Chapter Text
It was a warm night when the town learned the truth about the death of Mottlun Amir.
Before the show began, nervous elven actors shifted and murmured behind the town's stone amphitheater, awaiting their eventual roles on stage. They had all been there since early in the day, practicing until their parts were well and truly etched into their muscle memory. This would be a one-time event, but undoubtedly one to remember. After all, a famous storyweaver would be leading the performance.
Such dramatic happenings were rare in their town, a mere border settlement compared to the nearest city, so a substantial amount of the area's population occupied the rows of gray benches that curved up and away from the stage. Even more were gathered behind them, standing or reclining on the grass at the top of the half-circle where the narrative would unfurl. Some in the back were laughing, drinking with their friends as if on a picnic, but most were somber. They understood the weight of what was about to happen.
The last of the sun's light had just disappeared over the horizon when the man of the hour--a distinguished elder elf with pale skin, a long, thin face, and neatly sideswept white hair--took the stage. He walked to the center of the stone platform and stood next to an empty wooden chair.
Even the revelers quieted then. While the soft humming of nighttime insects could not be silenced by the tension in the air, the crowd did not add so much as a rustle to their song. The elder raised his arms before opening his mouth. Somehow, the hush grew deeper. They wanted to hear every word from the legendary Mythe Korisin.
Only he could make sense of the whole story.
"Closure. Such a maddening word--one that often comes up in the face of sudden heartbreak. Many of us have a reason to seek closure, but how many find it?"
Those who had not heard Mythe's voice before were startled by its depth. Despite his age, the rumble of it was powerful and bold, each word enunciated as if great meaning could be drawn from the sounds within.
"'Why did this have to happen?' we ask ourselves. Naturally, from the smallest of losses to the most profound, we turn to those around us for answers. But, in the end, closure is perhaps something that cannot be found from anyone else. If we want closure, we have to look inward."
On cue, a woman dressed in black joined him on stage. Whispers rose from the audience like steam off of rapidly melting ice. There would be actors, soon, but she was no imitator. This was the woman on whom the entire story hinged.
"That was something that Toral of the House of Layre had to grapple with in the face of what befell her. A dreadful murder, followed by shocking accusations, and the revelation of secrets she never wanted to share with the rest of world. In the end, a conclusion arrived that none of us, not even her, could have seen coming."
Toral, a delicate woman with blue eyes that turned down at the corners, bowed to the audience. She folded so low that her long blonde hair nearly touched the ground. Once she straightened her back, she sat in the empty seat beside Mythe.
"But it didn't begin there. No."
As his words reverberated, actors filed on stage, each wearing simple white clothes, their hair in identical braids. They would be the chorus, serving both as the background and as the face of the townsfolk who had known those involved in Mottlun's death.
Once they had gathered in a straight line, the united group broke into a wordless, rhythmic wail that rose and fell for a long minute. Mythe stood, his hands now behind his back, until the last of their cries had echoed off the surrounding grass.
"The story started on a night many years ago, a summer evening much like this one. The sort of night where young lovers find their matches in open-aired gatherings under the stars, full of laughter and twinkling lights."
Those onstage began to move amongst themselves, some dancing with one another, others whispering at the edge of the stage, while another group mimed a game of cards. Above them, the amphitheater glowed with lights much like what had been described.
"That was when Toral and Mottlun met. She was the youngest of a noble family; he was a magic user newly returned from school. They were innocent, then, both in their early eighties--barely adults. The spark was instantaneous. Their first encounter carried on late into the night, until Toral had to be fetched by her oldest sister. It was the first of many such nights, as they gradually grew close to one another, in the way people do."
Two new players walked onto the stage. One, the woman, was also dressed in black, her hair styled the same way as Toral's own. The man, his long silver hair pulled in a low ponytail, wore red; those who had known Mottlun recognized the markings drawn on his face. The actors reached for each other. Mythe nodded, and the two began to waltz to music that only they could hear.
"Mottlun was not a member of the nobility, but his family was well-respected in the area. When asked, his friends and family spoke highly of his intelligence and diligence."
A member of the chorus stepped forward. "Mottlun and I were friends for years. We both grew up in this town, but it wasn't until we studied magic together that we became close. He was always a better student than me, and he helped me on a few projects I might not have passed otherwise. He was someone you could rely on."
"A loyal friend to Toral as well," Mythe said. "Then, more than friends. The relationship, as far as anyone could say at the time, was good. It was not long before they were wed.
"Such a happy time. Mottlun was welcomed into the House of Layre, and the two of them built a life together. They took jobs, found a rhythm, discussed the possibility of children in oh, maybe fifty years, once they'd really settled into marriage. If only they knew back then how unreachable fifty years would prove to be."
A chorus member stepped forward amd stood next to the still-seated Toral, whose head had drooped toward the floor, hiding her face. Whether she was overcome by emotion or acting on some stage direction, the audience did not know.
"Toral and I became friends through our work," said the new speaker. "I thought a noble might not want to be friends with someone as unimportant as me, but she didn't care about that sort of thing. The way she laughed and joked, she could make friends with anyone. She was such an open person."
"Would you say she was naive?" Mythe asked her. What had been parallel monologue shifted suddenly into a conversation.
"Naive? I suppose you could say that. I saw it as refreshing, but yes, she could be too willing to trust people. Believing a scribe who said they'd taken notes but lost them, when they had obviously forgotten to take them in the first place."
"But you still enjoyed working with her?"
"Yes! Like I said, she was very open. I think everyone liked her. Nobody could believe what had happened when we heard the news."
Mythe turned away from the chorus member, who faded back into the line behind him. To the audience, he said, "Ah, yes. The news. The tragic, unthinkable news."
Abruptly, the stand-in Toral and Mottlun ceased their waltz. Mottlun turned away from Toral, stepped to the front left of the stage, and dropped to his knees. No one had seen or witnessed his death, so he had no final words. His hand reached out, toward the audience, before he collapsed fully.
"Mottlun was a powerful magic user, but who casts spells at home to prevent an unexpected knife in the back?" Mythe shook his head, his voice heavy. "No, the blade found its mark far too precisely for there to be any hope of healing, and of course, resurrection is a distant dream for those outside of a dungeon.
"Hours later, it was Toral who found the body. Neighbors recall a bloodcurdling scream that drew them outside seeking the source. They saw Toral, blood on her hands and dress, wide-eyed and frantic. One neighbor ran for help while the other stayed with her."
Like a wave, the chorus rushed forward to circle around the fallen Mottlun and standing Toral. Some of them split away, miming the neighbor's search for help, while others stayed behind to kneel beside Mottlun along with Toral, who tried with half-hearted motions to shake him awake. There were those in the audience who had known him who could not hold back their tears. It was one thing to hear about the events, but another to see them play out, even if only in gestures.
The chorus that had split away returned to Mottlun, and as one, they lifted him up. Toral's actor reached for him, but he was carried away as surely as low tide draws back to the sea. Minutes passed, enough time that the crowd started to stir and murmur.
When the chorus eventually returned, Mottlun's actor reentered with them, but he no longer wore the distinct markings on his face, and he was dressed like those around him. Death had stripped him of his part in all of their lives, and now, he was only a memory.
"An investigation began immediately, but there were precious few clues, even after the authorities had inspected the home and the body. The knife was of unknown origin, there was no sign of forced entry, and no fingerprints or footprints in blood but those left by Toral."
"Can you think of anyone who would want to hurt your husband?" one chorus member asked the woman dressed as Toral.
"No! No one! He's so skilled and knowledgeable, he has so many friends. I can't... there's no one."
"And what about you, ma'am? Any trouble between you two we should know about?"
The real Toral put her face in her hands while Mythe placed a gentle hand on her shoulder.
"No, there's nothing," said the actress. "Some fights, now and then, but nothing like that. I love him."
Mythe looked out at the audience, and even those far back on the grass felt as if his next words were as heavy as a physical thing.
"Oh, but there was something, as you all know, though most of you have only heard bits and pieces--things Mottlun was hiding, things Toral hid as well. The picture of a happy couple would soon fall away, leaving an ugly reality, one that the House of Layre would have to grapple with as authorities had some hard questions for them and the people of this town.
"There was a long way to go before anyone would have closure about the death of Mottlun Amir. But investigators did find their first clue that night: a secret journal, hidden inside a compartment in Mottlun's desk drawer. In it, he wrote of spells he struggled to perfect, concerns about his magic quality, doubts and fears. Normal things to keep private.
"However, and most importantly, he also wrote of times he spent with other women without Toral's knowledge. In other words, investigators had located a very important piece of the puzzle--a motive."
With that, the chorus once again broke into wordless song, and the audience was left in darkness as all the lights glimmering around the stage went out.
Slowly, lamps and light spells flickered on as members of the audience stood and stretched. Once the storyweaver's voice no longer held them under its sway, they recognized the story had reached its intermission. The event may be serious, but there was time for a drink and a snack from one of the vendors who'd come to take advantage of the large gathering. What had been a reverent group of witnesses soon transformed into a crowd as noisy as jackdaws.
Few of them noticed that Toral had remained on the dark stage, her head bowed and her shoulders gently shaking.