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cupoftrembling · 5 months ago

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Alterity

Jamais vu.

Jamais vu is not a new concept, the idea of knowing without knowing. To know which way the sun rises, without ever once seeing the dawn, that is jamais vu. To hear the child’s melody on the air is jamais vu. To know where, just right, to sneak the knife in is jamais vu. Every culture across the Askaven Continent is aware of jamais vu. Of course, there are different reasons why one experiences it. Some theorize that there is a collective weft of the mind that connects each and every one of us. The idea is that, when we think something, it joins the Grand Weft of Isosa. A weft that we all have access to and can pull resources from. A memory bank that allows, across time and space, a connection between one another.

Others think that at every moment we constantly extrude harmonic striations; the way our bodies interact with the air sends out signals to anything and everything, constantly displaying our true intentions to one another. Those who follow such ideas say that jamais vu is just us picking up on the harmonic resonance of one another, intuiting one’s desire as our own. When I focus and know, beyond knowing, the story the man who sits in front of me was told by his father when he was a child, it is simply me picking up on his body language and pheromones at any given point. That these jamais vu’s are just biological impulses that we are, to one degree or another, receptive to.

I am not here to debate the merits of which theory is correct.

Because they all call the experience jamais vu. A Mariposian word. At the center of this concept, like at the center of all things, is Mariposa. Derived from the name of a fallen angel of Auleen, the words “jamais vu” have infected the very discussion of the topic. Whenever I broach one of my contemporaries, how few they are indeed, they discuss the merits of the different social philosophies surrounding jamais vu. But the language, it does not matter. Empyrial, Mariposian, Celestial, Eastern, Algeran. Each of them talk about the concept using the cage of language that is jamais vu.

“Why?” I ask them, hands wrapped around a leather bound journal. “Surely, your own tongue must have the words for jamais vu?” I plead with them, my eyes wet with concern and with frustration.

They blink back at me, their own eyes glazed over with some sort of deep understanding. As if whatever words, whatever concept, has been kept from them, locked away in the vault by the supplanting arcane taradiddle. “I’m sure there are.” They rationalize, “But what else could it be but jamais vu?”

Jamais vu: A thief of a concept that makes a home in places it is not welcome. They know, without knowing, that the Mariposian word is the most accurate, most well conceived word for what we experience every day.

What Reva experienced on that boat, in the cold, salt brined waters off the coast of Ashosh Ai could only be described as jamais vu.

There were four people on that boat that dreadful day. Reva was the abjur of the group, the one specialized in defensive and negative magics. Herah was the muscle who wore a scar across the bridge of his nose. Formen of the Wastes was a prevoker whose own magics suffused sinew and bone. And Mirabell was the pretty little skald from foreign shores.

And then there was Dawn.

She sat at the back of the boat, hand on the rudder of their all but silent vessel. Salt soaked water stuck to the edge of her brow, slicking her blonde hair back tight against her scalp. Each of these thieves were all dressed in Dawn’s favorite shade of purple, mirrored in outfit by their patron. She wore a grin, pernicious and deceptive, wide on her face. It didn’t sit right to Reva, who had seen that smile several times. It was almost as if her mouth was too wide, or too deep, for her face. Ravenous, as the Wolf had often been described to be. Her teeth too sharp, her tongue too dextrous. Dawn’s mouth was something to fall into, to be ensorcelled by.

Dawn’s other hand, the one resting on her slacks, had a single, plain gold band around her ring finger. She fiddled with it with her thumb. A wedding ring, a Mariposian practice. Dawn was not married, or if she was she gave no care or concern for her wife, as Reva’s own experience had shown her. But the noise that Dawn made as she rubbed that ring drilled a thought into Reva’s mind. It was louder than the engine, louder than the crashing of waves, louder than the prattling rainfall. It was a clear moment, obliterative of any other thought or sense that might have been had.

It was a sunny day in Mariposa, and the air was thick with the smell of lavender berries. Dawn was walking, hand in hand, with a woman who Reva had never seen before. Long, auburn hair and skin that smelled like an old book. History. She knew, beyond knowing, that this unfamiliar woman usually wore her hair up in a small, tight bun, but that Dawn liked it down. Dawn reached down to a stand, picked up an apple, her daughter’s favorite, and placed it in a small, handspun wicker basket. She was smiling in a way that was not her own smile, a smile that looked unfamiliar to Reva. Something natural, something more akin to the human form. The woman smiled back. And then, she was gone.

But Dawn, she remained smiling the same way that she had, moments before the not-quite-a-memory had wormed its way into Reva’s mind. Her eyes had narrowed, as if she was aware of the abjur’s intrusion into something private. Her thumb was now as far away from that ring as possible. “Got something on my face?” She half joked

“Yea, that look you give me.” Reva brushed off the memory. It was something she wanted to imagine, something that she felt she wanted. Perhaps that was Reva’s future she was picturing. It was almost convincing enough, like a hand on the back of your neck or a sword over your head you can almost swear isn’t there. Reva smiled as the boat glided through the water.

Dawn smiled back and looked towards the shore, only moments away. With her ringed hand, she reached into her vest and drew her revolver. Snubnosed, and easily concealable, it was not a model you or I would be familiar with. Completely bespoke, made by the perilous thief herself. It had a silver frame with pearl handles. The cylinder of bullets inside of it, much like the revolvers of the weaponsmiths of Mariposa that had inspired it, dripped with a sort of chill. As if anticipatory, they made no noise. They did not hum like the acausal bullets of other guns. A weapon, silenced. A breath, held.

The boat hit the shorebank, jostling Reva from her seat. She lurched forward and caught herself on the rope handle of the craft. Only one person stood on the shore: a tall, stout knight with hair interlaced with the flowers of summer. He looked regal, in the same way a blade might. He eyed the party with suspicion. Formen of the Wastes took a step off the boat and, noticing the sentry, raised a long rifle to meet his eyeline. The Wastral looks through the slits of his wide helmet, eyes wide and jittery from the ampule of Auleen’s Blessing he had hidden in his nose. He tells himself it was to calm a shaky hand, and I am sure at some point he had been correct.

Dawn raised her hand and placed it on Formen’s barrel, lowering the rifle to the ground. “Friend, not foe.” She smirked. “At least, as friend as we get.”

The sentry rushed towards the landing party. Mirabell stretched her legs and caught a dirty look from Reva. Mirabell had too long of fingers to be human and that smile she wore looked a bit too wild to be anything but trouble. She looked like a mockery of the human form, flesh stretched out over too much body. She dug her toes into the sand underneath of her and sighed a breath of relief.

“Ah, good to be home.” Mirabell's grin grew wider as she stretched her arms behind her head. Reva hears a sickening crunch as bones settled back into some new, terrible shape. “Been too long, Ashosh Ai.”

The Sentry descended on them, pulled his plumed helmet from his head, and furrowed his brow. His eyes were like Mirabell’s, constantly sparkling with a light not quite there. “Mrs. Allcott, you’re late. You’re almost three hours late” His voice was somber, as if at a wake. Reva draws her pistol for a reason she can’t quite place. “I’ve put a lot on the line here just-”

“Brightwind, it's me you’re talking about.” Dawn took a step towards the man and placed a reassuring hand, the one with the ring on it, on his shoulder. She smiled wide in a way that always made Reva weak in the knees. “I’d never put you in a position where I’d let you down, right?”

Reva turned towards the castle behind the shore as her employer and their contact began to talk. Herah was standing off to the side, observing the treeline just above the shore.

“You good?” Reva raises an eyebrow, quietly joining him. Herah was a tall, wide man. Short, cropped hair kept tight to his scalp. Burned onto his arm, right where his shoulder meets neck, was a small flower. Segmented in seven different petals. The symbol of Mariposa’s merchant army, employed for any sort of conflict the kingdom would ever need. She never asked how he got the scar on his nose.

“I don’t like how exposed we are right now. We should have landed up the coast a bit.” He motioned towards a small bay further up the shoreline. It sat in the castle’s shadow, the brickwork looming against the sun. Somewhere, above them, they could all hear a song. Mournful, cruel, with notes disharmonic and dissonant. Reva fought the urge to cry, yet a single, lonesome tear rolled down her cheek. “Any Tom, Dick, or Harry could stumble upon us and alert the whole island.”

“It's closer to the castle than we are.” Reva shrugged. “Maybe Dawn knew it’d be more guarded.”

“I like Dawn and all,” Herah glanced down at his companion. “But something tells me she didn’t think through the plan that hard.”

“She hasn’t gotten us killed yet.”

“That she hasn’t.”

A moment passed. The wind whipped and howled, stirred into frenzy by the storm on the horizon that never seemed to get closer. The singer shifted melodies, the lyrics now about Reva’s childhood, about being lost and scared. This she knew, even if the words were foreign to her. About being stuck in the underbrush, about it getting dark and no one coming to find you.

“Do you think we’re actually after a panpipe?” Reva rubbed her arms, as if to stave off a chill. Herah looked at the woman with confusion. The air was damp and heavy with wet, hotter than the Cambion Coast. “I mean, seems pretty banal.”

“I try not to think about what we’re here to do.”

Reva raised an eyebrow. Behind them, Dawn laughed loudly, as if hearing the best joke ever told. Nobody buys it. “Is this a special case?

“No, it’s not.” Herah sighed, eyes skirting downwards. “We’re here to take something of value from someone who values it. It makes me sad to think about it for too long.”

Reva smiled and clapped the mountain of a man on his back. “You’re in the wrong profession, friend.”

“Can’t help what I’m good at.” He smiled back at her.

“You can, though.” Reva’s smile dropped, just a bit. It is softer now. Sadder, almost.

“Yeah, but.” Herah looked out towards the sea. There was a storm out there, somewhere. A roiling, boiling thunder that kept the sky alight. He could feel it, he just couldn't see it. He shuddered off the thought, letting it roll from the back of his neck. “This is easier. More right, I guess.”

Reva frowned and looked down. Herah placed a large hand on her shoulder.

“It doesn’t feel right.” Reva chided, feet kicking an errant shell.

“Chin up, Rev.” Herah’s thumb rubbed where Reva’s neck meets her shoulders. It is the same motion her mother used to do, years ago. Comforting. It is not something he had ever done before, nor was it anything he’d most likely do again. “Maybe I’ll steal you something shiny, something just for you.”

“It's time.” A gruff voice came from behind them -- Formen. His long rifle was slung over his shoulder. His clothes were long and flowing, like clouds that flew too high. His helmet wasImperial make, Reva noticed the moon with the sword driven through it that he tried to scratch out, but whether he had it because of his background or because the Western Wastrals trade almost exclusively with the Empire of Night was unknown. The cloth that wrapped around his hands was black and red, fabrics intertwining and woven together to make something that kept out the cold but wicked sweat away. He looked good standing on the sand, steady, as if he was born for it.

“The boss want us?” Herah raised an eyebrow. Formen nodded. The storm would have to wait. “That’s all I’ll need to hear. Reva, come on.”

Reva nodded in return. The sentry had replaced his helmet at home point, and was now standing next to Mirabell, who’s smile was wide and childlike, right where the sand turns to grass. Dawn was a couple steps behind, gun drawn, wheat blonde hair slick with the salt of sweat and the sea. A small path unfurled in front of them, through the thick brush and unnaturally dense trees. A small, stone arch demarcated the trail. Reva walked, feet already feeling heavy and worn. She fought the urge to catch up with Dawn, to walk in lockstep with her. It made her feel childish whenever she did, as if she was a little lost dog following around its master.

Brightwind put his hand up and the group stopped with him. He looks back and grins. Past the helmet, past the visor and the mystery of whoever this man was, Reva recognized something. Something primal, something pure.

Pride.

“Stick to the path, friends. To where I step.” He said, tongue uncoiling like a snake between his lips. “There are old things here. The Sundance Throne is an hour walk from here, and the ceremony has already begun.”

“You hear the man, right?” Dawn looked back at her thieves, her perilous cadre. “You wanna live long enough to get paid, you gotta respect this place. It sure as shit don’t respect you.”

The thieves all grunted in approval and, in a moment, were swallowed by the wilds.

If you’ve never been to the Sundance Throne in its prime, I pity you.

Imagine, if you will, a castle nestled deep in some primordial forest. The stones interlaced with flowers and vines, the arches tastefully decayed. Banners that ripple in slight wind, heralding pristine monarchical traditions that predate the very sands of time. On the air, fruit and song and revelry carried like pollen, like breath. It was infectious. It was an Avalon of a better, more right age. An age of gallantry and of knights, in which rule did not need maintaining and all was right and in its own place.

It was like a place out of Reva’s storybooks, the ones her mother read to her as a child. She would sit on her mother’s lap, light flickering slightly overhead as she read to her. The only scion of a minor corporate noble in Mariposa, Reva would have needed to be well versed in the world, even the parts of it that never have been true. She would ride on her nursemaid’s shoulders like she was a grand steed, strike the head cook in the back of his head with a rolled up piece of paper as he had his smoke.

She placed a hand on one of the stone bricks of a dilapidated archway as they exited the forest. It was like the archway that demarcated her old chateau in the countryside. If she looked hard enough, cared to scour over every inch of the brickwork, she knew she could find her old initials somewhere on here. Faded, time worn, but still there.

Dawn looked at Reva with pity first, and then slight annoyance. In her hand, just hidden by her sleeve, was her snubnosed revolver. Her thumb was on the hammer of the weapon. She had no illusions of what this place could be. But she was not a cold woman, nor a cruel one.

“It's beautiful.” slipped from Reva’s mouth in a moment of un-vigilance. “How long has this place been here?”

“No idea.” Dawn shrugged, voice modulating in odd ways. “You ask the queen of this place, she’d say forever.”

Formen grunted. “I’d rather not ask her a thing.”

There was a slight pause, pregnant and awkward. Reva coughed. “Right.”

“Always the serious one.” Dawn smirked, hand still pressed tightly to her revolver. “Can’t let the pretty girl have a bit of fun?”

“Fun can be had after the job, miss.”

Their guide had put his helmet back on, but Reva knew the weight of the gaze of the glaring eyes beneath. They were the eyes of the Queen of this place.Judgemental, right, and true: this Reva knew without knowing. He quickly disappeared into the oncoming crowd.

Reva was surprised to see this many bodies here, on an otherwise deserted island. From the beachfront, the castle looked dilapidated. Banners flew and waved, but they were tattered. And the wilds had long overtook this place. Here, now in the shadow of the Sundance Throne itself, this all remained true. But there was a certain air of pageantry to the decay now. The vines that, from the distance of the shore, looked as if haphazard and random now had the arrangement of parade streamers, brightly petaled flowers almost looking like triangular banners. The heavy canopy disguised the equally dilapidated, and yet still inhabited, stone and thatch buildings underneath them.

And the people --

Maybe hundreds were approaching this grand, stone circular stage. It reminded Reva of the sacrificial circles of the Orcish Hinterlands. Places that the old and ancient Orcs once had inhabited before turning to Isosa worship, now used only during holidays and ceremonies. However, over the years, the sacrifices became more and more symbolic, with men and women throwing pieces of burning memories into the center of the circle.

These, however, looked just as active as ever. In fact, it was the only structure in the square that had no vegetation across it at all. Even the grass that creeped along the party’s feet, the grass that made Reva wish to take her boots off and feel it between her toes, thinned and disappeared as it approached the stone structure, replaced with the sandy shoal that this island was no doubtidly made from. Reva knew, beyond knowing, what rituals were performed here. And for who they were performed on.

She pretended her shudder was from the sea air.

All manner of folk were here in the Sundance Throne, from all corners of the Askaven Continent. Long fingers, straw hair, big pointed grins. There were Orcs and Humans and Elves and all manner of things which are not those. Long, slender things who look almost like you or I. Things that hide between blades of grass. Things who hide between bolts of lightning.

“Isn’t it wonderful?” Mirabell grinned her toothy grin. Her shoes were still off and the blades of grass wrapped themselves around her toes. She looked back at Reva and grabbed the abjur’s hand. “Not another place on the continent like it.”

Reva clenched her fingers around Mirabell’s. They felt like worms, writhing around beneath her skin. “Maybe not another place like it in existence.”

“Maybe,” Mirabell continued. “Just maybe, I can show you around after the job is done.”

Reva looked around her. Her companions, Dawn, had left. Formen, most likely, absconded to some high tower or parapet to look over the courtyard. Herah and Dawn folded into the crowd, becoming like them. Even now, with how intimately she knew her employer, she would not, could not, be able to identify her. She has become, for this moment and for what felt like forever, a stranger. She steeled herself and, delicately, looked at Mirabell.

“This place is your home?” Reva asked, the question heavy on her tongue. Her throat was dry. Mirabell wrestled down the need to flee, to grab her something to drink. “This queen is your queen.”

“Aye.” Mirabell responded, thumbs rubbing across Reva’s palm. Her brogue is heavy, thicker now than it had been. The crowd of almost people and never-weres envelop them as they walk. Their bodies are warm to the touch, radiating that sickly sweaty heat. Somehow, somewhere, trumpets began to blare. “You’re wondering why I would steal from her.”

Reva nodded.

Mirabell looked over across the courtyard, past the canopy of trees, past the banners and flowers and the birds with human eyes. She saw it, dear reader:The Sundance Throne, the castle of Queen Titania. And, from its tallest spire, a voice echoed across the island. It sang an old song, older than words, but not older than stories. A single, lonely aria of all that you've never wanted to hear.

“Because I love her.”

Reva raised an eyebrow. “An odd reason.”

“This queen, like all queens I suppose, is more than an individual.” Mirabell gripped Reva’s hand that bit tighter. “She is, she can be, everything we can aspire to be. The limit of our bodies is the limit of hers. And when she is resplendent, like the sun, that is wonderful. There would be wind in our sails and beneath our wings.”

“But when she isn’t…”

“Exactly. I love my Queen, but she will kill me.” Mirabell glanced downwards. “She will kill all of us.”

“How?”

“The world has changed, and she has not. Or maybe she has, and I just have not noticed. We are not creatures made for this place.”

Reva smiled, a single tear rolling down her cheek. An effect of the song, an effect mirrored in her companion. “You can be, though. You can break yourself into shape.”

“What do you think I’m trying to accomplish here?” Mirabell laughed slightly to herself. “I wouldn’t have agreed if I did not believe I could.”

Reva nudged her companion with her shoulder. “Are you our secret benefactor?”

“Hah!” She smiled. The wind was cool between the two of them. Mirabell remembered the first time she had met this ‘secret benefactor’. The smoke filled room, the velvet cushions, the mournful piano that echoed through the manor. A single, plain gold ring on a long finger. Mirabell touched it to her lips and Reva’s mouth tastes like datura and ash. Mirabell let go of her hand. “Maeve I am not.”

“So you’ve met her?”

“Once. She was beautiful. Hair like fire, with these long satin white gloves that extended past her elbow.”

“She sounds resplendent.”

“She is.” Mirabell sighed. “We’ll meet her after this job is complete. In Mariposa.”

Reva smirked. “From one Queen to another, huh?”

“We live in a world of Queens,” Mirabell looked towards the horizon, where the sun meets the storms. “Queen Mariposa, Queen Titania, even Isosa above us. There are the common, and then there is the uncommon. Masters and slaves.”

“What about us? Those would spit in the eyes of the Queens. The servants who swipe the silverware from the table.”

“We hope and we pray that no one knows us enough to categorize us as either or. That is where we die, Reva, when we are known.”

A small, faint crack of lightning echoed across the sea. Reva flinched. Beside her, a man with vines woven between his beard glared at her. His eyes were like diamonds, cold and hard. White, as if he was blind. His hair was thick and braided with moss and lichen. He looked like an old yew tree, standing tall on a hill above large, rolling cliffs. On his hip, a broad sword of white stone. On his back, a titanic bow, hand bent from that ancient tree. There was no string, and no arrows either. On his hands, Reva knew, there was blood. This man glared at her, acknowledging her flinch. Reva knew in his eyes that she was an outsider. That no true son of Ashosh Ai would flinch at the storm.

And that is when the sky, grand as she was, opened her mouth.

“Children of Ashosh Ai! Those who love me and are loved in return!”

The voice of the sky was sharp, cutting through the air like ozone and blood. Reva’s head snapped towards the source of the noise but she couldn’t quite find what caused it.

“For years, my outrider knights have braved the dark places of this cruel world.”

The man in front of Reva grunted, stepping between Reva and the stage in front of her. He was tall and broad, rolling hair cascading in curls down his shoulders. His bow rested on his neck like the plow of some grand draft animal. In his beard, the flowering vines blossom. He glared down at Reva, moisture clinging to the hair around his mouth. The sun haloed his head and it was as if the fire itself surrounded him.

“You’re not supposed to be here.” His voice was coarse, like loamy sand. Reva, truly, had no idea what he meant by that. “Who do you report to?”

Reva swallowed hard and tasted the bile rising in her throat. “Um.”

The sky continued to speak: “To shine my light deep into the untrue alcoves and hidden enclaves.”

The man took another step toward her. Around his neck, a small knot of wood. Between the ridges and lines of the plant’s matrix, a small light glows. Red, like autumn leaves. “You’re not an outrider. I know all of them. So, you have to be one of their crewmates, right?”

Reva cannot tell if he’s merely goading her or playing some sort of cruel joke. His face, old and scarred, was not jocular. His hands were the perfect size of Reva’s neck. He could, would, crush her in a moment. Not a magick in the world would save her. This she knows.

“To carve truth into a world of lies.”

“I’m with Vanglorious.” Reva stammered the first name she can think of., the knight she entered with.

The man in front of her smiled. “No you ain’t.” He took another step toward her. “I know his crew. Good neighbors, one and all.”

“To cleave peace from war.”

“New hire.” The words roll from off her tongue, possessed by the spirit of knowledge never known. “After Bittersmith ate it outside the Cambion Coasts.”

“To fulfill our purpose in this cruel place.”

“I could call him up. See who’s bandying around his name.” He gripped Reva’s hand tight. She felt her bones starting to buckle, a small hairline fracture around one of her carpals. Her skin blooms with immediate bruising.

Reva’s eyes narrowed. “You should do that.” She drew her gun.

“Ser Yew, please forgive me.” Mirabell whispered as she, too, freed her weapon, a small wooden knife from her sleeve. It was sharp as iron and it slipped in between where Ser Yew’s ribs would have been. Mirabell twisted the t-shaped handle as the knight’s hand gripped her back in an approximation of camaraderie. He didn’t cry out, doing so would be an insult to his station. He just gripped Mirabell like she was an old friend and locked eyes with her. She smiled warmly.

The sky cracked with violence. On the curl of its lips, the voice sharpened to a razor’s edge. “We have company.” The crowd turned to face the unwelcome. In their eyes, the flash of lightning. Like the eyes of animals caught in a beam of light. All individuality, all sense, all compassion wiped clean in a moment. Ser Yew drops Reva’s hand. Mirabell twists the knife up, driving it so far deep that her fingers themselves pierce his skin.

Behind her, another set of fingers lace through Reva’s other hand. The skin is calloused and bitter. A mechanic’s hands, a thief's hands --Dawn’s hands. Mirabell locks eyes with Reva. In a moment, all of what might be flashes before her eyes. Smokey rooms and a panpipe in the hands clad in scarlet. A place for peace. She can give Reva nothing but this.

“Run.”

Mirabell was torn limb from limb. The crowd descended on her like wolves on a lamb. Verdant viscera and bone and sinew and gore splattered on their muzzles. Hands. Claws. A flash of white teeth marred in the violence. Biting and tearing. Reva tried not to see it. Tried to shut her eyes to it as she flees through the flood of the crowd, all clamoring to sink their teeth into Mirabell’s flesh. She tried to block out reality, keen her mind on her footfalls in front of her, to what place might approximate safety here. On the hand in her hand. Tight, desperate, and together.

She failed, every time.

Dawn slammed the door behind them, chest heaving from exertion. Reva threw her hands to her knees. Her chest burned, lungs coiled in knots from the running. Her hands trembled, dousing her pants in Mirabell’s blood. Green blood. Reva always hated being right. The room they found themselves in appeared to be empty, a boon, and limited to only one entry, a bane. It seemed to be a small mess room, with windows looking out towards the courtyard. A tapestry hung on the opposite wall, a burning tree emblazoned in its heart. The courtyard out the window was the same that Reva thought she was in just moments ago. The crowd was restless, even from this distance that much was clear. Queen Titania had disappeared, along with her entourage.

“How, ah.” Reva caught her breath. “How long were we running for?”

“Not sure.” Dawn lied. Forty-three minutes almost exactly. “Fey magic, makes time pass funny.”

“So they are fey.” Reva shot Dawn a look. From outside the door, she could hear running, faint shouting. They were looking for her. Looking for them. They will do to Reva what they did to Mirabell. Rip her flesh from her bones, floss their teeth with her hair. She will be made nothing. Rewa locked her eyes with Dawn’s, her glare knife sharp. This woman is her killer. Reva shoved her harder than she intended to. “You should have told us this, Dawn.”

Dawn glared back at her. They should have made it to the center of the castle by now, they’re just wasting time now. “Yea well, would you have gone otherwise? Gotta be worth all the coin I was gunna give you.”

“No.” Reva sighed and followed Dawn’s eyeline. “Babe, you can’t just lie to me like that.”

Dawn crossed the room and looked back at Reva over her shoulder. “I can, though. At the end of the day, you came with. I didn’t hold a gun to your head.” Dawn motioned over to the crowd. “You wanna see if they’re any nicer than me?”

Reva broke their gaze. “I don’t, no.,” her mouth thinned into a hard line. “But we’re only making it through this if we’re a team, Dawn.”

“Yeah.”

“And I deserve some answers.” Reva crossed the room to be next to her employer. Not her lover, not her friend. At least, not at this current moment. “Who hired us?”

“A noble out of Mariposa.” Dawn shrugged. “I don’t know any more than that.”

More shouting from outside the door. A bit closer now. Reva’s hands began to shake. “What are we stealing?”

“A panpipe.” Dawn replied. Her eyes were focused on the door. “I didn’t lie ‘bout that.”

“Do you know why it's special enough to get Mirabell killed?”

Dawn blinked. “No.” She lied.

Reva sighed. “You’re in the dark as much as we were then, fuckin figures.”

Dawn raised a hand to the nearby hanging tapestry. Her fingers traced along the flames of the burning Castle Elphame like they had along the bumps of Reva’s spine. Her face was inscrutable, but her touch was gentle, as if the threads were woven braille, a message only her hands can parse. Reva’s eyes softened at the sight, her shoulders untensing. This was a side of Dawn that Reva knew. Dawn’s fingers reach Durandal. Here, he was depicted in a small, almost childlike manner. In his hands, he was holding a silver blade, like a shard of moonlight. His fingers bleed, as do his eyes. Next to him, his adversary: The Wolf. Her head is shaved, her eyes covered in soot. She is smiling with thousands of teeth. Behind them both, the Wyld burns. The death of all fey. This was a tapestry depicting the Fall of Elphame, the time when the fey lost their immortality. A child’s story.

“This must be The Blade Awoke.” Reva remarked, off-handedly. “Titania’s daughter who became her son.”

“Durandal.” Dawn said. “You’ve heard the stories then?”

“Don’t quite think they’re just stories anymore.” Reva cast another quick glance at the window. “A fey believed so strongly in a cause, that he broke his name to serve his mother. He became a weapon to stop The Wolf.”

Dawn chuckled. “Didn’t work, did it?”

“No, but,” Reva smiled “I think it's a sweet story. To believe, so strongly, that you might change who you are.”

“You see love here?”

Reva reached over to put a hand on Dawn’s shoulder. “Who wouldn’t?”

Dawn couldn’t decide if she wanted to smile or frown. She produced a knife from her scarf and tore it into the fabric. Her knife cut through the strands of history, excising Durandal from the story.

“What are you doing?” Reva says in a half-laugh, as if forgetting where they are.

“I dunno,” Dawn lied. She kept cutting, tearing fabric away until just the Wolf remained. She now burns alone, fighting an enemy long defeated. Blades raised with nothing there to cut or rend. “I wanted to do it, so I did. Keep a little souvenir here. Of love.”

Reva frowned. Is she making fun of her? Dawn was a lot of things, but cruel she was not. At least, Reva wanted to believe that. She tried to reach across to Dawn, to see what she might be thinking. What she might be feeling. She attempted to force a jamais vu, mind keening on a singular want and desire. To know Dawn better, to attempt to bend this woman she loves into a shape Reva can understand. There is nothing for her efforts. All she sees is Dawn and the mystery woman on that sunny spring day in the Mariposa market. The same vision she saw on the boat. Dawn narrowed her eyes. Her thumb rubbed along her ring in her closed fist. She could feel the intrusion on the back of her neck, like a shiver before a rumbling storm across a city. So her mind shifted, directing the attention to what she wanted to be seen feeling.

“You’re a weapon, aren’t you.” Reva chided. She was being metaphorical, her disappointment in Dawn’s intrusion dripping from her words. “I attempt to bridge the gap, you cut me away. You were made to hurt.”

“No, I’m not.” Dawn placed her hand along the fraying fabric of the tapestry. Durandal used to be there. And now, he is not. She holds him in her hand. “It was something I chose to be.”

“You can choose to not be it, too.” Reva considered the gap between them once more, but thought better of trying to bridge it once more. “If you wanted to.”

“We have a job to do, Reva.” Dawn looked back at her and smiled in the same way she once did to her wife. The same way she had in the memory Reva had plucked. “We can talk about what I want to be once we’ve survived and we’re rich.”

“Ah,” Reva refocused, remembering with sudden clarity exactly where she was. The voices are distant again. They do not know where they are -- yet. “Yeah.”

“Come on.” Dawn sighed going for the door. Towards the unsafety of the castle. “Maybe we can meet up with the others.

Reva always follows her.

In front of them, Herah’s blood pooled as he slumped against the credenza. Muddy red and brown fading into the threaded gold of the carpet. He was frowning, his face permanently held in slight puzzlement. Reva had never seen him frown before, or if she had all thought of it was obliterated from her mind by what was before her. In his hand, a small gold idol. Many hands and all sharp angles. Something shiny, just for her. Reva brought a hand to her own mouth, blocking a silent scream.

Above him, Vainglorious Brightwind, Third Outrider Knight of Queen Titania the Eternal. His armor shone with all the fierceness of the Sun, like he was something out of a storybook. It caught light that wasn’t there, refracting the gilded bricks and fabrics of the Sundance Throne. He lifted his alabaster cape towards his blade and cleaned Herah’s blood from it. His helmet, which had bornDurandal’s likeness on the front, was discarded at his feet, the solemn visage shattered by Herah’s errant gunshot.

“Brightwind…” Dawn sighed. In her hand is her silvered revolver. A frail thing. Her fingers gripped tight around the pearl handles. Knuckles white.

“Don’t you ‘Brightwind’ me, Allcott.”

“You’ve killed my employee.” Dawn motioned towards Herah’s chilling corpse. Reva raised an eyebrow in disgust at Dawn. An employee? The tattoos on Reva’s hands began to glow white hot.

Brightwind laughed, hollow and shrill, like he was trying to hide it from some prying ears. “My Queen ordered this man dead personally.” His gloved hand struck his chestplate. Right over his heart. Maybe he saw Dawn looking there. Maybe he saw the errant twitch in her fingers. Maybe, just maybe, he felt it on the wind. But here, even beneath that armor, his heart was exposed. Imperiled. “You know what she would do to me if I were to disobey.”

Dawn centered her pistol, leveled at his chest. Brightwind’s hands trembled.“Yeah, what I’d do to you would be a blessing, right?

“Don’t be like that, Allcott.” Brightwind took a step forward. The hammer on Dawn’s revolver clicked.

“Like what?”

“Unreasonable.” Another step. Herah’s body was reflected in his shining armor. Titania gave that armor to him, years ago, for leading her people from the Wyld to wherever new hell this place was. Vainglorious kept it polished to a mirrored sheen. Even if the light got too bright, even if the sun reflected off it in his eyes. He would never stand to have it sullied. “She was behind me. What else was I supposed to do?”

“You respect your queen enough to kill for her,” fell out of Reva’s mouth, “But not enough to keep us from stealing from her.”

“Leash your pup, Allcott.”

Reva’s vision flashed red. “What the fuc-”

“You don’t get to call her that.” Dawn cut her abjur off. “You’re no better. Reva’s right, you jumped at the chance to betray her, you know, as long as your ass wasn’t on the line.”

Reva met Dawn’s eyeline, twisting her foot into the carpet, like a viper coiled to strike. It was in the way the light moved around Dawn. It was not passing through her, it was not blocked by her. In this moment, Dawn cast no shadow. She was not radiant. She was not a queen. She would not need servants to kill. This Reva knew.

“I don’t know what-” Brightwind began.

“What I mean?” The side of Dawn’s face is obscured by her revolver. “I mean that you’re a coward. And I don’t do business with cowards.”

And Reva knew --.

She ground her foot against the fine carpet below her, the one sodden and heavy with her friend’s blood. Her tattoos were white hot, glowing like molten metal through the veins of a crucible, and her fists ossified into steel. The muscles of her leg contract and tear, hardening as well. Her veins contracted, slowing her blood flow to a crawl under the pure pressure of transformation. Brightwind was maybe thirty feet in front of her. He kept his eyes on her mate, on the woman holding his death in front of him. She was gleaming, this Reva knows. She was what Reva will disappear into.

She crossed the distance before Dawn could pull the trigger. The thief blinked and, in a moment, Reva was not beside her. Dawn was surprised when she saw her employee in front of her, blocking her shot. No longer is his heart exposed, no longer is his death clean and known. Reva ruined this. Dawn fought the urge to shoot anyway, swallowing down that disgust somewhere deep. Reva’s fist made contact with Vainglorious Brightwind’s chestplate. Though it may be infused with ancient and gleaming magics, bronze will forever remain no match for steel. The breastplate dented like the hull of a sinking ship. A small, sharp gasp shudders past his lips. His feet slipped from underneath him. His blade fell from his grasp. It hit the floor with a clatter that echoed through the halls of the Sundance Throne, heard by all except Dawn, Reva, and Vainglorious Brightwind.

Behind them, Dawn lowered her pistol slightly. Not enough to not be ready if she was needed, but enough to hesitate if she ever was. Enough to miss any shot she might have taken. Reva, on the other hand, remained a blur of violence. She reared her fist back again, skin broken and bloodied from the contact with the metal plate. Clang. She struck him again, another dent in Vainglorious’ armor. Blood flew this time, immolate as it soars through the air. Brightwind stumbled another step back, feet pulling the carpet runner up like waves on the shoreline. His chest was heavy and bruised, blood pooling around a broken rib. His body was not mortal, it was not physical. This is what Titania had promised him, that this armor and this purpose would make him perfect.

And yet, why does it ache?

He could not take another blow. Her fist glowed like fire, her eyes ablaze with rage. He twisted, pulling his broken torso back as he stumbled away at the last moment, and her fist sails past him, carrying her in cruel momentum. She tumbled forward, curling her body so her eyes were still locked on the knight’s in front of her.

“Shit.”

Behind the two of them, Dawn cursed. The ravenous crowd had found its way into the castle. Two of them, mouths and hands stained with Mirabell’s gore, began to lumber towards the three of them, their eyes glowing like an animal caught in firelight, senseless and lost. In their hands, cruel and jagged blades. Even I could not be sure they could tell friend from foe. She glared at Reva and Vainglorious, locked in mortal peril. Reva dropped her weight, arms braced at either side of her. Reva’s fist, iron and stalwart, dripped crimson. It, for a moment, made Dawn’s breath hitch in excitement. It was something so human, to her at least. To raise arms to defend what you love, enough to break yourself for it. Dawn fought a smile as she leveled her revolver against the interference. This was not her fight, but it was one she could ensure they had alone.

Dawn broke into a sprint, blowing past Reva and her knight-errant. Reva bore her fist again in front of her. “Come on, Brightwind. You’re mine.” The words dripped from Reva’s mouth like rabid spit. They froth as they escape from her lips. She lunged forward, hand grasping for Brightwind’s neck. There is exposed flesh there. Something weak, something to break. She would grab him there, crack him open like a crab. Reva, beyond anything, knew that the coward was squishy down to the core.

Three gunshots rang out. Dawn knelt, elbows braced on her thigh. A soldier’s stance to eliminate sway. Pure instinct, beaten into the circuits and servos of Dawn’s very logic. It felt right to hurt, to kill. Two landed dead center onto one of the revelers, the one with straw hair and a sea breeze scent. He dropped to the floor, dead before his mind could comprehend what had happened to him. His companion, a skinny little redhead redcap, brandished bloodied blade and was missed by inches. The redcap let loose a scream and looked down at his erstwhile and new friend, seeing the wounds burn and sizzle from the projectiles. He was made for this moment. To hurt his Queen’s foes.

Brightwind raised his arm to block Reva. Her fist made contact with his vambrace at the moment that Dawn fired another shot and the metal crumpled instantly. Reva’s fist continued it's trajectory, pinning Brightwind’s now useless arm against his sternum. The two of them fell to the floor, legs locked between each other. Their breath was heavy, labored. Reva straddled the knight, teeth bared and hand holding his own arm to his throat. Not enough to choke him, but enough to make his breath shallow and pained. Dawn turned around to see another three knights emerge from where they came from. A large man carried a censer like a flail. He had to lean down to make it through the doorway, barely squeezing through. Behind him, two thin, armored forms with spears that stab and bite.

Dawn cycled her revolver, acausal bullets off gassing their alchemical memories. She still had three shots worth of energy left in the chamber, but the man before her lumbers and takes up the whole hallway. Her thumb ran the rounded edge of the cylinder as she assessed the brute. He wants to luxuriate this, to crush them at his own leisure. To enjoy every feeling of bone snapping against metal. She has the time to reload. Brightwind locked his legs behind Reva’s back and flipped the two of them over towards Dawn. His arm was shattered and useless -- He would not last in a straight up fight. Reva’s hand still clung onto his neck guard. She pulled him in close and ripped the bronze from off his body, rivets and leather tearing uselessly. Her fist lost its hue, hand purple and bloody. Her teeth began to glow white with fire.

His neck exposed.

Her teeth finds purchase in its side.

The large man was above them now. Reva could not see him, eyes shut in rapturous enjoyment. Vainglorious’ blood tasted like clipped grass and white wine, earthy and intentional. She hated how much she enjoyed it. Brightwind let out a garbled scream like an Ortolan drowning in armagnac. Dawn’s pistol leveled at the brute above her lover. The hammer clicked-- a single shot. The man fell to the floor, blood pooling between his eyes. His companions dropped behind him. He is meat now, to be used as a shield. Dawn continued to fire. Flesh tore away from his corpse in chunks. Red and brutal, they flew through the air. The backblast coated Dawn’s face in soot and sulfur. Sparks from metal striking the acuasal bullet screamed in immolate joy, striking her cheek. She did not feel it.

She would not let them take Reva. Not while Brightwind still lived.

Reva pulled away, ripping sullen flesh away from Brightwind’s neck. Green arterial blood shot across glittering golden bricks.The viscera caught in the light, and the hall was filled with a momentary sanguine constellation. Vainglorious Brightwind looked up at Reva Ambrose, only daughter of Misha Ambrose, and watched her swallow. His own green blood stained rivulets down her mouth and the front of her shirt. He brought his hand to his throat to staunch the blood, but there was just too much of him gone, too much missing to keep himself together. He, in that moment, became the first to recognize her for what she really was, that borrowed hunger in her eyes.

And then, at last, he was gone.

The knife in his hands fell to the floor, discarded, useless. In another world, Reva would have hesitated just a moment longer, and his knife would have found purchase in her heart. The two of them would have been intertwined there, raw and bloodied on the floor. Viscera and lifestuff mixed together on millenia old tile and stone.

This, dear reader, this Reva knew.

And then, she heard it: Dawn firing off another salvo from her service weapon. She was standing over the hulking beast of a corpse not six feet from Reva. Her nonfiring hand dug into the neck of something tall and thin and hateful. His companion lay crumpled, riddled with holes. The side of her dominant arm was covered with soot and burns, backblast of repeated shots from her revolver. Her quarry looked up at her like Reva had done numerous times. Reva sees, in that moment, herself in the kneeling man’s position. In wood lined rooms on the road, on silken sheets, in dark pulsing drumbeat backrooms of bars and clubs. Pleading, doe eyes wet with tears and exertion. Dawn raised her thumb to cup the man’s face. It is gentle, almost. Tender. And then Reva sees the bruising around his neck from where Dawn’s boney fingers crushed his windpipe. She places the barrel of her revolver against his forehead like a kiss. He lets out a scream as the hot metal burns his flesh. Dawn narrows her eyes.

She pulled the trigger.

And the man fell to the floor, spent.

There was a moment where the gunshot echoed throughout the hallway. Another, where only their two ragged breaths can be heard. Reva stared at Dawn. Her gaze stays low for a long time, locked on the man beneath her, before she turns her head towards Reva. She half expected her lover to be dead. She saw it, in her mind's eye, that vision of another world like a shiver on the back of her neck. Jamais Vu. The two of them, intertwined in violence on the cold stone of the Sundance Throne. Reva was not dead, though. Her hand was bloodied and bruised. Her mouth dripped with blood not hers. In her eyes, something wild and wolven. But, she was not dead.

The two stared at each other a moment more. Wind whipped outside as a storm began to batter the island of Ashosh Ai. Dawn’s revolver hung by her side, still gripped in Dawn’s white knuckles, her face inscrutable. Blank, like the woman that Reva had known for six years was not there. As if replaced with a simulacrum that Reva might never have known. Another insidious thought crept her way into Reva’s mind. Was that really Dawn? Not the Dawn in front of her now, but the Dawn that she had known. Was she the illusion? Doubt crept, as the cold light of violence obliterated those falsehoods, , replaced Reva’s lover with an automaton of cruelty.

“That’s my Reva.” Dawn said in a voice mechanical and unlike hers. There was no odd modulation, it’s too light and too smooth to be Dawn’s voice. She smiled, but only with her mouth. Small flecks of blood covered her face, but Dawn bore no wounds. It was as if the thing in front of her is a hallucination, unscathed by violent reality. She took a step forward and if Reva had the energy to move back she would have. She climbed down from that massive corpse in front of her and placed a hand on Reva’s neck. Her fingers were cold, and Reva knows this was how they had always felt. She rubbed her thumb along Reva’s lower lip.

And Reva Ambrose began to cry.

“How long are you going to give me the silent treatment?”

This was the first thing that Dawn said to Reva in hours. They had reached the entrance of Titania’s throne room some 30 minutes ago. It was a set of gold doors with no handles and no locks. The tops of them disappeared into the darkness, leaving Reva with a sense of unease. By her internal map, the one that she knew not where it came from, they had reached the top of the Sundance Throne. There was no more ‘up’ to go. And yet, these doors crawled onwards. Anything could be up there. There could be infinite layers to the world, yet uncovered, yet unexplored. This was not how her storybooks ended. In them, there would be a queen beyond these doors. A queen to depose, to unthrone, to usurp. The cruel and wicked tyrant dashed upon the blades of the right and true.

Reva and Dawn were not right, and they were not true. They were thieves in the night. They were never to be known, this was never to be an event that would have been written about. A thing was to disappear and those who steward it would be none the wiser.

Nobody was supposed to die.

But now, this was an event. This moment, where Dawn was fiddling with the lock on a door that had no lock, was to be recorded by someone. It would be pondered and examined and studied. There would be a motive that would be ascribed to the dead and cause ascribed to the actions that followed it. She knew, beyond anything else, that these actions, this perilous theft, would change history in some way. That if the world was to reset, if the Celestial Civil War was to happen again and again, this moment would somehow become fixed in reality itself. That Mirabelle and Herah and Brightwind would always die on this cold, shale island in the middle of nowhere. Try as she might, she may never have been able to save them.

She looked down at Dawn. The lock in front of her is not real, but a simulacrum, manifested.. She had seen Dawn do something like this before, a way to interface with the underlying magick of whatever bound the doors shut. Turing abstract fundaments to reality, making the complex magickal code underneath them simple. Dawn had said before that it requires an intense concentration, that Reva was never to speak as she was performing this lockbreaking. Either Dawn was worried about Reva’s feelings so much to usurp such concern or she never needed the concentration to begin with.

“I’m not.”

“You’re lying to me.” Dawn chided. “Come on, babe. I think we’re beyond that.”

Reva chuffed and clenched her fist absentmindedly. Her two fingers are broken, the rest of her hand is bloodied and bruised. But she survived, and Brightwind did not. “How do you mean?”

“I’ve seen you.” Dawn looked back at her without turning her head. Purple iris shining through past bottle blonde hair. “The real you that I think you’ve kept locked up.”

Reva narrowed her eyes. “How do you mean.” She repeated herself, firmer.

“You’ve never turned your teeth to violence like that. Usually, you keep those for me.” Dawn chuckled, turning her eyes back to her task. “You were radiant.”

“I don’t feel radiant.” Reva looked down at her feet. Her boots were covered in green blood, as was the front of her pants. She felt heavy, wet, soaked and sodden with blood. “I’ve never done that before.”

“You haven’t?”

“No.” She paused. “I saw something. In here.” She tapped absently against her temple with her broken hand.. She winces in pain when the ruined bones make contact.

“What’d you see?”

“I saw Brightwind, um, Vainglorious. I saw him bleeding you dry. I saw him killing me, and then you. And, in that moment, I knew what I needed to become.”

“A set of teeth?”

“Yeah, I guess.” Reva crossed her arms and looked at the door they came from. There were no footsteps, no one would dare to venture this close. The castle’s defenders had to have known where they were, how close they were to their prize. There was no escape, no way out. And yet Dawn continues to press forward.

“Durandal.” Dawn looked back again. Her voice was cold. Mechanical, like the projected lock in front of her. “He did something similar.”

“That’s the story.”

“It's truth. He carved himself into a blade, for the love of his mother.” Dawn looked down at the door again, at her own reflection in the glittering gold. “He changed who he was, fundamentally. Shifted from female to male, broke his name in half.”

“His name?”

“The names of Fae, their true names -- they’re powerful.” Dawn recounted. “If we steal one of them, we could make any fae do anything. Even Titania. We can compel them to unmake themselves.”

“Is that what we’re stealing here, Dawn?” Reva stepped forward, in her eyes she could see that power. Rending the very being asunder, unmaking who they are at their conceptual level. It is what Dawn is attempting to do to this lock, what Reva did when she tore Vainglorious’ throat in half. What happened to Mirabell. “Are we stealing Titania’s true name?”

“I’m a thief, not a revolutionary.” Dawn chuckled. “I’m not in the queen toppling business anymore.”

“Then what are we doing here?” Reva took one more step forward. Her fists are clenched.

Dawn turned around now, facing Reva. She was on her knees, looking up at her former lover. Dawn knew this now. No matter what happened, no matter who survived. The two of them are never to touch each other in love, ever again. “Are you threatening me, Reva? You going to bare your teeth like you did to Brightwind?”

There was a pause. A beat. The air in the room went cold. Reva felt the pieces of Vainglorious fallow in her stomach, the salty brine of his blood in the back of her throat. She felt her teeth grow long and grow sharp, glow white hot with the Wolf’s Rage. And she knows, now, what she is channeling. Wolf magic. Chaos and entropy upon her lips. She took a moment, and breathed. She forces a Jamais Vu, not with Dawn this time, but inwards. Hunting for the capability, to see if there was any part of her who could turn those fangs upon Dawn, the woman she loves.

She never finds it.

“No.”

“Then stop wasting my time.” Dawn turned back around, a look of disappointment on her face. “And fucking let me work, Reva.”

There was another moment of pure silence.

“Who is she?” Reva asks. She regretted it the moment it slips her lips, as if that question, so implied by every interaction, was never to be asked.

Dawn did not turn back around. “Who is who?”

“When I turn to you and focus, and you rub that ring and shut me out, I see a woman. Black hair, messy bun. Spring’s day in Mariposa.”

“Oh,” Dawn said plainly. “Her.”

“You owe me that. Who is she?”

Dawn looked more intently into the lock in front of her. The ring hummed a tone that sounded like spring on the wind. Reva did not need to force a connection to know what she was thinking of. Reva can see Dawn’s reflection in front of her. Before, all she could see was her own reflection. Dawn’s had been absent. Now, the two of them are visible. “Yeah, ok. I can give you that.”

Reva crossed her arms. “Who. Is. She.” She asked now, for a third time. The irony was not lost on Dawn. The compulsion of threes.

“That woman is my wife, ah, ex-wife.”

Reva sighed, letting her breath slip from between her lips. That’s what she had feared. She walked to the window and looked over the island. The crowd was ravenous. They churned like the waves on the sea below them. Torches and swords are held aloft, making them look like glittering stars in the void. The moon looked at them from above, hanging hungry over this tableau. It was not night, not moments ago, but the Lady of Hounds will not be denied.

“You don’t sound too sure. You’re still wearing her ring, after all.”

“We never got divorced.” Dawn paused her ministrations with the lock. “I think she thinks I’m dead. Or wishes I am.”

“I could have forgiven that, Dawn.” Reva looked over at her shoulder. “I always kinda figured I wasn’t your main girl.”

“How’s that?”

“When you kiss me.” Reva breathed. “I can always tell you’re trying to kiss someone else.”

Dawn looked up at Reva, dropping the lock entirely. “And you’d be ok with that?”

“I liked you, Dawn.” Reva looked back at her. In her mind, she pictures this a romance storybook. Where the grand gesture of love might save the day. “You’re brilliant and radiant. I didn’t care in what way, I knew I needed to have you.”

The corner of Dawn’s mouth twitched. She isn’t sure if it was a smile or a frown. “You’re nothing like her, you know.”

“Then, what was she like?” Reva glared at Dawn out of the corner of her eyes.

“You don’t wa-”

“You don’t get to tell me what I do or don’t want.” Reva interrupted. “What was she like, godsdamnit?”

Dawn flinched, just for a moment. “I knew she was the brilliant one. Smart as a whip, with eyes that glittered like diamonds. She was ambitious to a fault. That, if the need arose, she'd hurt me if she had to, and I wouldn't be able to fault her. That woman reminded me of someone I knew once.” The words escaped out of her, as if compelled. “She saw through me immediately. Saw through the illusion and the half truths, knew me in a way I hadn’t been known for years. I became her assistant, and we made great things. Beautiful bits of knowledge that have never nor will ever be replicated.”

“So what happened?”

“Later happened. I knew I was falling in love. And I knew that if I loved her, I couldn't, wouldn't, be the thing I promised to be. I'd like to think she wouldn't fault me, but I dunno.”

“You’re right.” Reva looked back at Dawn. She did not think Dawn would look up from her task for this conversation. She knew, beyond knowing, that she did not have that respect for Reva. To be wrong angered her. “I sound nothing like her. Why were you even with me?”

Because Reva was a self pitying pissant. Because Reva was a silly girl who still believes in things like love. Because she was everything like Dawn and nothing like Blair, like Her.

“Because I hate you, and you love me.” Dawn’s voice was cold, but it was not distant. It was not mechanical. It was, for good and for ill, unmistakably Dawn, hard, and hoarse and real.. “We need each other. And that type of thing neither of us could ever give up.”

The lock clicked. It fell to the ground and then disappeared into star stuff. Dawn, still looking at Reva, stands up, shakes her shoulders, and then looks towards the door. It appeared as if nothing had been done to it, but as Dawn raised her finger to it and pushed, it gave way, opening as if some grand giant had compelled it to do so. She disappeared within.

Reva did not move, not for what seems like ages. There was a part of her that wanted to peer into that vault. To see what gilded treasures Titania had hoarded away for centuries. Gold stacked to the ceilings, swords and weapons with names of yore, maps to hidden islands where adventure might yet be found. It was, I am sure, magical to imagine what is in there. And so, unburdened by truth, she continued to stand.

Dawn and I, however, are not so liberated.

The room itself was barren. The coffers of the island had long run dry. Everything on this island served not out of coin, but out of devotion to their lady. Not even cobwebs remained, the spiders that lurked here having long died of eternal starvation. There had been no living being that had stood inside the vault in years. And, at the center of a worn piece of marble fashioned into a pillar, was a small panpipe, standing upright and leaning on nothing. It was wooden, strapped together with vines that smelled like apricot wine. It played the tune of a better story. A kinder one. Dawn raised a hand to it and cradled it gently. It was warm and it felt like love. With her other, she pulls out a small tapestry piece.

Durandal.

It was soaked through with blood and crumpled, but Titania’s son no less. She places the pan pipes within her scarf. And she pauses. A thought crosses her mind. She hefts Durandal in her hand like the cloth weighed more than gold. On his face, now smattered with red and green blood, was woven a brutal scream. A challenge, for a wolf at his door. She smiles warmly, and places him on the pillar.

Reva saw Dawn exit the vault and sighed, eyes closed in contemplation. She opened them and sees Reva, a look passing between them. Dawn’s cheeks were stained with tears but she was smiling, clasping the pan pipe to her chest in both hands. Reva was smiling as well, for no reason in particular. She doesn’t know why she smiles. Dawn looks down at her ring on her finger. That solid gold band that kept Reva from Dawn, the real Dawn. The thing that obscured so much. She moves to take it off.

And then it happened.

Reva did not need to force it this time, and the weight of absolute reality hits her. There is a library, far beyond the horizon, with books that stretch until forever with every kind of knowledge you’ve never wanted to see. At the center of that place, a star, unburdened by time. And at its entrance, a woman with blonde hair stands. Her nose is not crooked and her hair is not curly and her eyes are not purple but it is Dawn. Her natural curls straightened to a painful degree and with her hands nailed behind her back. Her clothes match her eyes, a deep and true azure. Like waves one would get lost in.

A woman with floor length black hair stands in front of her, leaning on the counter and she is smiling like Dawn was smiling at Reva. It is a smile wide enough to get lost in. And in every moment, Reva knew this was what Dawn was protecting, this memory of this woman. What she had kept Reva from at every turn, distracting her with sentimentality and affection. Whenever Reva had leaned in for a kiss, this is who was kissing Dawn back. She leans over the counter, grabs Dawn by her lapel, and plants a single, toothy kiss on her cheek like a maiden sending her knight to war. When she pulls away, there is a mark that will never be washed off.

Reva had seen what she thought Dawn was, in that hallway with Vainglorious. That violent thing, carved from many shaped cruelties and inflicted upon reality. Whether or not that was Dawn at all was irrelevant. Reva knew this to be her lover, now. No longer was she this brilliant woman. No longer was the edge of Dawn’s body the edge of Reva’s mind. And yet, she was standing before her, the grand illusion of Dawn becoming ever so close to shattering. In this light, her skin looked real, with veins and blood and secrets buried just beneath the surface. If Reva tried, if she looked deep within her mind's eye, she could see Dawn’s heart in this very moment, reflected in that black haired woman’s eyes.

This radiant truth scared her.

It scared her because no longer could Dawn be a construct, no longer could she contain Dawn within herself. She would not be the blade in the night or the perilous thief or her lover or any other sort of childish and selfish thing that Reva might need. As the toothy mark on Dawn’s cheek grows ever wider, as the gaps between the then and the now come to a screaming collision, Reva turns away. The room grows cold. Dawn’s ring stops just before her knuckle. Her tears dry up. Behind her, there is the past. The comfortable reality Reva thinks is the truth. Where Dawn would brandish blade and they might be in love. She sees it now. In the market places of Mariposa, in the face of a woman that would never look like her. This would be her future. She could carve away everything from the tapestry of life to make it so. She would become the knife and cut away the present and past to make way for this future.

“In this, I find you.”

Reva never sees it coming.

So lost in this reality was she did not hear the voice of the Queen of All Fey. She did not feel the creeping hands behind her, twelve of them, ghosting her legs, up her body, and wrapping themselves around her very neck. The fingers were as sharp as lightning and gentle as every lover Reva had ever felt. This is what Titania lived in, what drew her to Reva Ambrose. The overwhelming, intoxicating and unbearable reality of the past. Reva did not hear her own bones snapping, or feel the blood pooling in her lungs as the fingers crawled down her open, gormless mouth. All she could hear is a child that is not her’s asking for another apple. She does not feel them tearing and ripping and biting and laughing and rending. All she can feel is a wife that is not her’s talking about the weather. And, in a moment that felt like forever, Reva’s strings snapped, and her body falls limp. And in her glassy, bloodshot eyes, Dawn could see what she is seeing. She could see her own ex-wife infecting Reva’s final thoughts. Dawn didn’t even see herself.

All Dawn could ever have done is run.

Dawn emerged onto the beach just as the storm began to batter the island.

In front of her, Formen of the Wastes. He stood against the boat, rifle resting on the ground next to him. The waves were choppy, but there was no sea that would keep Dawn on this island. She was dripping with blood, and her revolver was running hot. She ran so fast, and so far - thirty nine minutes, fifteen seconds.

“Boss.” He nodded.

“You’re still alive.” Dawn sighed, relieved. From the sky, the queen of this place begins to scream. The clouds roil, the monstrous seas churn. “How?”

He shrugged, his rifle scraping slightly against the boat as it floats against the shore. “I didn’t let anyone get anywhere near me.” He looked up to the castle. It looked so still down here. He couldn’t hear the roiling crowds. “I saw Mirabelle eat it, but I lost track of everyone else.”

“Gone.” Dawn looked back at the castle. “We need to leave now.”

“Shame,” was all Formen could muster. Dawn glared at him out of pure instinct. There was a part of her that understands his blaise attitude, a part of her she wants to think is true. “Hopefully they took some down with them.”

Dawn approached the boat. “They did, they were absolutely beautiful” She looked down at Formen’s rifle and met the eyes of her reflection in its barrel. “At least they died for something.”

“Not like us, huh?” Formen shrugged, picking up his gun and loading himself onto the boat. “Getting rich for nothing?

Dawn followed him onto the boat as well, and would not say a word until the island disappeared into the distance.

#cup of trembling #creative writing #fantasy #writing #dnd writing #dnd #dnd5e #pathfinder #fantasy horror #horror writing #horror #Dawn Allcott #Dawn

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dinwarden · 1 month ago

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༺♡༻Velvet touch your mouth on mine༺♡༻

Curse of Strahd fanfiction, specifically a character study/backstory for Escher. ⁺ M/M content, explicit content. Two chapters, work in progress. MDNI, 18+ only. ⁺ TW for gaslighting, manipulation, graphic violence, abduction, stalking. (Updating as I go.) ⁺ Characters: Escher/Strahd Von Zarovich ⁺ 7.8k words. ⁺ Read on AO3

A small folded piece of parchment caught his eye, placed between the neck and the strings, and he was cautious to take it between two fingers and onto his lap. The perfume filled his senses, along with the faintest scent of smoke and wine, and he placed the instrument down to read it. "Your songs bring such light to my lonely castle. A gift for you. Keep playing, pretty. Count Strahd Von Zarovich"

༺♡༻ Chapter One ༺♡༻

With bleeding hands and aching feet, Escher trudged through the snow. He could barely see before him, even with the lantern in his hand and the faint hint of a candle being lit in his family home, the smell of smoke from the furnace filling his senses. Snow collected at his ankles, offering momentary relief from the burning pain, as well as an urge to rush into the warmth of the homestead.

He jostled the handle, and its creaking thrust through him, the headache edging behind his eyes. He pushed open the door, having to shove against piles of discarded letters behind the door, letters from Vallaki and fine handwriting mapping out the debt that the family had been put in. Golden blonde hair was tied low, and his senses were bombarded with the delighted shrieking that welcomed him.

His sister, Elisabeta, ran with such speed to catch hold of his arm on the way into the doorway. Her blonde hair was tied into two long braids, decorated with ribbons. She had only just celebrated her seventh birthday the day prior, and all the excitement was still there, as he noted how she was still wearing her new dress, baby blue and white with frills, which set him and their mother back far too much gold.

Her dress was stained with flour, likely from helping bake pască or some other sweet, and it transferred to Escher nearly instantly, and he only allowed his sister to hang off of his arm, leaving her laughing with delight, pale freckles showing with the cold weather of Krezk.

"Please, Elisabeta, I'm weary," He complained, voice hoarse, and he tried desperately to ignore the sting of the marks from lashings to the back of his legs, "it's late. You should be asleep." He scolded, tired eyes taking over his expression.

She laughed again, and allowed him to place her on the floor, "You weren't back!" She giggled, "I asked Mama if I could wait up for you!"

"Oh? How nice of you." He huffed, setting down his bag and shrugging off the dusty brown overcoat, “It is past midnight. Don’t feel like you must stay awake for my return.”

His sister must have been tired, for as soon as she got the chance, she dropped from her brother's arm and sprinted upstairs, the aged wood creaking all the way, “Goodnight!” she beamed happily from the landing.

Blood trickled down his calf, and he composed himself for a moment before stepping through into the front room. A smouldering fireplace sat in the centre of the far wall, mounted with the small symbol of the Morninglord. Two dusty grey, threadbare armchairs sat before the fire, and in one of them was a frail form of an older woman, blonde hair merging into the ageing grey, a dark shawl thrown over her shoulders as her cold eyes darted to the doorway to scan her son.

“You’re late,” she stated quietly, holding the shawl around her body, “you went to the tavern with your friends?” Faded eyes scanned him, her gaze sharp and nearly angry.

“No,” He shrugged, leaning back against the wall, decaying beyond repair and crumbling, “I had to finish collecting firewood. I didn't get invited to the tavern.”

She lifted her head to look at him and blinked like he had said something stupid. Her gaze flitted down to his calves, which he awkwardly shuffled to hide. Blood collected at the hem of his trousers, and he could still feel the sting, the way the foreman wound his wrist back, clearly aiming to draw blood while the others tried to get on with their work through Escher’s cries.

“What’d you do?” she furrowed her brow and sat back in her chair, shifting closer to the fire as she shivered, the strong winds breaking in through gaps in the window panes.

A huff escaped him, and he shrugged again, “Nothing…” he murmured, before he shook his head, “I caught sight of the castle in the distance, and didn’t stop looking at it. The foreman lost his temper.”

She scanned him for a moment and seemed to bite her tongue before she nodded, “Good. You shouldn’t be looking anywhere near Ravenloft.” she glared at her son, throwing her gaze back to the fire.

Escher shook his head, opening his palms in an exasperated shrug, “I didn’t mean to look. And there is no harm in looking, is there?”

“Not unless you catch the Devil’s eye,” she stated, her voice steely. Only stories, and rumours, had been spoken through each town, of men and women catching Strahd’s fancy and how quickly they were gone from their home, resigned to life with the cruel lord.

He scoffed, rolling his eyes, “Be serious, Mother,” he pleaded, untying his hair, “what about me would catch his eye? I promise I won’t look again.”

She stood up so quickly he nearly recoiled away, and yet in an unusual moment of tenderness, she approached her son and put her calloused hands to his cheeks, rubbing at his temples. A tight smile towards him pulled at her lips, drawing the wrinkle lines into her cheeks.

“My silly boy,” she stated endearingly, tucking hair behind his ear, “off to bed with you, now.”

He leaned into the touch, even if he wished not to. This was too rare, too special to let go now, and he stayed there for a moment before looking down at her, “Did you manage to find someone to fix the violin?” he whispered.

The smile dropped, but promptly reappeared with some reluctance, “No, Escher. No one here can,” she dropped her hands from his face, and started to escort him from the front room, “Perhaps someone in Vallaki can repair it.”

His mother seemed to forget often just how long it took to get from one town to the next. He knew she would not approve of him hitching a ride from a Vistani wagon. Still, beyond waiting desperately for a carriage to pass by, there was little choice unless he wished to be running from wolves and bats for days on end, before finally reaching Vallaki and having to spend two months' worth of wages.

She continued to usher him to the bottom of the stairs until she left him to climb to the next floor and finally up the ladder into the attic, his legs aching all the way. Cobwebs littered the rafters, small spiders crawled along the splintering wood, and Escher let out a quiet sigh.

He pressed himself down into the small bed, blood smearing the off-white sheets. The violin was cracked down its centre and stood watching him and he imagined it would be laughing if it could. Only he could manage to break such a fragile instrument, too heavy-handed and crushing its tiny frame. He shifted his overshirt off, leaving the thin white vest beneath, tore the stained trousers off himself, and allowed blonde hair to tumble from his band.

The violin was one of the few possessions he could call his own, the only thing that made him feel like he was more than some lowly peasant rotting in Krezk, that he was fit and noble enough to wield such a beautiful instrument. Honestly, the violin was cheap, and a gift for Escher’s birthday a year prior, but it lifted a warm, happy feeling when he looked at it, and that was worth it all.

He contemplated staying awake, getting some of his fathers' old woodworking tools and making an attempt to fix the instrument himself. However, his father didn't exactly teach him the craft, and he feared he would make it worse. He laid back in his bed, looking up towards the skylight. He could still hear his sister moving around, down by the ladder. He heard her step up and down from the first step, and he let out a tired sigh.

"What are you doing, Elisabeta?" He asked softly, trying to make sure his voice was not too tense, "Go to bed, child."

She laughed softly down by the ladder, stepped up again and climbed up the ladder, and peered past the top to look at her brother, "The mist is back!" She grinned, climbing up. His sister kept a positive outlook on the horrors outside, only shared by the other children of the village, she had never been hurt in all her years, nor had she been witness to just how horrid the aftermath of such attacks could be; never paying attention to the scratching in the foundation, the shattering of windows or the bodies filling the streets.

As was routine, Escher scooped his sister up, holding her to his chest protectively, and he was quick to blow the dim flame in the oil lantern out before he dropped to the floor with her in the corner of the room.

"Quiet now," He whispered against her hair, watching as the slightest slither of mist crept in through the crack of the skylight, spiralling like cigarette smoke in the cold air, "did you tell Mother?"

She nodded softly, watching the mist quietly, with an almost captivated gaze as it continued to filter into the room, "What if the window breaks, like last time?”

"I’m not sure," He shook his head, holding her closer, hand raising almost to shield her eyes from the window, "it will be okay, I will fix it if it does."

There was silence for but a moment, the thin slivers of mist nearly dissipating into the stale air of the attic, before screams were all he could hear, his sister shrieking as a large creature, sporting leathery, tattered wings, smashed against the glass of the window, and her scream was joined by Escher’s own, though he did not realise he had started at first. The creature slammed itself into the glass and shrieked with a near-frantic ferocity, and continued until the glass splintered, inch by inch before finally shattering.

It did not breach the threshold into the room, leaving the glass to rain down on the siblings. His heart slammed in his chest, an awful nauseous feeling gripping at his stomach as he finally got the momentary courage to lift his eyes and look at the creature. It was too big to be a normal bat, even if it wished to enter the room, it was too large to manoeuvre itself through the skylight, red eyes piercing through him and matching the necklace of droplets of blood decorating its fur.

However, as quickly as the creature arrived, it was gone. something heavy dropped in through the broken window, and Escher heard the flap of leathery wings leave. Elisabeta still cried but slowly threw her gaze to the window, her ragged breathing and grip on her brother’s shoulders weakening as she started to calm.

Escher saw that what had been dropped was a box, wrapped intricately in metres of dark fabric and lace. Carefully, he moved Elisabeta out of his arms, and shifted on his knees, fingers barely touching the beautiful fabric, but as he heard the familiar footsteps of his mother on the landing, he shoved the box beneath his bed, the wood hitting against the wall on the other side, before he looked to his sister, "Say nothing about it, not yet."

. . .

“What happened?” Shouted his mother as she breached the top of the ladder, practically launching herself into the attic, noting the smashed glass. She quickly rushed to Elisabeta, dusting splinters of glass from her hair with her shawl with some panic, “Where is the creature?”

The glass lacing Escher’s hair was bigger and cut into his hand as he tried to brush it out of his loose blonde curls, palm slashed and blood spilling like thin ribbons from the cuts. His mother rushed towards him, quick to wrap her shawl around his hand, her voice gentle as she tried to shush her children.

Escher shook his head slightly, and looked from Elisabeta to his mother, “The creature… it broke the window, but… that is all it did. We are both fine, mama.”

The shawl was tied around his palm, and she leaned in to press a small kiss on his forehead, “Good…” she whispered, holding his hand in her own trembling one. It was one of the few times Escher had seen his mother so shaken, but she soon pulled her hand away,.

The glass was swept up, the window patched up quickly and his sister put back to bed, and Escher was once again left up in the attic, watching as the spiders darted along the rafters. He considered going to bed, making sure he got up early as to not be late and face the foreman’s wrath once more, but the beautiful black lace, silk and velvet called to him, making him kneel down by his bed and pull the large box out.

The lace was so fine, Escher could only imagine how expensive it was, and he slowly began to unwrap it, revelling in the hint of rose perfume that lingered on the object the creature dropped. Finally, he revealed a dark, polished wooden box. With shaking hands, he leaned closer and unclasped the lid. Inside the box was a beautiful violin, carved out of the same dark wood, it shone in the low light of the lantern, and was somewhat heavy as he lifted it out of its box, leaving behind the soft fabric that was left to cushion the instrument, presumably so it would not be damaged when it hit the floor. It came with a carved bow with soft roses and thorns etched into the wood, and when he lifted it to his chin, he couldn't help but smile to himself.

"Your songs bring such light to my lonely castle. A gift for you. Keep playing, pretty.

Count Strahd Von Zarovich."

There was a sense of terror that gripped his chest, and he pressed the note back into the box and seemed to recoil from the instrument, placing it quickly back into its home. It was as if the instrument itself was just as deadly as the halls of Castle Ravenloft itself. He could normally see Ravenloft from his window, so many years of longing for the beauty of the old castle, and now a part of it was within his bedroom, with a personal note from the Devil, Strahd, the insignia on the bottom of the parchment made his heart race and hands sweat. He had never seen the lord in person, and now he was getting gifts. Terror, strangely, mingled into a sense of flattery, but Escher begged for his common sense to take over, closing up the box and pushing it back under his bed.

The mattress was thin, his back pressing straight into the wooden slats beneath him, and he watched the spiders go to their own beds, nestling in the rafters in their webs, and the way the ceiling vaulted into the darkness above him. He pulled the threadbare blanket to his chest, doing nothing for the cold air let in by gaps in plywood, and tried his best to sleep.

Dreams of the large bat took him, the darkness above him swirling into the thick, grey mist. In his dreams, he swore he could still see into his room, as if he was still awake, eyes wide as they stared up into the vaulted ceiling. He swore he could see the outline of a figure, clinging to the rafters, reflected eyes staring down at him.

The next morning took him as it normally did, an early morning start of being taken through the woods outside the abbey, collecting firewood and marching for hours into nightfall. Escher did not have the strength for chopping into the timber, felling the large pine trees into the dead earth, and often had to be paired up with one of the other people to aid him.

That day, it happened to be a young, dark-haired man with a scarred, round face, a deep gash having healed through his lips to the side of his nose. He was strong, chopping through the dead wood with little trouble. For once, Escher did not feel like his partner was begrudgingly helping him just so the foreman would not take out his anger on them.

The young man smiled Escher’s way, pushing his hair out of his eyes and taking another strong swing at the tree, “Your legs… are they okay?” He asked, nodding towards the straight gashes decorating Escher’s calves.

Escher hummed, lifting his leg to look over the marks. They were certainly ugly and angry, the remains of red from where blood had trickled down his legs, “Well… they don’t feel great,” he let out a strained laugh. He forced himself to swing the axe, barely making a dent in the wood beyond from splintering, “It feels worse today. Bathing hurt like Hell.”

“I imagine so,” he frowned, before he cast his gaze to the distant, misty visage of the castle in the distance, “I don’t see what is so wrong about looking at the castle. It’s almost pretty.” He stated in a hushed tone.

He shrugged and nodded, looking between the man and back to the foreman, cigarette tight between his lips as he surveyed his workers, “I do not see why we have to pretend it doesn’t exist. We’re all stuck here, but… I do not know,” he let out a sigh, taking a new swing at the tree, “there are so many stories about it. I just want to know what it is actually like.”

The hours dwindled away, Escher and his partner speaking of Castle Ravenloft in hushed whispers, about the lord who lived there and what he may be like, charming, noble, dangerous? As the others began to leave, the foreman excusing everyone with a stern look to the blonde, Escher found himself staying with the man, the two chatting and laughing into the early hours of the morning. They sat beneath the tree they had barely made a scratch to, his partner producing a bottle of wine from his bag.

“I have not seen you before,” Escher remarked, light eyes scanning the other man, “what is your name?”

He smiled at him, uncorking the bottle and taking a sip, the rich scent hitting him within seconds, “It’s Vasili,” he grinned, offering him the bottle, “I’m from Vallaki. The work has dried up there, and so my father has decided to cart me off each morning to get here.”

He sipped at the bottle, the comforting warmth spreading through him, “Is it true that there are more jobs, and they pay better, in Vallaki?”

“Depends. How much money do you make, chopping up firewood?” Vasili asked, taking the bottle back with a swig, “Please, drink as much as you’d like.”

Escher considered it for a moment, relishing in the wine and the warmth it radiated through him while the snow began to fall, “Each day, I make a copper piece. And.. the firewood is free, but only if we ask the foreman after our day is done.”

“I will not lie, the pay is better, at least somewhat,” Vasili looked somewhat guilty, resting his head back against the tree, “the wage in Vallaki is at least a silver a day. Maybe… you should relocate. Take a job there. There were still some odd jobs left. Mainly that of housekeeping for the Baron.”

Another quick swig was taken by Escher, a smile on his face, “Hah. I’m not exactly one for housekeeping, you understand,” he shrugged again, taking his hair out of the ribbon, “Maybe when I save up more money… I may.”

Vasili nodded slowly, taking a last drink, before handing the bottle back, “Have the rest. I will need to take a ride back with the Vistani.”

“Thank you,” Escher hummed softly, settling the bottle beside him, “I was enjoying the talk. I’m sorry you’re being subjected to such a shit town just for some coin.”

He laughed again, looking over him. Dark eyes scanned Escher’s face, and it made his heart race, this handsome stranger stared into his eyes, “It’s fine. We can talk more.”

His tone was as if he had to go, almost disappointed, and yet he lingered there for a moment, the two bathed in the light of the moon. Maybe it was the buzz of the wine or the fact that this was one of the few souls in Krezk who was not as cold as the weather, but Escher shifted, starting to lean closer. He was not an idiot. He was not going to kiss this man, instead, he moved closer and waited to see if he would respond or recoil.

Vasili stared back for a moment, eyes almost black in the low light. His lips were cold, and gentle as the two kissed. It was sweet and slow, Escher tracing a hand through his black hair, pecking another kiss to his cold lips before he finally pulled back.

Vasili smiled, kissing slightly at his lips again before he shifted away and sighed. “I really must be off. I’m sorry, Escher.”

“It’s okay,” he said, though could not hide his frown, “I ought to go home too. My mother will be waiting for me.”

The two shared another quick kiss, before Vasili rushed off down the road, coat hanging off his shoulders as his form disappeared into the woods, the mist surrounding him until Escher could no longer see his form.

Escher drank the rest of the wine on the way home, notes of cherry hitting his tongue with great appreciation, and soon he was back at his home, shoving the door open as carefully as he could.

“You’re drunk?”

His mother, arms crossed with a disgruntled look on her face, stood in the doorway of the front room, eyes trailing the empty wine bottle.

He shifted for a moment, before he shook his head, “No, mama, promise,” he offered a small smile, “I… shared it, with a friend. It’s just made me tired, is all.”

“Well… good,” she observed, taking the bottle from him and leaving it on the kitchen counter, leaving it for the morning, “I’m glad you are making friends.”

He slipped his coat off, throwing it over the rack with a lazy gesture, tiredness rushing over him moment by moment, “I may… go to Vallaki, tomorrow night, mama,” he spoke, words careful as he considered them, “there are good jobs in Vallaki, and I would at least like to see what is being offered.”

She nodded, though her gaze flitted to that of caution, “I see… Well, that is okay,” she stated. Escher was not going to double-check how happy she was with that concept, “maybe you can take your violin to be repaired, too?”

He departed upstairs with a gentle kiss to his mother’s cheek, in which she instantly recoiled at the alcohol on his breath, and climbed sluggishly up into the attic. He paid extra careful attention to the new webs created in the light of the lantern, smiling to himself as the spider rested in the centre, spinning new threads in its home.

Sleep took him rather quickly, only just managing to blow out the flame. Dreams seemed to be more regular for him in those days, and once again, he was met by the familiar scenario. Laying on his back, eyes fluttering open to the vaulted ceiling. The thing clinging to the rafters was still there, though was a much clearer visage of a person, nails scratching at the beams above Escher, those same eyes reflecting back at the blonde man, dark hair tumbling down. He wanted to scream, and yet his jaw, his mouth, and his lips would not cooperate, and instead, he simply stared up at the dreaded creature.

He was so sure he could hear soft whispers from above before sleep seemed to pull him back from the edge of the nightmare, and instead, any dreams he did have seemed to be of Vasili, his cold lips on his and the way they embraced for that brief moment.

༺♡༻ Chapter Two ༺♡༻

The smell of tobacco and spiced wine wafted over his senses, thick woven material of oranges and purples cushioned his rocky journey through the forest. Most people did not trust the Vistani, but transport was few and far between unless you wished to be chased by rabid wolves and bats through the pitch-black woods, finger-like branches grasping at hair and clothing.

Escher did not mind the Vistani however, mainly because they did not spend much near Krezk, and when he did see them, they were passing through. Vasili seemed to have a friendly relationship with them, able to flag down a passing vardo, smiling and laughing with them. The language he spoke to them in wasn’t common, and the older woman, skin tanned and scarred, laughed with him and offered Escher a bottle of spiced cider for the long journey.

"You seem to know them well." Escher started, holding the cider between his ankles, shifting into the soft pillows and blankets, trying to grasp some warmth from the cold, snowy town they rolled over.

Vasili gave a nod, shifting his blanket over his shoulders, sitting across from Escher, "Yes. I've traded with them before, travelled with them sometimes."

The journey was quiet, the lingering thoughts of the small kiss as well as the gift from Ravenloft dropped into his window. Every so often, Vistani men and women would get into the vardo, only to depart later on the road.

They laughed and joked with Vasili, conversations that Escher could not understand, though they made sure to speak in common when speaking directly to the elf.

"It's cold here, yeah?" One of the men stated, holding his leaf green coat closer around his shoulders. He looked to Escher with a look of playful exasperation, "How do you handle Krezk? I dare not linger there too long, lest I awaken buried in the snow."

Escher laughed, "I think we are used to it," he shrugged before he offered the man the spiced cider, which he took with a swift movement, "Plus… this whole land is cold. It just so happens that Krezk has snow."

"Ravenloft is not much better," He replied, dark hair tied up in a tight bun, dark eyes trailing Escher’s movement, "It's as if you could push your hand into the open flames of the fireplace, that it would not burn you."

Anxiety swarmed in the elf's chest, the mere mention of Ravenloft forced something below his skin to crawl, "You've been to the Castle?"

He took a sip of the cider, only nodding in response before he returned to speaking with Vasili, the conversation quickly warping into laughter and smiles that Escher felt he was trapped out of. His mind lingered on the quiet thought that the Devil was all around him.

The conversation dwindled and Escher was handed the bottle. The worrisome ache in his chest only grew, and it burned up his throat like acid, words tumbling from his lips before he could even consider them.

“A couple of nights ago,” He started, watching as the eyes of those in the vardo turned on him, “the hordes of creatures from the castle… one of them dropped something through my window.”

“Oh?” one of the Vistana tilted their head to the side, “What was it?”

“A violin,” Escher shrugged, “wrapped up in fabric, and pretty…” He explained. The creatures that plagued the land in the dead of night did not seem to know how to do anything but claw their way into people’s homes, mindlessly tearing whatever or whoever they found apart. How did some bat know to drop something into his window?

“Lovely gift,” One of the Vistana stated, taking a sip from the cider before speaking once more, “I would not worry too much.”

—

Vallaki’s tavern was certainly warmer than anywhere else Escher could be dragged to, and it was a welcome change from Krezk. Rain drizzled down the dusty windows, and Escher was escorted back to his room by Vasili, who insisted on carrying his bags for him.

Jobs were as hard to come by in the city as it was in Krezk, and the two men found themselves rejected over and over, doors slammed in their faces as there seemed to be no need for fishing or logging, driving the two back to their rooms with an air of frustration.

“We’ll try again come morning,” Vasili murmured, placing Escher bag and violin case down by the door, “I’m sorry, usually there is more work here.”

Escher felt himself tap the case as it was placed down, pressing it under the bed, “It was worth asking. Maybe I’ll ask at the Burgomasters manor.”

“He burns through staff like he burns through his gold,” Vasili cracked a smile, lighting thin, melted candles, “If all else fails, play your violin in the square.”

The light was dwindling outside, the mists clawing at the edge of the treeline where all was dark. Ravenloft was just a faint blot on the horizon, and the creatures would soon come. Escher imagined the flickering candles in the castles’ windows, something beyond the stained glass compelling him to do as Vasili suggested.

“I’ll leave you to rest,” Vasili spoke finally, tearing open the silence like wrapping parchment, “do sleep well.”

It was a quick kiss they shared, akin to the pecks a pair of longtime lovers preparing for bed, and Escher could barely think of what to say before Vasili was gone. It was not as if Escher had never experienced such affection before, but he had met no one like Vasili. A tipsy kiss in the dead of night, followed by days of keeping him at arm's length, tiptoeing around the most basic of conversations to a sudden kiss.

Something chill brushed his cheek in the night.

The springs in the mattress were loose, the blankets itched and the wind rattled the window frame. Escher had managed to stay asleep through discomfort, until something cold blessed his face.

Used to leaky roofs from the heavy rainfall of the valley, Escher closed his eyes tight, but he did not feel the sensation leave. Someone stood before him, backlit by the moonlight that seeped through the sheer curtains, hand outstretched and recoiling. Escher’s eyes barely had time to adjust to the dark, frozen on his back as his mind unfortunately picked up the figure.

Light reflected off the figures’ eyes, more predator than man, like the wild wolves that stalked the forests outside of Kresk, blood pooling from their mouths as they bared their teeth. Such nightmares would be gone after Escher closed his eyes, but when his lashes fluttered open for light eyes to meet the ceiling, those glassy eyes looked at him still. There was something ancient in the smile it flashed him, the glint of teeth, and finally, it spoke.

“Such beauty,” The voice spoke, and it made Escher’s skin prickle with a sudden chill, infiltrating the thin warmth of the blankets, “wasted on this squalor.”

Escher opened his mouth to speak, but he could not force the words to tumble from his lips, nor did he know what to say. Those piercing eyes made a pit in his stomach, tightening his chest. Escher figured he must have looked a fool, staring up at the standing figure, mouth agape with terror and awe. His eyes grew used to the dark, and he saw more of the figure; long hair, broad shoulders, and dull skin which reflected the slivers of moonlight that hit it.

“You need not speak,” the thing said, moving in the dark. Pale fingers with nails like a beast's claws reached towards the unmoving Escher, an envelope between two fingers, “Grace the castle with your presence soon, and bring the violin with you, yes?”

“I… what?” Escher finally asked, his voice barely carrying in the darkness of the room. When the creature did not respond, Escher quickly moved to sit up. Within the smallest blink, the presence of the room was gone. The Dread Lord had visited Escher, and all he could do was stare in stupified silence while he spoke, his hair a mess of tired tangles and frizz.

Vasili welcomed him into his room, half asleep himself and it was clear he had not heard exactly what Escher had said, the panicked whispers he spoke into the silent tavern. Quietly, Vasili pulled Escher into his arms, pulling him back into the bed, the scent of roses, of sage and bergamot filled his senses.

“Did you just hear me?” Escher asked, exasperated as Vasili readied himself to go to sleep once more, “Vasili, you are not listening– someone was in the room with me, and spoke to me.” he huffed, softly nudging the young man in the side.

Vasili only let out a hum, pulling him closer, “Sleep, darling,” he murmured, voice thick with sleep, “you dream.”

Escher frowned, watching in the darkness as Vasili’s lashes fluttered closed once more, “I was awake, Vasili,” he shook his head, “it was him, he spoke to me.”

A hint of an amused smile flashed over his face, and Vasilli allowed Escher to pull back from the cuddle, “Stay here tonight, I will keep you safe,” he said, eyes closed peacefully, “if the dread lord comes again, I will protect you.”

“Shush,” Escher tried not to laugh, “you are going to get yourself killed, maybe both of us.”

However, the mere notion of having to return to his room made his chest ache, and eventually, he returned to Vasili, breathing in the scent of bergamot while strong arms wrapped around him. Sleep kissed Escher soft and slow, taking him until morning broke, and he awoke to find himself still wrapped up in Vasili’s hold.

___

Blonde lashes fluttered open into the dark morning to find Vasili awake, dark eyes darting to meet Escher’s own. A handsome smile, Escher thought, pretty eyes locked on him. Vasili squeezed his shoulder. “You can sleep here tonight,” Vasili murmured, “no more worrying.”

Vasili’s kisses were sweet, and tender, and Escher could not help but lean into them. Cold lips pressed to his temple, and he smiled to himself, a small moment of warmth before they had to get up. The anxiety welled, and all caution was waning as Escher’s mind begged to find the truth; Vasili altered his demeanour when talking to Escher as often as the wind changed, sometimes cold and distant, occasionally sweet and desperate to be near him.

“I have it on good authority that the Devil cannot come here, something about the church. Hallowed ground, maybe?” Vasili began again after a stretch of silence, “I’m sure you dreamed it.”

“I did not,” Frowning, Escher sat up, “he told me to come to the castle.”

For all of Vasili’s looks, he did not listen very well, quick to dismiss Escher’s words with that quick smile of his, “He cannot come here, darling,” he repeated, “do you wish to go to the castle?”

Escher stared at him for a moment, their eyes meeting as Vasili shrugged, awaiting the answer. Escher had tried to simply rid his mind of the castle, he knew the Devil engaged in trickery to seduce people to the castle. Maybe he did wish to go if only to meet the only person who seemed to appreciate his music.

“I… of course I don’t want to go!” Escher scoffed, feeling Vasili’s hand on his back.

“Then do not go, darling,” he shrugged again, “what would he want with you anyhow? It isn’t like you are anyone special.”

Escher struggled to see if that was supposed to comfort him or not, or if it was simply a veiled backhanded compliment. It made his chest feel tight, a sting of rejection perhaps, or just the notion that out of the entirety of Barovia, Escher would never be anything but a young man barely making ends meet by chopping down Krezk trees, who would eventually die to the wolves, the mists, gods, even the cold. There was no way out, no escape from Barovia and no escape from the dreary people who filled the land.

“Come now, I did not mean it in such a way,” Vasili instantly placated, noting the drop in Escher’s expression, “darling, the Devil does not target just anyone.”

___

Finding work proved as difficult in the large city as in his hometown. The burgomaster was no more interested in having a new staff member than he was in having a new person wandering the town. Fishermen did not need a new worker, the Vistani on the edge of the city had no jobs in need of completing and the townspeople had no interest in the sound of the violin.

Two copper, and three silver. He made more each day at home, chopping down trees and collecting firewood. Calloused hands, aching back.

“I know not what to do.” Escher murmured, pale hands rubbing his temples while he looked up at Vasili. Night had fallen again, and he had little to show for it, meagre coins and dirty looks from the townsfolk.

“They did not like your songs?” Vasili asked, a couple of copper in his palm, “they are foolish, yes?”

Escher exhaled a soft breath, his foot nudging the violin case down by his heels. Still wrapped in expensive satins and lace, the note penned by the devil tucked between the silk. Escher had found himself reading and rereading the few words, the elaborate script, the crest dripped with red wax.

Some nights, he clutched the envelope to his chest, the rose perfume clinging to the note filling his senses. He wondered briefly if the dread lord had picked the scent specifically for him, if he knew that Escher loved the scent of roses when they could grow in the dead lands, or if that sickly perfume belonged to the count himself.

“Maybe I will return to Krezk.” Escher murmured quietly, tapping the heel against the case again.

Vasili was quiet for a moment, dark eyes drifting to the floorboards beneath their feet, “I am sorry that you found nothing here for you,” he offered, “I can take you back home. I will see if the Vistani are travelling that way.”

Vasili was quiet through the darkness of night, the fire of the oil lantern flickering in the dim light. For the few nights prior, Escher had no visions, no visitors in the night, and Escher had found himself growing closer. Vasili pressed small touches to his waist, the small kisses they shared before sleep took them.

Now, the kisses were more akin to the tipsy kiss the two shared back in Krezk, Vasili biting down on Escher’s bottom lip before soothing the sting with a swipe of his tongue. Cold hands held Escher’s hips, and Escher found himself smiling into the kiss, heavy breathing mingling and hands grasping for purchase.

“Escher–” Vasili murmured into the kiss.

Escher could barely hear him over the sound of his heartbeat racing in his ears. Breathless, desperate for Vasili’s hands on him, for the way he gripped his thighs. When he started to unbutton the collar of Vasili’s linen shirt, he felt those cold hands lead his hands away, and his brain finally tore back to the present.

“I– oh–” Escher gasped out into the kiss.

“Escher.” Vasili repeated quietly, dark eyes reflected in the dim light.

The tension that moved feverishly around them dimmed just as the light, and Escher dropped his hands from his shoulders. “Apologies,” Escher said quietly, “I just thought–”

Vasili shook his head, “There is no need for apologies,” he quickly replied, “perhaps– another time, yes? Not tonight. Not yet, hm?”

An optimistic statement, when it would possibly be the last time they saw each other, Escher thought, but he settled for those soft kisses. However, he found himself teased, Vasili pressing his lips against his neck, whispering about how he wished to fuck Escher into the mattress.

“You’re confusing me.” Escher laughed amidst the kissing.

“Sweet thing,” Vasili responded, “I would love nothing more. But, not tonight.”

___

The air near the lake was cold, biting chill into their flesh. With no Vistani caravan for them to hitch a journey on and with the rain pounding onto the dead land, near tearing their flesh, Vasili borrowed one of the docile horses from the Vistana, promising to return it within the week. The horse was dark, almost black as midnight, nudging its face against Escher whenever it got a chance.

Escher could barely see before him, clutching Vasili’s overcoat as the horse galloped on. The heavy rain felt like it burned his flesh, and no amount of hiding his face in the rough fabric shielded him, the mists thick before their eyes. Escher had anticipated difficulty navigating the terrain on horseback, stumbling movements to guide the horse down another path, but Vasili seemed to know just where to go, focus wrinkling his features, the rain and mist barely hindering him.

“Perhaps we should turn back.” Escher tried, but his suggestion drowned out in his ears, the slamming of his pulse, the sound of the rain. If Vasili heard, he did not respond.

Hours passed, and the rain did not let up. Soaked to the bone, Escher tried many times to suggest they stop, but the man seemed intent on getting through the mist, ignoring Escher’s feeble words. Then, the horse came to a sudden halt.

Sharp branches of the trees twisted overhead, the forest swallowing all light, and Escher could barely pinpoint where exactly they were, he could see nothing past the forest. Turning his head, he spotted Vasili pacing before tugging on the reins as gently as he could, trying to encourage the horse. However, it planted its hooves, reeling back.

Escher frowned, tossing a glass over his shoulder in the direction of the path, where the horse did not wish to go, “Maybe it saw something,” he mused, “there are wolves in the forests. Do you know where we are?”

“We won’t reach Krezk like this,” Vasili flushed red, either frustration or embarrassment, “we are on the right track, but… the woods. No, I don’t know.”

Torch in hand, Escher took a few steps down the path, the dark barely parting under the light, flames flickering, oil burning in his nostrils. Down the path, he could still see Vasili trying to compromise with the horse, seeming to get nowhere. It took only a moment of Escher looking away for all to go awry.

There was a man in the woods. Escher would not have spotted the figure standing far off if not for the slightest snap of a twig, the reflection of his eyes glinting in the dark. When Escher turned, Vasili was no longer there, only the grazing horse. Panic tore through Escher, who knew what lived in the forests? Hunters? The man wore furs from what he could see, but when he glanced back, he could not see the figure. On top of all that, breaths leaving raggedly from his throat, the horse was still stubborn, refusing even to turn.

Whoever it was moved silently, and when Escher felt a hand touch his shoulder, it took all he had not to swing the dying torch into the side of his face. A tall man, his shoulders broad beneath finery and furs, dark hair slick with rain, parted to make space for elven ears. It was distinctly not the thing that had been in Escher’s room in the night, this man’s skin was a muted brown, and his dark eyes darted over Escher’s face as if evaluating art.

“Holy fuck,” Escher gasped out the last of his breath, crouching down beside the horse, “are you going to kill me?”

The tall elf was silent, and for a moment Escher thought he was considering it, before he stated, “No.”

“No?” Escher parroted. The scimitars at the elf’s sides were heavy, of steel or silver. He wondered how much force the elf would have to exert to force the blade through his throat, easily carving through flesh and bone.

“No,” the man repeated slowly, “come. You are already late.”

Stumbling to stand, Escher watched the man draw close, taking hold of the reins where the horse started to move, walking on in the direction they were going in. “Late for what?”

The horse had been so scared before, but now it sat patiently for the man to get into the saddle as if it had been expecting him to come. His lips straightened for a moment, jaw tense, before he spoke, “It is customary, that when one is invited somewhere, to accept or decline, yes?”

The elf did not even look Escher’s way, eyes downcast as if he did not wish to look at him. A sinking feeling grew in Escher’s stomach, and suddenly he understood that this man surely came from the castle, “Yes,” he nodded, feeling awfully stupid, “I did not know how to decline.”

“So you are declining?” Dark eyes darted down at Escher. There was something about him that made his skin crawl, a cold chill rushing over him.

“No, I just had no way to decline, or to accept,” He nodded quick, and when he was prompted, he took the elf’s hand to sit upon the back of the dark horse, “so… you know him? The Devil?”

He simply nodded, guiding the horse to trot through the silent forest, all sound leaving, only interrupted when the man spoke once more, “I believe the Master will enjoy that you call him such a thing,” he mused, “indeed. Rahadin.”

“Escher,” he replied, though the face he saw Rahadin make only made him realise that the man likely already knew, “but… my friend, he disappeared.”

Rahadin was silent for another long stretch, before he murmured into the air, “Did he?” he asked, but Escher felt more like a child being pacified than anything else, “you shall find him soon, I should think.”

Tall spires rose against the sky as the forest broke for mountain terrain, thunder shaking the very earth, lightning casting a brief glow across the sky beyond Ravenloft. Escher had never seen the castle up close, and he almost wished he could run, as if Rahadin would not find him, as if the Devil would not find him.

Ravenloft’s jaws were open for something new, something fun.

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