Home
Fiorr Manor, Eastside, 2470
Rún felt as if her world had stopped. The words were echoing ceaselessly in her head, and yet she couldn't grasp them. She couldn't admit it. How could this have happened?! Yes, she'd known the risks any member of the WA was taking by being one, known Sean was a high ranking member, and therefore known this would be the ultimate consequence if he were captured and failed to escape. But she'd never pictured it happening. Never admitted to herself the reality of how easily she could lose him.
"He's dead?" she asked at last.
"Yes," admitted Anya, grief in her tone. "I'm sorry, Rún."
Silence on the other end. Anya didn't say anything more, giving the woman a chance to recover from her shock.
"Look, I have to leave.......sorry....." she offered again."Goodbye, Rún."
"Goodbye, Anya," the response was automatic, her tone emotionless. She hung up.
Realisation was still crashing into her, wave after wave after wave. Each one shaking her to the core, giving her no time to recover from the last before the next one hit. She'd never see him again, never hear his voice, never touch him, never hold him or kiss him again.......she'd never get to tell him about their son, and their son would never in turn meet his father. She'd never get to apologise to him for how she'd used him. To apologise for not realising her true emotions until now, when it was too late, or for realising but hiding them anyway.
Her hands were trembling uncontrollably as she placed the phone down, not remembering to hide it again. There was one small detail that Anya hadn't mentioned. Perhaps she hadn't known, or perhaps she'd thought it tactical not to mention it. That didn't matter. Rún already knew. It was common knowledge amongst Eastsiders that the family which authorised execution orders were the Fiorr.
A black fury overcame her, burning out all shock, all grief, all hesitation. No longer was she trembling, as she knelt and pulled out her pistol from its hiding place. Never before had she as much as handled it, since first putting it into hiding. She didn't really know why she'd brought it with her, unless it was that Sean had previously encouraged her not to lose it. She could still remember, clearly as yesterday, the day decades ago when he'd placed the grim weapon in her hand, cold and heavy and unfamiliar. It had felt unwelcome then. Wrong. No longer.
She was barely thinking, on autopilot, as she changed into the clothing she wore to Westside, roughly pulled her hair down from its coiffure, and pulled the gun holster on. The slight weight on it was reassuring as it rubbed against her hip through the cloth. She couldn't let herself think. She felt that if she did, those crashing realisations would strike her again, stop her from moving, when she had to do this. Had to. Coldly, she got to her feet, exited the room, walked downstairs. She knew her husband would be in his office.
"Not now, can't you see that I am busy?" he shouted, not looking up. "Oh, it's you."
His tone clearly implied that she wasn't to be here. He still didn't look up from his desk. Not until she'd waited there for 10 minutes, and he came to the conclusion that she wasn't going to leave.
"What is it, woman?" he asked irritably, lifting his head. When his eyes reached her, his jaw dropped.
"What are you wearing?! Go, get changed, now! At once! You're lucky no one laid eyes on you, have you any idea what you look like?!"
Her eyes steeled.
"No. Tell me"
"Like....like a commoner. A Westside slut."
"How strange. I guess that's what I am."
His head jerked upwards at her confession. She could see she'd shocked him. At last. She drove the truth forwards.
"I'm a Westsider, really. A member of the Westside Alliance, no less. I joined when I was 15. And for the last 14 years, I've been sleeping with another member."
"No," he murmured. "No, you wouldn't dare."
"Wouldn't dare? You don't know a thing about me. You don't even know that the boy you call your son, is not so. You've no idea how much I hate you."
No, he really didn't. He could never grasp the concept of how much he'd hurt her, how much he'd taken from her. But he was about to find out. Her hand slid to her hip, curling around the handle of the pistol, hidden by her jacket.
"I thought that was enough. It was, before. Before I realised. I....I loved him," her voice broke at the words. "I loved him, and I didn't even realise it! Not until you had him killed."
"He's dead then."
She sensed the cold tone, that small hint of pleasure beneath it, the hidden smile. He thought justice had been done. He really had no idea.
Her fingers tightened.
"Yes. He's dead," she admitted, coldness erasing the earlier emotion in her voice. It was he, now, who's control was failing, shaking in fear as he saw her pull out the gun, aimed dead at his heart.
"What...what are you doing?"
The only answer was the repeated sound of gunshots, a flash from the barrel and a dull thud as each bullet impacted. The sound of his body falling hid the softer sound of the pistol slipping from her fingers and hitting the floor. Then she fled.
Rún felt as if her world had stopped. The words were echoing ceaselessly in her head, and yet she couldn't grasp them. She couldn't admit it. How could this have happened?! Yes, she'd known the risks any member of the WA was taking by being one, known Sean was a high ranking member, and therefore known this would be the ultimate consequence if he were captured and failed to escape. But she'd never pictured it happening. Never admitted to herself the reality of how easily she could lose him.
"He's dead?" she asked at last.
"Yes," admitted Anya, grief in her tone. "I'm sorry, Rún."
Silence on the other end. Anya didn't say anything more, giving the woman a chance to recover from her shock.
"Look, I have to leave.......sorry....." she offered again."Goodbye, Rún."
"Goodbye, Anya," the response was automatic, her tone emotionless. She hung up.
Realisation was still crashing into her, wave after wave after wave. Each one shaking her to the core, giving her no time to recover from the last before the next one hit. She'd never see him again, never hear his voice, never touch him, never hold him or kiss him again.......she'd never get to tell him about their son, and their son would never in turn meet his father. She'd never get to apologise to him for how she'd used him. To apologise for not realising her true emotions until now, when it was too late, or for realising but hiding them anyway.
Her hands were trembling uncontrollably as she placed the phone down, not remembering to hide it again. There was one small detail that Anya hadn't mentioned. Perhaps she hadn't known, or perhaps she'd thought it tactical not to mention it. That didn't matter. Rún already knew. It was common knowledge amongst Eastsiders that the family which authorised execution orders were the Fiorr.
A black fury overcame her, burning out all shock, all grief, all hesitation. No longer was she trembling, as she knelt and pulled out her pistol from its hiding place. Never before had she as much as handled it, since first putting it into hiding. She didn't really know why she'd brought it with her, unless it was that Sean had previously encouraged her not to lose it. She could still remember, clearly as yesterday, the day decades ago when he'd placed the grim weapon in her hand, cold and heavy and unfamiliar. It had felt unwelcome then. Wrong. No longer.
She was barely thinking, on autopilot, as she changed into the clothing she wore to Westside, roughly pulled her hair down from its coiffure, and pulled the gun holster on. The slight weight on it was reassuring as it rubbed against her hip through the cloth. She couldn't let herself think. She felt that if she did, those crashing realisations would strike her again, stop her from moving, when she had to do this. Had to. Coldly, she got to her feet, exited the room, walked downstairs. She knew her husband would be in his office.
"Not now, can't you see that I am busy?" he shouted, not looking up. "Oh, it's you."
His tone clearly implied that she wasn't to be here. He still didn't look up from his desk. Not until she'd waited there for 10 minutes, and he came to the conclusion that she wasn't going to leave.
"What is it, woman?" he asked irritably, lifting his head. When his eyes reached her, his jaw dropped.
"What are you wearing?! Go, get changed, now! At once! You're lucky no one laid eyes on you, have you any idea what you look like?!"
Her eyes steeled.
"No. Tell me"
"Like....like a commoner. A Westside slut."
"How strange. I guess that's what I am."
His head jerked upwards at her confession. She could see she'd shocked him. At last. She drove the truth forwards.
"I'm a Westsider, really. A member of the Westside Alliance, no less. I joined when I was 15. And for the last 14 years, I've been sleeping with another member."
"No," he murmured. "No, you wouldn't dare."
"Wouldn't dare? You don't know a thing about me. You don't even know that the boy you call your son, is not so. You've no idea how much I hate you."
No, he really didn't. He could never grasp the concept of how much he'd hurt her, how much he'd taken from her. But he was about to find out. Her hand slid to her hip, curling around the handle of the pistol, hidden by her jacket.
"I thought that was enough. It was, before. Before I realised. I....I loved him," her voice broke at the words. "I loved him, and I didn't even realise it! Not until you had him killed."
"He's dead then."
She sensed the cold tone, that small hint of pleasure beneath it, the hidden smile. He thought justice had been done. He really had no idea.
Her fingers tightened.
"Yes. He's dead," she admitted, coldness erasing the earlier emotion in her voice. It was he, now, who's control was failing, shaking in fear as he saw her pull out the gun, aimed dead at his heart.
"What...what are you doing?"
The only answer was the repeated sound of gunshots, a flash from the barrel and a dull thud as each bullet impacted. The sound of his body falling hid the softer sound of the pistol slipping from her fingers and hitting the floor. Then she fled.
Okay 
That's good