“Yeah?” Teddy glanced up from the pie crust he was rolling out. The day had rolled in with a flurry of snow that had left all of Taylor Town coated in a thick, white blanket—though this hadn’t prevented Risa from joining them all the same, as promised.
She nodded, finger lazily tracing the whorls of frost on the window. “It reminds me of being a kid. When did snow stop being so magical and start being such a drag? One day, you’re staring at the snowflakes, wondering how the gods could think up so many different designs, the next, you’re bitching about wet boots as you slog your way to the office—”
“Might want to go easy on the eggnog, there,” Sam snickered quietly, passing through to refill his cup.
“Hey,” Teddy warned, playfully swatting away Risa’s finger dipping into the warm filling of the pie, “none ‘til it’s baked.”
Risa scooped up a glob of sugar anyhow, a playful gleam in her eyes as she sampled the filling.
And for just a moment, he was back. Something about the mischievous smile on her lips, the way her hair looked kind of reddish in the morning light…
It stung. Like seeing through a window into a life that couldn’t ever be.
Gesturing her out of the way, he laid the pie crust atop the pastry, brushing the flour from his fingertips. If Elsie had been here, she’d have helped with this, too, the way she had since she’d been little. He’d sit her right there on the counter, her feet swinging down, her little fingers wandering into the filling with almost as much presumptuousness as Risa’s.
Soon. She would be back soon, they’d put this behind them, and she’d be right there, baking with him again.
The lies we tell ourselves.
“So, Leaving Day,” Risa prompted. “Rather an ill-boding name, I think.”
“Take it up with El,” Sam shrugged.
Teddy nodded his agreement, retrieving his own glass of nog from the counter. “She never much cared for calling it something it wasn’t. It was a nice spin, though, I always thought. This idea that…well, that her and I finding each other wasn’t a fateful tragedy, but something sort of life-saving.”
Elsie’s birthday, they’d decided, was probably sometime in the fall.
They didn’t know.
So, instead, they—Elsie and Teddy, and eventually Sam, too—they celebrated the day she’d been left.
An attempt to take bitter abandonment and turn it into something sweet.
Teddy’s eyes flicked to Risa.
Since her bitter words at the compound, he’d decided to make an effort to shoot her as many significant looks as he could muster.
Perhaps he wouldn’t be prying into her personal life any time soon.
But that wouldn’t stop him from letting her know what he knew—which at the moment, was nothing, but she didn’t need to know that, and oh, gods, she’s not the only one that needs to ease up on the egg nog.
“I, um…you know, I think I’ll grab my sketch pad,” Sam said slowly, glancing between them. “I find myself, uh, struck by the beauty outside, and I really—really should get the idea down…” Trailing off, he met Teddy’s gaze for a moment. Then, with a quiet shrug, lips pursed, he left.
Leaning against the counter across from Teddy, Risa was watching him, eyes lost deep in thought.
What do you need.
“Can—can we talk about what happened in Caelaymnis?” Teddy said softly, steeling himself.
“No.”
He blew out a breath, running a hand through his hair. “Alright, alright…” His eyes flicked about the kitchen. “I think I understand.”
What do you need.
Worrying his cuticles, he moved to join her against the counter, their arms brushing. “I need you to know that you remind me of my sister.”
“Criminal record aside, I’m flattered.”
“Not El,” he edged, glancing over. “My other sister. Tess. She’d be about your age, by now. And when we were leaving the compound—well, that rhyme, it reminded me of her, too, and we started talking about your parents…I let myself get carried away. You asked about my parents, and this—this thought just sort of popped into my head. What if I was the one that had to tell her they’d died? What if, through some stroke of luck, she’d made it out of this hell-hole of a town, only to come back, thinking her parents were still alive? It…” He sighed. “To be honest, it felt like I wouldn’t be alone in the grief. El wasn’t their kid. She was going through something different, something I couldn’t understand.”
“But if I were her, you’d have someone who got it,” Risa mulled, nodding. “I get that.”
“Exactly,” he went on, finding her deep blue eyes drifting somewhere between ocean and ice. “I’d be able to say that it’s alright to be conflicted—I mean, especially after what…happened to her. I’d say that I’m conflicted. That it—it has put her in my mind, more than she was already there, and that I miss her, now more than ever. And if you were her, I…kept thinking how lovely it would be, and I’d tell you how proud I was of you, making such a grand life for yourself.”
Risa’s eyes were swimming. “If I were her,” she whispered, “that would be exactly what I wanted to hear.”
“But you’re not,” he breathed.
“But I’m not.”
ELSIE
“It is a singular tragedy, to wish action, when none is possible.”
~Greysha Boewliç
This is the place where the endings go.
Where the endings should’ve gone.
If they still belonged to me.
I write the endings
I write the endings
I write the endings
AUGUSTUS
“I think there’s a verse that goes ‘free are the imprisoned and jailed are the jailers’ or something, and honestly, it’s such bullshit. Ask Elsie if she felt free in that cell—and if you don’t walk out with a knife between your ribs, I’ll eat my words.”
~Captain Isa Mirestva
The sound of boots against stone filled the stairwell as Augustus spiraled towards the cells below, Isa following not far behind.
The weeks had been kind.
There was no better way to find the forgiveness of the ro than with a good bit of begging, it seemed.
Not that it was forgiveness, per say, that tempered Isa’s reluctant break from the silent wall between them. But with vows to uphold all that was holy, vows that Elsie was given all the accommodations warranted her status, Isa had uneasily welcomed him back into their bed.
“And you still think Alva will go, even in spite of all that’s happened,” Isa was saying in an undertone. “You think she will forsake involvement in these affairs for the isolation that comes with her new mantle?”
“Oh, she will go. Perhaps not quietly, and not before trying to worm her way out of the obligation, but in the end, she will go,” Augustus shrugged. She’d pull out all the stops, too, with her soft pink gown, the ice roses in her hair, ribbons, frills—as if any of that meant she couldn’t raze the city in the blink of an eye. “Refusal would be tantamount to disavowing the faith. And how could she break with the wishes of an ailing mother?”
“And it doesn’t strike you as contradictory,” Isa countered, “that she’s being forced to take the hood? Isn’t that a bit at odds with the teachings?”
“This, coming from someone who’s only seen the temple from a barroom window.”
“You worship your gods, I worship mine. What are we doing here, anyway?”
Augustus glanced over his shoulder, glaring incredulously. “I was about to begin an interrogation. I don’t know what you’re doing here, except following me around, pestering me about Alva.”
He didn’t, in truth, know why he’d allowed Isa to venture into the cells below his sister’s house.
Loneliness, perhaps.
Self-destructive, chaotic loneliness.
“You’re a prick, you know that,” Isa prodded, tossing an insolent gesture in for good measure.
Lips tugging upwards, Augustus grinned. “Yeah,” he snickered, unlocking the iron door to the basement, “I know.”
The corridor was cold, the lucents throwing dim light up and down the hall. It was quiet here, the unnatural silence seeming to slip into the crevasses of the between.
A Drada’s life was full of noise. Heartbeats keeping time, the rush of air giving life to those around, the sweet whine of fabric-on-fabric, the intoxicating hum of skin-on-skin, a cry, whether loosed in agony or pleasure only the gods could tell…
In an instant, he’d turned on his heel, had, in a single, smooth motion, pinned Isa against the wall, heart pounding. Sounds to fill the silent corridor.
His breath was on Isa’s neck as he inhaled deeply. Desire, laced with sweat.
Augustus took the moment. Isa—well, the gods had broken the mold when they’d created someone so beautiful. Dark eyes shining with the challenge, long hair pulled back into the knot of a warrior ro, Isa was pure grace.
It was a dance. Augustus could feel himself growing hard in anticipation as he ground Isa into the wall. Isa’s sharp teeth found his ear, grazed it with such tenderness that Augustus couldn’t stop the moan that escaped from his lips.
The sound of submission.
Isa moved, and their places had been reversed, a deep thud still echoing from where Augustus’s back had been slammed into the cold stone. This was letting go. This was peace.
“Please,” he murmured, eyes closing. Isa’s fingers trailed the waistband of Augustus’s uniform, the gray fabric now tight across the front.
“Beg me for it.” A whispered command.
His heart was racing, breath quick. “Isa, please.”
Isa’s lips were soft, sweet against his own. “More.”
“Please,” he whimpered, needing Isa’s hands to find their mark, “please…”
Amused laughter filled the corridor as the Captain withdrew. “Mm, if only they could see the illustrious General Praequintelya now,” Isa snickered, taking a step back. “Begging like a pauper.”
Face heating, Augustus opened his eyes, a smile nevertheless tugging at his lips. “You’re a piece of shit, you know that?”
“Yeah,” Isa grinned, “I know.” Arms folded coyly, there was mischief glinting in the Captain’s eyes. “What can I say? The training hall is one thing. This, though? One of us has to have some standards.”
Augustus sighed, dropping his head. “Alright,” he muttered, pushing himself off the wall, “let’s go.” Resigned, he made for the cell at the end of the hall.
“Try not to look too sad, lover. What was it you told me? Oh,” Isa laughed, the sound like bells, “that’s right—learn from your failures? Maybe you’ll learn to beg a little harder next…” Their voice trailed off.
The lock had clicked open, the door had been pulled back.
“Oh, gods…” Any look of delight had faded from Isa’s face, their eyes fixed on the open cell door with horror.
“Isa!” The traitor was trying to clamor to standing, her bloodshot eyes fixed on the silhouette of the Captain in the doorway.
Isa whirled on Augustus, fury unlike anything he’d seen before burning in those onyx eyes.
And in that moment, he could almost feel it.
The shattering. The breaking, the irreparable, unsalvageable, undeniable breaking of the bond between them.
“El,” Isa was whispering, a shimmering lucent in hand casting the cell in pale light as they knelt beside her, surveying the damage.
Loyalty before amity.
Nothing more. Nothing less.
“Please,” the traitor was crying, “please help me…”
Isa was soothing her, holding her close in their arms, making promises they’d never be able to keep.
Loyalty before amity.
Isa was going to help her.
Isa, who even now, was crooning tales of her escape into her ear, and the mistake of hateful malice had been unmistakable in their eyes, flicking to Augustus.
The door flew shut with a reverberating clank, muffled shouts of protestation and sparks of futile magic fading as Augustus turned for the stairs.
It had been a mistake, returning to the room of Captain Mirestva that night. It had been a mistake, assuming Isa understood him. Understood who Augustus Praequintelya truly was. Understood the words he lived by.
Loyalty before amity.
They would say many things about Augustus Praequintelya.
He would not allow disloyalty to be among the slander.
They’d say many things about him.
How he delved into the darkest magics to save his city.
How he imprisoned his own lover for the sake of the realm.
How he was loyal. Loyal to the end.
CHIM
“They paint the puppet masters as these old men, dangling strings on a stage. I much prefer the idea we’re all simply the toys of a mischievous little girl, looking for a bit of fun.”
~Elizabeth Clement Faulise
It had been Mother Chaos that pulled her from her den by the docks and into the mountains.
Such an entangled nest had been impossible to resist.
Mortals were such strange creatures, with their neat little rows in their neat little tapestries, a place for everything, and everything in its place. And yet, an ascension had occurred, in a basement monstrosity, so knotted with deceit and treachery that she’d smelled it, from her den by the docks.
She’d paced the hallway of the make-shift prison by the Weir, eyes never leaving the pinnacle of chaos lurking behind the thick iron door.
What to do, what to do, what to do.
Oh, if only she’d known.
If only she’d known, before this moment, how the cards had been dealt, how the players moved across the board, how the game was already afoot.
But Mother Chaos whispered the rules into her ear, this very night, and so it made no matter. Mother Chaos saw the tapestry woven, saw the threads to be tugged at, and Chim trusted Mother Chaos, as all the kobalde did.
Trusted and served.
With such chaos, came power. The others would converge, soon, and it’d be a bloodbath, fighting for the discord.
An idea at last came to her, strolling down the darkened corridor, sucking on a piece of cinnamon candy.
She’d traded a dockman for a bag of candy. A fair price, by any standard. The boy didn’t strictly know about the dockman, per say, not that knowing made it any less fair.
It’d been ages since she’d had a hearth. A home.
And tricksters were supposed to find their hearths, that was more or less the rule, but the last time she’d had a hearth, it hadn’t really gone well, because an ax-man had to cut her out of the beast, but she’d had her revenge, in the end, and anyway, she was sort of wary of hearths.
A lot of kobalde went south with a bad hearth.
There’d been the pair of them who’d followed the candied crumbs right to the slaughter. Then there’d been the hearth-in-the-sky, and she didn’t really fancy bone-bread.
But, then again, their hearth wasn’t frosted and in the sky, and anyway, it was ordinary enough to probably be fine.
Their hearth had potential for chaos, it was true—potential a good kobalde would extort, because an ordinary hearth didn’t have to be a boring hearth.
Time was of the essence, though.
And the chaos would not claim itself.
THE ENDINGS
What is there left to say.
She wished to write the endings.
And if it takes until my dying breath, I will fight for the endings she wanted to write.
~Sam Alderton,
excerpt from a letter dated December 30th
RISA
“The one beckoned his brother to the field, a scythe behind his back, for blood would stain the ground before the morning was done.”
~ ‘Cautionary Tales for the Still Yet Living,’ An Anthology
A person is granted one—perhaps
two—moments of pure clarity in the course of their life. Moments where the world comes into alignment, and nearly incomprehensible order arises from the mass of chaos of daily machinations.
And with the demon’s words echoing in her ears, Risa had found such a moment. The kobalde had come, with terror and truth, whispering her secrets, spinning her chaos.
I would like to play a game, the kobalde had smiled.
She could see the vista, in all its terrible beauty, laid out for her taking.
Snow had been drifting down in fat, lazy flakes all day, and she wondered, now, if she peered out the window, if she might see how each would be woven into the blanketed town.
The girl’s fanged grin was not half as unnerving as her unendingly pitted eyes.
Where hell did you crawl from, you little demon child?
Night of the Leaving Day had fallen, and up came the kobalde, looking for a hearth.
Such things were legends of the Wild.
What hides Death inside the tomb, far from where the flowers bloom?
Is it Merchant, armed with Life, full of greed and hate and strife?
Is it King, sore and old, he whose kingdom will be sold?
Down the path and down the bend, where you’ll find the River’s End,
Bended knee with eyes unclear, mayhaps she be beneath the Weir.
“Risa.” Teddy’s hand was on her shoulder, brows knitted.
The kobalde was watching them with wide eyes, her words only moments passed, and yet, it felt like a lifetime.
Like worlds had passed Risa by as the seconds ticked on.
“I have to go,” she breathed, breaking away.
“If this is true, we should be there,” Sam countered darkly, already pulling a coat on. “You don’t honestly expect us to sit here and—”
Death and the Merchant (River's End Book 1) Page 33