Chapter 69-
“I must say, General, at the end of this little spat, I never thought I would see such a display as to rend a mountain to dust, to step to my own throne…
But, alas, that look in your eyes, an expression I’ve seen before but cannot place right now, will not see you through this ordeal.
You are relieved of your duties, General Monaco…”
A chunk of the palace was gone, replaced with smoldering air as the remains of Ky Monaco’s essence drifted up into the sky. The thunder vanished, and a blanket of silence covered every inch and corner of the outside.
Leon stood at the other end of what had moments ago been the ball of lightning, posed as if he had just struck directly through an enemy. He stood still in that position for a moment, and a few scattered cinders touched his hair. At the last moment, he had concentrated all of his focus into a blow that ran through Ky’s exploding body in an effort to minimize how much energy he could release.
“A brilliant tactic,” he thought. “Use one attack to lodge a bit of his energy in me, and then use that like a literal lightning rod to direct all of his energy through me. He had to channel so much thunder through his body that it destroyed him… I never would have expected such a suicidal tactic, but then again…”
Leon straightened himself in the air and took a look at where Ky had been just a moment before, in all of his magnificence. Far above him, he could hear the wind blowing when something caught his eye.
“Is it… snowing?”
From his position in the sky, he could see small, delicate snowflakes coming down as the ash and cinder blew upward. There were still fires burning where the palace had been hit, and the little flakes melted as soon as they fell near, creating a subtle haze of moisture as the water was released back into the atmosphere. It was an altogether somber scene, though Leon couldn’t understand why he felt that way.
“Ergh!”
He grabbed his chest. “What the-?”
A sharp pain spiked through his chest, spreading to his whole upper body. Control was ripped away from him, and he found himself falling to the thrashed rooftop.
“What’s this pain? What’s happening??”
The flames that cloaked him were extinguished, and he stripped away the regal garb from his chest. There was nothing out of the ordinary on the surface, but the echoes of pain resounded throughout his whole body. His breathing became increasingly labored and his head spun with dizziness.
From where he was on the ground, Persicho kept a straight face. The first of the snowflakes dropped to ground level and landed on his cheek. As it melted, it rolled down his face.
---
Galeton was not a walled city, but there were a limited number of tollways through which one could come and go. The small group of state enemies had retreated further away from both the Gladial and the palace, where law enforcement were now swarming towards.
“The fastest way to the Serpent Isles is along the coast,” Rodan explained. “But taking a ship now is out of the question, we can’t be seen by the authorities, and you two especially.” He pointed to Gallow and Sonsee.
Sonsee looked cross and muttered, “Don’t act like you didn’t give us the poison.”
“Well,” Rodan turned his hands up in peace. “I wasn’t trying to say anything, it’s just true.”
“Okay,” Sonsee folded her arms.
“Anyways,” he cleared his throat, even though there was no blockage to speak of. “We can potentially leave through the eighth tollway on the Northeast end of the city. There’s only a little more time before dark, and that’s the quietest exit.”
“Quietest?” Gallow wondered. “You mean it doesn’t get much traffic?”
“Yes.”
One eyebrow lowered in confusion. “Doesn’t that mean they’re more likely to inspect us closely?”
Rodan smiled. “Not if there isn’t anything to inspect.”
Gestalt, who had been quietly listening, stepped between them, making it clear that he was a good ten years older than Rodan. “I’ve gotten a lot of friends in and out who weren’t supposed to be here. We’ll hire a coach to take us out of the city and drop us off at someone I know, it’ll be simple.”
For someone who didn’t speak much in a group, his maturity shone through when he took charge. Sonsee, who barely had any idea of who he was, took an immediate liking to his calm, straightforward approach; it reminded her of her father, though it was likewise frightening to imagine him being stern.
“A coach?” Dana asked in a modest tone. “Does anyone have any money? Everything we had was confiscated when we were arrested…”
“Same here,” Gallow raised his hand.
“I don’t hang on to money,” Sonsee remarked.
With that, all eyes turned to Gruse and Eroh, who were the only ones from outside; particularly, some eyed the orb in Eroh’s clutches. Taking note of the mood shift, Gestalt continued, immediately centering attention back to him.
“Don’t worry about it,” he assured them. “I’ve got stuff in reserve.”
---
The walls of the Heavensward Gladial flew past Mara as she channeled the winds through her jeweled pendant; she moved with surprising stealth, slipping through the air with ease. When she finally reached the top of the tower, the toe of her boot tapped the stone landing.
She froze in place, her eyes dilating.
“What’s that sound?”
Something strange was echoing through the chamber, like spilling grain over the floor. It was only when she took a few cautious steps forward that she saw the late afternoon light touching Bach’s form in his chair.
“Is he… crying?”
It occurred to her that she had never seen him cry before, this pillar of strength and tradition, her Lord.
He was curled in his chair, right hand cradling his cheek, and he rubbed his face every few seconds as some kind of depressive tick. Upon hearing her approach, the tears ceased flowing like a valve had been turned. He turned and gazed at her as if to say “What?!”
Mara stopped dead. She was carrying Queen’s crumbling body in her arms, and whatever furor that had been raised in Bach subsided. He stared at Queen, whose jaw had almost entirely fallen away, whose chest was in three large pieces, all held together by pressure from Mara’s hold.
“Milord,” she greeted him, unable to bow. “Queen requires healing.”
Bach exhaled deeply. “How many escaped?” It was an objective question, but profound sadness seemed to soak everything he said.
“Gallow, Hewl, Calari, and his wife.”
Bach looked from her to Queen. In that moment, she saw how old he really was; his eyes looked more like marbles set in a face made of worn leather so that when they moved, the texture of his skin noticeably shifted. In the height of his elegance, he looked just as she imagined he had all those millenia ago, but now the years weighed on him more than ever.
“Bring him to me,” he stretched out his arms and beckoned her. Mara obliged and laid Queen in his creator’s arms.
They looked much the part of a mother and newborn; Mara couldn’t make out quite the emotion on his face, it was something planted deep inside of him, something immutable that was being twisted and contorted by the sight of his creation in pain.
“[RACH I]”
The area around the chair was cloaked in a veil of shadow from which no sound escaped. This might take several hours, so Mara walked back towards the entrance. A shape caught her attention, and she stopped to see Shade standing in the corner. He had been the one to tell her that Queen was defeated, rousing her from her unconscious state in the halls of the prison.
“Fetch him, I will return to Lord Bach,” he’d said. Now he was here at his side once again.
“Why did you leave Lord Bach?” Mara called.
From the shadows, he took his time to even look at her to acknowledge that she had said anything to him. The chunky black collar around his neck had a thin metal strip fastened to its front with the word “PRAY” engraved across in large, serif writing. At the back was an identical strip which read “KNEEL.”
Shade blinked a few times, considering whether or not he should even respond.
“Lord Bach requested that I leave the chamber.” A moment passed as his lips remained parted, but he took it to stare at her with his sunken eyes, to make sure that she was listening before he continued in his deadened tone. “He was in mourning.”
Mara was uncomfortable even looking at him, and was almost driven to sickness by continuing to speak to him, but had to.
“What was he mourning?”
Shade rolled his eyes with slack lips. “The General, Ky Monaco, he’s just died fighting the King.”
“What-?” The question sprung from her so quickly it was mostly breath.
“Lord Bach didn’t tell you about him, did he?” Shade returned to looking at the ceiling. “Monaco was a secret project of his, he was very attached to him.”
Mara’s head swiveled to the void-like cloak surrounding her creator. Her face said everything, with a furrowed brow and parted lips. The peculiar feeling of empathy shot through her, and she was lost as to what she could do, if anything.
“You don’t care about it, I’m assuming?” she wondered aloud, some sadness weighing down her voice.
Shade’s raised eyebrows leered at her for a moment before he gave a matter-of-fact “What do you think?” and closed his eyes, crossing his arms.
She studied him for a moment in the silence.
Sometimes, Mara would lay awake on the floor at night, motionless like the doll she resembled. She had little need for sleep, and when there was no work to be done, she spent those dark hours in solitude. Loneliness would sink from the black ceiling, meeting first her breast and face before descending even deeper through the layers of her body. Over time, the feeling would collect at her back like sediment, building up until she could no longer move.
It wasn’t an active suffering, but each passing second seemed to slowly choke her, so slowly that she barely noticed. Her mind was occupied by the fixation of her heart-- Jericho, whom she cared so much for. His total disinterest in her was a vice fastened tightly around her chest. It was a human social contract that those related to one another were forbidden to be in love, but the creations of Bach were not the same as siblings… They were separate, distinct beings; they had no DNA in the first place and thought of each other as proles ab artifex, “offspring from the artist.” Their lies were defined by loneliness, and though they never said it, none of them felt capable of connecting to another person, much less each other. Decades of living adjacent to humans had made her long for the fulfillment of loving another and being loved in turn.
Even if Jericho did hold the same values as humans, it was not the reason he did not love her. He did not love her because his heart was set on Dana Calari, and no matter what he did for her or what he felt, Mara could never shake the thoughts that his desire for love was as shallow as hers. This ate away at her. It was her condition.
But Shade was different. Unlike she or Jericho, who felt, or Dazey, who was too simple for feelings so complex, Shade lacked any love in his heart. Distinct from humans, he was Bach’s greatest achievement in terms of creating a living weapon, because a sword cares not what it is wielded for; as long as Bach held his handle, he was bound to serve him. It was rare, almost unprecedented, for him to leave his master’s side, and he would fight until his body was dry.
This distinction that Shade held meant that, unlike humans, or even the others, he had no capacity for love and no desire for it. Even the most wicked of humans, serial murderers and the like, acted so because they fundamentally need love. That word did not have anything to do with Shade LaCarr, and he was free to hate as he pleased; his only emotion was anger, either cold or hot.
In the depths of her depression, Mara became quite envious of his lack of feeling, and at one point, made it her mission to elicit some sort of reaction from him.
On a cold evening, the rare occasion for Shade to be separated arose: a meeting of religious leaders from around the world in Galeton. Though he was not allowed in the meeting room itself, he was positioned outside, in the study.
The fire crackled, casting a warm, flickering light on the chairs and tables crafted from artisan wood. Shelves lined with notable works written in dead languages surrounded them, history even older than they were. Shade sat stiffly in a red velvet seat, watching the fire burn with some kind of passive interest.
“Shade,” a woman’s voice from behind him, Mara’s. His head turned mechanically, and he saw her.
Mara’s dress was gone, and she was stripped down to nothing but her lower undergarments; her arms were crossed over her chest, hands around her shoulders. The gentle light of the fire cast flatteringly on her slim, porcelain-white figure, and reflected in her beckoning eyes.
To any man, this was an obvious, if not outrageous, display, but Shade did not have a man’s heart. His own eyes were fixed, staring frigidly into hers, not even fighting the urge to drift downwards, and his expression was solid, indistinguishable from a corpse.
“What are you doing?” he asked flatly. “Dress yourself.”
Mara was on the verge of trembling with fear, and hurried herself out of the room in complete failure. Even the most innate, carnal desires refused to strike the smallest chord within him.
She huffed and exited Bach’s chamber.
---
Night descended on the city of Galeton, and Figaro was locking up shop on the west end of town. Business was usually slow this time of year, but the coronation had drawn in people from all over the country, especially wealthy nobles. Those nobles needed transportation around the city, because, well, they weren’t going to walk everywhere, were they?
He welcomed the brief silence that always came with closing time, nothing but the tactile sounds of creaking floorboards and ticking locks.
“Speaking of…”
The safe needed to be double-checked. Just as he bent down to make sure that everything was fastened properly, a knock at the door shattered his quiet, and he jolted, knocking his shoulder into the counter.
“Agghhh…” he groaned, rubbing it and rolling his arm a few times. He’d hurt his shoulder a week before, and it was just starting to heal. Now that his body was starting to slow down, he was finally starting to reign in his physical expectations for himself; he’d even considered hiring an apprentice to help him with some of the physical labor needed to keep up the carriages.
Figaro lumbered over to the door, still unlocked, and opened it to let in the cool night breeze. He couldn’t hide the surprise from his face.
“Gestalt?”
Standing by himself under the short awning was Gestalt Hewl, all by his lonesome. He smiled at his old acquaintance.
“Figaro, how’re you doin’? Hey,” he glanced at something off to the side. “I’m in a bit of a jam, think you could arrange me a carriage?”
Figaro was stunned but eminently pleased.
“Absolutely, right now?” he turned around to grab his coat.
“Yeah,” Gestalt added. “Party of seven.”
Figaro stopped, hand on his coat, and he turned his head back to Gestalt. His mouth was open because his brain knew that he needed to respond before he knew what to say.
“Did you say… seven?”
Minutes later, the wheels of a carriage were cutting tracks through dirty snow in the city streets. For such a large crowd, Figaro had picked one with a covered body; not only would it hide them better, it was the choice of nobles who wanted to keep themselves out of the sun, and would attract less curiosity at the toll.
Gestalt rode in the front seat with Figaro, wearing a hat whose brim was pulled down to obscure his face. Meanwhile, the rest of the passengers were packed like sardines into the seats. To cut down on the space they took up, Dana sat crossed over her husband’s lap, and Eroh was made to sit on the floor, legs splayed out so that everyone kept their feet hovering over the ground, just to avoid touching him.
“Darling,” Dana whispered to Rodan. “I feel a little faint…”
Immediately, his hand jumped to her forehead. “Are you hydrated? Do you think you have a temperature?”
“Probably not,” Eroh cut in, drawing everyone’s eyes. “I’m starting to sweat a little, you’re just inhaling my toxin.” His black lips drew back over his ghostly face in a wretched smile.
Even in the moonlight from the window, everyone could see the color drained from Dana’s face, and she grabbed her throat like it would cut off inhaling any more poison.
Gallow peered at Eroh’s glee with visible disgust.
“Is that true?” Sonsee snapped her head towards Gruse, in a tone that suggested she was taking charge of the situation.
Gruse shrugged. “You get used to it, I think I built up an immunity.
“It’s just a little lightheadedness,” Eroh’s voice slithered out.
Rodan tightened his arms around his wife, stewing with anger. “It’s okay,” he whispered to her. “We’ll be there in no time.” A second passed, and he added, “I won’t let anything happen to you.” She hung onto his words.
At the Galeton city limits, a small cabin, no more than five by eight feet, was set up beside the arm of an electrically-operated boom gate. Inside, an overpaid city worker was about to doze off in the warm light of his lantern when the sound of hooves clopping and wheels crushing their way through snow rudely woke him. His groggy annoyance wore off as soon as he saw the driver.
Figaro pulled up. “Hey, boss, just taking some customers out of the city, gotta be in Eltshire by tomorrow noon.”
“Absolutely, no problem,” the tollman patted around his desk, looking for a pen before making a note in his log. “And… how many is that?”
“Family of five,” Figaro replied.
“Excellent, you the husband?” the tollman glanced at Gestalt to signal whom he was talking to before scribbling out the details.
Gestalt cleared his throat and, in a markedly lighter voice, said, “Indeed.”
After handing over some money for the toll, the carriage was off into the night without any more disturbances.
Glancing behind them at the cabin and city which were now rolling away, Gestalt remarked, “That wasn’t too bad, you handled that well for being put on the spot.”
“Eh,” Figaro, shrugged. “They trust me, it’s easy to get through nowadays, they even pass me a discount every now and again.”
“You’re comfortable just lying, then?” Gestalt was only half-ribbing him.
“It doesn’t hurt them,” Figaro explained. “And I always pay the toll; so really, I’m giving them more revenue, if ya’ think about it.”
Their conversation was interrupted by some muffled voices from inside the carriage.
Figaro turned his head to Gestalt while keeping his eyes on the road.
“Is something going on in there?”
They listened for only a second before they heard, loudly and clearly, “You bastard!” from within.
Right before pulling up to the toll, Eroh had let out a loud belch.
“Hey!” Rodan snapped. “Mind your manners!”
Eroh grinned again. “Oh, come on, aren’t artists supposed to be ‘free’ or something? Are you uptight?”
“There’s three ladies in here, and you’re being rude!” Rodan retorted.
Gallow chuckled at this and looked at Sonsee. “You’re a lady?” he cracked, eliciting a “Pssht,” from her.
Rodan looked around at the others. “I can’t be the only one who thinks that’s rude? Am I?”
“I wasn’t going to say anything,” Sonsee muttered.
“I mean, I’m not a fan,” Gallow offered. “But I wasn’t gonna freak out.”
Dana sat quietly, flushing red with embarrassment.
“Gruse?” Rodan asked.
“Eh,” she said, looking in the other direction and out the window. “I’m used to it.”
Unable to believe the responses he was getting, Rodan’s head snapped between looking at all of them. “Are all of you serious? You’re all fine with him-”
“Can we just drop it?” Dana pleaded, wringing her hands.
“No!” Rodan said incredulously. “That was so rude-”
Gruse’s sullen voice stopped all of them. “The toll’s coming up,” she announced, peeling her forehead off the cold window and shutting the curtains. Gallow did the same, and all six of them zipped up. For a minute or so, they kept silent, as none of them knew how much noise would be heard from outside the carriage. Even Gallow’s attempt to get into a more comfortable position caused Sonsee to throw her finger against her lips.
All of them knew that this was the most crucial step in their escape, be discovered now, and risk not only a potentially hairy situation, but incriminating Figaro and his business in a swath of illegal activities.
Then, as the carriage was still as a statue, Eroh belched again, and he made sure to make unbroken eye-contact with Rodan.
The sculptor’s rage erupted, and his throat was about to let out a fiery rant before he felt a force holding over his mouth. Gruse was staring at him stonily, the red, devilish arm of her Vocation appearing from thin air to silence him.
They stayed like that, in a state of tense freeze-frame, until they were sure that they were well away enough from the toll that any yelling would be covered by the noise of the carriage.
“You!” Rodan barked. “What the hell is wrong with you?! I can’t even- I can’t even fathom-”
Eroh sat back and looked up through the window opposite him, holding a subtle, satisfied smile.
---
It was the next morning when Queen hit the floor. The drop from Bach’s arms was just high enough to test the integrity of his body without posing too high a risk to it. The delicate sound of knees and hands thumping against the floor, and heavy, stable breathing was enough to confirm the repairs.
Queen touched the brick floor, feeling the cool stone on his fingertips.
“Milord…” he said, wearily. “Thank you, thank you…”
“Queen,” Bach’s authoritative voice prompted his creation to lift his head at attention. “Tell Cardinal Herzoff to prepare a caravan for me.”
The sun was just rising; the sky’s deep, star-studded blue was shifting, and strokes of pink were now trimming the clouds in such a way that they looked like powder blue hills rolling through the sky. Bach and Queen were mere silhouettes against the sky through the balcony opening.
“Milord?” Queen asked. “Are you planning to leave the city?”
Bach let out a single, short laugh. “You say that as if I’m bound here.”
“I was only concerned with your duties as Chief Magistrate…” Queen bent his head again in respect.
“Queen,” Bach stood up from his chair. “I am the master of this world, I have no duty but my own ambitions.” Walking to the balcony, he gestured to Queen, who obeyed.
“Look, at the sky,” Bach tilted his chin up, letting his dark hair fall over his back.
“Yes?”
“Before… so many years ago, when this planet was a wasteland… The sky was just as beautiful; I wept when I saw it… Every day, I wept, and there was no one to weep with me.”
Bach took two long blinks and stared deeply into the clouds. “Do you think it’s beautiful?”
A moment of silence slipped between them.
“No, Milord.”
Queen said it quietly, like there were restraints tied around his voice; he wouldn’t indulge in the same emotions as his creator, but he would be honest about it. He nearly regretted it, as another few seconds of silence hung in the air between them as Bach was seemingly in thought.
“I see, you must find beauty in other things.”
It was a short, odd response, like he was filling in gaps himself. He had a funny look on his face, almost a smile, but tremendously sad.
“Never mind that,” Bach finally broke the steep silence. “Tell Cardinal Herzoff to prepare a caravan for the Serpent Isles.”
Queen bent his knee. “Of course, Milord.”