“Well… I cannot say for sure. I’m not particularly familiar with Elespeth’s patterns of health or generally how long it takes her to recover from more benign aliments.” The Master Alchemist furrowed his brow thoughtfully, dark eyes fixed on his feet as he moved through the Night Garden with the Rigas Lord. “I will have a better idea as soon as she gets her first dose of the serum. Since her heart is already so close to reaching full recovery, at this point, I do not imagine she will be ‘bedridden’ for long. In fact, I would hazard an educated guess that it would be perfectly safe for your wife to continue to wander the Night Garden as she is already doing… though I do hope she doesn’t come to resent me for further delaying her return to the rest of the world to resume her life before her aliment.” Isidor chuckled nervously and shook his head. Inky locks of hair fell into his pale face. “I daresay I’ve experienced enough of that since arriving in this kingdom… despite that I’ve been trying to diminish my intrusive presence as much as possible.”
Speak of evil, however, and so should it appear, it seemed. No sooner did the Master Alchemist finish his train of thought that he and Alster came across a familiar pair. Hadwin was never shy when it came to making his presence known. But that wasn’t what drew worry to Isidor’s already furrowed brow. It was the company the faoladh kept that drew his stomach into knots: Teselin. And by her bloodshot and swollen eyes, and her stooped form… she wasn’t alright. Far from it, she was positively distraught. And he had a sickening intuition in his gut as to what had caused her upset…
I told her. That was all Isidor needed to hear to understand what had taken place to reduce his younger sister to tears. It was enough to leak tension into Isidor’s muscles, and for his heart rate to pick up twofold. What had Hadwin been thinking, to just drop this truth on Teselin like a heavy boulder!? Especially when he had told the faoladh that he would take the fall to inform her there was nothing he could do for her! They had just spoken early that morning… what the hell had Hadwin expected? Of course he hadn’t had time to break it to her gently…! Since when had they agreed that today must be the day to dash her fragile hopes?
“I--I was going to tell her! I was going to tell you, Teselin. You friend can even vouch for that; I mentioned it just this morning…” A quaver had made its way into Isidor’s voice. He hoped that no one took notice of the way his body began to involuntarily tremble. “It was never my intention to keep it a secret from. I just… I struggle to find the words for--”
“You didn’t struggle for words to tell Hadwin. Or, evidently, to tell Alster.” The young summoner’s tone was soft and flat; completely devoid of emotion which, in Isidor’s eyes, frightened him more than anger. “You had words for everyone but me. And when I asked you if extracting my magic was possible, you did not tell me it wasn’t. So I went on believing it was still a possibility…”
“It is like Alster said--you were already distraught with concern for Hadwin. I did not want to upset you. I’m… I am sorry, Teselin, if you feel I mishandled--”
“The worst, Isidor, isn’t that you mishandled it. Hadwin is right; you don’t have enough experience around people to have been aware of what you did. I can’t be angry at you for that.” Teselin clutched her elbows, pulling her arms tight across her chest, as if she were still protecting herself from that fatal blow to her greatest hopes. “So no, that isn’t why I’m upset. It isn’t why I’m angry. I am angry because you dismissed me as soon as you met me. I couldn’t figure it out before; why you were so skittish around me in particular. I wondered what I could have possibly done to warrant such a reaction... But there was no first impression to be made, because, Isidor, you didn’t… you didn’t even give me a chance, before you decided I was something--something--to fear. I understand why Bronwyn doesn’t want to be within a hundred miles of me; after what she saw, I don’t blame her. But you… you had no reason, aside from your fear innate fear of anything unknown.” From her tight and guarded stance, it appeared Teselin was holding herself together, to the best of her ability… lest her magic see her emotional rollercoaster as another opportunity to destroy lives. “I tried to tell myself it was just in your nature; I dared not to take it personally. I even had your back, Isidor--I reminded everyone time and again to be gentle with you. To be kind to you, because I don’t know what you endured, but it must have been significant, to fear people the way that you do. And all this time… I was just some nightmare waiting to happen that you wanted to avoid. Because I am other; and you don’t know what that other is, and it frightens you.”
The accusation almost appeared to cut the Master Alchemist like a knife. He couldn’t look his younger sister in the eye; so instead, he looked away.
“...you’re not even going to say anything?” Teselin dropped her arms to her sides. A glimmer of hurt--the kind that wasn’t angry, but rather, sad and desperate--crept into her voice. “You won’t tell me I’m wrong?”
“...I am afraid of a lot of things, Teselin. You were right, to not take it personally…” Isidor rubbed the back of his neck, but didn’t look up from the tips of his boots. “You were just… a surprise I wasn’t prepared for. It left me confused, because I didn’t know--I still don’t know the entirety of your living composition. And because I don’t know, then I am not sure how to help you, the way you desire… at least, not in this point in time.”
“Of course. It’s overwhelming--I am overwhelming, and for that, you don’t even want to try.”
“Teselin, I--”
“You took dire risks to help Elespeth. Even put your own health on the line--you went unconscious for days. You know, originally, I was the one who offered to find you on Alster’s behalf--but Vitali stepped in, instead. Said you wouldn’t know me. But worse than that… you never would have agreed to come here if I had been there. You’d have slammed the door and run the other way before anyone could get a word in. Am I right?” She pressed her lips into a flat line. “...tell me I’m wrong. Even just about that. And I’ll apologize for everything I’ve just said.”
The back of Isidor’s neck was growing sore, from constant rubbing, and the flat nails digging into his flesh. But that dull sensation of pain was the only thing keeping him grounded, in that moment. The Master Alchemist did not do well, being put on the spot. Maybe Teselin was wrong. Maybe he’d have happily agreed to come to Galeyn, had she asked--but at that moment, he didn’t know, because he couldn’t think. And for that, he hadn’t any of the answers she wanted to hear. “...I want to help you. I do. Will you believe that? Just… I need a little time. Admittedly, I think I’ve stretched myself too thin with the promises I’ve made. A recent development with Elespeth is sending me back to my workshop. I’ve yet to even tackle the project that is Alster’s arm, and then I promised Tivia--”
“Tivia Rigas? Who hasn’t even so much as accepted your offer to help, yet?” Teselin’s eyes grew wide, incredulous. “I am a walking liability, as it stands. You don’t even know the half of it. But I come in--what is it, fourth? Behind your infatuation for someone who you are only anticipating to want your help? Tivia doesn’t even like you, Isidor. And I am sorry if I have to be the one to tell you that, but your denial and social ignorance certainly can’t be that thick.”
Isidor looked as though he had been physically struck. His mouth dropped open, as if to murmur an excuse, or an assurance that of course, he was not so daft as to think offering to help Tivia would endear her to him. But nothing came out; he had no words. He never seemed to have words, whenever it mattered, and anyway, Alster had spoken up, which led the conversation down another, related path--one that was mercifully did not relate to him.
For the first time since their encounter in the Night Garden, Teselin turned her eyes on Alster. They were eyes dark as voids; eyes that had given up hope. “You want to know what happened, Alster? You really want to know? Because as soon as I tell you, you can’t unknow. So be careful what you ask for.” A flush of shame tinted the young summoner’s cheeks, and she looked away. She couldn’t look at anyone when she divulged this. “The city of Apelrade is gone. I saved Hadwin’s life, but it cost me a city. Just like Stengahrd, all over again, but… worse. Because I don’t know if anyone survived--including the elderly healer who helped us. It was too dangerous to stay and find out… we were forced to run. All three of us.”
While it was Alster who had asked the question, Isidor, too, hung on each and every one of Teselin’s words. And he wondered if the fear in his heart reflected in his dark eyes, at what he learned of the otherwise innocent and harmless looking young woman. “What… what do you mean by that, Teselin?” He shouldn’t have asked; he was afraid to ask, but… he needed to know. “That saving Hadwin cost you a city?”
“Well, since you have already decided to be afraid of me, I suppose you might as well know.” Teselin looked up from the mossy ground, and trained her eyes on Isidor, as if daring him to run away before he found out the truth. To his credit, he didn’t, but that was likely due to the fact he was paralyzed with fear. “My magic is destructive--and I can’t control it. If you’re still intent on pursuing her, ask Tivia; she won’t hold back from telling you that I am nothing short of a walking apocalypse. Apelrade succumbed to the equivalent of three different types of storms, some weeks ago. Its cliffs crumbled into the ocean; its buildings were struck down with lightning, and rain flooded the rest. All because I was in the wrong place at the wrong time, and I lost control. And this, Isidor… this is why I wanted your help. This is why I hoped you would want to help me. I didn’t want to go into detail because I didn’t want you to help me out of fear; I wanted it to be…” She trailed off, as if only now realizing her own naivete, and how farfetched her hopes had been. “...to be something family would do for family. But, you don’t know me. I have no right to assume you choose to identify family by blood, anyway.”
But it wasn’t fear that dominated Isidor Kristeva, in that moment; well, the fear was there, but it wasn’t paramount. For the first time since discovering he had a sister, Isidor saw Teselin not exactly as a threat waiting to happen (although it remained to be seen that she wasn’t one, whether or not she wanted to be), but as someone reaching in vain to be something else. This was why she had asked him about the potential to sift out whatever was keeping her magic in tact. This was why she had insinuated that she wanted him to change her, to make her something other than the other she already was. Because this magic, whatever it was that flowed through her veins, threatened her happiness by threatening the well-being of others. Now, he understood… but it had taken him too long.
“...it is as Alster says. You should come with us, Teselin; the more we understand, the better we can help you…” Isidor offered, but as he’d suspected, the offer came too late, both on his part and on Alster’s. Teselin did not want to give up; but she looked about to. “Alster is magically adept; he can help you learn to control it, I’m sure. And I… I can further investigate options, if controlling your magic isn’t possible. Just because I don’t know off the top of my head how to help in the given moment, doesn’t mean I cannot do it…”
“I appreciate the offer.” When she said as much, she was looking at Alster, not Isidor. “But we’ve already been down that path. Whatever happened with those crystals… when Mollengard tried to take my magic… something is broken, now. I am broken, and I do not know that there is anything you can be done. I don’t even know that it is safe to try.” Drawing a long breath, the young summoner took a step back and shook her head. “I’m preparing to leave to find Sigrid, soon. I made the promise to Haraldur, and I intend to keep it. With any luck, it won’t require the destruction of another village…” She rubbed the side of her arm, truly concerned as to what it would take to bring the former Dawn Warrior back... “...I’ll bring her back. But I don’t know that I am going to return to this place, or its people. I don’t want to put anyone else in danger. You’ve already got a rampant sorceress to worry about; the last thing anyone needs is to be paranoid about the damage a supposed ally can do.”
She had nothing more to say, and if Isidor had more to tell her, he wasn’t in the right frame of mind to do it, so Teselin left, with Hadwin trailing loyally behind her. And Isidor finally remembered why he was loathe to leave the safety and comfort of his room.
“...I think, I was always under the impression that you could only be in the wrong for doing the wrong thing. That was always my impression. But… I am often wrong about a lot of things, pertaining to human nature.” The Master Alchemist dropped his hand away from the back of his neck for the first time since running into his sister. Behind the curtain of dark hair, the skin was raw and red. “It seems that it is just as condemning to not say anything at all, or to not know what to say. I didn’t mean to hurt her, so. I just… I didn’t know how to help her. Or if it was even possible. I still don’t know.” Isidor turned to Alster with eyes full of sadness and regret. “But that isn’t an excuse, is it? I am still in the wrong because my inaction and inattentiveness hurt her. Because I am still afraid of her… I had no idea… that her magic was so volatile. When she came to me, and asked if it would be possible to swap out her magic in the same way I swapped out Elespeth’s damaged cells, I didn’t understand why she was asking. I let her down before I even gave her a chance…”
Pushing his spectacles up the bridge of his nose, the Master Alchemist sighed and rolled his shoulders back. “I should get back to my workshop… and you should get back to your wife. If you get a chance to speak with her physician, and to get a vial of blood, I should be able to craft a serum to suppress her body’s immune responses in about a day. Rest assured… this is a situation where I am sure I can be of help.”
With a weak, almost apologetic smile, the tall man nodded his goodbye to the Rigas lord and turned to venture back toward the palace, his gait slower and heavier than it usually was, with the weight of brand new guilt he now carried on his shoulders.
“I don’t doubt your integrity, Doorstop,” Hadwin tucked his thumbs behind the looping of his belt, his casual air in stark contrast to the reserved intensity of the summoner beside him. The liberal amount of herbs he smoked had dampened his appropriateness of mood, but considering he always acted counter to convention and their dictates, there was no marked difference between his sober state and now, save for his difficulty to care about anything or anyone aside from Teselin. “Eventually, you would’ve said something. But I wasn’t gonna wait around till you managed to work up the nerve to tell her, yourself, so I did the honors. Not like I didn’t warn you to reach her before I did, but I am a wee bit quicker at taking the initiative, even when my mind’s roasted to all sin. Balk at me all you’d like, but we can’t stand around and give you time to collect yourself when we’re in some real dire straits--none of which I am in any liberty to discuss. That is up for Teselin to decide.” He stepped aside and offered Teselin the proverbial podium to speak out her frustrations and disappointments. And oh, did she let Isidor have it! He almost felt badly for the flabbergasted alchemist, not but badly enough to put a stop to the one-sided mud flinging.
“Teselin, are we to condemn a man based on his fears?” Alster inserted gently, so as not to sound obtrusive. “Surely, you must disagree, Hadwin; we aren’t always in control of our instinctual fear of the unknown. Isidor hasn’t had the same worldly opportunities to explore beyond his tower. His scope is consigned to a very small area, and yet we’re putting him on trial as though he’s been socialized among us for years. What are you expecting him to say? That he’s not allowed to be afraid of a concerning influx of information radiating off his sister during an already socially charged encounter with its own pressures to act and present a certain way? Are we equating uncertainty and hesitation to aloofness and disinterest? Or saying fear of the unknown always necessitates hatred and repulsion?”
“It’s not the fears that are the problem, Serpent Lord,” Hadwin lolled his lazy tongue in his mouth, “it’s how you act in spite of your fear. Some people call that ‘courage,’ but, nope; it’s simple survival. You survive or you die. And right now--nobody gives a fuck that Doorstop here’s lived a sheltered life. No one’s gonna note this and think, ‘right, I gotta go easy on him; the poor sod’s shaking in his boots. Once he gets a good grip on how things are done around here, only then will I beat him good and proper.’” He kicked an innocent pebble off the road; it careened into the bushes. “Doesn’t work that way. He’s not a baby; he’s a grown man, and people are going to see and treat him like a grown man. No one knows the backstory. The tragic set of circumstances that led Isidor down the path of stammering idiocy around his peers and relations.”
“We know his circumstances--all of us, gathered right now,” Alser argued. “It’s important to understand the particulars of one’s upbringing so we can adjust to their needs. To be inclusive and not divisive. We can’t foster healthy alliances through belittling a person’s differing life experiences.”
“Mmmhmm.” Hadwin inclined his head, predatory eyes honed not on Alster, but on the meatless, boneless, and therefore spineless creation in his line of sight. “Healthy alliances. Inclusivity. So exactly how Doorstop treated his sister. With fairness and inclusivity. If understanding and harmony are so important, it goes both ways, too. You can list a million excuses, Al--doesn’t change how and why Tes is upset at Isidor. He was an asshole. An oblivious, unintentional, ignorant asshole, but an asshole all the same. At least I know I’m an asshole, but unrecognized malice’s more damaging--cuz you’re doing it without a clue as to who you’re fucking over.”
“Isidor has agreed to leave his tower and travel to Galeyn because he chose to help. Do not forget he is not obligated to lend assistance beyond his promise to cure Elespeth. And yet, he has been more than willing to cooperate and to lend his services to those in need. He has asked for no recompense in return. This is not the work of a man who wishes to spread malice. Please, Teselin,” Alster addressed the more reasonable member of the duo; unlike her partner, she did not want to cause unnecessary bloodshed, both of the physical and emotional variety. “Do not judge Isidor so harshly. I know you’re upset, but he is resolving to make amends for the slights and hurt he’s caused you. Between him and I, we can help. ...My arm is not important, and it can surely wait. We’ll rearrange the order of importance and raise your case as next-to-top priority. Understand that I’ve wanted to revisit the parameters of your magic for some time, so my eagerness is not fueled by pity. We’ve made progress, before. Prior to Mollengard’s interference, yes, but I’m more than able to provide you a safe space for practice. I’ve a mastery of shielding and I’m able to draw my energy from a bottomless source, via my otherworldly connections. If you can forgive my prior preoccupations, I would like to resume my role as your teacher.”
He was stymied into temporary speechlessness as Teselin revealed the colossal culmination of her bottomless magical vortex where, at its center, a city of thousands dissolved into water, fire, and wind.
It was much worse than he thought.
“A city is gone?” Alster traded unease for incredulity, but Hadwin caught the glimpses of his fear. Not fear of Teselin, but fear that her magic was far too advanced to reel in and mold to a standard magical model. An ocean could not conform to the shape and size of a river, and it was foolish to try. “Because of--”
“--Yeah, yeah, I get it,” Hadwin blew his lips together in mock exasperation. “Because of me. It was the most expensive attempted suicide in recent history, I wager. A jump that killed thousands. So yeah, I’m also of the responsible party--moreso, even, though Tes would disagree with me. She had to use magic to save my sorry ass or I’d be gone. Last-ditch effort. Conjured a lot of energy and triggered an emotional surge. I was the catalyst--but,” Hadwin’s casual indifference tore and twisted to reveal what the herbs hid; deep, entrenched gouges carved inside his haunted eyes, “we both have to live with it.”
“...Teselin. I..” Alster swallowed, still at a loss for words. “I’m so sorry I could not help you sooner. That this had to happen at all. But...this is why you need a teacher more than ever. You are both correct. The matter of your magic takes priority.” He stared at the metal scales of his prosthetic hand, reptilian in design: a snake, a Serpent, a deep-seated regret that would weigh on his chest for the rest of his days. “I wasn’t lying when I said I made a sure mess of things with my magic, too. I awakened the Serpent which jumpstarted a forty-year undertaking that, because of my initial meddling, destroyed Stella D’Mare. Thousands, dead. With my own hands, I,” he lowered his eyes from Isidor, afraid of how he’d perceive him after his upcoming confession, which only a handful of people knew, “I killed my parents. Brutally squeezed them into pulp. I decimated an army. All with unruly magic, magic I couldn’t control and didn’t understand. We’re not the same, Teselin, and our magic is not the same, but our experiences are not so different. I had to make a literal deal with the devil so I could remain alive and not dissolve into pieces by my magic. It is not too late for you, Teselin.” He stretched out his flesh and blood hand. “Let me help--let us help, and together, we can find a solution. I don’t believe anyone is so irreparably broken that they’re beyond assistance.”
But she denied his request, too hopeless to view his offer as anything else but a polite but ultimately meaningless gesture, devoid of comfort and of practicality. And maybe it would be a pointless endeavor, but if she walked away, they would never know.
She walked away.
“Teselin--”
Before following suit, Hadwin eyed the two men; his disposition completely shifted from flippant to dead-serious. “It kills me to see her like this, y’know. To have indirectly caused her to lose all hope in herself,” he lowered his voice into an emphatic whisper. “I’m gonna regret it every day of my life. What she had to do to save this ungrateful bastard... I’m not that full of myself to believe I’m above thousands of lives in importance. I’m not like one of you...Not a healer, not a miracle-worker. Whatever the hell you did wrong in your lives, you’re doing good right now. Wrong-doers like me croak every day and the world is better for it. She would be better for it. But either of you die, or retreat,” he directed his piercing gaze to Isidor, in particular, “and the world loses something essential. So help me if you don’t survive, Doorstop. Step it the fuck up so you won’t be such a damn disappointment and a waste of potential. If you need help, I’ll gladly beat you into shape. If it breaks you...then, you were never that strong to begin with and you aren’t long for this world.”
Without another word, the wolf trotted away from the alchemist and the caster to rejoin Teselin at her side, the very definition of a vicious attack-dog stolidly protecting his mistress. Alster sidled close to the man who had suffered a needless two-headed assault, his brow plying with worry. “Isidor...considering what they experienced in Apelrade, they’re in a bad place. They’re speaking from a place of anger, but the anger is directed at themselves. They’re lashing out at you because you’re an easy target; believe me, I’ve been bullied. People attacked me because I refused to fight back. Because I thought I deserved it. But it’s not entirely your fault. Teselin was already desperate when she came to you. She’s been desperate for a while. You’re a scapegoat. No one can blame you for not having the capacity to understand. But you’re not a lost cause because you can learn to understand. It’s a process, yes, but you can’t expect to know, intuitively, what to say and what to do from the onset.”
But whatever words of reassurance he reserved for the alchemist were not enough to penetrate his thick miasma of guilt. When Isidor announced his leave, Alster nodded and displayed a kind, patient smile, a last attempt to try and buoy his friend’s dampened spirits. It was all he could do. “Of course, Isidor. I’ll call on you later, and I’ll have Elespeth’s blood sample for you. Until then...take care.”
As Isidor turned the corner, practically disappearing into the thicket of Night Garden foliage, Alster’s smile faded and bone-weariness set in. All the stresses of the day collected, like little leaden magnets attaching to his metal prosthesis, threatening to bowl him over and crush him into the ground. Between Elespeth, Teselin, Hadwin, Bronwyn, Isidor...he stood aside, no better than a spectator, useless and ineffective. I’m essential? ...I don’t feel like I am. Not now. Is there no one I can help? No one at all?
He did not return to the sanctuary; not right away. Overwhelmed with everyone else’s emotional burdens, he closed himself into his chambers at the palace and sank into his own heavy guilt and despair.
Meanwhile, in the Night Garden, Hadwin caught up to Teselin, her dense cloud of silence impelling him to gently insert his afterthoughts on their verbally-destructive encounter. Granted--any encounter with the awkward alchemist was bound to cause him immense discomfort. “Tes--,” he placed a supportive hand on the small of her back, “if you were looking for Doorstop to eagerly grant you a boon because you’re related or whatever...it was short-sighted. Blood doesn’t mean a damn thing; family will turn on you. They’ll stab you in the gut. Fuck you. Torture you. Send you off to die. Well ok, probably not him, but...you guys have no history. No reason to care about each other beyond the mam who farted you out and then left you to fend for yourselves. Blood or not, you’re strangers and he owes you nothing. But you don’t owe him shit, either, let alone kindness.”
“That being said,” he chewed the inside of his cheek in rumination, “family connections or not, he does wanna help. So does Mister Patricide over there. So what if he thinks little of you? There was nothing meaningful, to start. Nothing to build on. Patently unfulfilling, because he doesn’t know how to fulfill, aside from his skill. So let’s take advantage of the skill. The man is secondary.” He heeled his palm against his temple, massaging the impacted headache that came about from standing in the vicinity of two fear-brewers--and Teselin’s fears weren’t the most acute of them. Isidor’s were impacted into a walking pustule, ready to explode with a little prodding, whereas Teselin’s were so resigned as to manifest not in his head but in his heart. Stabs of pain assaulted his chest, and it was a pain he did not enjoy.
“We’re gonna keep moving ahead, chickadee, alright?” he said, his statement oozing confidence. “It’s survive or die, but the way through doesn’t have to be so bleak. If I’m good for anything at all, it’s that I know how to play the fool, especially when there’s nothing to laugh at, and there’s no hope. Cuz even out of nothing we can forage for the smallest of somethings. Enough material for a rollicking good joke, even if it’s inappropriate and we’re the only ones laughing. And hells,” his shoulders deflated, the equivalent of a wolf’s ears drooping, “I’d give anything to see you smile. To have that smile stick. To see you happy. Kid, I want that so badly for you. So I’ll fight for your happiness. I’ll make sure this miserable life you saved was worth something to you.”
Otherwise, his thoughts broke through the lifting haze of his herb-created barrier, if I don’t clean up after my end of this fucking disaster...then it was all in vain. I’ll forever be the thorn in your side. The ‘what if’? The, ‘why didn’t I let this mutt break apart on the rocks and die?’ question that haunts you at night. Baggage you don’t want. Baggage you’re cursed to carry because it’s a consolation prize, and it’s better than nothing.
I’m better than nothing.
Elespeth had spent the remainder of the day in something of a fugue, between feeling as though she was afflicted with the worst case of influenza, and knowledge of the recent development that had caused it. And it was the worst kind of unease; the sort where your body and your head ached, and your limbs couldn’t hold you up for too long (a feeling that she had not missed), but your mind continued to run rampant with a myriad of thoughts that you would otherwise rather ignore. It hearkened back to a time when she had very nearly witnessed Alster taking his own life, and in a strange, coincidental string of events (or had it just been serendipity?), it had managed to reopen the connectivity of their bond through blood. The stress had impacted the former knight so heavily that not long after they’d returned to their encampment, her body, stretched to its limit of the amount of stress it could tolerate while simultaneously keeping her healthy, had succumbed to an airborne aliment that had left her feverish and useless for a number of days. Alster had been there for that; to make up for causing her such a great deal of distress, the Rigas caster hadn’t left her side, and despite her residual anger towards him for having the deranged nerve to almost leave this plain and her completely, he’d stayed with her the entire time. Kept her hydrated and warm with blankets; tried to relieve her symptoms to the best of his ability with this magic. To his credit, he had been there for her, and despite all of the frustration he’d caused her… just having him there had dulled the sharp edges of that short-lived virus.
In some ways, despite the fact that her current discomfort was not borne of a contagious illness, but evidently a harmless (albeit uncomfortable) reaction her body was having to something it decided was foreign and threatening, this didn’t feel so different. Respectfully, Alster had given her some space that day, to rest and remain unbothered, and she appreciated it. She appreciated it until those rampant thoughts cycling through her mind began to take the form of a heavy despondency that further aggravated her breathing by weighing on her chest. The last time she had felt like this, she’d been angry (albeit relieved) at Alster. But this time… Her concerns reached so far beyond simply not feeling well. Because the fact that she now possessed magic, and for better or worse, the ability to use magic… that was something that was altogether hard to swallow. And It didn’t help that Bronwyn’s reaction had stayed with her. The fear in her eyes, and the way she had no longer looked upon her as someone relatable, but something other… it did begin to make her wonder. Was she ‘other’, now? And after everything that had happened to her since fleeting Atvany, that second time… how much of the original Elespeth Tameris was left?
She’d continued to look for her in reflective surfaces; in windows, in the steel decanter of water that constantly needed refilling as her fever dehydrated her. She longed to see that accusing face in the mirror, that voice that told her she was nothing, anymore, and should be ashamed. Even if it was only the worst of Elespeth Tameris that remained, the ex-knight would have found more reassurance in seeing that toxic image again. Because despite how it made her second guess herself time and again, and how it reminded her that she had almost seen fit to annihilate herself from this plain of existence, it was still a vestige of her. Of Elespeth Tameris, knight of Atvany, a warrior who stood on a platform of justice. It had never occurred to her that she would struggle to settle in the skin of Elespeth Rigas, because… it had never occurred to her that Elespeth Rigas would be so vastly different. So other, and for that… despite what Alster had assured her of gaining an attribute, of merely adding to a vast repertoire of skills she already possessed, she couldn’t help but feel that in taking his name, and gaining magic, of all things, to accompany it… something had to have been lost. Because there was only so much room for change in a person, before that change began to override what had once been.
That was what had spiraled through her mind, for the majority of that day, making it impossible to sleep, while her vigilant immune system rendered her feeling too ill and weak to walk it off and put herself in a different headspace. Soon, that solitude she’d requested had become exactly the opposite of what she wanted, for to be alone with her thoughts rendered her restless and trapped in a state of being that she wasn’t quite sure how to reconcile. Elias had visited her only once, to draw some blood at Isidor’s request, which at this point, the former knight didn’t even question. It was a relief to have Alster return that evening, and not only to bring her cold cloths for her forehead or water for her parched body. He’d gone on about his day and everything that had transpired, which, evidently, had been no small matters. He detailed his and Isidor’s run-in with Hadwin and Teselin, the latter who had ripped a hole right through her nervous brother--something that Elespeth had never thought she’d hear. That Teselin, of all people, could act that way toward her own family… well, at least she was the only one who appeared to be deviating from the person she had once been. In one way or another, it seemed as though everyone was changing. If only it were enough to make her feel better…
Well, to an extent, it did. Enough that Alster had managed to take her mind off of her concerns, which allowed her to actually fall asleep that evening and provide her weary body with the rest it required. But, sadly, those intrusive thoughts returned as soon as she opened her eyes again. The next morning, not long after awakening and sipping precariously on a soothing tea (she did not trust herself to keep any food down, so she didn’t try), the Master Alchemist paid them another visit with a vial in hand. Unlike the day before, Isidor Kristeva did not himself look as though he had gotten much sleep. Shadows had settled beneath his eyes and in the hollows of his cheeks, making him appear more haggard and diminished than before. Enough that Elespeth could not leave it untouched; not when Isidor had already done so much for them. The very least he had earned was her concern. “Isidor… are you well?” The former knight found herself asking, which was perhaps ironic, considering her own pale and weakened state. “Pardon me for saying so, but you look as though you haven’t slept…”
But the Master Alchemist merely smiled through tired eyes and shrugged his shoulders. “I’m not really one for sleep, anyway… I suppose I just couldn’t find it in myself to be tired, last night. But--at the very least, a night of had work did help me make good on my promise.” The tall, pale man held up the vial containing a clear substance. “This will--I mean, it should succeed in treating your symptoms, ah…”
As he struggled to find a way around explaining the fluid that would suppress her immune system, and why that was necessary, Alster stepped in to reassure him that there were no longer secrets hovering in the air of the sanctuary. Elespeth knew what was going on with her; and she didn’t want a runaround. “Right. Well, Elesepth, this is designed to suppress your immune response. So despite that you will begin to feel better after a dosage, I must make clear that you will be at risk of being afflicted with whatever pathogens you may encounter. For this reason, I strongly recommend you limit your range of movement to the boundaries of Night Garden, so you don’t put yourself at risk. We’ll lessen the dosage every day, for about a week, and then assess how you’re feeling from there. Once it appears that your body has acclimated to these… new changes, and it is no longer attacking itself, we can cease the dosages altogether.”
“So I’m confined to the Night Garden yet again…” The former knight expelled a world-weary sigh from her lungs and shook her head. “If I must… I’ll do what is necessary. If it means getting me fit enough to join in the search parties. I’ve been bedridden for so long, I can’t remember what it is like to be healthy...”
“Well, it is not really a matter of being healthy, at least. You are healthy; we just need to get your body to a place that it can recognize that.” Isidor offered a tired smile. “You are already a success story, with your recovery, so you’ve overcome the worst. All obstacles are downhill from here on out, I would say. In any case...” The Master Alchemist shuffled his feet awkwardly and stared down at his toes. “I should be getting back to the palace. Still lots of work to be done… Please let me know how you fare today, Elespeth. We will be on top of getting you back on track for feeling better.”
The Master Alchemist then politely excused himself, leaving the sanctuary to the married couple, but he did not get far before Alster was on his feels, asking how he was faring. Isidor could only assume he was referring to what had happened yesterday, and the fact that he had emerged into this new day looking like dirt in his sleeplessness. “Oh, no need to worry about me, Alster. I’m fine; I don’t sleep well on a good night, anyway.” He smiled, but it was flat and anything but reassuring. Not only was Isidor a poor liar, but his face couldn’t even hide his emotions, no matter how hard he tried. “Though, I have been thinking… something the faoladh told me. He mentioned that there is something I am not remembering; something directly related to my fears. Or… well, I guess, the foundation of my fears. And I was thinking about what Teselin said…” His face fell at the memory of the hurt he had seen in his little sister’s eyes. “She was not wrong. I am a wretched brother for all of the reasons she accused of me. In fact, I am not much of an excuse for a human being, if I am honest with myself. Sometimes, just… existing is hard. Perhaps it shouldn’t be, but it is for me, so it is easier to hide away so that my existence doesn’t become a burden on others. Although, now I realize that my withdrawal can be just as damaging as my existence, and… and I am struggling to know what to do, now. I want to help Teselin; but whatever I might be able to do, I am afraid it will take time that we just don’t have, and she already seems to have given up on me…”
Isidor rubbed the back of his neck, which was still raw and sore from the attention it had gotten the other day with his worrying. “Maybe it’s ridiculous, but I wonder if… If I were to remember whatever it is I have forgotten, whatever my fears are hedging on, then maybe I… well, honestly, I don’t know. Perhaps it won’t do me any good. But on the off chance it makes it easier for me to understand exactly what is expected of me, here--because I’ll be honest, it has all been a guessing game from the start--then maybe it would be worth it to investigate. What… what do you think, Alster?” The Master Alchemist looked to the Rigas Lord with wide eyes, genuinely seeking his input; as if he trusted Alster’s insight more than his own gut feeling. Ever since yesterday, Isidor had had a good deal of difficulty trusting himself at all. No matter what he did (or didn’t do), he couldn’t seem to get anything right, whether it was helping others, or just existing in his own skin. “If these lost memories are like a blockage… then only good could come of removing the blockage, right? Otherwise, I am just destined to remain something akin to the bud of a plant that cannot grow, because it won’t stretch out to find the sunlight… and it’s one thing if I am the only person who suffers as a result of that. Except...” His gaze drifted into the distance, like he was seeing the ghost of his sister walk away in anger and disappointment all over again. “I have come to realize that regardless of how I choose to live, sealed away from the rest of the world… it does not stop me from impacting it, and the people in it. For better or for worse…”
Though he kept her company for a good part of the day, Alster (now that he was feeling better, and no longer confined to the Night Garden or the sanctuary on the advice of healers) was not able to stick around the sanctuary for Elespeth indefinitely while she recovered. After returning from his brief chat with Isidor, and administering the serum through an injection (which Elespeth fully trusted him to do, given how closely he had worked with healers over the past year), the Rigas Lord stuck around for a little while longer to refresh the damp cloth on her forehead when it grew too warm, but then announced he must leave to check up on goings-on at the palace. Chara was relinquishing her mantle of Rigas Head yet again, now that he was finally healthy enough to handle the responsibilities, and although the transition was not grand, he was still behind on some matters. Since the former knight had begun to feel better within the next couple of hours, like a heavy fog had lifted from her body, she assured him that she would be fine on her own and didn’t need to be tended to; in fact, she preferred not to be. Alster spent far too much time worrying about her as it was, and there were far more important matters to tend to.
But Elespeth was not long for restlessness after he left. With the fugue having cleared from her vision, she was loathe to spend time in the sanctuary alone, looking for the face of Elespeth Tameris in reflective surfaces. The fact that Isidor’s serum had worked to suppress her immune responses only validated what both he and Alster suspected: that she now possessed the means to use magic, and her body was reacting as a result. Which means, Bronwyn had been right… they had all been right. It hadn’t been the Night Garden that had broken up the fight between the Kavanagh siblings…
It had been her. And she still didn’t know how to feel about it.
For fear of driving herself mad with her questions and insecurities, Elespeth put a little bit of faith into her no-longer-feverish consciousness and stepped outside. A walk in the Night Garden wouldn’t solve her problems--at least, not the current one--but it would take the edge off of the twinge in her gut.
Only Gardeners appeared to be roaming the grounds at this point in time, which suited Elespeth quite well; they often kept to themselves, unless something seemed amiss, or someone obviously needed help. She wasn’t particularly in the mood to talk to anyone given that she had no idea what to say, or how to respond, were someone to ask her if she was alright. Alster had tried to reassure her, in that way that he always did, that she was still the same Elespeth. That magic hadn’t changed the girl who hailed from Atvany, but… was that really the truth? Or was he just so acclimatized to her company that he didn’t notice when or how she changed, anymore? Part of her wanted to talk about it; he had even offered to listen, but… recalling the last time she had divulged what was weighing on her heart--when she had told him she would rather sleep forever than live a sickly life without autonomy…
That had almost put him over the edge. And she couldn’t do that to him again; couldn’t tell him how what he considered a wonderful gift felt like a new, intrusive weight on her chest…
She hadn’t expected to see any familiar faces wandering the Garden, late in the morning; but for all she’d felt intent to keep to herself, she wasn’t disappointed to find one. “Haraldur…” the Eyraillian prince was gazing pensively up at one of the Garden’s massive trees, and didn’t appear to notice her at first. When he realized someone was saying his name, he appeared startled, and apologized for not noticing her sooner. “It’s fine; I honestly… well, this isn’t the place I thought I would find you. Without Vega and the children. Though I suppose a new father deserves a bit of a break.”
Elespeth smiled and tucked her hair behind her ear. It had grown long enough to the point that she could very well start braiding it, again. In all honesty, it had been quite some time since the two of them had spoken amicably. There were still scars between them from their trek between Stella D’Mare and Braighdath: wounds that they had only barely addressed before Elespeth had succumbed to a month-long coma. And perhaps now was not the right time. Obviously, Haraldur was preoccupied with some inevident task; like her, he hadn’t come here to talk. And yet… and yet, because he had known her practically as long as Alster had, she had to ask…
“...can I ask you something? It might sound… strange.” Elespeth rubbed the side of her arm and looked down, a little apprehensive that it would come across as absurd, and too out of the blue, considering the damage done to their friendship. Or, worse… that perhaps Haraldur’s response would be too honest. “Have I… I mean, you’ve known me for as long as Alster. For the past few years. But do you think… have I changed significantly, Haraldur? Am I a different Elespeth from the one you met, in Messino’s army?”
In light of all that had happened, Alster was also desperate to disappear, if for a little while. To muffle the sonorous wails of the downtrodden and to blindfold himself from the world. To build his own sanctuary like Isidor’s tower, and hide away in books, numb to the haunts of the living, to the people he could not save. Alas...he was not allowed rest. He was Alster Rigas, a savior, and saviors did not withdraw. They persisted through the most difficult of hardships and muscled on until death relieved them of their self-imposed burden. Much as he desired a space where he could temporarily forget his commitments and drift off into a bed of sweet oblivion, he would be too anxious to remain inactive for longer than a minute. He felt most at peace when he was at service to others, most fulfilled when people turned to him for answers. He was too entangled in the web to wrench free. Without the web, he had no purpose. Hadwin was right, after a fashion. If he retreated now, people would lose something necessary to their wellbeing. Another healer, another tireless perfectionist, determined to succeed at all costs. He could not do it all, no; he could not guarantee his meddling would benefit. It might even inflict some harm. But doing nothing was not an option. He’d been doing nothing for the past month whilst his body recovered. Nothing...and like Elespeth, though he did not voice his frustrations aloud, he was sick of the sedentary life. Sick of doing little more than existing.
Seclusion in his chambers lasted no longer than an hour. An hour of self-pep talk and recovery, and he was flitting down the hallways, pumping with new purpose. No, not a new purpose; an old purpose, renewed. He plastered on a smile and returned to the sanctuary, brimming with helpful energy for Elespeth. He gave her space when needed, and lent aid when she called for it. It was in this buzzing state that Isidor found him the following day, a veritable bee in motion. He bid the alchemist a good morning, informing him of the developments he missed, namely, they no longer needed to circumlocute around Elespeth’s current condition. She was firmly in the know, however difficult the admittance to possessing magic had been for her to accept.
“You are nearly free of your confinement, Elespeth,” Alster cupped her hand and offered it an encouraging squeeze. “One final step to overcome. Isidor is not wrong in saying you’ve endured the worst of it. With all the progress you’ve made, both we and Elias anticipate you won’t require the suppressant for longer than a fortnight. It’s a small setback, but I’ll make it up to you, El. If it’s something I can realistically provide--and won’t endanger your health-- then it’s yours. Don’t be shy to tell me what you need.”
Isidor, assuming the couple preferred to spend the morning solely in each other’s company, hurriedly excused himself and exited the sanctuary before Alster could inquire about his wellbeing. With apologies to Elespeth, the Rigas Lord trailed after the alchemist, reaching out a hand to slow his lanky, long-legged movements.
“Isidor...we’ve all established you’re a horrid liar, and that’s not an accusation; it’s the truth. Routine sleeplessness is not all that’s bothering you. About yesterday…”
After a bit of patience and gentle prodding, Isidor disclosed the brunt of his woes. Unsurprisingly, they stemmed from yesterday, from the hurtful things his sister said, egged along by Hadwin’s vitriolic disposition. So the faoladh had also sensed what he and Vitali did, at the tower. The vaguely resentful, hostile energy, the mysteriously deceased Master Zenech, the holes in Isidor’s memories...fear shielded the truth. In peeling away the layers of trauma, Alster anticipated what Isidor would discover. If his assumptions as to the nature of Zenech’s demise were correct, filling the holes of his memories...could ruin him.
But it could provide Isidor with much-needed clarity and closure--only if he survived the onslaught of distressing information.
“I made mention of it yesterday, but only in passing.” Alster stared at the ground, aiming his voice towards the soil to dampen the reverberation of alluding to his gruesome deed from five years ago. “I...with my magic, I killed my parents. It flumed out of my hands. My mind was compromised; I wasn’t thinking clearly. I only saw resentment and hatred and I wanted them dead, so I...you needn’t know the details.” He forced out a breath, lest he forget to suck in air. The memory always left him stilted and lightheaded, too paralyzed and unequipped to command his body to perform rote tasks. “I walled away the memory. For years, I misremembered how they died. But it was brought to my attention that...the mystery behind their deaths was never solved, so I enlisted Lilica to help me reach the crevices of my mind. Together, we wrenched the buried memory to the surface. I...remembered. I remembered everything. It...surely, it if weren’t for Elespeth, I’d be dead. I didn’t want to live anymore and she saved me from myself. Even when I revealed what I’d done...she never stopped believing in me.”
He relaxed the tension in his arms. “It could have ended on a bleaker note, but I had the support to address the terrible darkness that lurks inside myself. I say this to you, Isidor, because in uncovering your lost memories, you might also find something dark. Something that fundamentally rocks your foundations and tears you entirely asunder. Only proceed if you’re aware of the risks and you’re absolutely certain this is what you want. If after a few days you’re still firm in your decision...come see me. Don’t go to Hadwin. He’ll crack you open and suck out the yolk.” Sometimes, he was still assaulted with nightmares over what the faoladh had shown him on the night of the councilwoman’s death by Elespeth’s unwitting hand: an indifferent god, an amalgamation of Alster and the Serpent. Savior of the world, but at the expense of abandoning Elespeth to her fate. Who do you choose? The nightmare effused, in a voice identical to Hadwin. Her, or everyone else? “I’ve been an unfortunate victim to his conjurations in the past. He’s driven people to madness and nearly succeeded with me. It’s not wise to rely on him. He weaponizes fear. But I have experience in healing of this nature. I’ve aided others in addressing fear by supportive, healthful means. Yes, a Sybaian healer is the most suitable option, but our resident healer is retired, as it were--though I have her endorsement. If this is something you truly wish to do, Isidor,” he affixed the man with a solemn stare, “then let me be the one to guide you through the labyrinth.”
Since receiving Tivia’s secondhand curiosities via Vega, a bevy of more pressing duties and responsibilities replaced Haraldur’s planned venture to search for--ridiculous as it sounded--two trees in the middle of a Night Garden forest. He hadn’t the opportunity to probe the source of the cryptic message for more information as Tivia had departed for the farmhouse the night before and had not returned to the palace. And so, out of a lack of concrete answers, and feeling more confused, more lost, than when Hadwin revealed he did not smell ‘human,’ the Eyraillian prince coped by ignoring the problem and focusing, instead, on tackling viable uses of his time. When he did not father his sprightly and vocally demanding children, he commanded his Forbanne army, typically doing so remotely, within the palace walls. But on occasion, his presence was requested in the camps strewn about the borderlands of Galeyn and near the D’Marian village. He seldom stayed long, and never overnight, remembering his promises foremost to his family. By night’s end, he always returned to the Sorde suite, weary but never resentful of his gains, however much they mewled and complained and demanded, always demanded, the dregs of his and Vega’s attention. Any precious free moments he carved out of his day or night were reserved for sleeping, or, as was the case, lately, meditative activity, for when he was simply too restless to sleep.
To clear his head and relax his thoughts, he’d taken up whittling, a hobby he practiced on and off for decades. Never serious about the quality of his creations, the resulting sculptures, typically ranging from small critters to miniature boats or decorative baubles were, in a word, adequate. He claimed to be creating and crafting toys for the children, and he’d certainly amassed a table full of clunky horses, blocky ducks, and lopsided rabbits, but his reasons were a front for the purpose his whittling had actually served. Cutting into the flesh of downed branches and limbs, he felt an...unexplainable connection to the wood. Every specimen he fetched in the Night Garden amounted to the size he needed, down to the exact measurement. The grain always favored his hand, each slice of the knife marking clean, smooth gouges which never splintered or split or tore unintended notches against the surface. Whenever he completed a piece, he etched the three-staved rune on the underside as his signature, and it slotted so perfectly, as though it existed in perpetuity among the wood and he merely encouraged it to rise out of the whorls and rings and knots to show its hidden face. Algiz algiz algiz, he would whisper its name to life, equipped with the song but not the meaning. Not the answer. He knew it meant protection. He knew his mother’s necklace sported the symbol. He knew the sentinel tree shared the melody on the winds and scratched its shape in every strip of bark and snapped twig littered on the forest floor. He could not escape its mark, and still, he did not understand why, or if there was a why he needed to understand.
On occasion, he’d have the urge to confide in Vega, but since yesterday, he was not eager to broach the subject, not only for the discomfort of facing the possibility of his...otherness, but because he suspected his wife did not share the whole of what Tivia had told her. He’d heard snippets of their conversation whilst he prepared Sigrid’s things in the adjoining chamber. She mentioned his sister. His mother. Sacred places. Sacred groves. But he could not quite make out the entire exchange and, in true Haraldur fashion, he barreled through the incongruous, putting an end to what he was too ill-prepared to handle. He could have asked Vega to recount the details in full, but instead, he so easily shuttered the barest mention of trees, or anything that touched too close to an answer, and consigned all future discussions to an indefinite hold. What need did he have of the truth, then, if he wanted nothing to do with knowing? Because he was afraid to find his entire life had been a lie? For decades he wandered, lost, forced to serve a monstrous nation, stripped of his humanity and his purpose. But if he had never been human to begin with, did he ever have any humanity to lose? Was he always meant to fall in line as an obedient soldier, always an object to control, because he was an object all along?
No. He was better off not discovering his convoluted origins. But...was it right to deny his children, who inherited whatever legacy he so desperately fought to ignore, a piece of their birthright? If their link to the Night Garden and to the trees that sprouted in their name betokened some essential part of their survival and growth, he, as their father, owed them to secure their futures, even if it meant traipsing about the Night Garden’s forest on a fool’s errand, looking for shoots in the ground. The search equated to locating a clover in a field of clovers. Not a special clover marked with four leaves, but a normal clover that would stand out as different from its brothers and sisters--somehow. Was this the definition of magic? Innately knowing where to pluck the extraordinary out of the mundane, and housing its esoteric energy within the self? It made no sense to him. But nothing made sense, anymore. Not since awakening in the Night Garden, alive and evidently blessed by the trees.
Unless...they recognized one of their own. A tree in human form.
The following morning, after paying a visit to Teselin’s chambers with the barest of coordinates for searching Sigrid’s whereabouts, Haraldur opted for a detour in the Night Garden. Decked in his armor and weapons, he had prepared for a day as Forbanne Commander, and yet...a casual once-over in the Garden’s densest territories (which happened to congregate near the sentinel tree), would not set his schedule too far back. Before he changed his mind, he plunged into the Night Garden, but he wasn’t far off the path, or far into his sojourns, when a familiar voice called his name. Startled, he spun around, coming face to face with Elespeth, catching him in what was undeniably an awkward moment.
“Elespeth. Ah...no. I’m not taking a break. Well,” he corrected, “not a conventional break. I’m looking for something, but,” he worked his mouth closed, embarrassed to say, ‘I’m looking for two saplings that apparently belong to my children.’ No amount of wording or rewording could make his statement sensical, or sane. “It’s nothing. But I’m not slacking, so if anyone asks,” he lowered his voice conspiratorially, “I was never here.” By his smile, he had meant it as a joke, but neither was he mollified by attracting an audience, even an audience of one, to his clandestine hunt. Either she was too preoccupied of mind to care about his suspicious presence or she was too polite to ask outright why he was playing hooky and running off to the Garden to hide. He identified it as the former when she posed a seemingly random question to him.
“We’ve all changed, Elespeth,” came his response, a little more quickly than he intended. “It hasn’t even been that long, but in the time since we met, what we’ve experienced...it’s bound to change anyone significantly. But it’s not all bad, if that’s what you’re wondering. We did things...we’re not proud of, that’s for sure. But also, we fell in love, married, and we both ascended to prestigious families. Two years ago, if anyone told us we were going to be a Sorde and a Rigas respectfully, would we have believed them? It’s bizarre, like so many other hard-to-swallow truths that have come our way.” His fingers made contact with the rough bark of the tree at his side. A sensation erupted, as if the tree reached back to hold his hand. He jerked away and crossed his arms over his chest, afraid any prolonged contact would cause them to merge.
“We’ve changed...but I’d like to think the core has remained in tact. That even if we suddenly learn we’re not who we always thought we were...it’s what we do that’s most important. That’s how people remember you. They will still see you as you, even if you think otherwise. If it’s any consolation, you are the Elespeth I remember. A little older, a little more battered and weathered from many storms, but wiser and worldly. A necessary change. We might not like the change and miss the person from the past, but we can’t return to them without negating all the good we’ve gained in the present. I wouldn’t trade my family to get back whatever essential bits of myself I lost. But,” with the sole of his boots, he carefully removed underbrush and detritus in search of something living, poking beneath the soil, “...something can come up, a new development, a new piece of information, that forces us to reevaluate everything we once thought about ourselves. And it’s hard to understand, hard to reconcile. You wonder if this particular gain is worse than the loss. Or...if the gain is loss. Because the more it gains a foothold on you, the more you’re losing yourself and falling away. Is,” he tilted his head, hesitant to contribute his parallel concerns that rang of the same nature, “that how you feel? Like you...don’t know what’s left of you, anymore?”
“Well… you’re right. I’m not sure why I should bother trying.” The Master Alchemist could not deny the very words he himself had used to describe his abysmal skills of deceit. He offered a sheepish smile at his ridiculous and unnecessary attempt to deflect Alster’s concerns. “But, about what you said yesterday, and what you just reiterated… really, if you are concerned about judgement on my part, you needn’t be. Not only are you a Rigas, but Rigas Head: I cannot even begin to fathom the responsibility you hefted, even as a child. Not to say what you did was… good, or favourable, but who is to say no one else would have reacted the same way under such duress? And… I can only imagine how that must have affected you. Because unlike my brother, you are a person with a conscience. You feel remorse. I did not know your parents, but if they were anything like my late Master… I mean, not to say that he deserved to die, or that your parents did, but… we all have to acknowledge that everyone has circumstances under which they will perform the unthinkable. It just so happens that you were in the right place at the right time to encounter those very circumstances.”
He said as much, but at Alster’s suggestion that he, too, may find unspeakable darkness in the memories that eluded him, the Master Alchemist felt his stomach tie itself in knots. The holes in his memory all pertained to Zenech’s abuse; it was those details which he had forgotten, and nothing else, of that he was sure. After all… he was far too cowardly, now and back then, to take so drastic an action as… murder. Zenech had died in his sleep: he clearly remembered finding the man on his bed, still and cold as the death that had gripped him. He remembered it vividly, in fact: a rainy day in the middle of the week, just after sunrise. Whatever memories eluded him, now, they must have to do with what Zenech had done to him, and not vice versa.
“I believe you. That whatever I should recall if I go looking for those memories… surely, the experience will confine me to my chambers to days, in the aftermath. I probably won’t be of any use to anyone for a while.” He tried to offset the dread with a crooked smile. “Fortunately, I am already familiar with those dark parts of myself. Becoming a Master Alchemist always comes at the unwilling expense of others. My very existence on this plane is therefore a dark one. But it is becoming obvious to me, now, that hiding away from everything that frightens me and everything I don’t want to deal with… that isn’t the answer. But I cannot reconcile what I cannot remember. You know… this may sound untoward, but your rather inspire me, Alster. You are no stranger to hardships, and yet you stand, a perfectly functional and capable person. And if you were able to reconcile your past an emerge a stronger person… well, then I do not see why I cannot do the same.”
Isidor nodded his thanks to the Rigas Lord and clasped his hands in front of him. “I will do as you say and consider the risks, though. Believe me, I am not one to rush into anything, head on, without thinking it over. In the meantime… Keep me in the know of how your wife is faring. I have the utmost confidence that she will make a full recovery. As for her magic…” There was nothing he could do to ease her into that transition, especially considering he was not himself a magic user, but that wasn’t his place, anyway. And the both of them knew this. “You say you were lucky to have Elespeth there during your times of need, but so too is she lucky to have you there to guide her through an unfamiliar and potentially frightening process. But that is what a partnership is, isn’t it? Well… from the perspective of someone who is used to finding his way alone, at least.”
If the Night Garden was not a place that the Forbanne warrior turned Eyraillian prince was supposed to be, Elespeth either didn’t really notice the way Haraldur deflected guilt in a rather suspicious way that suggested he might be shirking responsibilities. Or, if she did take notice, then she really didn’t care. The former knight herself frankly wasn’t sure exactly what was going through her cluttered and overburdened mind upon encountering an old friend, but judgment certainly was not at the forefront. For a moment, she had even considered passing up the chance to greet him, in case the exchange would turn out uncomfortable, or… well, or if he didn’t want to see her. There had perhaps been a time when the bridge linking their friendship would have caused Haraldur to reach out, were he concerned about her well-being. But that bridge had been… well, although not decimated, the damage it had accrued over the past year had yet to be repaired in full. Haraldur had first lost patience in her when she’d refused to take to the nearest village and rest, when their trek to Braighdath with agonizing injuries caused the entire party to progress at an unfavourably slow pace. And then, he had lost faith and respect when he’d learned of her dependency on the Mollengardian stimulant. Finally, he had abandoned any trust he’d ever invested in her when she had stolen the stimulant and foolishly taken off on her own, convinced that she could make it to Braighdath faster all by herself, shirking any and all help that had been offered.
So what was really left, between them, aside from mutual friendships and alliances that suggested they should put differences aside and move on? He had named her and Alster guardians of his child, but… she couldn’t help but wonder if that gesture had spawned in light of his faith in her husband, who had never let the Forbanne Commander down. It just so happened that she unavoidably came with that package.
These very hang-ups clung to Elespeth’s throat and stifled her words like a gag. She wanted to talk to him; oh, how she wanted to confide in him, because he had known her for as long as her husband, and had himself undergone change after change, to the point where he surely was not the same person, either. But she couldn’t find the words… And while word of her newly developing magic was surely not to remain a secret in this small kingdom for long, she wasn’t sure she was quite ready to discuss it--not with him. Bronwyn… When there had still been hope for camaraderie between her and the faoladh woman, the former knight had begun to grow comfortable very quickly around a party that was impartial to anything else that had happened in the past two years. She hadn’t known Elespeth before, and thus had no prior judgements. Opening up to her had felt… natural, and comfortable. She’d been looking forward to a new and impartial friendship, but now… now, it seemed, she was out of options, and she couldn’t blame Bronwyn for being afraid of her.
Ultimately, the former Atvanian warrior decided to keep the news of her newfound ‘skills’ close to her chest, lest she alienate another ally. “You’re right; I guess that was a silly question. After everything we’ve experienced, how could we not have changed?” Elespeth self-consciously twirled a lock of hair that had fallen into her eyes, and turned her gaze to the ground. “We have all lost, and we have all gained. Though, admittedly… if I could go back, and do it over, there are things I would like to do differently. After all, when all is said and done, months later I am still recovering from my folly--no, not folly. Mistake. Terrible decision. I am still paying for what that stimulant did to me. I am just sorry that the rest of you all happened to be affected by that poor decision, as well. I’m… I’m sorry.”
But whatever happened to be on the Eyraillian prince’s mind was far from the inconveniences she had caused him. He seemed… troubled. Was it wrong of her to take solace in the fact that she was not the only one in this kingdom to suddenly feel so lost, within their own skin? “..how do you adapt? To these changes you mentioned. Changes beyond our control that… that can erase parts of us of which we are not ready to let go.” Elespeth rubbed her arm. How it would hurt Alster, if he knew how negatively this sudden change in her--this magic--was causing her such mental distress. Magic was a part of who he was, who he had always been. If she were to tell him that in her skin, it felt like a burden that posed a direct threat to her identity as a knight--as a warrior, a wielder of blades… how could he not take offense? I need to reconcile it. For him, if for no other reason…
“I suppose… I guess change is a good thing, though. Or it should be. Because if the person I was happens to be the person who thought I had control over my broken body and my health when it was clear I didn’t, then the best possible course of action would be to change. I like to think I’m not that person anymore. At least, not the part of me with those vices. I just can’t help but wonder… what else do we lose, when we abandon our vices and set new goals? What is that crucial part that makes us who we are, and is that part truly something indefinite, permanent, or can we lose it, as well?” Am I still Elespeth Tameris? Or has Elespeth Rigas left that woman and everything she ever stood for behind? Is it possible to be both… when no one in the Tameris bloodline is adept in magic?
Why she thought Haraldur, of all people, would have these answers, was beyond her. Perhaps it was just something she felt the need to voice aloud; to hear the words in her own ears, in case they made more or less sense when given a voice. Ultimately, they remained just as vague and uncertain, and that heaviness that coated her heart did not lift. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s gotten into me, rambling on like this.” She shook her head as she offered her awkward apology, accompanied by a nervous smile. “I think I’ve spent far too much time in the sanctuary--my thoughts are stuck in there and don’t have anywhere to go. I am sorry to have bothered you, Haraldur. But… thank you. Even if you can’t see me the same way that you used to… it’s a relief to know I’m not suddenly someone completely unfamiliar to you. I just needed to ask someone who had a reference of who I was in the past. When I look in the mirror, now…” She paused, wondering if it would be too much to go on. But, then again… he had asked her to elaborate. “To be honest, I am not sure who I see. I used to see Elespeth Tameris; there was not a doubt in my mind that I was familiar with my reflection. But when Alster found me near death, after succumbing to that stimulant… the face I saw was still Elespeth Tameris, but she wasn’t me, anymore. She was just a shadow that reminded me that I had lost something crucial, and that there was no way to retrieve it. That didn’t change when I married Alster. It didn’t change when Alster and Isidor healed my heart, and I awoke from my coma. Not until… recently. I look in the mirror, now, and I…”
Elespeth trailed off, and remained silent for so long, one could wonder if she’d completely lost her train of thought as her verdant eyes stared off at nothing in particular in the distance. It wasn’t until Haraldur prompted her to finish that her lips moved again. “I don’t know her, anymore. The woman I see in the mirror. Is it Elespeth Rigas? And if it is, can she only exist in the absence of Elespeth Tameris? I don’t know… that she--that I--can be both. I don’t know how that makes me feel, and I don’t know what to do…”
She was going too far, now; submerging herself too deep into the topic, and should she say any more, the Forbanne Commander would start asking questions about exactly what she was not ready to discuss. Not even with Alster. “Again… I am sorry, Haraldur. Honestly, I think I just needed an ear. Alster’s probably had enough of listening to my whining, and he’s been around less and less, taking up his duties as Rigas Head again. I know you are more than busy with your family, and with the Forbanne, but… well, evidently, I am stuck in the sanctuary for another two weeks. Some… undetected complications arose from the procedure that repaired my heart. If you ever need alternate company… I’m not so sure that I am good company, but, you know where to find me.”
Teselin had declared that she intended to depart Galeyn yet again in search of a lost friend, but Isidor hadn’t realized just how soon she had planned to do so. Just a couple of days later, after meeting with Queen Lilica following Hadwin’s message that she wished to speak with him, he came to learn that his younger sister planned to leave that very evening. That was the trouble with confining oneself to their chambers; missing out on pertinent information such as that. He only had himself to blame. “Your Majesty… did Teselin tell you this? That she plans to leave tonight?” He asked the Galeynian monarch for clarification before he departed her council chamber that morning.
“Yes, Master Alchemist, she did. She has requested Night Steeds to depart this evening. Preparations have already been made to accommodate.” Queen Lilica told him from her seat at the head of the long table. While even after their discussion, she was still uncertain as to just how or if she could make use of the painfully awkward man, the Galeynian Queen had come to the conclusion that since he was already so eager to lend his services, he wasn’t quite deserving of her blatant dislike, the way he had so easily earned Chara’s. At worse, she pitied the man his arrested development and all-encompassing fear of the world. “Why? Do you plan on accompanying her?”
“No! I mean, I… I am not convinced she would accept my company.” Isidor rubbed the back of his neck--a new habit he had only recently developed since leaving the safety of his tower. At this point, the skin just below his nape was permanently enflamed. “I am not much of a traveler… so I would be better off right here. Your Majesty, if you could give me time to collect my thoughts, I would like to meet again, at some point… at another time. I do wish to be of use to you in this kingdom’s plight. It is the least I can do for your hospitality.”
And on that awkward note that lacked even a proper “good-bye”, the Master Alchemist took his leave, and set out to find Teselin--at task which, although simple, twisted his guts into tight enough knots to induce nausea. Their last encounter had not been a pleasant one… and he wasn’t sure what was in store for him, should he confront her again. Whatever she says… I cannot deny that I deserve it.
One foot in front of the other, one step at a time. If he only thought about the task in terms of steps and distance, it seemed far more manageable than to consider what awaited him at the end of the short journey to Teselin’s chambers. He had to accept that there were no words, at this point, to make her think differently of him. He had to accept that she might not want to speak with him at all, but at least… even if she wanted nothing to do with him, it would lift a bit of the burden of guilt from his conscience if only to know he’d tried.
Upon reaching his destination, it was a few moments still before he found the nerve to knock on her door--but by the time that courage reached his hands, the door swung open in front of him, startling him so terribly that the Master Alchemist stumbled back a few paces. “...Hadwin. Oh, I… is Teselin present?” Ridiculous as it was, Isidor was almost more relieved to find Teselin’s loyal faoladh companion than his sister, herself. And he realized he was probably the only person in the kingdom who would think that way. “I get it, alright? I understand… she probably doesn’t want to see me. Or to have anything to do with me, for that matter. That is fine--I won’t force my presence on her if she doesn’t want it. But I understand she plans to leave tonight… and you along with her, I assume? If that is the case, I would like to offer my services, beforehand. Regrettably, there isn’t much that I can do in so little time… if I had known sooner that she meant to depart today, I could have gotten started on something more lasting, but…” Isidor took a breath, realizing he was rambling in his nervousness, and pushed his spectacles up the bridge of his nose. “She is terrified of harming those she loves with her errant magic. And solving that problem indefinitely… well, that is certainly a long journey ahead, in and of itself. But, if she should so desire, I could graft something that can grant temporary magic resistance to the one who possesses it. It won’t hold up against storms, sadly, and I haven’t the time to construct something that will last beyond a single use, but it is still something. Perhaps something that you can hold onto, so that she needn’t fear endangering you with uncontrollable bursts of energy. The sooner I know, the sooner I can get to the task. I…”
Isidor paused, before letting out the long breath he hadn’t realized he had been holding. “I am trying, Hadwin. To the best of my ability, which… I will admit, as things stand, isn’t much. But I’m trying. I want to do… I want to be, better, and soon.”
Admittedly, Haraldur hadn’t thought much about Elespeth since she rose from her coma. Not for lack of caring, either. On the contrary, he assumed she preferred to keep their relationship at arm’s length, something respectable, but sterile. Prior to her long slumber from which she might never reawaken, they spoke in the sanctuary; he, in midst of recovery, and she, about to undergo a voluntary stasis whilst Alster found the means for her recovery. Themselves both facing peak vulnerability, they stood on common ground. Desperate to cling to some thread of hope, they sought forgiveness for their transgressions. She apologized, and he, thereafter, extended the sentiment. The arduous and unforgiving trek from Stella D’Mare to Braighdath was rife with challenges so numerous, it impacted his ability to extend compassion to a fallen comrade. As an appointed leader to hundreds of rogue Forbanne who recognized only fortitude and dogged persistence, he adopted their credo, assimilated with it, and based his decisions not on the individuals’ needs, but on the survivability of the entire unit. Quantity over quality; a numbers game. If the majority of his forces arrived to Braighdath relatively unscathed, any commander would mark it as a victory.
It was this ruthless mindset from which Haraldur clambered to escape during his compulsory service as Forbanne well over a decade ago. And yet, even as a free man, he perpetuated a most-despised system of oppression, one that ordained strength--and not cooperation--as the only correct mandate for survival. He allowed the flawed philosophy a place in his influenceable mind, a mind pried open by Solveig’s whispers of doubt and dissension. For months, he festered with the Forbanne, isolated by the ideals which demonized emotional vulnerability, touting it as weakness. That making concessions for an old comrade-in-arms, to which he owed his loyalty, was weakness. He officiated Elespeth and Alster’s wedding as a peace offering, his own form of apology, but it made little difference to the woman he wronged in the worst fashion. To say he was partly responsible for sending her down the tumultuous road of recovery was putting it lightly. It was little wonder, following their mutual forgivenesses and apologies, Elespeth continued to remain distant around him. He irrevocably damaged her trust, as he had done to Vega...as he’d done most recently, to Sigrid. No longer could he blame his Forbanne origins for his poor judgement-calls, either. Haraldur simply failed at being human.
Considering he might not possess all-human traits, his monumental failures in interpersonal relationships made sense. He was a block of wood, at once buoyant of mind and dense everywhere else. Elespeth had the designation of being his first friend in many years, and for how he treated her, surface-level honors--guardianship to his children, a half-baked apology, a stale wedding speech--could not mend broken bones overnight. Even if they did mend, there was no guarantee the bones would set properly. Crooked, lopsided, off-balance--like many of his wooden creations.
“There’s plenty I would do differently, too,” came his sigh of an answer, riding on the guilt-strewn thoughts of a friend who only seemed to approach him out of the need to speak with someone, anyone, who was not her husband. “So much of my life, I’d change. And if given the chance to correct the things I’ve done this past year alone...well, I’d still have a lot to answer for. My...my suicide, for starters. And,” the weapons sheathed along his belt clanked as he shifted from one foot to another, “well, I’d have been there for you, Elespeth. I wouldn’t have tried to send you away. I might have thought I was being efficient at the time, but it was...I’m sure it was dehumanizing, to be treated like a statistic gone wrong rather than a friend. I was a commander before your comrade, and my idea of decency was...it was misplaced. I know I’ve apologized to you before. We’ve done this already, but I’ll apologize again, Elespeth. Now that I’m a father, my perspective has shifted a bit. If I treated my son or my daughter the way I treated a friend...then I don’t deserve to be a father. And...I suppose that answers your question.” A tired smile lined his tired face. “I adapt to the changes, or try to, because I’m not living for me, anymore. I’m living for them. Klara and Kynnet need from me the best version of myself. I can’t flounce around with my choices. I have to be direct and decisive. Most of the time, I’m too tired to wonder about whatever person I left behind because if it’s behind me, then it’s not beneficial to my children. Yet...even I’m not immune to dwelling on the types of questions you pose, mainly because it’s impossible for me not to, knowing now what I know about myself.” His statement was vague, and invited questions, so he hurriedly redirected the conversation back to Elespeth.
“I think, though, that if you’re asking about existence and your place in it, then you’re on the right path. It shows high intelligence, an eagerness to improve and grow. It’s healthy to evaluate and reaffirm your position, especially after life-altering changes have affected you. The person we are is always in flux--but we don’t lose our shape. To lose it is to lose our minds and our senses, and you, lost as you may be, are firmly not mad. I can vouch for you there, Elespeth. You have the self-awareness to recognize change. This shows mental clarity; lunacy tends to obfuscate our sense of self.” At risk of coming off sounding too ‘fatherly,’ he broached his next subject with care. While he did not wish to offer unsolicited advice, neither did he want to leave her with nothing...as before, when he could not show even a shred of kindness or sympathy for her broken body.
“Perhaps this may help steer you in a direction, perhaps it won’t. But I’ll ask you this question, regardless. Once you recover, Elespeth, what do you plan to do? Do you want to join a search party? Do you want to train with your sword and recover your muscle mass? Do you want to fight? No answer is too big or too small. Engage yourself with little tasks, little victories. Once you’re on your feet and active, you won’t have the time to ruminate.” He fiddled with the chain of his necklace, a chain that closely followed the contours of his self-inflicted incision; a jagged, noticeable scar and a painful reminder of his near-fatal mistake. “I’ve been where you are, Elespeth; idle thought is poison. You’ve had more than enough of it, in the sanctuary. Of course you don’t recognize yourself in a mirror; you’ve been so far removed from the outside world; everything around you must look like a reflection. There’s a distortion because you’re seeing reality through bent glass. I realized this myself, when I rotted in my self-imposed isolation. I built mirrors around me. It warped my image of others and of me, because the mirror I held did not show an accurate depiction of my reality. It was cracked, flared, pinched and rippled. That’s not the kind of mirror you rely on to render the truth. No...mirrors are not truthful at all. Don’t rely on them to give you an answer. If you need a purpose, however small,” he hesitated, uncertain how she would interpret his intentions. His attempts to help did not go down well with Sigrid. Yet, when he stepped away, allowing her the space she so desperately wanted, it threatened her safety and wellness. He let her go when what she needed was company, people to watch over her. He’d done so--albeit with soldiers under his command--and she resented him for it. Now he resented himself for...what, respecting her privacy? Whether as a busybody or as a person of negligence...what vice should he have chosen? Which was the correct way to reach his wayward cousin? Was he forever doomed to fail at his relationships?
His hesitation waned; Elespeth awaited his response. He steeled himself, prepared for her rejection, for her accusations of meddling in her recovery by suggesting questionable solutions. Again, he was marrying both control and negligence, but it was too late to turn back around. “May I ask a favor of you, Elespeth? It’s alright to say no, but as you’re confined to the Night Garden longer than originally planned, my hope is that my request isn’t much to ask.” He cleared another sheaf of dead leaves with his foot as he tried in vain for how he would string together his next jumble of words. “According to Tivia, the Night Garden has blessed our children. Two trees have sprouted in their honor, but no one, not even the Gardeners, knows where they are. I...in fact, that’s why I’m here. I’m looking for their trees. But to uncover two little saplings amidst a dense, forested garden,” he elected for a chuckle, “I expect it won’t be so easy. If, during your sojourns, you should see new growth, or twin trees poking out of the soil...I’d appreciate it if you could alert me to any promising candidates. I realize this is a bizarre ask. I...I don’t understand it, myself.” He stepped away from the tree that flanked him. “But maybe you have a better eye for these things than I do. I’m not shirking my duty, but I...somehow, I don’t think a cursory glance on my part is going to do it. This will take some searching, and I’m not sure I can do it on my own. Not with all else that requires my vigilance and attention. If we cooperate together, I guarantee this won’t be the last you see of me, Elespeth. However you choose to help, I appreciate your company...and I’ll be sure to visit you in the sanctuary, whether alone, or with the children...depending on your preference, and,” he quirked a smile, “if you at all value constant, cacophonous screaming in your ear.”
Over the next handful of days, Hadwin laid low, considering it best not to continuously spike the pot that he initially stirred. Besides, his interest had waned. Either it waned, or he was participating in a game a younger (circa several weeks ago) Hadwin enjoyed, hoping to spark some enjoyment in a life that had gone entirely sour, and empty. While he had Teselin as his newest and frankly, only reason for not devolving into an ongoing stupor of mind-altering herbs and booze every day, his painfully few stretches of sobriety stabbed him awake with uninvited stretches of...hopelessness.This is it. Gone is your fight. Your love of the tactile, the sensual, pleasure and pulses and people at their most perverted. They can all go to hell. Nothing for you here but the kid. You lobbed the rest of your cares off the cliff when you jumped. It’s joyless, now. Absolutely fucking joyless, and you take pleasure in none of this misery. There’s nothing here but the mutual acknowledgement of our fucked-uppedness. Our dread, our fear, our loneliness...what is there to gain, when so little matters but the happiness of one?
For all his depressing musings, one factor cheered him. He couldn’t wait to leave Galeyn, the seat of his restless defeat. To be out and actively pursuing something, as opposed to humoring an outcome he’d long dismissed as futile, generated the barest amount of excitement in him. Rowen...he could not help her. He couldn’t help Teselin, either, but with her, the possibility remained. A hint of a future, a smattering of salvation. It was all he had. The one glimmer of light not snuffed, not entirely, by his own hands.
A slight but noticeable scuttling near the door alerted Hadwin to a completely expected guest. He anticipated Isidor’s reemergence, and right on time, too; approximately several days after the point of the incident. The severely introverted alchemist required plenty of decompression holed alone in his study to tackle the matter of his guilty conscience. What surprised Hadwin most was that it took three days, and not a week, or several, to muster the courage to arrive at Teselin’s quarters.
Flinging himself off the bed, he padded to the door and wrenched it open. Isidor’s fear response was...incredible. If only seeing fears fed him energy, and not headaches, he’d have all the more reason to frighten easy prey to death. “Ah, Doorstop! Surprise surprise, seeing you here! You can rest easy, my boy; Tes isn’t here. She’s preparing the steeds for tonight’s departure and yup I’m going with her! Just you and me right now; you prefer that, though, because I ain’t as terrifying as your dear sister. That’s something else; I always prided myself in being the scary one.”
Swinging the door wide, he invited the lanky rabbit of a man inside, insisting that hallway chatter invoked the wrong kind of attention. Galeyn was prone to gossip, and Hadwin inspired much of the gossip by being central to much of the kingdom’s current stresses. The belligerent brother of a murderess, together with the Master Alchemist, generated a great deal of curiosity among the eyes and ears of Galeyn’s most astute of eavesdroppers. The door slammed shut behind them. Inside, it was dark; the curtains were drawn, and one lantern flickered a paltry shaft of light on a rug in the center. Residual wisps of pipe smoke descended its foggy, potent atmosphere, entrapping the poor, unsuspecting lungs of anyone not accustomed to the smell.
“So, you’re trying.” He plucked his still-smoldering pipe from an empty chamberpot and positioned the stem in his mouth. “And it’s cute, your efforts. I’m not opposed to your help. You got something special. I mean, I’m even tempted to accept your offer of temporary magical immunity; it’s a step in the right direction. But you’re afraid to take your special talents even further. If you were untethered, unrestricted and unrestrained,” he let out a low whistle, “oh, the things you could accomplish. What you could do for others; what you could do for her. You want to be better, and soon? You first need to face the worst. Are you ready for the worst? No,” he clicked his tongue against his pipe stem, “we’re never ready. The worst just...happens. Springs itself on us with claws and teeth. Isidor...I’ll tell you this,” he expelled a stream of smoke to add to the eddies swirling about the air, “I was a lot like you, once. Afraid to live. Afraid to make a mark because to stand out meant I would need to fight every damn day for the privilege of living outside my self-made cave of horrors. I had two options; either crush my opponents or let the weight of their fists crush me. Be the victim, or be the aggressor.”
He picked at the edge of his eyetooth with his unoccupied hand. “My certain circumstances may be too extreme an example for you, erudite man of letters that you are. We’re two very different creatures, after all. Wolves are predators. They need to kill, to be vicious and ruthless, or they’ll starve. But--fear’s the same in everyone, in wolf and in man. And you can let it grind you down, or you can let it grind for you. Getting there at all, though...well, that’s up to your nerve. Do you have what it takes to control the direction of your boat before it goes careening down a waterfall? Could you survive if you crashed on the rocks?” Without warning, Hadwin pinned Isidor against the wall and forced his luminous gold eyes into the man’s face. “Let’s find out, ‘Master.’” In a flash, the poor alchemist was held captive, against his will, amid a cascade of unavoidable fears.
“I guess, I… I want it all. Everything you’ve said.” Elespeth nodded at Haraldur’s suggestion. It was nothing new, and nothing she hadn’t already considered, given that her idle state had allowed her troubled mind to wander through plains and plains of possibilities for the future. What else could she do, confined to bed as she had been for… for so damn long? Nothing had felt certain to her, since Stella D’Mare. Nothing was within her reach anymore… including her identity. “I want all of it. I want to be part of a search party to actually contribute to something. I want to be able to pick up my sword, again. I want to be strong, again. I want to be someone my friends and allies can rely on. I know I am not Elespeth Tameris anymore, but… but does Elespeth Rigas have to be so different? Is it foolish or futile to want to go back to the person I had been in Stella D’Mare, before Solveig broke my body? I feel as though… I used to be someone who deserved respect. After I abused that Mollengardian herb, I realize I lost the right to respect. But now I… it feels worse. I feel as though I’ve lost so much more, and I don’t know that I can regain it…”
The former knight wrapped her arms around herself, as if warding off a chill, despite that the climate of the Night Garden remained temperate all year round. “I wish it was just mirrors I’m having trouble with, but…” But it was so much more, and she wasn’t sure that this was the right place, or the right time, or… the right person to divulge those details. Especially not when there was very clearly something else weighing heavily on the Eyraillian Prince’s mind. Elespeth listened as he confided what Tivia had told him about the twins. How, at their birth, the Night Garden had sprouted two young trees as a blessing to the first babies born in Galeyn in well over a century. None of this struck her as odd, at all; of course the Garden would bless and protect two brand new lives. If it could be nourished by the ashes of the dead to grow beautiful memorials in their memory, why wouldn’t it honour life just as it did death? At least there was some happy news, in this kingdom’s gloomy period of fear.
“That is such an honour. To have the Night Garden bless your children, to value their lives in such a way that it would itself grow new life to mirror their own.” Elespeth smiled, and in that moment, she was genuinely happy for Haraldur and his wife; for his family. There was only a mild twinge of envy and sorrow, one that reminded her she wasn’t likely to experience the same thing, as it was not an aspiration of Alster’s to bear children. But that issue had no place in the here and now. There were far too many greater developments that demanded attention. “And it is not bizarre, at all. Although, I am not so sure as to how much help I’ll be. Trees, among other flora, aren’t exactly my specialty. I’ve never so much as set foot in any garden to do anything other than appreciate what others are able to grow; to be honest, I am not even sure that I can discern a sapling from a weed.” She grinned a self-deprecating smile at her mention of the gardening skills she so lacked. But, hailing from nobility as she had, the Tameris family had always employed gardeners to do that literally “dirty” work for them--a detail that she did not feel warranted mentioning to Haraldur, who had come from quite the opposite side of classes. “This is a big Garden, and I imagine there are always a number of new trees ready to sprout from its enchanted soil. But, that said, I would be more than happy to keep my eye open for anything that could potentially ring as significant. Not like I have anywhere else to go, for a while.”
The Forbanne Commander’s offer to pay her visitations did strike a warming chord in her heart, even if he was only doing it out of politesse as a direct result of her request for company. He was a busy man, after all; he had said as much, himself. To carve out even a moment of his time for someone who really did not deserve his kindness, after what she had done, resonated with such heavy vibrations that it near brought her to tears. “Yes. Bring them exactly as they are: screaming, fussing, unruly. I had a hand in tending to my baby cousins, some time ago. Believe it or not, I do know a thing or two about changing soiled diapers and soothing upset infants who themselves don’t understand why they are upset.”
With a somewhat uncertain smile, Elespeth clasped her hands in front of her and took a step back. “I hope you can forgive me my sudden existential crisis. Sometimes my thoughts don’t quite make sense to me unless I can voice them aloud, and Alster… well, he already had a lot on his mind, beyond my health. I don’t know what it would do to him to know I’m falling into a bottomless pit of uncertainty without a way to climb back out, again.”
“Oh. She’s preparing the steeds… then I assume she must plan to leave sooner than later?” Worry creased the Master Alchemist’s brow. Just how early this evening did his sister plan to leave? Would there even be enough time to craft a single talisman to ensure temporary immunity to magic? A crestfallen expression befell Isidor’s pale face. “I didn’t realize by tonight, she meant so soon…”
Frankly, the last thing he wanted was to accept the non-verbal invitation to be alone in a room with the faoladh. It hadn’t been comfortable, the last time it had happened; Hadwin wasn’t someone who gave a rat’s ass for personal space, and he didn’t really have the time to entertain the man’s diatribes. Teselin wasn’t here; he had said his part, and it would have been wisest just to leave. After all, he had yet to deliver another dose of the serum to suppress Elespeth Rigas’s immuno-aversion to her newly developed magic, that morning. But like a deer who knew it had been spotted by a hunter, Isidor was helpless but to accept the wolf-man’s invitation to step inside. He startled just as easily when the door closed behind him.
“I know, alright? I know it’s not enough. That what I can offer right now is far from what Teselin wants. But it is still something. Really, I just want her to know… I haven’t given up on her. And, with Queen Lilica’s consent, I’m…” He took a breath, before continuing, because as soon as he made this promise… there would be no going back on it. “I’d be willing to remain in Galeyn for as long as it takes to help my sister find the answers she seeks. The solution isn’t in changing the fabric of her existence; I frankly don’t know where it lies, but if she is willing to give me time… I want to find it. I do want to help her.”
But that was the problem: time. And Hadwin didn’t seem to think there was enough time in the world for Isidor to make good on his promise… which was beginning to give the Master Alchemist a bad feeling. Well, a worse feeling that what he initially felt, whenever he saw the man. It was something he said in particular, however, that made him want to break out in a cold sweat: If you were untethered, unrestricted and unrestrained? Imagine what you could accomplish…
Hadn’t Master Zenech said something very similar, over and over, whenever he’d put Isidor through hell and back to shape him into the Master Alchemist that he was? Nothing good ever came of those words; and knowing what he did now, it was time to run.
“I… am not sure that my idea of ‘soon’ are yours are congruent.” He remembered what Alster had said to him; the caution in his voice, and that he requested he take a few weeks to consider whether dredging up long-forgotten memories was what he really wanted to do. “...like I said, I’ll work on it. On helping Teselin, and on… myself. But it will not happen overnight, I’m afraid. Listen, if you’ll just tell her that I stopped by to--”
Hadwin, the predator that he was, must have read the tells suggesting that the Master Alchemist was about to wrench open the door and make a break for it. Before he could so much as shift his body, the faoladh had him up against the wall so quickly it near knocked the wind out of him. Although he had the advantage of some inches in height, Hadwin was far stronger, by nature, and there was no getting away. “W-what do you think you’re doing!?” Hadwin was so close he could smell the herb from his pipe that clung to the man’s skin. “Let go of me!”
But it was too late, because whatever intent swam in Hadwin’s predatory gold eyes suddenly sent the world before him away, and before he knew it… Isidor was drowning in his past.
The tower. The darkness that surrounded it. Master Zenech and every horror associated with him… It was startling to suddenly realize that Isidor had not, in fact, forgotten a single detail about his late Master’s abuse, for when he relived it all again, it was nothing new. He felt the weakness in his muscles, the dryness of his throat, the way his stomach had twisted itself into knots after days without food, and so little water. His palms stung and burned and throbbed, feeling raw as the day Zenech had carved those runes into his palms. And then, the tasks he would put him up to, regardless of the state of his body. Forcing him to repeat the exercises over and over and over, until he’d perfected it… or passed out, trying. It was no less painful or horrifying, but nothing new. No, what struck him was the image of the man on his deathbed, pale and cold and gone, gone gone… and the way that memory suddenly played backwards, in the moments, the hours, leading up to that death. Isidor saw himself, young and frail and desperate, with shadows beneath his sleepless eyes. He watched as that wretched, pitiful boy, hands shaking for lack of food and sleep, crafted solution in the darkness of his small chambers. Watched as he, ever with an eye to careful detail, had uncorked a bottle of Zenech’s favourite wine, before replacing the cork and melting its wax casing expertly. Replacing the bottle in such a way that it looked as though it had never been touched.
Watched as Zenech poured himself a glass before he prepared to sleep… before he dropped the class and clutched at his chest in agony, hours upon hours of agony, with the pain only finally giving way to death. Isidor Kristeva had not simply poisoned Master Zenech; poison was too obvious. No, he had crafted a cocktail to turn the man’s already cold heart to stone--literally, to stone.
Frightened, shy, and anxious Isidor Kristeva had single-handedly done what none of Zenech’s enemies could, and murdered the man in cold blood. Premeditated, carefully planned, and carefully executed cold blood. Just like his despised Master had done to so many others, in the pursuit of power and longevity.
To say it came as a shock was an understatement. With a cry of protest, Isidor shoved Hadwin aside with such force that it broke the man’s hold on his body, and caused his spectacles to fly off of face and land on the floor. The glass crunched and shattered under his boot with a single misstep that he didn’t appear to notice. Isidor clutched at his face as if assaulted by the sudden onset of a merciless migraine, and he couldn’t have feld if he wanted to. He found himself clutching at the doorframe to stay upright, for the images, those memories, did not begin and end with Zenech. No, there was something more… Something far more terrible that his fragile mind had kept locked away in its recesses for over a decade. A voice with a familiar lilt, words that stung him from the inside out with their nostalgia.
Does it hurt…? I’ll get some ice--don’t worry, he won’t notice. He never takes notice of me.
It’s okay to cry; he’s not here, just me. I won’t judge you.
Come with me, Isi. He thinks we are both powerless; but we can get out of here, together. Just trust me--alright?
“A...Arisza…” That name… he had known that name, and that face, so well, at one point. But he had forgotten her; and now, he remembered exactly why forgetting his only childhood friend had ever been necessary. His heart was racing, his head pounding so badly that he saw spots in his vision when he was finally able to break free of the hellscape that Hadwin had plunged him into. But just because he was seeing relatively clearly again did not make the memories stop: they kept coming, providing more and more evidence that Isidor Kristeva was exactly the monster he’d always determined not to be...
Broken spectacles long forgotten, the distraught Master Alchemist finally found the door knob and clutched it with a trembling hand. “Stay… stay away from me!” He hissed at the faoladh, before rushing out of his sister’s room, the only remnant of his presence being the shattered eyeglasses on the hardwood floor.
Elespeth had been a few days on Isidor’s serum, the dosages which were shrinking bit by bit as her body acclimatized to her magic. To the alchemist’s credit, it was doing the trick: she was feeling better, and there was even talk that perhaps a fortnight in the Night Garden might not be entirely necessary. While she and Alster were patiently waiting for Isidor to deliver the most recent dosage later that morning, which was curiously late for someone so punctual, the former knight did not appear all too concerned. “I’m not feeling ill, today; maybe it isn’t even necessary, at this point.” She told her husband off-handedly, as she paced the sanctuary with a cup of tea in her hand that was supposed to keep a fever down. “It could be that he’s simply forgotten to tell us. Could explain why he isn’t here.”
Her theory was short-lived, however, for when the knock on the door proved not to be Isidor, but Hadwin, of all people, suspicion was quick to follow. “To what do we owe the pleasure of your company, Hadwin?” Elespeth arched an eyebrow, already on the defensive for the lack of humour in the faoladh’s tone when he began to explain something had taken a turn with their resident Master Alchemist… and Alster seemed to understand exactly what was going on.
“Hadwin…” Elespeth looked between her concerned husband and the man with the guilty aura. “Hadwin, what the hell did you do?! Alster--wait!” He was already out the door, and before he could protest, she was on his heels. “I’m fine. I haven’t had the serum today; I’m not at risk for anything, and whatever is happening to Isidor… like hell am I going to let you deal with it alone.”
As with many of Hadwin’s antics, assaulting Isidor with his fears came as a spur of the moment, ‘while I’ve got you here,’ opportunity. But as far as antics went, the deed brought him no pleasure. He was manhandling a wooden wedge lodged in the doorframe, a ‘doorstop,’ a defenseless, well-meaning sod whose existence predicated on crawling under the bed and waiting for the storm to pass. The man was so unintrusive, a mild-mannered, shambling mess of bones, that, should Hadwin bump him on the street, he’d deem the poor bastard too pathetic to harass and hand him a silver coin out of pity. Perhaps even take an interest in the bugger and buy him a drink, and a whore. But Isidor was unfortunate to misuse his potential by scampering off with his crab legs to the nearest vacant shell, and doing so in the presence of Teselin, who so desperately needed good news, and innovative, powerful, fearless people fighting for her cause. How could Isidor come to her aid, or to anyone’s aid, if he was so frightened of making a mark, of breathing without choking, of being in the moment? How could he rise to his calling and seize it as his own, if he plodded along day by day, actively ignoring the ugly but indisputable truths inflicted on him by his unresolved trauma?
Yes, Isidor’s fragile mindset of affairs could have been dealt with delicately, gradually, under the care of a trusted confidante and colleague such as Alster Rigas. And how long would the process have lasted? Weeks--months? Did Teselin have weeks or months before the bubble of her magic inflated to capacity and burst out another apocalyptic pop!? One more incident. It only took one more incident for Teselin to lose herself entirely, whether to the despairing hand of suicide, or to a possibility far grimmer. Rowen Kavanagh, reimagined. Rowen Kavanagh, wielding the end of all things, her filter of preservation, shredded. With the literal world at stake, did Hadwin have the patience or the humor to primp and prime a bumbling oaf to working order? If he didn’t bounce back from the hailstorm of cold, hard, necessary clarity, both pure and unrefined, then Isidor wasn’t worth his salt. He’d never stand as a contender if people like Alster babied and shielded him from the bludgeoning blows with swaddling clothes. It was time to ride or die; if Isidor foundered, then Hadwin would find another candidate to step in his place. The process was meant to be fast and unforgiving; fast because there was no more fooling around, unforgiving because...Hadwin might not be forgiven for his brutal role in scraping the fair, underbaked Isidor Kristeva out of the oven and into the rubbish heap.
As with most everything the careless faoladh did...it was a gamble. But not an uncalculated one.
Isidor broke free of Hadwin’s control. A fortuitous sign; the block of wood had some fight in him, after all, as further demonstrated by the adrenaline-fueled shove that sent him off-balance and reeling over a chair. When he sprang to his feet, the inconsolable alchemist was already out the door and racing down the corridors, clawing the walls for escape.
“Told you I’m the scary one,” Hadwin muttered under his breath as he swiped something off the ground. Spectacles, shattered from their brusque mistreatment, dangled by their crooked stem, the delicate wiring twisted out of commission. “Well, I fucking torched that bridge,” he spoke to the dancing, smoke-filled room.
That was when his calculations came into play. Time to pass the torch to the people who would mitigate the damage he had no qualms causing.
Well...perhaps he felt a mite guilty.
Upon his urgent knock at the sanctuary door, he didn’t bother with any preamble when Elespeth responded to his summons. Alster peeked his head from his position on the bed, curiosity and suspicion lining his brow. No visit from Hadwin Kavanagh, not lately, elicited good tidings or happy reunions. The Rigas Lord was on his feet before the faoladh uttered a word.
“You better check on your friend, Serpent Lord. He’s had a bad trip.”
Alarm widened his blue-green eyes. “Hadwin--what did you do?!” He echoed his wife’s sentiments.
“What I said I’d do for him all along. C’mon, don’t act like you weren’t planning on endorsing this course of action.”
“In a controlled environment, under the care of healers, and with his permission, which I’m sure you didn’t ask for!”
“Eh, what’s done is done.” He handed Alster Isidor’s broken, crooked spectacles. “This benefits you, too, Alster Rigas. You get to sweep in and play the hero.”
Too flustered to speak beyond half-curses and nonsense words, Alster snatched away the spectacles and grabbed the faoladh by the ruff of his collar, steel prosthesis hissing with heat and electricity. “You’re coming along.” It was not a suggestion or a request. An unspoken ‘or else,’ hung its threats in the magic-infused air.
Hadwin did not react other than raising an incredulous brow. “Are you sure that’s a good id—”
“--All good ideas are dead, thanks to you!” he snapped, releasing Hadwin with a shove. “Your nose. You lead. Go!”
Despite his off-kilter balance, Alster had no trouble following Elespeth and Hadwin in a dead run to the palace dungeons. He did not lose his footing down the steep, stone stairs that spiraled into the torch-lit passageways leading to Isidor’s secondary workshop, and he did not falter when he yanked the iron-enforced wooden door open. In the alchemist’s panicked and vision-inhibited flight, the entrance to his workshop was not only unlocked, but left ajar. They poured into his chambers just as Isidor, reduced to dry heaving on the floor, positioned a flaming torch beneath the intricate and silvery lattice-work of his rune-carved left hand.
“No!” A sonic boom emitted from Alster’s aura, its force strong enough to knock the torch out of Isidor’s possession. Before the hysterical alchemist could retrieve it, a well-aimed wind snuffed the fire to smolders. Alster was at the man’s side in seconds, supporting him by the shoulders.
“Isidor. Isidor! It’s me, it’s Alster. Look at me. Look at me. Listen to my voice.” He sent waves of calming white energy through their skin to skin contact, but no avail; the alchemist’s current level of terror was too advanced to respond to external stimuli. Isidor flailed, squirmed out of Alster’s arms and vaulted to his feet, an unhinged ball of feral madness too frenzied and frenetic to reason with, or contain. He bounded around, frantically searching for other implements to scald or erase the hateful marks on his hands. Whilst Alster and Elespeth tried to catch and restrain him, Hadwin, who’d kept out of sight and to the shadowy corners of the workshop, sprung up from behind, walloping him on the side of the head with a sharp-knuckled fist.
“Should have done that before I let him get away the first time. Save you the runaround,” the faoladh remarked, supporting the now-unconscious Isidor by the underarms as gravity slumped him towards hell. Clearing a table of its books, Hadwin hauled the alchemist’s limp form atop the hard stone slate, supporting his head so it wouldn’t smash against the surface and agitate his injury.
“You shouldn’t have unloaded Isidor with his fears, either; now get away from him. You’ve done enough damage--mental and physical.” Alster barreled past the faoladh, swiping a cushion from a chair to use as a bolster for the alchemist’s tender spot.
“And how else were you going to stop him, huh? Smother him with a hug?” Obligingly, he stepped aside, relocating near a shelf brimming with alchemical curiosities and baubles.
“You’ve done your part, Hadwin. Now it’s time for you to leave.” Alster’s tone was level, containing the strained notes of his draining clemency.
“Don’t you wanna know what I saw? There’s been a breakthrough; he remembers. Well, obviously. As a healer, it behooves you to know the details of why your patient’s suffering.”
“Noted. Leave.”
“You’re gonna hold him in a fucking dungeon, Al? Least I can do is carry him to the sanctuary or—”
“--The least you can do is leave when I tell you to leave!” Alster’s slight frame heaved dangerously. “Since you’ve returned to Galeyn, you’ve made everything worse. Everything! I’ve been lenient because of what you’ve been through, but you’ve crossed one line too many. Consider this a warning; one more misstep and I’ll motion to Lilica to ban you from the Night Garden and the palace indefinitely.”
“Sheesh, tell me how you really feel.” The faoladh pushed away from the shelf. “He’ll fucking recover, Al. But you know what? You’re right. I’ve crossed some lines; whatever. But it’s not any different than what I’ve done under your service. Now I’ve suddenly gone too far? Because it opposes your wishes and doesn’t align with them?” He stuffed his hands into his pockets. “This wasn’t some malicious move to undermine you or Isidor. He needed a kick in the ass and I gave it to him. No one else would’ve dared. So yes, by all means, Alster, tuck him into bed with a quilt and a lullaby; do what I haven’t the capability to do! I fucking bring carnage wherever I go, so don’t act like you didn’t see this coming!”
“So you did this on purpose to, what, fit the narrative you built in your head?”
“I did it for Tes!” Hadwin’s lips curled over his teeth. “She needs a brother with a backbone! Someone who won’t scamper off when things get too hard like I did, and they will get too hard, because what Tes can do, what she’s done, can break a lesser person, and that’s if they survive.”
“And you couldn’t trust my methods!? Couldn’t trust that I’d help him!? Our interests were aligned, Hadwin! And—” sparks of anger leaped between Alster’s fingers, “what about your fight with Bronwyn? Did you do that for Teselin? Announcing Elespeth has magic in a bid to frighten your sister and isolate her from any and all potential allies? No one has seen her in days! You’re not doing this for Teselin. You’re doing this to fill a void because living has become too difficult for you. You have no outlet, so you want everyone else to be miserable and alone so you can feel something. But you’re still miserable and alone, and numb. Tell me I’m wrong.”
Hadwin looked directly into Alster’s eyes and smiled cuttingly. Alster stared back, unflinching. The wolf retreated a step. “You. Are. Wrong. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ll kindly fuck off, as per your instructions. Good day to you. Let’s hope you’re enough to break Doorstop free of his madness. And I mean that--I ain’t unaffected by what I see. Poor chump didn’t deserve this rough and tumble treatment--but I regret nothing.” Digging his heels into the ground, the faoladh stomped out of the dungeons, but he didn’t leave empty-handed. Amidst the shuffle and chaos, he secreted away a particular object, with no one the wiser. He’d seen Isidor’s stray fears pertaining to what now fell under his possession; the alchemist stone. The power to grant conditional wishes...for a price. One only needed to spin the wheel and condemn another person to the role as sacrificial lamb. Not a bad deal. Not a bad deal at all.
After Hadwin’s loud departure, Alster slumped over the table, his breaths issuing out of him in short, quick, exhales. “I’m sorry, El,” he managed in between gasps. “That was unprofessional. That outburst didn’t help...anyone. Not Isidor. I lost control.” Recovering enough from his bout of temporary hyperventilation and resulting lightheadedness, the Rigas Lord straightened up beside the table and laid a healing hand upon the bruise blooming on the alchemist’s temple. “I--we--had a procedure. We were going to do this right. Gradually. He wanted to recover his lost memories and I was going to help him navigate the trauma.” The soothing white energy slowly eradicated the tender bump welling on Isidor’s temple. “Nothing is lost,” he reassured himself. “It might prove more difficult, more of a process, but Isidor will overcome. Elespeth,” he raised his head to his wife, “he needs to be with us in the sanctuary, but we don’t have the combined strength to carry him to the Night Garden. Can you inform the Gardeners that we require their services for a transfer?”
Within the hour, a collective including Elespeth, Alster, and three Gardeners carefully lifted the alchemist onto a hammock and carted him to the sanctuary. They prepared a bed sandwiched in between Elespeth and Alster for the most efficient and accessible care. Seizing the advantage of Isidor’s ongoing state of unconsciousness, they scoured the tiny one-room hut, removing sharp objects, open flames, ropes, mirrors, or any other implement that could be improvised as a weapon for self-harm. Informing a Gardener to notify Chara of his inability to perform his duties and responsibilities as Rigas Head that day, and likely in the coming days, Alster propped a chair at the head of Isidor’s bed and presided over the sleeping, traumatized man. “I could infiltrate his dreams,” he whispered over to Elespeth, who was replacing a fresh towel over Isidor’s flushed brow. “Guide him, as I’ve guided so many, before. But I’ve always hastened the healing process. Like magic, I seldom give people the opportunity to recover naturally. I force treatment on others. I...I don’t think that makes me much better than Hadwin, in that regard. So what do you think I should do for Isidor? What is right and what is fair? It’s been a while since I’ve helped anyone, and I...I’m not sure, Elespeth.” He curled his flesh and blood fingers over the alchemist’s broken pair of spectacles. The rest of the glass had been cleared out so as not to cause a cutting hazard. “I’m not sure I should do anything. I...I don’t know if I’m...I don’t know if I can help. I’ve been so useless. To everyone…”
Hadwin did not rematerialize until later that afternoon. He waltzed into the room he shared with Teselin, who was in the middle of packing. Through some casual questions about her day, he gauged that she did not hear about her half-brother’s ill-timed run-in with him, or the ensuing hoopla following his reaction. “So,” he rescued his pipe from the floor, where it lay discarded since Isidor knocked it out of his mouth that morning, “Night steeds fare better at night, obviously, but can I interest you in getting out of here earlier? Like--now?” He elected for a sliver of honesty. “I pissed off some people. Nothing new, I know. But hey, I’m ready when you are. It’ll be good to see the sun a tad before we race off into the inky darkness for however the hell long we’ll be riding. Winter’s around the corner--we can’t take the sun for granted, yeah?”
They didn’t stop. Even in the absence of the man who had cracked open the careful encasing of these long-forgotten memories, which Isidor now realized had been pushed the the inaccessible recesses of his mind for a reason, the influx of details he’d rather not be aware of didn’t stop. He felt it all over again, as if he was once more just eight years old, and helpless to do anything but endure the pain. The pain that Master Zenech inflicted on him to see how much of it he could take; to see if he could survive the runes he would later inscribe on his palms. The pain of wondering why his mother had entrusted him to this man, and wondering if she would ever come back for him. The pain of realizing his only brother did not even vaguely care for what he was suffering. And the pain of losing the only friend he had ever known, the only person to offer him unconditional kindness when he was in such desperate need of it…
He didn’t know where he was running; only that he had to run, if there was any chance of putting distance between himself and the memories that assaulted him. Of course, it was entirely futile. For now that he remembered the history that led to earning those runes on his palms, what he had endured, and what others had to sacrifice to make it possible… there was no running away from that. What was done, was done, and could not be undone. That was something he had to acknowledge, and that he would have to live with for the rest of his life. But… but the future was up to him, he realized with a start, as soon as he found himself in the lightless workshop Queen Lilica had allowed him to set up in the empty dungeon. People had suffered in the past, and whether directly or indirectly, he had been the cause…
But it didn’t have to remain that way. No, no one ever had to be hurt ever again. That was something that was within his power…
“You… this is all because of you.” Shaking, with cold sweat beading on his forehead, Isidor stared at the pale scars on his hands. He had suffered for them… ultimately, Arisza had suffered for them, too. People whose names he would never know had suffered for them… but no more. Master Alchemy had no place in this world if it required the suffering of unwilling others; and to that end, a Master Alchemist had no place in this world. “I don’t need you.” He hissed at those scars, his voice as shaky as the rest of his body as he reached for a torch. “I don’t want you. You are the reason Arisza is dead… you are the reason Zenech is dead. You made me a bloody murderer…!”
Perhaps, in a twisted way, he had to thank Hadwin for his interference. Prior to this gruesome revelation of memories long forgotten, he never would have had the nerve to do what he intended to do now. To burn away the scars on his flesh that would, hopefully, burn away the scars left on his soul from his childhood spent in fear, sadness, and isolation. Perhaps this was a blessing: a chance for a new start, one that would leave all of the pain behind. One that would allow him room to grow, to see past all of the hurt, and to ensure that his existence never hurt anyone ever again. But you made a promise, a faint voice at the back of his mind whispered, barely making it through the residual noise of his memories. To Elespeth. To Alster… to Teselin. You promised you would help them…
I can’t help anyone! I was never meant to help anyone. That was not what Zenech made me. Up until now, I’ve lived the life of a fraud. His conscious thoughts shot back at that tiny voice. I am of not help to anyone. This… everything I have become, it has only brought pain. I don’t want it… I never wanted it!
With a trembling hand, the distraught man took a burning torch from a nearby wall. This wouldn’t make the memories go away; it wouldn’t make the pain go away. It wouldn’t undo what had been done. But it would be one small degree of separation between what he had done, and what he could do. After all… who was to say these marks would not destroy more lives in the future? I am no one’s savior. I don’t exist to help them… I exist to hurt. Only to hurt…
Isidor did not immediately detect that he was no longer in the room, not until familiar voices finally met his ears. The tunnel vision cleared from his eyes in time to see Alster and Elespeth’s frantic faces, around the same time a mysterious gale swept the torch out of his hands and extinguished the fire. But it did not extinguish Isidor’s frantic desperation. “It needs to be done, Alster!” He shouted, adrenaline permitting him strength he didn’t really have as he fought his way out of the Rigas lord’s grasp. Alster was barely more than another noise in the cacophony that mercilessly filled his head.“You don’t understand--you can’t understand! Everything I am, everything I was made to be, is nothing less than evil… and I will not live with that!”
He didn’t need direct flame to burn the wretched inscribings from his palms, forever. He was too well versed in the elements to be limited by that. And while there was no guarantee that burning the markings would make any difference in what he had become, since they’d had years to take root in his very being--but he would be damned if he didn’t try. Grasping at a tin tucked to the far corner of a table, the Master Alchemist emptied a shimmering powder onto the stone surface. No sooner did his palms come into contact with that mysterious agent that the substance immediately became flames, with Isidor’s exposed palms resting in their white-blue center, where they burned the hottest. And through all of the pain tearing him apart from the inside, he didn’t even feel the fire lick away at the tender skin…
The attempt was short-lived, however, when a blow to the side of his head interrupted his attempt to eradicate the runes that had earned him the rare and unique class of Master Alchemist. His hands fell away from the table, as did the rest of his body, as he crumpled into Hadwin’s arms. Afraid that his height would be too much for Hadwin to bear, Elespeth ran to his side and took the fallen man’s legs, helping the faoladh hoist him onto a nearby table. The task was more difficult than she’d thought; it had been so long since she’d been able to make use of her muscles in a meaningful way… “Alster’s right, Hadwin. You knew Isidor was fragile; we all knew it. So you had to have known it would turn out this way…” The former knight pursed her lips and lifted Isidor’s hands, wincing at the red, raw, blistered flesh on both palms. And yet, beneath the injury… the faint outlines of those runes were still there. “You knew, and yet you did it… but why? Why, when this man has been nothing but kind and generous to us? When you knew he wasn’t ready to tread this path you took him on? What made you s eager to see him shatter, Hadwin?”
It was then that Alster proposed his theory, and in all honesty, she couldn’t help but agree. Especially after he had shattered whatever potential there had been to build a bridge for her and Bronwyn… he wasn’t trying to help. Not Teselin, not anyone. He wanted chaos, because amid chaos, no one was happy. And then, he wouldn’t have to be unhappy, alone.
“No… you said what needed to be said. Someone needs to speak up for those who cannot speak up for themselves...” She replied to her husband, after the faoladh finally took his leave, not even looking a hint guilty. “Isidor didn’t deserve that. Not the way it went down. Especially not if you could have helped him through it in a far less damaging way…” While she was hesitant to leave Alster alone with the unconscious man, lest he awaken and become unintentionally violent in his terrified frenzy, there was no skirting around that fact that she and her husband combined were not strong enough in their current states to carry Isidor out of the dungeon, let alone all the way to the sanctuary. With a promise to return quickly, she took off in search of Gardeners, or really anyone, who could lend a hand. Roughly ten minutes later, she returned with three Gardeners, none who themselves were particularly bulky in terms of muscle, so all five of the small party would be needed to carry the unconscious Isidor to a place where he could recover. Fortunately, for all he was tall, the Master Alchemist was not heavy; more mass than weight, and it didn’t take them much more than an hour to have him settled on a cot between Alster and Elespeth’s beds.
It was around that time that Senyiah herself entered, to assess the situation and inform Alster and Elespeth of future procedures, after the two filled her in on what had occurred to render the Master Alchemist in this state. “Given what you’ve told me, he is not to be alone, until a Gardener or healer deems him stable enough and no longer a danger to himself.” She explained, after another Gardener had tended to his burnt hands, applying a salve crafted from Night Garden flora, and protective bandages covering the damaged flesh. “Unfortunately… there is so much that healing in the sanctuary can do for a person. His body will heal, but whatever has been inflicted upon his mind… well, that is the realm of the Sybaia, and our only healer of that sort is unable to perform those duties. I will have to leave it up to you to monitor him, for now. We will have a palace guard stationed just outside the door if he should become violent, or try to flee.”
As stated, the Garden and its Gardeners had played their part to the very best of their ability, and with no further ways for them to possibly provide help, left Alster, Elespeth, and their unconscious charge to their own devices. As Alster took a seat at the head of Isidor’s cot, she wet a cloth in cool water and set it upon the unconscious man’s brow. It was still furrowed, with worry, or with fear. “I think… that whatever happens next, it should be Isidor’s decision--barring allow him to harm himself. You’ve helped a lot of people, Alster; there have been so many instances where we haven’t had the time to rely on natural healing. Not to mention times when healing would never have taken place. Remember what you did for Lilica? Or for Briery, at that? What hope might there have been for them, without your intervention. But, with Isidor…” The former Atvanian warrior sighed sadly, and laid a gentle hand over the unconscious man’s knuckles. “We don’t know what is happening to him. What he has seen, or remembered… and it isn’t our place to become privy to that information, unless he sees fit to share it, himself. For someone who spent all of his life in a tower, I can only imagine he is a private person. If it is something he wants us to know… he will tell us. But, until then,” Elespeth slowly shook her head and heaved another sigh. “Let’s just be there for him--be friends to him. Whatever suffering Hadwin had unveiled, he needs to know he needn’t bear it alone.”
He dreamed of her, for the first time in so many years… A dream that played upon a memory, both comforting and sad. Isidor was a boy, again; just ten years old, leaning against a wall on a cold stone floor, to weak and in too much pain to move his body to the bed, just inches away. His palms stung and burned, and his muscles and head throbbed from lack of food and water. He couldn’t even think, through all of the misery; so instead, he just sat and existed, and wished the time away, for when he wouldn’t be in so much pain. Retreated inside himself to a dark and empty place where nothing existed--including pain, in hopes that it would help trick his body into thinking it wasn’t hurting, anymore.
“Isidor?” A familiar whisper permeated the darkness, enough for him to want to open his eyes. But it was dark, in his small chamber, with no candles or sconces lit. He couldn’t see anything. “Isi… are you hurting again? It’s okay to cry, you know. Sometimes it makes it hurt less.”
Gentle arms pulled him to his feet. It still hurt, just being moved, if not moving, himself, and he whimpered in response. “... I can’t. What if he finds out…”
“He’s been asleep for hours. No one’s here but me. Oh--Isi, your hands! Are they bleeding?”
The thin mattress groaned as she helped lay him upon it, and took one of his wrists gently into her hands. “What… what has he done to you, this time…?”
“Whatever he wants.” Was all Isidor was able to murmur in response, for a long moment. “Whatever… he says is necessary… I just need to survive it. That’s all he said. But maybe… maybe I won’t. I think… that might be better…”
“Don’t say that! I’d be so sad if you were gone!” She hissed, and put his hand down. The both of them were silent for a long time, after that; maybe minutes, or maybe it was an hour. Time had lost all sense and meaning to the boy, who had spent the past two years of his life in this wretched tower. “...we could leave. Do you want to leave, Isi? With me?”
A pause. Isidor turned the words over in his exhausted mind. Was she suggesting… “...we would never make it, Arisza. He’d… punish us both…”
“Maybe alone, we couldn’t do it, but you know his habits, and I know this tower like the back of my hand. Come with me, Isi.” Her whispers grew quieter, but more urgent. “He thinks we are both powerless; but we can get out of here, together. Just trust me--alright?"
“...where would we go, Ari? Even if we made it…”
“Well, we could go look for your family. You could go home.”
It felt as though something heavy had settled on Isidor’s chest. It made it hard to breathe. “...but my mother sent me to him, Ari. She left me here. And my brother… he hates me. He doesn’t want to help. I…” His voice broke, and an errant tear trickled down his cheek. “I think… this is supposed to be my home, now…”
More silence. A gentle finger wiped away his tear. “Well… then we’ll find my family. And you could have a home with us. I have a mom and two brothers; my father is worth dirt, but everything else isn’t so bad.” He could practically hear the smile in her voice. “My brothers would love to have another brother of their own; not like they had any respect for their older sister. And my mother bakes elderberry pie, in the spring. It’s the best thing you’ll ever taste, I promise. Our cottage is on a hill…” She pressed a cool cloth to Isidor’s brow; he flinched, but quickly relaxed. “You can see every forest in Nairit. I… was stupid to run away. Compared to this place, I had it good. And you could, too. So what do you say, Isi?” She knelt, her scabbed knees scraping against the cold stone floor. “I’m good at running away; I did it once before. We can do it…”
A home… a real home? With a mother that did not give her children away? It was a foreign concept to Isidor. Siblings that care, and delicious food… but could it be too good to be true? He wanted to believe otherwise--he wanted to believe that Arisza Thalain, the only friend he’d ever had, could also be his salvation. She seemed so sure of herself…
“Well, Isi? Do you want to get out of here? We can make a plan. We can outsmart the old man… he underestimates us both.” The cool cloth on his forehead had rapidly grown warm; it was quickly replaced. “Will you come with me?”
“...Arisza.” It was hours later that the Master Alchemist finally blinked back to consciousness, and dared to open his eyes. That cool cloth on his forehead, the gentle hand… could it be…?
“Isidor?” No… no. It wasn’t the same voice; nor the same face, when he opened his eyes. The light assaulted his pupils like lances; he winced. “It’s Elespeth. You’ve been unconscious for a while… are you feeling alright? How’s your head?”
Truth be told, his head was the least of his concerns. Forcing himself into a sitting position, Isidor stared at his bandaged hands. He could feel and determine the unfamiliar substances in the ointment; could identify the bandages as pure cotton. The pain from those substantial burns had almost completely subsided… and all for nothing. “It didn’t work.” He murmured, to no one in particular. Those runes were a part of him, now, had been so for close to two decades. He could chop off both of his hands, and it wouldn’t make a difference. Master Zenech had successfully transformed him into a Master Alchemist. It was in his blood; and there was nothing he could do about it.
Elespeth exchanged a concerned glance with her husband, who sat just off to Isidor’s other side. While the poor man seemed to have calmed down significantly, whatever lasting damage Hadwin’s assault had imposed left an imprint on his mind. Part of him still seemed lost in that pain. “Isidor… Hadwin did this to you. Made you remember things that you may have forgotten for a reason.” She explained gently, keeping a respectable distance so as not to crowd his space, but also seemed ready to grab him if he chose to make a run for it. “You don’t have to talk about it--no one is going to force you. But… we don’t think you should be alone with it, either. Will you stay here with us, for a while? The way you looked out for me, when I was barely a person anymore…” Elespeth did her best to offer her most genuine smile. “The least I--that we--can do is look out for you, as well.”
Whether or not Isidor heard a word she said remained to be seen. He stared intently at his bandaged hands, looking impossible lost and full of regrets that Alster and Elespeth might never know. He probably did not want pity, but Elespeth couldn’t help but share in a sense of sadness for the kind, accommodating, and gentle Master Alchemist that had fashioned a future for her and Alster. He didn’t deserve this; and Hadwin had known that, and gone ahead with it anyway. After an uncomfortable bout of silence, something flickered in Isidor’s dark eyes. Something Elespeth hadn’t seen in them, before, and she couldn’t quite place it…
Without warning, the Master Alchemist suddenly swung his legs over the side of the cot--at which point both Alster and Elespeth jumped to action, the latter placing a hand on his arm. “Isidor--with no intended disrespect, you had intentions to harm yourself… We cannot allow you to be alone, right now.”
“Then you can come with me.” Standing upright a tad too fast, Isidor placed a steadying hand against the wall. A rigidness to his form and tension in his jaw suggested that he was not about to let go of whatever was on his mind. “My brother… I need to see Vitali.”
Elespeth exchanged yet another glance with Alster. What would be worse: allowing a man with questionable mental and emotional stability out and about, or refusing him a request that, for whatever reason, seemed urgent and important? Ultimately, through a silent exchange of nods, they both agreed that it was better to oblige him--under supervision. “Wait here; I’ll call us a carriage,” she suggested calmly, making her way toward the door. “The Night Steeds cannot travel very quickly during the day, and it will be a few hours to the farmlands, but…”
“I need to speak to my brother, immediately.”
“Right--of course. I won’t be long.” Shooting a final glance at Alster, one that seemed to say, Try to keep him calm--I’ll be as fast as possible, the former knight left, briefly filling in the guard about what was transpiring, and made haste for the palace for the second time that day.
Throughout the shuffle of lifting Isidor’s body from the dungeons, up the stairway, and down the long corridors to the Night Garden sanctuary, one niggling thought--aside from crushing exhaustion--continued to cycle Alster’s head in a relentless loop: I can fix it. I can fix it with magic. With the wielding of his healing light, he diminished the bump on Isidor’s head. Given time and proper visibility, he could have resolved the scorch marks blistering over the alchemist’s still-visible rune etchings. If he’d acted quicker on his feet, he could have weaved barriers of restraint, capturing Isidor into a harmless cacoon and resulting in no physical blow to the head to induce sleep. The burdensome trek of five people, two of questionable physical physique, buckling under the length of dead weight would not be so taxing if he was able to bend the air and levitate the hammock on which they slung Isidor’s body. Not only was he too slow to act on his ideas, but when he posited levitation to the Gardeners, they dismissed it as an unnecessary waste of his energy. Alster knew he was being ridiculous. Magic was no supplement for rote tasks, for hard work and labor. If one could open a door with their hands, what need was there to twist the latch using a skilled flick of etherea? Magic was a tool to assist and not a replacement for reality. Innately, he understood. As a force of will, magic intruded. It pried the wooden frame with its fingers and dug, cloying, clawing, leaving permanent marks in less-than-sturdy structures, or, as with Teselin’s destructive variety, flattening the foundation altogether. Far better alternatives arrived before magic. Natural remedies, time, rest and recuperation. Failing that...alchemy proved far more beneficial on procedures pertaining to the body. Unlike magic, it did not carve ditches into canals and pump them with water of unverified purity but rather, channeled a preexisting river, floating on materials taken from the landscape and not from elsewhere.
But if that were the case...was magic becoming obsolete? Meddlesome--harmful, even? What true purpose did it serve aside from complicating and impacting people for the worse? Certainly, he was oversimplifying; his magic had saved and bettered lives, but perhaps that was a bygone era. A heyday, long-since past its expiration date. Isidor’s benevolent brand of alchemy, though spawned from unsavory, immoral practices was, at the discretion of its wielder, a superior form of healing. In the right hands, it was a practice far more accessible to those who bore sensitivity to magic’s tendency to sicken the host. Again, oversimplification; whether mage or alchemist, what mattered was not the method but the intent. Still...if one proved inferior, proven best for striking fear, tolling destruction, generating upset in loved ones, then it showed which discipline won as the stronger contender. In the end, Alster was effectively useless in his power, but his uselessness was also why he could not abide Isidor declaiming against his title by burning away his identifying markers and touting them as evil. They may have been forged through evil, self-serving means, influenced by a cruel Master, but Isidor did not embody Zenech’s ostensibly twisted ideals. He wanted to do good things. To be a good person. Despite what he learned of himself amidst Hadwin’s hellscape of fears, Alster believed the core of Isidor Kristeva did not change.
Dehydrated, perspiring, and out of breath, Alster shamefully collapsed on a chair once they arrived at the sanctuary and settled the unconscious form of the Master Alchemist on the cot. Grateful to the Gardeners and to Senyiah for stepping forward with poultices and bandages for Isidor’s hands, he thanked them for their efficiency. Pathetically, he could do little else but fight to keep his eyes open or, failing that, fall into the annals of self-pity and crippling doubt. He succeeded in winning the former battle, but as for the latter…
“I wish I could do more.” He weaved his hands, one of metal and one of flesh, between his legs and slumped over in a weary heap of both physical and emotional exhaustion. “And yet all I can do is sit and watch and...what if that’s not enough, Elespeth? We haven’t known each other long enough to cinch our friendship. I’m afraid, even without my magic smoothing out the edges of his ordeal, I can’t do what he’s done for me. What he’s done for you. There is no way to pay it forward with what he so rightfully deserves. The world’s been unfair to him, both inside and outside his tower and I...so desperately wanted to guard him from wanton cruelty--from people like Hadwin, who prey on strife. At the very least, I wanted to be his guide and I...failed at such a simple task. I know that it isn’t my responsibility to protect him, but I promised I would ease his transition into society.” He pursed his lips into a strained smile, “He said I was an inspiration to him. That he admired my strength, and strives to be more like me. It brought me so much joy to hear his praises. Now,” the broken spectacles shivered in his grasp, “it tastes so bittersweet. If to be like me is to suffer horrifically, then I pray no one else wishes to emulate me. He deserves a better friend. My ideal is too unattainable. He’ll hurt himself chasing it. He’ll think that to live is to invite pain, to be in pain. Agony and sacrifice; that’s his legacy if he follows my path. But,” he glanced over his shoulder, at the troubled lines wrinkling Isidor’s brow, “we’re friends, all the same. And I’ll do whatever I can, however useless or ineffective.”
For the next hour, Alster hovered over his chair, digging nails into his arm to prevent from drifting in and out of consciousness. Elespeth, who, despite complications to her immune system, was recovering at an enviable rate compared to her husband, busied around Isidor’s bedside, changing the cool compresses on his forehead and monitoring his condition for improvements--or regression. Fortunately, the former seemed true, as the alchemist gasped fully awake. Aside from the utterance of an unfamiliar name, Isidor demonstrated awareness of them and of the moments before he lost consciousness. Good. No lasting physical damage, or any noticeable memory loss.
“Isidor.” Alster scooted on the edge of his seat, bracing both hands on the edges of his friend’s cot both for balance and in case he jerked out of bed to escape. He followed Isidor’s eyes to his bandaged hands. “The burns were only surface level. You’ll make a full recovery. I...understand that’s what you may not want to hear,” he added, delicately, “but it shows that your tenure in the sanctuary, I daresay, will be shortlived. You won’t be a veteran of it like Elespeth, here.” He dared to smile, a conservative, unobtrusive one, a sliver of encouragement over anything representing joviality or celebration. It was not a loud expression, but rather soft, exuding calm and patience. “You haven’t slept long, either. About three hours have passed since...well, since you remembered.” He did not want to draw attention to how he remembered, but Elespeth had made mention of it anyway, and Isidor did not react negatively to the news. In fact, he did not seem upset about remembering; he seemed upset that he’d forgotten.
Alster watched, carefully, the different shades of emotions that registered on the alchemist’s wan face. Though silent in speech, the thoughts generating in his head were a parade of emotions ranging from sorrow, guilt, disgust, fear...and something akin to anger. He settled on anger. His already dark eyes darkened with the emotion, and strident determination joined its cause. Voicing no warning, Isidor scrambled out of bed. Alster jerked to his feet, reacting in conjunction with Elespeth; he shot out an arm and steadied him by the shoulder.
“I agree with Elespeth. Isidor, whatever is running through your head, we can talk it over, first. If by tonight, your desire to speak to Vitali still persists, we—”
Isidor’s interjection made his request quite clear. Now. He needed to see the man now.
“It...it will not be immediate. By the time we make the proper arrangements and travel out to the farmhouse, it will be close to nightfall. If we were to wait a little, we’d arrive much faster…”
They could not reason with him. Immediately, he asserted. Worrying at his lip, he cast a glance at Elespeth. Perhaps the long journey through rolling, yellow fields tinted by the late autumn sun, the gentle rocking of the carriage, and the brisk air would mellow out Isidor’s request and he would change his mind midway through the trip.
As Elespeth made her hasty egress to accommodate Isidor’s wishes with the immediacy he desired, Alster, who still had a grip on his shoulder, hesitated before releasing him. “She won’t be long. Will she--ah--will she fare well on the trip? I know she will want to join us, but the suppressants she’s been taking effectively confine her to the Night Garden…” It was a gentle reminder that, through no fault of his own, Isidor would eventually need to deliver the next dose for Elespeth. He hoped he would not come off as ungracious, to make mention of something the alchemist might consider unimportant in midst of his crisis, but it was also an attempt by Alster to appeal to the part of him who wished only to help, and never to harm. “It’s...it’s been working, Isidor. Not that I ever had any doubt in your skill. Since making your acquaintance, I’ve seen nothing in you that would constitute ‘evil.’ Those marks on your hands…” he paused, reluctant to broach a sore and sensitive subject, “evil acts might have led to their creation, but their legacy doesn’t live on with you. My magic has killed people--my parents. It unleashed a Serpent, destroyed my city by the hands of my childhood resentment--you never once flinched to hear the truth. Never once condemned me or my magic as a thing bred to do evil. It is no travesty to you that I’m using the death-seeking energies of my chthonic magic--the magic that killed my parents and which tried to kill me--to heal others. We don’t need to allow our past to affect what we do in the present. You have a conscience, Isidor; that much is evident. You’ve expressed your wish to share your contributions to the betterment of society, and I believe you. I believe in you. Much as I despise him right now, even Hadwin recognized that you’re good for this world. I think that’s in part why he...made you remember.”
Rummaging through his pocket, he pulled out the alchemist’s ruined pair of spectacles. “These belong to you. They’re not in the best shape right now--much like their owner, I’m sure--but they can be refashioned like new. I’ll send this pair to Glaucus. He’ll rewire the frames for you. We can determine the cut of glass most suited for your eyes. It will be done. Nothing has to stay broken, Isidor. Everything can be reworked. In the meantime…” he held out his arm, “there’s nothing shameful in asking for help. Perhaps our imbalances can balance each other?”
Whether his words found purchase in Isidor’s mind, he wasn’t certain, for Elespeth returned a moment later to announce that she had arranged a carriage for them at the palace entrance. After some debate, he accepted that Elespeth, compromised immune system or not, would be making the journey to the farmhouse with them and there was no changing her mind. He relented, on the grounds that she eat her untouched plate of food and drink her fill. Once he coaxed not only Elespeth but Isidor to partake (at least in imbibing in some water), Alster, satisfied by their hydration, motioned for their clearance to depart. As a safety measure, only he, Chara, and Lilica were allowed the executive power to authorize transport to or from the heart of Galeyn, and Alster was not shy in lording over Isidor and Elespeth’s heads that he would sanction the trip only if they took care of themselves--with emphasis on Elespeth.
The trio, along with two Forbanne soldiers headed out of the palace, the long, jostling journey elapsing in near silence. To Alster’s disappointment, Isidor’s stance on confronting his brother hadn’t diminished at all. No second-guessing, no second-thoughts; the alchemist did not waver in his conviction. He exhibited a vastly different side Alster was nor privy to in the short time of their acquaintance, and he wasn’t quite sure how to interpret the change beyond a knee-jerk response to his reawakened trauma.
By late afternoon, the two-steed carriage pulled into the dirt road beside the farmhouse. Alster was out of the door before it rolled to a full stop. Fortunately, he did not lose control of his teetering balance and topple to the ground, head over feet. He remained poised, upright and stately, as his lofty title demanded. “Give me a moment to wake him,” he warned Elespeth and Isidor. “Vitali is nocturnal. I will spare you his five-minute diatribe about how his interrupted sleep is an inconvenience of the highest order.”
As he approached the quaint farmhouse, the front door swung open, negating his need to knock. Tivia stood at the threshold, a curtain of hair with one eye poking intently out of its golden sheaves. “Alster--and additional company, I presume?” she peeked out of the doorway, spotting the carriage, the Night steeds, and the two bulky, intimidating soldiers standing guard.
“Unexpected, yes. Or,” Alster cocked his head, “I suppose that depends on what the stars have deigned to reveal.”
“Yes--they shouted your arrival.” She idly picked at a dry crust of blood rimmed around her ear. “I forewarned Vitali. He’s awake and waiting inside. Come on in. Is Isidor—”
“--Isidor is with us, yes. And he remembers. Hadwin assaulted him with his fears. It appears he now recalls much of his once buried memories. He’s made a special request to speak with Vitali.” Stepping inside, he voiced a hello to the necromancer, who was seated at his favorite chair in the far corner of the small living space. “Be prepared, Vitali. Whatever Isidor wants to say to you...I can’t imagine he’s come to confide his deep, abiding brotherly love.”
“So Hadwin did this to him,” Tivia muttered aloud, something close to sympathy sinking her luminous eye towards floorboards. “Is Isidor...is he all right? By that, I mean...he did not go mad? Like my father, is he—”
Before Alster could answer, Isidor, followed by Elespeth, made their entrance, the former having lost his patience in waiting for his invitation.
“Isidor.” Tivia, squirming from the tension, croaked out a greeting, as though hoping to dispel the moisture of contention swimming in the low-pressure air. “Good afternoon. Would you like something to drink?”
But he wasn’t paying attention to anyone else in the room but the blindfolded man in the chair. Alster held his breath and stayed close to the alchemist, hands outstretched and ready to intervene if necessary.
“...you don’t know anything about these marks, Alster. You don’t know what they entailed; what they cost others. You don’t understand why no one should have them…” Although visibly placated by the Rigas couple’s willingness to cooperate and cater to his whims, Isidor’s eyes remained fixed on his hands when they were not fixed on the door in anticipation of Elespeth’s return. “It doesn’t matter what I can do for Elespeth. I don’t mean to belittle her recovery, Alster, but it doesn’t atone for… for everything else. And it doesn’t matter what I can do for other people, because the reality remains that I am only able to do what I can do because it cost others their lives.”
Noting the bent and empty frames of his spectacles in his peripheral vision, the Master Alchemist hesitantly took the useless pair and pocketed them. Whatever purpose they served, he did not appear to be particularly worse off without them. At least not for the moment. “The end does not always justify the means. I do not regret what I was able to do for you and your wife… but that does not negate the fact that I shouldn’t have been able to do it at all. Elespeth is recovering well. I don’t foresee a trip outside of the Night Garden having much or any impact on that. But if you knew what I do--if you knew what it cost to have these runes on my hands, to be able to use them…” Once again, his dark eyes turned to the bandages on his hands. If you knew what it cost Arisza, would you still be so quick to quick to excuse as miracle work? But Alster had not known Arisza Thalain, the brave and kind young girl who had reached out to a miserable and frightened boy when no one else would. He had not known her the way Isidor had, and someone you did not know could not mean anything to you. No matter what he said, the Rigas Lord would always find a positive way to spin the Master Alchemist’s impressive capabilities. Even if he explained in brutal detail what he’d experienced--what he had lost--for those capabilities… he could not possibly expect him to understand.
“...I’ve already prepared sufficient amount of Elespeth’s serum to see her through this transition. I’ll give it to you later; you know best how to oversee her recovery, after all.” He did not mean to dismiss his previous commitment to keeping his promise to Alster; and in fact, he did not intend to abandon his promises. But in the moment, it was difficult to see past the fog that had gathered in his tunnel vision. Whatever he had sworn to do for the people of Galeyn, or of Stella D’Mare, it would have to wait until he spoke to Vitali. “It isn’t a matter of asking for help, Alster. I’m beyond that; I have been for a long time. I just never knew why, because I could not remember, but now…”
He trailed off. There was no point in elaborating when his current disposition made it all fairly clear. Whatever wounds Isidor had suffered at the hands of his late master had never actually closed or healed; they’d merely been contained by the bandage that was his memory loss to staunch the bleeding. But Hadwin had ripped off that bandage, only to find that the wounds were not only still bleeding, but had become infected over the years they’d neglected treatment, and now oozed the pus that the Master Alchemist had found a way to ignore all this time. “The difference between us, Alster, is that while people may have died by your magic, nobody had to die for it. You were born with it; even your wife happened to come about it honestly, harmlessly, if not entirely naturally. But for me… I am unnatural. An abomination standing on the backs of gods only know how many departed souls so that I could bear these runes. It doesn’t matter how much good I do with them, now. It does not atone for the people who had to die for me to have them. Even though it was all part of Zenech’s plan, and not my own…” Isidor raked a hand through his hair, which fell before his eyes like a dark curtain. “I did nothing to stop it. Not even when I had a chance… I squandered it. I did nothing.”
Not long after she had left, Elespeth returned to announce that they had secured a carriage with Forbanne escorts to ensure their safety. When Alster agreed only to allow her to come along on the grounds that she ate something, she felt half-tempted to remind him that they had an unstable man on their hands who did not want to wait to have his request fulfilled. Isidor remained quiet, however, long enough for her to finish the breakfast she hadn’t yet touched. Upon Alster’s request, Isidor even took a sip of water, but was eager to leave as soon as Elespeth had finished her meal. Neither of the Rigases made any comment on how hard it was on their body to have traveled back and forth from the palace to the sanctuary several times that day. Even Elespeth, who couldn’t have been feeling well without the serum to suppress her body’s reaction to the magic now coursing through her blood, did not even vaguely indicate any discomfort--whether for Alster’s sake, Isidor’s, or both.
The carriage ride was a long and uncomfortable one, without the need to complain about fatigue or physical aliments. While by night, the trip might take just a little over an hour or so, the three spent a good part of the day in the cramped space over bumpy terrain, with no one quite knowing what to say, or if anything should be said at all. Isidor spent the trip staring out the window, both hands clenched into fists on his lap. Instead of using this time to parse through his thoughts and digest what he knew, the Master Alchemist was holding fast to the anger simmering beneath the surface of his skin and making his blood run hot. Saving it for exactly the right person… who they were sure to find at the farmhouse during daylight, considering Vitali took that time to rest. More often than not, Elespeth wondered if they had made the right decision by obliging Isidor’s request. But that determined look in the man’s dark eyes suggested that if they hadn’t… he’d have found a way, all on his own. Whatever he wanted to say needed to be said… and it was unlikely that there would ever be an ‘ideal’ time.
It was nearing suppertime when they arrived at that familiar farmhouse. Isidor was perhaps the most eager to get out, and made to do so, but Alster beat him to it, and offered an explanation. “...very well.” Was all he said, ultimately, and remained seated while the Rigas lord approached the small house to rouse a potentially cranky necromancer.
Thanks to Tivia’s forewarning, even Alster was spared Vitali’s diatribe (the man did not wake up well), and was reclining in a chair, awaiting his brother’s arrival. “Did I hear correctly, or did you say something about our dear resident Master Alchemist ‘remembering’?” Completely ignoring Alster’s warning tone, the necromancer leaned forward in his seat. Whatever his brother had come to say to him, he apparently deemed it ‘interesting’ enough to drag himself out of slumber. “And just what is it he remembered? I always felt there was something a little ‘off’ about the man; I just couldn’t quite put my finger on what it was. Especially recently… and here, I thought he was actually pulling my leg, walking about with such a clueless expression when I grilled him on what has been going on in that tower of his. So…” He arched an eyebrow, and leaned forward, lowering his voice. “Just what was it our faoladh friend forced him to remember? If I recall correctly, that man makes a business of fear like I make a business of death. It could have been anything pleasant…”
He was not long to wait for the very answers he sought. Having evidently grown impatient, Isidor stepped past the threshold, followed by Elespeth, who flashed a tired, apologetic look to both Alster and Tivia that suggested, I couldn’t convince him to wait… And on any other occasion, the Master Alchemist would have been tickled pink that Tivia--who not only noticed him--was speaking to him, and not just speaking, but offering him something to drink! On any other occasion, that small gesture alone would have warmed the reclusive man’s guarded heart. But not on this occasion. Isidor didn’t pay Tivia or either of the Rigases any heed when he crossed that threshold; his attention went straight to his brother, who sat with a half-grin that was as amused as it was eager to know what had changed in the younger Kristeva.
“A little bird told me you wanted to see me. One who just offered you some hospitality.” Vitali angled his head toward Tivia. “Really, Isidor, where are your manners?”
“...why didn’t you help me? Why didn’t you take me away, when you had the chance?” Isidor’s voice was low, barely above a whisper. And quiet, simmering anger, Elespeth worried, was the worst. “I was ten years old. Ten years old, and we had only met twice before… what have I done to make you hate me? Hate enough to leave me when you could have saved me…!”
“...so you do remember. I was beginning to worry what that big brain of yours had locked away from itself.” Vitali raised an eyebrow and straightened in his seat. “I don’t know what it is about Teselin, and now you, making me out to be someone obligated to heroic duties, but I never once took up the mantle of hero, Isidor. It doesn’t suit me or my way of life. Solenice put you in that tower, not me; I had no obligation to help you.”
“So that’s all? You didn’t help when I begged you to because you had no obligation? Because you couldn’t see anything in it for you?”
“You sound surprised. You do know who you’re talking to, right, Isidor? But is that really what this is all about? Tell me…” The necromancer stood from his chair at last and stretched his legs. “What went on in that tower of yours? What really happened to Zenech?”
“He is dead.”
“But by your hand?”
Isidor didn’t reply. He fixed Vitali with stare smouldering with anger and pain, his jaw so firmly clenched, the man was at risk of cracking his teeth.
His silence was all the answer Vitali needed. A broad smile stretched across his lips. “So it’s true. I thought I felt something was off in that tower, of yours… and you’d truly forgotten? What a blow do your ‘pure’ identity to find out that you and I really aren’t all that different. We’ve both had to kill to survive. Is that what’s on your mind, little brother? I’m afraid I cannot offer any condolences or words of encouragement, but I am desperately curious to hear how you went about it. If my memory serves, Zenech was quite a sharp and resourceful man. Surely he’d have seen it coming…”
“He underestimated me. But--you want the truth, Vitali? He couldn’t be further from my mind. It was the only way to take my freedom back. And I am not sure I wouldn’t do the same, if I could go back and change things. But death doesn’t matter to you the way it matters to level-headed people, does it?” One of Isidor’s hands clenched into a tight fist. Clad in his deep grey tunic, with dark hair falling into his eyes, he looked like a shadow about to strike. “It doesn’t matter that your flippant dismissal of my distress led to countless other deaths of undeserving people. Or people… who mattered to me. No, you wouldn’t help me. You didn’t care--but someone else did. Someone else tried to get me out of that personal hell. But they died trying to help me--because you wouldn’t. So much death… so much unnecessary carnage could have been avoided, if you’d just helped me, Vitali!”
The necromancer, who (it was no surprise) remained seemingly unfazed by his brother’s outburst, didn’t so much as flinch at the accusations thrown his way. “I admire your attempt to appeal to my sense of guilt, but rest assured I don’t have one, Isidor. It wasn’t in my best interests to help you; and your late Master was one hell of a terrifying man. Believe me when I say I’ve accrued enough enemies over the years that I didn’t need to add Zenech to that list. But, that aside,” Vitali spread his arms wide and took a step forward, “believe it or not, you weren’t the only ten year old boy who never received the help for which he so desperately pleaded. And I managed to survive just fine, Isidor. Can you blame me that I was so sure you could do the same?”
That was when Isidor lifted his tight fist and punched his older brother in the face.
At least, he came close to it. That fist would have connected if the necromancer, with his uncanny reflexes and ability to sense danger, quickly pivoted away from his brother’s line of fire. “So that’s it? That is why you chose not to help me?!” Isidor Kristeva raised his voice in anger for the first time since… since he could remember. Deep down, he had been angry for a very, very long time; he’d simply forgotten why, or at whom that anger deserved to be directed. “Because no one helped you? You perpetuated a cycle of trauma when you could have ended it!” Isidor aimed another punch, but Vitali evaded it just as easily. “You could have been a hero, Vitali… hells, you could have been mine!”
“Isidor…!” For the second time in not even two weeks, Elespeth found herself impelled to break up yet another fight between siblings before it escalated. Afraid to become caught up in the violence all over again and land herself in the sanctuary for even longer, however, she refrained from doing more than placing a hand on Isidor’s arm. “Whatever happened… your anger is valid. I don’t doubt that you have every right to be angry with Vitali, but however you intend to make him feel, I guarantee that one way or another, you are the only one who will walk away, hurt.”
“Listen to your loving friends, Isidor. They’re the ones with obligations regarding your feelings.” Vitali replied calmly, though his smile had faded. “You know, some would be happy to have what you do. The knowledge, the power to change lives…”
“None of that matters when the only person who ever cared for me is dead!” The Master Alchemist raged. His cheeks had grown pink with the intensity of his emotions. “I’d give all of it up for the chance to go back and save her from Zenech… if she’d never met me, she’d never have had to die. If you’d helped me, she wouldn’t have had to!”
“Isidor, Isidor--listen to yourself. Do you remember who you’re talking to? I’m a necromancer; and you are a Master Alchemist, with an Alchemist’s stone, I might add.” That sly smile returned to Vitali’s lips. “Since when is bringing someone back so impossible, if you’d finally agree to work together?”
Isidor suddenly went still. He relaxed his fingers from his fist and took a steadying breath, realization dawning on his flushed features. “...you wanted this. For me. That’s why you didn’t help me… wasn’t it? Because…” Once again, those fingers curled into a fist. “Because you wanted me to become this. To become someone else you can use! Do you really think I would ever work with you, Vitali? Especially now, knowing what you’ve done--knowing what you didn’t do, and why?”
“I think,” the necromancer went on, as if his younger brother was not about to combust in front of him, “that there very well may come a day when our unique skills are simultaneously required. Call it a hunch. But even if I were to validate what you are claiming,” he raised an eyebrow, and a hand, palm-up, along with it, “is it so wrong to hope one day I might work with my brilliant little brother?”
This time, Isidor’s fist succeeded in connecting with the side of Vitali’s jaw.
Despite her frequent and authorized trips to and from the heart of Galeyn, Tivia Rigas still considered the farmhouse as her primary place of residence. At first, she entertained the idea of transitioning to the palace, in part to gauge if Vitali truly meant when he said he did not need her around, either for assistance or for company. Since learning of Teselin’s disastrous takedown of Apelrade, however, Tivia’s concept of home hardened into a penetrative, protective shell. She was loath to leave her quaint farm on the borderlands, for it took only a moment to lose the very things she cherished: to fire, to a storm, to a sorceress...to a girl unleashed and unrestrained. If she were to lose her home in an unavoidable catastrophe, at least she could say she lived in it until nearly the end. It mattered to her more than the whole of Galeyn, its occasionally lonely, stifling isolation notwithstanding.
On the morning after her run-in with Teselin (and her decidedly positive conversations with Vega and Haraldur), she made travel arrangements for the farmhouse, intending to stay for a long stretch of time. Not that she would abandon the palace and the relationships she slowly forged and reforged (excepting Teselin), but she desired a calm, quiet space for meditative contemplation, and the farmhouse always provided an ideal retreat from the bustling, tension-heavy palace environment. The more people flitting around her line of sight, the more the stars bounced in her head, like molecules dancing in a pot of boiling water. They yearned to burst free of their confines, using her ears as doorways, her eyes as windows. If her star-seer ability worked best through blood relations, followed by intimate relations, the opportunity of growing her communication range grew ever higher the longer she lingered in well-trafficked locales--a fact of which the stars were quite aware. And while she’d expressed to Alster and Elespeth that she wished for a connection outside the tiny microcosm of her insular world, it felt oh so wonderful to have a place of her own to retreat, alongside a person who asked nothing of her, and who knew her so well.
She could have it both ways, if she wanted. To live in the farmhouse, to mingle at the palace, unharmed by the stars…
She hadn’t forgotten Isidor’s offer. While she regarded the bumbling alchemist as little more than a useful but nevertheless forgettable addition to Alster’s tight-knit fellowship of outcasts, a pathetic shadow too afraid to accept his shadow--because a shadow still left a mark of one’s existence--she could not deny the man had been kind, even in the face of her continuous dismissal. He was not obligated to suggest the faintest of solutions in her direction, and yet, he did. No prompting out of some societal pressure to fit in or establish positive relationships. His gesture appeared so genuine, she was tempted to say ‘yes’ to him on the spot. But she needed time to weigh the pros and cons of her decision. If Isidor’s talisman would de-intensify the pulsing screech and piercing flashes of the stars, then it would inhibit her useful insights and prognostications, which so far had all come true. If they were to succeed against Locque, then it was best for them to operate having knowledge and foresight of their enemies. Nevermind that there appeared to be a blockage on all information regarding the sorceress, a veritable black hole renting the tapestry of a trillion always-blinking, always-chattering stars. Regardless, it did no one any good to wear a blindfold, bundle cloth into her ears, and loudly proclaim that she cared not to listen. No. As keeper of her unique skillset, she felt obligated to listen. She wasn’t obligated to tell people of her discoveries, especially if her revelations veered the future into an unrecognizable direction, but it would do her and others a disservice if she chose to shut the windows and the doors and shirk the stars of their gifts.
While she made up her mind to decline Isidor’s offer, she had not yet decided to tell him in person. Days had lulled by in a breezy, buoyant bliss, as of flowers waving about in a favorable breeze, and she brushed away the task. There was no urgency. The next time she traveled to the palace, she would tell him.
Fortunately, it appeared she’d have her chance. The yammering of the stars alerted her to an upcoming arrival, promised for the suppertime hour. Alster, Elespeth, and Isidor. She could not divine a positive reason for their visit, but it took no foresight to conclude as much. Vitali’s polarizing nature did not encourage warmhearted, merry stopovers of well-wishes and good tidings. Visitors either wanted something out of the resourceful necromancer, or they wanted to curse him for some grievance done in the past. Bracing herself for the likely scenario of a back-and-forth tongue lashing by two or more parties, Tivia woke Vitali a half-hour before the projected arrival of their guests. In anticipation of the visit, she prepared a vegetable stew and put a kettle of water to boil. She’d just removed it from the hearth when the sounds of hoofbeats and wheels outside alerted her to the whereabouts of the trio. Setting aside the kettle, she opened the door for Alster, who greeted them with a warning. Isidor wished to speak with Vitali. Tivia had deduced correctly. The reason for the visit centered on airing out grievances with the notorious necromancer who had a penchant for making enemies.
The man who stepped through the doorway was not who Tivia remembered. Whatever the cursed faoladh forced him to recall, it embittered the alchemist to the point where nothing else mattered but his confrontation with the brother who abandoned him.
Her attempts to placate Isidor with tea had gone completely unacknowledged; not that she could ever hope to redirect the sheer level of intensity radiating off the formerly mild-mannered man. What did Hadwin do to him? What had he seen?
They were all to find out, and soon.
Tivia, along with Alster and Elespeth, stood mute as the brotherly dispute blossomed and raged, to the surprise of no one. Alster and Elespeth bookended the distraught alchemist, ready to act should violence unfurl. Tivia remained rooted between the kitchen and the living area, equidistant to both players and their chosen center of conflict. Following Alster’s example, she spread her fingers outward as a precaution. A last resort--her cut of magic, the parts unrelated to her star-seer ability, was bred and sharpened by her father as a purely offensive tool. She was an armory in miniature, a collection of weapons materialized from light. One flick of the wrist and she could send a disk spinning at the arm of whoever threw the first punch.
But the first punch came and went. Isidor had missed. Rather, Vitali dodged, his reflexes reaching animalistic proportions of movement. But he was not so lucky to avoid the second hit. The alchemist succeeded in digging his knuckles into the side of his brother’s jaw. The contact sent a distinct crack rippling through the air. Vitali made a bad play; even she was not so blind as to ignore the necromancer’s innumerable faults as a person. Sometimes, nay, quite often, he displayed such flagrant ignorance of the human condition. She could not tell if he did not understand emotions or chose to ignore them, but all the same, it astounded her how his manipulations could fall so off the mark that he would so cavalierly mention that his brother’s suffering served a purpose for some longed-for, future team-up of their talents and magic.
In the briefest of moments, Tivia did not know who to support. Her hands gripped at her sides, motionless, uncertain how to step between the fight without causing serious injury from the light weapons at her disposal.
It was Alster who separated the two fighting brothers. A strong, invisible barrier wedged itself in the middle, its manifestation evident in the bubble-like iridescence of its creation. The wall forcibly split apart Isidor and Vitali, preventing further physical attack.
“Do you want the Forbanne to come inside and break up this fight!?” Alster hissed low in his throat, aware of their voices carrying through the thin wooden walls of the farmhouse, no doubt sailing to the ears of the two soldiers trained to detect disturbances and conflict. “Please desist. You do not want to get them involved.” His outstretched hand seemed to draw invisible lines around the boundaries of the room. “I’ve erected a barrier between you and Vitali, Isidor. While we can pass through it with ease, the two of you can’t draw closer than two feet to each other, lest you risk discomfort through resistance. I do this for your safety. Neither Elespeth or I am going to stand by and allow a physical altercation. I understand emotions are running high, but violence is not how we’re going to solve this issue. Isidor...we’ve all wanted to punch Vitali at some point, and you’ve succeeded where others failed. One is enough to illustrate your point. Vitali,” he stared through the man’s blindfold, “please stop talking. Your ‘assurances’ are words of incitement. This is not how you form an alliance with your brother.”
“If--if I may.” Tivia supplied meekly from her passive position of observation. “Isidor--Vitali did save you from the tower. Along with Alster--they saved you. Years too late, I’m afraid, but the fact remains that people came for you. Perhaps you no longer needed saving; the worst had already befallen you. But if not for Vitali passing your name to Alster, you would still be there, unaware of your friend’s memory, and living under the weight of your old Master’s wrathful spirit. Tell me, knowing what you presently know, do you wish to return to your tower? Do you still view it as your haven, even when few happy memories proliferate? I,” she clasped her hands behind her back, “I would be devastated if my family abandoned me to a monster, Isidor. In a sense, they did. That monster was called War. Vitali may have had his reasons, but it does not make the reality any easier to swallow. You need someone to whom you can project your anger, so you will not be angry at yourself for feeling so justifiably helpless. Directing all your hate on a man who is blatantly unapologetic about leaving you to your Master is only going to expend precious energy and convert it to bitterness. Bitterness won’t save anyone. It won’t save her, or her memory. It won’t save you. It feels good in the moment and won’t harm you in the short-term--but in the end, it’s a cut that will bleed forever. Be angry if you must, Isidor, but be careful it does not command you.”
“You said before, Isidor,” Alster began, outstretched hand still poised and positioned to hold the barrier in place, “that you are an abomination because people died to create your runes. That the core difference between a Master Alchemist and an innately born spellcaster is birthright versus acquired skill through years of study and ritual. You said it was unnatural, that you are an abomination, because it cost lives to supply and secure your title as Master. I must disagree with you; the only abomination I see is the man who raised you. As a child, you cannot hold yourself responsible by adult standards. You were afraid of him, and rightly so, if even Vitali did not want to cross him. You did what was needed to survive his cruel teachings. It’s Master Zenech who is at fault; he is the cause of your misery. But he is dead; you’ve done the deed and exacted your revenge. You need someone who is alive to feel your pain. But Tivia is right; Vitali won’t give you what you want. Even if he did, if he admitted he has wronged you, would it be enough? Would the pain of reopened wounds disappear? No,” he dipped his head. “They won’t. I’m afraid the pain will linger for a while. But that’s why we’re here, Isidor. There’s more than one person who cares about you. Elespeth and I--we wouldn’t be here if we didn’t.”
His lips curved into a sorrowful simper. “I’m happy to have met you--and I’m not only saying that because you saved Elespeth. I would have liked to know you sooner, Isidor. Back when I needed a friend most. We all could have helped each other escape our confines. Your friend would be alive, and Stella D’Mare would be in tact. I’m sure I’d have loved to meet her, too. We could’ve been runaways together. But,” he glanced at the ceiling, his expression wistful, “I’m one-hundred years old. Younger for me is nonexistent for you. I wouldn’t have known you at all. My musings are fantasy. They will only ever be fantasy. Changing the past...that’s also a fantasy, Isidor, one that to this day, still upsets me to admit. There’s nothing we can do...but be present for the people who are near us now.”
During Alster’s speech, Tivia retrieved a bowl of stew from the kitchen and sidled near Isidor, careful in her approach. “Alster is long-winded and insufferably saccharine, but he’s never ingenuine. I’m not nearly as genuine, but I hope you will accept some food I made. It’s been a long journey in daylight, to reach the farmlands from the palace. Here.” She offered him the bowl. “Eat, first. There’s always time to resume your fight later.”
“How is your jaw, Vitali?” Alster felt impelled to add as an afterthought. “It’s looking a little purple. Should I heal it, or do you want to keep the imprint as a reminder of your brother’s impressive right swing?”
He’d landed just one punch. Just one, and it had felt so good--but the Master Alchemist was not fool enough to assume he’d gotten lucky with his aim. The only reason his fist had managed to connect with Vitali’s jaw is because the necromancer had let it. Perhaps it was due to his realization that Isidor’s anger, hurt, and frustration were building, and if it did not find release on a safe target, someone else was liable to get hurt; or perhaps he just saw the need for his younger brother to get it out of his system. Regardless as to why Vitali, who could have just as easily evaded this blow as he had others, had not, it left a hollow victory for the Master Alchemist, as opposed to the catharsis he desired from dealing a blow to someone who had directly impacted his life for the worse. It didn’t make him feel better; it did nothing to quell the anger, simmering beneath the surface of his skin, pumping adrenaline through his veins. And ultimately, Isidor Kristeva was left feeling even emptier than when he’d first arrived…
Of course, he couldn’t fault Tivia for speaking on his brother’s behalf, and he’d expected nothing less. She’d been cohabitating with for this man allegedly for--how long? Months? If she was not repulsed by his questionable morality and his penchant for feeding off of the misery and misfortune of others, then nothing would open her eyes to the wretchedness of Vitali Kristeva. Or perhaps it was precisely that nature that she found attractive; which would explain why she couldn’t stand him, the Master Alchemist who was the polar opposite of his necromancer brother. Tivia Rigas valued survivors like Vitali, who would go to any lengths to ensure they remained on top, regardless of what it cost other people. And the worst part was, Isidor had always known that; from the moment he’d met the woman with whom he’d become so oddly enchanted, he’d known that kindness was a futile means to her heart. It was just as Teselin had so mercilessly told him: She doesn’t even like you. Why, then, would he have expected any different a reaction from her?
“I don’t have a haven… I don’t have a home. I never have.” Although his words answered Tivia’s question, Isidor did not redirect his attention to her, keeping his dark eyes fixed on his brother, whom he was truly addressing. “But that was something else you were counting on, wasn’t it? To ensure I never grew roots, so that I would be readily available when you wanted something from me. All of this was to your benefit, all along. Except you weren’t counting on me forgetting. That was your only setback; though you were a fool to think that even if I hadn’t forgotten, I’d willingly become part of your scheme, after the way you treated me. But I can tell you right now that nothing will ever make me so desperate as to work alongside you, Vitali. Not now--not ever.”
“No, you’re right; perhaps that was wishful thinking on my part.” The necromancer mused, and lifted his shoulders in a shrug as he lightly rubbed the side of his jaw. For all Isidor’s muscle mass was negligible, the man could apparently throw quite the punch when agitated. “Your knuckles speak for your disposition quite well, I daresay. But that does not mean that I intend to rescind my offer, little brother. Certainly, I do not disagree that I perhaps failed you at your most vulnerable, at the one point in your life when you desperately needed someone to care… and I am still not much of the caring sort. But, now that we are blissfully reunited, should you ever be in need of my services…”
“If you think I will ever be in need of you for any reason, Vitali, then you haven’t heard a damn thing I’ve said.” Isidor spat, as he glared daggers at the unapologetic necromancer. Tivia was right about one thing; anger was completely wasted on someone without a conscience. However much he wanted to reach for Vitali’s neck, to leave more visible bruises just like the necromancer had left bruises on his soul for his negligence and blatant apathy, the invisible wall between him and his brother hummed its presence, and he knew better than to throw his fist against it. So instead, he took a step back. “You know what? All of you are right. I’m wasting my time and energy on this fool. But do not think for a moment that this man has any right to claim he has saved me.”
Isidor shook his head, a mixture of sorrow and frustration creasing his brow. For the first time since his arrival, he finally took his eyes off of Vitali, and instead focused on the floor. “I forgot it all--and that is my own fault. I’ve no one to blame but myself for forgetting the name and the existence of the one person who ever gave a damn about me. But you--all of you… you have no place in this aftermath. No one saved me. With all do respect, Alster Rigas, you would not know me at all, were it not for the critical condition your wife had been in. Vitali would not have come to my tower, had Teselin not offered first. No, if anyone can lay claim to actually reaching out, it would be her… but I’ve burned that bridge, and I will live with the consequences. You say my energy and anger is wasted on Vitali? Well so, too, is your concern, your care, misplaced. However well-intentioned any of you Rigases might be… I came here for a reason. And that reason is why I am here at all. To be useful. Well… I’m glad I could serve my purpose. Tivia,” for a moment, the hardness in his eyes softened. Just yesterday, were Tivia Rigas to offer him a meal she had cooked herself, he’d have pinched himself to make sure he wasn’t dreaming. But those rose-coloured spectacles had shattered, both literally and figuratively. It was almost as though, without them, he could finally see clearly. “I appreciate the offer… but you needn’t entertain. I am… sorry if I’ve been a bother to you. And I hope you can accept my apology, for… this intrusion. Though I hope you can understand that it was necessary.”
He didn’t have anything left to say. There was nothing left to say, so the Master Alchemist turned on his heel and headed back toward the open door frame that was letting an abundance of cool air into the room. Before he could cross the threshold, Elespeth reached out and placed a hand on his arm. “Isidor… Tivia did go to the trouble of making a meal to share. The least we can do is partake, together. The three of us at least haven’t had anything to eat for hours.”
“With all due respect, Elespeth--and Tivia--you are all mad if you think I’d share a meal with my brother.” Isidor shook his head, and cast one last glance over his shoulder at the nonchalant necromancer. “Eat your fill. I will wait in the carriage.”
He left, then, without any hope of being persuaded to join the four of them. Perhaps they couldn’t ask for much more; he had calmed down and given up on violence. But for all Isidor Kristeva had been through, Elespeth could not deny him the solitude he desire to parse through his feelings. Had she been in his situation… she wasn’t sure she would react any differently. “Let’s allow him some space,” she suggested to Alster, when it looked as though her husband was about to go after the distraught Master Alchemist. “Anyway… Tivia went to this trouble to cook, and we cannot deny we should eat something. Tivia… thank you for your hospitality given such short notice.” She bowed her head apologetically to the star seer. “And I hope you can forgive us this intrusion. We tried to talk Isidor out of this venture, but it… I think he needed to say what was on his mind, and hear his brother’s reasoning, himself.”
“I doubt there is any reason to explain, Elespeth. Really, it was only a matter of time before he came to his senses and remembered what he did. Memories can only remain repressed for so long.” Vitali, who appeared particularly nonplussed for someone who had just been dealt a blow to the jaw, shrugged his shoulders from across the room. “It’s merely shaken his image of himself, but he’ll come to terms with it.”
“He tried to harm himself, Vitali. To burn the runes off of his hands.” The former knight frowned so deeply that lines creased at either sides of her mouth. “His image has been more than ‘shaken’. Whatever he forgot, he forgot for a reason. And now he hasn’t any coping skills to deal with the aftermath of remembering. How can you be so cavalier about someone’s suffering? And was he right--about what he said? According to Teselin, you helped her without hesitation when she was a child. So what was different about Isidor? Why didn’t you reach back when he reached out?”
The necromancer did not respond right away. He took a moment as if to consider the answer for himself, dwelling upon a pause for thought. But whatever came to mind, he kept close to his chest, and when he spoke at last, it was decidedly dismissive. “What is done, is done, Rigas wife. What point is there in dwelling on ‘what-ifs’? I am a survivor; so, too, is my brother, it seems. But it is our methods of survival that are different. I cheat misfortune before it can reach me. And Isidor? He chooses to simply forget.” Crossing the room, Vitali gently patted Tivia’s shoulder and flashed a smile. “Your cooking smells wonderful as always, Tivia. I’m going to sleep away what is left of this day, and I’ll be sure to partake in some of this meal when I wake up. And not to worry, Alster; I’m not so ashamed that I won’t sport a bruise. Hell, it is probably the only one Isidor will ever land on a person.”
And with that, Vitali took his leave of the company and the situation, seemingly no more ruffled from the confrontation that he had been prior to it. It was impossible to tell whether the necromancer was impervious to guilt, or just did a fine job of pretending. Whatever the case, it did not appear as though Isidor’s diatribe had much of an affect on his brother. So as not to have Tivia’s hard work go to waste, both Elespeth and Alster partook in a bowl of stew, and made sure to compliment her hospitality so that at least it could be said that someone recognized it. “I am sorry you had to get caught up in this, Tivia,” Elespeth apologized for the umpteenth time, when she and Alster had finished their meals. “Honestly, this isn’t a position that any of us preferred, either… though I’m sure you know enough not to take Isidor’s behaviour to heart. Alster had planned to help him remember, initially; slowly, and carefully, but… Hadwin beat him to it, I’m afraid. He is not so careful or mindful of others’ feelings and fragility, and this is the result.”
Elespeth knew it had to be bad, from the way Isidor had turned away Tivia’s attempts at hospitality not just once, but twice. Isidor, who had become curiously enchanted with the Rigas woman, couldn’t see past shades of red to acknowledge that the woman whom he longed to speak to him was speaking to him. Hadwin had really shattered that man, and left him alone to pick up the pieces… And considering there was no sign of his temperament improving, they had to keep their visit quick and return to the carriage very shortly, afraid of what might happen should Isidor be left to his own devices for too long…
Night hadn’t yet begun to fall when Alster and Elespeth returned to the carriage, where a quiet Isidor sat, patiently awaiting a return to the palace. He said nothing as the Rigas couple took their seats across from him, or as the carriage finally began to move at a moderate pace, the Night Steeds not yet able to trot at that impossibly agile speed of darkness. It would be some time before they reached their destination, even with the coming of night within the next hour or so, and the former Atvanian wasn’t sure she could endure another blanket of silence such as they had on the way to the farmhouse…
“Isidor… I know it may seem as though we are only accommodating you out of necessity. Because of what you did for me--for us.” Elespeth smiled in the waning light of the day, though it did little to offset the fatigue and heaviness clinging to her form. It had been over twenty-four hours since she’d last had a dosage of the Master Alchemist’s carefully crafted serum, and once again, her body was reacting to the newly activated magical presence in her blood. “But, I second what Alster said--I’m glad to have met you. It is a relief to know that the trustworthy Kristevas outnumber the questionable one. You and Teselin give your name a far more favourable reputation than Vitali. And I wish there was more we could do for you, now, that you are in need… but at the very least, we can both be there, for you. You might have been alone in your tower, but here, you don’t have to be.” She paused, waiting for some kind of response, but when Isidor offered none, she ventured a risk, and asked, “What was she like? Your friend, who tried to help you.”
A question like that could have gone very poorly, considering how raw Isidor was in the aftermath of what Hadwin had done to him. It could have torn the wound deeper. But that wound appeared already to be bleeding, and for better or worse, it seemed to currently be what was running through the Master Alchemist’s mind. “She was… good. The kind of good this world doesn’t deserve; that I didn’t deserve. For all I want to blame Vitali for it all… I am the real reason she is gone. The reason she had to die.”
“How so, Isidor? Did she help you of her own volition? If that were the case, I imagine she understood the risks, as much as someone in that situation could.”
“No, you don’t understand. She wanted to run away; and she probably could have. She was crafty, like that, and knew how not to be caught. If it weren’t for me… if not for me, I think she’d have succeeded. But it’s because of my own cowardice that she didn’t.” Shadows played over the Master Alchemist’s pale face as he gazed out the window, eyes fixed on the disappearing scenery without really seeing any of it. “We were going to run away, together. It had been her idea. We would find her family because mine… well, it’s obvious why I wouldn’t have returned to Solenice. We’d planned to meet in the dead of night when Zenech was asleep, a few hours after dusk. She was there; she adhered to our plan, but I… I panicked. I was so afraid of being caught, and yet she still waited for me…” Isidor dragged a hand down his face and shook his head. “She died because I let her down. She waited for me… I thought--I’d hoped she would just leave, save herself, but she waited for me. And I never showed up…”
Elespeth wanted to reach across the seat and place a comforting hand over Isidor’s, but she had the suspect feeling that he didn’t want to be comforted. That, perhaps, he felt he didn’t deserve it, so she offered words of encouragement, instead. “You were a child, Isidor. Just a boy, under the tutelage of a terrible man--of course you were afraid. Anyone in that situation would be…”
“Arisza wasn’t. Nothing scared her. She knew when to take risks, and when she took them, they always seemed to come through. Except for me; she took a risk on me… and that is why she isn’t here, anymore. Vitali might not have saved me… but I only have myself to blame for Arisza.”
She could have said more; there was so much flawed logic in Isidor’s self-condemnation for his friend’s fate, but with his mentality taking root in those shadows, it was unlikely that he would swayed, otherwise. So Elespeth fell silent, then, for the rest of the trip, which was mercifully shorter than the first one, as soon as darkness fell. When they reached the palace gates and disembarked the carriage, the Master Alchemist suddenly told them to wait where they were, before disappearing through the doors of the palace. Not ten minutes later, he returned with a wooden box, that clinked with something that sounded akin to glass inside. “Elespeth’s serum. Enough of it to get her body acclimatized to her magic, in theory. They are all carefully labeled with the order of dosages for just over the next week. Alster, I trust your experience in healing is enough to permit you good judgement with regard to your wife’s recovery.”
“Wait--Isidor,” anticipating his hasty retreat, Elespeth reached out, as if to grab him before he could disappear. “Are you… will you be…”
“I have no interest in taking my life, if that is your concern. I’m not so bold. And it’s become clear to me that there is no ridding myself of these runes…” He turned his gaze to the bandages covering his healing palms. There wasn’t even a hint of pain; the Night Garden’s properties were certainly potent. “I need… to be alone. It’s what I’m used to; at least it is something familiar.”
Before either of them could so much as thank him or ask further questions, Isidor Kristeva wordlessly turned and took his leave, disappearing behind the palace door and down a long corridor. The shadows swallowed him, as if just for a moment, the cruel universe permitted him a moment of that invisibility he so sought.
At Isidor’s, followed shortly by Vitali’s retreat from the main living space, the pressure hanging low in the self-contained atmosphere released like a pocket of air from a cloud, though part of that phenomenon could be attributed to Alster’s deconstructed barrier of protection. Whatever precious strength in his emergency reserves died the moment the spell dissolved. To prevent from falling over, he clung to Elespeth’s arm, exhausted in ways that merely began on the physical front. Emotionally, he reached his limit.
Tivia felt similarly drained. It wasn’t often she extended kindness to anyone. Not out of lack of conscience--though prolonged time spent in Vitali’s company certainly influenced her actions--but because she did not want her gesture misinterpreted, or perhaps, seen for what it truly was; a poor attempt at benevolence. She wasn’t accustomed to the magnanimous behavior of her contemporaries, namely, Alster. On the contrary, her father always drilled in her the importance of dignity. It was beneath her to seek help, and in the same token, it was beneath her to condescend by helping others of lesser status. While she rejected many of his teachings, and of the Rigas elitism, an outdated practice that blessedly seemed to wane, or at least kept at bay by the far more modest culture of Galeyn, she often wondered if it was too late, and the damage had been done. That Tivia Rigas was too selfish to be good. It would explain why she failed to connect to anyone other than Vitali, a man notorious for his nigh impenetrable shield of indifference. It mattered not that she’d seen it crack in the past, and most recently, in his interactions with Isidor. His default persisted as unflappable, unmoveable, a long-ago crafted persona of survival that had become so synonymous with Vitali Kristeva that to shed it seemed dishonest to his character. Perhaps Tivia felt the same. She did not care for people; her regard for them bordered on downright misanthropic. She questioned motives directed towards her. Questioned kindness, questioned people who presented nothing but the desire to know her, because she did not know herself, or if she was worth getting to know.
If she understood her most fundamental and core flaw, then why did it hurt when Isidor rejected her? The bumbling Master Alchemist had a tendency to evaporate from her thoughts whenever he retreated from her sight. The impression he built on her was a recent development, and it happened because he caught her in a moment of intense vulnerability. Now...it was impossible to ignore him. He was solid to the touch, and his pain was so sharp, it prickled outwards, like a porcupine’s shooting quills. During his argument with Vitali, she, for some inexplicable reason...wanted to soothe his worries. But how? She never soothed a person a day in her life. Whatever nuggets of comfort she’d handed over to Vega were due to her connection to the stars, nothing more. Nothing she did. Aside from her unqualified status, her loyalty was accounted for, and it stood in opposition to the alchemist. So why did she care? Because she suddenly saw in him a kindred spirit, someone who understood isolation and who, like her, was so very, very lost?
It terrified her to admit, but she found herself undeniably attracted to Isidor Kristeva. And he...he wouldn’t look at her. Wouldn’t accept her offering of stew. She supposed she couldn’t blame him, upset by the resurgence of his memories as it stood, but it humbled her, nonetheless, to be on the receiving end of his rejection. Never, in the course of a year, did she actually desire eyes upon her, much less his eyes, but…
No. She silenced her train of thought. As I am, he would never look at me with adoration. He never did. He was looking at my scars. I’m too ugly. Too scarred to present as anything more than a walking receptacle of burn-tissue. I’m something to be pitied, never to be adored.
But he could help...couldn’t he?
He could help. And it would give her an excuse to see him again. Talk to him. Really talk to him.
Not that he was interested. Not that he was ever interested, nor will be…
Once Elespeth and Alster, out of politesse (and hunger) partook in her dinner of stew, to which she was grateful, considering she was not an accomplished cook and had only improved out of necessity, they announced their need to return to the palace. Isidor could not be left to his own devices for long, and Tivia agreed. Accompanying them to the door, she sent them on their way with promises to visit the palace...very soon.
When darkness fell, good and proper, Vitali, as promised, emerged from the bedrooms in the back to join Tivia for their round of supper. To prepare, she heated up the leftovers of the stew and served two bowls on the table. The necromancer’s cheek had puffed up and purpled into a sizeable bruise, but if it discomforted him any, he did not share, even when she inquired. They first began their meal in silence; not that it was abnormal to pass their time without uttering a word, but once it had reached near-torturous levels, she could not stay quiet a moment longer.
“Vitali,” she set aside her spoon, “I...what happened on that day? The day Isidor begged you to save him from the tower? I...perhaps it was an easy decision, in the moment, but you had to have felt some measure of guilt, afterward. Is that why you helped Teselin when she was a child? Why you, in some fashion, still help her? She thinks so wonderfully of you. You could have turned her away when she first arrived with that mongrel, but you didn’t. You still don’t. Not entirely.” She traced a finger around her half-full bowl of stew. “There must be a little of that care reserved for Isidor, as well. Is that why you allowed him to punch you? You could have dodged it; the only other person to rival your reflexes is the mongrel, and that makes sense, because he is an animal. So I know Isidor did not best you out of pure adrenaline. You let him, and your reason is, in part, not an entirely selfish one. If I may take a stab at it...is it because you owed him something, and you hate to be in others’ debt? In this case, it’s an emotional debt. He requested your services and you denied him, and..it affects you. I,” she laughed away her curiosities, “...I suppose I’ll stop speculating. I divine the past, present, and future, but I can’t divine human nature. I won’t delude myself into thinking I can understand the nuances of a brotherly feud when I could scarcely say the right thing to him. I expect I only made it worse; my meddlesome words can’t have helped him. After all, I was endlessly cruel the last time he visited the farmhouse. I doubt he’s forgotten.” She reintroduced the spoon into the bowl and stirred it about with halfhearted enthusiasm.
“My apologies, Vitali. For...probing, and for making assumptions. It should be none of my business. I...unrelatedly, I will be heading to the palace tonight, for a day or two.” A faint flush appeared on her visible cheek; though the necromancer could not see her reaction, her affected casualness could not fool even the dead. “The stars have been humming, restless. My ability works far better in an open venue, full of people. I’ve made enough stew to satisfy your appetite for a few meals, and I’ll sure to bring back more of those spices you like from the Night Garden...so it is not a wasted trip for your palate, I assure you.”
Sure enough, after cleaning up the kitchen and ladling the leftovers into a separate pot, Tivia departed on Night steed into the darkness. Although technically going against Galeyn’s established curfew, due to her prophetic insights and as a boon for aiding in Galeyn’s discovery, Queen Lilica had allowed her the freedom to enter the inner walls as she pleased, granted she cleared it through the multiple Forbanne checkpoints--of which she also had their approval, via their commander. By the time she arrived at her quarters, the hour was late and weariness encroached behind her sinuses like a pulsating demon threatening to pop her one eye out of its socket. She retired early that evening, but to compensate, she woke early, just shy of dawn’s light. She dressed, washed up, ate, and combed her hair, taking particular care in how it fell over the damaged half of her face: tangle-free, not lank or stringy. Voluminous, impermeable. Blonde, healthy, bright. A pointless endeavor, she inwardly chided as she stomped away from the mirror and marched out the door. Pointless. She hadn’t given a care for her appearance in months. Why start now? No amount of grooming would erase the unseemly bubbles pocked along her misshapen face.
It took a fair amount of courage to guide her to Isidor’s door, that morning. Anticipating a knock (or several) would not rouse the man from his depression, she fully prepared an escape route--to the left and down the hallway. She’d even positioned her feet just so, pointed in the direction of her flight. Miraculously, however, the door opened, revealing the sinfully pale alchemist, sans his spectacles, bleary-eyed and world-weary. Having no choice but to look at her, he did, and her heart ceased its life-giving pulse. A small line of confusion furrowing into his brow reminded her that she’d been gawking, wordlessly, for about a minute. Cheeks flaring in response, she hid beneath her hair, disguising the action as a dip of greeting.
“Good...good morning, Isidor. It is early, I understand. I hope I’m not disturbing your rest...if...if I could presume you rested, at all.” She wrung her hands together. Her thumbs bit into her skin. “Before I explain my business here, I feel I must apologize for my behavior last night, and my behavior in the past. Vitali and I...well, we have a long history. Strange circumstances have forced us together. He has saved my life, and I, his. Therefore, I, unfortunately, cannot share in your loathing of him--though I do understand your position regarding your half-brother. And for that, I...I do hope you are well. Or will be as you...as you adjust, I suppose. But,” she was staring, rather intently at her feet, “I’ve come here for a different matter. About your offer...I have not forgotten. I’ve needed to think on it these past few days. Ultimately, I’ve concluded that I cannot yet dampen my connection to the stars. Cursed as I am, it is a useful curse. If it is all I can contribute to Galeyn and to the D’Marians, then there is a reason I must suffer. Until further notice, this is the stance I must take. Thank you, though, for your kind consideration of my condition. It does not go unappreciated. If it is no imposition...there is something else I would like to ask of you.” Her fiddling hands traveled to the seams of her simple yet elegant dress, dyed a brilliant and appealing shade of indigo. She wore it only on special occasions. “Feel free to say no, or to mull it over, or to tell me it cannot be done. Honestly, there is no rush, and I know you have far more important matters. Neither would I try to push you into a procedure when you’ve been dealt quite the blow from our mutual enemy--Hadwin has employed a similar tactic. My father...I have not heard if he’s recovered from what he’s been forced to see by that dreadful wolf-man. So I…” she began to sputter, “I dare not impinge on your recovery, or your need to be alone. It is...well...it is this.” With wavering conviction, she slowly lifted the shroud of hair from the left side of her face. She squeezed her one eye shut, not ready to see him react in disgust or pity. A foreign breeze brushed against her melted flesh, leaving her feeling barer and more exposed than when she’d originally practiced it in the safety of her own chambers. She took in a shuttering breath.
“I...I was the sole survivor of a massacre. Prince Messino and his troops sent a firestorm to engulf our camp and it...it succeeded. Everyone was incinerated, except...I was standing on patrol at the edge of camp, when it happened. I did not suffer the brunt of the attack, but...it,” she gestured to her face, “it...got me, too. The flames are cursed to never heal, at least, not by magical means. Alster has tried. Other healers have tried. On...principle, I won’t let the Night Garden heal it, but that is a story for another day.” In defeat, she lowered the shroud of hair over the affected area, curtaining it closed. “It is silly, caring about how I look. I cannot help but...I want it gone. Erased. It makes me want to hide. To disappear. If only I could perfect the invisibility shrouds of Lysander Rigas, perhaps I would vanish, and walk about with none the wiser. Alas...I cannot. But,” she gazed upward, daring to meet his eyes, to see rejection, or disinterest, or annoyance, “I...I daresay you can heal this horrid blemish of mine. Handle your affairs in whichever ranks as high priority, but should you have the time for me and if it is at all feasible...could you--? M-mo...I can pay you. Money, or favors. I can prophesy--not reliably, but I am learning. I understand alchemy is about equivalent exchange, so in exchange for helping me...I will pay the price that you name. If undergoing this procedure will make me feel halfway normal, again you...will have my eternal gratitude, for one. For whatever that is worth.” Clasping her hands before her, she bowed, half in entreaty, half in retreat. “I...that is all I wanted to say, Isidor. I will leave you alone. You can think on my proposition. If you say no, that is fine. Even if you say no because you hate Vitali...it is...I will go. I’m sorry to disturb you. Good morning.”
Before she embarrassed herself further, she shuffled away from the door, but instead of going left, as she’d planned, she went right--towards a dead-end. Owing to her lack of depth perception, she misjudged the distance between herself and the oncoming wall--and collided with it, nose-first. In front of Isidor.
She commanded all of her particles to conceal her in a cone of invisibility--to no avail. She was very much in plain sight.
Oh smite me now, stars, she moaned forlornly to herself. Smite me now, and leave no trace.
Vitali did not fall asleep with a particularly heavy conscience, following his brother’s impromptu visit. At least, it appeared as such on the surface. The unapologetic necromancer did not wear guilt well, and if he felt it, even in the slightest, he was quick to hide it behind layers upon layers of confidence and bravado. So when at last he awoke, come dusk, to join Tivia in that promised meal, it hadn’t occurred to him that any such feelings of remorse might be clinging to his typically thick skin. But he often forgot that the resident star seer could see beyond what the material presented, and at times, there were some things that were impossible to hide from her intuition and perception--such as the fact he could contribute his longevity to the expense of other innocent lives. And somehow… that she had intuited that revelation bothered him far less than her current suspicions. Alas, there was no avoiding addressing the elephant in the room.
“So you want to know if I regret not saving my little brother from that terrible man when he needed me most.” Vitali parroted her inquiry, as his hand subconsciously touched the side of his jaw. It felt quite tender, and he imagined the bruise must be big; who knew the lanky Master Alchemist had it in him to leave such a mark? “I suppose that is a fair question; after all, the average person very well may harbour such regret. To be honest, the opportunity, if you’d call it that, took me off guard. Zenech was a terribly notorious man; not so unlike myself. He was well-known for his deed and capabilities, and equally disliked. So it may not come as strange to you that perhaps my brother’s notorious Master sought me out for my skills to assess the potential for a business transaction. That day in question, I, in fact, visited the tower that was my brother’s prison. Zenech would not allow him to set foot outside of it. However, it was completely by happenstance that we saw each other at all.”
Vitali paused to scoop a spoonful of stew into his mouth, and chewed thoughtfully before going on. “Isidor and I had only ever met twice before, when he was still in our mother’s care… if you can call it ‘care’. There wasn’t much interaction between us; he was a skittish and strange boy, from what I’d observed, always with his nose in a book. When he caught a glimpse of me that day at the tower, and reached out for help, it wasn’t much different than reaching out to a stranger. Though if you must know, there was a brief moment where I considered obliging him. Because at that age, he very much reminded me of myself. Even if only for a moment.”
The necromancer took another pause, as if an intrusive thought interrupted his otherwise free-flowing explanation. With his eyes covered, it was all the more difficult to read what he might be thinking or feeling through his concealed facial expressions. “Perhaps I cared; for just a moment. But what I cared about even more was negotiating with a powerful man… and getting out on the sly when our transaction fell through. Zenech wasn’t a man to be trifled with, and take from it what you will, but saving my little brother at risk of that man’s wrath just didn’t measure up. Remember, I am a survivor; and I survived the worst of my own childhood. Was I so wrong to think that my brother could do the same? After all, he did, didn’t he?”
Teselin was entirely another story. Or… at least, that was what he’d told himself. But the way Tivia framed it, he couldn’t say in good faith that she was reading too much into the discrepancy between the ways he treated his younger siblings. “But didn’t I turn her away, Tivia? She sought me out for help that I am not equipped to provide. I haven’t coddled her; that isn’t really in my nature. Teselin wants to see the best in everyone. And frankly, I have no idea where she inherited that trait. Ultimately, she is a Kristeva--they both are. And we Kristevas survive all odds. Anyway, Isidor clearly had to get something off his chest; and if he literally traveled all day long for the opportunity to punch me, then it would’ve been rude to deny him that small victory. He is hurting--that much is clear. He knows I cannot empathize, so he wanted to hurt me in the only other way possible.” Finally pushing away his now empty bowl, Vitali sat up straight in his seat. “You are free to speculate to your heart’s desire, Tivia. But if you want my opinion on why Isidor is so angry, and why Teselin is likewise so desperate in the wake of her unbridled power, then it is this:” The necromancer leaned forward, both palms flat on the table’s smooth surface. “We are alike, us Kristevas, in more ways than we perhaps care to admit. Isidor’s image of himself has shattered; there is no repairing it. He will never look upon the man in the mirror the same way, because now he realizes that he is more like me than he his coping mechanisms can handle. There is no more room, no more excuses for denial. And that tears him apart.”
At Tivia’s declaration of her imminent departure for the palace, the necromancer rose from his seat and patted her shoulder in a way that suited their platonic familiarity. “Of course; I am so far removed from the business of my sister’s kingdom that I often forget what is transpiring beyond this farmland. Do fill me in when you return. And--although your visit will be of an ‘unrelated’ nature, if you do happen to run into my damaged recluse of a brother, I am sure he would be tickled pink to know someone is actually concerned for him. What--don’t tell me you haven’t noticed he is sweet on you?” The necromancer’s lips curled into a knowing smile. “I doubt you have to worry about your stinging words to him, before. I don’t have to see to know how his demeanor changes in your presence. His most recent visit was not a good example, considering he ventured out of his comfort zone solely to deck me in the face.” He chuckled, as if the blossoming bruise on his jaw was more of an amusement and less of an annoyance. “Regardless of my blatant disregard for his feelings as a child, I have a feeling he will bounce back from the faoladh’s assault on his psyche. I encourage you to go and see for yourself.”
Despite that he had spent the majority of his time in his carefully-equipped bedroom-turned-workshop at Galeyn’s own palace, the moment Isidor left Alster and Elespeth to their own devices to seek solitude, he found himself in a place that felt strangely unfamiliar. It was as though, without his spectacles, and in the event of his recovered memories, nothing looked or felt right anymore. That bed in which he slept suddenly appeared far from inviting. The bookshelves lined with tomes he had read time and again back at his tower did not bring him the comfort of familiarity that scholarly pages usually did. For the first time in ages, he had no inclination to sit down and work away with the materials at his desk. It was as if with the return of his memories, the entirely of his purpose and existence had been put into question… and it was enough to safely assume that, no, the Master Alchemist did not get any sleep that evening.
Instead, he’d spent the night pacing the perimeter of his room, trying to organize and reconcile the thoughts swimming through his mind faster than he could interpret them. Hadwin’s assault hadn’t hit him all at once; the worst of it had, perhaps, but every half hour or so, another memory would resurface from the pit into which it had been stuffed and forgotten for over a decade. Some of them entailed Zenech; others, Arisza. Some were terrifying, made him sick to his stomach, and others… well, they were happy. The tower was a terrible place, but it had not been without its uplifting moments, thanks to his dear friend. One memory in particular was of the night Arisza, who was secretly keeping him company when he was supposed to be in isolation, had taught him how to make paper lilies. He had practiced with her for the better part of an hour, and then for several hours on his own, when it was no longer safe for her to stay. How many papers had he wasted, trying to perfect that craft?
That detail, he couldn’t remember, but that wasn’t the detail that mattered. That memory, a breath of fresh air among the suffocating others that tormented his psyche, provided him a focal point. Something to cling to in this moment of desperate need that did not hinge on pain or despair… and so, Isidor took that memory, and he ran with it. Through the night, he tore blank pages from notebooks, scrounged for scrap papers, and let his hands be guided by muscle memory. To his surprise, it was only after approximately three failed flubs that he found himself holding a paper lily in his hands, for the first time in so many years…
With sleep no more than a vague aspiration, at this point, Isidor distracted his troubled mind with this task until morning, at which point an embarrassing amount of paper lilies had become scattered across the floor. The menial task comforted him now, just as it had when he was young, and by the time the sun rose on the horizon and brought morning with it, he was finally able to sit back and look at his senseless work. A few hundred lilies, at best, sat near his feet in an unstable pile. An arguable waste of good paper, many would surely say, and the waste did trigger a small pang of guilt in the sleepless man who knew it could have been better used for other purposes. But, it had gotten him through a night, alone, with his own tormenting thoughts...
And none too soon, it seemed, for not long after light began to peek through the cracks in the curtains, a hesitant knocking on his door pulled his attention away from the pile of paper flowers. Of course, Isidor also hesitated to answer. While he was never really in the mood to hold a conversation with anyone, today he felt particularly less inclined, knowing it was likely someone to “check up” on him. While he hadn’t exactly given anyone a reason to be reassured that he was fine and well on his own, neither was he in the mood to entertain their concerns. He didn’t want pity; pity wouldn’t undo what had been done. It wouldn’t bring Arisza back. It wouldn’t strike Vitali with remorse from turning his back on his little brother when he’d needed him the most. But Isidor was also aware that the more he avoided his concerned allies, the more they would feel inclined to invade his space… So it was with the utmost reluctance that the Master Alchemist at last crossed the room and opened the door.
He’d expected Alster or Elespeth to be standing on the other side with their wide, concerned eyes, and it took him rather off guard to find Tivia Rigas, of all people, as his visitor. Just as he had come to stop expecting her, so should she show up. And, contrary to what might have been his reaction, just a few days ago… he couldn’t care less.
“Tivia.” The greeting was more of a statement than a welcome. Exhausted from sleeplessness, with dark circles under his eyes, Isidor Kristeva did not have the mental or emotional resources to attempt a socially acceptable facade. Fortunately, the Rigas woman appeared willing to fill the silence with her own talking, which… was far less confident, and not nearly as crass, as usual. But none of that spurred the desire to stand and listen to her spew excuses for his brother. “With all due respect, Tivia, I really couldn’t care less for your relationship with my brother. Circumstances have indicated that he is, in fact, capable of becoming a White Knight to those he deems worthy. Evidently, I am not one of those people. I am glad he chose not to treat you in such a manner as he treated me.”
He would have shut the door just then, as she fumbled through her words expressing her decline of his previous offer (which came as no surprise, really), but paused when she revealed something more pressing on her mind for which she sought his help: the matter of her face. The Isidor Kristeva of two days ago would have happily jumped on the opportunity to help her, before she was even finished voicing her request. Nothing would have made him happier than to know he could make a difference in the life of someone who could turn to no one else for help, but… not now. Try as he might, the Isidor Kristeva of now could not connect to that previous desire to be of help. Especially not after she sung his brothers praises, knowing full well what Vitali had done (or, more specifically, not done) for him. “Your face is more of a concern to you than the screeching of the stars?” It was not a question; it was a statement. She was a Rigas, and with the exception of Alster, wasn’t it so like a Rigas to be concerned with vanity over other well-being? Although he was not a cruel person, Isidor almost wanted to laugh. This was why she had sought him out? Not even twenty-four hours after re-experiencing years of trauma? She doesn’t even like you. Teselins’ words still rang in his head, and he could no longer deny them. Tivia might not like him… but that did not stop her from requesting favours.
“Your face. That is your concern?” Again, it was a rhetorical question, but he could not filter disbelief from his voice. “This kingdom is under threat of a powerful sorceress, and you are concerned with your appearance, Tivia? Have you been so fixated on that inconsequential detail that you cannot come to realize you are already beautiful?”
The words just slipped out, unbidden and uncontemplated. It didn’t occur to him the effect they might have, but as soon as he witnessed Tivia Rigas hurry away so quickly that her balance was upset by a collision with a wall--not so unlike his faux-pas upon their first meeting--the familiar of the situation snapped him out of stoicism. Because in that crumpled form on the floor, too embarrassed to look him in the eye… he saw himself. The same way he had been when his own brother refused to help him on the merit that it simply didn’t suit him, and he… he could not be like that. Perhaps, in some ways, he was not so different from Zenech. But he did not have to liken himself to Vitali.
Wordlessly, Isidor stepped out of his chamber and knelt, extending a hand to the crumpled woman on the floor. The lines in his face had softened, knowing very well what it felt like to be in such an awkward position in a social interaction… not to mention, how it felt to reach out, and to be turned away. Even if this change in her demeanor was merely to endear herself to him enough to garner such a grandiose favour… he could not, in good will, turn her away for bitterness. For all he’d been through, somehow, he couldn’t wallow in his own suffering enough to be blind to the needs of others.
“Invisibility is possible through alchemy; unfortunately, it is unstable, and unreliable. Otherwise, I might have found a reason to venture out of my tower sooner.” He hazarded a sad smile as he helped Tivia to her feet. “I daresay it is probably far more reliable with magic. But… I was never in need of it; of invisibility. I had the option not to ever face people. It was my prerogative to hide. But… I don’t know what I’d do if I didn’t have that option, while there was something I wanted to hide. I don’t have the right to pass judgment.”
Lifting a hand, the Master Alchemist brushed her hair away from her scarred face, and took a close look, for the first time. Certainly, it wasn’t that he was only noticing it as of now. He had noticed before--and, honestly, hadn’t thought much of it. It had never crossed his mind that it detracted from her natural beauty; perhaps it was due to his own naivete, knowing nothing of beauty. To him, she was a presence that had simply enchanted him upon their first contact, and he couldn’t for the life of him explain why. But on the same note, it hadn’t occurred to him that it might also be a sensitive trigger to her, something that inflicted the sort of pain he couldn’t understand. Tivia Rigas, he realized, was not reaching out in favour of vanity; she was reaching out for help.
“What you are asking… it is not impossible, not at all. But it is complicated. Physical reconstruction of matter--particularly organic, living matter--also requires a high level of craftsmanship, patience, and attention to detail. In short… I can help you. It is within my capabilities. But it is a procedure that must take place over a number of sessions, little by little, so I must ask that you have patience. And your eye… well, that will have to be a final last step, and in and of itself could take some time. What I am trying to say…” Isidor pressed air from his lungs. Not even 24 hours… It hadn’t been 24 hours, and already, he was making more promises? “I will help you, Tivia. It will be a gradual transformation, but this isn’t the sort of procedure to be rushed. Have a healer withdraw a vial of your blood… and we will take it from there.” Enough people died for the hands that can make this possible, a dark voice at the back of his mind reminded him. It only makes sense that I finally use them to improve lives… even if it will never restore the lives lost.
Tivia Rigas, so far removed from her social upbringing, severely out of practice and distanced, both physically and emotionally, from her home, was reduced to a shivering wreck under Isidor’s scrutiny, a scenario some would find laughable. Isidor Kristeva, the oblivious, sputtering, cripplingly introverted recluse was intimidating to her? And she desired his approval? Had the stars burned away essential components of her brain’s core functions? What had changed between yesterday and a few weeks ago, that she found herself hinging on his every word and inwardly pleading that he not dismiss her in an act of revenge for her casual cruelty? Did he initially plant the seed of her shifting regard by stepping forward and offering a solution to cease the relentless chattering of the stars? By approaching her in a moment where she’d fallen so deep in her self-piteous lamentations, any extended hand surely glowed brighter in the hazy, misty sheen of her restrained tears. No. It might have been a turning point, but simply, she had seen a different side of the mild, passive alchemist last night, and it tuned her in to the extent of his pain.
It was as Vitali said. He was no longer hiding his denial. Whatever he now faced of himself, through fragmented memories made corporeal, she could relate, because a similar situation befell her during Messino’s war. It cost her literal face, half of it, anyhow, and since then, she wrestled with the person she was fashioned to be and the remains of a person left in the aftermath. The accursed ability to commune with the stars compounded her identity, complicating the already complex question: Who am I? Trillions of voices, trillions of celestial bodies clambered for her ruined body, to seize and possess it, to fill it with noise, forcing her to understand the messages lest she crumble from the absurdity of it all. And if she lost her senses, then surely, she’d lose her sense of self, never able, in her madness, to answer the question. Never to discover her purpose. Never to separate Tivia Rigas, the emissary of the stars, from just Tivia, a girl swimming in the voids of space, desperate to collect whatever shards, however shallow, vain, or surface-deep, would mosaic her whole--or, at least, into the closest approximation of a person. Isidor, too, was suffering from a shattered persona, left also to question his faith in the old cracked mirror that revealed his expected reflection for years. Now, the reliable reflection had distorted, showing him something nebulous, dark, and disorienting.
In all her time with Vitali, she never once saw him devolve into existential uncertainty. Even when tortured and impaled by Night Garden vines, resulting in functional blindness caused by light sensitivity, he did not waver; he did not fall apart. He was always so sure of himself, of his convictions, his unethical but survivalistic character. In his forbearance, he both inspired Tivia, and plagued her with inadequacy. How could she emulate his unshakeable demeanor? Try as she might, her attempts painted her as shrewd, insecure, and left her feeling emptier as she further detached from the people most compatible to her flaws. Vitali may never fully understand her wants, nor be able to fulfill them. But Isidor...perhaps they could help each other. Perhaps...
I see you, Isidor. Do you see me?
Apparently, he didn’t. He misconstrued her request, denigrating her as vapid, self-involved, pitiful. At least, it was how she interpreted his flat, unfeeling words.
You are wrong, Vitali. He is not sweet on me. He was being polite. He must think I am a frivolous thing, my priorities so out of joint, unrealistic. This was a mistake. A mistake…
“No...I am--I am so sorry to have disturbed you,” she hurried, her entire face, both halves, reddening to a deep shade of shame. “It is...I merely ask; it was never a priority. I would not dare believe the matter of my face is of more import than a sorceress or her murderous accomplice. Why else would I maintain my desire to keep my channels to the stars fully open for communication? If it could help...if I could help… No. I resolve to feel normal again, starting from the outside. That is why I ask. I just want to be…”
Beautiful. The word stymied her into silence. Did he say, did he imply, she was beautiful? Impossible! It was a throwaway comment meant to ease her doubts. A polite aside, required of a gentleman, or a person inclined to kindness, to speak aloud. But Isidor did not seem capable of lying convincingly, even if it were a white lie, or a skewed interpretation of the truth. Beauty lies within; it could be he meant to express such a point--though her insides were about as much rubbish as her outside veneer.
Beautiful…
“I-I...I will not monopolize a moment more of your time, Isidor. As I’ve said, it was silly of me to...to ask. I--good morning. I won’t disturb you again.” In a half-blind rush, she miscalculated her direction and crashed headlong into a wall. The suddenness of it, coupled with her high-churning levels of mortification, knocked her off balance and she bounced to a heap on the floor. Could it get any worse? Not only did Isidor think of her as conceited, but vapid, too! A head full of air; no substance within. Prone to crashing into walls. A mess of a person, inside and out.
Footsteps approached. His. Was he to peer over in his towering stature and silently mock her? She deserved it, nonetheless. For being so stupid. For daring to ask for help at all. For transferring her affections to yet another unattainable man. If he ever liked her, she ruined it with her feces pit of a personality. She squeezed her one eye shut, pressing one hand to the wall to right herself and skitter away before she decimated any chance of salvaging the smallest iota of self-respect while in his presence…
She opened her eye. His hand was extended, a reflection of their first meeting, a meeting which also began in collision. This time, she did not rebuff his gesture. She took his hand, and allowed him to help her to her feet. “Th-thank you,” she said in her sincerest voice. “You must see me as quite the fool, to want my face restored. It does not matter. I’ll be rendered effectively invisible in a few years. All star-seers end up locked away in a tower of sorts...for their own safety, I suppose. When I confessed my ability to my father, he wanted to start the process early and keep me secured and hidden in my room. But...I ran away, renounced my name, my inheritance and all ties to my family. I am a Rigas merely because it is the only name I have left. I…” she sighed. “I apologize. I do not wish to bore you with details. Your worries are numerous enough without my...my needless prattle.”
She stoppered her tongue and not a moment too soon as he closed their already close quarters to brush away her hair. In reflex, she almost batted away his hand; instead, she held her breath as he...observed her face, all of it. He explored the unnatural valleys of her burns, the grotesque downturn of her mouth, the bald spot that her parted hair aggressively covered, half a missing ear, and the melted patch where her left eye once perched, in near-perfect symmetry to her right eye. Barring the loss of half her sight, the healers had declared the damage sustained was purely cosmetic and she needn’t worry about complications. The news did little to cheer her, especially when they admitted nothing could be done to heal the burns and the scars. In retaliation, she chased them out, and let no one else touch her face or stand at an embrace’s distance to the hopeless cause she had to carry with her until death. No one...but Isidor. She let him draw near and appraise the damage. The visual probing nearly caused her discomfort, but less from the subject of his approach and more from her simultaneous fear and desire for intimacy. The last time she was so close to a man, it was when she spent an ill-decided romp with Haraldur in the hills behind Tadasun’s destroyed camp.
She recovered her breathing when the alchemist stepped away and announced his decision--to help.
“I---thank you so much, Isidor. I understand what I ask is a demanding sink of your time and resources, so I do not mind waiting, as I’m sure you have a list of far more important projects to tackle than facial reconstruction. Nonetheless, I will fetch what you ask of me. Again, I will pay for your services. I don’t dare request something for free. As a star-seer, I have access to a breadth of limitless knowledge; I’m sure I can find whatever you ask, if I concentrate to locate the correct star.” Her long tenure under Vitali’s company solidified her stance regarding payment and exchanges. She would give what was owed--whatever was owed.
She was about to bid the alchemist a grateful and heartfelt goodbye, but stopped when she noticed a curious and folded piece of paper that wafted out of his chambers, as though by a draft. It rolled across the hallway and stopped at her feet. Bending over, she plucked it from the marble floor, twirling the stem in her fingers and watching as the flared petals spun and caught the light. “Is this a lily? Did you make this? It is beautiful. Paper can be hard to manipulate; I never had a knack for it. Lilies are my favorite flower. My mother used to grow them in our garden, when Stella D’Mare was in one piece. Here you go,” she tucked the paper creation in between the buttons of his coat. “It suits you,” she smiled shyly. “Well, I’ll leave you to your studies. I’ll be in the palace for the next day or two; if you need me, my room can be found on the last door of this hallway. Take care, Isidor.”
Curtsying a farewell, she turned and strode in the correct direction, heart still pounding, limbs still shivering. It was an indisputable fact, and an unavoidable one. She liked him; and she dearly wanted it to be true that he liked her, in return.
Bronwyn didn’t mean to avoid everyone for nearly a week, but neither did she look forward to correspondence with the majority of her allies-by-association. Of the scant few who seemed untouched by magic, they also came off as questionable at best. Haraldur Sorde smelled strangely of wood and foliage, a natural scent not attributed to perfumes or long hours toiling outdoors. It oozed out of his pores. Isidor Kristeva, Teselin’s half-brother, was an alchemist of some renown. While not magically-inclined, he could rearrange the body through the manipulation of cells and matter, which, to her, sounded achingly alike to magic. No, she had no interest in getting to know the people of Galeyn, juggernauts of raw, wild power, liable to strike, kill, maim, harm. Better to hide away until they had need of her animal senses. So she bade her time in the thick of the Night Garden, assuming wolf form and watching, listening for relevant news, but no such news reached her ears, and she never emerged. For food, she chased rabbits out of their burrows and caught squirrels in midway shimmy up a tree. For water, she lapped from the crystalline pools at the base of the enormous tree at the Garden’s center. Sleep came naturally as she nestled in a thicket of soft mosses and closed her eyes, forgetting her bearings for a blessed few hours. When she awoke, she’d contend with the truth all over again; that she was effectively a prisoner, unable to leave the palace grounds or the Garden without express permission from people she did not trust. If only she could find an underground tunnel and venture out to look for Rowen on her own…
Thus began her survey of the Night Garden and its perimeter. She operated under the cover of night, sniffing at the root systems of the largest network of trees to search for patches of uplifted, loose soil. It was on her second night of searching that she discovered the sentinel tree yielded a long passageway that ran parallel to a series of fat, sinuous roots. The opening was unnoticeable by human eyes and too small for an adult to wiggle through--but to a wolf her size, it was the perfect fit. She squeezed her muzzle through the hole, widened the narrow corridor with her paws, and followed the dank, tight tunnel for what seemed like hours, stooped into an uncomfortable crouch. Casting aside the very real possibility that she made a grave mistake and would die underground, never finding her way to the surface, she pressed on, having lost her opportunity to turn around--not when the walls brushed her fur with alarming closeness. With no space to go anywhere but forward, forward she crawled, and crawled, until at last, the tunnel, and its accompanying root, sloped upward, leading her to what seemed like a dead-end. With a little bit of digging, the shallow layer of topsoil crumbled away, revealing an exit hole and sweet, sweet freedom. Cautiously, she peeked her head out of the opening, observing her surroundings. Dawn had broken; rays of the morning sun cast its diffuse light over the frost-covered, bare-branched forest. Judging by the fact that seasons affected the glade in which she found herself, Bronwyn concluded her escape from the Night Garden and the Heart of Galeyn had been successful. She’d done it! It took her all night, but she squirmed away from the scrutiny of the palace and its suffocating amount of volatile magic-users.
Still cautious, she sniffed around the new territory, padding soundlessly through the brush. A thick fog settled around her as the sun gradually burned away the night-frost, soon thickening into a near-impermeable sheet. Her wolf-eyes squinted against the reflective white walls of swirling mist, a navigation almost as impossible as the winding tunnels whence she came. From darkness into light, she, yet again, found herself irrevocably lost.
But not for long.
A nose captured a familiar scent. Sharp. Earthy. Almost metallic. Could it be--?
A human figure stepped through the fog. Though a silhouette, her short, slight stature and the unmistakable odor revealed all. Rowen.
“Bronwyn.” The voice tickled her pointed, erect ears. “Oh, Bronwyn. It is you.”
Bronwyn whimpered low in her throat.
“You found me. I knew you would be the one to find me.” She stepped forward without actually moving closer. The fog obliterated all details of her appearance. Bronwyn’s Sight could not detect anything at their distance.
“I’ve never given you enough credit, Bronwyn. You care for me. Moreso than Hadwin. He didn’t even try. He traded me for the summoner and ran off. But you...you wouldn’t abandon me. I should have invested my faith in you, all along. All those years. You wanted to help me, and…” her voice cracked into a low, strained plea, “I--I need your help, now. I’ve made a horrible mistake, and...it may be too late for me, but... Please, Bronwyn--help me.” The voice trembled. “I’m so afraid. I don’t know what to do.” The shadow of her arm reached outwards, for the wolf in the glade. “Please don’t leave me alone, here.”
Yes. Yes. I’m going to help you, Rowen. That’s why I’m here. I won’t let you slip from my sight now. Not after a year of searching. Even if this is a trap, I needed to get close to you. To help you--for you are all that matters.
Bronwyn disappeared into the mist, and joined her sister at her side.
Payment… She really had been influenced by Vitali, the way she continually reiterated ‘payment’ for his services. But Isidor had not asked anyone for anything even akin to payment since he’d arrived in Galeyn, and to be honest, he wasn’t sure why. Tivia had offered him money, or use of her unique connectedness to the stars. Alster had offered him longevity, a life extended so far beyond what was natural that he could hardly dream as to how he would spend all of those extra years. And yet… he wanted none of it. Not then, and especially not now. Regardless that his unique skill set might have been able to aid others in ways that no one else could, it was still a skill set that had been built on the blood and pain of others. No matter the task, or how it might have benefited others, he could not accept any compensation for abilities that he never should have had in the first place.
After all, these truly were not favours he was doing for the Rigases and the people of Galeyn. They were his own path to redemption. And no matter how much good he did in the world… it would never be enough to make up for the blood that had spilled. But that did not mean that he shouldn’t try. “Locked away… what do you mean? Why would you be locked away for having such a valuable ability?” Isidor did not know much in the way of star seers, or what their abilities entailed, but he could only imagine how difficult power like that must be to control, and he could recall noticing blood from Tivia’s ears, following some of her episodes… Did that have something to do with why her own father, of all people, would seek to have her locked away? For her own ‘protection’, of sorts? Perhaps the two of them did have more in common than he’d initially thought. Negligent (bordering on abusive) families, niche, unique abilities that they did not ask for… they weren’t so different. He hadn’t realized this, before, and neither had she, because up until now--up until he had vented the entirety of his anger and hurt from his past in her presence… they hadn’t really known one another, at all. They’d been little more than strangers. Could he, then, really blame her for lacking even the vaguest interest in him?
Perhaps she hasn’t been fair; but neither have I, the Master Alchemist thought, as he gently drew is hand away from her face. He could see the trepidation in her single seeing eye, that desire to want to hide what she perceived as the worst part of herself, for fear what he might think of her. What he might think of her--as if his opinion mattered, at all. “No, I should apologize. You don’t need a reason to want to look the way that you used to, if the person in the mirror does not reflect who you are--who you believe you are. If I were in your shoes, and I saw an opportunity to rectify your situation… well, to be honest, I am not sure I would be so bold as to ask. But that is where you and I differ: you have the courage to see out necessary change. And I… I become too comfortable hiding from the world to seek out positive change. Honestly, I admire your courage.”
Once again, she brought up the topic of compensation, and Isidor more than ever felt the desire to turn her offer away. He wasn’t a materialistic man, in want of anything, really. What he’d truly desired of her, before this rude awakening of his memories, both happy and sad, she’d already given him: kindness. She saw him without looking past him, heard him out, word for word, and made no great demands that he was not able to be accomplish. In short, Tivia saw and treated him like a human being. Whatever the reason for the change in her demeanor, he could not say, but… he rather hoped she would not revert to the way things had been before.
Except… for perhaps one detail. “Really, I don’t need anything in return, Tivia. I did not ask anything of Alster for healing Elespeth’s heart; I daresay the recovery cost him enough. Nor to I intend to request compensation for modifying his arm for the better. I cannot in good faith ask anything of you in return to my benefit. Although… there is one thing I hope you’d perhaps consider.”
The Master Alchemist rubbed the back of his neck as he thought about the last encounter with his younger sister. The hate and the hurt in her eyes, how she seemed to think that at this point, she had no one to turn to but that scoundrel, Hadwin. All because he had failed to notice she was reaching out. Of course, Isidor intended to reconcile if possible, but the damage he’d unintentionally done to their budding brother-sister relationship would take time to heal. And in the interim… he didn’t want her feel so alone. “I am nothing short of an idiot when it comes to appealing to other people, and I’m afraid that my lack of experience in maintaining any sort of relationship has hurt Teselin. And I seem to think… you could be good for her, should you see fit to reach out. Frankly, she needs someone other than Hadwin to be an influence--such as I still maintain you need someone other than Vitali. So if you’ve any kindness to spare for my sister… it would mean a great deal, to me, if you’d reach out to her when she returns. The both of you have been burdened with power that you did not ask for; I think you could find a lot in common, and… have a friend aside from some other questionable influences. It is completely up to you, of course, but if you do find it in yourself to connect, I know she would appreciate it--and so would I. I… have a lot of damage control to embark upon, when she returns.”
Isidor took notice when something caught Tivia’s eye from behind him, and to his great distress, one of the hundreds of paper lilies he’d crafted the evening before swept out from his open door frame, carried on a light breeze. Oh, hells… what would she think of him if she were to peer into his bedroom and find so many more in heaping piles on the floor? She would be right to question his sanity and sound mind, and retract her request to reconstruct her face…
In truth, part of him had expected the short-tempered, no-time-for-trifles Tivia Rigas to re-emerge when she knelt to pick up the lily, but to his surprise, she seemed almost… enchanted, by the simple piece of paper. Suddenly feeling put on the spot, and not quite knowing how to explain, Isidor surreptitiously stepped in front of his open door to bar her view of the mountain of lilies his nervous hands had crafted all night long. “I… did. A dear friend… taught me how to make them, long ago. Only recently did I realize I remember how to make them, at all…” And, as it turned out, they were her favourite flower. He was about to offer that she keep it, but before he could open his mouth, Tivia tucked the flower into an open button hole on his coat. Take care, Isidor, she said to him, after she told him precisely where he might be able to find her. Did this mean… no, he must be reading too much into it. She was agreeing to work with him, to be civil in light of the grand favour he’d agreed to pay her. There couldn’t be any other possible reason she might want to see him… was there?
Stepping back into his bedroom, Isidor took a good look at the paper flowers scattered across the floor. Who’d have guessed she would like lilies? Perhaps, there was a chance that he needn’t sweep all of this wasted paper into the dustbin, after all…
Teselin’s mood hadn’t lifted since she and Hadwin had departed Galeyn, and for the most part, she only had herself to blame. Although the feelings she had expressed to her estranged brother had been genuine, and yes, she’d wanted him to know exactly how much his actions (or lack thereof) had hurt her, it also occurred to her in the aftermath just how misplaced her anger had been. Yes, Isidor Kristeva had avoided her because he was afraid of her; and she was angry because he hadn’t even thought to endeavor to help her. But… so, too, had Vitali turned her away when she’d sought help, telling her that regretfully, there was nothing he could do for her. Yet, she hadn’t held that against her eldest brother, and his refusal had not cast him in a different light, in her eyes. So why, then, had she held Isidor to standards that no one in his situation could possibly reach? Hadwin might have had a point--the world would not coddle Isidor Kristeva for his lack of proper socializing throughout his formative years. But it was a different story if someone did not know his story; she, on the other hand, had. And that hadn’t stopped her from completely unleashing on him in a way that had not been fair at all.
It was the first time in her young life that Teselin Kristeva had ever spoke her mind so violently to another person, with the intent to hurt them… and she regretted it.
Just a few days into their venture, Hadwin and Teselin stopped their steeds at the approach of dawn as they came across an inn in a small town that neither of them had ever visited, before. It was small, seemingly the sort more populated by those travelling through it than those who set down roots, there. But an inn was an inn, and Hadwin wasn’t about to pass up the chance to imbibe in some vaguely satisfying grog. Nor was Teselin about to pass up the chance for a real bed; even with Hadwin as a source of warmth, camping in the very early winter was far from what she considered comfortable.
Hadwin was already two steins into his alcohol indulgence before Teselin finally spoke up, and only at his urging that she get whatever was bothering her off her chest. Had her mood really been so obvious, all this time? Perhaps a girl who was so used to being happy and hopeful did not hide it well when she began to feel otherwise. She hadn’t wanted to make it Hadwin’s problem, but, well… they were a team. His problems were hers, and vice versa. Keeping her problems to her chest were only likely to give the man who could see your deepest fears and concerns a headache. “I think… I was too hard on Isidor. I’m just trying to figure out how to make it right when we return with Sigrid.” The young summoner sighed, picking at the small meal in front of her, knowing that despite lacking an appetite, they wouldn’t return successful in their search if she succumbed to malnutrition. “I’m sorry; I know that shouldn’t be on my mind. We’re here to find Sigrid, but I… I was really angry, at the wrong person, and for the wrong reasons. Isidor doesn’t owe me anything; I had no right to paint him a colour he wasn’t comfortable with. It was really out of character of me, to be honest…”
Teselin’s words trailed off as something--someone--caught her attention across the room. She paused long enough for Hadwin to turn and see exactly what--or who--had caught her attention. A tall, lanky man whom she was used to seeing dressed in sparkling green sat alone at a table, staring into an empty stein, as if he would find answers in it if he kept his eyes still for long enough. “Rycen… is that… Rycen? Of the Missing Links?”
In the small room, voices carried easily, and no sooner did the man hear his name that he looked up into a couple of familiar faces. “You don’t say…. Hadwin. Who’d have thought I’d run into you and your cute little sidekick in this shack?” There was something different about his smile, however. Teselin always remembered it being so similar to Hadwin’s: wide, overly confident, and often unapologetic. But not anymore. This smile was shaky and ingenuine, a lie in the face of the fact he didn’t seem to have anything to smile about. A dark, foreboding feeling sat in the pit of Teselin’s stomach like a rock. What was he doing here, alone? Where was Briery? Lautim?
“Rycen…” The young summoner looked around, in case she was missing something obvious, like the giant who would’ve had to stoop to fit in this place, or the graceful acrobat who was impossible to ignore when she was in your presence. “Are the others here? Briery, Lautim?”
That fake smile was gone in a heartbeat. The Illusionist returned his gaze to the empty stein. His knuckles had turned white, gripping the handle. “They ain’t here, kid. We’re done. The Missing Links… we’re no more.”
“What… what do you mean? Is Briery--”
“Gone. Arrested, about a month ago. In a city that makes a profit out of prisoners. There’s no getting to her; hells, I’ve tried. Lautim, he’s still there, trying. Won’t give up on her, and I…” Rycen inhaled and exhaled sharply. “I thought I wouldn’t, either. But I’m at the end of my rope… and I dunno what to do anymore. Sorry for the depressing reunion, by the way. Wish I had better news, but that’s life. It ain’t always about good news.”
Tivia hadn’t intended to overshare the details of her life to Isidor, but with her flubbing tongue, she confessed more than her vulnerabilities, but of the predicted trajectory her burdensome ability would eventually lead her. Cyprian Rigas did not suffer embarrassment of any sort and his daughter, thanks to her newfound physical and social defects (as star-seers became famous recluses), would not favor his self-image, nor his bids for the vaunted position of Rigas Head. He needed to hide her from view. No daughter of a high-ranking Rigas official would smear his chances for the domain he, for decades, fought to attain by working as Lord Adalfieri’s right-hand man. To let his unwell child wander around and do whatever she willed was simply irresponsible of him. His only course of action was to “take care” of her--via quarantining her diseased magic from the rest of the flock. For her own good, he claimed. Besides, it would look good for him, to elicit sympathy among the Rigases. If he could sway the majority, usurping the Rigas Head seat from Chara would have the backing of the people. Tivia was just a pawn in her father’s politics.
It was a painful memory to maintain of her father, and she near-regretted the subject the instant she broached it aloud. Despite the pain of her recollection, she nodded at his innocent inquiry and answered him true. “Star-seers--of the two documented in our three-thousand-year history--do not survive long. Their minds deteriorate rapidly. The high-keening of the stars in full chatter will cause eventual loss of hearing and loss of sanity. Prolonged social interactions agitate the seer. When people cluster like stars, the stars feast on the buffet of information laid out for them. As a result, seers will always cloister themselves and seek out a life of solitude. Even if they desire to venture out of doors, their frequent outbursts often cause distress for others. It is best for both parties if they...disappear, and delegate from within a safe dominion of their own. My father thought it best to...jumpstart the procedure, perhaps as a misguided attempt to spare my deterioration and to save face among the discerning and ever-fickle nobility. He could not have a daughter who...shamed him. Or brought him dishonor of any sort. I hate myself for saying this, and I have never admitted it aloud,” she twisted a long, uneven piece of hair around her finger, “but what the mongrel did to him...it benefitted me. After the assault, he was not sound of mind to campaign for the Rigas Head seat and it...broke his control over me. Over my mother, too. The power stayed with Chara Rigas, who later transferred responsibilities to Alster, and he, at least, has my best interests. If my father should recover his senses, Alster won’t let him touch me.” Dropping the tendril of hair, she rolled her eye towards the ceiling, wistful. “How different the dynamics would be...if Stella D’Mare were never destroyed. The so-called courage you speak of, Isidor...it’s desperation.”
Shaking away her dreamy, unmoored state, she listened to his request and tried not to balk when he suggested she break bread with Teselin. Why was everyone so obsessed with influencing the star-seer into kinship with other people? She did not have the most winning personality. Not that she wasn’t trying to make amends for her untoward behavior, but what would anyone stand to gain from befriending a self-proclaimed misanthrope? Isidor became her latest exception, but it didn’t mean she could pardon every person she treated unfairly, all willy-nilly!
“Ah, yes. Teselin,” she faltered. “We’ve been...acquaintanced for a while. In light of recent events, we are not exactly on speaking terms. But,” her deliberations ended in a resigned sigh, “I will...I will make an effort. To reconnect.”
Bidding her farewells to the Master Alchemist, Tivia curtsied and made an effort to glide down the hallway to offset her graceless slam against the wall. Once out of sight, she rushed the rest of the way to her room, flew through the door, pressed it shut, and panted away the manufactured remains of her competent and collected demeanor. It was impossible to tell if her first official conversation with Isidor had gone well, or if it had gone so poorly, that she forever consigned their interactions to civil cooperation and asinine small talk. Did she speak too much of personal matters? Did she come across as competent? As the correct amount of vulnerable? Was she too fake? Too shallow? Too willing to please? Too reprehensible? And why did she suddenly care so much for his approval? She’d had passing fancies with men, before. Alternatively, she’d also fallen so hard for men, the rejection sat heavy on her chest for months. Haraldur, Vitali--she made horrid decisions. They never loved her. Therefore, she couldn’t hope for an outstretched hand of reciprocity. She could only hope for tolerance. Niceties. General purpose kindness. The stars never indicated a hint of romance in her future. In fact, her star did not speak at all. It shone, mute and unglittering in the sky, a staid observer, waiting for an opportunity to blink into oblivion.
In contrast to Teselin’s dour mood, Hadwin exuded an equanimous calm, a feat made simpler the farther they put distance between themselves and Galeyn. Firmly believing in ‘out of sight, out of mind,’ he did just that, focusing ahead and nary looking over his shoulder at the trammeled path they left behind. While there was no stopping the nightmares he suffered every night, or the near-constant headaches generated by Teselin, the fear-harvester, he made do in the best way he knew how; with grog and herbs. They were an unreliable panacea, yes, but without sex, gambling, performing, brawls, or other high-octane activities (aside from cutting through the wind on a Night steed at full speed), his war on sobriety, was for a good cause. Teselin needed him stable, sane, and supportive, traits that an uninfluenced faoladh could nary accomplish.
Though not exactly happy about his overreliance on his assorted vices of the substance variety, Teselin indulged in and overlooked his increasingly frequent sessions with his pipe or with the flasks that reeked of fermented fruit so strong, it burned the nose to smell. To compensate for his self-medicating practices, he was the model of a cooperative, well-behaved wolf, seldom straying on some unrelated search or delaying their set schedule by suggesting alternate routes or detours. Neither did he run, or wander far from Teselin’s line of sight, knowing well her still-active fear pertaining to his well-being and safety. When they rested, he distracted her fear-afflicted mind by telling amusing stories, teaching her card games, or trying (and failing) to entice her with a fresh-caught meal of rabbit, rubbed in spices and lovingly cooked over a fire. By the third day of their excursion, however, he began to consider a new tactic. Distractions were no longer effective; Teselin needed to voice her troubles aloud, to an ear all too willing to share in her burdens. So when they reached a small town en route to Sigrid’s estimated coordinates, Hadwin requested a brief stopover, long enough for a meal, some drinks, replenishment of his dwindling “resources,” and a warm bed to recuperate from the pre-winter chills that had come to swim in their iced veins. It did not take much convincing on his part, and soon, after stabling the steeds, they were sitting at a table at an inn, partaking in some grub--and for him--hefty volumes of ale. As he imbibed on his second tankard of subpar swill, he gently pressed Teselin into voicing some of her fears and concerns aloud. It wouldn’t do to allow them the grazing space to roam and feast, when she could herd them out of her mind, temporarily, at least, and talk through her problems with a sympathetic party. He, after all, already knew what bothered her; she was not sparing him even the tiniest sliver of her worries.
Of course, the subject matter revolved around Isidor.
“Eh, I shouldn’t’ve egged you on to begin with,” Hadwin clanked the empty tankard on the table and signaled the barmaid for a replacement. “It was my idea to approach Doorstop and his bosom buddy right after I dropped some pretty upsetting news on your lap like a flaming piece of shit. Gotta say I, yet again, took up the mantle of ‘catalyst.’ But hey, even with my badly-timed confessions and even worse meddling, you didn’t destroy your chances of reconciling with him in the future. In fact, the other day, he knocked on your door looking for you, because he wanted to help, and apologize, and do whatever else people with a fully-developed conscience like to do when they feel guilty about something; to overcompensate.” Hadwin gladly took the tankard from the barmaid’s hand and flipped her a coin in recompense. “So, you said some things you regret, Tes. Completely understandable to feel bad. But what you said to your brother’s the least of his troubles. No, you didn’t destroy that unassuming little block of wedge-wood.” He swept the tankard to his lips and took a liberal gulp. “I did. I swatted him into the wall and hells...it kind of hurt. That’s how pathetic he is. Felt like I pitched an infant into a boiling vat of venom. But it’s what he needed, that poor blighter. A nice kick in the face. He’s in good hands, though. No doubt when you check on him again, he’ll be a changed person. For better or worse.”
Another shit-stained confession from a shit-stained person--but she wasn’t listening. Something more pressing caught her attention, and he smelled it before she announced it. Rycen. How was it that the hyper-observant Hadwin, the same faoladh who could recreate a bar scene, down to smell, conversation, number, and the appearances of all patrons within his range--while drunk--could not identify someone so iconic as a member of the Missing Links!? Had he lost so much of himself in Apelrade? The ghosts may have stopped haunting him--with the exception of his mam--but for a more sinister reason: because he died and became a ghost. He made it to hell, a place where he’d continue to generate and face his mistakes by simultaneously haunting the living and being haunted by the living. It would explain why, wonder of wonders, he should encounter one-fourth (one-third?) of a troupe he had a hand in personally fucking over. Royally. What were the odds of that grand coincidence, if not as a device to torture him?
His vengeful ghost theory suddenly started making an eerie sort of sense.
He turned to face his torturer. Their eyes met. He recreated the man’s grin, teeth for teeth, and the sentiments of his greeting, pitch for pitch, despite the revealing fears playing in the mirrors of the illusionist’s soul. He saw the truth before Teselin inquired, before Rycen answered. The disbanded Missing Links. Briery…
Arrested.
Hadwin stood from his chair and rounded on Rycen’s table, his easy composure, gone. “Fuck. The hell she get arrested for?! You had plenty of money; I made sure of it. You couldn’t’ve fallen into hard times that quick. She’s got better restraint than me, and she had plenty of tonic before leaving Galeyn, so it wasn’t a health matter. Dammit,” he clawed at the edge of the table, his muttered curse like gravel in his throat.
Taking a minute to clear his head (by downing the rest of his tankard and slamming it on the counter), he deliberated, stewing on a solution in turbulent silence. “No...this ain’t a lost cause at all,” he said in a secretive whisper, aware of the tiny venue and their reverberating sounds. “I’ve escaped many prisons before, and I’ve bailed people out of ‘em, too.” He nudged Teselin. “Right, chickadee? And--guessing by the nature of this place--it’s a city that values coin. Everyone’s looking to profit. Who’s to say a greedy guard or two can’t be bought to remove a prisoner from the premises? Or, alternatively, to sneak one of us in, equipped with the proper tools for a daring escape? ‘Course, you’ll have to lay out the details for me and yeah, I’d have to see it for myself what this city’s all about. Straight up, we’re gonna need a lot of money, but that’s no skin off my teeth.” To emphasize, he grinned. “Gimme a day or two and I can triple the little nest egg me and Tes are sharing. Not like the guards are getting that coin for keeps, either; I trust you can swipe it right from their pockets and none’s the wiser, eh?”
With all the puzzle pieces assembling in his head, Hadwin clamped Rycen on the back and gestured to the stairs. “I’ve got you, Rice-man. Not the first time I bailed you out of a sticky situation. Here,” he slapped an inn-key on the table. “Go on up to our room; second door to the right. Relax, unwind, sober up a tad. We’ll be up in two shakes. You’ll tell me everything you know. Any relevant information--hell, even irrelevant information, s’long as it’s related to our beloved flying squirrel, y’hear?”
The illusionist obliged and, after draining the remains of his tankard, headed up the stairs and sure enough, entered the second door on the right with the supplied key. Hadwin took a seat on the previously occupied chair, thrumming his fingertips on the table. His mouth twisted into an apologetic simper as he gazed across, to Teselin. “Sort of committed before consulting you, kiddo. Wasn’t my intent to shut you out of the conversation, but...well, there wasn’t a scenario in which I could say ‘no.’ Brie’s in this mess cuz of me, anyway. ‘Cuz Cwenha died and I didn’t do shit, and then I fled the scene like a fucking criminal. Could’ve looked out for them or, hell, maybe we’d all have gotten arrested together. ‘Least we would’ve been together, though. Damn it.” The frenzied tapping of his fingers ceased. “Turns out I regret a lot of things, Tes. But I’ll regret it even more if I don’t go. If you wanna keep searching for Sigrid on your own...I hate to split us up, but it’s important to you, I get it. It’s what we’re here to do and I trust you’ve got this without me. Probably stand a better chance without me, let’s be real,” he chuckled. “Y’know, after what I did to your brother and all. Forcing him to remember his greatest traumas--yup, I’m a piece of work. Got Serpent Lord all fired up, too; thought he’d kill me on the spot. But, if you’re still crazy enough to abandon our search and stick it out with me...there’s a lot I suspect you’ll want me to answer for, when we get back to Galeyn. And I’ll do it. I’ll smooth things over till they’re squeaky clean, all baby soft and shit. What I’m saying is...I want you to come with me, dangerous as it is. You’re better not following, but,” he reached for her hand and rubbed his knuckles against her knuckles in some approximation of a fist-bump, “we’re a team, aren’t we? So if we’re both in agreement--let’s see a man about an acrobat, and spring her free.”
“Isidor… wait, you…” Teselin pulled her somber gaze from the stained woodgrain of the table as soon as her faoladh companion made mention of her brother, himself, divulging more than mere reassurances. It took her a moment to process what Hadwin was telling her, specifically because she couldn’t believe it. Hadn’t she asked him not to go so hard on the fragile alchemist?! Perhaps the rational thing to feel would be anger. She should be angry at Hadwin for betraying her trust and disregarding her request to keep his hands off of Isidor, but… Hadn’t she, too, expressed frustration at her brother and his shortcomings? Certainly, Hadwin might have been the one to light that smouldering fire by divulging what he knew about Isidor, but he had not said anything that was untrue. And, chances were, her reaction might not have been any different had Isidor mustered the courage to tell her, himself. Ultimately, what Hadwin had done… he had done for her. In some ill-advised attempt to make Isidor into the brother she’d so desperately needed him to be. No, she couldn’t blame Hadwin for this, because she knew full well that the faoladh only ever did what he did as a means to make her happy in the only way he knew how. For this, she had no one to blame but herself.
Sitting upright, the young summoner raked a hand through her hair and shook her head. “So, was he… is he okay? I mean…” What a stupid question. When had anyone been okay after Hadwin forced them to confront their fears? She certainly hadn’t been, and it had been her request that Hadwin show her what she needed to see, because she’d thought it would be possible to rise up above those fears. She had been prepared--as prepared as anyone could possibly be under such circumstances--to face the worst, but Isidor… He had hardly been ready to leave his tower and venture out into a world where he would encounter other people, who would be far less sensitive to his reclusive disposition. There was no way he’d have been ready for what Hadwin had shown him… whatever it was.
What did you see, Hadwin? What destroyed Isidor? The young summoner was about to ask, but the topic was unintentionally put to rest when she spotted Rycen across the room--along with Hadwin, soon after. Teselin had known, the moment she saw the brilliant Missing Links illusionist sitting alone, without the company of the troupe’s resident giant or graceful acrobat, that something was terribly wrong. It wasn’t even his dismal words, so much as the uncharacteristically lackluster tone of his voice, that confirmed it for her.
“Rycen. Can you… can you tell us what happened?” Teselin prompted, a little more gently than Hadwin, who was understandably flabbergasted. “Briery is too clever for that… to get arrested on a whim. What led to this?”
“Yeah, we had some money, all right. Would’ve been good for a while, too, nicely enough. One less thing to worry about after… well, you know.” The illusionist flung his hand in a dismissive gesture and turned his eyes back to the table. “Well, you’d think that would be the end of this troupe’s shit luck, right? Yeah, you’d think. But after about a week later, when we were camping somewhere off to the east, trying to put ourselves back together and brainstorm for another show… well, we all left the caravan in the wrong place at the wrong fuckin’ time, when we went scouting for another new audience; one that wasn’t acquainted with Cwenha, and who wouldn’t know the difference, now that she’s gone.” Rycen expelled a long sigh and pinched the bridge of his nose, visibly pained by the amalgamation of unsavoury memories this explanation dredged up. “Bastard brigands didn’t touch our supplies, but they scoured the thing and made off with every little coin they could find. Set us right back to square one, if you can fuckin’ believe it. Put us in a bad place… and, well, ended us in an even worse place, ‘cause it officially ended us. Here, I thought Briery was our adhesive--in a way, maybe she is. Maybe she was. But Cwenha… she was her spark. I don’t think she ever really recovered after our silver fairy left us.”
Every consecutive word that fell from his lips was more and more heartbreaking, which explained why Rycen seemed so reluctant to share what had happened to the beloved troupe of performers in the days since Cwena’s tragic and untimely death. Not only was he reluctant to relive it all, but he must have known how it would come across: a classic tragedy, with no room for anything but tears and pity. Teselin could not claim to know Rycen particularly well, but in the time that she and Chara spent traveling with the Missing Links until they found Braighdath and reunited with Alster and the others, she’d taken note that he wasn’t particularly fond of any sort of attention that wasn’t positive, fawning, or… well, ‘intimate’ (yet another thing he and Hadwin had in common). Pity wasn’t something he sought for gain, and acknowledging that anything was at all pitiable was about as abhorrent to him as it was for Hadwin to say he, for example, regretting exposing Isidor to his greatest fears. And the worst of this was… whatever Rycen had to tell them, it wouldn’t be embellished. Each and every detail would be as honest as it was brutal, and the young summoner wasn’t sure that neither she nor her faoladh companion was ready to digest them.
Regardless of those details, it didn’t come as any form of surprise when Hadwin began to devise a plan, knowing as little as he did, to rescue Briery from the clutches of whatever prison had her incarcerated. And he had a point: he had managed to rescue both her and Chara from Mollengard’s prison, which was arguably one of the most difficult to breach, as far as prisons went. But Rycen did not seem convinced. Looking up from the table, the corners of his mouth deepened their frown, and lines creased his forehead and between his brows. “Don’t kid yourself, Hadwin. You think we haven’t already tried that? Of course there’s a price on her head for bail--a hefty one. So Lautim and I did whatever the hell we could to scrouge up that sum. Took us two weeks, living off little more than water and the occasional hand-out from strangers, but we got it. And as soon as we did? They upped the price. That’s the game they play: the rich can get bought out, ‘cause no matter how they keep upping the sum, they know that type can pay. Everyone else just ends up being an example: pay up, pay big, or watch your friends and family rot in prison for the rest of their lives. So we got desperate: and when Lautim gets desperate, he gets violent. But even that massive boulder couldn’t break down the walls of that prison. No amount of cunning or strength, can. So forgive me for saying so, but if either of you thinks you can make a difference where Lau and I couldn’t… no offense, but it’s been weeks, and I’m running low on hope. Ain’t nothin’ short of a miracle gonna get Briery free. She hasn’t had that tonic in almost a month…” With an exasperated sigh, he ran a hand through his unkempt hair. “One way or another, sorry to say, but she ain’t okay.”
Regardless of the illusionist’s hopeless outlook, it wasn’t enough to dissuade Hadwin. Once he had his mind made up about something, anyone would be hard-pressed to change it. Teselin wasn’t even sure he’d heard a word of what Rycen said before he told the man to meet them upstairs, in the room that’d rented for the evening. Despite the illusionist’s world-weariness, he obviously hadn’t given up on hope so permanently that he refused to hear Hadwin out. With a silent shrug, Rycen stood from the table, his gait slightly off from obvious inebriation (not that anyone could blame him), and made his way unsteadily up the stairs. As soon as Teselin found herself alone with Hadwin, she knew exactly what was coming--and had already prepared her decision, accordingly.
“I promised Haraldur I’d find Sigrid. I do intend to keep that promise. But… I never promised that it would happen quickly. That’s not even wishful thinking; it’s just plain naive.” The young summoner shook her head; she didn’t even need to say it. The two of them were on the same page. “The difference is, while Sigrid might be in trouble, she’s a fighter. So is Briery, but not in the same way, and… by some means, she has already lost. So between someone who may only potentially need our help, and someone who most definitely needs it, as soon as possible… the answer is obvious.”
Though it felt strained, Teselin smiled, and covered his knuckles with her hand. “What happened with Isidor… I’m not happy about what you did. But I know you did it for me; because you thought it might help me. But nothing that I do is going to change how he feels right now, and I… honestly, Hadwin, I don’t know that I can do any of this without you. I’m not much of a survivor, and the means by which I can survive… well, you’ve already seen the carnage, first hand. Not to mention, I don’t have a nose to track people, like you do. So… consider this current mission aborted, at least for the moment. I will find Sigrid; but first, we’ll find Briery. If anyone can piece the Missing Links back together… that person is you. But… you’re not off the hook. When we make it back to Galeyn...” Her brow furrowed ever so slightly, with only a fraction of the frustration that she frankly should have been feeling. “You’re going to need to have to deal with the damage you caused. I don’t know how Isidor is faring, but I know that I won’t be able to pick up the pieces of him alone. I know that what I said to him caused part of that damage, so… we will both have our part to play.”
With it settled that they would remain a team and set out on this far more dire venture in lieu of tracking down the former Dawn Warrior, the young summoner and the faoladh departed the dining area and climbed the stairs, to find Rycen sitting on the windowsill, smoke wafting out of a pipe stuck between his lips. Sometimes, his similarities to Hadwin were almost uncanny; they even partook in the same unhealthy coping mechanisms when life became too much to bear. “Sorry--I assume you don’t mind?” The illusionist tapped the bowl of his pipe. “It’s the only thing that keeps my head clear, lately.”
“It’s fine. Rycen…” Teselin took a seat on the edge of one of the beds, and leaned toward the distraught Missing Link. “What happened, exactly? To land Briery in prison? What did you do after you were robbed?”
“Heh, it ain’t at all what you think, kiddo. ‘Course, I did suggest we temporarily fall on the calling of our past. Like we used to have to when Briery suffered those monthly episodes, and we weren’t able to perform. A little dishonest sleight of hand here and there to get by… But nope! No way in hell; she wouldn’t have any of that life, anymore.” Rycen’s smile was sardonic and hard as he clamped the pipe between his teeth. “Boss insisted we do it honest. We’d done it honest before Cwenha, after all; it could happen again. And hell, she was right. Found a quaint little city called Essleau. Set up that morning, performed that eve, put everything we got into it… and we wowed that crowd. They loved it. Ate every bit of it up. Was it our best performance? Fuck no; not without Cwenha. We still haven’t figured out how to work her out of it, yet, but Essleau never knew the difference. Better yet, it is one hell of a rich city, and the bastards there have money to burn. We had to have earned at least half of what was stolen from us in one night, alone. Thought we had it made… until some high-totin’ assholes from the city council informed us of the ‘tax’ we now owed. Tax. Can you believe it?” He blew smoke from between his lips and laughed bitterly. “Been doin’ this shit for over a decade, traveled all over the fuckin’ world, and we’ve never been told we owe part of what we make just for the pleasure of amazing some bored-ass bloke in a city. Well, obviously we refused. Well, kinda. Briery, being the diplomat that she is, tried to sweet talk ‘em into having us owe less. They fuckin’ wanted half of what we made--for no other reason than because they could! But that’s the problem with that place. They can’t be bribed, because they may make more than their weight in gold playing by their fucked-up rules. So, they completely blindsided us… and they arrested Briery, then and there. No questions, no negotiations. Next day, we came to find they’d want double what we made just to get her out--to really bite us in the ass by not playing by ‘their rules’. You don’t pay up when they want, you end up paying more later. And, well… I told you all the rest. We tried; we failed. Lautim is still there, is Essleau. Refuses to leave until we’ve got the Boss back. I had to leave just to clear my damn head… but I ain’t got no ideas. And no offense to the both of you, but the four of us really don’t stand a chance breaching that prison. It… you have to see the place.” The illusionist shook his head. “It ain’t pretty.”
“Well… have you given up, then? On Briery, I mean?”
Rycen snorted. “I should--I really should. She said as much. Said she’d rather be arrested than leave all of us worse off than before. But… nah, we’ve been in it together too long. I can’t give up. Neither can Lautim. But at the same time…” He spread his hands, palms up. Empty. “We ain’t just lacking aces up our sleeves, here, my friends; we don’t even have a fuckin’ deck to play with. Essleau takes their security to a whole other level. Lautim couldn’t breach it; and that should say something. So whatever’s going through that wolf head of yours, my friend,” he nodded sadly at Hadwin, “I dunno. I just don’t know. This is the first time since meeting Briery that I’ve found myself in a predicament that I can’t solve. But, if you have any ideas I haven’t already thought of… hell, you know I’m ready and willing to risk my skin. I owe the Boss that much; she never stopped caring for the Links. Not to the bitter end.”
“Aw, how sweet of you to say, Tes.” Hadwin about purred from her big opinion of his, frankly, underutilized (and exaggerated) ability to maintain group cohesion. “Might be a little optimistic of you, but I’ll take your endorsement and run with it. The Links...well, I hate to get all sappy, so I’ll blame it on the ale, but the Links, they accepted me into their tight-knit group and...I was never part of a group before. Not even among my family. Chief and Bron rejected everything about me; Mam used me for money and a distraction. Ro...I forced my company on her cuz I didn’t wanna be alone. And when I got the boot from Clan Kavanagh, I never stayed in one place long enough to make a lasting connection. I kept it shallow on purpose. A transactional relationship, if you will.” Before sliding his hand away from Teselin, he gave her knuckles one more lucky tap, for good measure. “It ain’t normal what became of us, kid, cuz it wouldn’t’ve happened if I weren’t trapped in Stella D’Mare for so damn long. Wouldn’t’ve happened with the Links, either, but Brie got to me. Don’t know how, but she did, and I couldn’t stop hounding the shit outta her. As part of my MO, I never stuck around long, but she always welcomed me back like an old friend whenever I popped my head in on her business. And dammit all, she won my loyalty.” He gripped his empty tankard like a lifeline, his fingers digging into the grooves of the wood like handholds.
“Convinced as I am that I’m dead and in hell, if I don’t help Briery, if I don’t get her out...then I really will be in hell. Not to discredit you or nothin’, Tes; hell wouldn’t even be navigable or survivable without you at my side. But if I let her go...there ain’t no coming back from that monumental loss. So,” he blew away the tension and eased into a grin as he rose from his chair, “much obliged, kid. I’m on board with our To Do List. First; we get Brie. Then we’ll look for Siggy or some shit--and third, I’ll make so many amends for what I’ve done to the folks at Galeyn, they’ll think I found God cuz they won’t fucking believe in my good works, otherwise. Call me out for hyperbole, but it’s true; they know I’m capable of saving lives and being cooperative.”
Without anything left to discuss, they relocated upstairs, knocking on the door to announce their arrival before entering. Seeing Rycen perched on the sill, pipe in hand, enticed Hadwin to do the same. “Nah, you’re good, only if you don’t mind my joining you.” Pulling out his own smoking implement, he filled the bowl with potent green herbs and struck the tinder in his box, inducing the pipe to erupt into a smoldering stack of smoke. Positioning himself beside the illusionist, elbows on the sill and head jutted halfway out the window, he listened, ears alert, to the man’s recollections of the previous month.
“Essleau sounds like a real piece of work--but I stand by my claim, Rycen,” he blew a snake’s tongue of smoke out of his mouth. “They can be bribed, all right. Maybe not with money alone, but through other means. I’ve done my due diligence as a whore, after all. I know what people desire. Wealth, power, notoriety...someone to warm their beds at night. The fear of dying without ever having truly lived--it’s more common than you think. People are lonely, dripping with desperation to have their needs fulfilled. I can sniff out the weak ones, give ‘em what they want in exchange for what I want. The trick is never asking for more than what they’re willing to pay. So here is my proposal to you.”
He rolled away from the window and leaned against the adjacent wall, the pipe cradled in the hand farthest from his mouth. “Essleau values the stinkin’ rich. Correct me if I’m wrong, but their credo is something like, ‘They who have the purse, have the world.’ If I look like I’m shitting gold and I’m elegant to boot, why wouldn’t they take me seriously? And how do I get my hands on all that sweet, sweet coin? Befriend the right people--the vulnerable people--and get invited to the inner circle of high-rollers, of course. Let’s be honest; a place where wealth’s bleeding down the walls and you bet your sparkly green ass there’s gambling establishments--or private functions run by some very respectable families. You sit on the upper echelon like they do and money’s pretty much worthless. Just a symbol of status, at that point. You end up flaunting your treasures by fluffing up your feathers and peacocking the hell out of each other. It’s not about the win, but about how much you can throw at the table. It’s an intimidation tactic; upping the stakes forces everyone to play at your level, as a way to save face. It’s how they weed out the chumps from the serious players.”
“So,” he leaned out the window and released another puff of smoke, “let’s say I win that game. That’ll give me more than enough money to make a ‘generous’ donation to the prison. Wealthy folks love philanthropic pursuits. They won’t dispute my win if I’m willing to give it all away to the betterment of society--keeping the streets clean and criminal free. In my honor, I’ll ask that they pardon one person from the prison--of my choice. I won’t be naming names, though--I’m afraid you’ve already made Brie a high-priority prisoner through dogged persistence to buy her out the ‘honest’ way. Like you said, every attempt sends her price sky-high. They’ll see through my ruse if I specifically request her release. Instead, I’ll ask for a tour of their wonderful facilities, do a walk-about, and I’ll choose her by sight. An impartial selection, if you will. We leave the prison, I meet you, Lautim, and Tes at a rendezvous point, and we skip town. Done.”
“Of course,” he brushed the ashy detritus of his herb of choice off his shoulders, “this is a speculative approach, and a bleedingly optimistic one at that. Nothing’s really a done deal. I understand these rich folks don’t play fair and they’ll snuff out any fires that’ll disrupt their perfectly corrupt utopia. But I’m confident in my ability to wing it if things go south. Trust me, I’ve got contingencies. We’ll flesh out more details as we go. Come hell or high water, I’m in this, wholeheartedly. Up to you if you wanna bail, Rycen, but you let me know now, and we’ll be on our merry way to Essleau without you. So--are you in, or do you wanna hole away in this dump till you rot into the walls?”
Though skeptical, the illusionist, whether quelled by Hadwin’s bravado, motivated by the increase in their numbers and hence, their odds, or a mix of both, agreed to the plan as the faoladh had mapped it out. “First thing’s first, we need to accrue a small fortune. As I’ve said, no problem. En route to Essleau, we’re going to make a few stops. Some waypoints where we can pick up some spare coin. Between my luck with cards--and the odd grift or two--and your pickpocketing, by the time we roll into Essleau, we’ll be entering in style. To really ‘sell’ my identity, I need you and Tes to be my retainers. Rycen, you’ll have to disguise yourself, anyway; I’m sure you’re recognizable to some high-end officials, for pleading Brie’s case with your changepurse. Tes,” he cocked his head, “you’ll pass for a page, or a stableboy. Our steeds are magnificent beasts on their own merits; no one’s gonna contest their pedigree. To cinch the deal, some fine clothes, a carriage--and we’re set to impress. ...Best we keep Lautim hidden, I’m afraid. By nature of being, well, a giant, he’s a wee noticeable and, judging by your accounts of his persistence, not on best terms with the city of Essleau. Correspondence with our friend on the field stays clandestine. Now that we’re all on the same page,” he jerked his head at Rycen, “get yourself to the highest degree of functionality. Whatever you gotta do; smoke more, drink more--hell, I’ll beat you off if that’s what’ll take to get you to sleep. I need you at your peak. We leave at nightfall.”
The detour to Essleau, a city at the base of the mountains and a haven for the grossly affluent, took about a week of roundabout travel. Every night they stopped at a new town, and every night, they hustled for money. Hadwin worked the taverns, plying his triple-fold trade: gambling, whoring, and prize-fighting. He employed the dirtiest tactics to win the tables; cheating, psychological mind-games, or even casual threats of violence. On occasion, he would assault a random passerby on the street with projections of their greatest fears and recruit Rycen to swipe their wallets from their britches. If possible, Hadwin, not entirely proud of his cutthroat, mass-produced style of hustling, would remove Teselin from the equation, sending her on far tamer missions that wouldn’t compromise her sense of justice. Equipping her with their dishonest cash, he directed her to tailors’ shops, to jewelers’, cobblers, and horse supply shops, bidding her purchase fineries and high-quality fabrics, saddles for their steeds, and outlandishly elaborate winter accessories. They always operated at night; when things got too dicey, they made their getaway on lightning-quick steeds and thundered into the next town, unexpected. At their penultimate destination, a sizeable city on the western foothills, they purchased their final acquisition, an obsidian-black carriage trimmed with elegant curlicues of gold leaf. The price was a steal (Hadwin blackmailed the proprietor by promising to keep mum on some pretty juicy information attained through Fearsight). Approximately a week later, they arrived at Essleau, surface-level rich and riding on ill-gotten gains. Too low-tier to pass as fabulously wealthy, they were able to pass as comfortably middle-class merchants. Through their well-dressed appearances, they arouse no suspicion as they pulled into a modest but luxuriant chalet, which they had rented to stay for the foreseeable future. After settling into their new winter “home,” Hadwin enacted stage two of his plan: schmoozing.
Assuming the name Magnus O’Laoire, he posed as a dry goods merchant from Collcreagh and made his debut at an inn frequented by prison guards at their shifts’ end. He’d correctly anticipated the influx of desperate people requesting favors to fetch their loved ones from the fortress on the mountain and bypassed the lot to grab a drink at the bar. Sweeping the room with practiced indifference, he settled on a hunched guard by the far wall, hooded eyes lost in thought as he nursed his one tankard of ale. Sliding into the vacant seat next to him, Hadwin hailed the barkeep and ordered two tankards.
“Don’t bother,” the gloomy guard swept away the gesture with a dismissive hand. “I already know what you want.”
Hadwin raised an eyebrow, accepting the two tankards and double-fisted them. “Who says either of these ales is for you? I’m simply thirsty.”
“Is that why you moved seats to take the empty one next to me? Out of thirst? Last I checked, any seat in this house will get you your desired beverage.”
“Ah, well, no use hiding my intentions.” He chose the left-most ale and took a gulp. “I’m new in town. It was recommended by my guide to stop at this tavern for some local flavor. Care to know where I could test my luck in a friendly hand?”
“Well...now that’s a novel approach,” the guard chuckled sardonically. “Gamble your way into a fortune to pay off your criminal friend’s debt. Some friendly advice; it’s been tried before, and it won’t work. You can’t win a game that’s already rigged. If you don’t have the coin on-hand, then you’re out of luck. They’re not going to let any bloke stumble into a windfall of winnings by some fluke combination of cards and stand aside as a prisoner’s bought free from dirty money. It sets a bad example.”
“But it has been done before, you say?”
The guard grumbled an affirmative into his tankard.
“Well then--I love it when the odds are terribly weighed against me. Imagine the rush that comes from winning a stacked deck, hmm?”
“You don’t understand--they scout for idiots like you. Well-dressed, well-off but not obscenely so, looking to line their pockets with some of that obscene amount of money and for what reason? Sure, I can buy it’s for self-serving purposes, but in Essleau, if you’re not already rolling in fortune, and you’re so desperate to acquire that fortune that you’re hassling prison guards who just want a fucking drink in peace, the money’s for bail, no doubt in my mind.”
“You know, in literally any other situation, you’d be dead wrong, but I’ll give you credit. You’re right in this case, my good man.” He saluted the guard with his drink. “So who are these ‘scouts,’ and how can I get their attention?”
“Didn’t you just hear a thing I’ve said!? They scout for idiots who can afford the buy-in for the table, squeeze all the money out of you when you lose--or miraculously, if you win the pot--and for good measure, arrest you for the audacity of challenging their airtight system. They do it to break your spirit. To set an example. No commoner has ever bailed out a prisoner, and they never will.” Somehow, he managed to growl and whisper his words at the same time. “So take my advice; I’m doing you a favor. Walk away, count your losses, and don’t challenge the Lords of Essleau.”
“Ah. The eponymous ‘they.’ So they are the sporting types, and their game is hustling desperate people--but that comes at no surprise.” He leaned an elbow on the counter and turned to the hulking guard. “Why tell me any of this at all? Why smear your employers? They’re why you have this cushy job in the first place.”
“I’ve done this one too many times,” he admitted, aiming his self-loathing stare at the dark shadow on the wall. “Been the one to bring those enterprising sorts, people like you who were so confident that by buying their way into a gentleman’s game, they found their ticket to riches galore, to their shackles. I’ve arrested countless twits. Their names and faces run together. They’ve blurred into numbers, and those numbers range in the dozens. The Lords prey on such weakness. It’s how they generate their wealth. Let this be my charity tonight. My warning. Do. Not. Engage. You’ll be worse for it in the end.”
Hadwin rested his hand over his cheek and leaned in with patented interest. “Noted. So, my friend, you haven’t yet answered my question; how do I buy in with the Lords of Essleau?”
A near murderous look appeared in the guard’s face, his patience rapidly deteriorating. “If that’s the game you want to play, I’ll arrest you now. Save you all the guesswork!”
“You could--I’m fully willing to take that plunge. But--hear me out.” He straightened in his seat, lowering both arms to the counter. “Get me in the same room as them. Win or lose, I just want to look them in the eyes...and talk.”
“And what the hell is in it for me?”
“Entertainment, for starters. Or, failing that, the satisfaction of saying ‘I told you so’ as you arrest me. Either way, win-win for you. Aren’t you curious that maybe--just maybe--things will unwind differently--and the underdog might come out on top, for a change? Wouldn't you like to be in the audience for that momentous occasion?”
And so it was arranged--albeit reluctantly. The guard passed along Hadwin’s name--his alias, rather--to the proper channels and the game was set. With a buy-in costing the majority of his and Rycen’s appropriated funds, Hadwin secured his spot at the table. Three nights later, he was invited to the lavish estate of Lord Bartholomew Fortier and his neighbors, all dressed in pompous attitudes and entitlement. They welcomed Hadwin--attired in his comparably unremarkable finest. His mere introduction as “merchant” turned noses. Imagine learning of his far seedier occupation and reputation! Arrayed in silk, gold thread, live music, and servants carrying silver trays of hors d’oeuvres, the venue was affixed for its five noble players--and one commoner.
Unsurprisingly, the game was rigged from the onset. Just by a cursory glance, Hadwin could tell the gold-spun deck did not sport its traditional number of fifty-two cards. The pile looked quite bare. They were, literally, hiding aces up their sleeves. One noble would always hold the winning hand, and no manner of bluffing would convince them that their quaint guest had the superior hand. But his intent wasn’t to win. No; it was to search their faces, their eyes, and to hone in on the most influenceable pair he could find. He found one. Oh yes. You’ll do perfectly. You’ll cave in just fine…
