Day of Resolution

III.

Before the light began to spread over the city of Tiesa, a slight, flickering glow was seen in the window of the Radiant Tower. Curious, since the city usually slept and awoke with the light, as it formed a rhythm binding all that lived under the shining of Radiant Tower together. This particular morning marked a historic day- the official resolution of the Schism that for years publicly rocked the Lighthouse and the Keepers. A decade of relative peace, despite the adolescent antics of The Glare and the occasional Keeper aligning himself with the League of Light, akin to treason, punishable by public execution, was to be celebrated later that morning.

Bartholomew stood in the midst of the Radiant Tower, staring into the light giving crystals affixed to their various locations in the center of the room. He, as Leader of the Lighthouse and Chief Keeper, was to address the people of Tiesa in a matter of hours, in honor of the anniversary.

“Has it been worth it? Tiesa has stabilized, but it seems as if the fire has dimmed, as have the lights. We did what needed to be done. There was unexplainable violence and passion tearing at the very stones of the Lighthouse. ‘Light gives life, but too much Light blinds.’ The people needed it to be this way. But we’ve lost so much. The League constantly pulls from the Keepers out, breaking the bonds that were meant to keep us together.”

The words trailing off, Bartholomew reached his staff toward the crystals, bringing them almost in contact. As they neared each other, sparks began to fly, buzzing around the crystals that gave off a dull glow. The crystals longed to touch, to cleave unto each other, driving the darkness away.

“Fairfax among them. He kept the Light better than any other, yet even he could not withstand the pull of the League. Why? We were going to bridge the Schism! You had insight and understanding that I could never have. Was the Keeping of the Light not enough? What more could you want? Tiesa was saved. Her people have remained in the glow of the Lighthouse, safe and at peace for a decade. We can’t have been wrong…”

Bartholomew paused again, reaching to stroke the well-groomed goatee that graced his face, coming to a point beneath his chin. He turned to face the outer wall of the Radiant Tower as the windows’ covering was removed to begin to let the light shine forth across all of Tiesa. He stood tall, cloaked in shades of white, gazing over the city as the light brought out the life of the day.

The beams of light trickled from the crystals, building into solid streams with time. The light first spread throughout the Lighthouse’s inner courtyard, awakening the Keepers, spreading over the outer walls into the city streets and storefronts. The city seemed to come alive as the light spread out over it, growing brighter, but not so bright that corners and alleyways were brightened, the shadowy areas remained in shadow, if the light did not reach them, neither would the people. The grey mist still milled about the ground, with light bursting through to reach out, but stifled by returning mist.

Within the shadows, lurked a familiar silhouette, dark, knee-length coat blowing in the mist. A gloved hand reached to his side and removed a modified, flintlock pistol, which he armed, before drifting back into the shadows.

A crowd gathered in the square, where the gallows had been converted into a stage, with seats for the Keepers behind the podium, raised in a fan. The younger Keepers and Apprentices were amongst the people, in the front of the crowd, acting as a sort of model, a light to look to. The stage still had a fearsome air, with remnants of the gallows visible, even in the transformed form. The anticipation of the earlier gathering was doubled, yet lacked the fire that was present then, replaced with impatience, hoping the pomp would be short allowing for the true celebratory relaxation that such a day warranted.

A ray of light descended, settling on the podium, acting as a spotlight. A Keeper stepped up and announced the program, beginning with the Hymn of Tiesa, followed by the remarks of The Leader of the Lighthouse, Bartholomew.

The Light brings forth Life

Such is Tiesa

The Light ends all Strife

Such is Tiesa

The Light heals the Wound

Such is Tiesa

The Keepers are Pruned

Such is Tiesa

Tiesa! Tiesa!

Your Light shines to all

A Beacon to the lost and weary

You shall never Fall!

The Light always Burns

Such is Tiesa

The Light for peace Yearns

Such is Tiesa

The Light answers Oft

Such is Tiesa

The Keepers bind Loft

Such is Tiesa

Tiesa! Tiesa!

Your Light shines to all

A Beacon to the lost and weary

You shall never Fall!

Tiesa! Tiesa!

Your Light shines to all

A Beacon to the lost and weary

You shall never Fall!

The hymn drew to a close, as cheering erupted across the square. Bartholomew stepped up to the podium, engulfed in light, his staff glinting in the beam. Cheers broke out again or perhaps served merely as a continuation of the previous cheers, allowing the pride in Tiesa to spill over onto the Leader. Bartholomew readied himself to begin speaking.

“People of Tiesa, today we commemorate a great day in our past. The Official Resolution of the Schism.”

Thunderous applause and what may have been a gunshot, difficult to discern, buried in the cheers.

“For ten years we have had peace. We have lived in unity, finding common ground. The Light shines on us all, showing the steps we need to take, without blinding distractions.”

A flag descended in the beam of light, black with a white insignia, difficult to make out as it fluttered in the breeze. The crowd turned to look and collectively struggled to make out the symbol, when the flag straightened, the insignia made clear. The mark of the Glare. The crowd gasped as one, collectively feeling the apprehension and loss of innocence during their celebratory day.

As the crowd gasped, preoccupied with the flag, crystals were thrown into the air, entering the beam of light and sending glares into the eyes of everyone present. Mirrors swirled atop buildings, carefully placed to send glares directly into the eyes of the Leader and all the Keepers. Confusion replaced apprehension as the crowd struggled to react, beginning to panic and squinting, blinded by the light glaring from the scattered crystals and mirrors, small explosions occurred in the midst of the crowd, and several strategic placed explosives led to the collapse of the converted gallows stage, the bottom dropping out from the Keepers as the bottom dropped from beneath the condemned ex-Keepers. Confusion heightened and the Apprentices rushed to the aid of the fallen Keepers and Bartholomew. Roxanne looked around seeking the source of the explosions and glares, half-hoping that she would see him- that her suspicions would be confirmed and her doubts would be put to rest.

A tall, thin, cloaked young man, with a high collar, raised to his nose, masking the lower half of his face was purposefully exiting the scene. As he worked his way through the crowd he strode past Roxanne and the apprentices, dropping a medallion just in front of Roxanne, bumping slightly into her shoulder. She looked up seeing the faintest trace of a scar on the young man’s face before he turned and kept walking. The collision rocked her head slightly forward seeing the glint of something on the ground, she picked it up.

Staring at the medallion, she was puzzled, yet felt the nagging that accompanies long forgotten memories. Striving to remember why the medallion and that face were familiar amidst the chaos, she paused, suddenly hit with the sting of recollection. With a purpose, she looked around searching for any sign of the tall, thin, cloaked young man. Moving through the crowd, unsuccessfully avoiding their chaotic, crashing movements, struggling for sight, almost like a drowning woman gasping for air. Her head bobbing above the surface, catching glimpses of cloaked figures, but none that seemed right.

“Roxanne!”

Roxanne turned at the sound of her name, searching for the source. Not finding it, she returned to her quest for the cloaked one with the scar.

“Roxanne!”

This time she ignored it, focused on her quest, staring in half-disbelief at the medallion she held in her hand, looking for confirmation and strength. Turning down an alleyway long past the crowd, she saw the billowing coat that she knew belonged to the man she had to meet. As she began to push her way through the crowd, someone tugged at her arm, pulling her back. Roxanne struggled to break free, pulling her arm roughly from the hand that gripped it, inadvertently sharply hitting the hand’s owner across the face.

“Roxanne!”

This time the cry was noticeably closer, hurt, and recognizable.

“Thaddeus? Where are you?”

“Down umpf here…oomph,” came the reply.

Roxanne turned and saw her old friend, helping him up, taking note of his injured arm, bleeding and covered in splinters.

“Where can we go?”

“Past the blasted gallows. It was bad luck and simply dark to use them.”

Roxanne and Thaddeus moved their way through the crowd, struggling as confusion still reigned, the motion of the crowd like a storm tossed sea. Up ahead they saw a gathering of Keepers that they moved towards. Everyone was huddled around something that they couldn’t make out.

“Oh no. Please no. I can’t lose him too.”

“Roxanne! You’re alright. I thought you had gone with…”

A meaningful look from Roxanne silenced Erin halfway through her thought.

“Is it Bartholomew? Is he ok?”

“Distraught that the day of peace and celebration has been tainted, when it seemed like things could only get better, but he’s alive.”

“Let the Light shine! I was terrified. Where would I have gone?” The reality of the question hit Roxanne as she looked once more at the medallion. “Where do I belong?”