WRITING: Other Options

(The Battle - Hans Zimmer)

"Sir."

They were losing.  The reports weren't saying it, of course.  That wasn't the kind of information that you went about circulating to the public unless you wanted to lose quickly.  Anyone who went through officer's training was drilled constantly about the effects of morale and the importance of managing it properly in whatever command they served.  

"Sir?"

'Not like the reports need to say a damned thing,' he thought, a bitter smile touching his features.  His glance tracked across the street that he was walking on as a piece of a recently bombed building came loose with a haunting groan and dropped to the earth without further ceremony.  A small cloud of dust rose from the stonework's impact and was immediately swept away from view by a unseasonably chill breath of wind.

A hand at his left elbow caused his own right hand to drop, fingertips brushing the glaive sling on his belt, and he turned in mid-stride.  A young woman in loper's rags was in the process of releasing her hold on his arm, her brows knit slightly in confusion.  "Commander," she called, a bit more firmly. Ordinary, coffee-brown eyes tracked the movement of his right hand, and her tone softened slightly.  "Sir, we're here."  She gestured with her free hand to a building that they had already walked past, letting her hand fall completely away from his arm in the process.  At this, he blinked once, allowing his eyes to sweep back along the course they'd walked.  Had he been so absorbed in his own thoughts that he'd missed their destination?

Most of the buildings in their wake were as blasted as the one he'd just observed a moment ago.  The ones that weren't openly damaged were pocked and pitted on the surface of their stoneworks, a testament to both their fortitude and to the force of impact that enemy shrapnel could strike with.  Their destination was supposed to be a building of certain magnificence, a masterpiece of modern architecture.  "Lieutenant, are you-"  Then he stopped again, his eyes feeding his brain data that didn't make sense.  The building that the loper had gestured towards was changing.  Each slow step that he took, the building's outward appearance shivered a little, as if the light was having trouble wrapping its fingers around it.  The building didn't make sense to his brain until he held still.

Another voice, off to his side, made him jump, his right hand seeking his glaive once again.  The loper next to him shifted as well. 'At least I wasn't the only one,' he thought to himself.  An older woman stood before him, slender and severely featured.  Her hands were clasped in front of her, pale skin clearly outlined in front of the black fabric and gold trim that made up her long-sleeved dress.  Her skirts hung low, too low to allow her to maneuver quickly, and a row of small, golden buttons marched up the front of the garment.  A curious symbol that he'd never seen rested over her left breast.  "I said, it's the shadows," she called again, her voice low and calm.  "Though, I suppose it would be more appropriate to state that it is, in fact, the light itself that produces the visual effect that your brain is having such a hard time with."  She reached up with one hand to steady a brimmed and slightly pointed black hat that was threatened by another gust of wind.  Blond, nearly white, hair could be seen beneath it, bound neatly to keep it out of the way of the probing, blue-gray eyes beneath.

She was notably unarmed.

"Ma'am," he said cautiously, inclining his head.  "I'm afraid you had us at something of a disadvantage."  He glanced between the recently arrived woman and the building they now stood in front of.  "Are you with the Hall?"   The woman's smile was genuine, if a little unsettling.  "In a manner of speaking.  My name is Margaret Emmitt-Farthing."  She gestured to the building behind her before abruptly turning to walk towards the steps that led up to the building's entrance.  "Welcome to the Hall of Echoes, Commander," she called, without turning back.

When he didn't immediately move, the young woman next to him stepped in a bit closer. "Sir?  Shouldn't we follow?"  He shook his head slowly. "We most certainly should not."  A glance was risked for the loper at his side.  "You don't recognize her?  You don't recognize her name?"  "It's...familiar, but I can't place it, no, sir."  She scrunched up her face for a moment, brown eyebrows knitting, before she made a helpless gesture.  He sighed once and shook his head, absently unsnapping the binding over the glaive at his belt and making sure that it wasn't bound up.  "Margaret Emmit-Farthing is widely rumored to have been the woman who founded this place," he growled, pulling a glove on over his right hand in the process.  "People called her 'Black Maggie' behind her back."

Seeing her superior's unease, the young woman at his side also slipped a glove onto her right hand before checking the smaller glaive on her own belt.  "What happened?" she asked, eyes darting to the building's entrance.  The woman stood there, waiting for them with patience and a white-toothed smile.  Graham Suttle, Commander of the 49th Lopers, snapped the wrist of his glove closed with a loud pop and glanced over at his Lieutenant.  "Well, for starters, she died.  That was about 600 years ago though, and it looks like she's kept busy since then." Then, without a backward glance, Suttle started up the steps after the woman patiently holding the door for them both.