#like sure balam couldve asked haider to do the green magic but he just needs some peace and quiet

[atypicalacademic]

Starfire

Starfire is a reworking of Portia’s route.

Previous Chapter

Chapter 7: Charithram

Words: 4.2k

Warnings: Spicy making out? Mentions of blood, memory loss, mentions of cannibalism, Volta being generally courtier-creepy-

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history

*

Tucking his legs closer around him, Balam leaned against the wall, gathering the egg-shell white fabric of his shawl off the floor. There was a sharpened edge of prickly tension that made his stomach twist uncomfortably at the thought of how much his presence could be- shawls, jewelry and him- of how easily he could upset one of the pots and pans stacked so neatly up the short shelves, swept beneath the kitchen counter, the small flame at the stove, the soup bubbling over it.

But instead of the harrowing urge that Balam felt to curl quietly into himself the moment he stepped into someone else’s house, he found that he had enough in him to focus on other things. Like draining the steaming bowl of matzo he had propped on his lap, like the way Portia’s eyes wandered to his as she stood beside the stove, bright and soft in a way that felt like her lips on his cheek and her warmth in his arms when they’d woken up tangled in each other on the library floor.

Like Mazelinka’s voice, gruff and strangely soothing, murmuring measures and recipes to herself between chiding Portia, in switching from one language to another, for staying away too long.

This old, stout, sea-hardened pirate had been one of the elders who had raised her, and Portia had sworn by everything she held dear that her cooking could easily undo all of the Procurator’s reservations.

Balam breathed in the delectable scent that permeated the tiny kitchen, spilling out past wide window into the South-End street beyond. He was beginning to see why, and how.

Offering a treat to Aaromal who was sunning lazily by the windowsill, Mazelinka cleared her throat, and stepped into another story.

“They called it the storm of the century.” She muttered, her eyes wistful as she crumbled sparkling bits of hexamite between her fingers. “Long as I’ve been on the seas, I’d never seen anything like it before or since- and believe me, Balam, I’d thought I’d seen everything. The skies split open like they were torn in half. It’s a blessing we didn’t go over ourselves, ‘cause when we weighed anchor at Nevivon, caught between a big old school of seals and washed up in the white sand and wreckage- what do I find?”

Portia laid her own bowl down- “Two pint-sized troublemakers!”

Rolling her eyes fondly, Mazelinka shook her head. “Should’ve seen the way those seals were clinging on to them. Took a fair bit of convincing to have ‘em let go. Ilya was about as tall and wide as a strand of seaweed, and this one?” She laughed, a warm sound deep from her belly. “Rambunctious little redhead that she always was- running around the beach as soon as she could stand.”

The ache the story had left in him- flashes of thunderstorms and the violent sway of the ship, the terror of two young children caught in its midst, little Ilya wrapping one tired arm around his sister and the other clinging desperately to the slippery coat of a seal- eased slightly as he conjured the image that Mazelinka had offered instead.

This, he realized, was how Portia coped too. Taking the bare bones of loss and lacing its roughest edges with silver linings- Lilinka loved us, we never knew a lack, my Ilya can never hide from the people he loves-

Rambunctious little redhead that she always was.

He wondered if he were rambunctious too. It was possible. So was it possible that he had been an angry child, stomping and screaming and kicking up a fuss- a simmering rage held back just barely beneath his skin. So was it possible, too, that he had been the kind of child who would bury himself into a wall, just so, afraid to knock things off their places, afraid to exist in a way that invited anyone else’s displeasure.

Mazelinka, however, did not prod. “And now look at her,” She bumped her shoulder against Portia’s. “No time for old friends anymore- eh, Pasha?” It was neither a threat, nor a demand, and it puzzled Balam in a way he couldn’t put his finger on. Portia only giggled, swatting playfully at Mazelinka’s shawl. “Fuck right off with that, Maza- you know I’ve been busy.”

“Oh, I know.” Raising a steel-grey brow, Mazelinka gave Balam a meaningful look. “Just make sure-“ She switched to Nevivic, and Portia gasped, smacking a clump of garlic over the counter. “Maza!”

Mazelinka barked out another laugh.  “Alright, alright, let a pirate have her fun, why don’t you? Bet I can trust you to keep her from taking on the whole Masquerade on her shoulders, can’t I, Balam?”

Balam got to his feet, placing the empty bowl on the kitchen counter as he leaned gingerly against it. “Oh, I’ll do the keeping all right.”

“Long as I get to drag you away too, honey.” Portia teased. “You need it more than I do.”

The hexamite spiraled into purplish smoke, permeating the kitchen with its familiar medicinal scent. The clear brew turned golden with the rich juice of bloomberry- Balam could feel its gentle tartness on his own tongue. It threw him back to the earliest days in his memory- pain and its occasional counterpart- cedarwood incense and Asra’s patchworked quilts wrapped around him, Haider’s gentle voice and gentle hands, the vague relief of his poultices in hand- painted bottles and bowls.

“Where did you learn green magic, Mazelinka?”

Portia stiffened in his arms. “What d’you mean?”

Balam bit his lip. Was that the wrong thing to say?

“At sea.” Mazelinka replied, unperturbed. “Had plenty of magicians onboard over the years- learnt their tricks and recipes- it’s a fine art, and useful- I could hold my own in a fight, but to patch up an injury? Calm a fever? Soothe some nerves? What kind of Captain would I be if I couldn’t help ‘em there?”

Wriggling out of Balam’s hold, Portia peered into the stove, watching the smooth, shiny bubbles as though seeing them for the first time. “All of this is magic?” She gestured to the dried herbs hanging from the ceilings, the neat jars piled upon the wooden shelves. “You never told me.”

“Didn’t ask, did you?” Mazelinka shrugged. “Ilya was always-“

“I know what he thinks.” Portia crossed her arms over her chest, drawing herself up with a frown. “ But I’m not Ilya. I’m not.” There it was again- a strain in her voice that spoke of some old, quiet, unspoken bitterness. Balam had recognized the mirror of it in himself- the remark he bit back at the slightest hint of a provocation- I’m not you, Asra. I’m not.

Mazelinka’s steely eyes sharpened to comprehension. “Never said you were.” She said, simply. “If you really want to learn, I can teach you. ‘S no big deal.”

Portia deflated, instantly, the tension rolling off her countenance as quickly as it had gathered. “You will?”

Mazelinka chuckled. “Sure. Green magic’s quiet, but it’s got its strengths. And you’ll have this one-“ She winked at Balam. “For the flashy stuff.”

“I’d love to.” He added, quickly. “Just say the word.”

Seemingly mollified, Portia nestled back into Balam’s arms, leaning them both against the edge of the counter. “Maza and Lilinka’d been making us this soup for years. She’s always had all kinds of tricks up her sleeves. Should’ve known some of it was magic.”

Mazelinka uncorked a tiny vial of ruby-red liquid, and tipping it over the pot. “Lilinka’s always been the better cook of us. Though she’d never had any head for magic.” She sighed. “It’s her Ilya gets it from, after all.”

“And he’s got his own magic now, doesn’t he?” Portia rolled her eyes. “The curse, or whatever the fuck is going on.”

“Bargain seal.” Balam corrected, holding Portia closer. “Technically, it isn’t his magic- he’s more of a conductor for a- something else.”

“Ghosts, bargains, what’s next?”  Mazelinka got on tiptoe to fish out a fine wooden bowl from the topmost rack of her shelf. “What’d that boy go get himself into?”

Squeezing Balam back, Portia pressed a kiss to his cheek. “That’s what we’re about to find out, aren’t we?”

“I’ve got no doubt.” Between transferring the brew from the pot to a large wooden bowl, Mazelinka paused. “They’re bad news, Pasha, all of those courtiers. But I’m sure you know this already. Just-“ She set the bowl down, mopping her face with her shawl. “I hear the Procurator’s a smaller roach than the rest, but be careful. Both of you.”

“There.” She added a sprig of seasoning to the bowl, and closed its mouth with a clean cloth. “I’ll pop out to the market while this sets.” She broke into a grin, flashing a silver canine glinting in the bright daylight as she strode past the kitchen to the door. “Don’t try anything funny in my kitchen.”

Portia stuck her tongue out at her, and laughed at the look on Balam’s face as the door fell shut. “Oh, now I wanna try something funny.” She pouted. “I’d raid her whiskey stash if we weren’t still on the job. But that’s for another day.” Perching on the counter, she wound her arms around Balam’s neck to kiss him, pulling him up beside her on the counter. “Care to tell me all about what’s in that soup?”

*

The weather had shifted by the time their carriage came to a halt at the front steps to Procurator’s estate.

A lurking storm cast imposing shadows over the mansion cast in marble and stained, foggy glass, towering over the wild, overgrown estate lawns.

Despite Nadia having sent word of their arrival to the Procurator- (on the pretext of lunch, it seemed- an invitation she could never turn down)-  the gates had merely been unlocked, rather than been thrown open in anticipation. Neither were there footmen at the entrance- nor any kind of staff.

Straightening his shawl and adjusting his bangles, Balam exchanged a glance with Portia. “Uh- is this a snub, or-“

She shook her head. “The Procurator wouldn’t. Hestion said she’s always hanging off of the Countess’ arm. And she’s always been a bit-“ She made a face. “You’ll see.”

Up close, the few curtain-less windows were coated and misted with dust.  A faint, persistent ache tugged at Balam’s magic- turning the grass beneath his sandals to gravel- gravel? It crawled down his spine- raising goosebumps at the back of his neck- something that was not his own-

Abruptly, the door before them creaked open a sliver.

“Hello!” The squeak of shoes on marble, and a tiny form shot like a dart down the front steps.

“Procurator, we’re-“ Portia cleared her throat, about to drop into a bow, when the she caught them both by the elbow instead.

The Procurator’s bonneted head came barely up to Portia’s chest, the rest of her drowning in black robes that dripped down her twig-thin arms and wrists, her small ankles cased in frilled socks. Vagrant tufts of mousy brown hair came undone from loose ends of her bonnet, her pale, watery eyes rendered even larger by the quivering smile that stretched her emaciated cheeks.

“Friends of the Countess? Yes? Yes?” Her voice was lilting and girlish, urgent- an undertone of sweetness contorted into the edges of hysteria. “I know you from the kitchen! Oh, indeed! The kitchen!” She sniffed the edge of Portia’s sleeve. “I can smell it on you! Tell me, did the Countess not come along?”

Portia had asked him to enchant the bowl of soup to mask its heavenly scent. Suddenly, Balam understood why.

“I’m afraid not, my lady.” Balam tried. “Her Excellency sent us in-“

“Is she well?” The Procurator’s eyes widened impossibly, brittle fingers flying to her mouth as she chewed on her nails. “Is something the matter with the Countess? Volta so very much adores her! Her and her cakes- oh such delicious cakes that she gives me- So very much!”

Portia gently closed a hand around Volta’s. “She’s alright, Procurator.” She said patiently. “She’s just um- busy- fixing the menu for the masquerade.”

“The menu!” Volta dropped her hand, her tears drying as soon as they came. “You must tell me all about it! Yes, yes, come in, come in, my friends, oh, Volta must prepare- must prepare for second lunch- So very hungry, so very hungry-“

Balam felt his unease heighten. “Did we keep you waiting, my lady?”

“No, no, no time to lose, no time to lose!” She ushered them in, yanking Portia by her sash and Balam by his shawl, not bothering to shut the door behind them before they stepped into a dark, musty hallway. There was no light here save for the shine in Volta’s watery eyes. “I must prepare for second lunch! My friends will wait for Volta, will they not?”

Struck silent, Balam only nodded.

“Oh, feel free to look around! Help yourself! Volta has few things, so very few- but she loves them all, and her friends can love them too-” She chirped, her fingernails still hooked to her mouth. They chipped and bled under her small, hard teeth. Licking a droplet of blood from the corner of her mouth, Volta smiled wide. “You see-“ Her stage whisper carried like a hiss in cave. “ Volta loves having friends, Volta needs- oh my mouth waters for it-“ She drew a quivering breath. “Lunch! Lunch! I must prepare.”

She swung back into a shadowed corner, her shoes thudding against the rug until they faded into silence.

Portia sneezed, and swatted a cobweb away from her face. “Um, Balam?” She wrapped her free arm around his waist. “A- few?”

It was then that Balam noticed them at all- the things.

He was nobody to call to question what one did with their own living quarters. His shop, after all, was a loving, lively mess of knickknacks and books and teacups and trinkets strewn over the colorful rugs and the painted windows; prone to distraction and forgetfulness, both he and Asra tended to lose track of tidying up- but this- this was different.

Books stacked up to the ceiling so thick that they could barely see the walls- busts and statuettes identical to the ones in her garden, cobwebbed enough that he couldn’t make out their faces or likenesses.

Portraits lined the slivers of the papered walls visible through between one pile and the next- more than one rug, he was certain, formed the muffled mass beneath his feet. Several clocks, all broken, garlanded with dusty pocket watches, winked eerily at them from the end of the hall. Upon all of it, and floating in motes and clusters in the air- were the layers, and layers, and layers of dust.

Aaromal slithered down Balam’s shoulder to wind across his arm. The Procurator. She is troubled.

“You don’t say, Omal.”

It was stifling, closing his throat into suffocation, and by the pinched, pained look on Portia’s face, he could tell that she felt it too.

“Eek, what is this place?” She whispered, narrowly veering Balam out of the way of a giant, crumbling marble statue. “There’s no way she’s staffed. No self-respecting housekeeper’s going to let a place come to-“ She wrinkled her nose. “This state.”

A quiet sense of dread deep in the pit of Balam’s stomach whispered that it was not by accident, but design.

“Fuck.” She froze in her tracks. “D’you think there are ghosts in here?”

Balam shook his head, trying to sift through the heavy, oppressive desperation that weighed against his magic. “If ghosts can even breathe in here. Let’s just-“

“Look out!”

Too late. Balam tripped over the edge of a folded rug, his veshti catching at its beaded tassels. Portia caught him in time before he hit the ground, steadying him easily with one arm.

Instinctively, he slid his sandals closer, leaning against a spot on the wall when- with a shudder, the solid plane giving way like water- it shifted, and opened.

“What the-“

An unlit chandelier hung low over the center of the small chamber, its crystal teardrops refracting the light threading through-

Mannequins. Arranged in concentric circles around a large, gilt-framed mirror- they were decked from their heads to their toes in velvets and silks and jewelry- necklaces around their vacant necks, a faceless gallery tilted towards the scattered light.

Balam could make out the amorphous shapes in the darker corners of the chamber, though his eyes were drawn to this center of resplendent fabric and jewels, and when Portia stepped forward, mouthing “pretty,” under her breath, he found that he could agree.

A headiness, an intoxication came upon him.

Her hands inches away from one of the silk clad mannequins, Portia hesitated. “Is this okay?”

He shrugged. “She told us to help ourselves.”

She undid the clasp of the robe fitted over the mannequin, blue silk folding over her like waves of an ocean as she slipped it on. The light played over her freckled skin like beads in a kaleidoscope, the too-long neckline plunging beneath her uniform, silk pooling at her ankles.

Portia met his eyes in the mirror with a smile. “And?”

“Gorgeous.” His voice dropped an octave, and Aaromal unwound herself from his shoulders, slipping out of the room in polite silence. “Though I have an idea.”

He plucked the mannequin’s tiara, feeling the golden links brush cold against his fingertips. Coming up behind Portia, he placed it delicately between the wild locks of her red hair. He felt her breath catch as his hands brushed the bare skin at her neck, his lips following suit soon after.

“Sirenian opals.” Balam murmured. “Volta must’ve gone to some great trouble to get these crafted.”

The stunning white stones and the elegant golden lattice-work that held them up shone back at him from Portia’s blue eyes.

“I’ve always wanted one of these, growing up.” She whispered, tilting her head as Balam’s lips followed the trail of her freckles down to her shoulders, and back up. “I used to pretend I was a lost Princess from some faraway land- that someone’s waiting for me- somewhere, where I’ll be-“ She swallowed. “Where I’ll be important, you know. Just-”

Balam wound both his arms around her lacing his fingers over her stomach. He admired their reflection, how his dark brown complexion melded warmly with her rosy one.

“I know I’ve told you I’ve never felt a lack- and I haven’t- you’ve met my brother, you’ve met Mazelinka- but I-“ She leaned back against him, her hair brushing his chest. “Sometimes I wish I was- more.”

“I know.”

He did.

More, more, more- it was the thing that gnawed at him from deep beneath his skin- the thing he could swear had been buried in him from the moment he’d opened his eyes, three years ago. He couldn’t tell if it was want or need or want that felt like need- only that he wanted, needed, with a ferocity he couldn’t keep quiet, with an intensity he couldn’t shut away, even if it made him loathe himself- the way he stained the world with it, made him shrink into himself, frightened of what that hunger could mean.

He thought back to Mazelinka’s house- of how he couldn’t bear to break, or be, the ugly voice in him hissing at him to render himself harmless, stop wanting, stop wishing, stop gathering the sun-drenched house and the sweetness of chatter to his chest and needing.

Hunger was a creature with teeth and claws. He wondered if that were why this estate, and its Lady had unsettled it so. How they bared it so openly, how they sank them into their own flesh.

And yet.

I’ve always wanted to be more.

Hearing it in her voice, her lovely, starlit voice wound with hope and strength and courage and an honesty, a beautiful, precious honesty, he wondered if it might have only ever meant something simpler and without shame.

If existence was thin ice, he was incapable of treading softly, of wanting gently.

Of loving quietly.

I’ve always wanted to be more.

“I think you are more.” He could have cried, at the relief of saying it as a compliment. He smiled, instead, his lips curving against the crown of her head. “Crown or not- you’ve got your own kingdom, no?”

Portia cocked her head, questioning.

“Everyone in your life- your brother, Mazelinka- where’d they be if you hadn’t found them? Hell, how d’you think Julian manages to hide in plain sight in this city for so long? You think someone- unimportant- can effect anything of what you’ve done?” Portia’s eyes fluttered shut as Balam’s hands travelled the length of the robe. “From the chamberlains to the Countess herself, everyone listens to you like you’ve hung every star in the sky, haven’t you noticed? And to me,” He blushed, but powered through it. “I don’t um- want to be presumptuous- but to me? You make all the difference in the world.”

He turned her around in his arms, tilting up her chin like he had done back in the broom closet. He pressed the pad of his thumb against her lips, and she bit down, with an impish grin. “I’ve read of plenty of sovereigns who’ve been loved far less, Portia.”

He didn’t wait for her to respond before he kissed her, pressing her back against the mirror, tugging through her hair as he braced his arms against the mirror to cage her between them. Her hands skated down his chest, and she looked up at him, her smile taunting.

Beneath the robe, beneath her uniform, he knew every bite and bruise from the night before- knew the noises she made and the way her fingers tightened in his hair, knew the way they looked against her skin.

This too, was hunger. Or greed. Whatever- fuck- whatever.

He bit down on the side of her neck- darkening the barely fading hickey there, and she was panting, laughing, saying something, though the sound was muffled with another when he slipped his thigh between hers.

The mirror swayed in its frame, knocked something clean off the wall with a clatter that startled them both.

Balam would have paid no mind to it, had it not been for the wicked curve of that metal blade, the worn wooden handle that belonged nowhere in a noble estate.

“It can’t be.” Letting Portia go, he picked it up, holding it up to the light.

“Is that a-?”

“A sickle.” He traced the fading lettering etched into the wood.

Nam Ooru -

Our land.

“How- how is this here?” He whipped around, wildly, and Portia touched his arm.

“What’s wrong, honey?”

“It’s- it’s from East Prakra. From the time of the Great Strikes. Do you see the engraving here? It’s from the-“ He caught his breath, but even as he forced himself to slow down, he found himself rushing through the story, his heart pounding in his throat.

Aside from the storms, The Great Strikes were about the only historical event in East Prakra he could find traces of- passing mentions in books on Prakran history, from travelogues of those who had been stranded there. The class of landlords who’d attempted to buy the backwaters of his homeland, turning his people into nothing more than indentured labourers, and the aftermath of their hubris; the Strikes were a culmination of East Prakra’s simmering fury at having been betrayed and excluded and attempted to be annexed. They’d had taken to the grounds to armed with nothing but their sickles- many of them wounded and killed by the cronies of the rich.

His people had struck back, swarming the roads and taking mansion after mansion until their blades were drenched with the tyrants’ blood and their land was theirs again.

Nam Ooru. Our land. That had been their cry.

When he was done, his words falling into breathlessness, Portia stared at him. “Where-“ She hesitated. “Where d’you think Volta found-“

“They’re not sold. You don’t just-“ His head spun, and he tore himself away to pace the chamber. “You don’t just walk in and buy something like this- it’s not a piece of- of jewelry- and now I’m-“

“Don’t you see?” Why the fuck did his voice tremble so? “You can’t just- collect history.” He cried. “The Strikes are our legacy- they aren’t aren’t meant to be hung up on a wall for fucking decoration to be fucking displayed- It’s tearing it up into pieces to be bought and sold and fuck- it’s so wrong!”

“Honey,” Portia caught his hand. “I know, I know. You’re working yourself up. Take a breath.”

Balam tried, though his breath formed back into his words again. “She stole it. We don’t buy or sell it- she’s got to have stolen it. Or-“

All at once, it was as though the magical haze of the chamber split into fragments- shattering back into menacing shadows. The mannequins gleamed sinisterly around them. Attires from many lands, artifacts from oceans away- not made but taken- Dead.

Balam paled. He tugged gently at Portia’s robe- the silken threads felt like ash beneath his fingers. She undid it, hastily, letting it fall to her feet. The tiara rustled to the floor with a clink.

He caught the fabric, and then another, taking a deep, steadying breath as he let his magic course through them.

Teeth ripping into skin, molars damp with blood, claws, fur, agony- With a gasp, he held it open again. An old, thin, rusted trail of blood, running from the inside of the neckline to the sleeve.

Portia covered her mouth.

Balam looked back at the mannequins- composed- so oddly neatly- as though they were people caught in stillness.

The silent shapes rustled from the shadows. There were no windows in the chamber. No breeze.

He thought of the things crammed up and down the halls, thought of the number of halls, of floors, of rooms, of holes in the walls, of gardens and headless fountains.

“You think she-“ Portia shuddered.

Killed them? Ate them? What was he thinking?

“She took this- all of this- and they’re- um-“

“Dead?”

He nodded, his stomach turning.

Her jaw set in determination, Portia picked the sickle up from where it had fallen to the ground. “Then take this, Balam. It’s yours more than it’s hers.”

“No, Portia-“

How was it his? He wasn’t even East Prakran enough to remember it- how could he put on an attire and speak a language and claim a land as his if all he did was play at being part of it? What if his memories never returned? What then?

“If history’s not meant to be collected, or fucking stolen-“

“It’s meant to be understood.”

“And you understand it. And honor it.”

He couldn’t deny that.

She crossed the distance between them, closed his fingers around the grainy wooden handle. He wondered if he was only imagining how it felt like home. Maybe he wanted it to feel like home. Perhaps he was good at deluding himself.

“Then it’s yours.”

Was that enough? Was that all it takes?

“I don’t remember.”

She smiled, a small, flickering thing. “I don’t remember my parents, either. You think that means I’m no Devorak?”

“Sorry.” Balam winced, his eyes watering all over again. “I’m-“

She kissed him, even there, in that revolting tomb, slow and gentle as though they had all the time in the world.

Gods, he wanted all the time in the world.

It was that thought that anchored him, bringing the storm of swirling distress in the room into its- source? A small, insistent, feeble voice, cutting through the clamor of many screams, many nightmares.

Balam took out his deck, and the card slid into his palm like a plea.

Temperance, Reversed.

A river running over. A bird with trembling feathers and a bloodied beak, and her whisper, with what felt like the last of her strength, one word over and over and over again.

Help. Help. Help. Help-

The passage door opened. Volta stood at the entrance, her small, sharp teeth glinting in the dark, her fingernails dripping blood on to the floor.

“Come, friends.” She said. “It is time to eat.”