by Law, Lincoln
“Like I said before,” Castoro interrupted, taking a step in their direction. “There is no way to save him. I am not lying when I tell you that neither I nor my brother knows of a way to rescue a Cursed once their hearthfly has left their body. He’s lost. The best option is to execute him before the monstrosity takes complete control and he becomes dangerous.”
“We can save him!” Ophelia yelled, refusing to accept Castoro’s response. She had to stay hopeful, optimistic, for that was all she had. We have to.
She considered her options now, as Faulkner tried to console Nataniel. Once again the hairs were growing on his arm, and had actually now spread to his neck and his other arm. It seemed that not even water from the Tyndibar Well could keep the Curse away forever. It also seemed that the water was being burnt away far quicker now that the Curse was becoming more powerful.
We can’t lose him,she thought. He has to see his mother. I have to save Castore! “For everyone.”
If she fell to Castoro’s plan, though, she would lose Nataniel anyway. He would kill the boy. Chances are, he would include it in the contract he would imbue into her, forcing the death. But if she refused, then he would put his plan into action, and the city would burn. All would perish in the purifying flames, and she would probably burn, too.
She turned to Castoro. Perhaps there was a way to resist. He was, after all, a mortal man. There had to be a way to kill him. With her back turned to the Architect, she looked about the space, and hoping that the Architect was side-tracked, felt for her blade made from her brother’s bayonet at her waist. She drew it out far enough for Faulkner to see. He knew what she meant in an instant.
She approached Faulkner and hugged him. “Take the knife,” she whispered. She felt it slide from its sheath, and pulled away as Faulkner put his hands behind his back. She prayed silently that Castoro had not seen.
She then turned to Castoro and the Tyndibar Well.
“I’ll do it,” she said. “I’ll marry you, and bear your child. But on three conditions.”
“You drive a hard bargain,” he replied, “but very well. Name your price.”
“Firstly, when you decide to destroy Castore, I want our families brought to safety. I’d ask for everyone to remain safe, but I know that’s a long stretch for someone so cold.”
“Of course,” Castoro said.
“Secondly, I ask that when it comes time to let Nataniel go, I be the one to do so, so that I know he has gone humanely and hasn’t been tortured to death.”
He seemed reluctant to give her such power, but he nodded nevertheless. “And lastly?”
She leaned in close to Castoro, whispering so that Nataniel and Faulkner didn’t hear. “You will tell Faulkner the truth about his wife, Harriet.” In truth, she wasn’t sure herself whether it was the right thing to do. Perhaps it was the lie that his wife married him out of love and not contracted necessity that let him hang on to life, but if her plan went the way it was meant to, she wouldn’t have to worry about telling him herself for some time.
“Very well,” he said, placing his hand behind her, guiding her towards the Well. They came to the edge, and stepped into the water. It rose to a point halfway up her calves, soaking into her boots. After running so much, though, her socks were drenched in sweat, so it was a welcome reprieve to have water flowing about them for the time being.
It felt cold, but not too icy to be beyond comfort. It felt thicker than normal water, too; almost like blood. But it was clear and glittering; liquid diamonds.
“You just have to say I do,” he said. She felt his large hand wrap around one shoulder, his grasp strong.
“Very well,” she muttered. She took a moment to breathe in, hoping that her plan was carried out as intended. She looked straight ahead, staring at the stone wall, silently praying that this wouldn’t be her last day of freedom.
“I will,” she said.
She let out a yelp of surprise as she was forced into the water, face first. Submerged, she screamed, unable to fight, unable to move. She didn’t mean to scream the air from her lungs, but it was a reaction to the shock of being forced beneath the surface. Bubbles swirled about her, the air ripped from her lungs by her cry. She began to cough as splutter as her lungs tried to breathe, swallowing a great gulp of Tyndibar water. Her chest burned as the water rushed in, drowning her. Everything around her began to fade, her movements becoming less frantic, the clarity of the water turning opaque. She was dying. She heard a distant roar. It was Castoro. Faulkner had stabbed him. She expected Castoro’s weight upon her to weaken, but it stayed constant. Whatever Faulkner had done had failed. She was bound to die beneath these waters. She felt as if her face was being burnt. She knew however that the sensation she felt was in fact the Blessing marks crossing up her neck and over her face, the first few markings already shimmering in the moonlight.
A moment before she thought death would take her, she was lifted from the waters.
*
Faulkner stared in astonishment at the knife protruding from the Architect’s back. It had pierced the skin and the wound was bleeding, but he was still alive. Faulkner hadn’t struck anything vital.. Castoro’s movements faltered as he yelled in pain. It seemed almost as if he leaned down harder onto the girl, but he quickly corrected himself and rose up, bringing Ophelia with him. Faulkner swore quietly as Castoro, the Architect, turned to him, angry.
“Did you really think a knife in the back would kill me?” he said, as he gripped Ophelia by her hair with his free hand. She coughed and spluttered, choking out the water that had gone down her throat, but Castoro ignored her. For this moment, it was just him and Faulkner.
“You’re a foolish man,” he said, “and now you will die.”
Castoro rose a fist, ready to throw it in Faulkner’s face. As it was thrust forward, though, Faulkner ducked, and with his right hand, rose up to grab the fist. It slammed hard into his palm, but Faulkner ignored the pain and used his free hand to punch the Architect in the stomach. Castoro let go of Ophelia, holding his stomach as the air was pushed from his lungs. He wheezed and heaved, but it seemed, for the moment at least, that he couldn’t breathe. Taking the opportune moment of weakness, Faulkner threw another punch, but this time at the Architect’s face. There was not the expected crunch of bones beneath his touch, or the spurt of blood as his nose crumpled in on itself. In fact, there was very little done to his face at all. Nevertheless, though, Castoro fell back, tumbling into the waters with a mighty splash.
“Come on,” said Faulkner, grabbing Ophelia’s hand. “We have to run while we can.”
“But I can’t,” she said, her gaze cast downwards. “I need my mother to be safe. I made a contract with this man, and now I must keep it. You can run, but I must stay.”
Around their feet, the Well’s water was turning red, stained by Castoro’s own blood.
Faulkner hesitated in his step, for a moment too long. There was a mighty roar as Castoro rose from the water, sending out a wave of water in his wake. Ophelia leaped with surprise.
“That’s it!” cried Castoro. He reached over with one hand and drew the blade from his back. He winced as it slid free, but showed no other sign of pain. He flew from the water, seeming to leap the distance between he and Nataniel in one, and took the boy in his grasp, wrapping his hands around the boy’s head in preparation to twist it. “For what just happened, I’m afraid that none of you will survive, except for Ophelia, of course. But not your family, girl. Your precious mother will perish in the fires of Castore. If the time is right, then the draining is about to begin. It will only be an hour or so before the gas bursts through the pipes and explodes.”
“No!” Ophelia cried. “You said our families would remain safe! You said that you would let us live.”
“But I was not standing in the water,” he retorted, “therefore, I am not bound.”
Ophelia screamed, “No!”
“Yes,” he said, “and now your friend shall die.” He turned slowly to Ophelia, a mad lig
ht in his eyes. “Believe me. It is for the best. And for your sake, I will turn away, so you need not see.”
He turned himself around, taking Nataniel with him, his steps strong and long. He stared ahead for a moment, the muscles in his arms tensing as he prepared himself. “Don’t ever tell me I’m not merciful,” he said.
Ophelia wanted to run, she wanted to save Nataniel, but she was paralysed with horror and shock. That, Faulkner could see. He knew it was hopeless though. There was no way to kill the Architect. Even if he wasn’t immortal, he was still very strong. “Even if you tried to kill me,” he said, speaking to no one in particular, “the Vindicators would finish the job, as they were always meant to.” He was waiting to hear the crack of a breaking neck, or the yelp of pain from the child, but it never came.
Instead, he heard a gunshot.
Bang!
It was a brilliant noise, seeming to ricochet a hundred times off the walls of the circular courtyard.
There was silence for a moment, Castoro’s gaze trained into the street before him, his body hiding the source of the gunshot. Judging by the blast, it had come from a rifle.
Then there was a second.
Bang!
Castoro’s head flung back from the force, his body tumbling backwards, falling limp. His head cracked against the pavement, black blood pooling from his forehead. Atop him lay Nataniel, still in the man’s grasp, and before both of them, standing only fifteen metres away, was Elenor, a bag slung over her back and a rifle in her arms. She was shaking, her body shocked from the force of the gunshot. She stumbled backwards and dropped the gun, the metal clattering against stone. There was fear in her eyes, and sadness.
Faulkner rushed over to her, as Ophelia remained still, dumbstruck. Faulkner caught Elenor a moment before she fell to the ground, landing softly on his backside.
“It’s all right,” he said, but she said nothing. She only shivered and cried.
He turned towards the body of the Architect, and noticed why she was shaking. Sitting atop the corpse of Castoro was Nataniel.
And in his chest was a bullet wound.
A Lost Soul
I am never one to not have a second plan. In the event of my death, I have put precautions into place to ensure that, should I be dead when my plan begins, it shall continue without any trouble.
That is, of course, assuming that I can get the LampLighters to perform their task.
Ophelia dropped to her knees in the water, not caring that her clothes were now soaking, or that her chest burned with a horrid head. It all seemed so distant now, so insignificant to what lay before her.
A boy. A child. A single, tiny flame. Dead.
She felt her hands shaking, her lower lip trembling with sadness, her heartbeat falling still as time stopped.
He watched the young girl scream loudly.
“Nataniel!” she roared, fighting free of Faulkner’s embrace to sit next to the corpse of the boy she had loved. She pushed the Architect’s hands free of the body, throwing her own hands over the boy, as if she hoped that holding him would keep his soul, his fire, earthbound. She let out her agony into Nataniel’s chest, rising up for a moment to place her hands either side of his face. Through her tears, she managed to whisper something quiet and sweet. The girl then leant down slowly, kissing Nataniel on the forehead. For a second Ophelia hoped that this would be like the stories, and that the kiss would wake the sleeper. But he wasn’t asleep, and this wasn’t a story. This was life.
He was dead. Gone. Nothing could bring him back. Not even a soft, loving kiss.
“Oh, Nataniel,” Ophelia murmured, as she sank more deeply into the waters, feeling sadness finally grip her completely. She tried to sigh, or cough, or even breathe. But she could manage none of that. So instead, she cried. She cried into her hands, bent over in the waters of the Tyndibar Well, as the young girl across from her cried into Nataniel’s blood-soaked shirt.
*
In her mind, she could still see them both dancing about the ballroom, dressed in their most beautiful clothing. She could still feel his hand about her waist, still see the way his misty eyes reflected the room about her and the lights in the room. It may have been a dream to some, but to her it was reality. They had been united in a reverie by fate, destined to be together before they had even met.
And now her true love was dead, shot with a bullet that she had fired.
That was not what hurt her most. It was not what she had experienced that brought pain to her heart and caused her to cry. It was not that she had fired the bullet, or that she had been part of the reason he had shunned away his hearthfly. It was all the experiences she would never be able to share with him. The kiss they would never have, the conversation they would never exchange. Never would they hold hands as they walked down the streets of Castore or Pollror, never would they have children. They would not grow old together and they would not die together. Never would they dance together in real life, like they had in dreams. It was what she hadn’t been able to share that hurt most. It burned, like a stake of ice through her heart.
The ground began to shake beneath her, and she lifted her head to look about, wondering what was happening. The quaking came in mighty waves, like explosions to her chest, one after the other. For a moment, she thought it had been the explosions coming from the Castore side of the wall as the Architect’s plan had gone into motion, but it wasn’t distant, and nor was it like the sound fire made when it created a infernal plume. This was like a wave of stone crashing against the wall.
“What’s happening?” said the dark haired girl, who stepped through the Well carefully. She stepped out of it, and turned around just in time to see a section of the wall explode outwards, joined by a brilliant, fiery light. For another moment, Elenor was sure it had been a lamp exploding, but once again she was proven wrong.
*
They were hearthflies, all carrying their cauldrons of flame. They had smashed their way through the wall, revealing an opening to the other city. Ophelia was pulled from her sadness, and let out an epiphanous sigh. “I can stop this,” she said. “I can stop the explosion.” She still felt pain at Nataniel’s death, but also a sense of hope that perhaps his death might not be the end of everything.
“How?” asked Faulkner.
“Castoro said that he intends to use the gas-powered lamps to burn the city down. If I can snuff out all the flames before the gas is forced into pipes, then there will be no explosion. The gas will rise into the air, and we’ll be fine. I think.”
“But you only have an hour!” Faulkner said, as the hearthflies began to scatter once more, spreading about on the four winds. “Less than, in fact.”
“But I know the gas lamp locations better than anyone,” she said. “I know every street with one, and every street without. If I go fast enough, I can stop this.”
Faulkner looked from Ophelia to Nataniel and then back. “We’ve already lost one person. Don’t be stupid.”
“I have to do this,” Ophelia retorted. “I have to save everyone, for Nataniel.” She turned away from the group and began her way through the hole created by the hearthflies. They want me to do this too, she said. That’s why they made this hole.
“Wait!” yelled Faulkner. She spun around quickly, watching and waiting as Faulkner spoke quietly to Elenor. She nodded in reply, and let him continue on to Ophelia.
“We have to save this city,” he said. “If we can get everyone out, if the explosion happens, no one except the fiends shall die. At least it will take some of the pressure off you.”
She nodded. “Very well, but hurry. And also, get my mother. She’ll need help. She can’t leave the house herself.”
“I promise,” he said, running ahead of her, brave even as he dashed between the fiends that had gathered.
She expected to see guards surrounding the Tyndibar Well, which was now ankle-deep with water that had seeped through the rubble in the wall. But there were none. Even the gates were wide open, se
emingly in preparation for a mass exodus.
Did the hearthflies do this?
She didn’t waste time wondering the question over. She ran ahead, beginning her way into the city, protected by the fire from her gas-stick.
The fiends were unusually ravenous tonight, less fearful of the flames than they normally were. It was almost as if they were aware that something was going to happen tonight, that they needed to be present for some great event.
“I have to hurry,” Ophelia murmured to herself, as she left the Tyndibar courtyard, entering the dark, early morning streets of Castoro, the sky above close to unleashing another torrent of rain into the already flooded streets of a leaderless city. In the distance, though, there was a deep, rumbling sound, like thunder from below the earth. The draining had begun.
Fire and Water
When my brother and I arrived at the Well, we had eight followers. Five of them followed me when we divided the city, and three joined my brother. They were once my friends, family, most trusted advisors. They are now Vindicators, and they shall act in my name when I am no longer present.
Ophelia reached the first gas-powered lamp, recognising the slightly blue flicker at the base of the flame. She looked about the dark street, noting how every house had their curtains drawn and a candle in their window. She climbed up the lamp-post, pulling open the shutter. Inside, was a metallic point, from which the flame shone. At the base, though, was a small knob which controlled the flow of gas through the tip. She reached in, burning her hand on the hot metal, but managed to twist until the flame died. The hissing of gas stopped, and the light faded away, leaving Ophelia illuminated only by the distant lamps and her gas stick.
She leapt down the lamp-post, the water splashing about her coat. It was already sopping, though she didn’t care. The remainder of the street had only oil lamps, keeping the street safe from fiends.
She turned the corner of the next street, recognising it as one that had not been converted to gas. Good, she thought.
Her heart raced as she ran through the dark streets, and in the distance she heard a clock chime once for the quarter hour. It was a quarter past three. She and Faulkner had less than an hour to wake the entire city and extinguish the lamps before the gas below the city would be forced through the lamps, causing hundreds of simultaneous explosions across the city. Her task just became that much more difficult.