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tanklady · 4 years

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MIRACULUM- PROLOGUE

Pocahontas

The blue ones were the most exquisite and saddest dawns. It is as if God soaked the clouds in watercolor and carefully stretched them across the sky, drying the tears of the birds. Maple walked gracefully between the wet train tracks, his whiskers were splashed with tender dew drops, and his legs had finally kissed the mud of the forest. He was happy to get home from the cold; he jumped through the window, planning to land gracefully in the night-drift, but his movement was not certain and he then stumbled upon various objects on the table.

Helen felt her heart reconnect to her body and woke up drowning out a shuddering scream. confused and surprised by the din. She was soon reassured to discover the cause of her shock. He greeted her with a muffled meow and she responded with an intrigued chuckle, panting with fright.

-You are the noisiest mute cat on the planet- she sighed as she stretched her body.

As she was embraced by the breeze of the early hours she felt a pleasant shudder. The way every pore of her skin was altered, and her spine carried waves of heat as she watched with her eyes the dawn of her most precious colour, gave her a feeling that this would be a lucky day. He turned his gaze slightly to the right to extend his panorama. But she soon froze, sweat drops poured down her brow, and her breathing took a back seat. Her jaw tensed and she said goodbye to the crescent formed by her teeth a few seconds before. Her heartbeat stopped at that pair of dark, almond-shaped eyes, inexpressive, almost empty.

-No way...- she whispered trying to hide her happiness at the sight of a deer in her backyard sharing with her the same sense of bewilderment and shrinkage.

But the watercolour of the sky snapped its fingers in front of Helen and spilled a quick reaction on the crown of her head, melting the ice that covered her bones.

Soon she jumped up and ran barefoot across the carpet of her small room to reach her hunting tool. She was forced to capture it. She smiled at the shelf and just after she had unloaded her weight on her tiptoes, she reached for it with nervous fingers and took it with devotion. It was heavy. At fifteen she managed to raise enough money to buy it. She had managed to sell drawings of comic book characters and Saturday morning cartoons to her schoolmates. One dollar without color, two dollars with crayon technique, four dollars with watercolor.

A real businesswoman, she thought proudly.

She had to hurry. Deer are impatient creatures. She knelt and unloaded her elbows into the window frame while her right index finger touched the trigger and her left hand held the device securely. She closed her left eye automatically, giving the right one the honor of focusing on the target through tactics. Helen compressed her lips into a single line, swallowed dry and fired.

She got a wonderful picture.

Soon after, the deer went on its way, disappearing into the fog. Satisfied by her feat, the young lady improvised a little dance while taking one last look at her work of art.

- Mr. Maple, how handsome you look today - she began to fantasize about looking at her cat in a flirtatious way as you returned your camera to the shelf - May I have this piece of celebration for the feat I just performed?

Maple meowed without a sound, possibly refusing. But before he could escape he was wrapped in the arms of his mistress and played the most curious waltz in a fairy tale. The morning was already very clear by then and the birds' greetings had lost their shyness.

A noise from the kitchen interrupted the dance of the princess and her cat.

It was Dad.

She stopped, withering away on her cruel return to real life. He had returned after disappearing all night, once again. And she had to clean up the mess, once more.

-Stay here- she whispered to the little cat, who put up no resistance as he lay in bed. It was as if he could feel the tension in the air.

Helen made her way to the kitchen, praying in fear. She walked down the hall and turned on the light. As in a play, the spotlight illuminated the figure of the antagonist. There it was; sitting on the tile, staring out at the porch. A ragged cap cradled his eyes in a semi-darkness. Next to him, the corpse of a Captain Morgan bottle rolled aimlessly. He approached carefully and knelt down in front of his father. Her stomach turned. She reeked of rum. There were traces of vomit in the man's beard, and a fine thread of blood was flowing from his left arm. The elastic band still clung to his forearm.

- Come... - Helen held out her hand.

- Dakota, damn it... leave me alone... - He hissed in rejection.

- I'm Helen...

The last negative that the girl's memory could store about her mother, were the scarred wrists of an inexperienced and disheveled Native American woman packing her bags and running away after a bitter kiss goodbye and a cat as a gift of compensation a couple of years ago.

- Um... - William's sharp golden eyes greeted those of his daughter - You look just like her -His voice felt like steam, it belonged to a sleeping dragon consumed by misery.

- Dad... -

- Don't call me that, you're making me feel senile- he warned her painfully with an exhausted laugh. It was hard for a man so young to still be the bearer of that title. He had just turned thirty and he was carrying on his shoulders the exhausting responsibility of making sure Helen ate all three times a day. His neck, dotted with irremovable scribbles, held a lost blond head in a state of hopeless addiction.

- I'm sorry, William... I... just let me walk you to your room- she pleaded in a voiceover.

- The couch is more comfortable, baby- he replied, not resisting the force that drew him to hold on to his heavy boots.

The girl helped him to lie down on the furniture and set about untying his shoes.

- You're a good girl- the man gave her a faint smile as he pulled a dying daisy out of his pocket. ---Can I ask you something, Pocahontas?- He tucked the sad flower behind her ear, shaking Helen's very short hair. The Gothic ink on his knuckles screamed the word Karma in capital letters.

- Whatever- she replied without hesitation. She tried to hide her nervousness.

- Please don't ever marry a man like me.

...

Hours later after finishing school, Helen took the short cut from the forest to capture mementos with her fascinating little time machine. Even the daisy's lifeless body rested close to her walnut "mane"... a color of genetic courtesy from her aboriginal blood. Her old sneakers battered the crisp leaves of autumn, the murmur of the squeaking was an excellent accompaniment to Helen's humming voice.

-Belinda was mine 'til the time- She rescued a pineapple from the ground and examined it with curiosity - that.. that I found her- She blew on it vehemently and shook the dirt off its surface with her fingertips before sheltering it in her backpack.

-Holdin' Jim... and lovin' him - at that moment she could already visualize the trailer they lived in - Then Sue came along...

The interior of his home was illuminated by a flash of light.

Helen turned to stone and was abruptly silenced. A couple of yoctoseconds later, a deafening noise drove away the birds sleeping on the hood of William's abandoned car. Then, a silent iron breath.

That sound never belonged to a camera. It wasn't a lucky day.

#john wick

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soveryanon · 5 years

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Reviewing time for MAG125 /o/

- I’m still going to nickname that power ~Insight~ until further notice because of MAG123 (“I have no theories on it, no… no sudden insights.”), though Basira’s “spooky brain” is A Very Tempting Phrase to cover it. Interestingly, there were similarities in the ways it has manifested so far:

(MAG124) ARCHIVIST: Still no sign of Peter Lukas of course, or Mar– [STATIC] Wait– Wait.

(MAG125) ARCHIVIST: Peter Lukas is just… sitting up there, doing whatever the hell it is he [STATIC-] and Elias have planned, and Melanie still has that bullet pumping violence into her, waiting to turn this place into another Lanncraig. [/STATIC] I just wish there w– … w… … Wait, I, I, I didn’t… Did I read that somewhere, or…? R–right, yes [CLEARS THROAT]. The bullet, er, didn’t show up on… electronic or… mechanical scans, but it’s still lodged in her leg, just above the tibia. … And it’s been getting slowly infected ever sin– I have to find Basira.

1°) After Jon read a statement. (It had also been the case in MAG099 when he had dropped Gerard’s name amongst the list of Gertrude’s acquaintances when he’d been given absolutely no reason to do so.) 2°) Both times, regarding the assistants – who are Jon’s primarily concern as of now (at least explicitly). (3°) Right after Jon mentioned Peter Lukas, but that one is most likely to be a coincidence. Probably.)

-> … is this the equivalent of Beholding throwing him a treat and going “thank you for the meal”.

- If his screams are any indication: Jon got hurt. Again. Beating his own record from season 2, in which it had taken 7 episodes for him to Get A New Injury (the reopening of his worms-induced wounds in MAG041 notwithstanding). I wonder how long it will take for us to know where he got hurt and what happened exactly? It had taken from MAG047 to MAG053 to learn that Michael had cut him deeply enough to require five stitches – and even know, we don’t know where he got stabbed exactly. (I’m love it, I love that we know that Jon gets hurt but that it’s rare to know which part of his body was damaged every time around; we’re not even sure what hurt him here? Could have been the scissors, could have been the scalpel, could have been a surprise! hidden knife. So many sharps things laying around.) (*Tim’s voice from MAG082* “When you[’ve been hurt] and there are more than three different ways you might [have gotten sta]–”.)

On the one hand, insert jokes here about how Jonathan “Disaster” Sims is collecting the set.

…………….. on the other hand, he is. Indeed. Slowly completing the set of getting physical injuries from other entities, things that might be considered a form of marking?, and/or getting live-statements from other avatars, and it has never been highlighted as a problem by Elias – all the contrary, it’s technically a good thing according to what he said about Jon’s job description (MAG092: “It is your job to chronicle these things, to experience them, whether first-hand or through the eyes of others.”):

* The Web: encountered “A Guest For Mr Spider” as a child (recounted in MAG081: “The first of the dark powers to touch me, perhaps, but it did not claim me.”). * Beholding: claimed him hard (when becoming the Archivist? when he signed on as Head Archivist? when he began working for the Institute? when he watched the other boy get taken as a child?). * The Corruption: worms digging into him during the Jane Prentiss invasion (MAG039), Jon still has the scars on various parts of his body. * The Spiral: slashed/stabbed by “Michael”, probably on his arm/hand since he was trying to stop it? The injury required five stitches (MAG047). “Michael” gave its statement in MAG101. * The Desolation: one hand burned by Jude Perry following a Handshake Event (MAG089). Received her live-statement. * The Vast: thrown into it by Mike Crew, sayonara to your already tar-filled lungs motherfucker (MAG091). Received his live-statement. * The Hunt: Alice “Daisy” Tonner did something to his neck, half-strangling him or cutting it with his own knife, we don’t know, but it wasn’t pretty since Elias commented on it the following episode (MAG091). Received her live-statement in MAG061, and Trevor&Julia’s in MAG109. * The Stranger: terrorised by the Not!Them (MAG079), punched or strangled a bit by Nikola (MAG097), held captive by Nikola for a month (MAG101), the whole Unknowing mess (MAG118-MAG119). (And Nikola left her mark on his skin uwu) * The End: approached it following the bombing of the Unknowing, and received a live-statement from Oliver Banks (MAG121: “You’re… balanced on an edge where The End can’t touch you – but you can’t escape him”) + dead-but-not-dead-dead!Gerry’s in MAG111. * The Slaughter: given his screams, probably hurt by Melanie (MAG125).

Now, for the missing ones:

- The Buried: no direct injury on that front, but a few weird occurrences around that one – Jon received that live-statement from Karolina Górka in MAG071, who might have been claimed after her experience (“Aside from that, all that’s left to do is sweep up after Ms. Górka. She left the place rather dusty.”); the “DIG” ad that crept into Jon’s nightmares (MAG120) was not from a statement he had read, but from one read by Martin (MAG088), and Elias’s narration had the same static as Martin’s when he described it (what happened with that one?!); the statement-giver, Enrique MacMillan, had felt something in what is now Jon’s office and tried to dig it up in November 2003 (“cold, empty and calling. There’s something here, you see. Something to be dug up, rooted out, buried within. A hollow space that all eyes point towards. And I intend to reach it, if my fingers don’t give out first. I know where to dig.”) – the tunnels? Daisy had mentioned they felt “empty”… - The Flesh: attacked the Institute when Jon was in a coma (as mentioned in MAG123). Curiously, we haven’t met/heard any avatar of that one yet, not… in the flesh (badadadumdum), so it might be coming? - The Dark: has people lurking around (MAG125: “In the last week, I’ve seen two different people wearing symbols for the People’s Church of the Divine Host”) and, in the same way, we haven’t met/heard any avatar of that one yet (though Basira has). - The Lonely: has Peter as interim director of the Institute, and Jon has already highlighted that he’s feeling isolated on multiple occasions:

(MAG123) ARCHIVIST: I wish I could talk it through with Martin. … Or Tim. Or Sasha. But we never really did that, did we…? … Everything’s changed.

(MAG124) ARCHIVIST: It’s been a week and… Melanie’s attitude towards me hasn’t softened. And Basira, though she is very willing to talk, still doesn’t seem to trust me enough […]. Still no sign of Peter Lukas of course, or Mar–

(MAG125) ARCHIVIST: I find myself basically alone.

So… it might be at least affecting him already, although it’s not a physical injury (yet).

Once again: is Jon supposed to catch them all as a part of The Watcher’s Crown ritual…? ;;

- There were a few hours of panic for Patreons when the episode came out in early release, because Martin was listed in the voicecast for the episode. So, WHERE WAS HE. WAS HE THERE DURING THE SHOUTING AT THE END OF THE EPISODE?? HAD HE COME BACK JUST BECAUSE JON SCREAMED AND HAD BEEN HURT AGAIN?? HAD HE BEEN TRYING TO STOP THE OTHER TWO WHEN THEY BEGAN OPERATING ON MELANIE?? IS HIS VOICE SOMEWHERE IN THE CHAOS??

In the end, nop, genuine mistake, he wasn’t meant to be in the episode.

Schrödinger’s Martin.

- I stand with this statement-giver on the idea that Sheep Are Weird And Evil. You’re valid, statement-giver.

- I really like the way Slaughter statements are tackled, because there is an overall quietness in them: the violence erupts, or has left its victims behind and is only reconstructed through them, but it’s mostly… stillness and silence. The Slaughter has its own logic and, from an exterior point of view, you never understand why things are happening; they just happen, breaking all the links and coherences that had been reigning until then. It might actually one of the fears that gets me the most, now that I think about it, because of the suddenness of its outbursts, the fact that you don’t see the violence coming? (This plot in particular made me think of the last arc of Naoki Urasawa’s Monster, too!)

- … this statement felt especially gruesome, and one of the things that freaked me out even more, at first, was that Jon… was apparently unfazed by it?

(MAG125) ARCHIVIST: Statement ends. Hm. An Englishman returning from Scotland with a fear of bagpipes and sheep. I’m sure we can all relate! In many ways, The Slaughter fascinates me.

Immediately throwing a joke and then going on philosophising about the Slaughter’s implications, without giving a thought to the villagers…? Really, Jon, really…? Nnnnnot the time, maybe? On first hearing, I was very unsettled/worried (comparatively to MAG123 and MAG124, it sounded… very harsh); after stepping back, I realised that it’s… actually a Typical Jon Thing, though. He wasn’t only doing that in season 1 (when it’s official that he was faking it to conceal the fact that he was actually afraid), and he wasn’t discovering the story for the first time (like us listeners), so that could be why he felt too detached to me there. Still. Not great, Jon ;;

(I’ll keep being a bit paranoid about Jon having lost something since he woke up, until we learn about what it’s supposed to mean for him…)

- Also, I’m *squints* about this bit:

(MAG125) ARCHIVIST: Regardless, I’ve hit another research dead end with this. It’s… frustrating, to be honest. I finally feel myself, I feel… focused, and ready – and I find myself basically alone.

“READY” FOR WHAT, JON???

Sidenote, but I wonder whether Jon is absolutely sincere and genuine here, or trying to… wave a hand at Elias or whoever can be listening in, basically trying to bait them into acting by showing that he’s impatient/waiting for them to do something? I’m glad that, at least, Jon has no illusion that Peter’s behaviour might be going all according to Elias’s plan, slumping them in the same bag:

(MAG125) ARCHIVIST: But honestly, it’s the internal threats I’m worried about. Peter Lukas is just… sitting up there, doing whatever the hell it is he and Elias have planned […].

(I love that although they’re (almost) entirely absent, Jon delivers a Quota of mentions about Martin and Elias(+Peter).) Peter could actually be something outside of Elias’s control/plans/interests but… I’m glad that Jon is assuming that they’re on the same side, and that it means Bad News, for now. (/ meanwhile, other side of my brain: “oh my gods, it sounds like Elias&Peter are a power couple when you say it like that, Jon.”)

- This is the third statement picked up by Jon since he woke up (since he didn’t have any say on MAG122’s), and the second one that delved a bit into an aspect of “control”, together with MAG123’s.

(MAG125) ARCHIVIST: There seems to be, in all cases, a question at its heart about… control. Is it a mindless dance, dragging participants along by the beat of a drum or… is there a kernel of will in there, a lucidity and deliberateness to the random fury and violence? I suppose that’s the question with so much of “violence”, “war”: how much are you really in command of yourself or of others? I’m not sure what scares me more: the idea that deep down, everyone is in complete control of their actions, that everything is, on some level, intentional; or that ultimately, we don’t have any control of ourselves at all, and the rest is just… rationalisation.

It sounded a bit too Relatable to his own situation and concerns, uh? Since the end of season 3 had a few moments of Jon’s worry about becoming a monster and how to deal with it – Georgie’s advice in MAG093, Tim’s “These things aren’t human. It’s… instinct. You can’t not!” (MAG114), Jon’s decision to trust the assistants in MAG117, etc. Jon’s lines, here, specifically reminded me of Tessa Winters’s pondering about the human consciousness, what control you exert on it?

(MAG065) TESSA: […] Assuming I’m not losing my mind, of course. ARCHIVIST: Yes, I hear that a lot too. TESSA: Well, that’s what’s terrifying, isn’t it? Your mind is all you are. There’s no backup, no reset, if it goes… I’m not just talking about madness as it appears, but what it is from inside… The way people talk about it, it’s like you have to think you’re saying that our mind is everything we perceive, everything we are. Well that means… you can never know when your grasp might be slipping. I’m not convinced that’s it, though. Or maybe deep down, somewhere inside, you understand what’s happening to you and… No, I am… I don’t know which scares me more.

That’s still a relevant thematic, now more than ever, since Jon apparently ~became The Archivist for real~ and we still don’t know what that means, and what he truly knows about it (officially, he’s missing some of his memory, but to what extent?). Jon’s “and the rest is just… rationalisation” also put me to mind of how the Web tends to operate according to Trevor:

(MAG056, Trevor Herbert) The weirdest sensation began to flow through me; I wanted to leave. It wasn’t like with a vampire, where I would feel like I’d been spoken to. This was just a sudden awareness of my own desire. I’d been sober for three years at that point, but I felt like I desperately wanted to get high, and I knew that the best place to get some was out in the night. Looking back, I think it might have been my own mind rationalising the way I felt my will being tugged out of the room, but it was still very powerful. If I hadn’t had a lifetime’s experience of identifying and fighting off the effect of the vampire’s gaze, I probably would have done it, too.

Aaaand of course, what Elias had said to Melanie about her own intentions (which is a bit more relevant here in a Slaughter context):

(MAG106) ELIAS: Whatever I’m planning needs to be stopped! Even if it costs a few lives. Including your own. MELANIE: Well, that’s not even– ELIAS: A rationalisation, of course. A lie, about your own selfishness, that you would rather be dead than trapped without the self-determination you prize so highly.

I was assuming that Slaughter and Web would probably be on opposite sides on the spectrum of Colours-That-Hate-Me, since respectively unleashed chaos and absolute control, but I’m not so sure anymore?

- There was a tiny allusion to “What The Ghost?” in Jon’s pondering, though! Patreons got one episode of it (so far? I hope that they are more to come, the first one was… plainly amazing) and this bit sounded like a reference to its content:

(MAG125) ARCHIVIST: […] In many ways, The Slaughter fascinates me. There seems to be, in all cases, a question at its heart about… control. Is it a mindless dance, dragging participants along by the beat of a drum or…

We already knew that Jon listens to WTG but still… nice!! … and also sad because that’s a way to think about Georgie without even naming her. *cRIES*

- Jon, please.

(MAG125) ARCHIVIST: Another Leitner, obviously. Not one I can readily identify, though it sounds like it would now be… inert, anyway. Given the blank pages, I do wonder whether its destruction was a last-ditch effort to stop its effects, or the exact thing that released its power in such an… extreme way.

Technically Not A Leitner since the statement was from 1993 (implying that it never made its way into the library before it was destroyed in 1994), how dare you slander Leitner by associating his name to this book :ww

- Okay, so Melanie and Basira are now living in the Institute, that was made explicit.

(MAG125) ARCHIVIST: You’ve been staying here too. BASIRA: Got a camp bed at the other end, near the tunnels. I like to keep an eye on them. Besides, I wanted to give her some space, y’know. But yeah. Living outside the Institute, ’s just not safe anymore. ARCHIVIST: What about Martin…? BASIRA: I think he’s still got a place? He’s not down here anyway.

1°) Not exactly sure where exactly they’re sleeping? It definitely sounded like they were in the tunnels, but Basira very clearly said that she’s sleeping “near the tunnels” (not inside of them)? Unless they’re in one of the rooms and Basira is staying close to its entrance to keep a broader look on the corridors? 2°) (Melanie and Basira… are… roommates… (OH MY GODS THEY ARE ROOMMATES.)) 3°) ;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;; Where is Martin sleeping, that is a good question. Does he really still have his flat or did he… leave everything behind when he began working with someone-that-we’re-assuming-must-be-Peter? Or is he living in the Archives, too, though in ~another space~? DO HE AND JON SOMETIMES ACCIDENTALLY SHARE A BED IN THAT-ROOM-IN-THE-ARCHIVES, WITHOUT EVEN REALISING IT? (… Or does he sleep at Peter’s place.)

- Except for season 1 (in which he was a stuck-up ass) and season 2 (in which he was a paranoid ass), Jon has never mentioned Martin so much, has never been so concerned about Martin… and it’s understandable that he would, if Martin is acting in a worrisome way!! But. But. Still. He immediately wondered about Martin’s own accommodations and, after their encounter in MAG124:

(MAG125) ARCHIVIST: I am now sure Martin is actually avoiding me.

aOUCH… I’m glad that Jon is preoccupied about Martin, thinking about Martin and not taking him for granted anymore (kind of)… but AT WHAT COST………………

- uUUUuuuh… Meanwhile, Jon kind of implied that he is still going outside?

(MAG125) ARCHIVIST: Basira was right about the Institute being watched, though. In the last week, I’ve seen two different people wearing symbols for the People’s Church of the Divine Host, and it’s rare I go anywhere without cobwebs anymore. … I, er, find myself keeping my guard up around mannequins as well, though I’ll admit that one is more likely to be my own projection.

I would have assumed that Jon would have been the most likely to migrate long-term in the Archives, there is something funny in the idea that he… isn’t, somehow. (Also, Jon: what. are. you. doing. with all this free time.)

I’m not sure if cobwebs are a new thing around Jon, or if it’s only that he is able to pay attention to their gravitating around him nowadays: spiders had been… very prevalent in the Institute before. Or is it just growing even worse? (;; Sad for Jon, regarding the mannequins mention… Jude Perry is a prime example of avatar being still around and holding grudges after Gertrude messed with them, so… Jon being cautious of potential Stranger agents is not unwarranted. Maybe some survived, and maybe some would want to go after him…)

I’m laughing at the fact that is sounds like you can NEVER GET RID OF THE PEOPLE’S CHURCH OF THE DIVINE HOST. From “a small cult that grew around the defrocked Pentecostal minister Maxwell Rayner in London during the late eighties and early nineties. […] Mr Rayner himself disappeared from public view sometime in 1994 and the group fragmented shortly afterwards.” (MAG009) to them being around in March 2015 (MAG025), to Maxwell Rayner being stopped by the police in February 2017 (MAG073). It’s almost a running gag at this point, that they’re still there and lurking in whichever circumstances efurefdvhjnref. (Julia!! Julia, come back!! They’re still around, surely you would like to take care of them? Please? Pretty please?)

- ONE GOOD THING ABOUT WHAT THEY DID TO MELANIE if it was indeed in the tunnels (it sure sounded like it): assuming that they’re right and that Elias can’t see shit inside of them… then Elias didn’t see it, didn’t watch as Jon was able to ~see~ the bullet inside of Melanie. I’m taking all the Positivity I can, okay. :[

- But also: Jon escapes your Eyes for 35min, and he comes back bloody and with a new stab wound. Typical Jon. (Do you think that Peter and Elias had a bet going on about how much time Jon would need before getting a new injury once he would be back? Or about the nature of the next injury? Who betted what? We know that Peter was implied to go with the gruesome option when betting with Salesa (MAG066); but on the other hand, Elias is supposed to know Jon a bit more. Who would have gone the most realistically pessimistic about Jon?)

- I’m worried that Jon is using his powers so much since he woke up, because it feels like there should be a compensation or a catch – it’s… very beneficial to Jon right now, and I can’t really believe that it could be solely positive and something he’s using without being used by it. Jon is more than ready to use it to his own advantage, quite obviously; the contrast with how he had been startled and thrown-off when Elias had highlighted the phenomenon in MAG102 is just… telling:

(MAG102) ARCHIVIST: […] Is there anyone else who might know what it is, or– or where? Aside from Leitner, or Gerard. ELIAS: … Sorry? Gerard Keay? ARCHIVIST: Uh… yes…? ELIAS: How did you… Who, who told you he was working with Gertrude? ARCHIVIST: No-one, I–I–I just, I… I read it in one of the statements. ELIAS: I don’t think you did. ARCHIVIST: I… but… aaah… ELIAS: You just… knew it! ARCHIVIST: What, no, I, I… Th– that’s not a– ELIAS: No, no, no. No, Jon, this is good. It’s a promising development! ARCHIVIST: [GETTING FLUSTERED] No, No I… It’s just, it’s just… just d–deduction or– ELIAS: Is this the first time it’s happened? ARCHIVIST: Look, I don’t– Look… Haaa… Gerard’s not really a lead. He… he’s dead, isn’t he?

^His stuttering was terrible back then. In MAG125, he was startled, a bit shaken at first, but quickly got back on his feet, accepted what had happened, and ran with the new information in order to do something for Melanie. More used to it? More comfortable with it? Ready to use everything he can in order to fight? There was something overall… more firm, more goal-orientated within Jon afterwards, and it also made me think of… Gertrude.

(MAG101) “MICHAEL”: Gertrude Robinson did not waver. She did not… hesitate. She gave no indication that she saw anything more or less than was expected. Hers was not a mind that left room for doubt. She stared into us carefully, her eyes scanning for something that was my heart. Looking for my door. And she found it.

(MAG125) BASIRA: The guy said you’d need to hit the right nerve for it to work. Do you know much ab– ARCHIVIST: [STATIC-] Here. [/STATIC] BASIRA: You sure? ARCHIVIST: [SHARPLY] Yes. […] … God. Look at that. [STATIC] BASIRA: I don’t… It’s a leg. ARCHIVIST: No. Inside… BASIRA: I don’t know what you’re seeing, Jon. ARCHIVIST: It’s… Christ, it’s all rotten… BASIRA: Can you see the bullet? ARCHIVIST: Yes… […] BASIRA: You better be right about this. ARCHIVIST: I am.

Jon was sure when it came to what was happening and… that part was a novelty. It wasn’t the fake-it-until-it-becomes-real from season 1, nor the blatant bullshitting from season 2; he was certain of his information. (And!! Using it for good!! Gertrude had one priority, stopping the rituals, and… so far, it seems that Jon’s is more about protecting the assistants. … which means there will probably come a point where he’ll have to choose between the two, and it will hurt, uh.)

- But at the same time, it was still… Jon. Jon being awkward, Jon asking the wrong kind of questions to the person in front of him,

(MAG125) ARCHIVIST: … yes, right. Sorry. You, er… you managed to get some anaesthetic? BASIRA: Here. The guy said it was a nerve block. Should numb pretty much the whole leg. ARCHIVIST: Right. Right. … Was it hard to come by? BASIRA: No, I just popped down Superdrug. Yes it was hard to come by. ARCHIVIST: You–you couldn’t get any general anaesthetic, knock her out fully? BASIRA: Oh, sure! Did your spooky brain tell you the right dosage to not kill her? ARCHIVIST: … N–no. N–no, it didn’t. BASIRA: Then it’s got to be the local. Here, get on with it. ARCHIVIST: What, me? BASIRA: Yeah, she comes around, she’s gonna kill us or someone, and… You know. Not it. […] Okay, go for it. ARCHIVIST: [SHAKY VOICE] R–right. BASIRA: And pray the injection doesn’t wake her. ARCHIVIST: Yes, thank you Basira. […] BASIRA: You ready? ARCHIVIST: [DRY HOLLOW LAUGHTER] No…? [SHAKY VOICE] You’re sure you don’t have… restraints, or…

1°) I’m love Basira. I’m love how casually dry and savage she can be, how she’s just throwing Jon into the lion’s den without any hesitation nor remorse. What a legend. 2°) That [“You ready?” “No…? *laughs hollowly and does it anyway*”] refdhbjrefdhj Jon, you absolute millennial icon.

The mix of Jon being certain and awkward and obviously thinking about how it could easily end badly for him was so… satisfying and fun and hilarious to me. Still an awkward dork, I’m glad!! =D

- BUT I’M STILL WORRIED ABOUT THE WHOLE “JON USING POWERS” DEAL… if Elias had portrayed it as a good thing and as Jon sinking deeper into Beholding territory, then it’s *gulps*:

(MAG0116) ELIAS: I have been doing my best to prepare you, Jon, to See. You should hopefully have it a bit easier than the others. ARCHIVIST: Another of my… powers? ELIAS: More… an aspect of your becoming. DAISY: You don’t say. ARCHIVIST: Er… right. ELIAS: Regardless, it should, I hope, give you an edge. Otherwise I would never suggest you go yourself.

It wasn’t only a punctual ~insight~, it was a series of them (helping Jon to know where to inject the product and block the nerve) and x-ray vision allowing him to see the Spooky State of Melanie’s leg, when it was officially fine in our realm (the scans hadn’t revealed anything). I’m glad that Jon is using his powers for Good, but I don’t believe that it can last and remains as positive as it is, even though there would be something very beautiful and satisfying in the idea that no, the Fears do not actually corrupt you – it’s just that most avatars were already rotten humans to begin with? ;; (There is something fishy, to start with, with the fact that Jon is missing memories…)

(… okay, and there would also be something utterly satisfying if Elias was proven totally wrong. And bittersweet, if Tim was also proven wrong about the idea that you can’t fight these things or things happening to you.)

- The way I understood Jon’s “The bullet, er, didn’t show up on… electronic or… mechanical scans, but it’s still lodged in her leg, just above the tibia. … And it’s been getting slowly infected ever sin–” is that: Jon had listened to MAG117’s tape(s), potentially even before the Unknowing, and knew about Melanie’s recollection of how she got shot – I think that part wasn’t coming from the Insight? But the new knowledge that was planted within him, or emerged from him, was something irrefutable: that the bullet was still there and the root of the problem (“Melanie still has that bullet pumping violence into her, waiting to turn this place into another Lanncraig.”) It could/should have been a hypothesis from him, it sounds like a logical explanation; but the way it was presented, it wasn’t some wild guess or pondering. It was a certainty.

Insert here obligatory sobbing about how compulsion and this power provide Jon, who is prone to paranoia fits, who is prone to be wary of people, with absolute truth… yeah, the powers cater a bit too much to him, as a way of keeping his own personal human relationships-oriented fears at bay, uh.

- On the relationship side: gOSH, Melanie… probably won’t be fine, and would have every right to not be ;; But Melanie specifically… won’t react positively with something deliberately done to her while she had not consented (MAG102, Elias: “Even more than the others she has a visceral hatred of being trapped. Regardless of how much freedom I afford her.”), even if it could ultimately save her from The Slaughter. She probably won’t forgive.

She was already in an antagonistic spiral regarding Jon, (MAG102: “We’ll try it your way. But whatever your way actually is, you’d better figure it out fast. Because it is your fault that I’m here. Fix it, or get out of the way!” / MAG124: “Wipe that look off your face. Like you’re not the reason all of this is happening. Like you’re any better than– […] He’s still alive. You are still alive. So THIS PLACE is still–!”), and even though part of it was probably Slaughter-induced (MAG117: “Elias thinks he’s got this ingenious way to hurt people, but it’s just the same old bullshit in a creepy new package. … asshole… God! I just want to rip his…! [BREATHES] When did I… start to lose the parts of me that weren’t just anger…? … Hum.”), Jon highlighted in his conclusions about MAG125’s statement that perhaps The Slaughter is not making people lose their mind so much as making them follow something they already had inside of them.

At the same time, we already got Tim resenting and antagonising Jon at every turn, so I don’t know if Melanie will ultimately follow the same path? Technically, it’s… probably Basira who should deserve her ire about the non-consensual surgery on her asleep body, since:

(MAG125) ARCHIVIST: And it’s been getting slowly infected ever sin– I have to find Basira. [STANDS UP] [CLICK.] […] You’re sure we shouldn’t just… tell her…? BASIRA: … I really don’t know how she’d take it. Not well. If we want to get it out of her, this is it. ARCHIVIST: [SIGHS] Okay.

JON WANTED TO TALK TO MELANIE ABOUT IT!!! Holy shit, Jon!! Such progress ;__; First for going to talk to Basira about it right away, and then for offering to talk to Melanie, and for ultimately trusting Basira’s judgement about it!!

Basira’s cold pragmatism is not… exactly surprising, to be honest: she’s always been prone to assessing the situation and making drastic decisions right away when it comes to saving lives or to doing what she deems right (Daisy in MAG092, the expedition to stop Rayner, the fact that she took the tapes from the police to give them to Jon when they tried to cover up the reason her colleague died…). In this particular case, there was no right thing to do? Melanie would have probably exploded and ruined any chance for them to remove the bullet if they had even tried to mention its existence to her, true? But they took the decision for her and it was definitely wrong on many levels, and Melanie will have many reasons to feel shaken, violated and betrayed by what they did ;; She already had it bad in season 2 (the fact that her old team fell apart, her first injury, her downfall) and season 3 (the second injury, the lack of options, the fact that she actually got trapped in the Institute, Elias torturing her with the memories of her father’s death), I hope she won’t get too messed up by this new thing?? ;; But the concept of non-consensual surgery applied to her, with her personality, with everything that has already happened to her… is especially horrifying ;; (And she has no support network either… Maybe Georgie still applies, though, but the situation is likely to get complicated in that area since Georgie is also tied to Jon.)

… at the same time, there could be something comforting for Melanie in getting a hold back on her own anger, instead of the foreign surge of violence that was injected into her? I really don’t see how the situation could get better for her and ;; I’m sad sad sad.

… on the other hand, Basira will probably open up a bit more to Jon after this, since… he kinda proved himself to her, here? Proved that, even though he has powers, even though he’s ready to use them, even though he has sunk deeper in, he’s also there to help the assistants, even if it means getting hurt or ruining his relationships with them – as long as it helps them to survive. So. We’ll see.

;;

(I have trouble picturing that nobody will visit Elias in prison at some point, so, hey. Basira is the one who has contacts in the police. She might be a bit more willing to share them with Jon.)

- I can Never Believe how this show manages to always make moments… creepy, and tense, and horrifying, and convey that well a sense of dread while, at the same time, making them so hilarious. The dialogues are always lovely; but Basira and Jon were just… amazing, here.

(- Patreons already got the title for MAG126 with the new schedule planning, and it feels so weird to speculate with the title alone! Not spoiling it, then, but I’m worried about its second meaning (outside of the statement itself). Could be many very wrong things, and the worst I’m coming to on my own, as of now, is “what if it’s about Peter and Martin”.)

#(as aza pointed out: the most horrifying thing with jon's new pet-power is that #if you want jon to be in a situation in which he could drop new valuable information... then you have to make him #talk and ramble. a. lot.)#the magnus archives #mag125 #tma season 4 #tma liveblog #tma spoilers

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greyskywrites · 7 years

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Wolf’s Price

[First] [Previous] [AO3] [ko-fi]

IV. Witch God

5.8k

The summer in Saren is a mild season that washes the world in a thousand hues of green, and speckles it with flowers. Foxglove, lion’s tooth, aster, daisy, wild rose. The first of the berries were ripening as we passed through Wetasur, the estate of the Alfer family. I had written the letter in Sarenn, though as an officer of King Isaec’s army, Muras was not required to give notice to the hall’s whose hospitality he sought. I thought that a little courtesy might go a long way for smoothing over any ruffled feathers.

The new Lord Alfer had taken his title only a year before. He was hardly twenty, a young man named Barwald. I was pleased to find that he still wore his hair in the Sarenn style, with the braid beginning at his crown to indicate his status. Many men of influence had cut it short after the war, to better ingratiate themselves with the Kressosi and maintain their power.

“Commander,” the young Lord Barwald said graciously, his Kressosi speech methodical and practiced. “I trust your elk have been seen to.”

Muras acknowledged that they had, though he prayed for whoever was tasked with looking after the half-wild bull. There was some talk over accommodations, or some such. Nothing that I considered of interest enough to distract me from the first proper tapestry I had seen in seven years. The one in the main hall of Thralduslodge was massive, sixteen feet long and at least seven feet high. I walked along its length, taking in every stitch of color.

The center of the piece was a massive brown bear, stood on its hind legs. Around it there seemed to be scenes of a story, a warrior accompanied by Weta, the club-footed god, the Carrion-Maker. The warrior’s birth, weapons gifted to him by Weta, followed by a life full of battle, and his death, at the hands of Weta himself.

“My twice great-grandmother made that,” Lord Alfer said, stepping to my side. “It took her years to complete.”

“It’s been years since I’ve seen something so beautiful, My Lord,” I said. “Your family history?”

Lord Alfer nodded, his hands clasped behind his back. “The story of my ancestor, Alferi Bearskin.” He smiled slightly at me. “According to the story, he transformed into a bear in battle. A gift of Weta, in exchange for his tongue.”

“He was mute?” I asked.

Lord Alfer nodded. “So goes the story.” He looked at me a moment. “You’re Sarenn, then?”

I nodded. “From Arborhall.”

“I should like to visit there soon,” Lord Alfer said. “I consider Lord Anarin a friend.”

“The lord is in good health, I hope?” I asked.

Lord Alfer nodded. “Just welcomed his first son into the world, I believe. Orvas.”

What a terrible name. What kind of wife did he have that would give a child that name? “Orvas Anarin,” I murmured. “Hmm. Time will only tell what sort of lord he will make.”

“Yes,” Lord Alfer said, “with that Kressosi mother of his.”

He had turned away, and thus missed the way I looked at him, unable to hide my shock.

I felt off-balance, and suddenly nauseous. I stumbled out into the open air, and put my hands to my knees, trying to steady myself.

Of course. Of course; as I had found it necessary to ensure my survival through Kressosi men, Julas must have seen it advantageous to take a Kressosi wife, to show his commitment to peace, to the king he now owed his fealty to.

A Kressosi woman was raising the heirs to my family’s house.

This, too, was a punishment.

The stories say that Weta came to Saren with the elk, who wander as he does. Weta is a restless god, and though his right foot is twisted and he walks with a limp, Weta is ever a traveler. He delights in all that excites the heart: in feasts and drink, in dance and lust, in war, in madness. He seeks hidden things, forbidden things. Ever Weta is hungry, ever Weta reaches deeper.

Small wonder they call him both bloodbrother and adversary to the Wolf. Their relationship is a contentious one, they go from allies and friends to bitter enemies in the space of a heartbeat, like starving beasts over a carcass. There are a thousand stories about how they came to swear brotherhood to each other, each as true as the next.

Weta, feeder of vultures and ravens.

Weta, the bargainer, the sorcerer.

His gifts, too, come with a price—though they are often less predictable than the Wolf’s. Some are clear: the gift of Sight in exchange for one or both eyes, strength in exchange for a hand or foot. Then there are those less clear, as in the case of Alferi Bearskin: the ability to change forms, in exchange for a tongue.

Laying beside Muras that night, my belly full of elk meat and wild rice and last autumn’s cider, I thought a great deal of Weta. My father had not made many sacrifices to Weta that I could remember. What Weta dealt in had little to do with the life of a lord whose land was filled with sheep and goats, except on the occasion that Kressosi raiders crossed the Lor, and my father was willing to call on any god who might send them back. He had spoken of Weta most when he traveled.

Weta, god of the long road and the narrow forest path.

Weta taught us to write, they say, and they also say that it was Weta who taught witches their craft, when he stole the knowledge from Ima Spinna, Mother Spider, who weaves all truth into being. (It was the Hasi, who taught other Sarenn about Ima Spinna, and it was Ima Spinna who taught us to sew and weave and braid our hair.)

It was restlessness that roused me from bed. Neither Muras or Todd woke, so I was free to pull my riding skirts and a coat on, making my way down to the stables, not conscious of the fact that I was barefoot until I felt the straw under my feet.

Bili was awake and alert, as if he’d been expecting me. I put the bridle on him, but not the saddle, pulling myself over his back and taking myself out into Alferi’s hunting woods. I didn’t think it strange, at the time, that the stable doors were open and I encountered no one awake or asleep. Nor did I think it strange that I was not telling Bili where to go, but he walked with purpose.

It was perhaps half an hour before I noticed the shapes falling in alongside us. They were small, human-like, but hairier, with slumped shoulders and long faces, cow tails whipping behind them. Trolls, I realized, with surprise. They road on the backs of elk, or hung from the limbs of trees, their eyes glinted golden in the moonlight. There must have been dozens of them, following me through the forest.

Gradually, I realized they were chanting something.

Vulgafra, vulgafra, vulga- vulga- vulgafra!

It was hardly more than a whisper in the trees at first, and it had none of the poison of the man who had first called me that. It seemed almost… deferential.

Bili led us deeper into the forest, into huge old pines and cedars and thick tangles of brush that I could not imagine Alfer did much hunting in. The forest was too wild here.

The deeper we went, the louder the trolls’ chanting grew, until I was certain the very trees were shaking with it. My knuckles were white around Bili’s reins, but I trusted him to take me wherever we were bound. Even had I wanted to flee, the trolls were packed too tight around us now, with a herd of elk the size of which I had never seen.

The trolls only began to part as they filled a sudden clearing, spreading about it in a circle, leaving Bili and myself in the middle, in the grey dark, alone. There was cold sweat on my back, but I held my breath steady, searching the clearing for some indication of why I was here.

The trolls fell silent, and in the absence of their voices, I could hear my heartbeat in my ears. My breath seemed painfully loud.

The figure that approached from the trees sat astride a huge bull elk, much older than Bili, his antlers somehow already losing their velvet, even though it was nowhere near the rut.It was only as the figure drew closer that I realized there was no velvet on the bull’s antlers at all—it was lichen, hanging in long chunks from the bare points, which were weathered and green.

The man who sat astride the bull—for I could see now he was a man—was older, though he had no beard. His hair was iron streaked with steel, and the braid he wore began at his forehead, marking him high as a king. It was long enough to be folded upon itself and tied to the nape of his neck in gold wire, with the middle section still hanging over his shoulder. Past his prime, but he carried himself the way a warrior did.

His face was lined with scars as much as age, and he greeted me with a smile that was as much a leer as anything else. “Vulgafra,” he said, “so good to finally meet you.”

When he turned so that his bull stood alongside Bili, facing the opposite direction, I saw that his feet were bare, and that the right one was twisted.

The clubfooted god.

I looked up and met his gaze. Weta’s eyes were as black as a raven’s, and twice as sly. “What do you want with me?”

Weta laughed, and it shook the forest. “Blunt. I see why they like you. He never did have a taste for dancing with words.” He waved a hand at me. “Come. Play a game with me.” He swung down from his bull’s back, and I followed suit. There was a tree stump I had not noticed before, worn smooth as a tabletop. From the pocket of his coat, Weta produced a deck of cards in a silver case, and sat cross-legged on one side of the stump, gesturing for me to sit across from him.

I watched him shuffling the cards, and thought of Todd complaining when the soldiers he spent the nights cavorting with emptied his pockets for him. I had little I was willing to risk in gambling with gods.

“You know how to play King’s Court, I hope?” Weta asked, his teeth gleaming like a snow lion’s. “A lady of such circumstance as yourself—it would be a bitter shame if you couldn’t play.”

“I know the game.” Best to keep my guard up, I thought. Best to keep my eyes open.

The trolls watched us in eerie silence from the trees, shadowy forms with sparkling eyes. Bili was in remarkably good behavior, standing next to Weta’s bull. Weta shuffled the cards, and spread them before us. “What are we gambling over?” I asked.

“Questions, of course,” Weta said. “For every round you win, you get to ask me any question you like. The same for me.”

“Must I answer truthfully?”

Weta’s grin spread too wide across his face. “Of course not. But if you lie, so shall I.”

“You could lie even if I did not,” I countered.

“True,” Weta said, “but she would be unhappy with me, and for the moment, I would prefer if we remained friends.” Weta leaned across to look me in the eyes. “He is not the only one who sees promise in you, Vulgafra.” His eyes seemed to absorb any light that fell upon them. “Do we have a deal?”

I looked down at the cards before me, and picked up my hand.

King’s Court is a complex game, one that requires a quick mind that can assess several possibilities at once. It’s a favored game of nobility in Sarenn and beyond, one which my father had only allowed me to learn because it kept me from tormenting my tutors for a few hours every day. In general, he disapproved of gambling, but my skill for it had, upon occasion, greased the wheels of a few trade deals, and so he frowned over it a little less.

I had played against my share of skilled opponents, but with Weta, I was careful.

“Tch, come now, Vulgafra,” he said, “wars are not won with shields alone.”

“And yet many lives are lost for lack of one,” I said. “Your move.”

The first round went to Weta. The trolls chanted his name three times, and again went silent. For a moment I saw not the old man but a young one, the kind who might be daring enough to steal from Ima Spinna. He was soon gone, the old battle-hardened man in his place once more. Weta put his elbows on the stump, leaning over the cards. “Who are you?”

I blinked. “My name—”

“Not your name,” Weta said. “Who are you?”

I gazed at him, pondering my answer. “I am a daughter of Anar,” I said, “I am a granddaughter of Liane, descended of wolves. I am the mother of the last son of Corasin Forset, and I am the witch who brought the Winter Wolf to Morhall.”

Weta grinned. “Some witch,” he said, “who knows nothing of that craft except the name of my bloodbrother.”

“It is what they call me,” I said.

“They call you wrong.” Weta put his hands flat on the stump. “You are no witch. You are something else.”

“Tell me what I am, then,” I said, annoyed, but Weta held up a finger.

“Ah, ah,” he said. “First, you must win.”

Again, I lost, again, the trolls chanted Weta’s name. It called to mind some saying, about how when you were gambling with a god, it was best not to bet anything you didn’t want to lose.

Weta flipped the king card between his fingers, the red face of the king flickering in and out of view. “What do you want, Vulgafra Anarsdaughter?”

I considered my answer, trying to guess what exactly it was he was asking. “I want Saren to be free,” I said at last.

“What does that mean?”

“You’ll have to win another hand to ask me that,” I replied, and Weta laughed and shuffled the cards together.

This time, I was the one who threw the king card down, his solemn red face seeming almost to shine in the moonlight. The trolls chanted “Vulgafra!” three times, and I considered which question to ask. I could not be sure I would be able to ask all the questions I had, so I could not squander the opportunity. More, I had to ask it in a way that could not be wiggled around. I looked up, my fingers on the card. “What does the Wolf want me to do?”

“Three kings will die on your account,” Weta said, his thumb under his chin. “The first already has. The second will before two winters have passed. And the third—a son of Liane will be the one who fells him.”

“But what am I to do?” I pressed.

Weta smiled. “When the Wolf howls, so will you.”

That was no answer at all, but Weta was already shuffling, and the next hand begun.

King’s Court is a game that belongs to the player who seizes the best hand from their opponents. With only two, it is difficult to win more than one hand in a row, and for a third time I lost to Weta. “If Saren were free, as you want it to be, what would that mean?”

The air was cold, and my patience was waning, but I did not want to give a hasty answer. “I would have no more kings,” I said. “The people of Saren must create a new way of living together.”

Weta seemed to ponder that a moment, and nodded, shuffling the cards.

I had the sense, when I won that round, that Weta had allowed me to win. “What do you want with me?” I demanded.

Weta smiled. “I want a woman who will shake the world, Vulgafra.” He stood, signaling that our game was over. “I have a gift for you.”

I watched him, wary. “In exchange for what?”

“A negotiable price,” he replied.

I did not remember how I had returned to Thralduslodge when I woke. A dream, I thought, until I saw it.

Hanging by a leather strap from the back of the chair where my coat was thrown, an old ivory horn, its trumpet carved to resemble the head of a wolf.

I threw the blankets back to find my feet dirty, and had to draw in a breath.

I looked back to the horn. When the Wolf howls, so will you. I slipped out of bed, careful not to wake Muras or Todd, and wrapped the horn in one of my underskirts, hiding it in my bag. I pulled a robe over my nightdress, and gathered up my clothes to take myself to the lodge’s women’s bath, fed by the hot springs the lodge had been built over.

I scrubbed the dirt from my feet and sat on the edge of the bath, the steam making sweat roll down my back. I thought on a touch that felt like fire and warmed me to the bone, kisses that landed like lightning.

I like you, Vulgafra. Shame you aren’t actually a witch.

Three kings would die on my account, he said. Corasin was the first. ‘A son of Liane’ would fell the third. One of my sons? Or my brothers? And how or why? I had more questions than I had begun with, but I did not think I would be seeing Weta again any time soon. He had played his part, now I was supposed to play mine.

Whatever my part was.

I washed my face and limbs, grateful that the heat took the ache out of my shoulders, and when I was dressed I found my way to the hall where breakfast was laid out. Warm milk sweetened with honey and cloves, beef sausages, a bread that was baked with cheese and herbs and was still warm from the ovens. I was hungrier than I had thought, and ate until my belly ached and the sight of food sickened me.

“I wondered where you’d gotten off to,” Todd said, sliding onto the bench next to me. “Sleep well?”

I shrugged, and distracted him by filling his cup.

“I swear,” he said, amused, “you Sarenn serve milk at every meal.”

“Keeps the flesh on your bones when the winter’s cold,” I said. “Better get used to drinking hot milk.” I smiled at him, and sipped at my own, hoping that the heaviness in my stomach wouldn’t make me drowsy.

“Suppose I should,” Todd said, regarding his cup. “You suppose there are many spices at Morhall?”

There had used to be. I hadn’t appreciated, at the time, the amount of money and work that went into the food. I didn’t much trust Kressosi soldiers to keep up that effort. “Muras has enough pull to get them, if there aren’t,” I said. “Gods help us all, though, if the brewers are bad.”

We were to spend three days in Thralduslodge, giving our elk and ourselves a chance to rest, a time that I spent wandering the halls of the lodge, gazing at tapestries and carvings of ivory and cedar, bone and pine. Gods, heroes, histories and legends. I soaked it in like balm on my soul, this part of myself that I had been denied since I fled to Kressos.

I learned from Lord Alfer’s men that several Atsa Hasi clans had already passed through on their way north for the summer, following the mammoth herds, but being a much smaller group not bound to the schedule of mammoths, we would likely catch up with them in a few weeks.

I had forgotten that it was the Atsa who passed through Wetasur. I wondered, for a moment, if it was possible—but I pushed the thought aside.

Veland would be nearly seven, by now.

Lady Tyna occupied her time tending to the soldiers in our party. Travel runs afoul of some men’s bowels, and I regularly saw her dosing men with teas of lion’s tooth root, or mint, or a mix of astringents that would stop their bowels rather than move them. Something to tend to the cough he had picked up in the rain, something to clear the nasal passages, something to treat saddle sores. It seemed a rather unpleasant business to me, but it kept her busy, and thus away from myself.

In my meandering through the lodge, I was surprised to come across Muras, gazing contemplatively at an aged tapestry depicting a battle. “Tapestries are women’s work, aren’t they?” he asked, when he noticed me.

I nodded. “They are.”

“So a woman… spent months… years… on all this.” He gestured to the scene, men dying impaled on swords and spears, decapitated, relieved of their limbs, carried off to the halls of the dead. Certainly too much for a delicate Kressosi woman.

“Women are the history keepers of their families,” I said, “it was a task granted us by Mother Spider, as were the threads.” I glanced at him, and back to the tapestry. “Are you going to ask me what it depicts?”

“A battle, it seems.”

“Not just any battle.” I pointed to the army on the left, the ones portrayed as monstrous, nearly demonic, with long tongues and teeth, faces more like dogs than men. “The first time that men who called themselves ‘Kressosi’ crossed the Lor.”

The Wolf, the first time I truly laid eyes on them, was as all the stories said. Bigger than a bear, fur blinding white. A black nose snuffed at my red silks, and prodded me onto his back, where I sank deep into the coarse fur, and was sheltered from the wind.

She ran, then, though I could not have said how he knew the way, galloping through that featureless white. I held on because I did not know what else to do, because I believed that they would kill me, and I surely deserved it.

I don’t know how long he ran, but it was long enough that I lost myself to exhaustion, and when I woke, I was under the dark of a mammoth hide, by a fire, being tended to by an Atsa Hasi woman hardly older than myself, with a baby at her side. Her name was Pitalani, the granddaughter and apprentice of the clan’s healer.

She told me the Wolf brought me to them, that they were to protect and care for me. They called me Wolf Sister, and did not ask my name. They fed me. They gave me warm clothes to wear and they did not ask where I came from. They cared for me in their winter camp. They sold my silk dress and my slippers and when it became obvious I was pregnant they gave me a protective charm to wear, for the health of my child. A piece of ivory, carved in the shape of a wolf’s head.

For Hasi children, they are usually mammoths.

Veland was born in the spring, as the Hasi were preparing to move north again. He was a big baby, and it was a hard birth. I owe my life to Pitalani and her grandmother. They sang over Veland when they had washed him and put him in my arms, took the ivory charm from my neck and secured it in his swaddling. They asked his ancestors and theirs to protect him. To them, Veland was as good as their own kin.

They had offered a place among their clan for me, a husband who would provide for me and my boy. He was Pitalani’s brother, a little younger than myself, a skilled hunter who any Hasi woman would have been proud to call her husband.

I was not Hasi. I did not want to follow a mammoth herd on elkback for the rest of my life, and most especially I did not want to go north in the summer, back to Morhall, back to that cursed place I had already spilled so much blood to escape from.

I asked them to take care of Veland. If I was caught, at least they need never find him. If I was examined and shown to have given birth, they could never prove that the child had not been stillborn, or perished after. He would be safe with the Atsa, and he would be fed, and I would run as far away from Morhall as I could get, and bury the girl I had been in the northern snow where her bones would be scattered by the carrion birds.

Pitalani adopted him as her own son, a younger brother to her girl, who was just ready to be weaned. I wept when I put him in her arms.

Liana Anarin died the day Morhall fell.

Lya Sargis was born the day I left the Atsa, and crossed the Lor into Kressos, with nothing but a bundle of Hasi clothes and the blood on my hands.

I found Lady Tyna packing up her medicines and tools the morning we were to leave Wetasur. “Do you require treatment for something, Miss Sargis?” she asked, not looking up. “Something for the bowels, perhaps? Headaches, poor sleep, your cycle?”

I gritted my teeth. “I need an examination.”

Lady Tyna paused, and looked at me. “For?”

“I’ve not had my cycle since before Nolsaford.”

“Ah.” She considered me again for a moment. “If I might inquire as to why you cannot simply wait to be sure—”

“I don’t know how well prepared Morhall will be for an infant,” I said. “I would rather be sure myself that… we are prepared.”

Lady Tyna nodded. “I was first trained as a midwife.”

“Your skills know no end,” I said dryly.

“Well, I could hardly convince the Kressosi of the usefulness of a female physician if I couldn’t also deliver their wife’s children,” she said, pulling a sheet from her bag so that if we were interrupted, my modesty wouldn’t be compromised.

“I suppose you’ve delivered Princess Arabel’s children.”

“I have. The ones that were born after I came to serve the throne, at any rate.” Her tone was different, now. Less purposefully irritating, I would determine later. She had adopted the tone of a professional physician.

I had never undergone this sort of examination, and was none too eager to have Lady Tyna to be the first to perform it for me, but nor was I eager to ask Lord Alfer’s healer, who looked old enough to be my great-grandmother, and had frigid cold hands. Lady Tyna, I noted, warmed her hands at the coalburner before she began.

“Well,” she murmured, sitting back when the examination was over. “Congratulations, Miss Sargis.”

I swung my legs off the cot and pulled my riding skirts on once more, wondering when I would tell Muras and Todd.

“Have you been pregnant before?” Lady Tyna asked.

“Yes.”

“Were you given to morning sickness?”

“No.” I had been blessed in that regard.

“Any other particular maladies that you noticed?”

I tried to remember. Both my previous pregnancies had been so swallowed up by their circumstances—my fear, with Veland, and my desires to leave, with Kip—that I could scarcely recall anything else. “I couldn’t much sleep, toward the end. Kicked too much.” Both my boys had seemed determined to burst their way out of my ribs. My mother had complained of the same, with me and my brothers.

“Hm, I’ll have to see what I can do about that. Not much I can do to quiet the child, but perhaps I can get you to sleep in spite of them.” She shrugged her shoulders. Very carefully, she asked, “was your previous child… did they thrive?”

“Yes. They were healthy.”

Lady Tyna nodded. “I’m glad to hear it.”

Of Corasin’s other wives, one took particular objection to me.

Princess Solema’s family was Aziran in origin, but had settled in Saren some generations back and sworn fealty to the king. They were still considered new, among the nobility, and perhaps that was what made Solema so determined to hold as much of Corasin’s favor as she could, which—by the time I arrived—must have been quite difficult.

Of each of Corasin’s twelve other wives, Solema was the only one who had borne no children.

The threat that I represented may have been too much for her to bear. I became pregnant during my second year at Morhall.

I was poisoned shortly after it became known, and though I survived, the child did not.

The truth is that I am not and have never been certain that it was Solema who poisoned me, but it was to her that everyone looked and cast their accusations.

I was kept in solitude, while her trial was held. Only my mother, who had come from Arborhall to visit me, was permitted to see me. Corasin claimed it was for my protection.

Whatever evidence was found or testimony given, it was enough that the lawyers Solema’s father sent were not able to protect her. She was guilty not just of attempting to murder a wife of the king, but of successfully murdering one of the king’s children. Neither crime could go unpunished, and together, they had to be answered.

I was brought out of solitude to witness. All the wives were gathered on the walls of Morhall. To warn us, I think.

Solema was cast out of the gates, with no coat, no furs, no shoes. It was only just after midwinter, and the wind was so fierce that it cut under even the bearskin I wore. I cannot imagine what it was like for Solema.

The townsfolk were forbidden to shelter or aid her, and were in fact encouraged to drive her out. I remember tears freezing to my lashes, and I could not watch, but I knew I was not permitted to look away, so I let them freeze my lashes together, and obscure my vision.

She died of exposure, and because the court had determined her a murderer, her body was left for carrion. Her spirit would never know rest, would never reach the halls of the dead.

I was violently ill, for weeks after. I couldn’t sleep. I could barely eat. My mother says that in that time the flesh melted off my bones like candle wax. She had the mirrors removed from my chambers, I was such a grim sight, she feared seeing my reflection would only hasten my death.

I remember a dark room, a fire in the hearth, and an old woman with bony fingers that hurt because I had no flesh left to protect my limbs. Someone held me up, in front of the fire, and the old woman burned herbs on the coals, herbs that made me choke, and cough, and the old woman sought to cast the ghost out of me, to drive Solema back into the wilderness once more.

I recovered after that, but I do not believe Solema was ever driven from my bones. I believe she burrowed deeper, buried herself in the secret halls of my heart. I believe she found our common cause, made her mind one with my own.

Our feud was not with each other, and it never had been.

Our hate burned in my chest, hot and fierce, the aching desperate need to exact our revenge on the man we called our husband.

The sun shone warm and bright that morning. The wolf skin was too hot to wear, as was my coat, so I rode with it across the front of my saddle. The fur seemed even brighter in the sunlight, and I was glad to be traveling again.

We took the road through the forest, and it was in leading our little party I spied a clearing I recognized, and hesitated.

“What is it?” Muras asked. He had been riding by my side, though at a distance, as Bili seemed to be in an especially foul temper that morning. I had been forced to prevent him from charging or kicking the men in Lord Alfer’s stables no less than half a dozen times before I was able to get him outside.

I had not told him anything about my meeting with Weta. However charitable he might have been toward my beliefs, I could not fathom that he would believe it was anything but a dream. Gods were not real to Muras the way they were to me. “Nothing,” I said, “just… a peculiar feeling. As if I’ve been here before.”

We were bound due north, to an old trade road that would be dotted not so much with towns as places where one could find taverns and brothels, which supported the small villages nearby. Even with that, it would be a lonely journey, and we would spend more than a few nights camping along the road when we were too far from any such place by nightfall.

Very occasionally when I was young, my father had traveled with trade caravans out of Arborhall. He was a restless man, he had been his father’s third son, and had hoped to sail on Anarin trade ships, before his elder two brothers died, one in battle and the other of a fever. Now that he was lord, the trade caravans were as far as he allowed himself to roam from his responsibilities, leaving Arborhall in the care of my mother.

He liked to take Julas and me with him. Corvin and Tatton were too young, but Julas and I learned to ride alongside those caravans, practiced our Trader’s Tongue, and amused our father with our delights in ‘discovering’ new places. This particular route I had never taken with father, because he deemed it too far to take his children, and too long a journey for him to be away from home. Still, I could see in my mind the maps on which this road had been drawn, and once upon the road, it would not take much to keep us on our course.

I knew what the way to Morhall was. It was the cursed star I set my compass by.

If it is true that a corpse buried incomplete, or not at all, haunts the earth forever, then I was returning to the place where Corasin was buried without his head, bearing the child of the man who had taken it off.

#original fiction #prose #wolf's price

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