Until Southern.
The place and the people had welcomed him with open arms. He felt it from the moment that he had stepped up to take the position of the broken land’s Time Father. That he was willing to turn a ravaged environment into something livable again when no one else would … it was as if he was the answer to their prayers. And they were the answer to his. “Far more than I thought I would,” he admitted, giving Kal’s hand a loving squeeze. “But as all of us are intimately aware … all good things must come to an end.”
Chapter Five
Bartholomew ran his hands over the podium before him, a dejected smile sewn onto his face. The last time he stood upon this platform, an ocean of people stared back at him, chanting, praying for the resurrection of Kazuaki Hidataka. The God of Salvation.
What the man would give now for a little salvation of his own.
The scholar sucked in a breath and straightened his posture. It wasn’t supposed to be this hard. Adjusting the glasses that sat on the bridge of his nose, Bartholomew forced his focus outward, taking in the sight of the same horde of citizens who flocked to his town’s center once before. Their presence filled his heart. If he weren’t a logical man, it may have felt like his chest would burst completely.
Woven through the countless bodies of dedicated Southern citizens, several individuals stood out. The journalists. The reporters. The suits and ties and dresses that clutched their writing utensils and paper, waiting to dictate the ever-important words that Bartholomew had been promising the division for several days now. Muffled voices rumbled through the horde, each speculating various opinions on what his announcement might be.
A tightness seized his throat. Hollowness invaded his stomach. Bartholomew dug his fingers harder into the podium’s edges and hung his head. He stared at the words he had written. The ones he had intended to say. They blurred together on the page until he bit his bottom lip and forced his head upright.
Damn it all. He would miss this place. He would miss this position.
At the forefront of the crowd, Bartholomew spied him: his anchor. Kal stood tall, his hands folded in front of him, his posture immaculate as always. The perfectly coifed curls of the ambassador’s dark hair framed the encouragement in his expression. He nodded just once, a silent reassurance that matched his flawless smile. The others presented themselves beside him, save for Kazuaki. Though Bartholomew could not see the captain with his eyes, he felt very much that the god was somewhere nearby, sparing himself from the eager hands of his worshipers.
It was time.
From the moment Bartholomew lifted his hand, a stillness settled over the crowd. The mumbled words died down, replaced with wide eyes and open ears. His smile shifted to a more genuine adaptation. “People of Southern,” he started, his hands sliding up the podium’s edges, “I remember the very first day that our division’s Chronometer flowed with my lifeblood. Natural disasters plagued Panagea. Spontaneous earthquakes tore homes and businesses to the ground. The sky clogged with debris, thinning air, and despair.” His eyes darted to look down once more and Bartholomew’s shoulders shook with a soft chuckle. “Circumstances were so dire, we couldn’t even walk to the post without a syringe in our pockets to inject oxygen into our blood in the event of a crisis.”
A murmur of acknowledgment left the lips of the people, but they remained otherwise respectful to the man who led them.
“But that was our reality,” Bartholomew continued, lifting his gaze to address the crowd. “We accepted our plight without complaint because that was what we knew. That was the way it was for years, for generations. The best we could do was shove needles into our veins, hoping that we might live another day. We were a reflection of Panagea, herself. Gasping for breath. Living in a situation we didn’t even recognize as dismal because that was just … the way things were.
“But there came a day when Panagea became aware of her suffering,” Bartholomew carried on, drawing his shoulders back. “She knew something had to change, and she changed it. The disasters, horrendous as they were, were nothing more than a cry for help. A plea to tear down the archaic things that always were and pave the way for something new. Something better.
“Unfortunately, nobody knows what ‘better’ is until they enter into a series of trials and errors. Fear paralyzes us from making life-altering decisions. What if we try something new and it fails? What if we initiate a different direction, and it is worse than the path we are on now?” Bartholomew looked out over the people of Southern and laid a hand over his chest. “I challenge that dread by posing a more terrifying question: what if everything stays the same?”
Residents exchanged quizzical glances as Bartholomew’s speech settled into them. It was so quiet, the scrawling of shorthand notes feverishly penned by the journalists onto their papers could be heard by those nearby.
“Sometimes,” Bartholomew added, his gaze panning over to Nicholai, “our efforts will not meet our expectations. We will make mistakes. But our errors are only failures if they keep us from trying again.”
Nicholai felt his stomach drop, but he managed a smile. It was nice to hear, that despite all of his blunders, Bartholomew saw that his end goal was simply to help others.
“I have witnessed the bloom of the Southern division.” Bartholomew’s voice echoed through the buildings of Seacaster, blanketing over the people. “We have endured the disasters, withstood the storms of our time, fought back against the gods themselves, and resurrected one of our own. We have brought knowledge to the people, that they might think more for themselves, and while we have also stumbled, you have shown me that you are always willing to stand and rise again. And now,” he said, his tone softening, “I need to be sure that the people outside of Southern have the chance to rise, as well.”
The last sentence produced apprehension. The people held their breath, all eyes on Bartholomew as they paused in total stillness.
With a swelling chest, Bartholomew offered them all a peaceful smile. “You are free now. Free to think. Free to act. We are not obligated to accept the present authorities simply because ‘that’s how it has always been’. Consistency is not synonymous with justice. Your time is not something that should be dictated by one individual. Time belongs to us all.” The scholar closed his eyes and swallowed. “And tonight, when I shatter Southern’s Chronometer and step down from my duty as your division leader, I hope that you use yours wisely. Goodnight.”
The riot of questions drowned out the sound of Bartholomew’s footsteps as he pulled away from the podium and descended the platform. Wails from saddened citizens clamored into the sky. People rushed to Bartholomew, grabbing at the sleeves of his suit, each wearing glassy, panicked eyes.
“You cannot leave us!”
“Mr. Gray, we beg you!”
Ever the diplomat, Bartholomew smiled, shaking each terrified hand that came his way. “Please, have no fear. I have made the necessary preparations with individual town representatives throughout Southern to be sure this process is smooth for all of you.” He glanced outward, extending his reach toward Kal. “Our very own Kal Rovanas has graciously chosen to stand up as a voice for the people of Seacaster and beyond. He will see to it that your words are heard, and should they benefit the whole, he will be sure that they are put into place.”
Elowyn watched on, gripping her arms so tightly that the beds of her fingernails turned white. They loved him. Adored him. It was difficult, watching Bartholomew’s people plead with him to stay. Her gaze fell to her boots and she pinched her lips together.
Catching sight of her expression, Nicholai laid a gentle hand on her shoulder. “Just because some are too stubborn to smell the flowers does not mean their fragrance isn’t wonderful.”
A thoughtful tongue ran across her lips. Elowyn sucked in a breath. She looked up, found Nicholai’s eyes with her own, and patted his hand with a dim smile. “Thanks, Nico.”
The man nodded, sliding his hand from her shoulder. “We should return to th
e estate. I’m sure once Bartholomew frees himself from the crowd, he will be keen on gathering a few things.”
“Yes,” she said, clasping her hands together. “I can’t say I wouldn’t mind a break from the crowd as well.”
✽ ✽ ✽
In the orange glow of the sunset that filtered through the estate’s windows, Kal reached out, plucking a framed image off an end table. He smiled down at the picture, running his fingers over the ornamental filigree that molded around it. Bartholomew looked as dashing as ever in the photograph, donned in one of the many tailored suits that came into his possession when he took up leadership of Southern. Kal smirked, recalling just how nervous Bartholomew had been about posing for the picture. Are you sure, he had asked, that it’s safe to let them know about us?
The man was maddeningly adorable when he was nervous.
Technology had not succeeded by leaps and bounds in the arts. Kal remembered the hired photographer frowning when the ambassador leaned in to plant a spontaneous kiss on Bartholomew’s cheek. They had been instructed to stay very still, lest the photo be blurry. And blurry it was. A distorted haze of adoration, but the perfect portrayal of Kal’s love.
He smirked, zeroing in on Bartholomew’s face. His look of surprise was priceless.
Gingerly removing the photo from the frame that contained it, Kal slipped it into the traveling case he had prepared for Bartholomew to take. They had been apart from one another before … for days and weeks when Bartholomew traveled across the whole of the division to incite prayers for Mr. Hidataka’s resurrection.
He wondered just how long he’d have to part with his lover this time …
A knock at the bedroom door pulled Kal’s attention to the entryway. Revi stood in the open space, an unreadable look on his face.
“Is … this a bad time?” the man grumbled while fidgeting, not sure where to place his hands.
Kal smiled, pulling the satchel to his chest. “Not at all, Mr. Houton. Just … gathering a few things for Bartholomew, for whenever the mob manages to free him from their adulation.”
“Yeah.” Revi took a single step into the room, rubbing the back of his neck. “They really seem like they’re going to miss him.”
“I don’t doubt that they will.” Kal inhaled, his shoulders rising and chest swelling. “He is a man of great influence. His dedication to assisting others knows no limits.”
A muscle twitched in Revi’s jaw. “About that …”
Kal’s head tilted, and he gestured for Revi to sit. “Something on your mind, Mr. Houton?”
Raking the fingers of one hand down the side of his face, Revi shook his head. “Look, Kal … I hate to ask …”
“Please,” the ambassador smiled, his concentration on the man before him, “ask away, my friend.”
Revi gripped his chin, hesitating. He clenched his jaw before coughing into his hand. “Look, I … I know you’re both men of certain … means. Your knowledge of Northwestern’s layout regarding the act of locating Vadim was priceless when we ventured there to find him after the gods had taken over ...” He trailed off, feeling like a fool before he grounded himself once more. “I’m wondering if you have the same knowledge about Western and the things that go on there.”
Kal flashed a charming grin. “I am an ambassador, Mr. Houton. It is my job to know these things.”
The man’s damnable magnetism and calm demeanor made it easier for Revi to continue. He blew his cheeks out and squared his shoulders. “I used to live in Western. I made my home there before I …”
“No need to elaborate,” Kal said, liberating Revi from the pain of having to hash out his past. He had heard enough from Bartholomew to remember the details. “What is it you need me to do in Western?”
“I …” Revi’s heart slammed against his ribs, stalling him. Asking for assistance was not within his skill set. But exchanging a little vulnerability for some answers … it was not too high of a price to pay. “I need you to look into two establishments for me. Yiddleton’s Home for Boys and Edephat’s Home for Girls. I’m … I’m looking for—”
“Consider it done,” Kal interjected, wishing to spare the man the agony of having to utter his full request out loud. “Should I find anything about the Houton children while you’re on your expedition, I will send word to Aggi Normandy of the Northeastern division. I trust you’ll be visiting him sooner or later.”
Admittedly surprised by the man’s intuition, Revi parted his lips to speak—but found himself without an appropriate response.
Kal grinned. He sealed the contents he had carefully chosen and packed away by snapping the suitcase’s buckles into a locked position. Standing tall, he patted Revi on the chest as he walked past. “Thank you for giving me a project, Mr. Houton,” he called out as he continued down the hall without stopping. “Very generous of you to give me another task with which I can use to calm my overactive imagination.”
Revi spun, staring at the open door Kal had slipped out of. “Don’t mention it,” he uttered quietly to himself before following after.
By the time the two men made it to the main room, the other members of the crew had already gathered there. Brack tinkered with a pair of bronze statues fashioned to look like Southern footmen. He lifted his gaze, sending an amused smirk Elowyn’s way. He returned to the figures, to further his play. “Oi, love, check it out,” he chuckled, making the bronze soldiers face one another. “It’s Kal and Bart.” Lifting one particular footman, he wiggled it around and adopting a high-pitched voice. “Don’t leave, I love you!” Shifting his tone to make it deeper, he shook the second statue shortly after. “Fear not, my love. There only exists a 63% chance that I will not return. One must account for—”
“—human error,” Bartholomew finished, whisking across the floor to pluck one of the statues from Brack’s hands. He set it down gently and adjusted his tie. “Not only are your calculations horribly flawed, but you don’t even have my voice right.”
“It’s a hard one to master, I’ll give you that.” Brack nudged the scholar with his elbow and shoved the other statue in Bartholomew’s face. “How’s about a kiss for the road, aye?”
Kal chuckled, watching as Bartholomew tried to swat the statue out of Brack’s hands. “Oh, come now, Mr. Joney, you mustn’t encourage him to kiss other men.” He flashed the man a smile, carefully removing the object from Brack’s hands to place it near the other. “You wouldn’t want to bear witness to me flying into a jealous rage, now would you?”
“Ah-ha.” Brack smirked, pressing a fist into the ambassador’s shoulder, “I would pay money to see that, actually. I bet you fight dirty, mate.”
Turning to face Bartholomew, Kal smirked. “Not all the time,” he replied, reaching out to touch his lover’s face, “but for this man—I would claw the very eyes out from whoever dared come between us.”
Bermuda wrinkled her nose, crossing her arms. “As romantic as all this is,” she interrupted, knowing full well that every second they remained in Southern, Kazuaki felt the weight of its inhabitants’ prayers, “we should probably get going.”
“Yes.” Bartholomew slid out of Kal’s touch after lingering in the heat of it for as long as he could. “Of course.” Reaching into his pocket, he removed the Chronometer that was hidden inside. He strode over to Kazuaki, who leaned against a wall in the corner of the room. His eyes lingered on the object before he drew in a deep breath and blew it out in one gust. “I suppose you’ll be wanting this.”
Kazuaki glanced at the Chronometer, then he flicked his gaze to Bartholomew. “Everyone,” he called out in the traditional commanding tone that never left him, “head to the airship. I’ll meet you all there.”
Granite turned and left without hesitation, guided by years of blindly obeying the captain’s orders.
Revi exchanged a final look with Kal before he cleared his throat and followed.
Bermuda inclined her chin and arched a brow, sending an imploring look Kazuaki’s way. He soothed
her wordless inquiry by nodding his head in the ship’s direction—a silent indication that she had nothing to worry about.
Nicholai’s gaze followed the quartermaster out before he turned to the captain. “Kazuaki?” The single word asked more unspoken questions.
“Everything is still to plan, Nico.” Kazuaki’s gruff voice held fast to its usual sternness, but a hint of understanding hid inside. “Trust that I’ll be thorough when I destroy it.”
Nicholai hesitated, feeling his muscles tense. “All right …” He wanted to trust the captain. He did trust him, but a nagging desire to ensure the object’s destruction with his own eyes badgered him.
“Come on, mate!” Brack clapped his hands down on Nicholai’s shoulders before he pushed him out. “Let’s see what Penn’s got cookin’ in the galley.”
Before Nicholai could protest, Brack shoved him out the door.
“Captain.” Elowyn took a step forward, her brows coming together, “Rennington still hasn’t returned from the cemetery.”
A low noise rumbled in Kazuaki’s throat. He had told him to make it quick. “Why don’t you go and see that he does.”
The woman nodded and slipped out of the room to fetch the Southern soldier.
With the room cleared of everyone, save for Kal, Bartholomew, and himself, Kazuaki found the scholar’s gaze. He waited for an additional moment of silence before he closed his fingers around the Chronometer. “You should stay.”
Bartholomew cocked his head, a short laugh of disbelief leaving him. “I beg your pardon?”
The captain’s jaw hardened as he cast his eye’s focus downward. He stared at his reflection in the Chronometer’s glass before his tightening grip made a series of cracks run across the object’s face. “Not all of us are going to find happy endings out there, Bartholomew.” His grasp hardened and the pops of breaking gears squealed from his hand. “Iani is dead. The beast is gone. You and I know damn well that the odds of Revi finding his kids are grim at best. Nico—the others—everyone is still fresh off the death of Umbriel. Bermuda is …” His voice trailed off, fading away. He couldn’t say it out loud. It made it all too real. Suffering drove a hole into many as of late, and with the untamed land of Southwestern awaiting them, along with the gods’ land in Northwestern, and the stubborn bastard who hailed over Northern, Kazuaki felt the growing apprehension that more risk awaited them than ever before. “Stay here with Kal,” he said, lifting his head to face both men. “Be happy while you can. You’re one of the few of us who have achieved it, and I’ll be damned if I see it go to waste.”
The Panagea Tales Box Set Page 134