Lamplighter

by Law, Lincoln

  Ophelia laughed. “You do know what you are talking about, though? You are suggesting we scale the unscalable. If the God King wanted your wife, there can be no doubt he will have put protections. I’m not saying don’t go after her; she’s bearing your child, of course you will go. But I do not think I can come. My brother was a Blue and was killed by a Blue, and for that reason I do not think I could trust you as far as I could throw you. You might betray me when the time comes to leave, hand me over. You could be lying to me right now. I don’t know why, but I suppose none of us really ever truly understand another’s motivations until we see their actions.” It pained her to be blunt to someone who was quite obviously in agony, but she could not do it. She could not betray her brother. Not again.

  She turned away from Faulkner, the skies above rumbling, fortelling of a vicious storm.

  “I just cannot do it.”

  She began her way home, lighting the gas stick out of comfort more than an actual need for protection. The previous minutes continued to roll through her thoughts, repeated again and again and again into monotony. She felt a great weight in her heart, turning back only momentarily to see Faulkner, a dark, still, solitary figure in the rain, pulling the collar of his coat about him for warmth.

  She did not wish any bad luck upon him, but neither did she wish to be involved.

  I do hope there is a happy ending, she thought, pulling the hood more closely about her face as she turned the first corner towards Arring Road.

  *

  Faulkner stood in the sopping rain, alone except for the hearthflies that remained with him. Perhaps they were sympathetic creatures, in the same way some animal can sense another’s emotions. What meagre warmth they provided was enough for now, though. He did feel so very cold though. The girl, the one, almost literally the single glimmer of hope was now turning a corner into the next street along, while he stood in sad silence. She had been a LampLighter, and had revealed her identity to him. Surely that counted for something?

  But still she rejected his request.

  She must’ve loved her brother very much, he thought, as he turned to look up at the tower in the west. In one of those backlit windows was Harriet, possibly even staring back at him.

  He could not return home—it would not be safe.

  He could not give up though. He would give it a day…no, a night. He did not have the luxury of time. He would approach her again, this time less direct and perhaps more understanding to her own feelings. She did not trust him, so he would have to prove to her that he was reliable. Failing that, he would be forced to do it all by himself, but perhaps he could convince her with time. Maybe his predicament would play on her conscience tonight, or she may gain some sense of altruism—surely if they revealed their Architect as ruthless, other lies he had crafted would appear, drawn from the shadows like blood from a wound. Slowly, but surely, his secrets and lies that he had built his city upon would ooze out of the single cut he’d made, and Ophelia would be there, ready to fight with him.

  Maybe, he thought.

  He turned away from the street and trudged through the rain, two hearthflies hovering above him, watching him.

  It would not be the safest place to spend the night, but for one evening, at least, he would have to sleep in the slums. There, everyone had a fire burning somewhere, and the lamps—when lit, that is—were bright and clean. As he began his way there, he kept himself bathed in the light of the lamps along the streets, though the hearthflies were always there by his side. It was not only to keep away the night fiends, though. It was, in many ways, to keep him warm from the cold wind that blew about the city streets, and the ice that coated his heart as he realised he would be spending another night without Harriet.

  *

  Nataniel had always known that to be Blessed meant to be gifted with an ability of sorts. It was supposed to be something of gift, passed by the waters of the Tyndibar Well, confirming their Blessing. To this day, however, Nataniel had not discovered what ability he held, if any at all. Occasionally, he wondered whether the ability that would eventually awaken would be a physical one—perhaps the ability to levitate like some people had, or to glow in the dark, as some books wrote of. And then, once the ability had appeared, how long would it be before he would become monstrous as the Curse took over his body. And when?

  Nataniel’s eyes fluttered open, staring out of his window at the overcast sky hanging above him outside his window. The thumping in his head from the day previous was well and truly gone, along with the fever, and the nightmares that had come with it. As he sat up slowly, he saw the blankets and mattress rolled out on the carpeted floor, ruffled, from where Delilah had spent the night. She was gone from his room, though, probably downstairs cleaning or making breakfast or reading. Nataniel, meanwhile, felt in the mood to just lay there in his bed, staring to the ceiling, wondering if his dreams had meant anything. Had he really gone into the Architect’s tower, as he had into the world of the faeries? Had he really seen a prison, surrounded by flames and a woman stuck behind bars, or had that been, like the innocent dreams of his youth, nothing more than the imaginings of a tired, over-active mind?

  “Elenor,” he said quietly, hearing the croak in his voice from the vomiting the day before, his throat burning. He would get a glass of water in a moment. “I want to see you again,” he continued, licking his lips, feeling the cracked, chapped surface of them. He rose from his bed and stepped to his desk, opening the top drawer and removing the picture he had painted the first morning. He stroked the papery surface with his finger, wishing that it was smooth and soft like her skin, or that the eyes glittered with the life that Elenor’s always did. Even just smelling the delicious scent she had been wearing would be enough for him, for now, just to know that some small part of it had happened, that it wasn’t all completely his imagination.

  Perhaps this is my ability, he mused aloud, running his fingers over the black, bruise-like marks on his face. They felt strange on his skin, as though they were slightly indented into the flesh, as details are made into a carving. Perhaps I can see the world of the faeries. It seemed, for the time, a very unusual gift to bestow, but so long as he continued to see Elenor, he was happy with what the Well had gifted him.

  Of course, over the past day, during his moments where he was allowed a semblance of untroubled thought, he had begun to question his gift. Surely if one had been gifted with the ability to dream of the faerie world, and to interact with it, one would be able to visit it at will, or the visits would be regular? Not one here, and then a few a while later.

  I will see her again, he assured himself. I will.

  Lavender Oil

  I called people from my homelands. I find it quite strange that the name of the place I come from alludes me, but for the sake of my Godhood, I have called it heaven. In comparison to my creation, my homeland truly was heaven. But together, with the people I had called from the Gardens of Heaven—the ones I now call Vindicators—we made the most perfect community.

  Faulkner stirred beneath the shadows of the buildings either side of him, the warmth before him wavering. He opened his eyes, the heavily clouded sky above the first thing he saw. There would be no sun today, as usual.

  He glanced over to the neaby lamps, the flame within still burning well enough.

  He was sore all over, from sleeping on an uneven surface, the wooden planks beneath him splintering a small section of his lower back. He groaned. Those would be quite difficult to remove.

  He sat up, taking the pack out from beneath him, and adjusted it so it sat comfortably over his shoulder. He had used it as a pillow during the night, the strap wrapped around his body to avoid theft. Standing, he noticed that the fire that had been lit within one of the metal bins was nearly extinguished. He was not bothered to add more wood to it, though. He would not be spending another night here in the slums.

  The slums of Castore were truly the most dangerous and decrepit part of the city. Set over much of where t
he old slums had been—since sunken beneath water from the great floods—the slums had barely any houses or streets. It was mostly a collection of rotting wood planks, built into some strange semblance of a walkway over the dangerous waters beneath, lined with lamps. There were a collection of houses, set on pylons so that that sat a few feet over the water, but even these were more like small, one room huts meant to provide a small shelter during the rains. In the slums, there were no titles or currency. If you left it behind, it was fair game for the next man along to pilfer. This meant, of course, that the few houses in the slums often changed hands, as the person residing in it grew desperate to find food. Surrounding this strangely positioned lake were the rear sides of the houses, windows looking out onto the slums only on the top floor, so that night fiends could not break in.

  It was a dangerous, wild place to live, and an even wilder place to pass through. Not only were there the inherent dangers that came with being set over fiend infested waters, but the people that called this place home could change from accommodating to hostile in moments, rivaling even the night fiends with their bestial nature.

  The hearthflies that had kept him company most of the night were gone now, to wherever they went during the day.

  He checked that the rifle, that he had also kept strapped to him during the night, was in the correct position. He had held it in his hands, so that no one could even attempt to fire it without waking him. And once sure, he had everything he needed, he began his way out.

  A man was standing close to him, nearly a foot away, a collection of thick, long coats covering much of his body, a few teeth missing and madness in his eyes.

  “Bag,” said the man, pointing at it.

  “No,” Faulkner retorted in his strongest voice, placing his hand over it as if to check that it was still there.

  “C’mon, give it ‘ere. We won’t have ‘eny trouble then, eh?”

  In his hand was a thick plank of wood, a rusted nail sticking out the end. Even in the hands of this man—who did not look particularly capable withany weapon—the board appeared quite malicious.

  “I don’t think you want to do that.” Faulkner shook his head, smiling coolly. It was one of the first rules of being a City Guard. Never show your fear. Be as cold as the colours you wear. “I have a rifle and a bayonet. As much damage as blunt force can do, a single bullet from this will pacify you for some time, or even kill you.”

  “Shut up, Blue,” he hissed, swiping at Faulkner with a knife he had concealed behind him. It did not cut Faulkner, but it did slice through his bag strap, everything to his name, besides his firearm, falling to the boards. Faulkner could not help but slip a gasp of emotion.

  With the knife still pointed at Faulkner, the man knelt down and grabbed the bag. As much as Faulkner could threaten to fire the rifle, doing so would only draw unwanted attention. He was on the run, after all.

  The man began to rummage through the bag, throwing out what little he had in there. He shook it quickly, hearing the clink of coins.

  “Got a bit o’ money, I see,” he said, finding the satchel quite easily. “This’ll do quite nicely, fank you.”

  “Yes, thanks,” Faulkner said dimly.

  “And what’s this?” he asked rhetorically, drawing out the three photographs. “Oh,” he said boredly. “Hoping they was bonds. Ah well.” He threw them aside, Faulkner reaching out for them. He missed them, though, and they fell into the water below, the surface rippling as one of the last things that meant anything to him was tossed aside. The man could steal his money, and he could take the coat off his back—which was probably next—but he would not take away his memories. Unlike this man, Faulkner could not throw them aside in such a cavalier manner.

  “How dare you,” Faulkner seethed, grabbing the rifle, and in one, flowing movement, fired it at the man, the bloody bullet hole appearing in his chest, dying the layers of his clothes scarlet. He dropped the satchel of money on the wood and the plank to his side.

  The man, his expression still shocked let out a bloody, gargling sigh and fell into the water, the water turning red around him.

  Quickly and without thinking, Faulkner leant over the edge of the boardwalk and took the photograph from the water, before the fiends beneath were stirred by the smell of blood. Terrified now of what would come, he picked up his satchel of money and ran, pocketing the photos and the money, clinking with each running step he took.

  What have I done? Faulkner thought as he ran, ignoring the confused stares from those around him. Perhaps there were no witnesses?

  He tried to assure himself, but nothing seemed to be working. Someone was bound to have seen him, whether they be of the nobility or one of the homeless in the slums. The gunshot would have woken someone, and they would almost certainly speak of a man in a blue uniform shooting another man for a set of photos.

  What have I done?

  *

  Nataniel felt an odd pulling sensation as he fell asleep, hearing his own snoring moments before he fell into a state of unawareness. It was like the mattress and sheets of his bed had turned to water, transmuting beneath him, and he had fallen through it, deeper and deeper into the world of dreams.

  He smiled as the world swirled into appearance around him.

  He was in a ballroom.

  A few moments later, he saw Elenor.

  His heart skipped a beat as he noticed her soft blue dress, the lace, somewhat out of fashion to Castore standards, but pretty nonetheless. Once again, it was a small, intimate ballroom, with a square floor and tables around the outside, covered in crystal and silverware. A small orchestra sat at the front of the dance floor, conducted by a rather wild-looking man. Filling the room was a thin haze of smoke, from the cigars and pipes the men smoked at their tables.

  Elenor saw him, and her eyes lit up, sparkling with a sudden vibrancy.

  “Nataniel,” she gasped, running up to him and hugging him tightly, the people around them not seeming to notice either of them.

  “Elenor,” he replied, “I’m so, so sorry for what I said last time. I…”

  “There’s no need to explain,” she said. “I’m just happy you’re here.” Her face suddenly became serious, staring into his eyes with worry. “We have to talk…or rather…I need to talk to you. Come.” She took him by his hand and dragged him between the graceful, twirling dancers, and out onto a large balcony, looking out over the quiet city. In the distance stood the Architect’s tower, peaked with a cauldron of flame, casting its brilliant light—though none of the windows were lit. Strange.

  She stood at the edge of the balcony, one hand resting on the stone of the handrail, the other beneath Nataniel’s hand. Once again he found it odd that she did not shudder at the touch of his skin, or at the sight of his marked face. She seemed rather carefree about it, in fact.

  “My family thinks I’m going mad,” she began sadly. “I keep telling them about you, but every time I’ve come to a ball to show them, you haven’t been here. But now you’re here, and I’m talking to you. I’m not mad. But my parents aren’t here.” She said the last sentence with considerable depression in her voice.

  “They’re not?”

  “No. They are talking about my Blessing to those in charge. Preparations have to be made and all that. The Obligaturgical arts have to be prepared moths in advance. I can’t be certain that it will even be me.”

  Nataniel did not know what Obligaturgical meant, but he did not ask her to explain. Instead, he listened to her. Just listened. It was all she probably needed at present, and all he wanted to do. Her voice was soft and beautiful, like her fingers, now intertwined between his.

  “So because of that, I’m confused, my parents are confused. We’re all confused. And to top that all off, there’s uncertainty to my blessing simply from the fact I am talking to you now, even though you’re not meant to exist.”

  Can a person actually exist in the faerie world? Nataniel asked himself, though no answer ever came.

  “B
ut I have waited forever to see you again. I’ve missed you.. I’ve missed seeing you. Where have you been?”

  “Err…” he stuttered. “Sick.”

  “Very well,” she sighed. “I do hope you are feeling much better.”

  “Yes. Much.”

  “Very good.” She looked up to the moon—Nataniel had only seen it once before, in the dream world also. It was beautiful and silvery, its soft light allowing the stars, like tiny pinpricks in the fabric of the sky, to shine alongside it. Beneath the moonlight, Elenor’s skin seemed to glow, almost as if it was lit from deep within her.

  “Shall we dance?” she asked, holding out her hand.

  Nataniel took it, soft with his touch. “Of course.” He kissed the back of her outstretched hand, his lips tingling as he touched it. He led her away from the balcony, into the light, warmth and ethereal smoke of the ballroom, suddenly, magically changing out of his pyjamas into a neat suit.

  Nataniel and Elenor were both only fourteen, and had only known each other for a short period of time, but both felt as if they had known the other for a lifetime as they moved with grace and skill across the ballroom floor.

  *

  Ophelia was reminded strangely of her brother, Thom, as she sat in the windowsill of her room, gas stick in hand. It was attached to a spare gasbag sitting on the floor, and in her boredom she continued to flick the flame into existence, snuffing it almost instantly to avoid being noticed by any of the few people passing by in the rain. It would not do well for her family to be revealed as having a LampLighter.

  The small flame at the end flickered from existence, snuffed out by the release of her finger from the small, sliding sparker mechanism in the stick. As the puff of smoke drifted away, caught on the breeze, she wondered about her brother’s spirit—where it was, what he was doing, whether he could see her.

  As she rose the stick once more, flicking the sparker, her mind wandered to her father, showing her how to light the lamps in the streets. He had been wearing the LampLighter suit and hooded cloak that day. It had been raining for three days now, so the roads had been covered in a shallow flow of water, turning streets into canals and canals into damns and lakes, where the water would collect. Beneath Willis’ cloak, bent over and curled in the fabric, was a young girl—Ophelia, six at the time—interested to see what her father did for money. He had wanted to lend her a cloak of her own, but all of them had been too big, and would have dragged in the water behind her. There had been some fear that people would recognise her face, but it was raining today. No one would go out, or even look out their window.