by Law, Lincoln
He found the box of water proof matches in his pocket, lighting the candle, its soft, tear-drop-shaped flame flickering as his hand shook.
He stepped over the door, wooden floorboards creaking beneath his feet and held the light up to the dining room.
The table had been snapped in two, the glass from the window glittering on top, shimmering beneath candlelight. The fiend must have lunged through the window and landed on the table with the full force of its weight. The question remained, though: was it still hiding in his house.
“I have the candlelight,” he thought aloud, assuring himself. “I’m safe.”
His hand continued to shake, though Faulkner was not sure if it was from fear or pain. Perhaps it was both.
He made his way up the stairwell, taking each step slowly. He tried the light switch at the top of the stairs, but it did not work, looters already having gone through and taken every light bulb from within. He would not be surprised if he found all their valuables from their room missing.
Sure enough, he opened the door, the candlelight spilling onto the floor, and he found the room in a mess. The bedside table had been flipped over, and the mirror from their washbasin smashed. Faulkner approached the washbasin slowly, and looked down into the water. Staring back at him were a hundred faces of a man, troubled and tired, looking up through the water.
“What am I doing,” Faulkner and his hundred reflections said at once. There was no reply.
A quick inspection of his and Harriet’s room revealed that the looters had found Harriet’s jewellery box and Faulkner’s tin of small change. They had not, thankfully, seen the rifle hiding in the cupboard or the safe beneath the floorboards, in which lay some money, a handful of photos and a number of other personal items.
Faulkner lifted up the floorboards, reaching inside to open the safe. He took the money from it, pocketing it—perhaps it would buy him a room at an inn—and drew out the photographs. There were three.
One had been taken on his and Harriet’s wedding day, the pair standing side-by-side before the camera man, their carefree smiles a very wrong foretelling of what their life together would be like.
The second photo had been one of Faulkner’s own parents. They had died some time ago, but he kept their memory close. Harriet had photographs of her own parents, both dead as well, but she kept her photos elsewhere.
The last one was Faulkner’s service photograph for the Blue Guard. In it, he wore his uniform proudly, his rifle shined and the bayonet at its end sharp, tip glinting from the photographer’s flash. His expression was stoic, his face rather youthful and untroubled—almost a perfect juxtaposition of how he felt now. He glanced to the photo of he and his wife and kissed it, fighting tears. “I love you,” he whispered, hoping that she could hear him.
He took the candle that he had sat on his bedside table and used it to light the candle on the window, noticing his ragged reflection once more. The candlelight swept long shadows across his face, beneath his heavy eyes, against the wall behind him—the figure of a broken man.
I’ve slept for nearly a day and I still look like I have not rested in years.
The trouble Harriet was in continued to harry him as he took the photographs, stowing them away in a pack, into which he also placed bullets for his rifle, now slung over his shoulder, more matches, the money he had kept hidden. He found another jacket in his cupboard,untouched by the looters, and threw it over his shoulders as the biting cold infiltrated the walls, down to his heart.
He stepped away from the cupboard, sitting on the bed, the mattress bouncing beneath him. In the candlelight, he could imagine Harriet walking in. He could almost hear her steps now, soft and steady, like a heartbeat. She would stand in the doorway, dressed in her nightie, slippers flicked off with a kick of her feet. There would be the smell of perfume, fragrant and delicious, probably floral, as he sat there, more than likely still in his uniform. She would say something quietly, stepping across the space between the door and the bed, as he would begin to remove his coat. He would say something nice in reply, probably about her perfume or her hair or her eyes. That nearly always got a giggle. She would sit herself across his lap, wrap her arms around him, and sometimes lift his own arms about her. There would be warmth and peace and nothing to worry about. No Vindicators bashing down the door, no Architect threatening the death of their child. It would just be them, alone. He would kiss her first, breathing in her scent, the taste of her lips. He could almost feel it as he ran his hand over where she would lay down. “I love you,” he would say, and there would be a reply, but in the excitement he would not hear her. What would she have said? He wanted to know.
He emerged from the vision, its clarity frightening. It was like she was dead already, unreachable no matter how he struggled. He wiped away tears and rose from the bed.
He look one last look at the room, leaving the candle lit on the windowsill, a small piece of golden hope that they would return to this place, together. With the second candle in his hand, and left his old life behind.
*
Nataniel had his first night of untroubled sleep in what seemed like forever, when in truth it had really been only a night. Perhaps it felt longer due to the unwavering fever, his deliriousness stretching out the pain and sickness. It was really quite astonishing to discover how real some dreams could seem, and how greatly they could affect the real world.
Because of these fever nightmares, he had not seen Elenor in a while, and it was beginning to worry him. What was she doing? Where was she? Was she all right? Did she not want to see him? Had he done something wrong?…
Any number of these thoughts rushed through his mind, though he prayed tonight might be the exception to the last set of dreams he had had. He wanted to see her again—no—needed to see her.
Do I even have a chance with her? he thought. She exists only in my dreams, and yet can touch me so deeply. Surely she must exist…somewhere.
What was he thinking? He shook himself from his feverish stupidity. He was coming close to fourteen and already thinking of marriage and everything that followed. I’m still a child, he assured himself. I have plenty of time to think of this. For now, I should be asleep.
It was true; he did need to rest, rather desperately too. He was exhausted.
Finally gaining some semblance of consciousness, of the pain he felt and the sickness that caused him so much fatigue. He rolled over and nodded off to sleep.
Before him was Castoro’s tower, peaked by a cauldron of illuminating fire. It was night, and so hundreds of fiends had climbed up its walls, scaling with claws or paws or talons. Once again, Nataniel was in the rain, the water freezing against his skin, the wind billowing against him, blustering against his pyjamas.
He shot through the air, as if propelled by an invisible catapult, and found himself staring through one of the top windows of the tower, to a room. At the window was a candle, its soft light shining against the frosted glass. There were shapes moving behind, but he could not see for the frosting. It seemed to clear as Nataniel desired to see what lay inside.
Inside was a woman, youngish—probably in her late twenties—her face red and streaked with tears, her eyes red with sadness too painful for words. She held her hand over her belly, where a lump lay, hinting at the existence of a baby beneath there. As she wiped away a tear, she rose from the bed and came to the window, touching the glass, looking right into Nataniel’s eyes as though she could see him.
She couldn’t, of course. He could tell that by the way her gaze seemed to shoot right through him.
What’s wrong? Nataniel thought, reaching out for the woman. But he could not touch her. The glass was like an impenetrable barrier. He watched her, as through her sobs, she mouthed a name. A single, painful, but loving name.
“Faulkner.”
A Meeting
Renewed, I began creating the great city I now look over with omniscience, drawing it from deep within the earth with my own magic ordained unto me b
y my father.
Ophelia ignited the last of the lamps for the evening, the street now lined entirely with specks of glowing light as the fires within the glass burned. The rain fell in soft, sporadic sheets, cooling the air and making the night harder to walk through. In the shadows lurked the fiends, as always, and it seemed to Ophelia that more had emerged this evening from the depths of the slums to explore the back alleys and darkened streets freely. There were just as many hearthflies as there were fiends, though. Where there was darkness, a hearthfly hovered, as if sentient.
Ophelia kept the flame on her gas stick lit so that it burned brightly, blanketing her with its warm light. The hearthflies pulsed with their brightly burning cauldrons, keeping her safe.
It’s like they understand…
She quickly pushed her musings of the hearthflies aside and tried once more to focus on her task. She was being distracted quite easily today. Ever since the rescue of the man a day earlier, Ophelia had found it difficult to think clearly. She hoped he was safe and well—all things considered. The Blues did not have a very good past with her. Her brother had been a Blue, and had been killed by the people he had called comrades, and ever since then, she had had much trouble in trusting them. What had she done by rescuing one she had called ‘enemy’? She had not thought about it at the time, but by helping one from the order that had killed her brother, was she betraying him?
What would he say?
She began her way down the road. The clock tower nearby chimed six o’clock—an early finish this evening. Ophelia smiled. She was so tired she could collapse to the ground and sleep in the rain if she didn’t fear for her life in the city’s streets.
She turned into Arring Road fifteen minutes later.
*
Arring Road appeared before Faulkner, lined with conjoined houses, streetlamps and candle-lit windows. There were a few hearthflies too, but most of these kept to the roofline, like a ceiling of glittering lights. As he wandered down the quiet street, he noticed a short, thin LampLighter at the other end of the street, making his way home after a long night’s work.
His heart leaped hopefully. The only person brave enough to approach the shadows of the canal would be a LampLighter—or at least, that’s what logic told him.
*
Ophelia recognised the tall figure, his Blue Guard uniform covered by a jacket, as the man she had saved the day previous. Even with the heavy rain and the darkness of night, she could recognise the short-cut hair and the slight scar on his cheek. She paused, as she wondered whether to mention anything, or if the man remembered the event at all. For that matter, what was he even doing out of hospital? Did they normally let patients out that quickly?
She then remembered she still had her hood up and her LampLighter’s uniform on. Perhaps, for now, at least, it was better to avoid the man. If he wanted to thank her, he would come again soon.
“Excuse me,” the man called out, “excuse me! Young man.”
She sighed, thankful that he could not even recognise her gender beneath her uniform.
*
The LampLighter began his way towards one of the houses, and Faulkner made his way towards him, hoping to intercept him before he escaped. Perhaps he would be able to tell her where he could find Ophelia. He may even be related to the girl, as many people in the city were related to each other.
“Excuse me,” Faulkner called out, conscious of the fact he was standing in the middle of a residential street at night. He called out again, forcing the words, but trying to be softer this time. “Excuse me! Young man.”
The LampLighter’s pace seemed to quicken towards what Faulkner suspected was his front door.
“No, please, don’t go in,” he said, in a very loud whisper. “You’re not in trouble. I just want to talk.”
The LampLighter began to run, his shadow fluttering against the cobbles from the heathflies’ movement above. His face, however, remained hidden, except for a fringe of black hair.
“No, please.” Faulkner leapt lightly on his feet, his boots making very little noise over the sound of the rain, and took the LampLighter’s arm. He was surprised at how thin the LampLighter’s wrist was beneath his sleeve.
He then looked into the darkness of the hood and noted a stray length of long black hair hanging outside the hood, and a slight hint of a bosom beneath the blue uniform. This LampLighter…was a girl.
“Ophelia?” he asked, hopeful that it was indeed the girl. If he had pieced the facts together correctly in those passing moments—facts being that very few people would risk their lives near a canal to save another—this girl was surely the one who had saved him.
“Hello,” she whispered, keeping her hood up.
“Ophelia!” he exclaimed, though she quickly tried to stifle his excitement.
“I’m sorry,” he said quickly, chiding himself. “I’ve just been meaning to thank you.”
“Well that’s all well and good,” Ophelia replied quickly, her face still covered by the hood, “but I really do have things I must tend to.”
“No, please. I need to talk to you. Something has happened…and I think you may be able to help me.”
It was a long shot, but perhaps the ambiguity in his words would be enough to tempt her into interest.
She appeared to hesitate in the shadows, biting her lips. She glanced over to the clock tower. A quarter past six.
“I suppose I am early,” she said. “I should be able to stop and talk for a short while.”
“Thank you,” Faulkner said. “Thank you so much. Please, this way.” He guided her down the street, standing nearly two heads above her. “Oh, and my name is Faulkner.” The rain did not slow as they walked. In fact, it seemed to grow heavier, pooling in some of the impressions in the cobblestone road. They spoke quietly, so as not to disturb the houses either side of them, but could still hear each other perfectly.
Ophelia kept the fires of her gas stick burning, though a handful of hearthflies had gathering about them, perhaps curious as to what the pair were discussing.
“Firstly,” Faulkner began, “I have to say thank you. I don’t know what would have happened had you not saved me.”
“Not at all,” Ophelia replied nonchalantly. “I would say that anyone would have done it…but…well…”
“Very few would,” Faulkner finished for her.
“Exactly,” she replied.
Faulkner shook his head as he spoke. “That’s why I knew it had to be a LampLighter. No one else would be brave enough to do what you did. I cannot believe the superstition around this place. I mean, yes, no one should walk the shadows without a fire going. That’s not even superstition, it’s just common knowledge. But the fact that no one came to help a man in danger, beside a young girl, is just ridiculous.”
“Well that’s not entirely true. I did have help from one stranger.”
“Yes. One stranger.” He emphasised the number as though it were a joke. He quickly decided there was no use skirting the question. He would ask her soon, but he had to lead into it first. “You said in the newspaper that we have to face out fears.”
“Yes…” She said after a pause, expecting more to his statement.
“Well I have a request of you, and you may be the only one I can ask.” Good work trying to leadinto the question. “I fear it is a lot, but I still need to ask.”
He paused as he thought. He needed something more subtle, though subtlety was not his strong point. “Do you like your job?”
“What sort of question is that? It puts food on the table, and it helps my mother.”
“No, that’s not what I meant. Do you like your job? Do you think what you do is worth doing and that your compensation, so to speak, is reasonable?”
*
Ophelia’s breath caught. She suddenly found her cheeks going hot and her eyes widen in fear. She still had her hood up, thankfully—she just hoped it was enough.
It had only been recently she had begun to ask herself the very sa
me question. Every night she risked her life, and every night could be her last in the city. Was there really any price that anyone could pay her for the risking of her own life.
“Forgive me,” Faulkner said, “I know we have only just met. You see, I was asked of something in my line of work…something unthinkable.”
This had not been the first time Ophelia had heard of Blues being told to do the unthinkable. It was practically a part of their job description.
“I was told to hand my wife over, so that the Vindicators could destroy my unborn child, or face her death as well. And I had to do it myself.”
This is definitely unusual, Ophelia thought. Probably a first for the Blues.
“According to my supervisor, this had been an order from the Architect Castoro himself, and for reasons unexplained, my child had to die. I had questioned the worth of my occupation before, in moments of depression, or when times were rough, but never had I actually considered—and acted upon—leaving my position. And over the last couple of days, my life has continued to spiral until I have become the man you see before you.”
He certainly did look exhausted, as though he had been ravaged by troubles unimagined.
“Needless to say, they found me and my wife and took her away, and now she’s in the Architect’s tower, somewhere. And I want to do the impossible and…”
Ophelia interrupted. “Save her.”
“Yes,” Faulkner said, letting out a rather resigning sigh.
It did not take long for Ophelia to contrive Faulkner’s intentions. The glow of the hearthflies seemed to build with the realisation.
“I am supposing then that because the entire tower is crawling with fiends at night, and with night being the only time the Architect’s tower’s protections are low, you need me, a LampLighter, to help.”
“Well…yes. Initially, I thought perhaps you could help. I did not know you were a LampLighter for certain then. If worst came to worst and you weren’t one, I thought that you might be able to hold a torch to help fend off the monsters, but you being a LampLighter makes things even more perfect! You have experience.”