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Franco

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Prologue: Day 0



Makuta is gone, and Sulov is back.

He is not cognizant of anything but that fact at first, a truth that lifts weight from his chest, and as he looks where the darkness used to be, he just thinks: it's done. Then: we did it. Finally: we won. Onua is proud.

Something rises in his throat. All this time, he has reserved his feelings, letting but the positive and the mild show on the surface. Now the dam has burst. He needs to share his joy, to put aside review of what has happened or care for his injuries in favor of happiness. He gets up, only now noticing his sit on Mangaia's battered floor, and looks untrammeled through the dim at the others. He perceives their exhaustion, brims with concern; but their faces sweep that away along with the self-barricade.

He spots Oreius, shocked but not severely hurt. Sulov remembers Oreius' doubt and wants to give his friend peace. Justice must reward the good as well as punish the bad. He lunges and pulls the Ta-Toa against his chest--

--And Oreius' armor meets flayed body, smaller form knocking broken ribs and cracking shattered arm.

Instead of succumbing, Sulov breathes out the pain; instead of hissing, he sighs slightly, still. What rose in his throat is stuck. It would not be leal for Oreius, who piloted the boat, and kept Stannis safe, and defied the expectation of betrayal, to have to worry about anything now.

Sulov is not shameful, but resolute.

He holds Oreius for many wordless seconds before he gently extricates himself to examine those injuries. He waves off the others.

They are happy, and they don't need him right now.
 

...


As Sulov finishes, Stannis speaks, and Sulov leans against the wall, listening.

“We will return here soon, to finish our work; the dark instruments of the Makuta remain, and we must remove them. But now is not the time. Now, we owe the people of Mata Nui the knowledge that they have been craving: that Makuta is gone. Each of us should go to our Koros – or, our new Koros – and tell the people what has transpired here.”

Sulov does not agree.

Morality is clear: the people must know, Makuta's lair must be dismantled.

But the team must not split up. We have something special, Sulov thinks. We are versed in each other, and we know where we stand among ourselves. We won together. Tamping down the minor niggles of Stannis' Mask, the Maru are people who should work together. And why not? Putting together Sulov's Mask and Korero's, the Maru can alert all the villages more easily than if divided, find recuperation quicker than divided, clean up the island more efficiently than if divided.

Then it strikes him. They don't need efficiency.

They've won, haven't they? The biggest evil they have left to defeat is discontent, and the only job clean-up duty. From the looks on their masks, Sulov understands. They would be happy to follow Stannis' direction. It would be good for them to have time away from each other. Meanwhile, Sulov can catch up on his old friends, return to how things were before he was exiled. Everything will come back together soon enough, the better for it. He sees the future can be better than the present and the past. It can be both.

Sulov stays silent. When the others begin to move, he does also.

He waves before he goes. Curious, he notes, stepping into his tunnel, he's never enjoyed saying goodbye before.
 
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Wisdom. Restraint. Emptiness. 

 

 

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  • 2 weeks later...

Day 5



Someone knocks lightly at Sulov's door. Loud enough to hear, but not loud enough to wake him if he is asleep, he notes.

Sulov carefully puts down the letter he was writing and begins easing himself up. He isn't dying and unconscious. He is alive, and incapable of exercise, the habit he misses. So he has made new ones, planning and using his element, and tablets of writing and maps sit on the bed-stand.

He supposes those were okay. Better than being swarmed. After Sulov woke up, there had been an influx of emotive beings; that was dying down now, and he feels better about this visitor.

"Come in," he says, moving to sit straight.

Onepu steps inside, closing the door carefully behind him. His eyes wander awkwardly for a second before resting on the Toa of Earth. "I see you're up, that's good." Beginning with a traditional greeting felt too awkward. "How're your injuries?"

Sulov thinks.

The doctors had reacted to his diagnosis as they were able. They had targeted the critical, the broken arm and organs and the serious loss of fluid, with a Mask of Healing. They had removed the shrapnel from his body and closed all wounds. They had done their job when they took him in, too swarmed with casualties of the Rahkshi attack to offer more time than that; now they were doing their job in peace, devoting more time to him.

He is weak now. He will recover soon.

Then he will finish what he has started.

"Fair," he replies, looking at Onepu seriously. He is inwardly glad. Though Onepu is commander of the entire force, he has always been attentive to its components, and his ego extends to his men. Sulov doubted the captain had contributed to the exile. Onepu would be sympathetic. "The worst is here." Sulov motions to his heartlight. "I could not say goodbye to Whenua."

Onepu sighs, his eyes dropping. "We all miss him. I blame myself most of all for his passing." It is his men, and he himself, who had failed to protect the Turaga, after all. He raises his eyes once again. "You were fulfilling your Destiny while he passed. I have no doubt he would be proud."

The words beat softly. Destiny at the cost of the Turaga, the Chroniclers' Company and people of the villages, achieved with the death of Aurax. Not for the first time, Sulov feels Destiny like a chain around his neck, reins held by something he buried in the sepulcher of betrayal. He feels hollow.

Yet that is a slight feeling, only incited by the small trouble with Stannis. Onua taught Sulov Destiny, so as to learn Prosperity, and Sulov no longer sees a permanent constriction in prophecy. Duty is a road and Destiny is a roadmap. The broad strokes might stay the same, but individual roads merge, crumble, materialize, shift; if Oreius and Korero have shown anything, it's that fate changes. Inherent facts like mortality exist as a framework for change, to facilitate the fulfillment of obligation. That brings wealth in all forms. There's a benefit as well as a cost.

The thought fills the dull emptiness with salmiak resolve. Sulov nods sincerely in response.

Onepu smiles warmly at the nod. He pulls up a seat, but rather than sit on it, he leans on the back with his elbows instead. "I'm not really one to go on about Destiny. All the ###### we've been through has made me question my faith more than once. But it's a decent segue into why I'm here now. Well, other than to congratulate you." He chuckles. "I regretted what happened before, you being kicked out like that. Maybe that was Destiny at work, there. You wouldn't be a Toa now, if it hadn't happened. So, now that everything's winding down, I want to offer your place back in the Ussalry, if you're willing to take it." His words come out strangely casually. This isn't some dramatic moment, just an offer, which the Toa Maru is free to refuse if he sees fit to do so.

Sulov blinks.

Of course it wasn't Onepu's fault. Of course the Captain wants to undo what happened. How could Sulov expect any less? He is warmed. Between the nonchalance and the message, he senses Onepu's hand in his, ready to lift him out of exhaustion and into action.

The hand's a promise, of commanding Ussalmen and companionship with Onepu. Sulov is grasping that future. Already, he can see it: giving and receiving orders to help his village; returning to Tarnok, Gavarm, and Uyism; cooking for other people. He would never be without something good to do to help those around him. He would be lifted up to the seat he had loved before he was removed from it.

Yet...

Sulov pauses.

He's not the person who sat there anymore. He's bigger--Onepu's hands are smaller than his now, not the other way around--and what Onepu holds is the fleshless tool of an absent friend. The budding leader, concerned with the needs of his family, has been replaced by a mighty hero who bears responsibility for everyone.

Can he go back after accepting that?

Sulov thinks.

"No," he states eventually, "I cannot. The Ussalry's place is fighting for our Koro. The Maru's is for all Koro."

Onepu nods. "I figured you'd say something along those lines. I can understand, and respect that." He smiles. "Better you than me, I've got my hands full enough with one village."

Sulov breathes in wafting pride; whether it's for him, Onepu or both, he isn't sure. He knows it to be a relieving scent. "Can't let you have all the fun," he says, only belatedly noting that he just used a jokey tone with a former superior.

Onepu rolls his eyes. "Sulov Koskium just joked with me, 'tis truly the end times." Chuckling, he shakes his head. "Well, with that order of business out of the way, how would you like to catch up some? It's been a while, after all."

They do catch up.

It's awkward at first, being so far removed, and they only seem to find more differences when they talk about recent events--no one previously took the time to inform Sulov of changes in Kolhii lineup, and he must re-learn the sport. Yet when the conversation turns away from the current, it becomes easier. Onepu mentions he won an Ussal Race because of his communication with the Rahi. When Sulov reveals he set the Ussal jump record, they have a good topic. They spend an hour discussing the finer points of the animal they love before Onepu must go and Sulov tires, mentally and physically.

Talking isn't always bad, Sulov reminds himself as they part, feeling satisfied. It's just difficult sometimes. He decides he will gladly endure that difficulty to catch up with the others, and he can't wait to see them again.

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Wisdom. Restraint. Emptiness. 

 

 

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