#rstd:alphonse | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

the-real-rg · 7 years ago

Text

It was twelve past midnight when the Devil walked in.

These trips to the hospital were unavoidable. Devi’s profession would simply not allow it; the bruisers of Querevage’s underground Arena were not prone to leaving matches uninjured, and Devi had stopped trying to resist the call of the ring a long time ago.

Ahava’s clinic was untidy the way a vulture was; untamed and unnatural, yet not unkempt. Sitting on the edge of the city centre, it was the only thing someone like Devi could truly call a hospital for four square miles. Inside, clay pots covered every space not occupied by a box, or a bottle, or a book. Inscriptions ran along their sides, dates and ingredients and names. Forgotten bundles of herbs and flowers dangled from the ceiling in bunches. The medic would claim they were drying. At present, the normally buzzing waiting room gaped with the emptiness brought on by the late hour as moonlight filtered through decrepit shutters and dirty glass. The rest of the city scum would crawl in an hour or two later; Devi’s match had started earlier tonight. A small blessing.

The night sat strange in Devi - something was different. Perhaps it was in the people. A full moon always brought out the worst of Querevage. Brutes to begin with, an excuse for mischief was never passed up, and the beck and call of a supernatural mistress was beyond tempting, but tonight’s twilight was soft as it settled into the city; a god all its own in the way it claimed the streets. It curled and whispered against the edge of the fiendish towers, her winds a gentle touch, carrying with them songs of a thousand desperate men. Maybe that was it. In Querevage - in the Capital - tenderness was a rare commodity that unsettled the bones. And not all had havens to retreat to, not like Devi had Ahava’s.

It wasn’t like she deserved the doctor’s help to begin with. Especially not when she insisted on showing up at this hour. Nerves crawled up Devi’s spine as floorboards creaked under her pacing boots, steel toes clicking along the wood in time to the pulsing rabble of an unsleeping city. Waiting for Ahava to appear was never an easy task. She had wounds that needed tending to and, with each rattling inhale, Devi got more and more tempted to crawl out a window. What it would be charge into the night on her own - bloodied face and all. Bliss? Maybe. Anxiety wriggled in her stomach. Maybe Ahava was sleeping? She needed her rest too. No, Devi reassured herself, Ahava was never far from death, and Devi - bleeding, gasping, and limping - stunk of it.

It only took a few more moments for the good doctor to descend from the staircase, much to Devi’s relief. Her curly hair was pulled back in a bun so sloppy it could have been mistaken for a nest. She must not have taken it out before bed; the rumpled medic’s garb she wore supported that idea. It made Devi feel worse about waking Ahava up so late.

The doctor looked her up and down, clearly counting injuries, measuring the damage; assessing which wounds needed to be tended to first and which were life threatening. She wouldn’t accurately know until Devi stripped out of her armour, but first impressions were important, and Devi wasn’t in a position to complain. She could do that later. As if sensing her plan to be a nuisance, Ahava fixed her with an exasperated gaze, and sighed. Devi just laughed, some broken sounding rattle, before choking out, “You should have seen the other guy.”

Ahava’s face flashed with concern, but she said nothing; it was the same bitter comment Devi made every time she was handed a look like that - the routine they’d built insisted upon it and Devi, a creature of habit, was in no mood to change it any time soon. And the doctor, bless her, had accepted that part of the gladiator long ago, just as she had accepted their silent agreement: she was not to criticise the bruiser for reappearing each night. In these moonlit hours, her only job was to treat Devi’s wounds, not prevent them. Friend or not, Ahava had to respect that.

It didn’t stop Ahava’s gold eyes - dark and faded and full of rotting magic - from turning cold when they found nastier wounds. Devi took no offense, it was so very like Ahava to become stern when faced with an uncooperative patient - whether they were ignoring prescription or common sense, and Devi was a sure convict for the latter. But what was Devi to do? She needed the money from the Arena as much as she needed the adrenaline. A known enemy of the state didn’t have choices, especially one so addicted to the high of the fight. Especially one whose most common moniker was ‘Devil’. At least Ahava had managed to keep some dignity about her despite being an ex-magician.

“Devi,” Ahava greeted, tone careful. “Please wait for me in the other room while I get ready.” The speech was so mechanical it almost made Devi wince.

“What, am I bleeding all over your floor?” The words were joking, if weak. Ahava, it seemed, needed some brightness right now.

“Yes, actually,” The doctor shot back, sarcastic to a fault, an overdramatic sneer scrunching her nose, “It’s rather unsightly. If you could do it in the other room I’d really appreciate it. Less mess to clean up before I dispose of the body, y’know how it is.”

Devi gave an amused huff, before grunting in acknowledgment. Relief made heavy limbs light, but it took a brief struggle to get moving again. She gave Ahava a quick peck on the cheek as she walked by, an affectionate but outdated form of greeting, one that made the doctor grumble unhappily. But Devi knew deep down Ahava appreciated the sentiment.

As she stepped towards the doorway to the side room, her companion remained outside, materials shifting as Ahava pawed her way through the mess, seeking out the package made specially for Devi’s visits. If the bruiser walked straight into the doorframe they wouldn't mention it till next morning, when teasing was welcome and more than expected. Right now, the clock was ticking too fast for anything more than light banter. Devi’s injuries needed stitches, and fast.

A blood-coated cough shook Devi something terrible, drawing Ahava from her search, fear flickering over her features for a fraction of a second. Anyone could tell that the wet noise was not a good sign. Swaying on her feet now, Devi was barely able to look up when Ahava spoke, “I’ll be with you in a minute, lie down and stay there.” Despite the harsh tone, they were comforting words. Devi couldn’t blame her for the mistake; Ahava was perpetually new to the whole friend thing.

She settled into her cot without complaint, and allowed herself to nestle into the fresh sheets, and sighed for a moment, taking in the nook that seemed to get smaller with every visit. The side room was not Ahava’s traditional examination area, much more akin to a storage closet with a bed in it. But it was Devi’s room. For Devi’s examinations. And the gods knew she didn’t have enough things to call hers anymore.

A soft patter of footsteps hailed the medic’s approach. Their work began.

The cot was small, the going was slow, and the time was late, so tan hands pressed stitches into Devi’s dark skin and a rhythm was created in time to the soft tune Devi hummed. It was quiet, but at least it kept her mind off the push and pull of the needle and the rattle in her ribs. Ahava, she knew, appreciated the melody too; kept the tremor out of her hands. The song was a soothing thing; an old lullaby that managed to hold its nostalgic charm despite the ragged, off key notes that clawed their way out of Devi’s throat. She’d forgotten its name ages ago, but she knew it was old; it had been taught to her before Amator had been assassinated, and it was a reminder of better times - of wealth and glory and friends. The song had become just another private memory.

The sky faded like an old dye outside the window, light beginning to settle into the room, glinting off the needle. It made her spine itch. In the morning there would be crowds, and the sultry masses would give her no privacy - each desperate for an easy target. She had founded this nation alongside Barachiel and Amator before the latter had shamelessly been murdered, and she had been kicked to the gutter like trash. The fighter’s fall from grace had been a public spectacle that none were keen to let her forget. Despite the many years that aged its memory, the incident had even given life to her nickname in the Arena; The Devil. Half of its permanence in the public mind was Desdemona’s doing. After all, what better way to remind the people of Querevage that she had slaughtered its founder than parading around his partner like a caged tiger. To think she was all that remained of Amator’s legacy… Appalling.

Devi left with the moon, skulking off to the withering shack she still refused to call home. A painful endeavour with the state she was in - Ahava could only do so much for her aching bones without the use of illicit magic - but both knew there was nothing more to be done. Devi would tear the stars from the skies before she gave up this fix. An addict she was, but the call of the Arena was too great to be denied, no matter what the doctor suggested.

Devi knew that if she chose to, Ahava could detach herself from the situation entirely, reign in her emotions and just mend the wounds she was presented with - if she chose to mend them at all. Ahava was a doctor. Professionalism was the first rule of the trade; too many died to get attached, so their agreement was a precarious one - based initially on pity, and only later a genuine fondness that had grown between the two dark-skinned women. But fondness didn’t disguise the grief stooping in the doctor’s gaze as the door shuttered behind Devi as she escaped into the veins of the city, a small packet of hormone pills clutched in one hand. Streets and avenue and cobblestones spreading out before her in the night, branching out from the beast that was the ancient Montgomery Street.

Devi huffed, watching the fogging breath drift off in the breeze. Montgomery Street, sunless, was cold but not necessarily lifeless. Bar chatter seeped out of the cracks in the walls of the Blind Sparrow, just across the street. Its lit windows shone like cat’s eyes, and she felt vaguely like she was being watched. For a moment, she met its gaze, heard her pulse in her ears.

She had survived the Arena, her heartbeat a testimony to that. She had survived. She was alive. What a beautiful, insignificant miracle. It took her breath away. Alive, what a concept.

The bruiser moved on, shaking off the sudden reverence with a shudder. Devi padded down the cragged street, looking for her exit. The clinic wasn’t her last stop tonight, and she couldn’t keep Alphonse waiting much longer. With luck, she could take the alleys and get there before the magician broke another pair of glasses.

Alleys were the only real way to travel in Querevage, even before Desdemona’s takeover.

Taking her usual route, Devi found herself cramming her way through a particularly narrow street. Most would be unnerved in the claustrophobic setting, but for better or for worse, the fighter had become particularly acquainted with the nooks and crannies of the Capital. Cool walls draped themselves along the passageway, bricks wet with the night. Cobble stones with runes scratched into them ran against her vision as she moved, only half of which had been painted over by the Night Guard - a new staple in all Quereven cities. Moonlight spilled over her back as she scurried down the alleyways. She could taste the magic in the air, illegal and beautiful in how it was still alive despite Desdemona’s hard working hands. It made her laugh and her cheeks flush, better times dancing in her head. Some part of her could tell she was more than a little delirious with either shock or blood loss. Who knew. Who cared.

The bruiser’s dark skin all but melted into walls of the backstreet, a disguise built into her form. She’d appreciated it more and more over the years, this inlaid ability to sink into the dark backdrop of the city, her only spotlight the moon. Haloed and aglow in the dawn, she forged onward. There was a destination in mind, a definite course set for her senseless wandering, but not the place she’d led Ahava to believe. Ahava was a friend, yes, but the doctor was too lawful to be trusted with the secrets of the Hive and the magicians that lived within it. Alphonse had only told Devi because he trusted her. She wouldn’t betray him to a woman he didn’t know, no matter how much Ahava meant to her.

If her wounds were left untreated, she'd be unable to move the next morning, and she'd have to be dragged back to her shack before she unnecessarily spent time there, but with the help of Alphonse and his magic she’d be fully functioning in an hour. And with his help, the hut could stay as distant from her life as possible; exclusively for sleeping and storage and sometimes not even that. Devi could always trust that Alphonse would help, he was a blessing too good for this earth and she was lucky to have met him before the Guard forced him and all other practicing magicians into hiding. The Hive had saved Quereven magic from extinction and Alphonse from the jaws of death. It was tucked between the fabric of here and now, a nontruth that wasn’t actually real according to any natural laws, and had entrances that didn’t exist unless you already knew they were real.

In short, the Hive was a magical, semi-sentient collection of spaces called Fantasies, things aptly named for their unique nature of being entirely conjured realities. Taking a variety of shape and form, a Fantasy could be as small as a single bedroom or as large as a city, all the while using no physical space, merely taking advantage of the illusion of it to explain its own existence. A fourth dimension, if you will. Realities within reality. They took a complicated network of spells to make and a great understanding of magic, not to mention an obscene amount of luck and skill. Alphonse had all of the above, and had built many of the Fantasies that stemmed off the main tunnel of the Hive. Many were now empty.

Magic had disappeared, but the persecution of it had not.

Ahava had chosen to give up magic in exchange for a life above ground, where you could interact with real, actual objects, eat real, actual food, and listen to the sound of real, actual rain. The doctor hated falsities, and thus she refused to live one. Devi would have to side with Ahava at the end of the day. She loved Alphonse, but even his familiar Fantasy was unsettling in a primal way. The food tasted foreign, never quite right. Telltale signs for the mimicry it was. And the sounds felt flat. It sat heavy in the bones and watched like a cat. Living in a Fantasy was isolating. It was just you, and the world, and the knowledge that the only pulse on this plane was yours. Most couldn’t live with that.

Devi, peering into the Portmans Avenue entrance, knew she certainly couldn’t. She stepped into the tunnel, and felt it swallow around her. The Hive was a winding thing, a living being that breathed and pulseed, though she couldn't say if it physically pulsed or magically pulsed, even though she had one hand on its wall, trailing down the easy dips and peaks that rippled down the tunnel. She wasn’t sensitive enough to magic to tell the difference. Al’s Fantasy - Trinkets - was the third opening to the right.

The gateway opened to a countryside manor settled comfortably atop a glassy lake. The water sprawled out in front of her, painting a mirror image of the canopy that towered above her. Only floating knots of islands disturbed an otherwise flawless reflection. Trinkets’ red brick emerged from the charcoal trees like a dragon, seeming to breathe with chimney smoke and stare with shuttered eyes. It was the only warm colour in this place, homey like a mother’s wrath amongst the cool tones of the sunken forest. Trinkets itself rested on the very cusp of the water, serene in its untouchability.

Fake, all of it, but God, how beautiful.

Parts of the house flickered in and out of vision like a dying flame, shrouded in the mist rising from the water. Though, admittedly, the opaque liquid wasn’t water at all. It held no weight where it clung to her boots, and it wasn’t cold. It was warm. Eerily and surreally so. She always hated walking over to the door, the pooling sky cut her feet off by the ankles, and she'd lose them wherever she stepped. Below the water, nothing existed. Nothing had been programmed to exist below the water, just as nothing had been programmed to exist beyond the thick layer of fog encircling the manor.

Alphonse, here, was God. And God had not wanted to lie to himself with fake creatures. Nothing here breathed but her, and Al, and his husband. And thus this place belonged to the three of them. The husband in question, Kimon, could be seen in the greenhouse bulging off the side of Trinkets like a blister. She waved to him, and in turn Devi saw him nod in greeting at her, before his silhouette dipped back inside the house. It was good to remind herself that isolation did not mean alone.

She wondered, briefly, if Kimon and Alphonse ever got used to the feeling. The Devil supposed they must have, over the years. With nothing but each other for company, conversation must be hard to come by. Or, she mused, perhaps not. Each quirky and sporadic in their own right, Kimon and Alphonse got on like a house on fire. Their bond was something Devi could only hope for. Kimon could leave at any time, abandoning Alphonse to the loneliness of solitary existence, something that would undoubtedly kill the social man. And yet he stayed, warm and tucked away here with the love of his life. Universes would bend under their determination, and this sanctuary proved just that. Trinkets was private, and Trinkets was Alphonse’s, and Trinkets was Kimon’s.

Devi was just a guest. While Alphonse was like Devi, a criminal by law, Kimon was a beast of a different kind. As a coliseum mage, Kimon was charged with exploration of the Quereven badlands, and combating the monsters that inhabited them. It was a position of power, one that allowed Kimon the ability to practice magic despite the laws against it. Amator had been a coliseum mage before they had founded Querevage properly, back when it had just been a bunch of mercenaries squatting in tents. Those had been some of the most blissful days of Devi’s life, when she had him and Barachiel by her side she’d felt like she could take on the world. She had never seen the same appeal in the crazy world of politics that had followed just a few years after. Give her a pulse, a sword, and a monster any day. However, she was glad that part of Quereven culture had carried on.

Some things were so signature to the nation that not even Desdemona could erase them. The status that came with being a coliseum member was one of them. That, and the need for a coliseum mage to ensure the survival of the troop meant that Kimon had the most idealized life one could have in Querevage, both before and after Amamtor died. He was a lucky man. And she believed Amator would have liked Kimon, which was what was most important to her, what with Kimon being the current holder of Amator’s first title. The two men were kindred souls, both having a fearsome appreciation for magic and for their partners. At least she could trust Alphonse not to try and murder anyone, much less his husband. Who she was now face to face with.

Kimon, holding the door open for her, looked deathly tired. Bags were stamped under electric blue eyes, unusually dull against his tan skin and dark lashes. Several scratches littered his face, with two nasty ones clipping along his cheekbone. He was typically an attractive man but his slouch and the grime coating him took away from that. Kimon was careful about his appearance, to see him in such disarray was especially concerning. Hopefully nothing had happened to Alphonse.

“Rough day?” She asked, stepping into the house. The Coliseum was a one-way ticket to fame and success, but it rarely left one feeling anything but battered and exhausted. She wouldn’t be surprised if that was the cause of his disorder. Devi, still aching from her match, could sympathize.

“Yeah,” He said, bluntly, closing the door behind her, “And we got a letter. Didn’t help.”

Devi wiggled her toes as she shook water from her pants, it was good form to make sure all of them were still there after a trudge through the water. “Pardon my asking, but who from?”

A dismissive grunt. “Gemini. It’s about her promotional ceremony.”

Officially the young woman had been serving as general for over a month, the celebration was merely a formality, but it was still the most highly anticipated event of the season. Public events celebrating military grandeur were an excellent way to reassure the masses, after all, so the monarchs put extra time into ensuring their success.

“What’s the matter with that?” Devi asked.

“I’ve been formally invited. Alphonse on the other hand… has been… asked not to attend. Formally.”

“Oh.” Devi knew things had been tense between Al and his eldest child but she hadn’t thought it was that bad.

“Yeah,” Kimon nudged at the floor with his shoe. “He’s rather torn up about it. She said it was because she didn’t want him getting caught. Which is admittedly a risk, and a reasonable one at that, so I can-“

The bruiser almost laughed. “Al? Get caught? Magic smothering is a temporary enchantment, yes, but heavens he’s better than that. You and I both know that she’s just embarrassed to admit her father is a witch.”

“Watch it,” Kimon snapped. “You all but raised her. I was hoping you’d be able to translate for her, not make her look worse. She doesn’t mean to hurt him. Alphonse needs to remember that.”

Devi huffed. Gemini had changed when she’d gotten her first taste of life outside of the Hive. She’d been a sweet young girl but now she reminded Devi scarily of Barachiel. Too much so to be a coincidence. It wouldn’t surprise the Devil if he’d actually started mentoring her.

“Devi,” Kimon pleaded, putting a gentle hand on her shoulder, “Promise me you’ll talk to him. It’s… awkward when I do it.”

She met his eye, and hissed. “I will not lie to him.”

“Then don’t. The only person who knows her better than you is Alphonse. You know she doesn’t mean it like that.”

She tensed, agitated.

“Please. He can’t lose any more family.”

A beat of hesitation. “I’m getting my damn stitches fixed first.”

Kimon beamed. “Knew I could count on you.”

“Where is he, anyway?” They could both tell she was making small talk as she wandered over to the living room door, “I usually can’t get him off me long enough to have a proper conversation with you.”

“Hiding,” Kimon answered, bounding after the woman’s longer strides, “Think he wants to surprise you.”

“Oh? Alphonse nearly scared me half to death the last time he ‘surprised’ me.” She stopped just outside the door frame, turning to look at Kimon, a smile playing at her lips.

“You were only paralyzed for a week, Devi.”

She scoffed, playful. “Does he still tell the story?”

“To anyone who’ll listen.” The corners of Kimon’s blue eyes crinkled happily as his mouth tilted, fondness glowing in them.

“So every night over dinner, then, when you two sit down to eat?”

Kimon laughed pleasantly, “You know him too well.”

“Just promise me this surprise doesn’t involve alpacas. I’m still picking fur out of my teeth from my last encounter with them.”

The mage shuddered, the memory fresh in both of them. “No alpacas.”

“Great.” Devi stepped through the doorway. And screamed.

Al, always one for dramatic entrances, had dropped down from the air like a bat, and upside down shrieked; "If it isn't the great and powerful Devi!" His smile spread bright, "You're home!" And she was.

wip page | wip tag | get added to the tag list

#spilled ink #writing #wip snippet #writeblr #writer #rstd #rstd:snip #rstd:alphonse #rstd:devi #rstd:kimon

51 notes · View notes