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whispersafterdusk · 4 years

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Lost in Time - ch 1

Winter had been very eager to shove fall out of the picture this year.

It had announced its presence with a torrential downpour that turned to sleet that had eventually given way to a heavy snow that had hammered Portia for a good five, six hours straight and brought with it a bitter cold that was a stark contrast to the chilly but tolerable temperature from only a few days prior.

It wasn't often that Arlo lamented living on top of a steep hill but he certainly did now as he and the rest of the Civil Corps struggled to clear the pathway without taking a sliding tumble down said hill; after several hours of work they'd only managed to clear to the topmost landing of the sidewalk ramp and they were all soaked, tired, and bruised up from repeated slips and slides -- if this was a sign of what kind of winter they were going to have this year then it wasn't going to be a pleasant one, and they'd likely need more than the one old shovel and broom they'd pulled out of the closet to get through the season. ((Continued below cut))

Arlo himself was armed with that broom and shovel and was quickly tiring of moving the seven inches of snow that sat on top of the three inches of ice and had, within the last hour, stopped piling it neatly alongside the path they were clearing and instead was just happy to move it out of the way however he could.

Behind him, as he cleared away the top layer of snow, Sam and Remington worked together on the ice - Remington cracking and lifting, and Sam getting it out of the way. Theirs was perhaps the harder job even if Arlo technically had more to move by volume, and after a while (after she chucked a double handful of ice chunks off to the side) Sam straightened from where she'd been bent over, rubbing at her lower back. "Man, even with my gloves on I can't feel my fingers."

"This is weather only Papa Bear's suited for," Remington grumbled as he wedged the blunt end of the pickaxe under the edge of the next section of a freshly-revealed layer of ice. They'd tried earlier to use the actual pick end of the pickaxe to try and shatter the ice but had, in the process, accidentally gouged the sidewalk a few times; the only way to prevent any further damage was to use the other end as a makeshift pry bar - it was harder and would take longer but was better than the alternative.

Remington grunted and threw his weight against the haft of the pickaxe and there was a crackling sound as the ice began to splinter and pull away from the stone beneath it. As the sheet lifted Sam bent again to slide her hands under into the gap between ground and ice. "--think Selene could rig something up to make this any easier?" she grunted as she lifted in tandem with Remington's prying.

"Think of it as strength training," Arlo replied. "We can't run today so this'll have to do."

"Let me rephrase that - think Selene could rig something to make this faster?" Sam went on, huffing a bit and stumbling as the ice came loose and she shoved it off to the side. "It's going to take a couple days just to get this ramp cleared off at the rate we're going."

Remington rested the head of the pickaxe on the ground and leaned against the handle, panting. "Let's switch gears and get the snow out of the way - maybe with some sunlight on it the ice'll melt enough to not be such a pain to pop loose."

"Sounds like a plan to me - give me that broom."

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For the last three days, thankfully, the weather had been clear and sunny, if still frigid. Remington had been right regarding the sun and the ice -even with the arctic temperatures it had thinned out enough that they'd managed to clear down to the landing near Gale's house and also the ramp and stairs that connected with Central Plaza. There they'd linked up with Paulie and managed to get a narrow footpath carved out around the border of the plaza leading north to the research center and south to Martha's bakery within an afternoon of work.

There were, out of sheer necessity, already compacted paths along Main Street made by Portia's townsfolk and the few stranded tourists present; once they'd gotten walkways open to Martha's and the research center they'd started working on what had already been worn in by stomping boots around town. It was a bit easier to bust up the compacted pathways and if more willing hands joined them they'd have it done soon enough -- Arlo had estimated another four or five days at most to get it clear even if it was just the three of them the entire time (assuming it didn't snow again). Knowing there was an end coming helped keep spirits high as they shoveled, slowly digging Portia out from under the worst storm anyone could recall in recent memory.

"At least the kids seem to be having a blast," Remington had chuckled as Toby and Polly went whizzing by on polished wooden sleds to thud into a pile of snow they'd left mounded at the base of the tree planter in the center of the plaza. "Going to have to keep an eye on them, make sure if they go out into the countryside they don't go flying out on top of the river - don't need anyone falling through."

From off to their left they heard a sudden cry then, and turned in time to see Erwa lose his footing and fall backwards onto his rump; with the snow mostly cushioning his fall he at least didn't go sliding down the incline behind the two kids but the ice under the snow left him floundering right at Martha's doorstep, unable to get enough purchase to get his feet back under him.

"-speaking of someone falling," Sam grinned. "Come on, let's go help him out."

Arlo turned his back to hide his smile - it felt impolite to laugh at Erwa rolling around in the snow - and kept shoveling, listening as Sam and Remington's footsteps crunched over toward the portly man. The crunching eventually stopped, as did the sound of shoes scratching against ice, and for a brief moment there was the sound of a conversation that was slightly too far off to hear -- the sort of noise where you could recognize someone was talking but not actually make out the individual words.

"'ey, Arlo - have YOU seen Dawa yet today?"

Well, he definitely could hear that. "Can't say I have. Why?" He jammed the tip of the shovel into the snow and turned toward the trio in the distance - Erwa was back on his feet and had his hands out to his sides for balance.

"Because I can't find him, is why," came Erwa's answer. "He wasn't home when I popped in yesterday, and he's not home right now, and I didn't see any new footprints in the snow aside from mine so it doesn't look like I've just missed him each time. It's not like him to NOT be at the tree farm - not for any length of time, anyway. No one else has seen him either."

Arlo frowned - this was NOT the kind of weather anyone should be wandering around in. "Right. We'll look for him. Did anyone see him recently?"

"Not since the day after that storm hit - Emily said she saw him busting ice off the gates to the farm but she's the only one since then."

"Guess we'll start at the farm then and work our way out from there. Let's get moving," Sam said. She took a careful step around Erwa and began to pick her way up the path, trying to stick to the well-worn and frozen over footprints in the snow. Erwa wobbled a bit in place and Remington steadied him with a hand on the shoulder and then Remington was off up the hill too.

Sticking to the path they'd made Arlo headed toward Paulie's store first and left the broom and shovel leaning against the counter, then he too began to carefully climb up the path and toward Peach Plaza. He didn't see anyone else along the way (not that he blamed them - it was bitterly cold) and it didn't take long to meet up with Sam and Remington at the city gates and head out as a group toward the tree farm.

Erwa was right in that there didn't seem to be any new tracks up this way; Arlo could pick out a single set, shaped in such a way that it looked like everyone who'd walked it had all stuck to the same footprints. They too stayed within the tracks, walking in single file all the way up to the farm's gates and beyond, following the footprints up toward the house where the trail then split into five different ones with only one leading up the steps to the building and the others angled out in various directions all seeming to lead out into the groves.

Arlo eyed the tracks - they were all spaced out enough that he doubted any of them met up anywhere close. "Everyone pick a trail and see where it leads. We'll meet back here in a half hour and see what we've found."

Remington picked a trail that headed along the fence line, and Arlo watched the snow fall from the fencing as the man kept a hand on it to steady himself as he headed off. 'Hope his knee isn't bothering him too much,' he found himself thinking -- he tried not to let it slip his mind that Remington's knee wasn't in the best shape but the man went out of his way to hide when the joint was aching anyway. He'd gotten on his case about hiding injuries or aches before but it always seemed to go in one ear and out the other. 'At least we don't lack for ice packs at the moment.'

Arlo shook himself from his thoughts; Sam appeared to have picked a trail that led out to the middle of the tree farm so Arlo chose one that was nearer to the house but angled to the west, and then seemed to veer to skirt along the northern border of the farm. He knew Dawa liked to walk the property a lot -- he needed to, to be able to catch any issues or potential signs of disease in the trees early enough to do anything about it, so him walking about was a usual occurrence...it COULD be that Erwa had just missed him each time he'd visited, and with the weather being so cold no one was really going outside unless they had to so it was possible Dawa had been outside when no one else was around to see him. Both of those were equally as possible as the man being in trouble somewhere out here and Arlo preferred to hope for sheer poorly timed coincidence as he plodded along.

The branches around him sagged and creaked under the weight of the ice, and the further he went the more trees he spotted that were wrapped in heavy rope and what looked like burlap, and in a few places he saw a couple of trees that looked to be slowly splitting in half; one of them he recognized as a tree that had been struck by lightning a few summers ago -- there were thick metal rods connecting the two halves of the tree, and steel cables up in the crown of the tree holding the two halves together. The repair, as ghoulish as it looked, appeared to have actually saved the tree as, once he got up near it, he could see signs where the bark had grown over and bulged out near the bolts that held the rods in place.

Dawa's tracks led right up to this particular tree and went in a circle at its base so clearly the man was keeping a close eye on this one; Arlo edged around the tree and kept going, eying the trail ahead of him and noting how it stopped its meandering among the trees and, about fifty feet ahead of him, straightened out to...hmm.

To the northeast of here Arlo knew was a bridge that crossed the lake that separated the Somber Marsh from the northern shore of Portia's territory along that lake. Unless he was mistaken it sort of looked like Dawa's path was going to lead him directly to that bridge -- the trail had definitely straightened out enough for that to be a viable destination unless it suddenly veered away far enough ahead that Arlo couldn't spot it from here.

It certainly seemed to be case as he drew nearer to the abandoned Old World building that made up part of the northwestern border for the tree farm, and sure enough as soon as he'd walked the length of that building and gotten to the far side of it he could see the bridge in the distance, and Dawa's tracks bee-lined straight for it.

"Why would he go out there..." he wondered aloud. It didn't make sense to go out to the marsh - there wasn't anything out there except monsters and ruins (even the fishing out there was poor). Dawa wasn't the sort to go anywhere near a ruin, he didn't fish, and so far as Arlo knew he'd never gone after monster-based resources on his own -- he wasn't even the sort to deal with monsters when they happened to invade his farm: he'd always enlisted someone else's help to shoo them away or exterminate them.

As he hurried along Arlo mentally cursed the weather as he didn't dare move at a pace faster than a brisk walk unless he wanted to take a tumble; it felt like it took an age to reach the bridge and even longer to carefully climb up the ice-coated wooden ramp and metal steps. Up at the top he could see the tracks heading straight across the bridge; he followed them across and then began to follow a path that seemed to crisscross at random between crumbling rock wall sections, rusted old buildings, and even a couple of gigantic trees that had gaps between exposed roots.

It almost seemed like Dawa was searching for something...but what? What could possibly be out here that he'd be looking for?

The bridge he'd crossed led to one of two large islands in the marsh's lake -- this particular island was known for the two ruins on it: the Deepest Ruin and the Somber Marsh Abandoned Ruins. Dawa's tracks at least didn't lead up to either of those (not that Arlo thought he'd have any reason to go inside either) but eventually the tracks ventured outside of the crumbling, circular stone walls that partially enclosed the ruins, and once those tracks weren't sheltered by the walls they quickly disappeared -- erased by the cutting wind out here that had blown most of the snow away and exposed the ice to the sun (in fact he could almost see dead grass in several spots where the ice had almost melted through).

So Dawa had come out here, searched around, and then headed out of the walls to... The only other places out beyond the walls was another ruined building and a crashed ship that doubled as a bridge to the far side of the marsh, but surely Dawa hadn't gone out THAT far, right?

Rather than trek out there Arlo instead turned to look at the walls -- they were tall enough that maybe they'd give him enough of a vantage point to see if it was even worth it to check the other side of the lake. He fumbled a few times as he climbed (numb fingers - this cold weather was beginning to get on his nerves) and once he was at the top of the wall he saw an unmistakable black smudge on the far shore to the northeast. It was just far enough away that between distance and the glare of the sun off the snow Arlo couldn't make out much more than a dark mark on the ground but whatever it was was pretty big.

He'd definitely need to head over there now, if only to see what that was.

It was too steep to climb down the outer side of the wall so he had to go back the way he'd come up and then take the long way around; the wooden foot bridge that spanned across the two halves of the crashed ship was thankfully still intact and was even mostly thawed out so he got across without issue, and then it was just a matter of getting over to whatever the big black smudge was.

The trees were thick on this side of the lake, both in number and in canopy cover, and the snow had the branches sagging low so it was difficult to see through them; the big black smudge remained a big black smudge until finally Arlo was almost on top of it, and there he noticed two things.

One: the big black smudge was a freshly opened sink hole.

And two: there were footprints in the mud that ringed the opening that led to a long skidmark suggesting someone had slid in.

The sinkhole wasn't perfectly circular and was about twenty feet across at its widest point, surrounded by upturned rocks and broken tree roots, and the wind whistled eerily over the gaping hole. The earth around the sinkhole was sludgy and angled sharply downward toward the opening as well - he didn't dare get close enough to look into the sinkhole or else he'd risk falling in himself.

'I guess Dawa must have heard this thing opening up and came looking for what caused the noise, and fell in.'

"Dawa?" he yelled toward the opening. His voice echoed back to him; there wasn't a response. "Dawa?" he tried again, louder. Again there was no answer aside from the howl of the wind in the hole.

...if the wrapped trees were any indication then Dawa had to have rope stored somewhere on the farm, and there were trees enough here to tie off to provide a handhold to get close enough to investigate.

Arlo turned and began to hurry back the way he'd come -- by now Sam and Remington would probably be waiting for him anyway, and he'd need their help to get down into the hole.

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"You sure about this?"

"Yeah. You and Sam got me beat in the raw strength category, and if I do find Dawa down there he might need the help to haul him out. I'm pretty sure I can get down there and back out without a problem but I can't promise about him - especially if we don't know how far down this thing goes."

Arlo nodded at Remington; he did have a point - they had no way of knowing if Dawa was in any shape to climb out of there. "All right. Sam and I will wait up here - tug on that rope four times if you need us to help pull you up."

"Give me that other coil, there -- no telling how deep this goes."

Sam handed over a spare coil of rope which Remington slung over his shoulder bandolier-style, then with a nod he grabbed hold of the other rope - the one carefully tied to a nearby tree - and began to carefully edge his way forward toward the sinkhole's edge; the mud here went up to his ankles and then midway up his shins before he got to where he could slip over the edge and begin to carefully rappel down into the darkness.

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Once he was over the lip and down about fifteen feet the incessant howl of the wind across the sinkhole's opening ceased, and now all Remington could hear as he picked his way down was the crumbling of dirt and rock each time his boots touched the wall, and somewhere he could hear a trickle of dripping water -- probably melting snow, and the last thing this sinkhole needed was more moisture to cause a further collapse.

He estimated he was about thirty feet down when he wrapped his legs and one arm around the rope to hold himself in place long enough to use his other hand to click on the little headlamp they'd borrowed from Selene; around him the dark dirt seemed to swallow up the pale yellow light and as he looked down his heart jumped a bit as the lamp illuminated roots and vines that jutted out of the sinkhole's walls.

And the vines looked like they'd once been thick and had choked this entire area out but now there was a large gap through their center, and he could see the glimmer of sap leaking out of hundreds of split and broken ends of the plants as he steadily lowered himself toward them.

"Well, at least something slowed the fall," he mumbled as he went -- he'd be lying if he said he hadn't been silently panicking a little bit as the depth of this hole began to sink in (no pun intended) coupled with the fact that he hadn't seen Dawa or even signs of him until this point. If the vines had slowed and cushioned the man's fall then there was a pretty good chance he'd survived the drop.

Remington kept at it with his steady rhythm as he rappelled, and then just above where the vines began his boots hit the wall with a muffled thump; again he held himself in place as he experimentally stomped a boot against the wall and again got the thump -- it almost sounded like metal. He let himself drop a few feet more and then used a hand to dig and pry at the wall ahead of him; something bit into his finger and he yanked his hand back and (perhaps stupidly) stuck his fingers into his mouth but there in the light of his headlamp was a dull, reflective metal visible through the grime he'd scraped free.

This sinkhole must have opened into an underground ruins.

The way down became more difficult as now he had to pick his way through the vines that crisscrossed what he suspected was some sort of ancient elevator shaft as he was starting to see door-like shapes at through the gloom and vine cover regular intervals as he went. Eventually he reached the end of the rope he'd been using to climb down and he wedged himself into a little gap in front of what he was now sure was a doorway, and tied off the rope's end to the coil he'd brought down with him. When he was certain it was securely tied he let the coil drop and listened as it hit something not too far away beneath him -- apparently there WAS an intact bottom to this shaft, and it was a lot closer than he'd thought.

He went the distance of four more "floors" and then finally he was almost on top of a rusted out elevator...pod? Car? What did the Old World call these things? It was the thing that carried people up and down the cables - whatever it was called didn't really matter at the moment, honestly.

From here he could see the ragged hole in the top where Dawa must have either fallen or climbed through, and the metal around that hole was sagging under the weight of the rope coil he'd tossed down; without a doubt it would fully collapse under his weight, so Remington was careful to aim himself at that hole and slide down through it, pulling the coil of rope with him and finally getting his boots back on solid ground within the elevator...thingy.

The air down here was heavy and smelled of dirt and rot; Dawa had already forced the elevator doors open and beyond it was a hallway full of dust and moldering old carpet. Remington could see footprints in the dust (really, the carpet had mostly rotted into dust itself) and began to follow them...not that he really needed them as there wasn't anywhere he could see to go except down the hallway, though there were doors to his left and right. He did stop to try one of the doors and couldn't see a way to get it open -- they had no handles and were almost flush with the walls.

"Dawa? You down here?" he called ahead of him.

There wasn't anything except his own echo so he kept going. Ahead of him the hallway turned to the left, and the closer he came to the corner the more apparent a thudding, dragging noise was beginning to become, until finally--

"Dawa!"

There around the corner was Dawa -- he had his hand up shielding his eye's from the glare of Remington's headlamp, and was dotted with bruises and cuts that left dozens of bloody spots across his clothing. "Never been happier to see someone in my life, I was running out of matches," came the man's reply.

"The feeling's mutual - had no idea what to expect to find down here," Remington laughed. He reached up to slide the headlamp over to his temple so he could look at Dawa without blinding him. "You in one shape, more or less?"

"I've been better - not worried about a few bruises but I'm ready to eat an entire cow by myself."

Remington nodded. "I bet. Come on, let's get you out of here."

"Yeah, about that... Don't know that I can climb out of here. Not on my leg, anyway."

Dawa gestured toward his left leg and Remington brought the headlamp around again; the yellow of the lamp made the bruised and swollen ankle look ten times worse than it probably was, but even still it was the size of a small melon and looked rather painful. "Ah. Hmm. Well, we've got Sam and Arlo up there ready to pull you out."

"Don't know if I'd trust that -- I mean, don't get me wrong, I trust THEM. But at current I don't trust gravity, friction, or the structural integrity of a regular ol' rope. Not even sure I could hold on the entire time to make it out of here either."

"How'd you end up down here anyway?"

Dawa huffed out an annoyed sound. "It's dumb. It's really dumb. So, I heard a noise out here and went looking - you know how I've been keeping an eye out for Aadit, after that Knight scared him off. So I hear this noise and I think to myself, maybe it's him, or maybe it's that damned Knight come back and is up to no good. I wait out the storm then walk out here and it takes awhile to find anything weird - but eventually I find this hole, and when I went to look at it it became a bigger hole and I fell right in."

Remington blinked at him. "Became a BIGGER hole?"

"Yeah, a bigger hole - it was barely bigger than I am when I spotted it. I guess it'd started opening before all the snow and ice hit, and the storm must've formed a crust over the actual size of the hole because I definitely wasn't near the opening when it all broke loose under me and dumped me in." He paused and looked around them. "Who knew there was an old ruin out here completely underground? Usually these things have some sort of above ground entrance. Wouldn't have gotten near if I'd thought it'd lead to this."

"Yeah...wouldn't have expected something like this." Remington rubbed at his chin, thinking -- if Dawa couldn't make it out on his own and didn't think the others could pull him out, then they'd need to find another way up. "You know, on the way down here I saw a lot of elevator doors lining the shaft. We're down pretty deep but maybe we can find a way to link up with a floor that's higher up and climb up out of that floor's door."

"Yeah...yeah, I like that idea. I think I could do a shorter climb, no problem. And I DID find another elevator back that way-" Dawa jerked a thumb over his shoulder. "Couldn't get the door open though, and even if I could've I don't think there's any power going to it anymore."

Remington nodded and then dropped to a knee to swing his pack off his back; he rummaged through it and pulled out an old, battered water bottle. "All right, here's the plan then: I'm going to climb back up and let Sam and Arlo know you're all right, and have one of them get Selene or Higgins so we can get this elevator back up and running." He handed the bottle to Dawa, who began to chug from it noisily. "-I'll also get them to bring you something to eat, too."

"You're a lifesaver, Remington. In this case literally."

With a chuckle Remington pulled his pack back on and tightened the straps. "S'what we do. You need anything else in the meantime?"

"Don't think so. It's actually not so bad down here if you get away from the shaft and around the corner."

"What's ahead of here?"

"There's this big room back there - it's got some old furniture in it, some tables and chairs and a counter. Might've been some old cafeteria or something. Been back there since it's warmer."

"All right, then. I'll be back as soon as I can."

Remington heard a 'don't slip' behind him as he turned to head off; it was going to be a long climb back up.

#Lost in Time #lit #Lost in Time - ch 1 #Arlo #Sam #Remington #Erwa #Dawa #Builder #My Time at Portia

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aria-i-adagio · 5 years

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Built with Stolen Parts

Masterpost

Fandom: The Arcana

Chapter Rating: T

At the palace, Portia laces me back into the same white dress from last night and redoes my hair. Armor, I remind myself, as she paints the foreign feeling make up on my face. She leads me back through the hallways to another room within the palace, one that I haven’t yet seen. This room is intended, I suppose, to be less intimidating than dining room. Cool blue wallpaper dominates the color scheme, accented with touches of gold and marble. Nadia is ensconced in one corner, plucking delicately at a harp. She looks up and gives us the barest of nods. A tall, thin figure in a double pointed headdress on the other side of the room catches my attention. Their back is to the rest of the occupants, and they stare out the window, preternaturally still. Portia clears her throat, drawing the attention of the other figures in the room, and announces me.

“The Countess’s magician, Dema -” She pauses, realizing that she’s never asked for my surname.

“Strayhorn. Dema Strayhorn.”

Formality of the announcement passed, three of the room’s occupants spring into action converging on me. A funny little woman with one blind, drooping eye pats the space next to her on a sofa. A tiered dish of pastries and tiny cakes - or rather, what remains of them - are on the low table in front of her. “Oh, you must come sit next to me. Countess Nadia has provided us with the best snacks.” She seems friendly enough, a bit child-like with her giddy talk of snacks and giggles happily when I settle beside her. “I’m Procurator Volta.”

“Volta, you can’t hog the magician.” A portly figure, dressed all in red plops down on the couch placed perpendicular to ours and holds out a gauntleted hand. I briefly touch my fingers to it, worrying about cuts from the sharp edges. “Not when we’ve heard so much about her. Pontifex Vulgora.”

“Yes, we’ve just been dying to meet you.” An old man in flowing black robes hovers across the table from Volta and me, fingers wiggling in excitement. His skin is a corpse like shade of gray and long pointed ears droop from beneath a ceremonial hat. “I’m Praetor Vlastomil. You must tell us all about yourself. Your business, your hobbies!”

“Yes!” The red figure to my right pounds their fist against the arm of the sofa. I expect to feathers begin to fly from the upholstery. “Perhaps you enjoy the martial arts?”

“Well, no, I -”

“Or baking? I do love having friends who bake!” Volta claps her hands together in glee, excited by the very notion of baked goods - what a strange little woman! I’m almost reluctant to disappoint her, but I’d quickly starve if left to my own devices in a kitchen.

“Um, I don’t cook, but I garden, um, some.”

The Praetor’s long ears perk up. “Gardening you say? How wonderful! Do you have a healthy population of worms in your garden? They’re so important for soil structure and aeration! Most people just don’t appreciate all that worms do.”

A conspicuously silent man, sitting in an armchair opposite of Volta with a glass of red wine in hand, sniffs and looks entirely unimpressed. He’s so pale that I wonder if he’s ever before allowed his skin to be in direct sunlight, and the thick, dark hair that is held back in a loose braid emphasizes his unhealthy, albeit human pallor.

"Valeri! Don't you want to introduce yourself?" The small one, Volta, speaks to him familiarity vibrating in her voice. He raises a heavy brow and looks over to me, judging if I might care about that knowledge, or be worthy of it, I'm not sure.

He takes a slow drink of his wine and looks me over, gaze inscrutable. "I would not go that far as to say that I’m dying to meet her."

"Oh, don't be like that, dear Valeri. I'm sure she's a sweetheart! And competent, if the Countess makes her her own!"

A little twitch of his pale lips, and another sip from his glass of wine, perhaps just intended to make things bearable. I wouldn't mind some wine myself, but I suspect he's not the person to ask. And something about the way his lips twitched when Volta said the word competent pissed me off. Especially if he was the Consul Valerius who been allowing the city to run into the ground. "No need to die on my behalf, Valeri." I adopt Volta's familiar name and wait for his reaction.

He ignores me. No surprise there. "And who am I, dearest Volta, to doubt the competency of any of the illustrious people gather here?" I'm amazed I'm the only one who recognizes this as sarcasm. Volta beams with pride, and Vulgora seems to fluff up even more. His eyes are on me now, pale and resigned under heavy brows. "Portia, I think our guest cares for a drink."

"Of course." Portia reaches over the back of the sofa, pressing an overly full glass of wine into my hand with a wink.

I take a sip, it’s mostly minerally with a hint of leather, and stare at the Consul over the rim. "Indeed, I've certainly never seen anything in the city that would lead me to think that someone in this esteemed gathering could be incompetent."

"It is as if everyone here focused all of their efforts on ensuring the city's prosperity, isn't it?” He raises his eyebrows at me, perhaps an iota more interested than he was before. “Truly a marvelous display of reason and renunciation."

Is he testing me? Or just not expecting for anyone to listen to him anyway?

"Well," I raise my wine glass slightly. "Certainly one wouldn't want to renounce all of one’s interests. But it is so easy to confuse one's own interests with the good of all. A common vanity, if you will."

"Sometimes that vanity blooms from understanding that any endeavor one might undertake will only amount to nothing, no matter whose interests are served. There's a certain serenity in accepting that, don't you think so? Volta?"

"Mh?" She looks up, crumbs around her small mouth. "Yes, Valeri, of course." She clearly hasn’t heard his statement, or hasn’t comprehended it, but she beams with a snaggletooth, pleased to be the recipient of attention. When she licks the crumbs from her lips, I see a tiny sigh escaping Valerius’s pouty lips. He drinks, not in response to my gesture, but more as though the wine is necessary to wash away the things he witnesses here.

I can't blame him. The occupants of the room lack any definite order or purpose. Nadia idly strokes her harp, seemingly too lost in her own musings to play the role of hostess. Both Volta and Vulgora seem to be more interested in the offerings of the kitchen, while the pale praetor continues to rhapsodize about the effect of having a sufficient population of worms in the soil, undeterred by the plain fact that no one is listening to him. The still figure by the window has turned to face the room. They're watching us, red eyes slowly scanning back and forth across the room, but there's no sign that they intend to speak. Just as well, the sight of them is making my skin crawl. "So, Consul - it is Consul, right? - perhaps you can explain how things work at court."

"The esteemed magician asks an open question that would take more time to answer than I'd dare to keep the pleasant company here from their important duties. Do you wish to cut it down to what you crave to know most, or do you wish an audience in private?"

Vulgora cackles at the comment, living up entirely to their name. I'm not sure if their laughter makes it dirtier than the Consul intended or not, but one corner of his mouth pulls upwards. He seems amused enough by the outcome. It takes effort, and Portia's hand briefly touching my shoulder as she fills my wine glass, but I manage to avoid rolling my eyes or making my own snippy remarks.

"Well then, perhaps just you, Consul.” I keep my voice even. At least, as even as I can. "What do you do for the city?”

And he tells me, giving me a textbook definition of his responsibilities, tone distant and emotionless, sips from his glass becoming more frequent as he goes on. Again, nobody seems to listen. Vulgora has started an argument over something with Vlastomil. Bones seem to play an important role in it, while Volta watches Nadia play the harp in what seems like honest adoration.

Valerius seems slightly nauseated as he continues on about the role of a consul, and how vital the position can be to the order of the city. His lecture is interrupted by frequent sips from his wineglass. How aware of his failures is he? I almost feel bad for prodding him. Almost. He finishes with a resigned sigh and a long drink of wine before gesturing to Portia to top off both our glasses.

"Thank you." I glance down at the crystal goblet my hands. The fine silver chasing around the rim had been allowed to tarnish. Unexpected, given the precision with which the palace's staff appeared to operate. No matter. I raise my eyes back to Valerius. "The Countess tells me she wants my help in solving Lucio's murder the restore order to the city. But it's hard to envision what that might look like."

He throws me a look and forces a smile. "Her Excellency surely is only too willing to share her vision of the future with you?"

"If the Countess has invited me as an investigator, surely it's part of my job to seek out multiple accounts."

"And it would spoil my account to give it in front of the others, don't you think?" Something around his eyes looks like he's trying to ask nicely without being remotely good at it. "If you have the time, that is, to spend a few minutes with my boring stories."

I very much doubt I'll find his account boring. If nothing else his sarcasm will keep me entertained. "I'm sure that I can find some spare time, Consul."

"But you?" A cool gloved hand folds around my shoulder. I stiffen at the unexpected touch and twist around. The figure behind me is the same that was standing so very still in front of the window only moments before. "What role do you play? Should you even be here, little witch?”

"Quaestor." The harp music suddenly stops, and Nadia rouses herself from her corner. "Please do not frighten my guest."

"I'm not frightened." It's a lie, and I suspect the grey green possibly not a human person standing behind me knows it. But if I say it with enough confidence perhaps I'll convince myself.

"Nonetheless, what is your purpose?”

Nadia answers for me as she strides across the room. "A benevolent universe brought Dema to me in my hour of need. To help me lay the matter of my husband's murder to rest. A task that the five of you have failed to manage."

I'm not sure what the Countess means by her first statement. From what little I know of it, the universe is rarely benevolent. As for the rest, Valerius hides his face in his wine glass yet again, and Volta pauses in her nibbling to look down at her tiny hands. Vlastomil twists his hands in dismay. "Countess, I assure you I have left no worm - no stone unturned."

Vulgora slams their first on the arm of the sofa in anger. "If you would just let me smash a faces and crush a finger or two -"

"Silence. There will be no crushing fingers and smashing faces."

"Not that those things would help us achieve our goal." The Quaestor's speaks with an uncanny cadence, each syllable and pause measured to the millisecond.

"I hope that our goals align, Quaestor."

"Do they? I know mine, Countess. Do you even know what yours are?" Without moving a muscle or changing their tone of voice, they shift between conversations. “Vlastomil, I do believe that the majority of bone decomposition comes from microbial activity, not the action of worms. And Vulgora, the crushing of bones only exposes a greater surface area to such action. The mechanical break up itself does little else. Both of you are quite incorrect.”

The Countess’s eyes flash and her lips tighten into a thin, annoyed line. “That’s quite enough your morbid talk. You’ve tried my patience sufficiently for a single evening, all of you. Portia, please, see that all my guests are served dinner in their chambers.”

With a huff, Vulgora gets up from the sofa and stalks out of the room. Volta looks over at Nadia and mouths an apology before scurrying behind them. Simpers is the best verb to describe how the Praetor leaves the room. The Quaestor remains standing perfectly still behind me. I straighten my spine, sitting still, as if I’m trying to avoid attracting the attention of a predator. Nadia glare is focused on the space just over my head, and I can feel the Quaestor’s eyes drilling into the back of my head.

The Consul clears his throat. “Magician, would you care for another glass of wine? We could continue our conversation without further distractions.”

“Um, yes.” I edge to the side and then quickly get away from the sofa and the Quaestor. “That’s an excellent idea.”

The Consul raises one eyebrow in amusement. He stands up slowly from his chair and rearranges his robes. “Countess.” He inclines his head ever so slightly to Nadia who doesn’t remove her eyes from the Quaestor.

“Good evening, Consul.”

***

The most baffling fact about the whole evening was that the Consul has an honest to the heavens office, the kind with a desk and paperwork that he likely works on himself, even if it is a really nice desk of dark wood set with marquetry, gleaming from frequent applications of polish. The scent of old paper and ink and wine fills the air, and he offers me a chair that is clearly the one for the more important visitors.

That consideration is unexpected. He pours another glass of wine for me, then one for himself, giving me a stern look, when my fingers touch a paper on his desk. I mumbled an apology and take the wine from him.

"Judging from what you have seen," he opens, "how do you think the court works?"

"From what I've seen, I'm not entirely sure that the court does work."

"Imagine the court to be less occupied with themselves and actually directing their attention outward. Is that what you wish?"

I take a drink of my wine. "I'm not sure that I specifically want their attention on the city. But functional leadership would be welcome."

His face freezes for a moment, but then a laugh bubbles up, one that has lost any trace of good humor, and descended into the depths of compensatory irony. “That it would, but I daresay it would still fail as much as it did when -" He prefers to drink instead of finishing the sentence, but in my head it ends with "- when I tried."

Who else had tried? "What leads you to be such a cynic about the city?”

"I do not know if you remember the glorious days before Lucio filled the throne with his overabundant self. You may be too young - even for me the vision comes more from stories than from things I've witnessed. Do not misunderstand me, Magician, but I wish your undertaking to fail. Not gloriously, but just to fizzle out like cheap fireworks. Even if it was Devorak who killed him, the city is off better without being reminded of the whole affair. I told the Countess as much, but she very much does not wish me to doubt her decisions - something she seems to have learned from her late husband."

Much more than simple disapproval of Nadia’s plans or a concern for the collective psyche of the city underlies that statement. Some grim tug at the strings of his closed off heart. I wonder if he tends to wake up with stomach pain. His face looks the part of a man with an ulcer. “Dredges up unpleasant memories?”

He hesitates, then nods. "I knew him too long. Too well. Maybe better than the countess does, and so did Devorak." A hasty, uncharacteristically unrefined gulp from his wine glass. It’s hard for him to admit that.

I suspect that's as much as I'm going to get out of him on that topic for the moment, but it's one to return to, if I can get him around to the point that he'll trust me with the information. "And you're not convinced that Juli - Devorak is the culprit?"

He raises his brow as I stumble from the personal to the formal name. He's more aware of his surroundings than I expected. "Julian, mh? I'd congratulate him if he was, but I doubt he'd be able to willingly hurt a person."

"Congratulate him?" I hadn't expected that response.

"You are aware how very . . . fragile things are in the city. Of course, you are. Your questions among the illustrious company earlier were just to see if I was as well. See, Magician, if the Count remained in place, I very much doubt there'd be a city to be worried about now. His constant need of amusement emptied the treasury. He liked to think he was generous, giving the people all sorts of entertainment, but he took from them first in taxes and tariffs.” Another sip of wine soothes some of the irritation in his voice. “While the Countess' lifestyle is expensive enough, it is not bleeding everything dry."

"I see. So, why does the Countess tell me that the 'illustrious company' insists that Devorak is the guilty one? How does that serve them?"

His pale eyes are on me as he refills the glasses without looking. "I do think you already know the answer."

"So, what does it gain them? To have a patsy?" The three that I had conversed with didn't seem like they had enough concentration or intellect between them to think that far ahead, but I suppose that the witlessness could have been an act. "And the Quaestor? What’s with them?"

Valerius blinks, and his face becomes even paler as he shudders. "Ah. Them. Valdemar, the head of research. I try to block them out of my world as far as possible, and . . . I would suggest avoiding them if you can. If they were food, even Volta wouldn't be able to stomach them."

"That - " I think back to Volta's continuous munching during the gathering. "Says quite a bit. How do they relate to the other three courtiers?"

"They don't. At least not that I know of, but that says precious little these days. They may use the others as a diversion for all I know, as they may intend to do with Devorak."

"So, let's say Devorak didn't do it and shouldn't be hanged. How do I go about proving that?"

"It depends. Do you think he's still alive?"

"Why would the Countess be hunting for him if she doesn't have some reason to believe that he is?"

"Would you not prefer to have a goal instead of complex realities if you could choose to have one? And I have to admit, Devorak has proved harder to kill than the most, so she might have heard something she didn't share with me. That is how it goes, isn't it? A lack of trust and questionable secrets lead to more trouble than they're worth."

I can understand the preference for a specific goal over the complicated nature of reality. As for trust, Nadia had said that she wasn't certain of her courtiers, and my initial appraisal of them led me to agree. Except, perhaps the Consul. He had been fairly open with me, and it seemed like his intentions were honorable enough. He could be an ally - a much needed one. Someone with intact memories would be useful. "Devorak is alive."

"Good on him." He empties the glass with one gulp. "You will excuse if I forget this the moment you leave the room?"

"Forget what?” I smile surely and take another drink of the wine. I thought what the Countess served at dinner was good, but this is another level entirely. For the first time, I see him smile. It's small and barely there, but it makes him look like . . . less of a pretentious bitch, really.

"Has he learned in the past years to keep his head down?"

"Well, that would be rather difficult for him."

"You would have to teach him to spend more time on his knees, which shouldn't pose a problem for all I know." His face the usual blank and slightly tired mask.

"I, um -" I grasp for words, stuttering about as badly as Julian. I may have played my cards badly here, but they're on the table now. "I think I can manage that." I realize how bad that sounds about the time I finish the sentence. The wine. I'll blame the wine.

"You, of course, would be glad to let him get away, because you have taken a liking to him. What do your cards say about him? Have you asked them?" He is polite enough to change the subject. Not something that I would have expected from him.

"After a fashion." Technically Julian had asked the cards, but that seemed like splitting hairs. "I didn't envy what they had to say."

"You, of course, will ask your cards about me. As you will ask Portia, who will surely describe me as an amazingly boring drunkard. No, she'd probably use, let me think . . . wino?"

"It would be a bit hypocritical for me to judge you for being a wino. Classier than what I usually drink, at least." I touched the pocket of the dress where my cards were tucked away. "Would you care to know what the cards have to say about you?"

"As it would be for Portia." He shrugs and his well-tailored robes fall in dramatic folds for a moment. "It is far easier to see the little foibles of other people than your own. As for your cards, indeed, I would like to hear, even if I can't promise I will listen."

I reach into the pocket of the dress and pull out the deck. But when I unfold the fabric, the cards aren't Asra's. It's my own traditional deck, worn corners and all. Sitting back in the chair, I fan the cards in my fingers and cut the deck several times, just to convince myself that the deck truly is mine. I had transferred Asra’s deck to my pocket after getting dressed. This deck should be at the shop, tucked away in a laquered box on the back room shelf. Where I had left it. How did they come to be in my hands now?

“What is it, Magician?”

“Nothing.” I don’t understand how I’ve ended up with deck. But it’s a relief. These cards feel warm and familiar. “I was thinking. About what spread to use.” The Consul’s eyebrows raise. He sees through the statement; I said the words too quickly, but he doesn’t comment on it. Hands moving quickly, I set aside the decanter of wine, clearing space on the table between us. “Do you have a question, Consul?”

He waves a hand dismissively. “Not particularly.”

I shuffle the cards, happy to have them in my hands again. “Then past, present, and future. Cut them.”

He arches an eyebrow at me and reaches across the table, lifting up a portion of the cards, seeming a random, setting them to the side and then restacking the deck. “Go ahead, Magician.”

I deal the cards out - three rows by three columns - and flip over the uppermost left. The Knight of Pentacles upright. There are multiple ways to read any of the Knights, but I feel this one speaking to me. The whispers from the cards aren't some property of Asra’s deck then - not if they continue now. I'm not sure what I think of that . . . It was reassuring in a way to attribute the voices to the general cloud of magic that trails Asra. Now, well, maybe I'm only hearing voices. I close my eyes and repeat what I heard. “You’ve spent your life preparing to serve with nobility. You’re stern. Not just with others, but with yourself. Your pride comes from meeting the standards that were laid out for you. Competence is the only thing you actually respect.”

“Anyone could have told you that.”

“But that’s not the position you find yourself in now, Consul.” Messaging from that card - not disapproving, exactly, but disappointed - past, I slip back into myself and explain the spread. “This row is the past. The other two cards represent events or people who still influence you." I flip them over revealing the upright Two of Swords and the reversed Knight of Swords. My fingers hover over the Knight. "There was someone in your past. A different kind of egotist. Reckless. Self serving. Inattentive to detail." It whispers a name into my head . . . Lucio.

I want to ask if the card represents Lucio to the Consul - see if it’s voice holds to some exterior reality, but I hold my tongue and draw my hand back to the reversed Two of Swords. The swords held by the blindfolded figure draw attention to discord and connection between the two knights. "There were things you didn't see -" The card murmurs, nuancing the statement. “No. You saw, but you didn't want to see them. And so you ignored them."

Again, he fills our glasses, watching more me than he does the cards, pale eyes expressionless. I know he's wondering how much I'm drawing from rumors I heard or just guessing from the way he holds himself. Then he draws the Knight a little closer so he can see the illustration better. Briefly, our fingers touch, his hand icy cold.

"I suppose most of us had a man like this in our lives," he finally comments. "There are just too many of that kind out there." This is more of an admission than expected.

He’s probably right. I can think of at least one person in my present to whom the phrases egotist and inattentive to detail could apply. Reckless and self-serving might still may still be a matter of opinion. And Asra had drawn the Knight of Swords himself three days ago; albeit in a different spread and position. I return my concerns about Asra to the little caged off corner of my consciousness where they live. Right now, it’s Valerius I have questions about.

I flip over the center card, watching the Consul’s face. His eyes narrow and his fingers tighten around the stem of his wine glass. I look down. Beneath my fingertips the reversed Hierophant looks up at me.

“What does that card mean?” His question is barely a breath.

I close my eyes and wait. After a few moments I can hear him speaking. “The Hierophant hands down the traditions of the past to the uninitiated. He preserves order and guards the keys of the city, intending to bless the inhabitants. That is what he would choose to do, but he’s only a single link within a chain. He is only as good as those from whom he receives his power. Despite his good intentions he can become lost.”

"Are those cards..." His nails click nervously on the wooden table, ". . . based on concepts or on more? Actual . . . beings?" He chooses the word carefully.

I pause and think for a moment before responding. The answer is both and neither, but I don't think that will be particularly satisfactory. "What prevents a concept from being personified?"

"It is your profession to tell me that, Magician," he answers after a moment. At least, he hesitated long enough to think about the question, which can probably be considered a success with a man who was clearly determined not to engage in the kind of self reflection it takes to answer an open ended question. And, to be fair, that question is like the matter of how many angels can dance on the head of a pin. Can a concept become a person? Or a person become a concept? Much of the answer depends on how one defines the very concept of a person. Yet, I have been hearing the cards speak to me, which strikes me as a personal, not a conceptual one.

"I would say that nothing prevents it. The cards are based on the personifications of concepts. So yes, they have a personal nature."

He looks at me. Have I ever seen eyes so tired? Yes, I think, but I forgot where. He rubs his fingertips over his face again. "But they don't . . . talk to you. Pay personal visitations now and then. These are no calling cards."

I hesitate. Despite voices speaking to me of late. I've never been visited by one of the arcana, but the idea did appear in one of Asra's books. A sort of higher level intervention into human affairs. "It's not usual, but they certainly can."

"Hm."

Thoughts are rolling behind his smooth forehead, crashing uselessly against the stones of his doubts. Something worries him, and it is a complicated matter. I don’t care to dance through a tangle of deflections. Better to be direct. "Have you been visited, Consul?"

"I . . . no. It's just a silly recurring thing in my dreams. Don't even know why the card reminded me of it."

I expect him to blush, because it seems fashionable these days, but he doesn't. He drinks instead, and licks his lips.

"You rarely dream of something more than once, unless it is of significance to you." Enough images appear and reappear in my dreams. I haven’t yet discerned their meanings, but I want to believe that they signify something.

The consul muses. He taps a perfectly manicured finger against his chin then shakes his head. He’s not ready yet, but perhaps, close. "The future. Tell me about the future."

“The future can only be understood as a possible outcome of the present. Let me finish with it.” I flip over the card to the left of the Hierophant. The Eight of Swords upright. I’m silent for a moment, allowing Valerius to examine the illustration. It’s self-explanatory enough, a figure waking in distress with sword threatening to fall on their head. “Are you sure you don’t wish to tell me about these dreams of yours?”

Hesitation, again. For someone who just barely understands that there may be more between heaven and earth and certainly is not comfortable with that idea, he's being very brave. Well tempered, one might say. Even if he’s not quite ready to engage with the choices in front of him.

"The countess pays you for taking care of her business and be discreet about it, I might pay you for listening to mine one day, when you're less caught up in investigation."

Fair if frustrating. I'm painfully curious, but it isn't overly likely that Valerius's dreams are directly related to question of who killed Lucio. Unless Valerius killed Lucio, but despite his comments of congratulating whoever did the deed, something just feels wrong about that notion. Lucio is much too important to him. I return to the cards, flipping over the one to the right of the Hierophant. A second major arcana and an unfriendly one at that: the Devil.

"The way your face just fell doesn't bide well. Let me guess. The horned man stands for good fortune and unexpected love?" He must share my bad feeling when even he is trying to joke.

"Yes, and the chains represent freedom. Clearly." I pause and take a drink of wine. There’s a distinct aspect of pleasure in engaging with someone just as sarcastic as I am. And the Devil is blessedly silent, that’s not a card I care to here speaking directly to me be it hallucination or reality. "You have a good sense of the card I think. It represents being trapped, generally by our own character flaws. We think we're getting something out of continuing as we have, but in reality we're only digging ourselves deeper into a mess."

A tiny twitch in the corner of his mouth. "It seems your cards share your opinion about me.”

I shrug, but I wouldn't mind if the cards contradicted my own thoughts. I might worry less that the voices were mere figments of my imagination then. "Do you see something different in the card? The illustrations are intricate for a reason. There are general meanings for each, but they're not fixed."

"It seems to depend a lot in whose position you're in with this card. He -" He taps on the horned one. "Holds the reins, after all. Is liberated from those earthly needs men and women have. Perhaps that would not be so bad."

"Which figure do you identify with?”

Valerius muses briefly, touches on the woman then with her tail turning into leaves. "Passive, but at least not causing destruction everywhere I go. Could probably easily free my-herself if she only dared to."

He blinks, as if baffled by his own words and gives me a look that reminds me that this conversation will have never taken place as soon as I leave this room, and God help me if I speak of it again. It comes as a surprise his pretty face can look so menacing so easily.

"Should I ask why she doesn't?"

"I don't know . . ." he says, and I'm not quite sure whose question he answered.

I have another sip of wine. For a moment, I wonder if I want my memories back, if memory can be as crushing a weight as the one that lays upon him. I set the glass down and let my fingers hover over the final three cards. "The next row isn't the future per se, Valerius. It indicates a possible outcome, a likely one, if actions in the present aren't changed."

He waves a hand dismissively. "Turn them without me looking, magician. Tell me then if I want to know."

"Very well." I flip the cards over, moving from left to right. The Five of Pentacles, Justice, and the King of Pentacles, all reversed. Their voices are an incoherent cacophony, competing for attention, begging for actions to be taken that with flip them over to their upright position. The King and the Hierophant on the diagonal with the Knight Pentacles suggests the natural progression of his path should have been on to disciplined leadership, but something had led to a deviation from it, trapping him within the current disorder. "Valerius?" When in this conversation did I begin using his name rather than his title? I pause for a moment, but he doesn't reply either to encourage or discourage me. "You may not want to look, but you should."

"It will all end badly. Is it that? I know that, Dema, I know it for a time, but with the things as they are, there's no way for me to get out except for a noose."

That attitude is becoming a distressingly common theme in conversations. Fatalism must be in fashion this season.

"I don't like the idea of being a fortune teller. It suggests that the future is somehow fixed and can be told. Rather than the future being sets of more or less probable outcomes that can be inferred." I take a drink if my wine, giving him an opportunity to respond that he doesn't take. I'm not sure he's listening. "There's still free will. You're not fated to any particular outcome. Even when it feels like it. And believe me, Valerius, I understand that feeling."

"Part of my position is to plan, and to plan for the most possible way events will unfold. Your cards just taunt me with things I already know. Do you wish me to explain what they're saying? Because I understand them very well." A shaking hand reaches for his glass.

I shrug and refill my own wine glass. "It's up to you whether you wish to discuss them. I'm simply reminding you that the most likely possibility is not the only possibility. It needn't end like you think."

He laughs, and it feels like the first time that he’s done so in ages. And, it’s no laughter of mirth, just bitterness and despair. "I've been digging this grave since so many years, and here you are just telling me I don't have to lie in it? You don't tend to daydrink, do you?"

"You're wrong - on both counts. And I never said pulling yourself out it would be simple. I only said that you could."

"Maybe I'll come one day and tell you my dreams, but you're not here about that. You're here about a man you don't wish to find."

"Officially, at least. But you're wrong again. I've only told the Countess that I'll help her uncover what actually happened three years ago."

"And you see relevance in my . . ." His hand flutters gracefully through the air, ". . . bad habits?"

"I see relevance -" I pause and take another drink of wine. "In what you know. You were -” I know I’m about to step out on a bit of a limb here, but I suspect strongly that the reversed knight represents Lucio. And if nothing else, Valerius's official duties would have placed him in close contact with the Count. "Closely involved with the players. How that involvement affects you now or in the future? You're right that it may not be my actual business at the moment. But what you know of the past - I need more than hints from the cards."

"I can tell you that a lot of parties wished for Lucio's death, and that included our dear countess herself, a fact she has so gracefully forgotten. I can also tell you that I did not do it, even if that belonged to my dreams - well, those during the day. He was a forceful, lustful man, and prone to treading on anyone that wasn't clearly his superior."

It was strange to see him like this. Agitated. Emotional. And deeply, deeply conflicted about the entirety of it. Whatever had been between them, it had left deep scars. I believe him when he says he wasn't the responsible party. The denial is too uncontrolled to be anything other than sincere. "Who gained from his death?"

"Who didn't? The only ones who did not are the other three. They will be under scrutiny just as me, and-" He shakes his head. "You've seen the state of the city. Volta at least understands that things are amiss. The others . . . not so much."

"Really? Volta has the greatest insight?” I'm not shocked that Vlastomil and Vulgora are too caught up in themselves to notice anything. Volta seemed kinder, but not particularly aware of anything beyond the next morsel to go in her mouth. And Valerius has said three, not four. "What about the fourth? Valdemar?"

"Valdemar. Ha. They're above and beyond politics and human vanities. I don't dare to judge what they do, and I am sure anyone who tries will end up a victim of their science. And dear Volta . . . I’ve known her for quite a while, and she has always been well-meaning. That’s still in her somewhere, below the fear and voracious appetite." When he speaks of Volta, there’s some resemblance of affection in his voice, a little glimpse of someone who could be good man or at least, a decent one.

I set aside my once again empty glass with a sigh. "And there's nothing else you know - nothing you remember - that might help me?”

"I think, Magician, you may have to ask the right questions for the answers you are seeking." He nods briefly as he repacks his emotions and corks the bottle tightly. He's had enough of me, at least for now.

I begin to pick up my cards and consider which questions would be the right ones, even if now wasn't the time. "Thank you for the conversation, Consul. It was hardly boring."

"Do hesitate to consult me again." His features return to the cool, slightly disgusted mask, a bad case of resting bitch face to keep anyone from getting too close, but there still is the hint of a smile in the eyes, if only there. "Even though I might make time for you in my schedule. Be it just not to drink alone. But for now, a good evening to you."

***

When I return to my room, Faust is waiting for me. She’s curled around an elegant box on the table and lifts her head when the door opens and flicks her tongue at me. “And where have you been?”

“Tree!”

Not much of an answer. I scratch underneath her chin and pick up the box. It’s made of carved wood, intricately fitted together and finely finished. A note rests just inside the lid.

Dema, please accept my apologies for the behavior of my court and this small token of my regard. I think it will complement your eyes. - N.

Underneath the note, a sapphire pendant on a silver chain rests on a folded piece of silk. It’s gorgeous. Far, far more than a small token, at least in any world other than the Countess’s rarefied one. The jewel almost vibrates as my fingers touch it. Asra. This . . . more than anything I found in the shop, feels of Asra. Why?

I don’t have time for that. It’s late. The halls are empty and the garden should be abandoned by now. A good time to try again to see if I can contact Asra through the fountain. I take the sapphire from the box and tuck it into my pocket, nestled beside my tarot deck. Setting the casket back down on the table I extend my arm to Faust. She coils around it and works her way up to my shoulders.

“Asra?”

“Let’s try at least.”

I sit on the edge of the fountain and listen to splashing water. Will this work? Is the energy I felt on the sapphire actually Asra's, or just some trick of my very lonely imagination? Faust slithers up the side of the fountain and around my arm. I run a finger over her cool head then take the sapphire from my pocket, holding it out over the water. “Here goes nothing.” With a couple of deep breaths to clear my mind of any thoughts other than Asra, I let go of the chain allowing the jewel to drop into the fountain with a hollow plop. The water ripples, then as it stills, Asra's face appears and slowly comes into focus. He pushes his hair back from his face, looks surprised for a moment, and then smiles broadly.

“Dema, you did it! You figured this spell out!”

“I, I needed to talk to you. Asra, so much has happened.” I gnaw on my bottom lip and glance away from the fountain before looking back. “I think I might be in over my head.”

Asra's brows furrow with worry. “Hold out your hand. I want to try something.”

I extend my hand over the fountain. The water around Asra quivers, then coalesces rising from the surface and forming into a hand. The fingers wrap around mine and tug gently. I grip them and pull back. Slowly more of the water rises from the fountain, shaping itself into a shimmering likeness of Asra. He looks around and then flicks his wrist sharply. The water falls away, leaving him standing in the fountain, water up to his knees, but very much present.

“I didn't know if that would work. This fountain must connect to some powerful sort of magic, if it can act as this sort of portal.” He steps out of the fountain and looks down at me, a warm smile playing on his lips. “Dema, you look . . . ethereal. You’re practically glowing in that dress.”

“Asra.” I don’t feel glowing or ethereal. I feel like I’m sinking, being pulled down into a place that I don’t want to be in again. I pull his hand to my face, and he runs his thumb along my jaw before and sitting down beside me. His hands close gently around my shoulders, and he pulls me closer to him, letting me press my face to his chest and rubbing his hands over my back. He’s warm, and solid, and real, and the best of the many unsatisfactory connections I have to reality. There’s a burning behind my eyes, the frustrated, anxious tears that I’ve been refusing to give in to for the past days. My breath catches in my throat and when I can finally draw another, it’s ragged and stammering in my chest. Asra’s arms tighten around me, and I feel his lips pressing against the top of my head.

“Dema, it can't be all that bad.”

“I - I'm confused.” I snuggle closer to him. “So much has happened, and I think I might be going mad - again. Asra, the cards are literally talking to me. Not intuitions, not senses, actually speaking. And not just your deck - mine too.”

“You’re not mad.” He pushes me back away, just enough enough to look in my eyes. “I promise.” His hands move to mine, turning them over, thumbs running over the insides of my wrists and my palms.

“Can they speak?” I rephrase the same questions Valerius answered earlier. The one that I couldn’t quite answer either to my own, or to the Consul’s satisfaction. “Are they just representations of powers, archons, whatever? Or actual . . . persons?”

“It’s . . . complex. Some are more personal than others. But -” He pulls me back against him, hands soothing over my back. “You’re not just hearing voices, though. You’re more connected, attuned to the arcana than most are. That’s all.”

“I’m not sure I want to be.”

Asra’s only response is to tuck my head under his chin and hold me tighter to him. He’s quiet for the space of one, two, three breaths, then lifts his head. I take a deep breath and speak again. “That’s not everything.” Without extracting myself from his embrace, I run through the events of the past few days. Nadia's game with the cards, her plans to execute Julian, how I didn't think he had murdered the Count, and Portia was his sister. And why, why did it honestly feel like I knew him? I straighten up as I talk, pulling away from Asra. “Did I know him, Asra? You did. I found, in the library, um . . .”

Asra looks away from me, gaze moving to the willow tree. He sighs and speaks carefully, holding my hand tightly in his. “You knew him. And, yes, I knew him.”

“Who was he to you?”

Asra closes his eyes; his thumb runs over my knuckles. “A friend once, then something more. Ultimately, more than I could risk - not at that time. Dema, please, be careful around him. He's not necessarily sometime you should trust.”

“I'm not sure who exactly I should trust.”

Asra's expression saddens, and his cheeks redden slightly. He looks down to where are hands are still entwined. “I'm sorry that I haven't been that person for you. I'd never hurt you on purpose, I promise.”

“Asra.” I pull my fingers free and then cup his face in my hands, lifting his chin just enough for his eyes to meet mine. Maybe, just maybe, he’ll finally answer my questions. “Who am I to you?”

His eyebrows lift ever so slightly, and he closes his eyes. He turns his head and presses his lips to my palm, lips lingering against my skin. “Dema, sometimes I fear I'll be crushed under the weight of everything you are to me. You aren't my student . . . not really. I've taught you nothing that didn't already know.” He pauses, then reaches out reversing our poses and placing a hand on either side of my face. “Sometimes I'm scared that you'll see everything you are to me and it will be too much for either of us. So I have to escape, to hide. But -” He leans forward, touching his forehead to mine. “I want you to know. I don't want to have to continue keeping secrets from you. I want you to remember.”

“Remember what? Asra?”

His fingertips hover over my collarbone, then just a little lower, not quite touching the left side of my chest. “You're my very heart, Dema.”

I close my eyes, his face as I first saw it - shocked, terrified, relieved - folds the space behind it. Then I feel myself falling through smoke, glimpses of memories, Asra in each. Younger, wilder - lacking his studied detachment. And each memory is mine. I'm running through Vesuvia with him, dancing to the music of what must be the masquerade, kissing on street corners while ignoring the pouring rain. We were . . . I crash back into my body, ears ringing and temples pounding. Clutching my head, I fall forward with a pitiful moan, back against Asra's chest.

I feel cool fingers running through my hair. “I'm so sorry, my love. This, all this, is never what I wanted. Never what I intended.” Asra's voice is sad. “But here we are. And I'm so sorry to have made you remember, and so sorry to make you forget.” His lips press against my forehead and the world around me disappears.

Faust is curled around me when I wake by the fountain. I must have fallen asleep while trying to contact Asra. The last thing I remember is dropping the sapphire pendant into the water and watching the ripples spread access the fountain. I suppose it didn't work. A scarf I recognize as one of Asra’s is folded under my head. Odd? Must have brought that back from the shop. Yawning, I stand and lean over the water to fish out the pendant. I can try again tomorrow night. Or maybe, Asra will be home by then.

Chapter Nine

A/N: @ilyarium co-wrote this chapter - particularly the material with Consul Valerius.

Chapter title from Audioslave.

#the arcana #arcana fanfiction #consul valerius #pontifex vulgora #procurator volta #vlastomil #quaestor valdemar #asra alnazar #asra x apprentice #asra x mc #whatever i've done #my writing #dema

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firethebluesky · 5 years

Text

Sparring

The majority of the boat ride from Barnarock to Portia you spend talking Wuwa's ear off about your accomplishments in your hometown- how you won merit awards in school, how your engineering skills made you big money, how everyone called you the strongest woman in Barnarock. Wuwa said you'd be on the water for hours, and you have to occupy the time with something. He doesn't seem like the most talkative of folk, so you take it upon yourself to entertain both him and you. On and on you go, hour after hour of your achievements- there's just so many! You're beginning to think that Wuwa is getting sick of listening to your voice going on and on when he calls out to you.

"We're coming up on Portia!" He shouts up to you at the prow of the boat from the wheel, pointing beyond to the landmass ahead. The rolling green hills and sprawling farmlands seem to go on forever, only interrupted by a small town right in the center. Massive spires rise up above the town, reminiscent of times past and a world of long ago. You have to wonder just how many of those ruins are infested with monsters, and what sort of valuable materials you'll find within them. Wuwa keeps talking behind you, saying something about ruin diving, to which your ears perk up. Still daydreaming about the glory and grandeur you'll achieve when you come out of the ruins with your arms full of loot, you dreamily reply to him, mind on anything but the conversation.

The harbor is quickly approaching, you realize, but the boat is still traveling at an alarming speed. Wuwa must be a madman to come at the docks so fast. You grasp onto the rail is the boat as he steers into the bay, heart dropping to your stomach as he comes to a staggeringly quick halt next to the dock. You send a dirty look back at him for bringing you so close to death when you still have so much to live for and so much money to make.

You hop off the boat the minute it's tied, not wanting to spend another second on that death trap, but also to show Wuwa who's boss. But the instant your feet touch solid ground, you're nearly knocked off your feet with nausea. Your legs wobble in a valiant effort to stay upright, and you grasp at anything around you to keep you upright. Wuwa laughs at you as he nimbly leaps off the boat behind you, his portly figure rattling the wood to what send like the point of breaking. You remind yourself under your breath to fix the dock the next time you're here, otherwise, anyone might take an unfortunate tumble into the frigid water unexpectedly.

A few minutes of calming exercises and deep breathing later, you open your eyes to find a man with a very well manicured mustache waiting for you at the end of the dock. Legs still shaking, you stand carefully and walk over to him. He introduces himself to you as Presley, and the name stirs up memories of old black and white photos on the walls of your old home. Presley leads you away from the water towards a dirt road leading up the small town you noticed on your entry. A short lane lined with rickety buildings comprises the Portia Harbor. It seems deserted, save for Wuwa, who had seemingly disappeared, Presley, and yourself.

As you're walking down the road parallel to the water, listening to Presley chat about market rates and telesis, a thunderous sound takes your attention. You throw your gaze up to the sky, looking for the black clouds that indicate a nearing storm, but find none. You're about to tap Presley on the shoulder and ask if invisible thunderstorms are common in Portia when you notice a growing dust cloud behind a hill. From behind the hill, three shapes come into focus: a girl with blond hair and a pink jacket, a man with bright green hair, and another man with red hair and a vibrant blue scarf round his neck. All three are on horseback, coming closer by the second. The girl and the green haired man seem to be racing each other, judging by their speed and the smiling jeers they send at each other. The red-headed man lags behind, taking up a more conservative and comfortable pace. The girl and man roar past you and Presley, barely taking the time to steer around you. You throw yourself onto the grass on the side of the road to avoid being trampled. Presley does no such thing, simply stepping to the side and watching as they race by. The third rider stops next to Presley, glancing once at you as you pick yourself up off the ground. They engage in a quick conversation, then he rides off without a second look at you.

"How rude!" You say to Presley as you once again start your trek up to town. "He didn't even offer to help me up! Does everyone in town treat newcomers with such disdain? If they do, I can't imagine I'll be wanting to stay here very long!"

Presley laughs gently, smiling across at you. You're just slightly taller than him, and you used that stature to your advantage, straightening up to look more imposing.

"That's just Arlo." Presley looks on down the road, where the girl is triumphantly pumping her fists in the air in victory. The green haired one looks like he's taking the loss well with a wide grin on his face. Arlo rides up next to them and leads them on, heading off towards the waterfalls. "He's not usually like that, but he can be known to be a bit... single-minded when it comes to work." The two of you take a left at the fork, heading towards the gates, leaving the water at your backs. "A new group of Illusion Bunnies has sprung up on the west side of town, apparently, and the panbat infestation on the east wall is only getting worse. The Civil Corps has their work cut out for them."

You take in this new information as Presley leads you to a dilapidated building outside the city walls. He introduces it to you as your "new workshop", but the place is nowhere near new. The door looks like it's nearly off its hinges, and the fence couldn't even keep out a slight breeze. The whole place looks like it's about to fall apart. For all the talking you did about your abilities, you have a hard time picturing yourself ever getting the place back to its former glory. Presley hands you a letter, the script you recognize as your Pa's. You skim it briefly, not really bothering to read it. As far as you're concerned, your father is dead.

Presley leaves you standing there in front of the workshop, with instructions to meet him at somewhere called the Commerce Guild in Peach Plaza the next day. Such a tacky name, you think. In Barnarock, things are so much classier. And cleaner, after a quick look at the rot and mold accumulating within the walls of your new home. You quickly shred up the letter in your hands and toss in on the ground, promising to clean it up later once you've found a proper trash receptacle.

A wave of nausea hits you hard, doubling you over with pain in your stomach. Leaning against the wall, you empty the contents of your lunch onto the ground, before stumbling inside and collapsing on your bed, curled up.

You spend the night in and out of sleep, tossing and turning uncomfortably as draft after draft courses through the house, creating shrill whistles and deep moans that keep you awake. The thin blanket covering you does nothing to keep out the cool of the night. When you wake up, stepping outside to feel the eastern sunrise on your face, you resolve the first thing you'll do in Portia is fix those big gaps in the floor.

After dressing in yesterday's outfit, you head up to the Commerce Guild right as it opens at eight. Presley is there, waiting for you, along with some pink haired teenager who's clearly quite fashionable. Deep down, you're mildly impressed. Presley instructs you to make an axe and pick as your builder's test. Wuwa must have told Presley about you, because he cuts you off as you open your mouth to complain that you don't need a test to prove yourself. Deflated, you exit the Commerce Guild and set off into the sparse woods outside the wall, collecting sticks and rocks off the ground. You find the worktable in your yard, right where Presley said it would be, and start to fashion a very rudimentary axe and pick. Your work is really quite sloppy, and you berate yourself for not taking better care with your work. But this backwards town wouldn't notice if you built the best axe in the world, and most certainly wouldn’t the absolutely incorrigible job you did binding the axe head to the handle. So you bring it to Presley, who's chilling outside a small cafe. He barely even looks at the work you did before sending you off on another task, this time to build a stone furnace. You walk off, laughing quietly. You probably could’ve handed him an elastic arm stretcher and he’d think it was an axe.

Instead of working, you decide to take some time to explore around the town, and get to know the people you'll be sharing air with. Django introduces himself as a knight, which you scoff at. What's a knight doing running a restaurant? Sonya's voice gets on your nerves, Alice is too soft-spoken for your liking, and Martha can't and won’t stop going on about her son, Toby, and how stressed he makes her. Honestly, who cares? Really, the only interesting person you meet is Oaks, who is clearly the town lunatic. Who else would dress up as a bear and dig through the trash for food?

Central Plaza is bustling with people walking through as you enter. Buildings surround a large tree in the center of the area, casting some cooling shade on the people exercising under it. You're taking in the buildings around you when someone bumps into you, knocking you down to the ground. There's a flash of red and blue in the corner of your eye as a hand reaches down to help you up. Brushing yourself off, you notice the wall you hit was none other than Arlo himself. He looks down on you with disdain in his face, as if it's your fault he bumped into you.

"Look where you're going," You sneer up at your assailant. "Didn't your mother ever teach you not to knock people over? And you'd think a member of the local Civil Corps would be just a tad bit more courteous." Arlo just stares at you with that same deadpan look in his eyes.

"It wouldn't kill you to be just a little bit nicer." You continue, not noticing how Arlo is clenching his fist in anger. "People would actually want to talk to you then."

Arlo scoffs at you. "And yet here we are. Talking."

"Don't confuse wanting and needing." You hope that crossing your arms and widening your stance presents a stronger and more imposing appearance. "I'm still waiting for an apology, you know."

When Arlo doesn't give you one, you put your fists up in a fighting stance. "I'll spar you then." Arlo stands there, disbelief written all over his face. A small smirk appears in his mouth, and you can't help but be attracted to the way his mouth moves. You also notice the well-manicured goatee he sports, one you hadn't noticed the first time you looked. The more you look, the more attracted you become.

What am I doing? You think, and in response, shake your head to clear it and tighten your fighting stance.

"Are you scared?" The jeer comes out sharper than you expected. But you're on a roll and you can't stop now. "I bet you're scared! That's why you're just standing there, unwilling to fight me! You're scared to fight the-"

"-The strongest woman in Barnarock?" Arlo cuts you off, and you snap your head up, wondering how he knew- "Your 'title'? Wuwa told us all about your prior accomplishments at the Round Table last night." The word 'title' is heavily laced with sarcasm. "I know all about you. But trust me when I say that your efforts will be fruitless. I don't make it a habit of sparring people who aren't the same level as me." He finishes.

You're not the kind of person to let your honor go mocked, so you hit Arlo as hard as you can in the chest. You manage to get in a couple of punches before Arlo lashes out with a single punch to your jaw. You go down in an instant, the air completely knocked out of you as you hit the cobblestones. You lay there, starting up at the bluest sky you've ever seen, white spots fading in and out of your vision. Arlo appears over you, not offering his hand this time.

"I don't lose," he simply says before he walks off down the street, leaving you there to collect yourself. Two little girls over by a set of swings giggle at you behind their hands. They scamper away behind a tree when they notice you looking at them. You stick your tongue out at them as they disappear, sitting up and rubbing the back of your head as you do.

You watch Arlo walk up the stairs, heading further into town. He's got a slight swagger when he walks, and his hair swishes back and forth in the wind just so, and you can just imagine the hands that just knocked you down wrapped around yours as you stroll through town-

You're so screwed now. Ugh.

#my time at portia #arlo my time at portia #mtap #arlo is too good looking for his own good #and his quests later on are so cute #we all just need our own arlo #please lord please #my works

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greybat · 6 years

Text

Tomorrow

Summary: It's execution day for the deadly roach, Dr. Julian Devorak. He stands at the gallows, drenched in dismal self-pity, realizing not even Xixa is there to support him. Nadia feels a quiet sense of triumph, finally seeing the murderer with a noose 'round his neck.

However, she gets a surprise when the citizens of Vesuvia - the very ones she's striving to protect from the bloodthirsty Devorak - march to the square, chanting: Free Doctor Jules!

Ao3 Link

This is ~4.5k long. So, be warned!

A thick cord of rope, pulled taut against his throat, scraped against Julian’s pale skin. Tight bindings criss-crossed his wrists behind his back, lacerating his flesh. Already, he could feel red welts rising, fading thanks to his curse, and rising again with every shift of the damned ropes. The thick knot pressed against the base of his skull, at the edge of his occipital bone. He breathed unevenly, shallowly, staring out at the audience. Courtiers and their families shifted impatiently, quietly giddy for the macabre spectacle. His stomach lurched, realizing there were children in the crowd.

Farther, on a lavishly decorated dais, seated on above the upper-crust and the elite, the Countess stared at him. Her cold red eyes stabbed against Julian’s heart. A tent of fabric shielded her from the sun. However, the day turned out to be overcast and grey, the scent of oncoming rain on the air. Dreary and dank, like his future.

Briefly, with a smarmy thought, Julian thought Nadia shielded herself behind rich tapestries from her own guilt, her own retribution from the heavens. Though, he was the one that sat beneath the bare sky, noose around his neck and life line slowly dwindling to an end. There’d be no tomorrow, no next week, no next year. Just today and then… nothing.

Beneath the curtained dais with her, a silver-haired magician sat at her right-hand side, a white snake coiled up their arm. Asra.

Julian’s eye quickly moved away, seeking another. Looking for dark teal hair and opalescent eyes. He didn’t expect to find Portia in the crowd – to think his little sister watching him do the Dead Man’s Jig was too much – but he thought Xixa would be there. Silently offering him support in his last moments. However, it seemed the apprentice didn’t find him worth the effort.

His heart floundered in his chest. So, this is how it would end. His gaze shifted to the boards beneath his feet, tracing the outline of the trap door. Once that door gave way, once the world flew out from under his feet, cheers would erupt from the crowd. A cold chill writhed its way through his stomach. No friendly face, no sobbing for his fate. Just smiles and laughter as he jostled at the end of the rope. How long would the curse allow him to struggle, gasping for breath? Or would the rope be kind, snapping his neck quickly and efficiently?

A chill sunk into his bones, resisting the urge to glance around for Xixa again. Oh, how utterly alone he was.

Unaware – not as if she’d care – of Julian’s inner swamp of loneliness, Nadia rose from her makeshift throne. The courtiers and elites hushed as she moved, watching her with eyes wide. Mentally, she could see some of the more vicious salivating at the thought of the upcoming spectacle. Despite her sense of victory, Countess Nadia found a tiny sliver of disgust with the proceeding. However, that roach had killed the Count – her husband – on the night of his birthday with merciless fire. He should be glad she didn’t choose to flay and quarter him, as punishment.

Even as she considered that thought, Countess Nadia knew she never would issue such a ruling. The very idea churned her stomach. No, hanging was much more civilized… At least, that’s what she tried to convince herself.

“Today, we finally put an end to Dr. Devorak’s reign of terror.” Nadia’s crisp voice rang out over the assemblage, echoing down the quiet streets. Her hand sliced through the air, as if illustrating the definite end. “He shall no longer stalk the streets of Vesuvia, threatening the good people with his miasma of death, his aura of-”

“Are you seriously talking about that man?” A grizzled cackle from Nadia’s left elbow broke her speech.

The Countess started, spinning on her heel to stare at the spot the voice came. It seemed to sound from the very fabric. As attention turned to the spot on the curtain, though, a shrouded figure stepped forward. A second ago, everyone would have sworn that the shawl blended in perfectly with the curlicue pattern of the rich fabrics. But, upon closer inspection, the figure’s shawl wasn’t of a luxurious orange and pink, but a dusty blue.

At the interruption, Julian managed to bring his head up. Staring toward the Countess’s dais, the man could hardly believe his eye. Was that figure truly… “Mazelinka?”

Nadia glared down her nose at the woman, bewildered at the sudden interference of her longtime triumph. The woman didn’t appear to be a threat, though guards were scrambling toward the stairs of her dais. Nadia raised a hand to her protectors. There was no need to hassle an old woman. “Who are you?”

“That doesn’t matter. Listen,” Mazelinka, unperturbed by the bristling guards, pointed to the sky. A hum buzzed on the wind, faint and far, yet coming from all around Vesuvia. Nadia’s eyes widened, deciphering the words a moment before they became clearer.

“Free Doctor Jules! Free Doctor Jules! Free Doctor Jules!” The words echoed on the breeze, becoming louder with each passing moment. In the distance, a raven cawed in time to the beat.

For once, Nadia and Julian shared a look – across the gallows’ audience – of utter bewilderment. She looked to him, imagining a smug smirk on his roachy lips. He thought he’d find a calm complacency on the woman’s features. Instead, their wide eyes met over the people, and their hearts jolted with shock. What in the world was going on?

“The reason your guards had problems hunting down this lad isn’t due to his criminal ingenuity,” Mazelinka sucked at her teeth, a wry smirk curling at her lips at the thought. Her grin only broadened as Nadia returned her gaze toward the old woman. “The boy trips over his own feet trying to make an impression, dear.

“We hid him.” Mazelinka pointed to herself then motioned out toward the city. The demands for freedom echoed off the buildings, ricocheting around the gallows and audience. Nadia’s eyes widened, slow comprehension dawning in her mind as Mazelinka continued, “We bungled your guards’ investigations. We cared for him when he’d deny himself that luxury.”

Julian, caught up in the surreal unfoldings, started at the touch of cold fingertips fluttered across his neck. The weight of the abrasive noose lifted. He turned, finding opalescent eyes and a smile.

“I’m here,” Xixa whispered as the tears flooded his eyes. Her fingers felt like a salve on his flesh and her presence a sheer blessing. His heart sang, unable to believe the sight. Perhaps he had already hanged and this was merely a dead man’s dream.

Whatever this was, he couldn’t stop himself. Julian threw himself at her, sobs bubbling up from deep in his chest as he buried his face against the juncture of her neck and shoulder. Her warmth kissed his cold body. Relief burst through his confusion. No matter what happened, Xixa was here. The woman cooed softly, rubbing his back with one hand as her other went to fumble with the ropes at his wrists. Her stomach reeled slightly, finding blood-slick ropes, but she had a job.

“We, the citizens of Vesuvia, do not fear Doctor Ilya Devorak.” By this time, a great many bodies were flooding the city streets. Mazelinka had managed to get close enough to Nadia for the Countess to see the hard gleam of ferocity in the old woman’s eye: “And that begs the question: Why do you fear him, Countess?”

“Free Doctor Jules! Free Doctor Jules!” The mantra echoed around the square, punctuated by the raven. The courtiers and upper-class held their breath, eyes wide, drinking in the sheer drama of it all. Some glanced at each other nervously, recognizing their vulnerable position as more and more people surrounded the square. Revolutions didn’t end well for the upper-crust.

A wave of dizzying shock and uncertainty crashed over Nadia. What in the world was happening? Had these people truly protected her husband’s murderer? She raised a hand to her temple as her red gaze flickered over the growing sea of people. They ranged from young to old; skinny to portly; sickly to healthy. Lowly peasants, with more grime on them than clothes, to middle-class merchants.

The gleam of palace gilt caught Nadia’s attention; even some guards and servants?! Nadia’s heart thrummed, painfully, as her gaze snagged on a redheaded handmaiden. Shaking the sickly recognition away, the Countess turned her gaze elsewhere.

Her eyes skimmed across the square, onto Devorak, and her blood went cold.

The apprentice held the accused in her arms! The man hunched over, shaking – was he crying? - as Xixa managed to slide the restraints from his wrists. He didn’t pull away, didn’t make a break for freedom. Instead, his arms looped around the woman, crushing her close, breathing in her scent. Xixa buried her head against him, one hand sifting through his hair and the other on his shoulder.

As if feeling Nadia’s gaze, Xixa pulled away far enough to turn her eyes toward the Countess. A fearless look in her puffy, red-rimmed eyes. The woman didn’t look as if she had slept all night, though it didn’t seem she had been sobbing into her pillow, either. Nadia grasped tightly at her shawl, the silky fabric kissing her fingertips. Was Xixa part of this? Was she responsible for this? A flush of anger mingled with confusion, Nadia’s brain trying to solve this sudden puzzle.

“Nadia.” From her right, someone’s soft voice soothed. She turned flashing red eyes toward Asra. Was he, too, going to betray her? He laid a gentle hand on her shoulder, worry gleaming in his violet eyes. “The people have spoken.”

The Countess remained tight-lipped and wide-eyed. She stared down at the magician, brain scrabbling to make sense of this. Did everyone simply pretend to assist her? Were they all laughing at her, behind her back? Oh, the foolish Countess! Nadia clenched her fists, the flash of rage arching across her cheeks and landing in her chest.

“Lucio was not a kind man. He overtaxed the lower-classes, terrified the servants, and mutilated anyone who stood up to him.” Asra swallowed, giving Nadia’s shoulder a squeeze. Faintly, her rage subsided as the magician recounted memories she had lost. He glanced across the audience, toward Julian. The doctor seemed to be an intense conversation with Xixa, both making harsh and abrupt motions with their hands. Nadia followed his gaze toward the doctor, her attention briefly caught by his eye patch. Mutilation echoed in her brain. Asra murmured, pain laced in his words, “Where did that leave these people?”

Nadia fell silent, her mind mulling over the refreshed details. Around her, the chant ‘Free Doctor Jules! Free Doctor Jules! Free Doctor Jules!’ continued, though it had become a background hum with raised fists, clapping hands, and stomping feet.

“The whole city of Vesuvia is chanting for your release,” Xixa’s screech cut through the turmoil, “And you’re not going to escape!?”

The apprentice had pushed Julian to arm’s length, her opalescent eyes fiery with annoyance and frustration. Only this man – this man – would not take the opportunity the very community gave him. She wanted to scream. Again.

When the sudden silence filtered into Xixa’s ears, she looked around, face going red. So many eyes turned toward her. From poor beggars to the richest of courtiers, everyone turned their attention to the apprentice.

“I told you to be careful with screaming.” Julian softly chuckled, somehow finding humor in such a setting. Though, the amusement didn’t quite reach his sad gaze. “Now everyone’s heard you.”

“Oh, don’t you fucking start, Julian.” Tears pricked at Xixa’s eyes, threatening to down her cheeks. It was too late to convince the doctor to run. The protest had been silenced – even if it wasn’t intentional – and now all eyes were on them. Julian couldn’t sneak away, now.

The man pressed a gentle kiss to Xixa’s lips, before pulling completely away. Her sniffles sliced through his heart, but his feet guided him down the stairs of the gallows. The crowd parted before him, fright emanating from the courtiers and nobles. Oh, the touch of a plague doctor, a murderer! He could imagine the things they thought…

Then, beyond the rich, were the regular people. The poor and downtrodden, those who struggled to get by, then the merchants – who hovered between poor and rich. So many had filled the streets, so many chanting his name, demanding his freedom. A warmth swelled in Julian’s chest.

“I don’t know if I killed your husband, Countess.” His grey eye locked on the Countess. She watched him coming. A small contingent of loyal guards lined her viewing stage from the crowd, swords unsheathed as the doctor came closer. He stopped three feet from the guards, ignoring the gleam of swords as he continued to speak, “If my life for his will soothe your pain, I’ll accept that. What I won’t accept are these people giving their lives for mine.”

Julian motioned out toward the crowd. Toward the peasants, the beggars, the cityfolk, the shoppe owners. If he ran, Nadia could punish these people. Devorak sympathizers could be tortured or put to death, in his place. Though, the Countess didn’t seem like the sort, being denied a long-time victory could warp many a mind. He couldn’t swallow the thought of so many people giving up so much for him. He wasn’t worth it. Didn’t they see that?

“Damn foolish, boy!” Mazelinka hissed, fists at her sides as her fiery gaze turned to him.

The Countess stared down at him, eyes narrowed. Was this a ploy? Or genuine? But what fool would stand before a line of guards if he intended to flee?

“I’m inclined to agree with this woman.” Nadia finally announced, eyebrows lowering. Her hand arched out toward the crowd, motioning to the writhing, silent mass. “These people didn’t come together by predetermined destiny, Devorak. Someone had to rouse them, someone had to convince them, someone had to make them aware. That… endeavor took time. Someone lost sleep over this shenanigan.”

The realization struck Julian. Someone had lost sleep over him to organize this protest. It should have been obvious, of course, but he could miss the obvious. His gaze flickered toward Mazelinka, who crossed her arms and gave an almost imperceptible shake of her head. Julian’s gaze flickered back toward Xixa, shocked to find her at his elbow.

Shrouded in silence, arms crossed, she didn’t turn to meet his gaze. It didn’t matter. The bags under her teary eyes were evidence of more than one sleepless night, recently. Guilt clawed at his guts. How could he have overlooked that? How long had she stayed up, concocting this plan? Getting people to agree? Finding people to fight for him?

“And you aren’t even going to give them the honor of seeing you run off, to live another day?” Nadia’s voice bordered on revulsion. What kind of self-serving murderer was this roach, Devorak?

Julian turned away from Xixa, hanging his head. His eye concentrated on the ground, the dirt, where he belonged. He felt weak. His knees gave out under him, lowering himself to the dust. He closed his eye, croaking out, “You’re right, Countess. I don’t deserve their good graces.”

“Ilya,” Asra quietly snarled, voice a mixture of annoyance and disgust. How much could one man shrug off this much providence?

Nadia raised her hand to the magician, cutting off any other harsh words he had for the doctor. Asra tossed the woman a curious look. The Countess’s red eyes didn’t break from Julian’s bow-headed form, though. Calculations and judgment ticked away behind her gaze. Her line of guards silently waited, grasping their weapons, for their lady’s final decree.

“My husband was not kind. Compassion was not a mercy he gave.” Nadia’s voice sounded across the square, strong and vibrant. Her lips pressed together, faint memories – translucent and watered down – and feelings rising to the surface. “He thought he was fair, at least. An eye for an eye.” She paused, briefly, as Julian twitched. Apparently, the saying struck a cord with him. “If I take your life to avenge my husband’s, what does that make me?”

The doctor remained silent, hands weakly folded in his laps. He barely heard the Countess. He simply waited for his fate. He didn’t deserve mercy and he doubted he’d receive it.

Nadia continued to stare at the redheaded doctor. Lips pressed together as she considered the man. He looked pathetic, kneeling in the dust, bent double. Waiting for death. What ever did the apprentice – did Vesuvia – see in this man? However, could she send him to the gallows for being pathetic? That was something Lucio would do… and that thought made a sickness clench at her chest.

“It… It makes me wrong. It makes me no better than the late Count.” Nadia’s volume increased, her voice ringing out over the accumulated bodies. Her gaze tore away from the doctor, piercing the poor with her livid red gaze. With a grand, sweeping gesture, she indicated the people surrounding the gallows and the audience, her scarf flying out like a wing. “I see the lifeblood of Vesuvia in this square. Pumping and beating and willing to spill for your safety, doctor.”

The Countess fell silent, hazarding a glance toward Asra. The magician watched her, attention rapt. Her gaze flicked to Xixa, the woman’s opalescent eyes dull, yet hopeful. Then, finally, Nadia returned to Julian’s bowed head. She narrowed her eyes, her lips pursing around her words. “I will give the people what they want.”

Xixa’s eyes widened, hand pressed over her lips, her gaze flickering to Julian. He didn’t move. Confusion rippled through the crowd, uncertain of Nadia’s meaning. They were too used to double-talking politicians to take her words at face value.

“We want blood!” A courtier shot out of their seat, shrieking.

“It will not be the doctor’s blood that is spilled,” threatened the Countess, whipping her red gaze to the courtier. She was tired and exhausted from the strain of the day. Her eyes widened with anger, pinning the courtier with rage. “I’m sure the citizens of Vesuvia have suggestions. Wish to try them?”

The courtier visibly gulped, shaking their head and returning to their seat, a bit more stiffly than before.

Annoyed, Nadia added with a bite, “You’re free, Julian Devorak.”

That seemed to jostle the man from his continual melancholia. The man turned a wide, grey-eyed stare toward the Countess, mouth agape. The blunt words sunk into the crowd at the edges, cheering and singing began from the corners of the citizenry. Malak screamed triumphantly. Julian swung his gaze toward Xixa as she dropped to her knees in front of him.

He barely had a chance to brace himself as the woman fell into him, head lolling against his chest. Julian yelped, grasping the woman by her shoulders as he peered down at her. Worry teetered into his voice, “Xixa?”

“Child’s dead tired. She was running all over the city with your sister, last night. Stirring people up, putting boots up drunkards’ asses.” Mazelinka seemed to appear out of nowhere. The last of the loyal guard regiment were dispersing, following their beloved Countess and her magician back to the palace. The old woman peered over Julian’s shoulder, watching Xixa. “This wasn’t her only sleepless night, you know.”

“She hadn’t come to visit me the last couple nights.” Julian sighed, his fingers rubbing absently into her shoulders. Tears welled up in his eyes. Residual despair, guilt, newfound happiness, inability to accept Nadia’s ruling. There were so many reasons – both sad and happy – to cry.

“Mmm, people do crazy things when sleep-deprived,” Mazelinka sighed and gave a nod. “And in love. Well, congratulations, Ilya.”

Julian nodded absently, eye drawn to Xixa as he caressed her cheek.

“Wait, what?” Mazelinka’s words finally sunk into his brain. His gaze flashed toward her retreating back, his brain a hurricane of thoughts and emotions. His breath came out in a haggard gasp, excitement licking up his throat. “What has Xixa told you? Mazelinka!”

He moved to go after the woman, before Xixa’s weight on him gave him pause. Julian forced himself to ease, settling back on his heels again.

“Juli…lya... shhhh,” slurred Xixa, shifting against Julian, bringing his gaze gack to her. His heart stopped, heat racing up his spine as the woman inadvertently combined his names. His ears burned, embarrassed by how much her voice weaving around those syllables affected him. Heart thundering, spine-tingling, skin prickling reactions at merely mashed up syllables. Xixa’s hand shifted against his sides, grabbing at the dirty fabric of his shirt. She sighed, nuzzling her face against his chest, her breathing returning to its deep, even, sleepy pace.

She wasn’t able to keep her eyes closed long, though. The sounds of song and cheering increased, the crowd of citizens pressing closer as courtiers and guards made their exit. Xixa cracked an eye open as people clapped Julian on his shoulder, delivering equal parts congratulations for his freedom and derision for his prior surrender. She sighed, pushing back from Julian’s chest as the words fell onto his ears. “Congratulations! Not many can walk away from the gallows!”

“We marched all th’ way here, ‘nd you were still gunna give yerself up, y’turd!” Someone clipped Julian’s ear, playfully, before ruffling his hair and moving on.

“That’s Ilya for you, idn’t it,” cackled a woman.

A thick-armed man, smelling of ale and alcohol, gave a hearty laugh as he clapped both hands on Julian’s shoulders. “I’m going to charge you twice as much for the trouble, boy!”

Julian flushed under all the attention, allowing himself to be rocked to and fro by the jostling touches. He mumbled gratitudes and flashed charismatic smiles at the people. Shock settled over his shocks, numbing the sheer impossibility of it all. These were the faces of past patients, shopowners, bartenders, barflies, market goers, beggars… he didn’t know how he touched all their lives, but apparently he had, in some way. At least, enough for them to be bothered to request his freedom.

There was a sudden silence, a parting in the crowd, a wave of whispers as someone shoved their way through the throngs. Xixa’s eyes drew to the cleave in the crowd, an understanding passing her features as she got to her feet. Julian’s brow creased, following her lead. Before he could ask Xixa what was wrong, his little sister barreled through the people.

“Ilya!” As she broke through, her gaze fell on him. Large tears welled up in her eyes, streaming down her cheeks as she rushed to him. Using her inertia, the young woman shoved at her brother, anger and relief mixing in her voice as she cried. “You damnidiot. We got all these people together and you still wanted to get yourself killed!”

“Pasha…” Julian’s voice came out strained, tears blotting at the corners of his eyes. Portia’s arms came around his middle, hugging him tightly as she cried and berated him against his chest. He couldn’t stop himself as tears streamed out his eyes. His arms came around his sister, holding her close. Julian didn’t think he’d ever get a chance to hug his little sister, ever again. The realization broke through his thoughts that this was just one of many more hugs, many more laughs, many more memories he could have. If he did things right.

“I don’t know what I did to deserve a sister like you,” he sobbed, shaking his head as he looked up, over the surrounding crowd. Something warm – a previously forgotten sense of community? – swelled in his chest as he met so many eyes, so many smiles and grins. “Or all this support. I’m not going to throw it away.”

“You better not!” Someone hooted, further away. A chorus a laughter and claps echoed around the square.

“You better take care of yourself, boy!” Mazelinka’s familiar voice popped out of the crowd, loud and obstinate. More laughter and agreeing jeers met with her demand.

Portia swiped her tears away with the palm of her hand as she pushed herself away from her brother. She fixed him with a hard look, lips twisted into a serious frown. “You forgot Xixa. What in the world did you do to deserve Xixa?”

“I don’t know if I deserve her, to be honest.” He glanced over to the aforementioned woman, who had taken a few steps back from the siblings, giving them space.

Xixa’s tired eyes drew up to his face, slowly. Julian shifted under her stare, his ears inexplicably going hot. The woman finally moved toward the doctor, reaching a hand up to stroke his jawline gently. The heat from his ears crossed across his face, leaving a red blush in its wake. Eyes hooded and voice ragged from exhaustion, Xixa smiled softly, “I’m not going to tell what you deserve, Julian, in polite company.”

His heart thrummed. Oh, yes, what did he deserve? Delight and excitement licked over his bones, realizing their time was unlimited and without the threat of guards ruining their fun. His breath hitched, just slightly, at the thought. A sudden burst of energy flared through him.

From the throng of people, someone crowed, “Who’s the wanker that told ya’ we’re polite?”

“Still too polite for that conversation,” Xixa retorted, loud enough for nearer people to hear. Her eyes never left Julian’s face as laughter rippled through the crowd. He bit his bottom lip, finding a heat in her gaze – beneath her exhaustion – that promised something sensual and painfully pleasurable. Perhaps, after a well-deserved nap.

The doctor couldn’t help himself. He arched down, catching the woman in a kiss. Her arms curled around his neck, a soft breathy whimper against his lips. Electricity danced over Julian’s body, the scent of her surrounding him. Heat and joy blossomed in his chest as his hands traced her sides, wracking a small shiver from her body. Xixa sunk her teeth into his bottom lip, almost – almost – provoking a groan of delight from him, in front of such a large crowd.

“If you all will excuse us,” Julian announced once he surfaced, forcing to make himself heard over the whoops and jeers. He swept the woman into arms, cradling her bridal-style to his chest. Xixa squeaked, but settled against his chest, her hands pressing to chest. Feeling her in his arms, a subtle satisfaction coiled into Julian’s core. A broad smirk curled at his lips as he waggled his eyebrows at the hooting crowd. “Xixa and I have much to… ah… discuss.”

As he maneuvered through the crowd – congratulations and compliments lapping against him – Julian could feel excitement bubbling up in him. Excitement for tonight, for tomorrow, for next month, next year. When was the last time he held such anticipation for the future? He glanced down at Xixa, cuddled against his chest, eyelids fluttering against sleep. The doctor gave her a slight squeeze. When she tilted her head back, deigning him with a look and a sleepy smile. “Mmn?”

“Rest, my dear,” Julian murmured, feeling Xixa’s body relax a little further against him. Involuntary, elated tears pooled in the corners of his eye, voice cracking a little, as he added, “We have plenty of time.”

#thearcanagame #the arcana game #julian devorak #julian devorak x mc #julian devorak x xixa #xixa #nadia #asra #portia #mazelinka #my writing

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