleeves he turns around and there, dark as ink, shimmering and purple is a new mark crawling up his spine to his head between his shoulder blades, directly over his spine.
“It’s going to be too late for me, but not for you. Not if I have anything to say about it.”
Zola jumps to her feet and looks at the mark with sadness and horror. “No, don’t say that. Don’t say that’s too late for you,” she says, trying to sound stern in order to hide the quiver in her voice. “We don’t know what this one means. We can find out.”
Marto feels a pair of hands grab his shoulders and turn his body around to face Zola, who has dropped to her knees to be at eye-level with him. There is a sheen of wetness over her eyes, heartbreakingly pleading, but no tears are falling, held back by a dam of determination. “And you will not try to sacrifice yourself for me, Marto. I can protect myself, but more importantly, we can protect each other. But please, please tell me you hadn’t promised your soul to Adhyël.”
He shakes his head. “I haven’t. I remembered what that Wise Guy said… but…” Oh how he wants to pull her towards him, to hold her close and reassure her that he won’t make that mistake. But even he’s not sure. If the circumstances were right, if it was between her or him, he knows who he would choose in a heartbeat.
Tears have come to his eyes and Marto inhales sharply, making himself focus. “But Zola, even if I didn’t promise my soul to him I-” Why is this so hard to say? Why does his throat keep closing just when he gets close enough to admit the truth? “-I’m broken. I’m not the kind of guy you should be worried about. I-”
“Nonsense! You’re my friend, Marto, I’m going to worry about you no matter what you say!” She quells a sob rising in her throat and steadies her breath. “Why are you saying these things? What happened between you and Adhyël? Did he…”
The expression that flashes across Marto’s face is one of absolute anguish. Then he takes Zola’s hands from his shoulders and takes a tiny step away. When he looks up again, his blue eyes are braced and resigned.
“I didn’t tell you the whole truth when I said I had a second dream with Adhyël. It was me who called him, allowing him in. I was trying to get information, which I did but in doing so I-… I had these conflicting feelings, these muddled thoughts I didn’t know what to do with. I thought seeing him again would help me figure it out but it didn’t. It only made it worse. Then, the other night, in that desert under the thunderous sky I-... I gave in to him. I gave myself over to him, I wanted him, carnally, lustfully, and I let him do those things and more. Things I probably shouldn’t have but once I started I couldn’t stop. All I felt was fire in my veins, all I tasted was ash on my tongue and I-”
The words stopped but the tears began to flow, their hot, wet tracks cutting down his twisted face as he steps further and further away from Zola. Realising just how much he hates himself for what he’s done, what it means, how broken he must be to fall into the arms of a devil willingly, to want to be with Adhyël.
“I’m damned. There is no way I’m not. Not after-… Not after what we did together.”
Zola says nothing in that long moment that seems to stretch out into eternity — she simply watches Marto get farther away from her, as if trying to escape. Then she stands up again and walks in front of him, and bends down to wrap her arms around his small body.
“There is no shame in following your heart’s desires, Marto,” her voice murmurs softly in his ear. “We are all at the mercy of our own hearts, no matter how much we try to hide it. You’re not damned — at least, no more than anyone else is. He seduced you, Marto, it’s okay. You’re okay.”
His whole body is shaking, shivering from a cold that seeps into him from the arcane and infernal marks on his skin. He lifts his arms to hold Zola, stops, then lets them fall back down to his side.
“…How?” He leans his head into hers, feeling the soft brush of her white hair against his wet cheeks. The brush of it feels like silvery moonlight and before he realises it he is holding her closer, cautiously, tentatively, wanting to bathe in her beautiful light. “Don’t you feel disgusted by what I’ve done? I’ve lain with a devil, one that’s been killing innocent people and torturing my friends.” Marto shakes his head. Slowly, he pulls back to look at her. “Why aren’t you running away from me? Why… do you still care?”
She cocks her head to one side, gazing at him with a tender expression, free of any kind of judgement. “Why should I do that? Why shouldn’t I care? It’s not your fault you’re attracted to him, and it’s certainly not your fault what he has done. You’re not helping him hurt innocents; in fact, you’ve been trying to save them. He seduced you to mess with your head because he feels threatened by you, Marto. What is there to be disgusted about?”
In all the time he had been thinking about this not once had he thought of it that way. But now that she is saying it, that makes absolute perfect sense. But it doesn’t change the fact that-
“Because I fell for it,” he says softly, voice shaking. Marto closes his eyes and shakes his head. “Yondalla’s left foot, I am such an idiot.” His lips become a hard line.
When he finally looks back up at Zola it’s with cautiousness that he asks, “How do you feel knowing this about me?” There’s a pause. “If you need space away I totally get it and, uhh, well-” He looks down to where his hands are resting on her waist and suddenly pulls his hands back. He is shaking a little more now, the breeze coming in through the window is a little cooler than it was before. “Perhaps I should put my shirt back on,” he finishes lamely and goes to where it lays discarded by the window.
“I don’t feel any different about you, Marto Copperkettle,” she says as she gets up. She feels a little lighter, a little calmer now that the worst of her suspicions — that Marto was forced into it by Adhyël — have been eliminated. “You didn’t do anything wrong, you didn’t harm anyone. I… understand that you probably need some space to process your feelings though. I just wish you wouldn’t be so hard on yourself. Think of it this way — would you treat me the same way you’re treating yourself if our positions were switched?”
“No, I wouldn’t at all,” Marto says suddenly and vehemently. He stops and lets out a soft surprised laugh. “I really do overthink things, don’t I?”
“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” she says, letting out a laugh herself and flashing a wide smile at him as she looks into his eyes. Those very blue and bright eyes — she finds it so easy to get lost in them.
He puts his shirt back on, closes the window, picks up his waistcoat and shrugs it on as he turns back to Zola. “So about breakfast… Are you still hungry?” he asks.
“Yes, I’m starving! And perhaps we can go hunting for a spell scroll of comprehend languages afterwards? To try and figure out what that new mark means?”
“Yeah that sounds like a great idea. I’ll get the food, my treat,” he offers.
“Well, I’m not gonna turn that down!”
Just before she makes her way to the door Marto catches her hand. She looks back and he is looking up at her with a strange, heartfelt expression.
“Thank you, Zola. For understanding. For not judging me and for being here with me. You are… an amazing woman.” He steps a little closer towards her, holding her hand in his rubbing gentle circles into the palm of her hand. Then he gives her a small but ardent smile. “I am truly blessed to know you.”
“Aw, what, little old me?” She giggles and winks at him. “Thanks, Marto. You’re not so bad yourself.”
He smiles a little more, but he stays still and grounded, not saying anything. Then he lifts her hand up and kisses it, lips lingering on her soft skin in a moment of genuine tenderness. When he lets her go, opens the door and gestures for Zola to lead the way to where they can break their fast.
