#portia is about to lose her shit next chapter

[sea-owl]

Spring's Rebirth Chapter 3

“Penelope,” Felicity sang as she wrapped her arms around her sister. 

Penelope giggled, wrapping one arm around her sister, while the other held the scroll she was reading. 

It had been a week since the solstice, and Lady Portia was busier than ever now that harvests were ready to be picked, and a new planting season needed to be prepared. She had kindly asked her daughters to stay in her sacred meadow today, so she does not have to worry about them when she is so busy.

All four of them had agreed so their mother can breathe easier. Prudence and Philippa were gathering a bouquet for their mother while Penelope had been reading and Felicity going over her letters. 

“Penelope,” Felicity sang again. “I hear you owe me a hug.”

Oh, that’s right. Penelope needed to talk to Felicity about setting some distance between her and Lady Hyacinth. 

“I do owe you a hug,” Penelope said, setting down her scroll. Using both arms she gave her little sister a big squeeze, and then didn’t let go. Now trapped in her arms Penelope pulled her face back so she could look Felicity in the eyes. “I also need to talk to you as well.”

“About what?” Felicity asked. “And why are you holding me hostage?” 

“Because every time I try to have this conversation with you, you try to run away.” 

Realization hit Felicity and she tried to squirm out of her sister’s grip. “Penelope,” Felicity whined. 

“Felicity, I know you don’t want to talk about it but trust me when I say that this will help you in the long run.”

Felicity finally squirmed her way free. Stranding with a huff she shouted, “Just because you were abandoned does not mean I will be! I am not the pathetic no domain having goddess! No better than an insipid wallflower!” With that Felicity ran off leaving a stunned Penelope sitting amongst the flowers. 

Penelope shrunk in on herself. Did . . . did Felicity truly think that of her? It’s nothing Penelope hasn’t heard before from other gods and immortals, but to hear it from her own sister. Well, it left a sting she hasn’t felt in a long time. 

Perhaps she was too harsh, and let her own experiences cloud her judgment. Perhaps she was wrong and she’s not watching history repeat itself. 

Penelope felt a tug on her hair, like someone was playing with it. 

The red head looked up but saw no one around her. How odd, she was sure there was someone tugging on her hair. 

She felt another tug. 

Penelope now stood, constantly turning her body in different directions, but still she saw no one. It almost reminded her of-

Another tug. 

Penlope looked down at her shadow. There it is. In the silhouette version of her, the hair she felt being tugged was moving. Looking closer she saw a trail of red poppies leading in the same direction as her hair was being pulled towards. 

Why would he be calling her? She has barley spoken to any of them since the war ended. 

Another tug, this one a little harder than the others.

Well, she can’t exactly ignore a summons. Especially since he wants to act like a boy tugging on his mother’s skirts when she doesn’t give him attention.  Following the trail of poppies Penelope was brought to the edge of her mother’s meadow, where he stood on the other side. 

King Colin looked handsome, if a bit overdressed. His dark clothing looking like something she would see at a wedding. On his wrists are gold bracelets with emeralds lining the edges and a gold circlet sits on his head of dark chestnut hair. HIs green eyes twinkle with mischief that he loved to cause so much. 

“Your highness,” Penelope said with a bow.  

King Colin laughed. “Oh, come on Pen, it’s just us here right now. No need to be so formal.”

Pen . . . it’s been a long time since anyone has called her that. 

“Your highness . . .” Penelope trails off. How does one tell a former friend that pet names are not something former friends do? “Um . . . are you looking for my mother? We have not spoken in a long time, and I cannot imagine I would be much help with anything you might need.” 

King Colin frowned. “Pen, there’s no need to be so formal.” A light sparked in his green eyes. “But there is something you can do for me. Allow me to take my wife and queen home?”

“Wife!? Queen?!” Penelope exclaimed, her cheeks starting to match her hair. Where was this coming from? Her mother had not mentioned anything about a suitor, much less a proposal and marriage talks! Penelope knows for sure she would have heard of it too; Lady Portia was known across the three courts to be a protective mama. Not to mention why would King Colin choose her? She had no power or domain she could bring to the Underworld. If anything, she probably be a burden as the queen. 

King Colin continues on, now taking Penelope’s hand up to his lips to kiss it. “I had spoken to your father a day after the solstice, and he agreed to the match.” 

Penelope’s head was spinning. Her father, Lord Featherington? Penelope had not even spoken to him during the gathering, yet he was having marriage talks on her behalf? Why was she not informed, or even her mother? 

King Colin began to take steps back, tugging Penelope along with him by the hand he still held. Penelope snapped into focus when she felt her mother’s protective magic fade around her. King Colin was walking backwards towards a shadow. 

“Your highness-” Penelope was cut off as King Colin pulled her fully into his arms.

“It’s just Colin, my beautiful and witty queen,” King Colin whispered in her ear. With one final step the pair fell into the shadows.

“COLIN!” 

-

Portia sighed as she felt her third daughter fade from her magic. Penelope must have stepped outside of the barrier again. If it were possible that girl and her curiosity would give Portia gray hairs. 

What was she going to do with her? She knows Penelope can be more than what she is now, she can find her domain. Perhaps Portia should take her with her to do her duties? Or maybe have her shadow Phillip? They are close and share similar powers over vegetation. Maybe meadows? Of all of Portia’s sacred ground Penelope seems to stay in that one the longest. Perhaps she is a floral goddess? Most of Penelope’s earlier, and more successful, creations were flowers. It would explain her closeness to Mary’s older daughter. 

Portia shook her head. She had too much work to do. She will speak to Penelope potentially following her or Phillip later. 

-

Francesca knew they were at a crossroad when the Trail of Poppies miraculously came back to life the day of the solstice. Colin had left to see what made the flowers bloom again while Francesca had dealt with informing the judges and their siblings. 

She never expected what would lay behind one of those doors though. 

Francesca was getting ready to the solstice gathering when her blue eyes caught Colin returning in her mirror.

Colin looked as if he seen a ghost when he came back, which was ironic because that’s what their realm was full of. 

She turned towards her brother. “Did Phillip say how he brought the flowers back?”

“It wasn’t Phillip who brought the flowers back.” 

Francesca furrowed her eyebrows. The entrance to the Underworld, at least the main one, was in Phillip’s domain, who else would have access to it? 

Sensing his sister’s question Colin answered. “Penelope brought the flowers back.”

“Penelope?” 

Colin nodded. 

Francesca had to sit and think. Penelope was infamous for not having a domain and for her creations never lasting long. Though that never mattered to her brother. Colin always accepted whenever one of her creations wilted, it’s how they got the Trail of Poppies in the first place. Hyacinth always described her as feeling different from her sister Felicity, and her mother, Lady Portia. But now, their old family friend had done the one impossible thing and made something grow in the Underworld. She brought life to the Underworld. 

That takes a powerful goddess.

“Perhaps Penelope needs a change of scenery to grow,” Francesca suggested. She hoped Colin wouldn’t do something too crazy.

Francesca hoped for too much, apparently. Not only has Colin married Penelope but now he’s kidnapped her too. 

She can’t deny though how the poppies glow brighter being in Penelope’s presence alone, even when she's fainted from the sudden shadow travel. 

[moth-and-raven]

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

I’m not sure when we made it to bed, but I wake up the next morning to Julian’s breath on my neck. He has me tucked into the curve of his body, holding me close with one of his hands resting on the flesh of my belly.

I don’t want to disturb him, but blinks himself awake almost as soon as I shift.

“Good morning, darling,” he says softly, his voice still rough with sleep.

I roll over in his arms and kiss him; his unshaven cheek bristles against my lips. “Good morning,” I echo. “Um, how did we get here?”

Julian chuckles. “I’m glad you don’t remember. I woke up, oh, a good few hours after dinner and it broke my heart to see you still sitting on the floor, asleep against the chair. Like you didn’t want to let me go, even for a moment.”

I kiss him again, more soundly. “I didn’t. I don’t.”

He pulls his hand from between us to cup my cheek. “What a lucky man I am, to have someone like you.”

After all this, everything that’s happened, it still feels impossible. Every event that’s lined up just so, every ounce of serendipity, has led us to each other. And now we’ve conquered the biggest barrier to being together. Julian is a free man. The other details seem inconsequential.

Before I can tell him that, I startle at a knock on the door, followed by Portia’s teasing voice from behind the solid oak.

“Wake up, lovebirds!” she calls. “Or if you’re already awake, stop doing whatever you’re doing so I don’t scar myself forever by coming in!”

She doesn’t wait to open the door, though, and only laughs to see us scramble out of the bed.

“Feeling better today, Ilya?” she asks, looking him over.

“Much. Amazing what a solid meal and some sleep can do.”

Portia rolls her eyes. “Pretty sure I’ve been telling you that for years, and Mazelinka years before that. And yet you always seem to forget it.”

“Nonsense!” he says indignantly. “I tell my patients all the time—”

“For you, dumbass.”

“Ah… right.”

She laughs and shakes her head. Someday, maybe, we’ll get through to him that he deserves the same kind of care he shows to others.

“Anyway, you’ll be happy to know that Asra’s waiting for you,” Portia says to me. “We didn’t even have to go out looking; he was at the palace gates this morning. Did you talk to him somehow?”

I blink, stunned. I didn’t reach him, or even try. But he’s always been mysterious like that, showing up exactly when he’s needed. “No, I haven’t talked to him since before I came up here, the first time.”

My own words sink like stones in my stomach. He doesn’t know about any of this, all that’s happened in the handful of days since he slipped out the back door of the shop.

Julian interjects, coughing weakly. “Aha. Well, then. This will be, erm, some sort of reunion, won’t it?” He’s pale and fidgety, brushing his hair back from his forehead and letting the auburn curls fall over his eyes again and again. “Can’t say I’m overly excited for it.”

That makes sense. It’s been years since they last saw each other, and those weren’t the best of times. And apparently Julian stole from him on his way out, too. But it’ll be okay. I tell him so as I take his hand.

Even through his reluctance, he smiles at me. It lights up his eyes, both gray and red, and I can’t help but smile with him.

Portia lets the feeling hang for a moment, then pipes up again. “Nadia’s with him already. They’re in the big salon, with breakfast. C’mon!”

She leads the way down the stately palace halls, chatting with us. Nadia wants to announce Julian’s innocence at the start of the Masquerade, she says. It’s its own form of justice served, I suppose, clearing his name rather than solving the mystery of the Count’s murder. I’m certainly not complaining.

As we reach the door of the salon, Julian stops, letting Portia go on ahead. His palms have only gotten slicker the closer we get. He looks down at me, biting his lip, and sighs heavily.

“Erm, darling, I have to, ah. Asra. He and I had an, erm… He might not be overly pleased to see me.”

“What?” I’ve never known Asra to be on anyone’s bad side. “How come?”

“We, ah, didn’t part on the best of terms. The mark, the curse, it’s… well, it’s my fault. I—”

He doesn’t finish the thought before Portia turns back, exasperated, and grabs the loose fabric of his shirt to push him into the room. I have no choice but to follow, mind astir with prickles of unease. She shuts the door behind me.

This salon is brighter, much more colorful than Nadia’s personal suite. Rugs and curtains add splashes of orange and purple and red, met with sprays of blue forget-me-nots and tall white lilies nestled in glass vases. Nadia sits resplendent in a shimmering golden robe, her hair flowing like water over her shoulders. She’s laughing as we walk in, hiding it behind her hand. Opposite her, Asra sits cross-legged on an ottoman with Faust curled around his forearm to drink tea from his cup.

“Reyja!” Asra says, beaming at me. “You did a little more than take care of yourself, didn’t you?”

I smile back. Despite our differences, Asra is my oldest friend. He knows me, at least as well as I let him, and it’s nice to see him again. “How was your trip?”

He waves the question away. “Not that exciting. Nothing like what you’ve done. Nadia’s filled me in on everything.” His lilac eyes darken, and for the first time he shifts his attention to Julian. “And everyone.”

The room falls silent, chill in the morning sun.

“Erm, hello, Asra.”

“Julian.”

“Aha, long time no see?”

“Could’ve been longer.”

“Ah.” Julian scrambles for something to say. “H-how’ve you been?”

Asra takes a deep breath and drops his smouldering gaze. Immediately, the sunlight slanting through the windows feels warm again. “You’re right,” he offers. “It has been a long time. And it’s felt like a long time, too.”

That isn’t really an answer. But with Nadia here, and even with me, it’s probably the best Julian’s going to get. Something happened between the two of them; even if Julian hadn’t said as much, it hangs in the air like smoke. And now is not the time to discuss it.

“Good morning to you both,” Nadia says, cutting through the awkward silence. “I trust you slept soundly, for this morning brings new challenges.”

We both nod, eager to move on.

“Excellent. Indeed, as Asra said, I have shared with him all you told me. I must admit I was surprised to hear that he, too, was at the palace around the same time.”

Asra shrugs. “I had to help.”

Nadia smiles at him. “I’m sure your talents were put to good use. If nothing else, Reyja’s training proves you to be a strong and skillful magician.”

“Ha, thanks.”

“But I’m afraid I have reached the end of my knowledge,” she continues. “Though I understand there is more to the story.”

Julian clears his throat and gives my hand one last reassuring squeeze before dropping it and stepping into the middle of the room. "Yes. While sifting through everything else, Reyja and I came across some more pieces of the puzzle. Now, erm, I don't want to step on any toes, but—"

Nadia interrupts with another gentle smile. "You have my permission to speak freely, Doctor."

He lets out a noisy breath. "Thank you, Countess. Erm, Nadia. But you might not want to hear it."

"Perhaps not. But it must be said nevertheless."

"You aren't wrong." Julian squares his shoulders and turns away, pacing across the ornate damask rug. He stops abruptly in front of the windows and wheels around, lip raised in a fierce snarl. "There’s a snake in your midst," he declares.

Asra snorts. "Who, Faust?"

"No! Quaestor Valdemar. It’s very possible that they’re the one responsible for Lucio’s — I’m sorry, Count Lucio’s — murder,” he says. “I admit that this evidence isn’t the most solid, and what I would give to have the answers! But, erm, bear with me. We, Reyja and I, we spoke to an old friend of mine, who was here back then as well. Maybe you remember him, Asra? Skylar Trevelyan?”

Asra shrugs again, noncommittal.

“Ah. Well, at any rate, he, erm, reminded me that it was Valdemar who infected me with the Plague, and Valdemar who had been—” He stops, stuttering. “You both know all this, don’t you?”

“I would like to hear it from you, Doctor,” Nadia says kindly.

He flashes a grateful smile. “Skylar also reminded me that I, ah, wasn’t at my best back then. Especially towards the end. I suppose, to put it plainly, I was losing my mind. Those rumors, at least, were somewhat true.” He laughs harshly. “But I’ll flatter myself by saying that that was mostly the Plague’s doing. The Plague, and magic.”

Asra and Nadia respond together, with varying degrees of credulity. “Magic?”

“Magic,” Julian confirms. “Dreams, and tarot, and this.”

He drops to one knee and, before anyone can stop him, slides a thin blade from his boot and slashes it across his forearm. I barely stifle a scream as I scramble out of my chair to his side. I know he’ll be fine, but—

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Asra says, only mildly alarmed. Faust has repositioned herself around his shoulders and flicks her tongue as if to punctuate his remark.

Julian laughs and holds out his bleeding arm. As we watch, the cut shrinks, sealing itself in the light of the mark on his throat. Within seconds it’s gone, leaving behind only ribbons of blood smeared across his pale skin. “Nothing’s wrong with me, Asra.”

“No more than usual, I guess.”

“It certainly comes in handy.”

Asra rolls his eyes. “I’m sure. Trust you to make a bargain-mark kinky.”

“A what?”

Asra sighs and refolds his legs. “That sigil. It’s the mark of a deal struck. Someone gave it to you…” He closes his eyes and sends a tendril of his own magic out, washing over Julian in search of answers. He finds them quickly. “The Hanged Man? How did you—? Oh. I get it.”

Julian pulls his sleeve down again and busies himself tucking it back into his glove, avoiding Asra’s accusing gaze. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I shouldn’t have—”

“No. You shouldn’t have.”

“But, erm. I did.”

Asra stares daggers into Julian. “No shit,” he spits after a moment. “Okay, Nadia, here’s what he’s telling us, since he won’t just say it: he used an ancient ritual to contact an ageless being from a magical realm, and while they were chatting, he gave him something important enough to merit superhuman abilities in return. And now, unless I’m pulling this out of my ass, the good doctor wants whatever he gave him back.”

“What?” Julian snaps his head up. “I never said—”

“You want to talk to the Hanged Man again, don’t you?”

“Well, yes, but—”

“He’s not going to give away anything for free,” Asra says. “If you want answers, it’ll cost you.”

“Oh. I see.”

“You really don’t.”

All four of us sit quietly for what feels like an eternity. Eventually, Nadia picks up her tea cup and breaks the silence. “This mark is what allowed you to heal so quickly from the torture instigated by Quaestor Valdemar,” she says to Julian.

It isn’t a question, but he answers anyway. “Yes, it is. I can share its power, too.”

He glances at me and smiles. Nadia follows his gaze, understanding.

“What do you hope to learn from this Hanged Man?” she asks.

“What Valdemar was planning, three years ago. Why they’re still after it now. Where they’ve gone, maybe. And why there’s still evidence of the Plague leaking through the palace, putting the people I care about in danger.” His mismatched eyes linger on my face, tracing my features. He can’t resist reaching for me, trailing a finger along my cheekbone.

“Do you have a plan?”

He drops his hand, and with it his smile. “I do,” he says quietly.

I haven’t said a word since we walked in, but I can’t let him go through with this. “It isn’t possible,” I say, more to him than Nadia.

“Oh?” Nadia cocks her head.

Before I can elaborate, Asra laughs raucously and falls back against the sofa. “Let me guess,” he says, words molten with contempt. “Is there some martyrdom involved?”

“Asra—” Julian’s voice is stuck between warning and whining.

“For fuck’s sake, Julian, you haven’t changed at all, have you?”

“Of course I—!”

Asra sits up again, slowly, and runs his hand through his fine white hair. “Makes sense, why you’d want to,” he says reluctantly. “I guess I can’t blame you for that. And why you’d decide that there was only one way to do it.”

“The book—”

“Was written for magicians, who would already know that there are other ways to contact the Arcana.”

“Oh.”

“I know the ritual. I can send you into the Hanged Man’s realm. Without killing you, even.”

Julian hesitates, glancing between me and Asra. “Alone?” he asks softly. I can’t tell if he wants the response to be yes or no.

Asra sighs. “Ideally. But honestly, I’m not sure I like that idea.” His eyes meet mine, from the other side of the room. “What if Reyja went?”

I hadn’t considered the possibility. I have magical skills, and more of a connection to Asra than Julian does, regardless of what happened between them. It might work.

“Instead of me?” Julian shakes his head and, almost automatically, reaches for my hand again, pulling me closer. “No. I won’t put her in danger.”

“Look, I’m just laying out the options. If shit goes wrong, there will be two lives at risk instead of one, and it takes a huge amount of magical energy to do what I’m suggesting.”

“So I have to face this alone.”

“Still on that kick, huh? No, that isn’t what I said. I can send you both, I just need some time to prepare. And a quiet place, preferably near water?”

Nadia, still seated in her cozy armchair, nods. “Valdemar’s threat is still present. If this stops it, I will do what I can to assist. You shall have all you require, and I’ll personally see to it that no one disturbs you.”

“Thanks.” As he stands and guides Faust back into her usual spot in his shirt, Asra eyes me closely, lingering especially on Julian’s hand in mine. “Don’t make this ‘represent’ anything, Julian,” he says. “And Reyja… actually, nevermind. It’s not time yet. I can tell.”

What’s that supposed to mean? He’s doing it again already, deciding for me what I can and can’t know. He did the same thing during my apprenticeship. It does inspire me to do better, and more, I suppose, just to prove him wrong. If Julian and I are going to the arcane realms, I’ll make sure we’re safe, no matter how dangerous Asra thinks they are. I’m not the same person he left standing in the shop that night. If nothing else, now I have someone to fight for.

------

We part ways with both Asra and Nadia at the base of the stairs. They’re heading out to the fountain in the garden to set up the ritual, which Asra said he’d start preparations on as soon as he finished his noon salat. Nadia recommended that Julian and I take advantage of the last few minutes of downtime we have before we go, and I was quick to agree.

Julian looks over his shoulder almost guiltily after I shut the door of my room.

“What?” I ask.

“Nothing, nothing. Just, erm… I was trying to tell you, warn you, I suppose, before we went in, that Asra and I— It didn’t last. Clearly. Ha, really, the only feelings I retained are embarrassment and dismay, over my own actions.”

“Oh.” I have no experience with bitter exes. “What happened?”

I realize too late that that’s a very personal question, but Julian just shrugs. “Our involvement was almost purely physical. I needed… someone. Something. A, ahem, a firm hand.”

I swallow the image of Julian on his knees, submitting to Asra the same way I had pictured him submitting to me. “Did you get that, at least?”

“Oho, that and more, my darling.” He steps closer to me and reaches out to mesh our fingers. “But I took it too far. He wanted to end it and I, erm, didn’t. I’m ashamed of the lengths I went to hang onto him.”

“And that’s why—?”

“More or less. I think. It was all such a mess. I don’t blame him for, for responding like that. Holding a grudge. For all I know, I made it worse during the time I can’t remember.” Julian shakes his head.

“I mean, it’s good that you… aren’t like that anymore? Right?”

He chuckles. “I hope I’m not.”

“I don’t think you are.”

“Mm.”

We stand together for a moment, then, biting my lip, I pull him closer to the bed. He follows gratefully, sinking down and letting me lean against him. His lips are soft on my cheek, his breath softer.

“Asra was one of the only people I could remember from my time in the palace,” he says. “That’s why I was searching for him when I found you. I had hoped he would know something.”

“I guess he did.”

“But I wouldn’t have known which questions to ask without you, my dear.”

Strange how it all fits together. “Did Asra live at the shop back then?”

“Yes. I believe it was left to him many years ago.”

I frown. “I wonder why he moved out, instead of making me leave.”

“For both of our sakes, I’m glad he didn’t. How would I have found you then, hm?”

That almost chills me. I don’t want to think about a world in which we never met. “We would’ve found each other somewhere,” I say quietly.

Julian lays back, settling me into the crook of his arm. “Yes,” he agrees. “But I’m grateful we didn’t have to wait any longer. I’m not going to let anything happen to you.”

He’s said that before. He said it the night we spent at Mazelinka’s house, and when we were in the library. And he’ll say it again, I’m sure.

I wonder, briefly, painfully, how many people he’s lost to “something happening,” that would make him so eager to repeat such a sentiment.

“I won’t either.”

“What’s that?”

I snuggle closer to him and tilt my head back to look him in the eye. “I won’t let anything happen to you, either. You… mean a lot to me.”

“You mean a lot to me, too, my dear. More than, erm, more than I could possibly say.” He blinks, letting the smile that had been floating at the corners of his mouth blossom. “Not that I won’t try, though.”

But he doesn’t have to say anything. Not right now. It’s enough, for the moment, to lay here with him, our hearts beating in tandem.

I doze off to the steady sound of his breath and awaken only after the sunlight has moved down the wall, to Asra stepping into the room without knocking. He looks haggard, already worn out by the work he’s done to set the stage for our adventure.

He pushes his hair back from his forehead and sighs. “It’s time.”

—————

Skylar belongs to @ollifree​.

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[katedoesfics]

Lacuna | Chapter 4

“Debt collector’s agency?” Gale echoed. He hesitated. “There is such a thing… but I didn’t know your father had any debt. Next time they stop by, send them to me so we can work out a deal. You’ve worked hard for Portia, so it’s the least we can do.”

Kahli sighed. “Thanks,” she muttered. She couldn’t believe it was true, which is why she came to the mayor as soon as she could. But it seemed that there was a very real possibility that it was true, and that her father had left her to clean up his mess.

“You should also have a talk with Martha,” Gale continued. “She had to deal with some debt when her husband passed. Maybe she can give you some legal pointers?”

It was better than nothing, and it gave her a chance to see more of the town instead of being stuck in a workshop without a clue as to what to do. She followed Gale’s directions until she found Martha. After introducing herself, she explained the situation to her.

“I’m so sorry to hear that you’re dealing with your father’s debt,” Martha said, sounding sincere. “Though, from what I can remember, he didn’t seem like the type who’d be in debt. I’ve had to deal with the debt agency before. The point man around Portia is actually Mr. Isaac, so they’re very easy to deal with and very fair. Don’t worry too much!”

“Isaac?” Kahli echoed. She raised a brow. “That’s not who approached me.”

“That can’t be right,” Martha started. “Unless something happened that I’m not aware of. Mr. Isaac should still be the sole representative in our town. Maybe you should talk with him. I’m sure he’ll set the record straight.”

It seemed she would be spending the day running around town. But at least she could put off ruin diving for another day.

The older gentleman wasn’t hard to find, and to her surprise, he confirmed what she so desperately needed to hear.

“What are you yapping about? Your father didn’t have any debt. Heck, I’d even classify him as a penny pincher during his time here. Whoever came to you wasn’t from the debt agency.”

“They called themselves Agent T and Agent H,” Kahli explained.

“Tuss and Huss!” Isaac growled. “These two buffoons are at it again!”

“I’m sorry?”

“Those two idiots are brothers from around Portia. They’re bandits, or at least they try to be. They make some trouble now and then, but they’re mostly just a pair of imbeciles.”

Kahil wanted to feel relieved that there was no debt to be paid, but she wasn’t sure how much trouble these two men would cause her. “What should I do?”

“Well, I’d ignore them, but that’s just me. Maybe you can have the Civil Corps do something about it.”

Kahli sighed. At the very least, it seemed the people of Portia were familiar with these two. Hopefully they would be dealt with swiftly. The last thing she needed, however, was an enemy making trouble for her in the future.

Kahli found her way up the hill toward the Civil Corps building. Arlo was standing outside at the stables, grooming his horse.

“And what do I owe this pleasure?” he said in greeting.

“I hear you can take care of problems,” Kahli said.

Arlo grinned. “Maybe I can. What trouble have you gotten into already?”

Kahli explained the situation to him, and Arlo laughed.

“Huss and Tuss? Doing what? Ha! That’s pretty clever of them.”

Kahli crossed her arms and raised a brow. “Hysterical.”

Arlo cleared his throat. “How much time did they give you? A week? I’ll be sure to show up that morning as well.”

“That’s it? You’re just gonna show up and tell ‘em to piss off? I could have done that.”

“They’re harmless,” Arlo assured her. “Don’t worry. I’ll take care of it. No damsels in distress on my watch, hm?”

“Listen,” Kahli sneered. “I’m not a damsel.” She stuck her nose up at him and turned away. “Next time I see ‘em I’m punching their lights out.”

“You know, you really shouldn’t tell me that, because then I’d have to arrest ya.”

“Do it!”

Arlo folded his arms over his chest and grinned as she stormed away.

She wasn’t exactly thrilled with his response, but then again, it was a relief that he wasn’t more concerned. Maybe they were harmless, but still, it was not the way she wanted to start her day. She wanted to hit something. Hard.

She stopped in front of the ruin in town. Guess she would be doing some mining after all. A perfect way to take out some of her frustration.

It was easy to lose track of time in the dark ruins. And to her surprise, she didn’t tire as quickly as she thought she would. It was getting late in the evening when she finally stepped out, her bag full of what she hoped would be enough copper and tin to start smelting the bars she would need to being work on the bridge.

She dropped her materials in the workshop and, feeling like she had a successful day, she turned in for the night, sleep taking over as soon as her head hit the pillow.

To her relief, Huss and Tuss did not make an appearance the next morning, and she was left to her own devices, puttering away in the workshop as she attempted to work the machines. Like the ruins, she lost track of time in the run down building, and by the timer her stomach reminded her to eat dinner, she had enough wood planks, copper pipes and bronze plates to being construction of the bridge.

The following morning, she began the process of lugging the materials down to the river. She dumped everything on the ground, and with her hands on her hips, she stared at the river. She had a general idea of how to being building the bridge, but as she looked at the space between the shores, the task seemed daunting.

She sighed. All she could do was just begin. And the most logical thing to start with was the legs of the bridge. Which would need to be placed in the water. How convenient.

With a hammer and nails and a bag full of tools, she rolled up her pants and set to work. It took her the majority of the morning to get two of the four legs completed, and it was only after losing many nails in the sand and a lot of cursing. She banged her thumb so many times she thought it would be flattened by the end of the day. Still, she wasn’t about to give up. She had nothing else going for herself. The least she could do was prove she could build a damn bridge.

Then again, if she ended up a total failure, maybe she could convince Huss and Tuss to help her fake her own death so she could leave town forever.

She was finishing the second leg of the bridge when she heard the sound of trotting hooves coming near. She bit her lip, ignoring whoever was coming up the road, and focused on keeping the leg anchored down in the water. She squatted and leaned forward in an attempt to reach the piece she needed, but the sand slipped from underfoot, and with a shout, she fell into the river, completely submerged.

She cursed when she broke the surface and coughed out the water she accidentally swallowed in her surprise. She pushed her wet hair out of her face, and when she blinked the water out of her eyes, she met Arlo’s gaze, a grin plastered on his face.

“I know you’re not a damsel in distress,” he started. “But can I at least offer a hand?”

“I’m swimming,” Kahli said stubbornly.

“Fully clothed?”

“What? Were you expecting me to be naked?”

His cheeks reddened slightly. “Most people wear a bathing suit.”

“Well, I guess I’m not most people,” she muttered.

“No. I guess not.” He stretched out a hand, and Kahli begrudgingly took it, letting him pull her out of the water.

She groaned and looked down at herself. She pulled her hair into a pony tail and sighed. She sat on the ground, her arms folded across her chest.

“Are you… pouting?”

“No!”

Arlo sat beside her. Neither of them spoke for a moment. Kahli watched his horse graze, his tail swishing listlessly in the breeze.

“Can I tell you a secret?” Kahli finally said.

“Sure.”

“I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing.”

Arlo smiled. “You fooled me.”

Kahli rolled her eyes. “Shut up.”

“You know,” he started. “No one expects you to solve the world’s problems or anything.”

Kahli sighed. “I can’t even build a damn bridge.”

“For someone who has never picked up a hammer in her life, I think you’re far exceeding anyone’s expectations.”

Kahli blew a wet strand of hair out of her face. “I’m not my father,” she said. “I think everyone assumes I am.”

“No one thinks that.”

“Good,” she said. “I’d never want to be compared to him.”

Arlo glanced at her, hesitant.

“Whatever,” she grumbled. She got to her feet and turned to stare at her work so far.

“Can I help?” Arlo asked, standing at her side.

Kahli scoffed. “Please. You go ride into the sunset and leave the tough work to the damsels.”

Arlo laughed. “Suit yourself,” he said, turning away from her.

“Wait.” Kahli hesitated. “My thumb really hurts.”

“I’m not a doctor.”

“Just,” she snapped, then sighed. “Can you please help me figure this shit out? I can’t hammer my thumb any more…”

Arlo smiled. “Alright,” he said. “But I want credit for this. I want my named carved into this thing and a plaque.”

“You can have a piece of pie.”

“Deal.”

[thecardsimagine]

Of shipwrecks and seafoam

Summary: Let me tell you a story about a pirate and a merman, finding a love that goes beyond insecurities and death. Let yourself be taken away onto a journey about doubt and secrets, understanding and a bond that even goes beyond the deep blue of the ocean.

Pairing: Merman!Julian Devorak x Pirate!Reader (Nonbinary) Rating: Mature because of swearing and suggestive content Warning: Blood, Death, Killing Genre: Romance, Drama, Alternate Universe ____________________________________________________________

ADDITIONAL WARNINGS FOR THIS CHAPTER: Near-death experience, Self-loathing, Vomit ____________________________________________________________

a/n: The last complicated chapter, I swear! Please enjoy it, it is a little different than the others because I wanted to convey a certain amount of insanity creeping up on our beloved reader. I hope you all like it still!

Tagging: @julians-chest-hair / @sireennotsiren ____________________________________________________________

Chapter 10 - Alone on the deep, dark Sea

The first two days were splendid, at least you thought they were. You rationed your food properly, you made sure to always have water and not burn too much wood. The wind was merciful to you, and you barely had to row at all. On day three, you found some salvage and gained a linen bag and some planks. You were happy, it was alright.

Sometimes, you missed the calm nights at the beach. When it got dark, you felt scared by the water bubbling around you and what could lurk underneath. But you slapped yourself whenever you got too scared, sure to keep you sane.

On day four, you got seasick for the first time. You had never gotten seasick before. You were a pirate, how pathetic could you be. Day five and you felt like shit all day, barely able to stay on course and only doing the minimum necessary. On day six, you felt a little better and found out that one of the dried fish had rotten, so you flung it into the ocean where it immediately sunk under the surface. You wondered if something might have lured, but you shook off the feeling with some better judgment.

By day eight, you had disposed of all fish because all of them had started to rot and attract flies. You only ate fresh ones now. But it was okay, not as bad as expected. Cut yourself once trying to gut a fish, and the salt water stung when you put your hand into the ocean. The thought crossed your mind that with some seaweed, it might heal better, and you hated on yourself for thinking about it.

The day after that, the sun shone for the first time without a cloud in the sky. It felt amazing, and you took it as a godsend sign that your actions had been right. For a while, you sunbathed, then you went back to rowing your raft forward, always in the same direction. Soon there would be land you hoped, and you looked forward to it a lot.

After that, everything started to go under. You were able to peel off your sunburned skin. Nevermind the dizziness you felt even though you covered your head with the bag you found. You felt sick in every fiber of your being, there was just water, water, water, sun. Fish, seafoam, bubbles, water, sun. You had made it to day ten but at what price.

Ocean, ocean, ocean, ocean.

Water, water, water, water.

You, you, you, you.

God, you couldn’t stand yourself anymore.

Scooping up some saltwater to your lips, you let it rush through your mouth before spitting it out. You lost count of how often you had to throw up by now. Did you catch something from all the fish you were eating? Was it the sun? Were you seasick? You couldn’t even pinpoint the reason anymore. But it made you weak, so incredibly weak.

Not only your body was done for by now, so was your mind. You had an infection on your hand, your eye wouldn’t stop losing some kind of secretion, and you were shivering all the time even though you were burning up from a fever. The compass had long found its place on a hook unmoving for days as you just couldn’t get up and do anything anymore. It was a wonder you were still alive and had not died from starvation yet. The only thing you did take was water every now and then.

Your thoughts weren’t better. They were blaming you for giving up, for not finding back to civilization already, though you knew that it would still have taken a lot of time to get back in the first place. But they just kept nagging and bothering you as if they had nothing better to do. Kept reminding you what you could have done better to not get so sick and not get so pathetic. You just wanted them to be quiet, and with whatever strength you had, you shouted into the blue nothing for them to shut up.

And then they cried out for Julian.

Maybe it was your heart pulling the strings in the background, but your mind kept reminding you of him, told you that you were nothing without him now. That you always had run away, that you never faced your fears. Never tried to understand him, never listened. This was your punishment, it was all your fault. You were to blame, you fucked up. All your fault, all your fault, all your fault.

At some point, you managed to stop listening.

Laying on your raft you looked up at the pale blue sky, the sun roasting your body. Ah, you loved him. You loved him so much, you never loved anyone like this before. Maybe your parents, not your captain for sure. Your captain really loved his second mate, you never had a chance. But Julian-

Julian had loved you too. Every fiber of his being had loved you, even though he was different from you. Had there ever been something as amazing as the feeling of him kissing you back, wanting you just as much as you wanted him. Even if he didn’t know it, his heart hurt because you went away, he must have loved you so much if it made him feel these things. Like on a broken instrument, the words he told you played over and over in your mind, they were bitterly beautiful.

Given, you had too much time to think about these things now. What else was there to do? You couldn’t forgive his species for what they did, and you surely could never justify him helping. If he had really liked you, even just a tiny bit, had it really been necessary for him to assist still? Did he not develop a small speck of respect for humans - at least enough to hold back on experimenting on them even if it was just for your sake? Had the pressure been too much to expect this from him?

But when you managed to set these doubts aside, another face rolled into your mind: Portia. Even though you had barely listened after she revealed what was really going on, you had never spared her previous words any thought. You remembered them as something along the lines of “No one knew you were up here,” and “You are precious to my brother.” If those were true - by any chance that she lacked the ability to lie as she simply didn’t have to, and you believed her words as she was very open with you - then Julian had spoken the truth too. No matter if he initially tried to use you, he had never put you into any danger, never telling anyone about you.

You still remembered his gentle touches when he would tend to your wounds, or even just put the seaweed tighter around your hand. And you remembered all the tones he would let out occasionally, from his whines to chortles whenever he laughed. How high his voice was when he was excited, but how melodic it could be when he was serious. And you remembered the two kisses you shared, one sheepish, the other passionate. The way he immediately went for it, even though he probably still didn’t know what he was doing at all. Maybe, just maybe, because it felt right for him too.

Rolling over you hung your head over the side of the raft, spitting out what got stuck in your mouth. You loved him so much it made you sick. And he had been right. All along had he known he loved you, he even told you. He wasn’t the stupid one, telling you ‘Things he didn’t understand’! You were stupid! It had all been you! From the very beginning!

Moving back into your position, you spread out your limbs, taking deep breaths. Oh, if only destiny had some mercy on you and disposed of you now. You would never make it back alive, probably dying from dehydration and infections before reaching any shore. A storm, a shark, a freaking mermaid, anything would have sealed the deal now. Oh, you wished you could have seen Julian only once again, made sure to apologize, listened.

Forgive him. If only your heart had the chance to tell him what love is. What a lucky human you would have been if you could have just openly told him, “I love you too!” Only once, one time. But more than ever before, you were alone now. Alone on the deep, dark ocean, where you could neither see anything to your left, nor to your right, nor below, nor above. Your life was no adventure anymore. No glorious story to tell your grandchildren. It was a Tragedy, soon to end as such, you could feel it. With the last strength you had, you cried out to anything and nothing at all.

“Julian!” you screamed, tears burning up in your eyes. “I’m sorry! I’m so sorry for everything!” But, of course, there was nothing reacting to your cries. “I didn’t listen! I ran away again!” Your voice cracked, being overtaken by sobs. “I broke my promise, I am so sorry!” The last sentence was barely a loud whimper, pressing out with the last bit of air in your lungs. ‘God,’ you thought. ‘Just let it be over soon.’ And as if you had been heard, your eyes wouldn’t open anymore as you drifted off into unconsciousness, limbs falling to the side of your body. It got calm around you, your tears drying out. It was peaceful, but it was just as lonely, and it made you fear what was coming next. Even if it was for the better and you had tried to find some inner peace with your last sentences, it was a tragedy, nonetheless.

In your dream, you were lucid. You knew it was not the reality, but you weren’t able to determine if this was the afterlife or a simple fever dream. Back on board of your pirate ship you watched as the opposing ship crashed into it for the first time. You had had these dream before, all the time as you had build your raft but never had you been able to feel the shaking just as much as this time. You fell to the ground, and while the ship rocked up and down, you were trapped under something. A mass you couldn’t make out. It held you down, making sure you were not going to fall off again.

That part had been new. Up until now, you always had fallen down, sinking into the cold water until you could see again and would stare into the bloody faces of your comrades. But not this time. The thing pinning you down was heavy, and it was unpleasantly wet, but as fast as the shaking had occurred, as soon it disappeared, and with it, the weight. In a matter of seconds, you were back on a calm beach, like the one you had woken up on before.

Even in this lucid dream, you could not get up from the ground, having to experience how a gooey mass started to build all around you. It took up your feet first, then your legs, then your torso. In no time you were awash with it, slowly creeping up onto your face until only your mouth stuck out. You shut your eyes tighter, trying to not get it into them. After what felt like an eternity in the mass, the scene changed once more, to a wooden dock somewhere.

You just instinctively knew it was connected to the mainland, it was what you always had wanted to reach, you were finally there! Quickly, you stood up, walking over the wood, feeling it under your feet. “Where are you going?” a voice asked, and you knew it so well. Turning around, you looked at Julian who watched you expectantly. His head on his crossed arms, he leaned on the dock, his eyes shining curiously.

“Home! I am finally back!” you laughed, not believing yourself that you had really made it. “I can’t follow you there, [Name],” he calmly noted, and your laugh disappeared, being replaced by a frown. Walking back to him, you sat down, not minding him hug your body and laying in your lap. “Please don’t leave.”

“Why do you keep saying that?” you asked, wondering about it as you very much recalled him not wanting you to leave before too. “It’s dangerous. I can’t follow where you are going, I can’t help or protect you there.” His grip on you tightened, and you brushed your hand through his hair. “If only you were human,” you mumbled thoughtfully. “Then you could come too!” In your lap, he shook his head. “No, [Name]. I can’t go there.” Questioning, you urged him to look up at you. “But if you were human-”

“No,” he said firmly, pointing at something behind you. “Look closely.”

You turned around, looking into a deep, dark forest that laid behind you. There were long, sturdy vines, tall trees, lush greens. But the harder you looked, the more everything seemed to turn into dust, crumbling the longer you watched it. Soon it was overtaken by darkness, a darkness that closed in on you faster and faster, swallowing the dock whole.

A hand came up to your face, cupping your cheek and turning it to you. “Don’t go, [Name]. Living things don’t go there, and it’s not where you belong either. Come with me,” he said, taking your hand in his. With a mild panic, you looked behind you again watching everything crumbling away when you felt his tug on your arm. This time, you didn’t run away from his touch, and you gripped his wrist just as strongly, letting yourself be pulled into the water.

Immediately, you were surrounded by millions of bubbles as you sank, deeper and deeper into the blue ocean. Your eyes wouldn’t open no matter how hard you tried to look around. But even if you panicked at first, you soon realized you could breathe just fine. Desperately you touched around you, trying to find Julian, but you didn’t have to wait long for one strong arm to embrace you, resting at your hips and drawing small circles on your back. You knew it was him, his claw sharp against your skin, but he was gentle as ever, not hurting you in the least. Something, only he would do.

“It’s okay, [Name]. I am here,” you heard him say. It was odd to listen to him underneath the water. “I will make everything right, I swear. I’m so sorry for everything.”

“You don’t have to, we can do it together.” It cost you a lot of strength to open your mouth and speak. But the minute the words left your lips, it seemed so much easier. “You’re not alone in this.” You still couldn’t open your eyes, no matter how hard you tried, but you were relieved to feel his forehead against yours, the cooling sensation feeling good against your heated skin. “I love you, Julian. I love you so much, I am so sorry for what I did.”

From his throat an appreciative chortle erupted, making you laugh, though you could only huff. He sounded so pleased with what you said. “Me too, I love you too. I love you more than anything I have ever experienced before.”

“More than any other human you met before?” He chuckled, sounding like the voice of an angel falling upon you.

“More than any creature I ever met before. In fact, more than any fish I’ve ever seen before! More than any crab! More than-”

“Idiot,” you chuckled. “Idiot yourself,” he retorted quickly, though his tone of voice was playful. “How nice, two idiots for each other,” you mumbled, voice slowly fading out. “I’m tired,” you noted quietly. “That’s fine. Sleep, and then come back to me.” Moving your head up and down in a tiny motion, you concentrated on his breathing, his hand on your back. Julian began to hum softly, a fine tune you had heard before. Once you had described it as a song that your mother would have hummed to you, but now you knew it was Julian who sung for you, letting you feel his care in the form of a lullaby. The emotions you could not understand when you saw them before, spilled out in the notes he hit, and it made you live through everything that had happened no matter if it was good or bad.

It was the most beautiful thing you had ever heard.

[aria-i-adagio]

See the Machinations

Masterpost.  Chapter One.  

Fandom: The Arcana

Chapter Rating: T

Next morning I wake with a throbbing head and a nearly empty jar in the floor next to my bed. No label.  We got it as a little bonus from a happy customer, as mean a half pint of white dog moonshine as was ever distilled in backyard - perfect for my mood last night.  I only remember drinking the first three quarters of it, after my strange guests had left.  I opened it up when the comments continued in my head, some from the cards, some - I think - from some separate part of me were too much, all of them, and I needed them to stop, or at least be silent, if only for a little while.  The cards stopped whispering unwelcome knowledge in my ears about halfway through the jar.  

I sit up with a groan, pinching the bridge of my nose.  At least this headache is one that I can get rid of easily enough, and one I actually earned.  I stumble into the kitchen and run a glass of water from the tap, drinking half of it before rummaging through the cabinet for a potion designed to end the hangover.  The taste it leaves on my tongue is brackish and somehow sad, reminding me that the tank on the roof has not seen fresh rain in way too long.  The summer drought has been relentless this year   I measure out the dose into the remaining water and toss it back like a shot.  Disgusting.  Foul tasting concoction - I could improve the flavor, but something seems appropriate about leaving it nasty.

I flop back on the bed and stare at the ceiling, waiting for the potion to kick in.  I wish Faust was here.  When I’m hungover, she usually curls her cool body over my forehead while Asra tuts his general disapproval of self destructive tendencies and makes tea for me.  I close my eyes and cover them with my arm to block out more of the light.  The ominous readings from the cards the prior night still bothered me, as did the stranger who had broken in.  Something seemed familiar about him.  Something other than that ghastly mask.  And the Countess … Shit.

I climb back out of bed and push the curtain back from the window.  Late morning.  Still time to make it to the Palace.  If I even wanted to go to the Palace.  I scrub my fingers over my eyes and turn back to the kitchen.  Do I have a choice?  I don’t need Asra’s cards to tell me that if I don’t get my ass there on my own, the Countess will send someone to fetch me. 

A large pot of coffee later, I’m sitting at the kitchen table with scrap of paper in front of me, lit pipe in one hand, and the window propped because Asra hates it when I smoke inside.  I scratch out a list of tasks I need to accomplish before leaving, as otherwise they’ll be out of my head before I can cross the room.  No customers are scheduled to pick up orders; I can leave the shop closed, but I have a couple of tinctures that do need to be strained and bottled before they over extract, and the day after a new moon is the best time to start several others.

“Dema!”  My ears perk up when someone calls my name from the bottom of the stair.  Other than me and Asra, there’s only one other person I know of who has a key to the shop.  I shout back without getting up from the table.  She knows her own way up through the shop and to the apartment upstairs.

“I’m up here, Artemis.”

Artemis is the only person besides Asra I really know.  And perhaps the only person I know.  I have a handful of drinking buddies at the pubs I frequent, but those relationships have never extend beyond shared drinks and the occasional, usually ill-advised, hook up.  She’s a midwife in the city, a regular customer for simples and other supplies, and I don’t remember not having her as a friend.  What little I know about my aunt has mostly come from her.  Artemis’s mothers had apparently both been her customers for decades.

She appears at the top of the stairs a moment later and sits across from me at the table without preamble, shooting a displeased look at my burning pipe.  “I wish you’d quit that habit.”  I shrug and take another draw from the pipe, blowing the smoke out the window.

“Want some coffee?  Or tea?  I can make you some.”

“Coffee sounds pretty good.”

I absently gesture with my free hand, summoning a second mug from the cabinet.  She takes the mug - not quite from the air, but close enough - and fills it for herself.  “I got worried when I saw the shop wasn’t open.  Asra gone?”

“New moon last night.”

“Mmhm.”  She drinks her coffee without a trace of surprise.  I’m fairly certain that I’m the only reason Artemis tolerates Asra.  “For good this time?”

I roll my eyes at her.  “He left his tarot deck.”

“Hmph.”  She pours herself another cup of coffee and looks generally disgusted.  Tolerates Asra might be too strong of a phrase.

“More interesting than most new moons.” 

“Oh?”  She raises her eyebrow in interest.  “Customer?  Or did you go out and finally find someone pretty enough to get you to dump Asra?”

“We’re not even -”

“- exactly.  He doesn’t pay you enough for the way he treats you?”

“He doesn’t pay me anything.”

She sets her mug down on the table and looks me in the eyes.  “And then acts like you’re some sort of pet.  What would you lose?”

One of the two people who actually give a damn about me.  I don’t understand half of what Asra is up to, and sometimes, I want to smack him, but I’m convinced that he does care.  I take another very deliberate puff on my pipe, knowing that it’ll annoy her.  “Want me to tell you what actually happened?”

“I suppose.  I still like my version better.”

 With an exasperated sigh, I begin to summarize last night’s parade of events, from the card readings to the Countess and her offer - if it was indeed an offer and not a command - to come to the Palace.  When I reach the part about the doctor, her eyebrows shoot up.  “What did he say his name was?”

“Julian.  Why?”

She breaks eye contact for a moment and mutters something about dramatics under her breath.  What does she know?  “I think that you should take the Countess up on her offer.”

“You do?”  I let her change of subject pass.  Artemis is more forthcoming than Asra is about the past, but there are still things she won’t tell me.  Especially if she observes any sign of an impending headache and the ever looming prospect that I’ll lose track of place and time for several days from some hint of what lays beyond the fog obscuring my past.  And Artemis is very observant.

“Yes.”  She takes another sip of her coffee.  “A lot of things happened around the time of the Count’s demise.  Sorting those out - it might be good for a lot of people - good for you.”

“You aren’t going to tell me more than that, are you?”

She looks down at her hands, curled around the mug, then repeats what she said before.  “I think you should accept the offer.  Besides, you need something to do other than day drinking.”

“You know me too well.”

“It’s hard to know you too well, Dema.”  She pats my hand, smiling warmly, and finishes off the coffee, setting the mug aside and standing up.  “Well, chica, I’ve got patients to see, but I’ll be around if you need anything.  And Sibyl will feed you if I’m not around.  You can’t just live on pumpkin bread.”

~~~  

I didn’t carry much with me through the streets: a small bag with a notebook and pencil, a change of clothes, a heavier jacket, and Asra’s cards.  Walking through the streets helps to clear my head.  It always does, even when I have nowhere in particular to go.  The pressure on the soles of my feet shifts with each step, and the chatter and clatter from the shops and houses around me, that living, breathing world so mindful of its own business, drowns out the roaring nothingness.  The road I take to the Palace slopes up sharply, resorting at points to stairs for pedestrians.  Time passes quickly enough as I let myself get lost in the sun on my skin and the straining muscles in my legs.  I should take walks more often, I know, but there’s always something to do to keep me from it.

The sun is low in the sky when I reach the bridge that leads over to the palace.  Two guards are standing at the gates.  They cross their spears as I walk up.  That was to be expected.  I just hope my thoughts don’t show up on my face.

“Beggars aren’t welcome.  Keep moving.”

I straighten my jacket before answering.  “I’m not a beggar.  The Countess invited me.”

The male guard chuckles and bends over to get a closer look at me.  “Her Excellency invited you?  Are you mad, or just a liar?”

“I don’t tell lies.”  My reply is a hiss through straight lips.  No smile on them before, but the way his gaze wanders puts him on my internal blacklist.  Not that I’d deny I might be mad, but I didn’t hallucinate the Countess.  That would be a novel experience; although, I suppose that I should never say never.

“Bludmila! Ludovico!”  The staring contest I’ve started with the guard is interrupted by a short woman who pushes the gate open from the other side and walks confidently past the guards, red hair bobbing behind her like an angry cloud.  “What are you doing?  Weren’t you told that Milady has a guest arriving this evening?”

“Portia -”  The male guard straightens, but lowers his eyes in a submissive manner.  He almost seems a bit scared of the tiny redhead ?  “We - we weren’t told to expect someone like this.”

“Really?  About my height?”  She walks up beside me and lifts her hand to indicate our roughly equal stature, then lifts a lock of my hair.  The overly familiar action startles me, and I edge away from her.  “Strawberry blonde hair?”

“We were told to expect a magician, Miss Portia.  Not -”  The female guard gestures toward me, clearly lost for words.

“A peasant?”  I offer.  I know my fashion sense is essentially non existent, and the clothes I have on might be a bit worn, but really?  “Guttersnipe?  Gremlin?”

Portia rolls her eyes.  “It’s a good thing that I came by.  Milady would be most put out if you turned away her guest.”  She takes my arm in hers, holding it too tightly for me to pull away immediately without being rude, and smiles warmly.  “Come with me, Dema.  I’m Portia, Countess Nadia’s handmaid.”  She leads me up onto the arching bridge.  “Milady was about to have me take a carriage down to find you.  We thought perhaps you were expecting that.”

“A carriage?  That hardly seems necessary.”  I can count the number of times I’ve ridden in a carriage on a single hand.     

 The moat beneath the bridge is more ornamental than defensive in nature.  Looking over the railing of the bridge gives me an excuse to pull my arm out of Portia’s grasp.  Golden fish dart between shelter of the floating lily pads that half cover the water below.  Deeper in the water, strange, ghostly tendrils waver above the pebbles that line the bottom of the moat.  The undulating shapes are perfectly hypnotic in the still water.

Portia glances down and then turns, leaning back against the ornate railing so that we’re facing each other.  “Gorgeous, aren’t they?  Do you like animals?”

“Hmm … yes, I like animals.”  Several stray cats had half taken up residence in the backyard of the shop due my habit of feeding them.  But it’s a maddeningly vague question.  Most people like some sort of animal, or like to eat animals, but I suppose it’s well enough for polite conversation.  “Are those even animals?”  

“They are, but don’t get too friendly with those.  They’re vampire eels.  If they latch onto a man they’ll suck him dry in minutes.”  

What possible reason could someone have to keep an animal that dangerous?  And how foolish!  The castle moat connects in with the system of canals in the system, and while several watergates separate the moat from the canals, I can’t see how the eels would be stopped by bars placed at six inch intervals.

“But don’t worry, most of the old count’s menagerie is friendly enough.  Come.  Dinner was almost prepared when I left.”  She takes my hand again.  I try not to shiver or let my discomfort show on my face.  She seems more friendly than overbearing.  Some people are just used to touching a lot.  Even with people they don’t actually know at all.       

Portia leads me through the marble hallways of the palace.  Passing servants nod at her as we sweep through the halls at a rapid clip.  She guides me into an ornate dining room, then pats my hand.  “Just wait here.  Milady will be down in a moment.  I’m off to tell the kitchen to start sending up dinner.”  She disappears through a swinging door at the side of the room, leaving me alone in front of a long, polished table.

The ceiling in the dining room must be at least twenty feet high.  Narrow windows on the opposite wall are hung with long crimson curtains that have been tied back to allow the last rays of the setting sun into the room.  The wall across from those windows is dominated by a massive painting that portrays animal headed figures at a banquet.  The table is littered with smaller animals, prepared for a feast that is overseen by a massive, red eyed goat.  Strange, but I suppose I shouldn’t be shocked that some animals are more equal than others in a palace like this.  The painting is the kind of ostentatious piece I would expect from people with more wealth than they could possibly enjoy in a single lifetime, a vapid attempt to depict an allegory that the artist clearly was clearly trying to force into their art.  At least they probably got a nice commision out of it.    

“What do you think?”

I turn at the unexpected voice.  The woman from last night - Countess Nadia - stands next to me.  She’s dressed in loose flowing robes that have been gathered at her waist by a golden belt set with gemstones.  It’s probably what she considers loungewear.

“Of the painting?  It’s very red, my lady.”  Now is probably not the best time to run off at the mouth about conspicuous consumption.  Red seems like an appropriately diplomatic descriptor.

“That it is.  But do you like it?”

I shake my head; I’ve no inclination to filter myself when asked a direct question.  “No.”

“Bold to enter someone’s house and critique their decorating.”

“Pardon me, my lady, but I thought that you desired honesty, not flattery.”

Her eyebrows raise, and - much to my surprise - she smiles slightly.  “I do.  Please, elaborate.  What do you find displeasing?”

I gesture to the figures surrounding the goat.  “Look at their expressions.  They seem ensorcelled.  They aren’t at this table of their own accord, and their pleasure is feigned - an attempt to please, to placate.  And the goat -”  I pause, but given what I’ve already said, I might as well continue.  “An odd choice to place in the position of a leader.  Goats are fearless, but reckless.  They charge ahead with no regard for the consequences.  A goat is just as likely to destroy as it is to do anything else.”

The Countess nods solemnly then sits in the chair at the head of the table, gesturing for me to join her.  “You certainly are fearless when it comes to speaking your mind.  One might even say reckless.”  

Fidgeting with the hem of my jacket, I take a seat beside her.  The place setting is more lavish than any I’ve seen, and the opulence is more discomfiting than I would have predicted.  I had hoped to simply not be impressed.  An unnecessary number of utensils surround a large gilded plate and multiple stemmed glasses dot the corners of the setting.  I have no idea what purpose the different shapes serve, or which the order in which I should pick them up.

“I’ll admit that I don’t care for the painting myself, but it was a favorite of my late husband’s.  He liked to see himself as a provider for the people.”  The people, eh?  None of the well dressed animals seem like they have much in common with the average person in Vesuvia.  The Countess picks up a delicate brass bell and rings it, waiting for the world to respond to her reverberations. 

The doors at the end of the hallway swing open.  A footman enters carrying a silver tray.  He sets a bowl in front of each of us.  Portia follows him closely, bearing a decanter of white wine.  She fills the narrower of the two glasses in front of the Countess, then the one in my place setting.

“Thank you.”

I pick up the bowl of soup and sip from the edge.  It’s chilled, rich with cream and crisp and fresh with cucumber, cilantro, and mint in some sort of yogurt base.  Refreshing and perfect for the summer weather.  I don’t understand the need for so much tableware, but I can appreciate good food.

The Countess arches her eyes at me and pointedly picks up the larger spoon from beside her plate.  She delicately scoops up the soup and brings it to her mouth with a single smooth motion, leaving the bowl sitting on the plate beneath it.  I mimic her expression, but otherwise I continue to hold the bowl near my mouth.  

“As you must know, Dema, it’s been three years since we last held the Masquerade.  I’m told the people still remember it fondly.”

I nod over my soup, and continue to enjoy it in an entirely undainty and perversely pleasurable fashion.  I know that there was a annual masquerade in the city until three years ago, but I don’t have any memory, fond or otherwise of the event itself.

“I plan to restart the tradition this year.  The festivities will begin in thirteen days, but I find that it is necessary to first address the issue of why the event ceased in the first place - the late Count’s murder.”

I set the soup bowl back down on the plate.  The china rings harder than I expected from the impact, and for a moment, I’m afraid it will shatter beneath my awkward hands.  “My lady, I don’t see what this has to do with me.”

“I need you to help me catch my husband’s murderer.  I plan to begin the masquerade with his hanging.  Public.”

“A public hanging to begin the Masquerade!”  Once started, I can’t stop myself.  “You want a display of public bloodlust for your opening act?”  No wonder she doesn’t sleep at night.

“Perhaps that seems extreme.”  She lowers her eyes and glances off to the side, refusing to meet my gaze.  “But the man must be brought to justice.  He confessed to the murder three years ago, but he escaped.  For the sake of restoring a sense of order to the city.”  The doorway swings open and Portia reappears, carrying a different decanter.  She leans over my right and begins to fill the wider goblet in front of me with red wine.  “The guard and networks employed by my courtiers have failed me.  But I believe that your magic - and you - can help me find him and finally see Julian Devorak executed for the Count Lucio’s murder.” 

There’s a gasp to from Portia, and then the glass decanter shatters across the floor.  The wine creeps out, forming a slowly growing pool of crimson against the polished marble tiles.  My own hand clutches the stem of my wine glass, knuckles rigid and straining.  The man last night told me to call him Julian and carried a plague doctor’s mask.  But even the last name sounded familiar, even if I couldn’t place it.

“Portia!  Whatever is the matter?”

“Sorry, milady, uh, slippery fingers.”

“No matter, my dear, don’t fret over it.”  Nadia waves her hand and two other servants rush in with towels to wipe up the worst of the spill.  There’s genuine warmth in her eyes when she looks at Portia - the first unguarded emotion I’ve observed from her.  She looks back over at me.  “I don’t care for what I’m suggesting, but I believe it necessary.  Think it over tonight and give me your answer in the morning.”  The Countess rubs at her temples then pushes her chair back from the table.  “I fear this topic has left me with little appetite.  You must excuse me.  Portia, would you escort our guest to her room, and see that dinner is brought to her there.”  With that the Countess turns, her gown swirling behind her, and exits the dining room.

Portia looks over at me and bites her lip nervously for a moment.  “Sorry about that, Dema, I’m usually not so clumsy.”

I shrug and take a roll from the basket in the center of the table before standing.  The crust is crisp and golden, but the steam still rising from it suggests a soft interior.  “No matter.  The topic was turning my stomach too.  I’ll take this, but no need for a full dinner.”

“If you say so.  Come with me.”  

I pick at the roll I took from the table as Portia once again leads me through the palace hallways.  She greets each of the servants we pass by name, pausing once to inquire about one’s son and enthusiastically embracing them at the news the child’s fever had broken.  I decide to forgive her overly unfamiliar actions at the bridge.  Her friendliness seems to be a genuine expression of warmth and concern.

“You must have worked here for sometime.”

“Hmm.  Oh no, not that long really.  I only arrived about a year before milady woke up.”   Realizing that she’s said too much, she claps a hand over her mouth.

“Woke up?”

“Well.”  She pulls me into darkened and dusty side hall.  We stop beside an even dustier stairwell.  “If you’re investigating the Count’s murder, I suppose you’ll have to know at some point.  Milady was asleep for a long time after the murder.  No one could wake her.  Then, about three months ago, she just woke up.”  She looks down at her feet.  “You won’t tell anyone that I told you that, will you?”

I shake my head.  Until I know more of what is a stake in this game, it’s best to play my cards close to my chest.  “Who’s been running the city?”

“The courtiers.  Mostly Consul Valerius.”

“That’s news.”  By in large, the Countess is blamed for the current state of the city.  The central districts were in decent shape, but the further from the palace one gets, the worse conditions become, and the complaints about the Countess grew louder.  While wandering the city aimlessly I had seen eroded embankments allowing streets and homes to flood.  Alleys are filled with rubbish, and gangs of hungry children haunt the docks.  Of course, that’s not anything new - one of the few things that Asra has actually told me.

Our conversation is cut off by a growl behind us.  I stiffen in surprise, but Portia just huffs with annoyance.  “Oh, don’t mind them.  Those are just the old count’s sighthounds.”  The sleek white forms weave around me, sniffing at my clothes.  One of the two dogs looks up at me with mismatched eyes, one black and one red.  I crouch down and hold out a hand.  The gesture usually appeases the strays I meet in the city.  The smaller dog wags her tail.  These two are far more appealing members of the menagerie than the eels in the palace moat.

“I don’t know if I would do that.  They’re a little unpredictable.  Someone must have forgotten to give them their chamomile cakes.  Just stay here, I’ll be right back.”  

Portia runs off, muttering something about the dogs being up all night, before I can ask any other questions.  The hounds continue sniffing my clothes.  The smaller one nudges my fingers with her nose and then licks my hand.  She seems friendly enough, but I don’t make a move to pet her, mindful of Portia’s warning.  The larger hound noses around my legs, then he seizes some of the fabric of my pants, tugging me roughly toward the dark stairwell.  I try to pull my clothes free of the dog’s teeth, but he cuts off my action with low growl.  The hound backs up the stairs, pulling me with him as the smaller pushes me from behind.  The air grow thick and hot as the dogs force me up the stairs, and dust rises with each step we climb, swirling in the air around me.

After a few steps, it doesn’t take much effort anymore on the part of the hounds.  My feet are making their way on their own, climbing stair by stair by stair, while a sense of … I can’t really tell if it’s dread or anticipation that’s rising in me.

It’s pleasant up here, dark and silent and a little shabby by use and lack of upkeep, somehow reminding me more of the cellars under the shop than of anything palatial.  Maybe it’s the smell that’s coming from the rooms upstairs, that faint, sharp aroma of incense and - it’s almost there, at the tip of my tongue, word and memory, but it’s so distant.

The dog, the smaller, slightly happier one, wags her tail, greeting someone that’s waiting at the top of the stairs.

“Hello?"  Everything about the stairway suggests that this floor is unused.  Who’s here?  Behind me, the only human footprints on the dusty stairs are my own.  Any other prints belong to the hounds.

Hello?

Hello…

Hell…

I’m somehow expecting an echo that doesn’t come from without, but it resounds in my head.  Or did I only whisper it under my breath?  I’m not sure.

The place somehow feels cavernous, leading downward into something dark and winding instead of up, and when my feet step on the marble that covers the floor of this wing, one of the dogs yelps happily.

Black marble and black walls, with golden veins drawing through the stone. Marvelous and marvelously tasteless, covered in dust like the rooms of a weird rich relative nobody liked anyway until was found dead months after her disappearance, mummified within her hoard, and cousins descended to gather the spoils.  Carvings on the walls depicting scenes that might be battles or orgies or something else entirely.  While the golden particles in the marble are emitting a soft glow, it’s not enough to really tell.

I summon a light and cradle between my palms as I follow the sweet smoke of incense down the hallway.  The dogs run circles around me, clearly excited that I’ve followed them here.  I hold the light up and turn, surveying the decorative molding that crowns the ceiling.  Peeling gold leaf showers down on me, as a sudden draft of cold air passes through the hallway.  Both dogs cease cavorting and approach the same empty space in the hallway, wagging their dogs and lolling their tongues at something I can’t see.

"A guest…”

This time I heard it, I am sure. A man’s voice, low and strangely sensual. “How long has it been since you brought me a guest?”

The smaller hound yips in a doggie expression of pride.  She prances behind me, tail still wagging and pushes me forward.  The light in my hand flickers, the extinguishes itself with an audible pop.  That’s never happened before!  I try to bring it back without success.  That’s also never happened.  I learned this spell before any others, and I’ve never had trouble with it!

There’s a low chuckle from further down the hallway.  As I peer into the darkness, two pinpricks of light come into focus and slowly expand into glowing red eyes.

I can feel his gaze.  The eyes of a judge or an executioner, merciless and cold. The slightest touch on my hair.  Then my cheek.  Something that’s too cold and sharp to be fingers. "Now let’s get a look at you.”

I shudder as I feel him inhaling the air I just breathed out, taking a part of myself, forceful and so intimate.  I’m frozen in place, a still statue awaiting viewers.

"What a pretty little thing you brought me, my darlings.  So untamed.”

A cool breath passes over my earlobe, then the loose locks of hair that have fallen out of my braid are pulled back out of my face and back over my shoulders, first one side and then the other.  He continues circling around me, invisible except for the red eyes just above my head.  “Your ears aren’t even pierced!  Not a mark on you, is there?”  Something sharp and cool drags down my cheek.  “Tawdry outfit, most unfortunate, but perhaps if we got you out of it …  Yes, there would be something there if someone took the time to clean you up.”

I shiver and grab the lapels of my jacket pulling it tighter around me.  Something about his teasing, whatever and whoever he is, is familiar, another lacuna where a memory I’ve misplaced should go.

Suddenly, I feel his hand grasp one of mine, cold and callused and human, and he drags me down into the gold tinged darkness, floating weightlessly on coils of incense.  The insistent - the presumption that I somehow belong to his whims is disgusting, and yet, flattering in a strange way.  I feel his hunger, his desire, shameless, and almost feral, and–

Dema?

Not right now.  I’m busy.

And again.  “Dema?”  Someone calls my name, sounding slightly worried.  Slightly pissed too, maybe.  Who?

“Dema? Where are you?"  

Portia.  That’s her name.  I remember now.

I should not be here.

I pull my hand away, but the sharp fingers close around my upper arm, hard enough to bruise and icy, so frigid that they burn more than the air around me.  The smell of incense in the hallway turns to the stench of scorching hair and skin, air that was cool a moment below becomes uncomfortably hot.  A keening wail builds in my skull, turning into vertigo as it continues.  “Let me go.”

“Dema, is it?”  There’s a sharp jerk on my arm, and I stumble.  The impact of my knees on the hard stone floor is the only thing separating this moment - the dry heat, the roar of an invisible flame, the scent of burning hair - from one of my nightmares.  A pulse of heat hits the back of my neck, followed by a loud sniff.  “That … you smell like him.  Was it you?  Are you the one who broke him for me?”

The delighted laugh that follows is tinged with madness, and I just flee, or try to, first scrambling backwards on all fours, then stumbling aimlessly over black marble that seems to stretch into eternity. The stairs, there are stairs, they can’t be far, and yet–

"Dammit, Dema!  You can’t be gone!  Milady will be furious!” Portia sounds desperate, and I silently add a “at least only with you, cause I won’t be around to experience it" and suddenly a sob rises in my throat, or a hopeless laugh, and I notice too late I’m falling.

I tumble down several of the stone stairs before coming to a sudden stop.  I catch my breath for a moment before opening my eyes.  One of the hounds, the smaller, friendlier one, is holding the hem of jacket in her teeth and has planted herself firmly on the step above the one I’m sprawled on.  “Good girl,” I mumble, relieved that she stopped my fall before I was really injured.

“Dema!”

I curl each of my toes and fingers experimentally, reassuring myself that nothing is broken.  Then I sit up and rub my throbbing head.  “I’m up here.”  I slowly get to my feet and limp down the rest of the stairwell.  One knee stings, I must have hit it pretty hard.

“You shouldn’t go there. You really, really shouldn’t go there."  Just like that, her arms are around me, soft and strong and comforting.  Motherly briefly comes to mind, even if I don’t have the tiniest scrap of memory to inform that adjective.  "It’s dangerous up there.”  There’s a momentary pause, as Portia searches for a reason that isn’t it’s haunted.  She finally settles on an explanation.  “We don’t use it anymore, and it’s in a bad state of repair.  Are you hurt?”

I’m a bit surprised at how welcome Portia’s embrace feels and let her comfort in the minutes it takes for my breath to slow.  When I pull myself out of her arm, I rub at my upper arm, expecting a bruise, but there isn’t one.  My knees feel a bit banged up, but not as badly as they could be; they should be fine by morning.  “Nothing bad.”  The smaller dog noses at my hand.  I pat her head in appreciation.  “Good girl, thanks for stopping me there.”

She barks and wags her tail.  We all just want to be someone’s good girl, don’t we?  Whether we like that desire or not.  A sudden pang of bitterness as Asra creeps up in my thoughts, and I shoo him away.

“Come on, Dema, we’ll go to your room and have a drink to scare away the shadows.” She tries her best to sound cheery, but underneath that she sounds like she could use a drink as well.  Both hounds are polite enough as they take bright yellow cakes from her hands and retreat to sprawl at the base of the stairwell, allowing us to continue through the hallways without further protest.

I let her wrap an arm around my shoulders as she walks me through the halls.  The distinctly human touch is a relief after - whatever it was at the top of the stairs.  It isn’t long before we stop and she pushes open the door to a guest chamber.  The glass lamps hanging from the walls are already lit, revealing a room that would be opulent by anyone’s standards.  Polished wood panels line the lowest two thirds of the wall.  Painted plaster above those leads up to crown molding that eases the transition from wall to ceiling.  Brocade curtain drape over what I assume to be windows.  A bed is placed against one wall, covered with a pile of pillows and cushions that would have made Asra turn green with envy.  For that matter, the heavy carpet on the floor is almost plush enough to sleep on.  I settle on the sofa, unsure of how to respond to the finery surrounding me.

“It’s a bit much at first, right?  My quarters aren’t anywhere close to this, and I was still a bit overwhelmed.  Explains a lot about the upperclass folks, if you keep in mind that’s the surroundings they’re living in.” A little grin. Dimples in her cheeks, and glasses in her hands. “Wine or something proper?”

“Oh, something proper please.”  Wine isn’t strong enough to wash away the clammy feeling that lingers on my skin and encountering whatever - whoever - that was.

“Very well.”  Her eyebrows arch mischievously.  “Sweet or mean?”

“Mean as you’ve got it.  I like to know I’m actually drinking something.”

“Oho, that’s the spirit.  Be back in a moment.  Don’t run away." 

She gives me one of those looks.  One that promises the severe punishment usually reserved for unruly children if I do and disappears.  Cut glass tumblers stand on a low table by the sofa, and I wonder if none of the drinks in the artfully crafted bottles on the shelf over there would be been good enough, or mean enough.

I get up from the sofa and walk around the room, running my fingertips over the sinfully smooth linens covering the bed (oh, Asra would love this!) before I return to the shelf with the bottles.  I pick one up and sniff the contents.  It smells … soapy … and of lavender.  Confused, I pick up another bottle.  This one is scented with bergamot.  I shake a bit of the contents out onto my palm.  It’s a creamy lotion, I rub it into my hands staring at the collection in wonder.  Is this an entire shelf dedicated to bath products?  Multiple soaps in fancy bottles?  What the hell?

My journey leads me to an explanation soon.  Hidden in an alcove there’s a bathtub, an actual, private bathtub in an private room, and it’s made from polished copper and has little lion feet.  I knew these existed, but they are a far cry from the wooden one we have at home.

The way I run my hand over the smooth metal is almost a caress, and I suppress the need to jump into it now and here.  They seem to have running water too, with two porcelain frogs sitting on the rim, their mouths wide open, one’s eyes set with ruby stones, the other’s with sapphire.

"Dema?”

Portia’s voice startles me.  I was too lost in thought, or maybe she’s just really skilled at silently opening doors.  Maybe both.

“Thought it would be wise to bring the whole bottle, seems like one of those days,” she giggles.  “Exploring your new realm?”

“I’ve found several flourishes that are a bit more than I expected.”

Portia’s smile is both warm and proud.  “The palace has always prided itself on it’s hospitality.”

The full bottle of amber liquid she’s holding confirms that statement.  It’s an import I think recognize; although, I don’t get to drink it very often.  I rub my palms together in anticipation of a smoky, smooth, and slightly sweet drink.  It’s not necessarily what I would call mean, but I’m hardly going to complain.  “You brought scotch!  Portia, you’re a gem!”

She blushes. “Well, not exactly.  It’s something imported from the south and a little bit… well, let’s just say it’s made from apples.  Those are fruit, so it’s healthy.  It’s just similar enough in color that unsuspecting-"  I swear she wants to say victims, but she manages guests just in time, ”- don’t notice the difference before it’s too late. Wanna give it a go?“

“You’re still a gem.  And I’ll try just about anything once, healthy or not.”  That attitude had also gotten me into a few interesting scrapes, but no matter.  She fills both the glasses with a generous pour and hands one to me.

Grinning again, she raises her own glass slight.  “Za zdorovye!”

“What?”

“To your health.  You did just take a bit of a tumble.”

I sniff.  Not smoky, but sweet and pleasant and seemingly harmless, but her face tells me it’s not.  She’d be exceedingly bad at poker.  I get apples, and autumn somehow, fires and cold winds, and they remain as I drink.  Surprisingly gentle on the tongue, but it’s quick to lighten a flame in my stomach, warmth flooding my body and setting my cheeks ablaze.

"Not too bad, eh?” Her sip was way less restrained.

I whistle, then take another, much less hesitant drink.  “Not bad at all.”  I sit back down on the sofa and draw my feet up under me.  It hits me that I might not ought to put my feet on the furniture here, but the warmth of the drink is still spreading through me, to my fingers and toes, and I just don’t think I care about what I ought to do.  “Portia, you’ve really only worked here for a year?  You seem to be in charge of a lot of things.”

“Yeah well, the place seems to have waited for someone like me.  Bet you know how it is.  Someone decently competent comes in and nobody wants to let you go ever again.  It’s flattering, but you never get any days off without everything going to pieces.  A blessing and a curse, really.”

She takes my position as a cue to lie down on the carpet like a very cute and curvy starfish, joints cracking into place.  It seems to have been a long day for her as well.

“Thanks for standing up for me with the guards.”  I suppose I could have eventually talked my way into the palace, but I wasn’t at all confident of that.

She yawns and stretches her arms out above her head.  “Mila and Ludo can be a bit unpleasant sometimes, but they’re not actually awful.”

I pick up the bottle and pour myself another two fingers of the liquor.  Probably a bad idea, but no matter, the combination of last night and today merits it.  “Can I ask you another question?”  She nods sleepily, and I continue.  “Why did you drop that decanter?”

"I…” She hesitates.  I feel she wants to tell, I’m good enough at coldreading, but it’s some personal matter, but she’s not quite there yet.  “I was so happy to see the Countess have a guest, even if it was just a single one.  To see her, well, not quite smile, but almost?  There was hope in her eyes, and I didn’t think there was any left, and -”  She empties her glass with a mighty gulp, trying to find find an answer to just what and how much to tell me in the liquid. “Then it’s about a manhunt and an execution, and it’s not fair, and he’s probably dead in a ditch somewhere anyway …” A hasty refill later and a face like she said too much already.  “You have more important things to do, don’t you?  Than to be her magical hound?  It’s a fool’s mission to try to find him.”

No wonder Portia had dropped the decanter!  If she’s been holding all those thoughts in her head at once, it must be hard to keep a grip on anything.  Her affection for the Countess seems misplaced, at least in my ever so humble opinion.  But the comment that about fairness seems like far more than disappointment in an employer.  

“It sounds like you think the Countess has better things to do?”

"I think you shouldn’t hunt for somebody who deserves a medal, that’s what I think, especially, not when he disappeared years ago.  Like anyone would care for a dead man as long as they get to drink and dance!”

Her voice is trembling, and it’s easy to sense an emotional connection to this ominous Julian Devorak.  Isn’t she a bit young for him to be her lover?  But then, the red hair, and something about their faces …  Well, red hair is memorable, it doesn’t follow that all red heads are related.

Portia pushes herself up from the floor and recorks the bottle of liquor, setting is aside on the end table with a wink that pleasantly ends the conversation before I can ask anymore uncomfortable questions.  “I’ll mention to milady that you have a taste for scotch.  It just might turn up.”  She pulls herself out of the floor, back popping again as she gets to her feet.  “There are fresh towels in the bath.”  She efficiently turns down the bed, smoothing the fine sheets.  “I think you’ll find everything, but if anything is lacking, don’t hesitate to say something.”

Looking around I have no idea what I could possibly find wanting.  Other than Asra.  He’d love that pile of cushions.  But fetching Asra is well beyond Portia’s power.

“Everything looks wonderful.”

“Excellent.  I’ll let you get some sleep then.”  She puts her hand on the door and then stops and turns back.  “Dema, listen, please don’t think too harshly of milady.  She doesn’t have very many people who are on her side if you understand what I mean.”

“I think I do.  Portia, I can’t promise you anything right now.  Not until I better understand what’s going on.”  The number of variables involved in this puzzle continues to increase, and I’m not entirely certain of the referents for some of them.  Portia, at least, seems to be a genuinely kind person, or she’s a very good actress.  I start undoing the top buttons of my shirt.  “Good night.  Thanks for all your help today.”

She winks at me again.  “It’s what I’m here for!”

Then she’s gone.  I finish undressing, turn down the lamps, and climb into bed.  The sheets are sinfully smooth and frightfully cold.  I usually don’t sleep alone.  There’s only a single bed in the apartment above the shop, and the only other beds I remember sleeping in are ones I ended up in after leaving a bar with a random stranger.  And this room!  I suspect I could fit most of the upstairs of the shop into it.  The empty space looms around me as I hug a pillow to my chest and close my eyes, trying to think of happy peaceful things to lull myself to sleep.

Next chapter.

AN: Chapter title from LP, “Lost on You”

Also posted on AO3, but no link until I figure out how to get around Tumblr’s shadowbans.

[kivi-no]

SO IF ANYONE WANTS TO KNOW ABOUT THE SHIT IN JULIAN'S UPRIGHT ENDING

@mirifern , here's da thing [1]

basically, upright ending is all about "the power of friendship" (which is kinda funny btw). the chapter called "never alone" so we can already tell what's gonna happen next. julian and mc are in the devil's trap, in chains and everything. mc was able to destroy those chains so devil is kinda defeated, but not really. and then, by reaching the hands of portia and mazelinka outside of the red screen of death mc and julian managed to pull them inside this red...place. and then mazelinka, portia and julian put their hands on mc's shoulders so their magic becomes more powerful and with the POWER OF FRIENDSHIP strike they destroy this shitty trap. and the devil is disappointed but not surprised. he flicks his fingers and the storm that was before returns. the devil is obviously offended. and then asra, nazali and (surprise!) nadia appear. the devil tries to catch mc and everyone with his chains (and they are acting like snakes). thanks to mc's magic they kinda safe. and then some magic made mc fall on the sand. and the devil says like "hey my realm merging ritual is ready and i'm kinda late." then the devil threatens everyone and dissapears. all of the characters are relieved and they talk about how the devil is a coward, asra has THE perfect timing, the devil tries to pull off a ritual and discuss various ways to kill an arcana (i'm laughing please send help). so they all agree on turning the devil's power against him and trying to discover how to get to the devil's realm to bind him with it. and then my precious dog scout appears! the scout knows da thing so they just follow her into the fucking frozen forest. strange tendrils in the forest are really agressive so everyone is scared because they are trying to get mc. but tendrils are gone once characters try to avoid touching them. they all agree on that it was a trap and once julian said this some weird lobsters the size of the pony (c) appear right in front of them. everyone follow after the running scout and everything goes dark. then they all appear in the hanged man's realm. they do a quick headcount and the only one missing is scout. and turns out the island from the hanged man's realm is not an island. IT'S THE TOP OF A HEAD. the creature almost ate mc but somehow everyone escaped thanks to mc's fire magic. but everything is black. but finally scout opens some kind of door in front of everyone, so they start to run for it. and everyone appears in the magic field. julian starts a talk about how he loves everyone and everyone is talking abot how julian and mc have changed and that mc and julian are a good couple. also portia talks about the julian's letter from her tale and i love this moment. also the holy trinity (i mean asra, nadia and julian) start to talk about their past friendship and missing memories. then the scout shows everyone in the direction of the hill and lies down to rest, so everyone continues to go without her. and here we are, scorched circle of wheat and some demonic gates in the middle. and fucking lucio. he tries to fight mc but everyone is already fighting him (also, nadia with a sword, i'm dying). asra and mc are trapping lucio with the net spell but some of the people are kinda hurt. lucio tries to work the things out but everyone just roasting him (also, that moment with the force fed plague beetle was priceless). lucio says that he has never done anything wrong to everyone. they highly doubt that. and everyone is soooo angry at lucio but he doesn't think there's his fault. with the POWER OF FRIENDSHIP mc breaks the deal between the devil and lucio and the devil's chains. mc lost a lot of magical energy so julian needs to hold mc for them not to fall. and mc have their body back which is pretty great. and lucio now has his body from before the fire. lucio lurches towards mc but nadia steps between mc and lucio. and banishes him from vesuvia. he flees over the hill and out of everyone's sight. good. but we still have demonic gates. mc opens the gates and everyone is saying that they got mc's back. and everyone are ready to save the world.

i got this ending first and i was really relieved. but then i looked through some posts on tumblr where the arcana fandom were collectively losing their shit and crying about getting a reversed ending. so i was like tf??¿¿? and i've spent the whole fucking morning to get the reversed ending of julian.

[ellanainthetardis]

Today we hear from our favorite worried escort and we learn things can alwasy get worse ;)

[FF] or [AO3]

Chapter 8 : Watch Yourself, Abernathy

The sharp ringing of the phone made him groan against the frayed fabric of his couch. He had insisted Peeta helped him back to his own house as soon as possible, despite Aster’s pleas that he stayed at least another day and night so she could check on him. The Everdeen’s house had become crowded. Thread and his Peacekeepers had been busy. There had been more injured people trickling by as the day had gone on. By noon, Haymitch couldn’t take it anymore and had begged out.

They had burned the Hob to the ground.

Some people hadn’t made it out in time. Others had been caught and punished according to their perceived offense. There had been more whipping, arrests, searches of some houses… No execution yet but it didn’t look good for some of the people parked in jail.

He had collapsed on his couch, on his stomach, and he had remained there, listening to his phone ringing off the hook. He didn’t have the will to drag himself to the kitchen to answer. It would hurt far too much and he wasn’t sure how to explain what was going on anyway.

The funerals were yesterday, he remembered. That must have been why Effie was so determined to talk to him. That or because she was worried by his lack of answer.

Cinna and Portia’s deaths seemed so far away after everything that had happened…

The phone stopped ringing after ten minutes and it somehow made the familiar silence in the house seem louder. He kept his eyes on the window, watching as the sky grew darker and darker.

He heard the backdoor opening and closing around fifteen minutes after the phone had gone dead. There were some noises in the kitchen – things being put away in cupboards.

“You shouldn’t be out after curfew!” he shouted. That was the last thing they needed, for one of them  to be caught breaking the law yet again. He so wasn’t up for another lashing.

“They’re patrolling toward the gates.” Peeta said, coming into view. “And I’m spending the night here anyway.”

He lifted his eyebrows at the confident tone. “Sorry, but the couch’s taken.”

“I’ll take the armchair.” the boy countered with a shrug, sitting down on the edge of the coffee table. “I’ve brought food too. You haven’t had lunch. Or breakfast. You can’t live on alcohol alone.”

“I can try.” he snorted and then sighed. “So. How much trouble am I in?”

To his credit, Peeta didn’t try to pretend he didn’t understand what Haymitch meant but he also decided to be a little shit about it. He liked to tease Haymitch about their escort for some reason – the main one being that he wasn’t as blind as Katniss and that they may not have always been as discreet as they should have during the Tour.

“Effie called me.” the boy grinned.

“You don’t say.” he deadpanned, rolling his eyes.

“She was worried because you weren’t picking up.” Peeta explained, suddenly less amused. “She was… on edge.”

He hoped she hadn’t been stupid enough to say or do anything that could be viewed as anti-Capitol. That was the last thing he needed. “You calmed her down, yeah?”

“I did my best.” the boy promised. “But… I couldn’t lie to her…”

“You could have told her I had the flu.” he snapped. “She didn’t need to know about…” He vaguely waved at his bare back. “She’s gonna worry even more now.”

“You are under strict instructions to call her as soon as you can walk around.” Peeta winced. “And… she was planning on calling Katniss next.”

He didn’t know if he wanted to laugh or be irritated. “Wouldn’t mind hearing that one. She’s in for a long dressing down.”

And there was nothing Effie did best than lecturing.

“Effie was… angry.” the boy confirmed.  

Effie was a train wreck he needed to stop from happening. Cinna and Portia’s deaths and the subsequent fear that he would be next… He had told her to move on for a reason when they had parted after the Tour. He didn’t want her to be caught in whatever this was. He had lost a girlfriend to the Capitol, he wouldn’t lose… whatever she was.

And he doubted she was truly angry with Katniss. If the girl had been hurt instead of him, she would have been just as incensed, if not more. But Katniss was the safest most obvious target at the moment. He was certain he would get an earful too when he would finally get to speak to her.

“Any other news?” he asked.

Peeta hesitated a second and then shrugged again. “They closed the mine. There was too much unrest after the Hob.”

“People are gonna starve.” he commented, even if it was only stating the obvious.

The mines were the main work prospect in Twelve. Without them… There would be no money to buy food. The families in the Seam would suffer first. Children would be forced to take tesseraes. Some of them would starve anyway, the little ones… Children were always the first victims. And those who survived… When the Reaping would come, they would barely be strong enough to stand, never mind winning whatever the Capitol had in the work for the Quell. It would be particularly horrible. Quells always were.

“They’re raiding houses.” the boy added.

“What are they looking for?” he frowned.

“Honestly? Anything they can arrest someone for.” Peeta scoffed. “Proof of poaching or trafficking… I meant to talk to you about that…”

“We need to hide the booze.” he winced.

“We need to get rid of the booze.” the kid corrected. “They’re not kidding around, Haymitch, and I’m pretty sure they will pay you a visit sooner rather than later.”

“Shit.” he spat. “Shit. Shit. Shit.”

He knew the boy was right but he didn’t like it. Without the Hob, there would be no easy access to liquor. He could make an official request for a shipment from the Capitol – that would be legal – or he could ask Effie to send a box or two but… if they really wanted to make his life a living hell – and it seemed they were committed on that – then he wouldn’t see the bottom of a bottle anytime soon.

“I’m sorry.” Peeta offered. “But it might be for the best. We can sober you up and…”

“Yeah, my being a drunkard is really not the point here.” he cut him off, pushing himself to a sitting position. He clenched his jaw against the pain but it wasn’t enough to prevent a wince.

“You don’t need to do anything.” the boy protested. “I’ll take care of it. They won’t come tonight and…”

“The booze’s only the tip of the iceberg.” he cut him off. “Go get me a shirt, yeah?”

Peeta hesitated but, in the end, he obediently ran upstairs to grab some clothes. Standing up and walking around was torture. He swallowed a few mouthfuls from a bottle of moonshine he had abandoned on the mantelpiece as he made his way to the bookshelf, thinking fast. He needed a place to stash everything but it couldn’t be in the house and it couldn’t be at the kids’.

He had a nice heap of books on the couch when Peeta came back with a shirt and a woolen sweater that was missing half its buttons. He answered the questioning look the boy tossed him with a dismissive wave of the hand, struggling to get dressed.

“In the study, there’s a metal box in the desk’s drawer.” he told him, still picking out forbidden volumes off his shelf. He had gathered a respectable collection over the years and he would be damned if those books ended up destroyed. “The key to the drawer’s in the ugly vase next to the dead plant.”

Peeta was good enough not to ask what was in the box but he looked a little alarmed all the same.

There was nothing illegal in there per se but it was far too personal to let a Peacekeeper put his dirty paws all over it. There were two rings he had bought after his victory, before leaving the Capitol and learning about his family’s demise - one shaped like an iris that had been intended for his mother and the other one an engagement ring - there was the only picture of his family he had left, the pink faded ribbon that had been his token once upon a time and that he had stopped carrying around only a few years earlier, two Polaroid pictures Effie had slipped in his pocket one day that really weren’t meant for eyes other than his own, a few other small mementoes… He wouldn’t let them soil his most private secrets.

“Is there anything else?” Peeta asked when he came back with the box, studying the pile of books with concern. “The books, the liquor, the box… What else?”

“Some leftovers squirrels from Katniss.” he said. “She needs to clean out her house too. They can’t find any game or…”

“She already did.” the boy said. “We agreed on that this afternoon. She won’t go hunting until it’s safe either and she will check with one of us before she does.”

He was pleasantly surprised. Maybe their chat had been useful after all.

He thought hard while they went through his kitchen, trying to find anything that could be damning evidence, and came to the conclusion that there was only one safe place to stash everything. They would search their houses but they wouldn’t search the empty ones. He exposed his plan to Peeta who nodded but he was already sweaty and nauseated from the exercising they had just done so the boy refused his help when it came to actually moving everything.

They ate the cheese buns Peeta had brought and waited until the dead of night before sneaking out. Well. The boy sneaked out while he was left to wait.

With nothing to do and since he was up anyway, he called Effie.

Taking the time zones in consideration, it wasn’t that late for her.

“Hello?” she answered at the second ring, sounding downright apprehensive, as if she had been waiting next to the phone for bad news.

“No proper way to answer the phone, that, is it?” he teased.

“Haymitch.” she breathed out with obvious relief. “Peeta said you were incapacitated.”

“Yeah, well… Got some motivation to move my lazy ass.” he snorted, wincing when a sudden move stretched one of the wounds.

He took a swing of the only bottle of liquor he had kept with him – it was one quarter full and it would barely be enough to stop the shakes but he would need to start rationing himself anyway. And if he couldn’t figure out a way to get his hands on liquor he would need to cut down entirely. He wasn’t thrilled about that.

“How are you?” she asked. He snorted. What was the right answer to that? Like he had been tied up and whipped? She sighed. “Yes, I suppose it is rather a stupid question. I had a talk with Katniss, you will be glad to hear. I am confident there will be no more misbehaving in the future. She fully understands the consequences of her foolishness.”

“Yeah? Did you ground her, too?” he mocked. “Told her she couldn’t have dessert anymore?”

He could almost hear her rolling her eyes. “Why, if you are your insufferable sarcastic self, you cannot feel that bad. Peeta probably exaggerated.”

He wasn’t sure if she truly meant it or if she was trying to convince herself.

“Probably did, yeah.” he offered. “It’s nothing, really.”

“I thought so.” Effie huffed. “Imagine that. Punishing a victor in public like a commoner. Unthinkable.”

“How was… the thing, yesterday?” he asked carefully.

Her breath itched but that was the only sign of distress. Her voice was cheerful, her escort persona perfectly handled. “It was a lovely ceremony.” She paused and then cleared her throat. “We have been assigned a new stylist.”

Her voice remained bubbly but the way she stressed that word told him everything. District teams weren’t assigned stylists, escorts were responsible for picking them – and since nobody wanted to work for Twelve, they always ended up with the worst ones.

“Yeah?” he asked flatly. “How’s that going?”

He shuffled his weight from one foot to the other, trying and failing to relieve the pain in his back. He couldn’t sit down either, it would be worse. He needed to lie back down.

“She is… interesting.” she ventured. “She reminds me a bit of Salia, you remember I trust?”

Oh, yeah. Salia had been their stylist for the Seventieth Hunger Games and she had been horrible. She had made the kids cry, had treated him like dirt and he had thought Effie would pop an aneurism dealing with her. It had ended up with their escort firing her in a very public display with an oath to ruin the woman’s reputation. She must have followed through because Haymitch had never heard about the stylist again.

“Nice.” he deadpanned.

“Quite.” she replied, a tad harsher. “As for the photoshoot I mentioned the other day? About the wedding dresses? It is off. Plutarch thinks the Quell’s announcement will be enough excitement in itself after all. It is for the best really. We do not want too much publicity. It will create an interest and it will allow us to cash on it with sponsors during the Quell.”

There was nothing like too much publicity in the Capitol so he heard what she didn’t say. They were shutting them out. Out of sight, out of mind. They were hoping to lessen the interest for the star-crossed lovers.

“Any idea what that will be about?” he asked. This time the pause she marked was not only longer but more hesitant. “Sweetheart?”

“There is chatter between escorts and Gamemakers.” she answered, her voice light and as fake as it could be. “But it is ridiculous and I do not believe a word of it. Nobody can know anyway. The Quells envelopes have been sealed decades ago. Nobody can know.”

“What’s the word?” he frowned. Whatever it was, it seemed to have her in a state. He hoped it didn’t mean more dead kids than usual.

“Nonsense.” she deflected. “It is not worth repeating because it will never happen, I assure you.”

“Effie.” he growled just as Peeta passed the back door. He gave the boy a glance over and clucked his tongue once in annoyance. He wouldn’t talk freely in front of him. “I gotta go.”

“Very well.” she agreed too easily. She sounded almost relieved. “I will call in a couple of days to check on you. Do not get into any more trouble.”

“Sure. Night, sweetheart.” he answered distractedly before hanging up. He turned to the boy. “We’re good?”

“The books and the box are hidden in the bathroom’s cupboard two houses down the street.” Peeta answered. “I’m not telling you where I put the booze. You will need to ration it and I don’t trust you not to go on a binge.”

He argued about that until he was blue in the face but the boy wouldn’t relent. Not even when Haymitch kept grumbling about it once he was back on his stomach on the couch, complaining about how he was abusing his weakened state.

°O°O°O°

No Peacekeeper showed up at his house the next day but Aster lectured him at length about almost popping stitches and overdoing it. She was almost scarier than any squad of men in white could have been.

Days passed without anyone threatening to kick his door down. The kids took turns keeping him company, having apparently decided between themselves that he needed a bodyguard at all times. He wasn’t sure how that made sense to them because, by all accounts, they were the ones who should have been the target. Maybe it was losing Cinna and Portia… Maybe it made them afraid something would happen to him.

He wasn’t sure he was glad for the company or not. He was too used to his loneliness for it to be really enjoyable but he couldn’t pretend he didn’t like the fact they obviously cared for him.

The situation outside kept getting worse but there was nothing at all they could do about it. Some people had tried to protest the unjustified closing of the mines and would probably have gotten executed as an example of what happened to people who defied the Capitol if Undersee hadn’t deployed all his skills at diplomacy. The mayor had spared them death but not a public punishment.

By that point, half the District had taken a turn at the whipping post anyway.

They were looking for any excuse they could find, apparently intending to subdue everyone through force. It was complete madness and it drove Haymitch crazy to know what was happening out there but to be helpless to stop it. He supposed it was also part of his own sentence.  

It was becoming obvious he wouldn’t get a quick exit like Cinna had. They would draw it out, give him a perfectly tailored hell for him to waste away in. A bed of ash to lie on.

The worst, by far, was the morning the Peacekeepers searched Katniss’ house, following an ‘anonymous’ tip that she might have been partaking in illegal poaching in the woods with her ‘cousin’. They didn’t find anything – they had all been very thorough in cleaning their respective houses – but it contributed to keeping everyone on edge, anxious to see what the Capitol’s next move would be.

After three days spent lying on his couch, the pain decreased enough that Haymitch started walking around again. He was restless, unable to sit still for too long. Aster kept warning him to take it easy because the wounds weren’t properly closed yet but he couldn’t help it. Dread and nervousness twisted his stomach in knots. He spent his time roaming the house, couldn’t quite focus on anything for more than five minutes, and had terrible cramps that left him bent in two.

He knew where that came from.

The headaches, the nausea and the tremors were indications enough, if anything.

Aster knew too but she was tactful enough not to voice it out loud. She conferred with the boy behind his back about it. It made him furious but there was nothing he could do about that either.

Peeta had refused to tell Katniss where he had hidden the booze because he believed she would cave to Haymitch’s pleads. Haymitch resented him deeply for that – mainly because it was probably true. The boy had self-appointed himself in charge of his alcohol consumption. He was careful about the amount of liquor he allowed him every day and he kept reducing it a little more every day.

After five days, it wasn’t enough to stop the shakes anymore.

Perhaps it was a good thing because when Head Peacekeeper Thread finally showed up with a squad to “search his house under suspicion of trafficking” and came up empty handed, his claims that he had no liquor in the house were a little more believable.

He had been playing chess with Peeta when the Peacekeepers had barged in and he couldn’t place a piece down without knocking off two, he lacked dexterity. His skin had also taken a yellowish tinge that had Aster pursing her lips. He was always cold despite his brow being clammy and hot to the touch. He looked ill.

He tried not to mind when they put his house upside down. He sat there and encouraged the boy to play because it was his turn. Peeta’s jaw was locked but after a sharp glare at the Head Peacekeeper, he caught up with Haymitch’s plan and moved his knight. Haymitch could have won in two moves but he drew the game out instead.

As long as he was focusing on the chessboard, he wasn’t seeing the mess they were making. They tossed all his books on the floor to search behind the shelves, they broke vases and upturned furniture… Cupboards vomited stuff he had no idea he still had, clothes he had accumulated on his trips to the Capitol over the years mainly.

“Watch yourself, Abernathy.” Thread warned as a parting line.

“It’d be nice if they sent one with some repartee some day.” he snorted once the Peacekeepers were gone, standing up to close the door they had left open. “They’d make Brutus look like a genius.”

Peeta was already starting to pick things up. “You don’t like Brutus?”

“Sure, I do.” he protested, righting an upturned armchair and wincing a little because of his back. “He’s always willing to buy me a drink. Speaking of…”

What Peeta brought him was barely half a glass and he glared at the kid until the boy shrugged. “There’s not much left, Haymitch.”

“Then, find some.” he snapped.

He knew better, of course, and so did the boy.

But it didn’t make anything easier.

[ellanainthetardis]

A short one today but papa!H is still rocking! I hope you enjoy it, please let me know! Feedback makes my day!

[FF] or [AO3]

Chapter 7 : How We Survive

Haymitch must have surrendered to unconsciousness because when he opened his eyes next, the room was dark saved from the fire roaring in the fireplace.

He wasn’t drunk anymore.

His back was on fire.

People were talking in the next room. He identified Katniss, and Gale’s deeper voice. He listened to the words but they didn’t make much sense to him.

He wished she would put an end to that. He understood she might have feelings for the boy but she was putting him in danger with that fling. Him and Peeta both.

He drifted off again, only really stirring when he heard her quiet footsteps coming closer. He tried to look up at her but it disturbed the wounds on his back and he resolved not to move again if he could help it. She crouched next to the couch so they could be at eye level.

It was too dark for him to really make out the expression on her face but he could see the dark bags under her eyes in the pale glow of the fireplace.

“Should get some sleep, girl.” he muttered. “You look like shit.”

“’Cause you look so good.” she retorted and then immediately glanced down, as if she regretted the gibe.

He licked his dry lips, making sure to keep his tone light. “Yeah, well… What do you know, I’m not eighteen anymore… We can’t all look good half beaten to death. Your friend’s making it difficult for the rest of us.”

“Please.” Katniss scoffed. “Everyone’s talking about how you walked through the whole District with your back torn open. It was stupid but they all think it was brave or whatever.”

“They’re easy to impress.” he snorted.

For a second, he thought she would keep up the banter but she grew somber instead. “No, they’re not.”

He let out a long breath. “Let’s not do this, yeah?”

“Do what?” she frowned.

“The thanking part.” He moved his hand to rub his face and regretted it when it tugged on the stitches.

“You didn’t have to do that.” she whispered.

“Yeah, I did.” he sighed.

She shook her head. “It was my fault and I could have taken it more easily. You’re not… You’re not young anymore. We can’t lose you, Haymitch. Cinna and Portia just… We can’t lose you too.”

“Why, thanks.” he chuckled to lighten the mood, wincing when it woke the pain in his back. It also ended up in a coughing fit that did nothing to help. “I saved you and you call me an old man. Real nice, sweetheart.”

“You know what I mean.” she argued, sounding almost angry now. “And it wasn’t your place anyway… You owe me nothing. That law… It’s for parents. You’re not…” She stopped, clearly embarrassed. “You shouldn’t feel you have to do that for me. I can handle myself. I didn’t ask you anything.”

“You don’t need to, that’s the thing.” he pointed out. “I’d do it again too. But not anytime soon, so try to stay out of trouble.”

“Well, I don’t want you to!” she snapped. “I can’t be responsible if…”

“You’re not responsible for me. I am responsible for you.” he interrupted firmly. “That’s the whole point. You’ve got a shitty understanding of how that kind of relationship works, you know?”

“You’re not my father.” she spat, full of fury and resentment. And maybe some bitterness too.

“Does it matter?” he asked. He would have shrugged if he hadn’t been so certain it would make him pass out. “I’m your mentor. It makes you my kid.”

“I don’t want to be your kid.” she growled. “I’m fine on my own.”

“But you’re not on your own.” he spat. “And the sooner you realize that, the better. You didn’t choose this life, I get it. Trust me, I get it. But, guess what? It’s too late now. You need to wake up, Katniss. Everything you say or do now… You’ve got people depending on you. You fuck up, they’re the ones who’re gonna pay the price. It’s not fair. I fucking know it’s not fair, but that’s the way it is. Your mom, your sis… Peeta. That boy over there. They’re your people. You’re responsible for them. You fuck up, it’s them who end up hurt. So you play the game. You play the fucking game like a good victor. Even when it’s hard. Even when it’s unfair. Even when it hurts so bad you want to scream. Even if it makes your skin crawl. You need to think before you act.” He let out a long sigh. “What you did today, it was stupid. It could have ended up much worse than it did. If you’d let it go… Gale would have been hurt but hurt isn’t dead. Hurt isn’t dead. Understand?”

He almost expected her to bolt because that was her thing when it became too difficult. Run, hide, process and then come back.

She rubbed her eyes instead. “We’re never getting off the train.”

“We’re never getting off the train.” he confirmed.

She didn’t say anything else for a long time. Her face was turned away from him, toward the dark kitchen and he couldn’t guess at her expression. He was starting to drift off when she spoke again, her voice flat. “Are we your people? Peeta and me.”

He didn’t know if Katniss’ house was bugged. He regularly made sweeps through his own but they hadn’t bothered trying to spy on him in a long time. Katniss’ house, now, he had no idea, so he kept it at a half truth. “Yeah. Yeah, you’re my people.”

And Effie, but that part he left out.

“Did you have people? Before.” she asked.

It was dark and she wasn’t looking at him. It was the only reason why he told her the truth. “I did, yeah.”

“What happened?” she insisted, without any tact.

He closed his eyes, feeling the same wave of sadness and anger rise in his chest he always did when he let himself think about his family, about his girl. He wasn’t up for sharing the details.

“I fucked up.” he admitted quietly.

He didn’t need to clarify what it had meant for him in the long run. How he had ended up the way he had, drunk and alone… He supposed it was self-explanatory.

“I wish I had never won.” she whispered. “What’s even the point of winning…”

“Nobody ever wins the Games.” he scoffed. “Haven’t you figured that out yet? There’s no winning. There’s no winners. There are survivors. The sooner you get the difference, the better. We’re still in the arena, it’s just a different kind.”

“So what do we do?” she scowled. “There must be a way to…”

“We do what we always do.” he cut her off, before she could make a rebellious comment. “We survive.”

“That means other people will die.” she snapped. “That’s how we survive? By letting other people die?”

“Yeah.” he confirmed coldly. “’Cause that’s how we make sure our people survive too. We bear the guilt so they don’t have to.”

“It’s shitty reasoning.” she declared.

“You find a better one, you’re welcome to share.” he retorted. “Twenty-five years in, that’s the only one I’ve got.” That seemed to shut her up. She reached out for something on the coffee table and handed it to him. It took a few seconds for him to make out the shape of a bottle in the dark. “See…” he smirked, snatching the liquor, careful not to pop his stitches. “You’re an ungrateful brat but you do have your virtues.”

She rolled her eyes and stood up. She stopped on the threshold. She didn’t look back but she cleared her throat. “I’m not ungrateful.”

He supposed it was the best he would get.

He just hoped she had understood the message.