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The weather on the Iberian coastline can be fickle. Jordi Fontanarossa has an important job to do every Sunday afternoon, but today he simply cannot bear the sound of the rain falling outside, each drop feeling like a hammer blow to his heart. He knows the name of his feeling. He cannot continue to write, and puts down his pen to try to leave the paper-filled room.
He smells the familiar scent of wet earth, mixed with a faint tinge of blood. It does not just represent a type of weather or a season, but a difficult period. Whenever there is news from the front, whenever the wet air fills his nostrils, Jordi is again reminded of the times.
It has been like this ever since the fall of the Ægir.
It is almost dusk, though Iberia's last redoubt is bright as midday under the illumination of countless lights. Jordi tries to ignore the chatter of the Penal Battalion officers in their dull and strictly-regulated tones. The words spoken here behind the front lines are neither determined nor despondent, but largely numb and indifferent. Jordi counts his own steps, until he collides head-on with someone else.
'Sorry, sir.'
The man's youth surprises Jordi. He is about Jordi's height, sturdy in build, but missing an arm. He has not bothered to wipe away the blood on his face, despite being here at headquarters. Jordi thought he must have been a veteran of many battles, but when his gaze meets the young man's eyes, and the battered lantern and sword in the young man's baggage, he realizes that it is a young trainee Inquisitor from Ægir.
Jordi once knew a young Inquisitor like him.
'Have you just returned?'
'Yes, Sir Secretary.'
The young Inquisitor's tone is surprisingly calm, as though he has left the nightmares of the battlefield behind. But Jordi knows that it is a tragic sort of acclimation to the cruelties of war. He has seen it far too many times. He steps aside to give way for the young Inquisitor. He knows that his type is few and far between these days.
The young Inquisitor nods and passes by Jordi. His silhouette is unsteady, looking as though it could melt into the shadows of the buildings at any moment.
Jordi turns around and asks, 'What's your name?'
'Mathias, sir.'
'That's not an Ægir name...'
'My foster mother is Iberian. Only my Ægir surname remains.' The young Inquisitor hesitates, as though deliberating whether to spend valuable time talking about such private matters, but eventually he says, 'Breogan.'
'What?'
'My family's name is Breogan. I don't know anything about it, other than the name. I don't even know if it's supposed to be a family name, or the name of one of my ancestors. Our home has...'
Jordi Fontanarossa falls silent.
It is the young Inquisitor who eventually breaks the silence. 'I understand that you're Saint Carmen's, er... apostle?'
The name makes Jordi's heart ache. He feels his stomach churn and wants to throw up. Fighting back the sensation of vertigo, he answers in a low voice, 'Yes.'
Then he asks, almost self-deprecatingly, 'Are you disappointed? Disappointed that I'm not fighting with you on the front at a time like this?'
'No, sir.' Realizing that Jordi misunderstood what he meant, the young Inquisitor smiles wryly. 'Saint Carmen says we are the keepers of the flame. But you and others like you are the flame.'
Jordi has to hold back the lump in his throat and force a smile. 'Thank you... perhaps it's a coincidence, but the name Breogan is not unknown to me. There's no evidence linking me to him, but I know some stories about Breogan.'
'I know the legend of the shipwright, Sir Secretary.'
'No,' Jordi pauses for a moment, as memories gush to the surface. 'I've been to Ægir. I've been home.'
The young Inquisitor's eyes light up for an instant, but his longing for his bloodline is soon suppressed by other matters.
'Thank you. I hope we meet again.'
The young Inquisitor leaves.
The rain is getting heavier. Jordi returns to his disorganized office, to the sound of the bell announcing the nightly hours. He cleans up the mess on his desk, returning it to the presentable state that it was several weeks ago. He takes a deep breath, but he could no longer hold back his emotions. Fear, sorrow, and resentment swallow him in an instant. He chokes on his own sobbing, and it is all he could do to prevent his tears from falling onto the typewriter.
He types a line beneath 'Missing Persons'.
'Carmen I Iberia - Confirmed Dead'
