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madllamamomma · 4 months

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The Visitor~ Part 9!!

Chapter 9~

The Letter & The Sleeping Beauty ~

[WARNING: My content is for a mature audience 18+ please. Some scenes include acts of violence and abuse.]

[.....After the last chapter of Journey Back To The South]

____(Three months earlier)___

Back in Charles, in the cold mansion of Remington Martin Alarie III, where he sits in his study with a large roaring fire with Beatrix, his badger familiar sits cozily on his lap. The snow is gently falling down to the icy ground. And the Archmagister had just received a long awaited news. It was from ‘The Young Lady Alarie’. He hadn’t heard from her in nearly fifteen years. As the letter opens in mid air, Martin stands to his feet, Beatrix crawls up the back of the chair with her head tilted as he disregards the tattered envelope and eagerly reads its contents.

In an instant, the small amount of brightness in his face falls as he continues to read and stands to his feet. Confused, he shakes his head and quickly goes to the next page. “This…. this is just a copy of a damn death certificate dated from over four years ago and some… deed?….. I don’t know a peasant woman named Rhemi.... Who would—” Words then die in his throat as he turns to the next page. All of the color in his face starts to drain as he sees the next page with a single phrase on it.

“We’re all flying with the birds now…. Farewell, Père. —Your Little Pigeon”

Martin’s arms suddenly fall limp to his sides, dropping the letter and the two certificates along with it and they flutter to the ground. Bartholomew tilts his head about to pick up the papers from the ground. “M-Master?…. Are you alrig—?”

“—Get out…” Martin whimpers under his breath, his lifeless eyes blankly staring off into the marble fireplace as his mind stitches the pieces together.

Bartholomew freezes half crouched reaching out for the letter and confusingly replies, “....M-Monsieur?—”

Martin’s pale white face quickly flashes into a red hot hue as his voice crescendos from a faint mutter into a terrible roaring scream. “I…. said….. GET…. OUT!!!!” Grabbing the small table next to his chair, he swings it over his head with two of its legs—BAAMMM!!! CRACK!!! THUD!—

Bartholomew quickly ducks down, protectively covering his head, dazed as the solid wood furniture smashes against the wall into hundreds of pieces. With the sudden violent outburst, Beatrix makes a startled chattering hissing noise as she darts under the chair. “—NOW!!!! GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY SIGHT, YOU GOOD FOR NOTHING PIECE OF GODDAMN PIG SHIT!!!!” Martin screams with all his might.

The servant hastily sprints out the door, nearly struck by a heavy flying silver candelabra and pulls the door handle shut. Before he can, Beatrix squeezes herself through the crack in fear of being trapped inside, narrowly escaping this blind rage and scurries off down the hallway growling and snarling that almost sounded like a child crying.

Inside the doors, with a guttural grunt, Martin snatches up the book he was reading and slams it into the fireplace. The fire roars as the book's seams smolder and even starts to pop and hiss loudly from the oily pages burning. Pacing his study like a lion in a tiny cage, Martin then searches for what he could destroy. His face blood red and a million thoughts race through his skull. Rhemi Niamh. Niamh??…. That’s a goddamn Travelish surname. “My daughter. A noble child. DIED TAKING ON A FUCKING DIRTY TRAVELISH NAME???”

—SMASSH!!!

“SHE DIED A FUCKING LOWLY COMMONER?!”—RRRRRIIIIIIIPPP!!!

“IN VESUVIA OF ALL FUCKING PLACES? WHY DID IT HAVE IT BE FUCKING VESUVIA??!” —CLANK-CLANK-CLANK!!!— “I HATE VESUVIA!!! AND SHE FUCKING DIED IN THAT FILTHY PLACE?! JUST LIKE THE OTHER FILTH THAT LIVES THERE?!” —BOOM!!!! KIR-CLANK!!!

Bit by bit, he rips apart the chamber, breaking apart all of the fancy furniture, smashing once prizes foreign porcelain vases, tearing down the satin currents, denting very carefully crafted gold and silver sconces. He even shifts his hands into sharp talon like claws with his magic, digging them into the wall leaving huge gashes and fraying the fashionable dark green wallpaper. Turning his attention towards another stationary victim, he rips up the canvas of a large expensive painting of the mountainous countryside that hangs on the wall; Screaming with such hate and rage like a rabid animal. With his breath shallow and heavy, he stands in the middle of his study, still not yet satisfied as his magic courses through his hot blooded body. Conjuring his energy in his hands, he throws them both up above his head then swifty throws them down again, throwing dozens of heavy books from a wall of shelves, making them rain down to the carpeted floor and quaking the entire chateau. He repeats this over and over again until the shelves are bare and empty like the feeling in his chest. Once there are no more books, he paces in circles, ripping clumps of his plum gray hair out, kicking up some of the loose pages scattered across the ground as he screams at the top of his lungs. His magic swirls violently all around him and manifests it into metallic spikes, shredding the carpet, the walls, the doors, the books and their pages. Ribbons of paper flurry down like the frigid snowy blizzard outside.

“THAT….. FUCKING WHORE!!! HOW DARE SHE STEAL MY CHILD FROM ME!!!!”

Behind the door, the servants darn not enter nor even check on the master. They do however keep close to his chamber quietly murmur with one another, shocked at the severity of this episode. The Archmagister has had fits of violence and rage before, but nothing quite close to this. Carefully, Bartholomew awaits a foot or so away from the door in fear of being accidentally impaled or maimed.

Back inside, nearly exhausted, Martin doubles over catching his breath in his now fatigued lungs. Heaving furiously as sweat drips from his forehead, temples, and nose, his face blood red, vessels billowing up, veiny and bulged. A flash of gold catches his eye and he glances up, wiping away the sweat with his forearm as he sees a rouge painting he missed near the doors hidden behind a dusty white linen sheet.

Realizing that he had one more good thing left to destroy, he storms over with teeth gnashing and claws out, ready to obliterate it. Ripping the cloth off the wall with a hateful sounding grunt, his clawed taloned hands digging into the thick gold-leaf wooden frame, teeth grinding so hard it is painful, ready to tear the artwork into tiny pieces as four familiar faces stare back at him.

Suddenly, he stops dead in his tracks, his eyes finally scan the painting... completely unaware what was hanging there all these years, covered up. Forgotten.

A portrait.

Florence, Rhemielia, and himself in this very room with a young scrawny Beatrix draped across his shoulders and a large fire roaring in the background. It was the last painting of his family before they were taken away. All the anger seemingly dissipates, giving away to the harsh sorrow he was so desperately running away from.

No longer having the nerve, his sharp claws retract back and he smooths the frayed edges wishing he never touched it. He quietly shifts into his normal hands as he delicately releases the frame that has minimal damage, slowly taking a single step back. The portrait took up a good portion of the wall; his eyes scan up and down multiple times, studying the artwork as he finally catches his breath. Taking in every paint stroke, every color, every single detail that he hasn’t seen in such a long time. Rhemielia and Florence’s faces were perfectly rendered, matching nearly how he remembered them, give or take a few minor details he asked the artist to change. And as he looked at himself, he remembered how happy he was here, even though you’d never have known with his stoic expression. This one was actually one of his favorite pieces he had ever commissioned. He and his wife wore their best jewels, his favorite dress which was the latest fashion at the time. Little Rhemielia was so pretty in her light blush dress embroidered with delicate white lace and blue flower embellishments. She looked so much like her mother here…. No. She looked like Mairead… His sister. Those eyes. Those large red doe eyes…. Even with them, Rhemiliea was simply beautiful. His only child. A large wave of regret washed over him, wishing he’d never made the artist paint them a chestnut brown to match her mother’s. He used to hate seeing them so much, they just reminded him of dirty Travelish blood. Yet at this very moment, he would give anything to gaze into her deep shade of burgundy irises again. He then recalls how they would gleam in the sunlight and look like two large rubies. And for that moment, a tiny second, he thought they were just lovely despite his better judgment.

Slowly, Martin turns away, no longer able to look at the ghosts that stare back at him. He covers mouth with his scarred burnt right hand, dampening a hard hiccup, and presses his spine against the same wall as the portrait. Finding himself rather exhausted, he surveys the damage and chaos he had created. As he looks all around to his once prized possessions with the bits of paper and dust still swirling all around him. It’s a goddamn mess. The room felt so large with nothing on the walls and for the first time since he was a young, he felt so microscopic and puny in his own environment. Unexpectedly, an overwhelming painful surge strikes his chest. The chaotic magic that swirled around starts to settle down and feels now like drizzly heavy rain before completely retreating back to his body. Swallowing the lump in his throat, he can’t stop himself from choking up, unable to remember the last time he had wept. Helplessly incapable of containing his tears as they stream down his face. Sluggishly, he slides down the wall, pushing back his disheveled plum and gray hair from his face, his knees drawn up into his torso like he did when he was a child. Just like when he lost his mother when he was but a boy… just like he did when he found Mairead hanging from her neck from a tree branch in the woods all those years ago.

The very seemingly proud and arrogant man sits there, weeping his heart out on the floor, mourning the loss of his only daughter. With a trembling hand, he pulled out a tiny pink pearl bracelet he keeps in his interior vest pocket that laid over his heart, clutching it tightly to his chest. Rhemielia always wore it, he gave it to her on her ninth birthday after traveling to the salty seas during a business for the king, he was promoted to the Chamberlain and wanted his daughter to have the finest things in life. She loved that bracelet, she never took it off, yet this precious trinket of hers was left behind that dreadful day she was taken. He found it amongst the rubble of his home and all these years he took it with him everywhere he went.

“... Pigeon… My little Pigeon..... No…… not my child, oh, gods….. not my baby... Why?..... Why did you have to take her from me, Phara?—You stupid cunt.......” His fist clutches the small trinket and he closes his eyes tightly. “...Oh god…. my little girl is dead….” The pain in his chest. This agony.... This pain is unbearable.

Outside the door, Bartholomew finds himself taken aback as he hears his Master’s sobering mutters. The man has worked for the Archmagister for a long time, ten years to be exact. Over the years, he watched him drown himself in diplomatic work, took on an apprentice, and kept himself very busy. All these accomplishments, the riches he gathered, the titles he gained, one would think it would make anyone a little happy, and yet he always seemed to be joyless. Personally, Bartholomew had never met his master’s wife nor his daughter, many of the servants quit or never came back after the infamous fire. No one really knows why or knows what exactly happened either, only rumors and far fetched conspiracies with little to no weight behind them. Not many others knew them either, it was said that Sir Martin barely took his child to court, when he did he’d cover her face with a white vail and her mother kept her glued to her side. It was thought she was rather frail and ill and possibly unsightly. His commoner wife was always relentlessly bullied and slowly withdrew from attending social gatherings the last few years she was with him.

Martin rarely spoke of either of them. And the servants knew better than to ever bring them up or ask of them. The last maid who entered the child’s old room to dust it was punished severely and made an example out of… The seldom times Martin did speak of them, his icy cold demeanor melted slightly, his face would soften, and his eyes even brightened. He would always say that they were both like rays of sunlight in the middle of a hurricane. “They always brighten the darkest of places with their light.”

Bartholomew knew that his master had been searching for his wife and daughter for a long time. Everyone in Charlès knew the tragic tale of the Archmagister’s wife and daughter being kidnapped by a Throthian woman named Phara who was once Rhemielia’s private tutor. The woman had to be very powerful to leave the King’s Magician in such a dire state. Nearly fifteen years have passed, the rest of the court had given up and even forgotten about it all some time ago, but he never stopped searching… Traveling far and wide, sending letters to various kingdoms, regions, and city states offering a very large reward for their safe return. So when this long awaited news came, Bartholomew hoped it would give Martin some kind of solace. But he was wrong. Very. Very. Wrong.

Bartholomew had believed Master Martin was incapable of feeling anything other than annoyance and pride. He was a tough man to work for. Harsh, demanding, cold, but as the butler continued to press his ear to the door, he realized in that moment he was human too.

This man behind this door was indeed just that. A man. A man with feelings and emotions…. A man in tremendous pain…. Worst of all, this man was alone.

Bartholomew finally peels his ear away from the mahogany door and his heart unexpectedly ached. As he turns back around, he sees most of the servants staring at him eager for the good gossiping material. “Unbelievable..” He murmurs under his breath “...Nothing to see here…. get back to your duties.” He hushly mutters shooing them along. They all quickly glance at one another, still standing there stupidly like a herd of sheep. “Well—Go on!!” He quietly snaps. “...Give him some dignity. This is obviously a private matter for the gods’ sake!” Finally, one by one, they all go back to their duties leaving the hall barren once more. Now alone, Bartholomew slowly traveled down the hallway to fetch his master a bottle of expensive brandy and to draw him a hot bath.

As he enters the cold damp cellars, he can’t help but think about his own family. He also has a daughter, three in fact, along with a young son. His eldest is close to the late Rhemielia’s age and is married and pregnant with his first grandchild. He was proud of them, loved them dearly, they could be annoying and bicker with one another, but his wife and his children mean the world to him. The thought of losing any of them…well… He just couldn’t bear it… He at least had people to come home to. Other than the paid help, Sir Martin lived in this large chateau solely and with his familiar. It’s a beautiful home. Made up of the many rooms and the lavish architecture, many gardens and lush green lawns, it is the envy of many people even in the court. But to Barthelmew, he knew otherwise… This place was a pretty ornate but empty box with a velvet cushion inside. It's beautiful but it was devoid of anything precious to protect. What's the point of a pretty box with nothing to hold in it?

There’s no such thing as a wealthy servant, but being the butler for a high official and the king’s right hand man was still a very modest living compared to others in this city. It kept his family well fed and he was able to save up for a decent dowry for his daughters so they could marry well and so his son could have a higher education. That’s rare here in this country. He didn’t absolutely adore his master, but he did seem to be one of the few people who could at least tolerate him. He may not care for him like some servants care for the family they serve, but he could respect the man’s talents and ambitions. None of these titles were given at birth, he earned them all. So in turn he couldn’t help but be sympathetic towards him as well. After all…. How could you not pity a man who had fought for everything he owned and yet had everything taken from him at the same time.

“I wonder…..” Bartholomew muttered to himself as he carried a sealed bottle of brandy and a goblet back to his master’s study.

“…Is this what true self sabotage looks like?”

_________(Present day after part 8)_________

Marching towards the wharf, his forehead and nose still trickling blood, the Archmagister makes his way to his ship too furious to feel all his injuries. Tears reaming his eyes as he reaches into his breast pocket he clutches the small pearl bracelet and he chokes them down.

Suddenly a large dark ball of fur scurried up the wharf catching up with him. Silently, Beatrix follows behind him sensing that things didn’t go well, and that her master was completely distraught.

As Martin finally approaches the port, the Charlès guards snap up into formations and more make their way up the dock that holds their vessel. All the men on deck stand to attention when they see the King’s magician headed their way, but all of them taken aback at his disheveled state. As news catches like fire among the men, the captain hurries from his private quarters to meet him at the ramp half dressed in his uniform from his ‘company’, blindsighted by this interruption.

“Monsieur, Alarie.” The captain says with a quick salute. Noticing the blood, the capitan’s eyes widen as Martin keeps walking towards his chambers, and he quickly offers him a white handkerchief. “Your Excellency, you-you’re bleeding… What… What happened to–”

Snatching the handkerchief out of the captain’s hand, he finally stops and snaps it open while snarling, “—None of your concern, Captain.” As he presses the linen to the cut making his skin sting and wipes away the blood. Pushing through his shutter, Martin continues his orders, still rather cooly sounding, pretending as if nothing had happened. However it was clear with his body language and the cadence in his words he obviously still had a very short fuse. “...Tell your men to fetch Bartholomew and my things immediately from the palace. Then we are to set sail for the Southern Colony.”

Confused, the captain shakes his head looking towards his first mate. “But, Monsieur—The final trade meeting is tomorrow. The king had direct orders to complete negotiations with the western trade route. We’re not due to leave until–GAAAAH!!!”

Suddenly a rope from the mainsail flies over and curls around the Captain's neck, stopping him mid sentence and lifting him a foot off the deck and Martin’s hand swirling with a metallic-like magic.

“…I said. We. Are. To. Set. Sail.” Martin hisses quietly through his tight jaw and nostrils flared staring into the capitan’s eyes as some of the small blood vessels break and he grasps for the rope. “Do I appear to be the kind of man who likes to repeat myself, Captain?” The first mate stands terrified, unsure what to do as he glances between his captain and the Archmagister.

Martin leans in even closer to the poor choking man with a small eerie demeaning smile as the rope tightens around his neck. “When I say we are leaving for the Southern Colony, you are going to weigh anchor and sail to the Southern fucking Colony. And if you don’t… I will find someone who will… Do I make myself clear, Captain?”

Unable to talk let alone breath, the captain nods his head in desperation while holding the rope with his hands so the weight of his body doesn’t break his neck.

“... Good,” Martin exhales and relaxes slightly and flicks his wrist. The rope finally goes limp and frees the man’s throat. As he gasps for air on the wooden plants deck, Martin stares him down and leans into his face whispering. “Never. Ever. Question me again, Captain. It would do you good to remember that you are expendable.”

“O-....Oui, A-Archmaigster, Sir.” Absolutely terrified, the Captain replies raspily, still clenching his now rope burned neck.

“Splendid…” Rolling his eyes at the poor sight, Martin straightens himself up and tosses back his now bloody handkerchief down back to the captain. “...Get the fuck up. You look pathetic wriggling about in front of your men.”

Struggling to his feet, the first mate and other crewmen come swarming to his side and aid him until he gains his footing. “I’m fine! Leave me be!” He snaps with a strain in his voice as he stares loathingly towards the Archmagister unable to retaliate as collects himself. “We set sail in an hour…”

The first mate nods his head and reluctantly shouts, “Réveillez l'équipage! Nous devons appareiller dans une heure!”

Martin angrily trundles over towards his quarters, slamming the door shut with his magic as Beatrix barely makes it inside and hides in the corner. He then snaps his fingers igniting all the lamps and illuminates his rather large seafaring courtiers. All the while he pulls out papers from his side pocket that he was mailed three months ago and sits at his large ornate desk, shuffling through them until he finds the one he was looking for. As he reads the paper carefully, he combs through it over three times and nods his head to himself. Without a single doubt in his mind, an eerie confident smile takes over his face, cooling his fury. As a satisfied chuckle finally leaves his lips he reaches for the wine sitting in the corner of his desk, pops the cork with his thumb and takes a long swig straight out of the bottle as he stares at the paper with malicious intrigue.

“... I will have you back, Pigeon.”

______________________________

Muriel presses his ear up to Rhemi’s limp chest, he can still hear her heart beating, and she’s very quietly breathing. But she's just too still after just being completely hysterical only a few brief moments ago. “Rhemi….. Rem! Wake up!!..... RHEMI!” Gently, he tries to shake her, but she doesn’t open her eyes. “.....Please wake up, beautiful…. Please….” Tears just stream down his face. She…. looks… like she's dead….

Asra places his hand on Muriel’s shoulder making him start a bit. “...She’s just passed out. It’s ok, Muri. It’s happened before. She used all her magic again.”

Reluctantly Muriel nods his head and quickly wipes away the tears. He’s witnessed her pass out before…. but not quite like this. Something about it made him terrified. It’s like she just… shut down. Mentally and physically shut down. Tenderly he scoops her into his large arms and takes her to the nearby couch on the opposite side of the room, being careful of all the glass littered on the floor while Asra fetches a cool damp washcloth to place on her forehead.

The hermit doesn’t leave her side, sitting beside her on the wooden floor, petting her hair comfortingly and watches her chest rise and fall very slowly. Somehow she still looks like she's in great deal of pain.

Asra takes one look around the shop and huffs. It’s a fucking mess…. Potions, ingredients, powders, elixirs, everywhere– Luckily, the counter was able to be fixed with a quick spell, but the rest of the shop wasn’t as fortunate. In the chaos, all the glass and their contents mixed together, rendering them completely useless. Not only that, but the stairs are even damaged and they’ll need a carpenter to fix some of the steps. With a heavy sign and a flick of his wrist, he summons two brooms and a dustpan to start cleaning up the mess. Slowly, the floor started to look a little better with each sweep.

Taking a little break, he glances over to the couch where she continues to lay motionless. He knew Rhemi to have a lot of raw magical abilities before…. but never has she demonstrated something to this degree. His ears still partly ring after that ungodly sound she made. He never really has been frightened of her powers, but the anger and pain in her was so overwhelming, he was foolish to not be a little wary.

The small coo-coo clock bell chimed. An hour has now passed, yet Rhemi hasn’t even made a slight stir other than a few sleepy jolts.

Muriel tries shaking her awake a little more, but still nothing. Both Muriel and Asra’s anxieties grow a bit more. Asra starts to pace a little and Faust slithers over to the couch and curls up around her right hand as if to hug her. “...Sleepy?”

“I… I don’t know, Faust.” Asra murmurs, watching as Muriel runs his finger through her brownish-red hair.

Asra places his hands over his hip and glances back at the clock again, it’s now a quarter after the hour, and he’s had just about enough of this. “I’m going to get Ilya.” Asra finally says. Muriel stays silent as he gently strokes his fiancée’s cheek with his thumb. She usually leans into his touch, even when asleep, but still there is nothing. “...Muri?” Asra whispers, placing his hand comfortingly on his friend’s broad left shoulder.

Finally, Muriel turns with a sharp inhale, his eyes still red, puffy, and wet as he nods firmly patting Asra’s draped hand and mumbles, “...Go.”

Without even taking his coat or hat, Asra rushes out the door and races straight towards the doctor’s clinic. Julian isn’t all that far away, just down the street. But tonight, it feels like miles and miles away, and his stomach starts to turn the further away he is from his best friends. What is gonna happen to her? What if she doesn’t wake up? What will Muriel do? What will I do?? At last, he gets to the door and unceremoniously bursts right in without knocking. “—ILYA!” He shouts.

Julian jumps from his desk in the corner from his journal and is a bit surprised at his lover’s urgency. “Asra, dear, er, w-what ever is the—”

“It’s Rhemi!”

“R-..Rhemi??.... What? What’s wrong?? Did–Did something happen?? Is she hurt?!” He jumps to his feet automatically grabbing a bag throwing a few things in, knowing that something was terribly wrong. “Asra! Tell me!!!” He demands, doctor mode fully kicking in.

Poor Asra being so disheveled, he rubs his forehead trying to think straight. “I-I… I don’t know! She…. just….. passed out!”

“But… doesn’t she do that all the time–?” Julian replies without looking up from packing.

“–Yes! Yes! I know! But this time she isn’t waking up—It’s been over an hour already!”

Julian keeps asking questions as he hastily zips around the clinic tossing things he thinks he’ll need in his bag, including a few of his trusty leeches. “—Is she breathing??”

“Yes. Muriel has been glued to her side, making sure she is.”

“Her pupils?? Are they dilated?”

“I… Shit—I didn’t check!”

“How is her heart beat?”

“Fine, I—I think…. Muriel didn’t say anything about it—It’s like she’s asleep, but she won’t wake up! No matter what we do!”

Julian pauses for a moment thinking to himself. “Hmmmmm….. Odd....” He shakes his head and hands Asra his bag while he throws on his jacket.

“Odd… odd?? What do you mean, odd??? Can you help her or not, Ilya??”

After strapping on his eyepatch and donning his gloves, Julian finally sees this distought nature of his lover and he cups his face tenderly, soothing him instantly. “Asra, darling. I’ll be alright… I’m going to do what I can. Okay?”

A few tears roll down the magician's face and he nods cupping the doctor’s wrists. “I know….. Sorry…”

Taking back the bag from Asra with one hand, Julain grabs his hand with the other and then they both sprint back to the shop without another word. Having Ilya there by Asra’s side made him feel grounded in a way, he felt stronger, even braver. Julian had been studying a lot for over a year. He’s not the same hack leech obsessed plague doctor he used to be. Asra squeezes his hand a little tighter as they arrive back to the shop.

As they both enter, Julian takes a quick gander around confused at the mostly empty shelves that are always filled with glass bottles and ingredients, then sees the visible cracks in the front counter. What in the name of the gods happened here?? He ponders to himself, but decides at this very moment that it isn’t important and brushes it off for the time being. Muriel still clung to Rhemi’s side where Asra left them close by her side.

Julian rips off his jacket, rolls up his sleeves, then opens his bag, pulling out a small looking brass horn of some kind, he then carefully pats Muriel on the shoulder. “... Hey, big fella…. I need to evaluate her.” Muriel takes in a deep breath, then glances up at him. Julian has never seen the poor guy like this before. His eyes are pleading, looking so helpless, ‘help her’. Julian gives him a very serious determined nod and Muriel then stands up and moves aside.

Asra takes his hand and surprisingly Muriel squeezes back. “It’s gonna be okay, Muri.” His eyes meet his tall friend’s, he can tell that he is not at all convinced, but he nods anyway.

Julian sits on his knees and gets quickly to work. He doff one of his gloves and touches her cheek with the back of his hand. He then takes the damp washcloth from her forehead and places his full palm on it. “..Ahhh.. Well, no fever. But that doesn't explain why she’s sweating...” He mutters.

He then takes the small horn placing the wider part of the bell on her chest and puts his ear towards the small part. He stays there for a moment and moves it a few times while listening for something. Finally, Julian sits back up, removing the horn. “..Er....Her heart rhythm and lungs sound fine….” He takes her radial pulse from her wrist and watches the clock for almost half a minute. “Her pulse is a little slow…. Did she vomit or anything?... Convulse?” He asks half turning his neck so Muriel and Asra can hear him.

“N- No. She just…. stopped…. moving….” Asra answers.

“...It was like she collapsed.” Muriel mutters.

“That's interesting….” Julian mumbled to himself, examining her up and down, thinking. He then opens her right eye to look at her pupils but then is shocked by what he finds. “Wooh–That's….. very… er…. interesting….”

“What?? What’s wrong???” Muriel quickly moves back closer, terror in his voice.

“Well...ah.... you two come take a look at this.” He waves them over and the two lean over him to look down at her with anticipation.

“What is it?? Do you know what’s wrong with her??” Muriel asks desperately.

“Well… no. Not quite yet… but look.” Julian says, opening her right eye again, as it darts back and forth rapidly.

“She’s….. she’s dreaming?” Muriel mutters.

“Looks to be that way. What exactly happened before she fainted??” Muriel and Asra’s face twist slightly and they exchange angry looks, feeling the exact same hate. “Well?? Wh-what happened???” Julian shrugs feeling completely left out.

“Her father…..” Muriel finally answers, shaking his head, feeling furious all over again and rubs his freshly cut up and bruised knuckles.

“... Martin?? What about that old jerk?” Julain sneers, it seems that everyone feels the same about that man.

“... Asra found an old portrait of her mother and her Aunt…. And well….” Muriel trails off for a moment unsure how to say the next part. “....Apparently Athena—Rhemi’s Aunt who owned the shop—Well .... Apparently she wasn’t her aunt after all….. Her real name was Phara or something? Or it was? I don’t really know…. But from what I gathered, when they lived in Charlès, Rem’s mother had an affair with her… then they all three ran away to Vesuvia. Apparently they all changed their names when they came here.”

“... They all lied about it…. Rem never told me the truth…” Asra adds still taking all of this in as well. “... Why didn’t she tell me back then?”

“Maybe…” Muriel starts to say as he tucks a stray hair behind her ear, thinking about how Rhemi was back then. “... She didn’t know how to? If you think about it, they were all wanted by Charlés.”

“Oh….. oh my….” Julain replies, scratching his scalp. “That’s….. ahhhh…. hmmm. A lot to, er, unpack there.....”

Muriel opens and closes his mouth a few times, before being able to get out the words, he’s so angry and upset at the same time and it makes it difficult to make sense. “He….he told Rem that Athena or… Phara, I guess it was—brainwashed her mother and convinced her to take Rhemi with her… Forced both of them to come here… Kept saying she didn’t belong here…That she didn’t belong with…. me….He saying such awful things…. Then she… she started to have this horrible migraine. She was crying, she was in pain.... She was in so much pain…” Muriel eyes water up again but he chokes them down. “She begged him to stop… But that fucking bastard didn’t even care! He just went on and on and on, saying these awful things…”

“We tried to stop him, but he made a barrier with his magic…. We couldn’t get to her…” Asra fills in.

“T-.... Then he…. he fuckin’ picked her up by her hair ....” Muriel says slowly, shaking his head.

Tears overwhelm the hermit and he presses his lips together tightly, still shaking his head and Asra pats his arm. “It’s alright, Muri. We did everything we could.”

“.... He…. What?!” Julian’s expression goes from shock to pure rage as the information sinks in and he stands to his feet, whipping his head around searching for the dickbag who claimed to be her loving long lost father. “Where’s the fucker now?!”

“Gone…” Muriel barks, staring hard and cold at the wooden floorboards, part of him wishing he decked that fucker in the face for hurting his soon-to-be wife. “...Rhemi kneed him, got him to let go— then she made this…. terrible screech…. It broke the barrier, along with all of the other things in the shop.”

“....We pushed him out, and surprisingly he just… left down the street. Then she passed out soon after that…. I feel like he gave up too easily.” Asra says feeling a bad pit in his stomach.

Julain then pulls a small vile from his bag and pops it open. The sharp smell of ammonia filled the air and the three of them blinked from the strong odor as he waved it carefully by her face. Even with the smelling salts she moved uncomfortably, but did not wake. Asra and Muriel quickly met one another’s eyes in disbelief. That should have worked.

Frustrated, Julian puts the cork back on the small bottle and stands back to his feet and faces the Asra and Muriel. He shakes his head while running his fingers through his thick curly red hair staring at his shoes, poundering to himself. “Hmmmmmm…. Well…ahhh… Medically…. I can’t find anything wrong with her….but… healthy people don’t just fall asleep and don’t wake back up like this… but then again, most people don’t come back from the grave either. Our Rhemi is rather…. An anomaly for a lack of a better word. So maybe her illness is too?”

“...I thought you said you could help.” Asra grumbles.

“I said I would do my best…” Julian faintly replies, knowing that his partner is just still upset. “... All we can do now is wait…”

Julian was right, despite the frustration of Asra and Muriel, shaking didn’t work, cool water didn't work, even smelling salts didn't revive her. What else was there to be done? It’s as if she was locked in a dream. So… what else to do other than just wait it out?

Hours then flew by, unsure what to do, the three of them just sat there. Just waiting. Hoping. Praying she’d just wake up. Soon the outside started to brighten up and the lamplighters started to douse the lanterns in the streets. And still nothing. Asra finally makes a fresh pot of tea for them all having nothing else to do.

As Asra hands Muriel a cup, he suddenly feels a strange sensation of a warm feather brushing against his cheek. As he looked all around him confused, there was nothing there, and Asra was across the room now over to Ilya. He realizes he can smell something eerily familiar.

“Wait….. Do you feel that??” Asra says quietly, feeling the same presents. At the same time he takes out the tarot cards.

Julain sharply looks around, yet keeping very still unaware and shakes his head confused. “....errrrr… Feel what, Love??”

“Shhh–” Asra places his pointer finger to his lips so he can still concentrate on this feeling as he looks at his tarot deck. He senses a particularly strong feeling from one in the middle, as he flips the card over he doesn’t know what to make of it. It is The Fool in reverse. “Rem… is this you?” He whispers looking intensely at the card trying to see what they're trying to tell him.

Muriel reaches out his large hand, feeling a very familiar warm aura hovering over Rhemi’s incapacitated body; it was faint, but still palpable. It’s some of Rhemi’s magic…. except… it didn’t feel exactly like hers…… It smells like ash… It feels like somehow whatever it is is reaching out for them.

Muriel then stands to his feet, wiping his wet face and nods his head glances at his friends. “I think…. No…. –I know what we have to do…”

With anticipation, Asra and Julian stare up at the tall man, ready to do whatever it takes to get Rhemi out of this trance.

✨To be continued…

[*Resurrects from the dead* DID YA 'LL MISS ME?? I missed all of you guys! I still really wanted to write this story because it bothered me I left it not completed. It's still a very long piece of work but I still think its a story worth telling. It was originally hard for me to tell it because it was triggering even for myself and I was struggling with self confidence and with Dorian buying out Nyx Hydra and effectively the fanbase dying out etc. etc., but even if I have one or two people reading this, it still makes me happy that I can give something to you! I am still creating and still writing, and I am healthiest (mentally I have been in a long time) I am even starting my own original story that I want to tell! It's gonna be Fantasy/Steampunk meets Westerns. So I hope I can still keep you hungry trash pandas still well feed with my hot garbage!]

Thank you my lovely trash pandas for (still) reading my hot garbage!

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