"Could you... I mean, d'you think...?” Fen gave his head a sharp jerk then set his jaw. “Does it pay?"
You really had to stop and admire the sheer depth of the self-delusion sometimes.
Malick didn't smile. He didn't sigh in relief. He didn't jump at the offer and accept it before Fen could back out. He leaned into the doorjamb and peered at Fen closely.
"It pays.” He kept his tone even and direct. “You'll wear the ring. And you'll wear the mail. You're not to die on me. I think we're clear on the consequences of that.” He slipped the ring from his hand and held it between his fingers. “And I wouldn't take it well."
It's my job, Malick told himself. However this turns out, this is my job as Wolf's-own.
Just... please, Fen, don't hate me.
Fen merely pushed out a derisive snort, rolled his eyes, and then shot a narrow glare up at Malick. When Malick tossed the ring to him, Fen caught it. “Give me ten minutes,” he said.
* * * *
"Maybe I won't die on you,” Jacin muttered as he hunted around for his trousers then his shirt. “Maybe I'll just kill you instead."
Hated him. Hated him, with a burning, fiery passion. Hated him for more things than Jacin's scattered mind could fix on right now.
Hated himself for not dragging his brothers out of their room and just leaving, like he should've done... hell, months ago.
Hated himself for not really hating Malick. For his complete and profound inability to even consider being alone.
It wasn't the same with his brothers. They couldn't give him what Malick could. And only some of what Malick gave him had to do with the physical.
There was understanding, there was knowing; even when it wrung fear and cold sweats from him, it was still there. Malick actually sought it. Like Jacin was worth knowing. It was more than anyone else bothered with.
So. He's finally told you what you are.
Bloody hell.
Jacin clenched his teeth tight. “Shut up, Beishin."
I told you the Temshiel were treacherous creatures. Now you know why he wants you. When will you learn to listen to your Beishin?
"When I have one who doesn't pretend to love me while he's destroying my family.” He spat it, furious.
He got a soft chuckle in response. If Jacin shut his eyes, he'd be able to see the expression that went with it, so he didn't.
Love. My boy, you are too easily tricked by its glamour. Do you really think—?
"No.” Snarled this time. Because he didn't. Didn't.
Touch the Untouchable. Love the unlovable. No one but I, Jacin-rei. You think he sees but he doesn't, no one does. You do not exist but in my eyes. Only I know you. I made you, little Ghost, and only I can love what others can't even see.
"Except you didn't,” Jacin whispered, shaky now. “You don't. And you're dead."
With no thought, Jacin snapped a throwing knife from the sheath at his wrist and whipped it in the direction of the voice. Just to see. It hit the wall beside the brass plate over the press with a hiss and a twang, hilt vibrating. Jacin stared at it, then shifted his glance to the side and stared at the hollow-eyed creature that glared back at him.
Untouchable. Unlovable.
Not Beishin's voice this time. Jacin's own. He shook his head and looked away.
A token of his affection for you, little Ghost?
Jacin startled a little, only now noticing that he'd slipped Malick's ring onto his finger, twisting at it like a nervous old woman.
Or a pretty little tether to bind you with? The voice took on sibilance, an almost impatience that drove a shudder through Jacin while at the same time twisting uneasiness through his gut. One such as you could do great things with such a bauble. He thinks to bind you with it, but I, little Ghost... I can free you. Your beishin can show you—
"Shut the fuck up!” Growled so harshly this time that it actually burned Jacin's throat.
Because if he kept listening, he'd have to eventually admit that he could have been free of Malick a hundred times over already, he'd only ever had to just walk away and keep going. Malick's magic didn't work on him, he'd never find Jacin if Jacin just left and made it his business not to be found. Except he couldn't, not even if he did want to—there was still Joori and Morin.
And the sick neediness in him wouldn't let him anyway, so what was the point?
He wore the ring and he wore the mail. Because it was a paying job, and Malick was the one paying, and Malick had told him to. Because Malick “wouldn't take it well,” the heartless bastard, and Jacin had responsibilities. And he wasn't going to walk away. Apparently, not even if Malick pushed him even harder than he'd been doing before.
Why wasn't Jacin fighting it harder? Why wasn't he just... going?
"Because they... need you not to,” he assured himself, waiting for Beishin's mocking voice to negate him, but it was silent. For once. Bolder for it, Jacin sucked in a breath and stated further, “Because you can't just drag them out from under a Temshiel's protection with only a week's worth of koin in your pocket."
Morin and Joori had been prisoners all their lives; they didn't know how to do anything yet. And Jacin didn't know how to do anything else but kill. That didn't bother Jacin nearly as much as he knew it bothered Joori.
Jacin pushed it away and uncoiled belts and sheaths.
He hadn't been sure how he'd feel once he was armed again. He'd thought several times on the voyage here to ask for his knives back, just to see what would happen. He'd never really cared enough either way to actually pose the question. And now he knew. He didn't really feel much of anything as he buckled and strapped and tied down.
The long knives Malick had given him as a “present” in his room at the Girou, back when Jacin had actually seen the abyss at his feet for the first time and taken that first willing step into it. He wrapped the snakeskin belts around his hips, tied the tethers of the sheaths snug to his thighs and pulled on his gloves. Eyes closed, he slipped his fingers around the handles of the knives, drew them, and gave them an experimental twirl. He hadn't touched a weapon in... months now, hadn't practiced his forms, hadn't meditated, hadn't so much as exercised his fingers to keep them limber and dexterous. The lack of calluses on palms and fingertips felt very strange.
Still, the knives spun gracefully, body-memory taking over with the familiar heft, a tiny rush of adrenaline flowing up his backbone at the precision of the weapons. “Perfect,” Jacin whispered. Perfect balance, perfect weight, perfect grip.
Perfection for the imperfect. Scrabble for it ‘til your fingers bleed, little Ghost. You shall never reach it. Not without your beishin.
Jacin grimaced at the mocking disappointment in Asai's voice. “I know,” he said softly, setting his glance on the windowsill where Caidi had perched only this morning.
You can be so much more than this, if you would only believe in your beishin. How it must pain you, knowing they all look to you, and knowing you can never make the measure.
What measure? He was a minion, nothing more. Worse—the minion of a minion.
He should be in charge. He should want to be in charge. Instead, he allowed Malick to lead him—as much as Malick would—gave up all control to him, because Jacin couldn't really control anything, he'd learned that far too well to think differently, and Malick had become somehow imperative. Safety. And not just for Jacin.
And now, with this Incendiary... thing.... He needed Malick, damn it, and it didn't matter how much he hated himself for the needing, because the needing wouldn't go away.
Does it hurt you, little Ghost? Almost sympathetic. Does the disappointment in their glances cut you like the sweet-hot bite of your own blade?
"No. Not really.” Jacin snorted a little and resheathed the knives. “They all know I'm a fuck-up. You showed them that, Beishin. Perhaps I should thank you."
He smiled a little, still half-expecting Caidi to appear, but she didn't. It would be difficult to fail anyone worse than Jacin had failed Caidi. Al
l the fear and rage and just bloody trying—it hadn't been enough, nothing more than tragic futility. It didn't matter how Malick tried to twist the truth and soothe the agony of knowledge.
Ah, my sad little Ghost. When will you understand? I only ever tried to help you, guide you. I would guide you still, even after your betrayal. Can you say the same about your Temshiel? Can you not see all of this as the lie it truly is? Do you really believe any but I could love you?
Jacin shut his eyes, set his teeth. “Fuck you, Beishin,” he whispered then yanked his hair into a tight tail at his nape and quit the room.
He wasn't surprised to find Samin standing with Malick out in the hallway when he emerged from the room. He was surprised at the disapproving frown on Samin's face, edged lightly with... worry?
"Fen,” said Samin, jumping right in, like he'd been waiting to say it, “you don't have to do this. Mal and I can—"
"He knows he doesn't have to do it, Samin,” Malick cut in, his tone mild, unaffected, but Jacin was pretty sure that was anger burning behind that tawny gaze.
Jacin stared between them, eyes narrowed. Completely at a loss. Had he annoyed Samin somehow? He had to admit it wasn't out of the question—he rather thought he annoyed them all, in different ways. Then again, there was that touch of anxiety in Samin's blue eyes. Perhaps this wasn't annoyance; perhaps it was the fact that it had been months since Jacin had so much as touched anything more threatening than a comb. It had been so long since he'd shaved—because a razor was just asking for it—that the thin, wispy fuzz on chin and upper-lip had grown into an actual bristle. Joori hated it, always offering to shave it for him—shave it for him, like Jacin couldn't notice the distinction—but Malick liked it and Jacin didn't much care, so he left it.
He had a limp now too. Weakness. Very obvious weakness, because he couldn't control the heaviness of it all the time, couldn't absorb or ignore or even savor the pain like he used to, and make his gait even and normal. He limped because it hurt, all the time, and the longer he walked on it, the worse it hurt and the heavier he limped. Maybe Samin was concerned that Jacin wouldn't be able to perform, hold up his end.
Or maybe Samin could see the panic on Jacin's face, the ghosts of Malick's words echoing behind his eyes, the stains of Asai's mockery on his skin. Because Jacin could almost feel them.
Failure
Unlovable.
"I can do the job,” Jacin said, his tone even and quiet. And Malick was here now, so Asai couldn't come and whisper sibilant negation in Jacin's ear, couldn't take the words that were still crawling over Jacin's skin and speak them out loud, make everyone else see.
Samin rolled his eyes. “I know you can do the bloody job,” he snapped.
Jacin frowned. Then what the hell?
"I'm saying you don't have to.” Samin ignored the clench of Malick's jaw and angled himself into the middle of the hallway so that he was between Malick and Jacin, and Jacin had nowhere to look but at Samin. “Fen,” Samin said slowly, weirdly gentle for all it came from a face set like graduated granite blocks, “maybe it's too soon, yeah?"
Ah. Yeah. That. It shouldn't surprise or dismay Jacin that maybe he wasn't the one Samin would choose to have at his back.
Jacin had no idea what to say, so he didn't say anything. Just held Samin's stare, until Samin's mouth pinched, and he shook his head. “Joori won't understand,” Samin said, soft, probably as close to gentle as Samin got.
Jacin hadn't even thought about what Joori might think or understand. And he hadn't the first clue how to tell Samin that it didn't matter what Joori understood or didn't, because Joori didn't actually see Jacin, even when he tried to look. Joori understood about a boy who no longer existed, who had always been going to be what Jacin was now, and Joori just couldn't understand what Jacin was now. Like the boy was real and Jacin was the ghost, instead of the other way ‘round. And wasn't that how it would always be, anyway? He was born a Ghost, and he would die a Ghost—because it isn't that different, you know—and whether he was called Untouchable or Incendiary apparently didn't matter, it was all the same whether or not he had the braid to brand him or the Ancestors to corrode and ruin him. The deed was done; Jacin was merely trying to find a way through the rubble now. Joori was just going to have to find his own way, because Jacin had neither the wit nor the strength to find a path to wend for anyone but himself.
Selfish, yeah, but he could live with that. Failure, of course, that went without saying.
"Fine,” Samin finally said into the uneasy hush. He shook his head, a defeated slump to his shoulders as he backed off. It seemed even Samin could only take weighted silence for so long.
Samin turned a glare on Malick, who lounged against the wall across from Jacin, calm and ostensibly unconcerned, but his eyes were cool and calculating as he looked between Samin and Jacin. A small smirk playing across his mouth, Malick toyed with the loop to the garrote coiled around his forearm under his sleeve, seemingly idle and patient. So, why was Jacin so sure he could see fury smoldering behind the tolerant gaze? And why did his guts go all warm and sloppy, his groin tighten just a little, to think he could see it and Samin couldn't?
Maybe Jacin's hatred for Malick wasn't quite as fiery as it should be. Maybe Jacin cared more than he thought he did, and maybe he believed Malick cared back. That would be... dangerous, in a way that only Malick could be. The last thing Jacin needed was another risk. And after what Malick had said only... yesterday?—whatever. The blatant threats, the heartless bastard-ness.
Lust. That was all. Lust would do. Hatred and lust were not mutually exclusive. Jacin should know.
"This is on your head, Mal,” Samin said, voice still quiet, eyes accusing in a way Jacin didn't bother to try to understand.
"Yup,” was all Malick said, gaze flicking to Jacin's, hanging there for a moment then sliding back to Samin's.
Yeah. Good. That, Jacin could live with. Because he was tired of it all being on his head. Fucking exhausted. Let someone else make the decisions. Let someone else aim him, tell him. You will be what the gods made you, and you will live, because I wouldn't take it well. Fine. A mindless, heartless soldier, nothing more. Samin should understand how much of a relief it was. He'd been a doujoun back in Ada; he'd been working for Malick for years. He had to know what a comfort it was for someone else to point, and say, “Kill it.” Samin had let the Doujou point him, and when he'd thought to question it, he'd ended up with Malick, just like Jacin had. Jacin had let Beishin point him for nearly all his life; it was only when he'd been forced to question the direction that everything had fallen apart. Why couldn't Samin understand this?
"I can do the job,” was all Jacin could think to say, because something seemed necessary, but he didn't know what, and there was no way he could let all of what was ramming around in his head spill out. He'd learned his lesson on that.
"I know you can do the job, Fen,” Samin said, resignation touched by exasperation. “I'm worried about the job doing you."
Jacin had no idea what that meant. He could probably figure it out, if he wanted to. It was kind of just hanging there, hovering just outside of understanding, scattered at the edges with bright, terrifying possibility, and he'd get it, if he cared to reach for it. Did he care? He couldn't decide.
He looked at Malick. “Are we going or not?"
Malick was inspecting his fingernails now, apparently with all his concentration, but his smirk curled a little wider. His glance slid once again to Samin, shuttered, just long enough to make Samin's mouth tighten down again. Malick chuffed a little snort and shook his head. Slow and lazy, all lanky fuck you grace, Malick pulled out of his slouch against the wall and swept his arm down the hallway.
"After you."
He held Samin's gaze as Samin growled a little and stalked past him, then Malick turned his glance on Jacin. It softened, warmed. His eyes swept down to the knives sheathed low on Jacin's hips and strapped to his thighs. He smiled. “Coming?"
Jacin hesitated the
n nodded at the door behind which everyone he had left was ensconced. “Safe?"
"I've got the whole place warded,” Malick answered easily, no apparent offence taken at Jacin's caution. “And Shig's staying. They're fine.” He set a hand to Jacin's shoulder and gave him a little nudge. “C'mon, let's go."
Jacin merely checked the tethers on his sheaths again and let Malick point him.
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Chapter Four
"Jacin?” Morin tapped lightly on the door, not really sure he wanted an answer, but he had to try. Something had happened, something more than the usual angsty-withdrawal nonsense that was the sometimes annoying norm for Jacin these days. Something that had made Malick withdraw, too, and on those occasions when he emerged from the room—for food or more smokes for Jacin or... whatever—Malick himself had been weirdly distant. There wasn't that constant snarky laughter bubbling beneath every shift of his glance, and the smartass remarks were, if not completely absent, not half as smartass-y as usual.
Morin knew there was some kind of job going on. Neither Malick nor Samin talked about it in front of them, but Morin had found that if he just sat quietly sometimes, people either forgot he was there altogether, or at least didn't seem to notice he had two working ears and a brain. And Samin couldn't whisper to save his life.
They had a job, and since Samin had more or less disappeared, and Morin and Joori weren't supposed to notice they were being babysat by Shig, Morin rather suspected they were doing that job now. Which made it a good time to try to talk to Jacin without Joori there to shut Morin up every time he opened his mouth to say something Joori didn't think he should say, or tell Jacin what he really meant by the monosyllabic responses that Joori didn't want to hear.
Morin tried the knob, found it locked, and so knocked again. “Jacin? Are you in there?"
Maybe he wasn't. Maybe he'd gone out on the job, too, and just chosen not to tell Morin or Joori. Morin couldn't blame him. If he were Jacin, he wouldn't want to tell Joori anything, either. Joori thought Jacin had killed all those people back in Ada because he'd had no choice. Morin thought maybe it was just that Jacin was just good at it and hadn't known what else to do.
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