Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

     The air sparks with friction as the rope's wound into knots, and you hear the lowbloods tussle and tug at it, pulling it into something that's not quite a noose, but close enough to kill you. The mass of hands beneath you, holding you up, drawing you towards centre stage, are as unstable as a sea surging along to a storm, but there's so much happening so quickly, so loudly, that your senses drown in and out of sync with one another.

     The Marquise remains where the guards placed her, lacking more in the way of limbs than confidence; she is watching you, you know she is, but you refuse to accept this unlawful sentence without a fight, all because seeing you struggle would amuse her to no end. Even as they take hold of your wrists, twist your elbows to force your arms behind your back, you gain the smallest amount of comfort in knowing that in spite of the dozens of minds the Marquise holds sway over, yours is the only one she truly wants.

     Even as they loop the mockery of a noose around your neck, even as you're hoisted up towards the gallows, she can't even scratch at the surface.

     She doesn't ask if you have any last words. You smell something in the air that isn't quite satisfaction, isn't quite a smile, but what it is, exactly, doesn't matter; the stench is just as bitter to you, and you'll be dead in a matter of moments, anyway.

     The crowd around you thins, until there are only three trolls around you, holding you up. You must've been struggling for some time, because all of the muscles in your body ache and you feel as if you know every jot of pain intimately, and when they finally let you go, it's almost a relief. If you cannot escape, then you want this farce over and done with.

     Funny. You always imagined that you'd die for the law, but not in the courtblock. In the split second between the lowbloods releasing you and the rope snapping at your neck, your mind betrays you, and you imagine a thousand impossible ways to escape this. The rope will give, and you'll land hard on your knees, caps cracked, but very much alive. You'll stretch out, just enough, and your toes will touch the scaffold, keeping you from swaying. His Honourable Tyranny will have enough of the mockery staged in his courtblock, and chew his way through the masses.

     The rope snags around your throat, your head snaps back, but something breaks your fall.

     It isn't the ground. There's still dead air between you and the floorboards, and you twist your ankles very carefully, slowly enough to ensure that you don't lose your balance, finding that hands are holding you in place. Your mind scrambles frantically for an explanation, everything flaring the colour of panic, but the rope still tight around your throat, only allowing enough breath to reach your lungs to keep you barely conscious, gives you all the answers you need.

     Mindfang's dragging your torture out. She doesn't have the decency to allow you a quick, clean death.

     She has her fingers wrapped around your cane. You can smell the filthy-grey of her hand, dirt from the cellblock caught beneath her nails, against the white, one finger bumping the dragon's head. Metal rings as the blade meets the light, and with your mind clouded as it is, you imagine her digging your own blade right through your gut, before you can even think that she might cut the rope from around your throat.

     But the blade isn't meant for you. His Honourable Tyranny growls once, and only once, before she cuts him down where he stands, though she still reeks of bright blue deceit where the arm you took from her has yet to heal over.

     You'd shudder to think what she could do, were she in one piece, but your whole body is trembling, limbs twitching at your sides, lungs deflating more than they're able to fill. As she leaves the courtblock, stepping through the black, bloody mess she's made on the floor, one of the lowbloods still under her control scrambles up the hanging tree, and cuts one end of the rope free.

     They let go of your feet and you fall the rest of the way, soles barely hitting the ground before you're on your knees. You try to stand, but there's little strength left in your legs, and none in your arms to push yourself back up. All that remains is a pounding in your head, and as a lowblood tugs you across the courtblock, you try your hardest to do something other than be dragged, even if it's only crawling. Your palms slide in a slick puddle left behind by His Honourable Tyranny, and the noose tightens around your throat when you don't move quickly enough.

     The lowblood doesn't wait for you. He marches to a set pace, mind not his own, and you know exactly where he's taking you. But you won't plead at the Marquise's feet, won't beg for your life; you're still prepared for your death, steeled against whatever may come.

     It's thought of living on that makes your stomach churn.

     You can't say how long you're dragged for, but over time, you manage to wrap your fingers around the rope and loosen it, and once you're taking deep breaths, you're just about able to pull yourself to your feet. And just in time, too, because there are you, brought before the Marquise.

     She has confidence enough to dismiss the lowblood, to face you one-on-one. And rightly so; your head's still spinning and you can't even taste where you are. Your knees and palms are riddled in bruises and scuffs and the rope around your throat has left burn marks behind, but there she is, still holding the blade she used to cut His Honourable Tyranny in two.

     “Neophyte!” she greets you fondly, definitely smiling, now. She pauses thoughtfully, chuckling once under her breath, and you wonder how long it took her to plan out this little speech in the back of her head. “—ah, I apologise for insensitivity. It isn't neophyte anymore, is it, Redglare?”

     You stare at her in the same way that the sun once stared down at you. She seems unperturbed.

     “Well? Shall we be on our way?”

*

     She takes you to a portside tavern, claiming a single block for the day.

     She chats happily as you walk, speaking about as much of nothing as she always does, tugging at the rope whenever you fall behind. She still has your cane and your head isn't where it should be, but you never once lose your footing, no matter how much she'd like you to. You follow Mindfang because you're going to kill her; you're going to get this damn rope off from around your throat, tie it into a proper nose, retrieve your cane, and laugh as you hang, draw and quarter her. You're going to enjoy every last justified moment of it, after what she did to the trial, to His Honourably Tyranny, and then you will march yourself back to the courtblock, and let them sentence you too, if they please.

     Mindfang tugs at the rope for the umpteenth time, and you snarl, snapping your teeth.

     With a roll of her good eye, she tells you that it's not going to be any fun if you insist on acting like that, and uses the tip of your cane to cut the rope away. The edge of the blade nips at your throat, and you lunge forward, serving her a black eye and a hopefully cracked rib before she's got you on your back, one boot pressed squarely against your chest.

     “I haven't the faintest idea why you're so intent on harming me,” Mindfang says, elbow propped against her knee as she leans forward; she pushes more weight against your chest, once again reminding you how easily she could burst your lungs. “I saved you from that dreary life and, if I dare say so, a rather unbecoming death.”

     You don't even do her the favour of sneering, this time. She offers out a hand to help you up, and you ask for the other one.

     “Things will be absolutely fine,” Mindfang tells you as you continue walking towards the shore together, because you cannot very well kill her if you run off, “Once we find that beautiful beast of yours, we'll be well on our way.”

     But she refuses to say any more on the matter, even when you finally raise your voice.

     The closer you get to the coast, the more your senses are flooded: sea-salt and wet sand, rotting wood and ale brewed in the cellarblock of the same establishment it's sold in. If walking side by side with the Marquise wasn't bad enough, you're being forced to endure the stench of her from every direction.

     She assures you that she knows the tavern she takes you to as well as the back of her horns, which can never be a good thing. You hear at least eight laws being broken on the way in, and while the place is crowded, as soon as people take heed of who's turned up, there are more empty tables to choose between than you know what to do with.

     Mindfang picks a table in the centre of the tavern as if every legislacerator in a hundred mile radius isn't out looking for her, and the barkeeper brings you both over a keg and an assortment of food, too utterly terrified to ask for anything in the way of payment. You cringe as she picks up a grubloaf, biting off more than anyone should be able to chew, and blithely remarks that the courtblock rations were absolutely atrocious.

     You decline the food she offers you, actively push the alcohol away, and she's delighted to learn that you've lost your appetite.

     “Well!” she announces, like she's very sorry to interrupt you, the fantastic conversational partner you've been thus far. “What are we to do next?”

     We, she keeps saying. You cannot, and will not, speak for the pair of you collectively. You know what you plan to do, and that involves taking her head, or at least her other arm; and if her wandering attention is anything to go by, she plans to proposition at least two of the courtesans in the far corner. You hear them giggle and whisper amongst themselves, intrigued by the missing arm and burnt eye, impressed by blood that smells so dark they must be able to see it against the black of her jacket.

     “There is no we,” you inform her curtly, and immediately regret giving her the satisfaction of an entire sentence.

     “Isn't there?” You reach for the carving knife set out next to the joint of oinkbeast meat, fingers wrapping around the hilt. “Think about it: you and I are in the same position. An unfortunate position, by most accounts, true, but it is also a fresh start.”

     She presses two fingers to the back of your wrist, and you consider turning your hand and cutting them clean off.

     “The same position,” you repeat dryly, placing the knife back against the tabletop, “What do you mean?”

     “We're fugitives!” Mindfang wraps her hand around your wrist, uncurling your fingers from where nails dig into your palm. “On the run from your once-precious law. The courtblock has already seen to it that I am without with fleet, ships and crew alike, as well as a fair few body parts; and you have allowed a notorious criminal to not only escape, but to slaughter His Honourable Tyranny in your presence. Were you truly devoted to the law, I've little doubt that you'd march yourself back to the courtblock and allow them to continue with your hanging. But self-sacrifice is only as attractive as it is fleeting.”

     You focus on the weight of her hand against your wrist, as if you can feel her skin through your sleeve and her glove, rather than the words she almost seems to chant. Just as you're about to pull away from her grasp, she lets go, hand momentarily retreating to her side.

     “Both of us are without anything, save a potentially blank slate,” she concludes. You want to tell her that the law doesn't work like that, but then she's pressing something between both of your palms.

     Your fingers wrap back around your cane, and you pull it towards yourself, hidden blade crossing your chest. Mindfang is older than you, stronger and taller, too, but you could splice her throat open. Her senses must be dulled at least a little from the alcohol you can smell on her breath.

     But she's given you the cane for a reason. She's testing you, wanting to see if you're as predictable as she believes you to be. You listen to the sounds of the tavern around you, and realise that it's far too quiet; they're listening in on your conversation, ready to strike. These people will fight for her, whether through their own agency or something else.

     You rest your cane across your legs, taking a tankard of ale for yourself.

     You drink, listening to nothing more she has to say, and certainly don't think about how right she is.

*

     You don't sleep for most of the day.

     You feel the sun's warmth beat against the shutters, and sit on the floor in one corner of the block, knees pulled to your chest. There isn't a recuperacoon in here; there isn't a drop of sopor slime in the entire tavern. It's too expensive to change out every time the block gets a new guest, and there were too many infections spreading through neglect. There's a bed at the opposite end of the block, and though you retire from the bar before Mindfang does, you still don't claim it as you own.

     You've no intention of making yourself any more vulnerable around her, and if you were to sleep, you'd need the slime. Despite being blind, closing your eyes still causes a shift in the scenery around you, and even the backs of your own eyelids make your head pound. The rope was thrown by the wayside, and yet you still feel every fibre press against your throat, unable to do much more than imagine the way your legs kicked out in abject fear, the way you couldn't keep yourself calm in the face of what should've been inevitability.

     It shames you to realise how much you want to be alive, though you know that you have nothing left that's worth clinging to.

     Mindfang comes up hours after you do, and you keep your eyes closed as she plants heavy footfalls across creaking floorboards. Let her think that you're sleeping, and perhaps she'll do you the favour of sparing you both the sound of her intolerable voice. You don't pay any mind to what she's likely been doing, and you're surprised when she doesn't try anything: she falls down against the bed with a thud, and within minutes, her breathing shifts, signalling that sleep's laid claim to her.

     Your eyes creak open, and you silently lift your cane from its place by your side. You tense, though you know Mindfang won't be disturbed, if you yourself haven't managed to hear any slight sounds, no matter how you strain your ears, and hook your thumb beneath the dragon's head. A little pressure, and the blade would be out. A flick of your wrist and she'd be gutted; she's stretched out on her back, sleep heavy with food and drink.

     But if Mindfang hadn't have anticipated this all, she never would've made herself this vulnerable to you. She is sleeping, and you have a blade, along with the determination to follow through on your desires; there's something more to this. It's too easy, and besides, you don't want to splice her into two while she's sleeping.

     You have a difficult time admitting it to yourself, but even the Marquise deserves better than that.

     At some point, when dusk finally creeps around, you must drift off, because you're blinking your eyes a little too hard when the sound of Mindfang groaning under her breath makes you start more than it should.

     It's evident enough what's happened: the numbing affect of the alcohol has worn off, her makeshift bandages aren't quite as effective as she'd initially thought, and waking is causing her to grapple with her own bravado. She has lost an arm, yet she is determined to keep her spirits soaring obnoxiously high, no matter how difficult early evening aches and pains make doing so. You smell fresh patches of blueberry blood on her, matted into the mattress, and her every joint creaks in protest as she makes her way across the block.

     “On your feet, Redglare. We're going.”

     Again with the we. You don't argue with her, much to her dismay. You calmly push yourself to your feet, and walk with your cane before you, tapping at the ground, making a show of how easy it is for you to move. Even with an almost complete lack of sleep.

     “I can hear it trickling out,” you tell her as you head inland, “Your clothing is saturated.”

     Mindfang does her best to ignore you, and tries picking up her pace, marching along the cobbled path. You allow yourself a grin, and then inhale sharply. You're glad she's walking ahead of you, because your tongue flicks out, pad pressing against your top lip.

     “There is only so much blood in even your body, Marquise. You will be on your knees by the time we reach the next town. Dead by the next city.”

     She turns to face you as she speaks, though she knows you've no chance of discerning the expression she chooses to show you.

     “Then it is a good thing we are travelling to neither town nor city, Redglare.”

     The air grows thick in a way that you can't feel with your fingertips or taste on your tongue, and the whole atmosphere is disconcerting, as if you've suddenly realised you're in the middle of a dream, but can't force yourself to wake. Mindfang leads you down to the maw of a cave, and the ground beneath your feet is dead, not a single root twisting its way to the surface, long before you step inside.

     It is all oil and grease and steel and sweat in there. You walk behind Mindfang, more out of a sense of caution than an innate desire to allow yourself to be led, and within moments, you hear the low grumble of a blue blood's voice scratch at the low ceiling. He's darker than Mindfang, yet she still talks down to him as she sits before him, having not waited to be offered a chair.

     It's another stark reminder of why you can't kill her, no matter how you ache to hear the muted puncture that slips in between your blade cutting her throat and the blood rushing out; you may have been forcefully removed from the law itself, but that isn't to say that you're about to become a petty criminal. You aren't going to step out of line with the hemospectrum.

     As upbeat as Mindfang tries to make herself seem in front of the boulder of a man she introduces as Darkleer, all three inhabitants of the cave are well aware of the fact that it's a show. She rubs irritably at her burnt-out eye, the black of her gloves scrubbing against red, and by the time Darkleer's cauterising her left shoulder, the only noise she makes is a hiss of relief.

     The new arm takes three nights to fit. Mindfang seems to have ensured that Darkleer was prepared for such an inevitability, and spends much of the time he isn't plying her with alcohol to (supposedly) numb her to the pain asking him to kindly hurry things along. Surely fitting a fully-functional robotic arm, complete with sensor pads and wires that run like nerves, can't be that difficult. While she's being seen to, Mindfang sends you through one of the cave's winding paths, to a horde of supplies she has stashed away.

     You can't wear the uniform of the law forever, she tells you.

     For a woman who claims to have lost everything, she certainly has a great deal in material wealth. There are hefty chests placed throughout the hollow, each one worth as much as whatever they hold; you feel the corners of cut jewels and the cold surface of gold and silver, and in a box bigger than all the others, there's a collection of clothing, each piece wrapped in fabric fine enough to line the Grand Highblood's floors.

     Mindfang is right about your clothing situation, though you're loathe to admit that she can be right about anything. Bright red and teal are hardly the most subtle of colours, and the cut of your clothing is distinctive enough; you won't do well in it, outside of ports riddled with pirates.

     Blade drawn, you cut your way through the layers of fabric, not expecting to find anything even remotely suitable. Mindfang is a good deal taller than you and not quite as lean, and the first shirt you try billows around you with as much grace as a sack. You settle on your third choice, a high-collared white shirt that laces up around the wrists and across the chest, careful to keep your pendant tucked away. The pants you find, much like the shirt, don't smell as if they've ever been worn by Mindfang, and fit well enough with the addition of a belt. The boots are the only part of the outfit that aren't entirely intolerable; they're as black as the pants, each one reaching your kneecaps, lacing up all the way.

     Pulling your gloves off last of all, you place them on the pile of your discarded uniform and then, pretending that you don't give it so much as a second thought, throw it into the box with the rest of Mindfang's clothing that's now in tatters. You keep the lid open, hoping that over time, the dank conditions of the cave will get to what remains of her things.

     You spend the remainder of your time in Darkleer's company thinking up a thousand ways to prove that Mindfang's wrong about your life having effectively reached a dead end. Within hours, you conclude that if there was any semblance of hope left, you would've left the cave long ago, and so instead remain silent, wondering how long it will take for Pyralspite to track you down.

     Darkleer appreciates your silence. To him, your inescapable contemplation passes as obedience, and you can only wonder how a man of his standing ended up in a place like this. There is something very wrong about it, and when you give yourself over to sleep during the second day, you wake out of breath, convinced that everything between the rope snagging at your neck and this very moment was an illusion spilled from the depths of your think pan, and you really are dead.

     Mindfang's metal arm only makes her less graceful than ever. You hear it whirr as it comes to life with every clunky movement she makes, and, as usual, the Marquise is so very full of herself that she entirely ignores the fact that she's yet to master just how to use it with anything resembling precision.

     The steel clinks with every step the two of you take out of the cave, and other than to compliment your choice of clothing, she says nothing. The silence unnerves you, seemingly as much as her voice infuriates you, and it's not until you're far enough from the cave to count it as nothing beyond a memory that you feel comfortable speaking out into the cold night air.

     “Where will you go now, Marquise?” you ask, careful to say you, not we. There may be no single place that you yourself can think to head, but you're not about to resign yourself to following her around like a woofbeast.

     “Please, call me Mindfang,” she says, and she has said it plenty of times before. You've ignored the offer each and every time, and have no intention of allowing yourself to become any more familiar with her. “—and if the clothing bothers you to such a degree, then I shall have one of my tailors put together something better suited to your frame.”

     You stop walking, and when she notices you fall behind, she too comes to a halt. You tilt your head to the side, waiting for her to continue. This is interesting; it isn't often that a woman like Mindfang ignores a question altogether, unless there is something she wishes to remain hidden. From all that she allows to go on display, whatever she wishes to keep to herself must be especially heinous.

     “Where are you going?” you ask her again, voice stronger than it has been in nights.

     Mindfang tries to let out a flat laugh, but all she manages is an honest to god huff. You fold your arms across your chest and she turns from you, speaking under her breath as she heads away; as if you will be unable to catch what she says.

     “To feed my lusus, Redglare.”

*

     On the way to Mindfang's hive, you stop at a small town for supplies. Darkleer did his best to be a gracious host, but his obsession with his own misery took pride of place, and you were better off scrounging for what little food there was yourself. You haven't eaten properly in nights. When you think about it, the last passable meal you actually had was before you were sent out to track down Mindfang, and you hope beyond hope that once you eat, your head will clear enough for you to know exactly where it is you need to go.

     Beside one of the stalls, where Mindfang is having an assortment of beetles sorted into jars, you catch scent of a lowblood beating someone who's at least four shades higher than them within an inch of their life. This town isn't much better than the pirate-infested ports you've worked shifts at before, and you tighten your grip on your cane, about to let the blade breathe.

     You're disappointed in yourself when you take a moment to realise that it isn't your place, anymore. Your heart pounds out of a sense of what you once would've described as devotion, and can now only to think to place as exhilaration, and your shoulder blades ache with how badly you want to right this wrong.

     Mindfang notices the pair fighting. It's hard to miss them, even without your hearing; they may be tucked away in an alleyway, but the lowblood is drawing enough attention to them. A crowd begins to gather around, and Mindfang leans in close, murmuring under her breath, “Not only a legislacerator has the right to bring a stop to the injustices perpetrated by lowbloods.”

     Again, she's right. Unlike before, you can't even begin to resent her for this much, because while you may no longer serve the law in an official capacity, that doesn't mean that you should do anything short of respect it with your every movement. It could be the hunger, and it could be all that you've gone through in the recent nights, but suddenly, you're more than convinced that the crowd would cheer, upon seeing justice done.

     Mindfang places a hand against one of your shoulders, and that settles it. You move swiftly from her touch, creating a hole in the crowd, and flick out your blade in one wide, swift half-circle. The green blood on the floor whimpers more loudly than before, arms wrapped around his head, not certain of what's happening, and the jeering crowd falls worryingly silent.

     And then there it is, the applause you were expecting. Some of the lowblood's colouring sprays against your face, staining the front of the shirt the Marquise gave you, and then somebody's grabbing at your elbow, demanding to know what gives you the right to do that. He wants to see your eyes, and with a sneer, you snatch your glasses off your face, and press your forehead right against his.

     “She's with me,” you hear Mindfang say as the crowd parts to accommodate her. Her hand goes back to your shoulder, and her metal fingers wrap around the man's hand, prying his grasp away from your elbow. “And rest assured, justice has most certainly been served.”

*

     Mindfang's hive is atop a hill that makes your thighs burn to scale, built into the rocks themselves. It has stood there for decades, perhaps longer, and will continue to stand centuries after the two of you are gone from this world.

     It's outside of time, in its own way, and you doubt Mindfang has done anything to change it since the moment she was old enough to take on Alternia as a whole. She asks if you'd like to wait outside, almost insists on it, really, but you ignore the fact that it won't take long, really, and follow her inside.

     Between the two of you, you carry the body of the lowblood from the market. Mindfang had one of the merchants tie a sack around his throat to stop the blood from dripping everywhere. She disables a handful of traps with every turn you take in the seemingly endless corridors of the castle, until you reach an open space; something like a courtyard.

     Mindfang snaps at you to put the body down, no longer able to keep up her once perpetual guise of self-indulgent amusement at everything that happens around her, and you can only imagine how horrific her lusus will be. You're well aware that someone of your caste is not usually afforded a dragon as a guardian, but as she insists on reminding you with more regularity than you need to actually remember the shade of her blood, she outranks you on all fronts. Her lusus ought to be at least as imposing, in terms of strength and stature.

     You almost consider taking a step back. The slightest noise makes you start.

     It takes you half a second to realise that those aren't thundering footsteps you're hearing clatter against the cold stone ground. It is a clacking, a skidding, a skating, eight tiny chirps against the tiles moving with more speed than balance allows, excitement getting the better of it. The lusus makes as straight a line as it can towards Mindfang, and she too takes a step back, cringing.

     You laugh once, flatly, but cannot commit yourself to cackling. There is confusion clouding the corners of your mind, making you feel as if your senses are failing you; because, surely, the spider Mindfang calls a lusus has to be bigger than your head. You suppose that, yes, the legs do a great deal to make the creature seem larger, but all at once, it's clambering up Mindfang's robes, and she has no option but to kneel to meet it.

     Fabric rustles as Mindfang gestures behind herself, pointing to the body that has to be good for at least a dozen meals laid out on the ground. Her lusus makes no movement, cares nothing for its meal, and instead chirps away in concern, two long legs wrapping around the metal of Mindfang's wrist.

     “This is your lusus?” you ask, having never wanted to speak with Mindfang more than you do now.

     “Yes,” she says, and only yes, proving once and for all that she's capable of brevity. She merely chooses to make you suffer with the long-winded rambles she thinks poetic.

     “She's very small,” you say, and kneel down next to her. The spider turns its head towards you, all eight eyes throwing moonlight against your skin, and you wonder how it would react if it knew the part you played in searing out its ward's vision. It might very well launch itself at your face, legs wrapping around your head and throat, and then you'd have no choice but to make a mess of your nice new boots. “But I suppose that you were once very small as well, Marquise.”

     Mindfang goes to say something more, works her jaw, but nothing comes out. Her frustration is palpable in the air, and it thrums against your skin, until you've no choice but to double over and laugh until you're certain you'll empty the contents of your stomach all over the floor. You don't care that she's scowling at you, most likely considering snapping your neck in the way the rope failed to, because this is all too much; this is what you should've revealed about her to the world at large. You were wasting your time, setting fire to her fleet.

     The spider continues to fuss, until Mindfang has enough, and bats it away. Off it scurries to the body you were kind enough to serve up, sinking its fangs into the meatier part.

     When you finally stop to catch your breath, your body feels more rotten than it did with the Marquise's boot pressed to your chest, but you can't bring yourself to care. Next to you, Mindfang would very much like you believe that she isn't shaken by the whole ordeal, and she rises to her feet as you do the same.

     “How did you ever turn out so loathsome?” you ask, humour completely drained from your voice.

     She very nearly huffs again, but quickly comes to the conclusion that she can't afford to make it seem as if you aren't even worth answering for a second time. She catches herself, clearing her throat, and you lick at your lips, mouth horribly dry from all that laughter.

     “Somebody had to protect her, did they not?”

     There is something genuine in her voice, when she speaks about her lusus. Something she tries very hard to keep hidden, and once she speaks, you find yourself at a loss for words. Not because she has managed to anger you beyond the point of comprehension, and not because you wish to meet her mockery with silence; she has given you something to think about, and you're not yet aware of how uncomfortable that makes you.

     Beyond her show of bravado, and beyond what the courtblock has told you, there is very little you know about this woman.

     You quickly come to the conclusion that you do not wish to learn more.

     You retreat within a wall of silence, as if to make up for your unfortunate outburst of laughter at her expense, and when she tells you that it's time to leave, it isn't a moment too soon. There is something about this place that gets right into your bones, and you can almost feel the foundations shift beneath your feet.

     Mindfang doesn't object when you walk ahead of her, having memorised all the traps on the way in, cane held in front of you, just in case there's anything determined to catch you off-guard.

     Beyond the walls of the hive, rather than being met with the rocky hillside, the entire landscape is obstructed by a stone giant, brought to life in leathery shades of white. You hear Mindfang falter behind you, hear the way her breath catches in her throat as every muscle momentarily refuses to move. Your mouth splits into its first sincere smile in weeks, and then she's hurrying to your side, scurrying like that tiny lusus of hers.

     Her shoulder presses to yours, and you can feel her heart pound through the fabric.

     There she stands by your side, as if putting herself on the same level as you is going to stop Pyralspite from devouring her whole in a single bite.

Chapter Text

     Pyralspite's arrival marks the first spate of good luck you've had in recent nights, and you're so pleased to be in her presence that you do nothing to stop her as she presses her snout against Mindfang's chest. Mindfang tenses, body as rigid as the rocks that make up her hive, and the air around her ripples in equal parts fear and awe.

     It's the first time you've had the upper hand around her. When you struck her ship, it'd been in the heat of a fast unfurling battle, and the loss of her arm was spurred on by an adrenaline rush. Now you have the clarity of mind to consider all options available to you, and the time required to make the best possible choice. You place a hand against Pyralspite's snout, feel her nostrils flare, the night air warming with a promise of fire, and think you might just let her do as she pleases.

     She could devour the Marquise in a single bite, and all that'd be left was a few troublesome bones caught between her fangs. Pyralspite could melt Mindfang's castle until even the scorch marks left behind didn't serve as enough of a clue to discern what was once there, if you wanted her to. She could make your life so much easier, and all it'd take was a single thought from you.

     You hear something shift in Mindfang's throat as she swallows, hear her lips part as breath barely manages to pass them. You can almost feel the future in the way she seizes up in a fear she'll later relish in, but for now, it's as real as the ground beneath you and the sky above. She knows all that stands between her and her life, her legacy, is a single snap of dragon's teeth; her heartbeat screams in your ears like nails on a chalkboard.

     Yet for some reason, you're not driven to laughter. You imagine her lusus, curled up on itself, with no one to bring it another corpse, no one to spin webs around in an effort to protect, and scowl. You pat Pyralspite's snout once, and with a low growl, she tilts her jaw up, knocking Mindfang clean off her feet.

     You crouch as you walk behind Mindfang, grabbing hold of her by the scruff of her collar. “Come on,” you say, tugging her to her feet, and she is so wholly unresponsive that her think pan can't have processed the fact that she's still alive, quite yet. “On your feet,” you say flatly as her knees begin to bend, blue blood running hot once she comes to grips with the fact that you're daring to manhandle her so.

     “Here I am, caught between a blind dragon and blinder legislacerator. A former legislacerator, having recently defected from all that is good and truthful,” Mindfang says sharply, ducking out of your hold, “In possession of one seeing eye myself. I would have thought it enough to garner me some smidgen of your near-impossible to earn respect, but my desire for anything resembling decency once again goes unfulfilled.”

     She dusts off her jacket as if she's been forced to scuffle in the dirt, and you swing out your cane, dragon head hooking beneath her jaw, tilting her head back.

     “Be quiet, Marquise. One more complaint and I'll have your other eye burnt out, too.”

     To your surprise, it does enough to shut her up. Her retort lies along the lines of Yes, well—, but never leads anywhere. Mindfang decides she'd much rather use her energy to keep guard against Pyralspite, who fascinates her as much as she terrifies her. She would claim her for her own, you know this much, feeling herself deserving of such a remarkable creature; deserving of something that could not be crushed to a bloody pulp underfoot.

     She speaks up again, eventually, when you have spent close to twenty minutes sitting on a rock and Pyralspite has not blinked all the while, if only to begin repairing the damaged parts of her ego.

     “I thought I had conceded leadership to you, Redglare, by way of silence. But it seems you have no idea of where we ought begin.”

     We. You have only yourself to blame; by not letting your lusus eat her, and by failing to push your blade between her ribs, you've done something to cement the reality of some form of partnership, no matter how tentative. Not wanting to return control to her by responding only with silence, you voice the first thought that flutters into your head.

     “You claimed to have a tailor.”

*

     In all her sweeps, Mindfang has clearly never ridden a dragon before.

     You're sorry to say that, although she flails, she does not fall off, no matter how turbulent Pyralspite ensures the ride is, and Mindfang doesn't succeed in falling to an untimely death. For all the seas she's sailed, she comes out smelling green in the face, grinning through any physical discomfort, and you heed her advice, for once. Magnificent creature that Pyralspite is, she's only going to draw unwanted attention to the two of you, while you're still roaming around more pointlessly than otherwise.

     You set Pyralspite down in the forest surrounding the city, letting her know in your own way that you'll be back for her soon, in as few pieces as possible. Mindfang removes her hat, sweeps it in front of her with one hand, bowing obnoxiously low, and bids Pyralspite farewell. As if she was not fearing for her very life mere hours ago. On the walk to the city, Mindfang will speak of nothing that does not strictly pertain to the matter of dragons, and she seems genuinely interested in learning all there is to about Pyralspite; and she does not do so purely to mock, to have some information to twist to her advantage, as you have always experienced her do so with you.

     Inside the city limits, Mindfang suggests that you head to the nearest tavern first, and begins marching there in wide strides. You stomp a boot down against the tail of her jacket, and she sees it coming. She manages to stop herself before tripping, sighs loudly enough to be heard from the other side of the city, and supposes that you want to visit the tailor first of all.

     While red may well be your colour, it's long since turned rust-brown against your shirt, and you can't continue to wear it forever. As you walk through a market, conversations trail off to a whisper, all hushed remarks aimed at the two of you.

     Like most people who owe Mindfang a favour, the tailor's was earnt through fear and manipulation. He is only too happy to see Mindfang, and his voice warbles and shakes in a way that he tries to pass off as cheer; and then, any trembling on his part promptly comes to an abrupt stop, movements running as smoothly as a blade through water. Mindfang is responsible for this sudden shift in demeanour, no doubt, and you almost can't blame her for wanting to hurry things along.

     You're not surprised that Mindfang would pick out only those she considered to have great skill sets to work for her, and the tailor is as good with a tape measure as any you've ever met. He hums and haas as he gathers all the information he needs, and says he'll have something prepared for you by midnight tomorrow. Not soon enough, Mindfang says; at dusk, then, he hurries to correct himself.

     Mindfang doesn't have to wait for clothing of her own to be made from scratch. The tailor is smart enough to be perpetually prepared for her, and by the time she's changed, the air around her has cleared to the point of crispness. You'd spent so long surrounded by the cold, coppery cut of her blue blood that it had sunk into the background, until you'd stopped noticing it all together.

     “To the tavern,” she says, stepping out of the tailor shop, donning a new hat. The feather is even larger than the last, and each barb brushes against the top of the door frame.

     “If we must,” you reply dryly, matching her pace. But there is no if about it. Mindfang will head where she pleases, and you will go along with her, because you are torn between the need to sleep, eat and wash all at once.

     The tavern she takes you to is more up-scale than the last. That's what becomes of a place when there aren't pirates to plunder any decency an establishment may once have held, you suppose, noting the way the place smells neither of spilt ale that's been left to dry of its own accord and make surfaces sticky, nor urine splashed against corners. It is presumably well-lit, from the warmth that meets you when you step in, and the scent of cooked meat drifting out from the nourishblock makes your stomach clench uncomfortably.

     “What first?” Mindfang asks. You've little doubt that she craves food, sleep and cleanliness as much as you do; for all the fear she inspires and the legends built up around her, her stomach rumbles just as anyone else's does.

     You opt to indulge in eating. As much as you'd rather wash first, you've little doubt that the warm water would only serve to make you all the more tired, and before you could stop your eyes from closing, you'd be waking up tomorrow evening, feeling awful for the hollowness in your gut.

     Commending you on your choice, Mindfang goes to speak to the proprietor. He is well spoken, but takes a cautious tone around Mindfang, and as ever, she deals more in fear than she does actual payment. You've little doubt that he'd ask anyone else to leave, if they turned up to his tavern covered in blood as you are, but being by Mindfang's side provides you with certain advantages you don't truly wish to take. Mindfang parts with a bag of caegars out of good faith, and to your surprise, has two blocks reserved.

     There must be some trick in it, and you absolutely don't thank her when she hands over a key. As soon as you eat, the fog behind your eyes will lift, and you'll be able to work out what her game is, this time.

     You're served quickly, meats, breads, wines and all, and Mindfang is given a bottle of something so strong that it makes your eyes water, just to sniff at it.

     “You mouth resembles a bag of knives,” Mindfang says as you tuck into your meal, chin propped up in her palm. She seems delighted by the way you tear into your food without reservation, and you won't allow her thinly-veiled judgement of your table manners to do anything to slow you down.

     You lick your front teeth clean, feeling like a dragon tearing into fresh pirate.

     It doesn't sit well with you that Mindfang says nothing more for the rest of your time down by the tavern bar. If there's anything she enjoys more than being utterly insufferable, it's the sound of her own voice, and yet she doesn't speak up. Not to taunt you, not to ask all manner of intrusive questions, not to be as wholly presumptuous as ever. She doesn't even ask if you'd like more wine when you polish off your first glass.

     There is a troubling sort of quiet surrounding her. She is thinking, and when a woman like the Marquise thinks so very deeply on any topic, it's never a good thing. Until now, the warm rush of flavours that flooded your mouth and mind every time you took a bite of something were all but draining every last drop of your attention, but your find yourself tilting your head towards Mindfang, as if you can still see, every so often. She ignores much of her own meal, both hands wrapped around her bottle, eyes half-lidded.

     The tailor is going to have an eye patch ready for her, when you go to pick up your own clothing, as Mindfang wishes to hide the sun her sclera has become from the rest of the world. You lean over, knife in hand, and the plate clinks as you spear her steak through the centre. Mindfang starts, barely even enough to realise that she's done so, but says nothing more.

     While she is silent, you have the greatest urge to speak up. When you say nothing, you feel as if the noose is around your neck again. Not wishing to succumb to a forced state of silence, you rise to you feet, awkwardly telling her that you're going to retire to your block. Mindfang lifts the bottle, swirling the liquid inside as means of acknowledgement.

     You leave it a moment, to see if she'll say anything, and when she doesn't, you'll suppose that she'll be fine. Whores aren't hard to come by, even in such a place.

     The shower you take is hotter than any other that's come before it, and you stand with your arms at your sides like lead weights, forehead rested against the wall when standing proves too much of an effort for you. Dirt and blood runs in rivers from your hair, and your skin doesn't feel clean, even when you find the energy to scrub at yourself with soap. You only manage to turn off the water when you realise that the heat is stirring up a sickness in the back of your throat, and you leave your clothing to soak in the sink, stepping into the main compartment of the block, towel wrapped around you.

     There's a recuperacoon in the block. You sit on the edge, trail your fingers through the slime, and could very easily choke on something like a repressed sob, in that moment. The food and drink have only served to relax your body, making you more susceptible to the sleep you sorely need, but you can't bring yourself to sink into the sopor, quite yet. Glasses left on the edge of the sink, you lean forward, heels of your palms pressing to your eyes.

     You rock forward, swallowing thickly, and wonder if this is all that's to be of your life. A different tavern each day, and that's only if you're lucky. Your ears prick with every footstep you hear in the corridor, certain that it's the courtblock, some legislacerator you worked under or with in your past life, come to drag you back to the gallows. The footsteps always pass, but you remain tense, heart beating too quickly, dulling your other senses.

     You've devoted yourself to the law since before you can remember, and yet you've no doubt your hive has been razed to the ground for what you've done. Or what you didn't do. You couldn't bring a criminal to justice, couldn't protect the minds of lowbloods, couldn't defend His Honourable Tyranny.

     You try telling yourself that it'll be alright. You won't be run through in your sleep, teal blood congealing against the slime. Mindfang has evaded the law for longer than you've been alive, has done far worse than you; and if it wasn't for you, she would still be in one piece.

     The sopor slime squelches as you sink into it, towel discarded on the floor, and the sense of comfort is so immediate and overwhelming that your body aches because of it. Certain that you'll never sleep again, you resign yourself to the waking world for a grand total of two minutes, until you're suddenly dreaming in muted sounds and bland flavours.

*

     Upon waking, you very nearly don't know where you are. Your body no longer feels like your own for being rested as it now is, but when you stretch out your feet, your toes press to the side of the recuperacoon; it isn't the right shape, and you aren't in your hive. Everything comes back to you in unfortunate chunks, and you busy yourself with all that you can, wringing your clothes out and hanging them to dry before stepping into the shower, rinsing the slime from your body.

     It comes away easier than yesterday's grit, and once you're clean, clad in a towel, you make your way to the window, pressing a hand to the shutters. There's no immediate heat to be felt sinking into the wood, which means the sun has long since set. You open the shutters, breathe in the cool night air, and plan what it is you need to do next. If Mindfang's tailor values his fingers, then his work should be complete by now. You've never cared for clothing, beyond the pride you felt upon first wearing your legislacerator's uniform, but you allow this pursuit of fabrics to become your first and only thought.

     Once your clothing is as dry as it's going to get, you leave the block, and pause in the corridor; you consider seeking out Mindfang, and scold yourself for the thought.

     Although he doesn't say as much, once you return to the tailor's, he's immeasurably glad that you've come alone, and you can't admit to feeling any differently. You keep conversation with him to a minimum, because it's evident enough that he hasn't had a wink of sleep since Mindfang last stepped into his store, and head into a changing block with the clothing he hands you.

     The fabric feels richer than anything you've ever worn before, and you spend a moment running it between your thumb and first finger, taking in all the hems and putting it together in your mind. It is a cheongsam, or something close enough, collar fastening tight just below your throat, a strip of teal running around the neck, stretching out across your collarbone to form your sign.

     Once you've breathed in the dark reds and soft teals, you dress quickly, still not feeling entirely comfortable in the clothing. While it may have been tailored for you and you alone, it still belongs to Mindfang, in its own way, and you'll never be able to settle down with something of hers against your skin.

     The good Marquise, the tailor informs you, has already dealt with the matter of payment, but asks that you take her eye patch along with you. Not feeling that you have much choice in the matter, as Mindfang likely told him to leave it with you, you take the eye patch and leave him with your thanks and old clothing. Which he'll most likely burn. As you leave the store, the tailor hurries to lock up behind you, desperate to retire to his respiteblock, and you drift towards a market.

     The paranoia that's gripped you these past nights seems to have been based in absolutely nothing solid, because once you step into a crowd, you're as faceless as any other troll. Nobody grabs at your arms, tugs you into an imaginary spotlight and demands that you explain your misdeeds in front of the entire city, the entire world. If anyone's attention lingers on you, it's because they catch a glimpse of your eyes behind your glasses, and you scowl, certain that will cause no end of problems, when word of what you've done spreads far and wide.

     The market holds all you could need to start a new life, to escape from here, but you have no money, and nowhere to take those things. The pendant around your neck is pure silver and you could gain a fistful of caegars by melting it down, but you won't part with it. You're considering all the ways you could walk away from Mindfang, from this life she's determined to set out for the two of you, when you walk into her. She's haggling with a merchant for something she absolutely doesn't need, and you stand behind her, arms folded across your chest, for close to a minute, before she realises you're there.

     “Marquise,” you say, when she glances over her shoulder.

     “Mindfang,” she corrects you, and just because she's in front of someone she's trying to intimidate into giving her a good deal, you purposely ignore her insistence that you use her name, rather than title.

     “Ah,” she says lightly, not about to argue with you in front of anyone. “It would appear my dear tailor did a better job than I dared to imagine.”

     She places a hand against your shoulder, neatening out the collar, and allows her fingers to linger there for a little too long. You take hold of her wrist, tug it away and drop it down to the merchant's stall. “You were haggling,” you remind her.

     “So I was,” she says, taking hold of whatever it is she's trying to buy. Some sort of parchment, you think. A map, perhaps. When the merchant is willing to lower his prices no further and Mindfang is doing her best to convince him that he can afford to give her a better deal, you snatch a pouch from her belt, before she resorts to mind control. You open up the bag, and count out two caegars more than the merchant was asking for, sliding the money over his way.

     When Mindfang complains, convinced that she had the merchant right where she wanted him, you say nothing. She has what she wants, just like always, and the merchant will be able to eat well tonight.

     Finally, you freely admit to yourself that you're following Mindfang, now. There is little point in denying it, as you know that there's nowhere else for you to go; there is nothing for you to do, right now, beyond waiting for her to slip up.

     Once the crowd thins, Mindfang unfurls her purchase between her hands; definitely a map. It smells aged, like it's very nearly become a victim to mildew, and Mindfang turns it in her hands, humming thoughtfully to herself. She is waiting for you to ask her what it is, and when you don't, she rolls it up, tucking it away in one of her jacket pockets, as if you've missed your opportunity to know what it is she's up to.

     But the Marquise can only keep her mouth shut for so long. She leans towards you, and through a smirk, asks, “I don't supposed you've ever considered treasure hunting for a career, have you?”

*

     When it comes to alcohol consumption, you're in two minds about it, if the Marquise is involved. Which she always is. In the week you have been in her questionable company, you have seen her drink more with each meal than any self-respecting troll would in a perigee, and she has never shown any signs of it affecting her composure. Perhaps she is permanently inebriated, thus explaining her general character and ostentatious manners.

     You don't want to imbibe anything close to your limit around her, because it would delight her to a disturbing degree, but neither do you wish to remain sober around the woman. Just one drink, you've discovered, is enough to demote the sound of her constant chatter to background static, and a second drink brings with it the ability to grunt non-committally and constantly cut her off.

     You're on your fifth drink when Mindfang leans closer, letting the words she's kept caged behind her fangs all night burst forth.

     “What exactly is it about me that drives you to such dislike, Redglare?” she asks.

     The fact that she doesn't flatter herself by using the word hatred surprises you, and the only reason you answer her is because it seems far too obvious not to give voice to.

     “Because you took everything from me,” you say, tankard touching your lips to conclude your point.

     “Nonsense,” she says, and you want to punch her. You also want to slump against the bar and never use your think pan for coherent thought again. “If you would be so kind as to cast your mind back, you'd recall that you were the one who came after me. After I, personally, did absolutely nothing to provoke you. You acted as the law's woofbeast, took not only my fleet, but my flesh and power. And yet I do not resent you for as much. In fact, I went to the arduous lengths of ensuring you had a life left to live, when by all rights, I ought've had you strung up on the gallows.”

     You do lean forward a little, then, elbow sliding across the tabletop, one finger tightening around the handle of your tankard.

     “Try again,” she says, when you don't react as she was no doubt hoping you would.

     You reply instantly. The sooner you answer her, the sooner this will be over and done with.

     “The mind control,” you say. “You don't know what it does to a person.”

     But neither do you. You've felt the way everything changes when Mindfang makes her way into someone's think pan, have heard every joint in their body roll and hinge in unfamiliar ways, but you've never experienced it for yourself. You mind is a muddle, a maze Mindfang can't even find the entrance to, and it frustrates you to no end that you can't truly understand what it is you scorn.

     Your answer surprises her, if only because of the thought you've put into it. She dismisses your concerns in the same way that she always does, telling you that's nothing short of nonsense; of course she knows what it does to a person. It's completely under her control. There is something in the way she speaks that makes this woman, at least twice your age, sound like a wiggler.

     To think that someone who has spread ruin for her own personal gain across every corner of the globe could be so naïve. The way her mind works, the way the thoughts and actions alike of others bend to her will, is all she's never known. Of course she feels no remorse for what comes naturally to her. She adds as an aside that you have tricks of your own, too, so you shouldn't think yourself in a position to brand her as a cheater.

     “You would not make such baseless comparisons so lightly, if you knew how it felt,” you tell her, wanting nothing more than to leave things at that.

     “Then show me,” Mindfang replies instantly, punctuating her request with a hand placed against the back of yours. You'd pull away immediately, if she wasn't wearing gloves. “Issue your commands, and I won't overlook them. My mind and my body alike are yours to play puppeteer over, whether you want them or not.”

     Or not, she expects you to say, so you don't. She hopes the boldness of her offer will cause you discomfort, immediately inspire refusal. You're starting to understand all of her little games. With a hand placed against the back of Mindfang's, you carefully peel it away from your own, resting it against her knee. She doesn't resist the movement, doesn't tense, doesn't try to take more from your touch than you're readily offering.

     All of a sudden, you find yourself certain that you have something to teach this woman. As if you cast some sort of clarity on the world that she has not been able to find in her decades upon decades spent upon it.

     “Stand up,” you say, and she does.

     “Sit down.”

     She obeys.

     “Is there anything else—” she begins.

     “Shut up.”

     Mindfang sits in silence as you finish off the last of your drink. You could have her spilling her darkest secrets to all the drunks as she danced on the table, if she proves to be true to her word, but there is little to be learnt from humiliation alone, out in the open. You stand, and you can tell she looks up at you. You haven't forbidden her from looking, yet, and you doubt that you will.

     “Follow me.”

     She does, without a word. Across the tavern, up the stairs, to where the private blocks are laid out. Her boots are too loud against the wooden floor, each creak stirring the potential for disobedience, but you don't tell her to tread lightly. All you do is order her to take you to her block, unlock the door, and then take the key from her.

     The block has been cleaned recently. The air tastes of disinfectants that haven't been properly worked into the surface, a sharp, artificial scent of apple that makes everything beneath it appear stale. Two chairs have been provided along with a recuperacoon, one of which you claim for your own, while the other remains empty, turned to face the far wall.

     Crossing one leg over the other, you tell her to kneel down. To kneel in front of you is the implication, which she seems pleased by; she's enjoying this, and yet you aren't. Pushing her past your own level of comfort would do little to perturb her, and you need to uncoil the skein of confidence she wears wrapped around every inch of herself. You have to dig your nails in, peel back whole layers of her, and in doing so, you're making yourself into something, someone, you don't want to be.

     “Take off your clothes,” you say, as a start. There's a certain vulnerability that comes with being naked, but that isn't what you expect to evoke in Mindfang; it's the expectations, the unspoken implications, that come with it. If Mindfang hesitates, it's only to fool you into thinking that she isn't going to be able to go through with it. To let you think, for half a second, that you've won, though you don't know what constitutes a victory in this scenario.

     Mindfang undresses slowly, neatly, one layer at a time, as if putting on a show for you. You're certain you experience a clearer picture than she means to paint you, with the heavy layers of fabric being pulled away from one another, the creasing, the crinkling, nails tapping against buttons, hair shifting, flowing. She places her clothes on the floor next to her, kicking them away when you tell her to.

     When she's completely naked (and you know she is, because the air around her smells of skin and steel in unequal parts, and the cold of the block practically lets you feel the way her body breaks out into goose bumps), you lean back in your chair, arms folded across your chest, and wait to see if she says something. She doesn't, and you're surprised to learn that the woman is capable of holding her tongue for so long.

     You unsheathe your blade. Mindfang doesn't flinch. You press the cool metal against the side of her throat, and the tip slides through the mess of her hair. You could slice it off without any resistance, make it entirely uneven on one side. You think she'd miss it.

     You pull the blade back, press the flat side beneath her chin and tilt her head up.

     “Which limb would you sacrifice next?” you ask, careful with your wording. Sacrifice, as if she gave up the arm of her own accord, as if you and your blade had little to do with it.

     “Could I not simply have this mess of metal taken from me?”

     You smile at that, laughing through your teeth. “No,” you say, placing your cane against the floor – she won't reach for it – and lean forward.

     The fact that she's naked should have no bearing on you. There is nothing for you to see, only a distant thrum of what she must feel, numbed by the space between you. It doesn't affect you, not at all; it could only ever do so if you were to place your hands against her, palms building friction, fingertips brushing along old scars, retracing the paths that blades before your own have taken. You could press your mouth to her skin, feel her tremble as you parted your lips, the tip of each tooth threatening to tear at her flesh; you could run your tongue across the lines of ink staining her skin (you can smell them, now that you're closer to her) and find out just what images she's chosen to mar her body with.

     It might affect you then, but not now. Now you feel nothing but faintly nauseous.

     You place a hand to her cheek and she shudders. She tries to make amends for the involuntary reaction, and half a smile presses into the heel of your palm. Your thumb brushes along the socket of her burnt-out eye, and with your other hand, you reach for the eye patch entrusted to you earlier on.

     You put it on her, carefully, glad that you didn't cut her hair away before. The straps are only going to tangle in her long hair, making it frustrating for her to take off. She blinks more than she needs to as you put it on, as if you might claw out the remaining husk of her eye, and you feel her breath against the inside of your wrists.

     You're starting to forget what the point of all this was.

     “Here,” you croak, handing her your shackles. It's entirely possible to live outside of the law and yet still be privy to their tools. Mindfang takes them between both hands, thumbs running over the cuffs and chain, as if she's never been acquainted with a pair before. “Put them on—”

     Mindfang begins to do as you've said, binding her metal wrist first, and you slowly reach for your cane. “No. So that the chain is wrapped around the leg of the recuperacoon.”

     The slight pause means she wants to question you, but she's too proud to back out of a challenge she herself has set. You get to your feet, but the alcohol's gone to your legs, and the first step you take almost brings you down onto one knee. Cane in hand, you press the tip of the blade into one of the links in the shackle's chain and tug on it, to ensure that she's held in place.

     “Is there nothing more you desire from me, Redglare?”

     Mindfang is smiling as she speaks, but ultimately, she's only trying to stall you. You aren't falling for it. Sheath back on your blade, you try not supporting your weight on your cane too much as you make your way from the block.

     “Sleep well, Marquise.”

Chapter Text

     Mindfang has an odd notion of ownership.

     To her way of thinking, the act of desiring something deems her worthy of eventually possessing it. In her mind, the treasure you're about to hunt is already hers; she just hasn't sunk her teeth into it, quite yet. You don't doubt that she views people in much the same way.

     When you meet her down in the tavern the next evening, neither one of you speak about what happened between you. Or what didn't happen, but could've. You headed to your block after ensuring that she was adequately chained down, and sat on the edge of your recuperacoon, aware that you'd be staring blankly, were you anyone else. Yourself of five sweeps ago, though you're slowly realising that you'll never again be as you were. At some point, you slept; you woke with slime surrounding you, numbing your mind against dreams of any sort.

     You've already showered, dressed and eaten by the time Mindfang joins you. You may have no natural enthusiasm for treasure hunting, but if this is to be what becomes of your life, then you aren't going to follow in Mindfang's footsteps. You aren't going to let her lead, as if she's still dragging you along by a poorly-constructed noose.

     Though you wonder how she got out of her predicament last night, you don't ask. You mind turns over hypothetical scenarios, most of them involving her either shamelessly calling to someone passing in the corridor, or taking control of some unsuspecting lowblood to have them do her bidding, and accepts them all accordingly. Her high spirits are as gaudy against your dim surroundings as ever, and she makes no complaints about any discomfort around her wrists, or any less obvious wounds etched in by embarrassment. You doubt she's felt anything resembling shame in sweeps.

     In comparison, you're a fractious creature, prone to splinter your whole body with the scowls she draws forth from you. You're only now prepared to admit it, but there are things you could learn from her; tricks of her trade that would make your life less thorny.

     “Good day, Redglare,” she says, sitting unnecessarily close to you at your table. Etiquette would dictate that she sit opposite you, but what does anyone in such a place care for manners, for trivial rules? You grunt in greeting, using one finger to push a plate of grubloaf closer to her. She takes up a paring knife, and sets to work on a piece of fruit. “Eager to commence with the night's activities, I see. As soon as I settle the matter of payment with the good tavern owner, we'd best be on our way. I doubt you've ever travelled with the general populace, former neophyte that you are, but you'll find that public transportation can be quite stimulating. It will get us within reach of where we need to be. From there on out, the trek oughtn't take more than a handful of hours.”

     You hum, the smell of apple spreading forth under Mindfang's knife making you sound more agreeable than you mean to.

     “There was a time when treasure hunting was my only pursuit. Not my only passion, necessarily, but it was enough to get by. Good, honest work that I'm certain you'll begrudgingly approve of. An homage to the dead, even; a way to invoke their memory without prying their bones out from wherever the wind scattered them. But—” Mindfang pauses, chewing thoughtfully. “One does not protect their keep without a reputation having been built upon solid foundations. Foundations, in this case, being a euphemism for fear. And so, with my hive and my lusus under constant attack, and my own life hanging in the balance, what else was I to do? I proved myself worthy of the vicious streak borne by my caste, and took to the high seas. A life of pirating to ensure the safety of myself and my guardian.”

     You often find yourself uncertain of how much of what she tells you resembles the truth. With most people, there's no room for wondering, because you smell the ebb and flow of honesty and lies as clearly as others see the moons. But if there's anyone who could muddle your senses, it's her.

     “You're suggesting that you aren't to blame for what you've become. That you turned against the law because of social expectations. Because of other people.”

     You say this, all the while doubting that Mindfang believes you to be soft-minded enough to think her a victim of her own lifestyle.

     “On the contrary. I am what I've chosen to be. When my reputation was all but assured, I could've returned to treasure hunting.”

     “But you didn't.”

     “I enjoy what I do. What I did. The rush of battle, of conflict, of commanding.”

     “The power to hold lives in your hands.”

     “Indeed.” She bites into the apple, and it crunches like snow being trodden flat. “You don't mean to say that you don't miss it, either.”

     Mindfang says so many things that eventually, she has to be right about some of them. There was balance in your life, when you sealed the fate of those who set forth to weigh their sins against the law's scales; a focus afforded to you that made the path of your own life clear-cut, easy to walk. Without power over others, your own limits feel closer than ever.

     By now, Mindfang's used to you cutting out mid-conversation. She doesn't make the effort to repeat herself, and you'd almost rather she kept talking, instead of leaving you alone with your thoughts. She finds new ways to make herself intolerable each and every night.

     You reach for her hip, fingers finding the edge of her belt, and unhook her coin pouch. She lets you do as you please, more concerned with making her way through the meal presented to her, as if she's already so comfortable around you that she doesn't fear one of the breakfast knives making its way into a kidney. No troll should be so relaxed in the presence of another, especially when you're the other in question, so as always, Mindfang is far more aware of her surroundings than she lets on.

     There are barely a dozen other trolls scattered around the tavern, making the block seem both smaller and larger than it did when you were souring your mind with alcohol, but if Mindfang can take in the thoughts and drink down the feelings of those few around her, then already she has proven herself to be more restrained, more patient, than you have ever before considered her to be. The murk of your own mind is often enough to wade through, and to be subjected to so many voices, so many fleeting, turbulent emotions, never knowing whether those things have truly been said out loud or not, could snap anyone's mind in two.

     But you won't respect her for it. You get to your feet, making your way over to the proprietor, and ask how much you owe him. You make certain to say The Marquise and I, and not We. He reaches below the bar, takes hold of a stack of papers where he's noted what expenses you've incurred, and drops one of the pages on the floor. He kneels to retrieve them, hits his head on the edge of the bar as he stands back up, and apologises under his breath for being clumsy.

     He gives you one price and then, no, another, actually, why not just keep it on your tab—? He's certain that you'll return to the establishment some time soon, and then you can pay it all in one lump sum. You should sit back down and enjoy breakfast, he'll bring you over another few dishes, because nobody wants to start off their night parting with money.

     You say nothing in return, but pull the drawstring of the pouch, closing it up tight. Initially, you'd put his constant fidgeting down to intimidation, because everyone would do well to remain on the Marquise's good side. Better they lose a little money over a few days than find their establishment razed to the ground, raided by pirates. And even if word of her ruined fleet has spread this far inland, there is more to fear in Mindfang herself than a hundred gamblignants.

     But this is something different. He isn't scared of Mindfang, and in turn, you, for the usual reasons.

     Straddling the bench, so that you face Mindfang, you say, “Don't gorge yourself. They're bringing us another round,” and begin affixing the pouch back to her belt. In a low voice, you murmur, “We have trouble.”

     “I know,” Mindfang replies, when you've seated yourself properly at her side once more. Easier to talk discreetly when you both have you back to the tavern owner.

     You pick up an orange, and begin peeling the skin with your thumb nails. “How many?”

     “Six legislacerators, at the very least. Another dozen or two hired hands.”

     The sharp reminder that you no longer number amongst the legislacerators makes your stomach twist in a way that causes the orange to smell putrid. Outside are your former colleagues, those you spent sweeps working with, those you respected; those you never met, but wear the legislacerator's uniform nonetheless.

     The Grand Highblood sent you, and you alone, to take down Mindfang. This greater task force means that they've learnt not to underestimate her; and that, perhaps, they consider you a threat, in spite of your past failures. You don't think there's anything to be proud of in that fact, because the faith they had in you to bring in Mindfang counted for nothing.

     Wanted posters must have reached this city. You don't need to be able to read the proprietor's mind, as you're certain Mindfang is now doing, to understand what's happened. A reward in gold and he was willing to risk his neck, believing the imaginary fortress around his mind to be impossible to breach. But now that he's in the same block as the both of you, he's already regretting his actions, knowing that he can't go back; the floorboards creek as he trembles.

     “What do we do?” you ask her, and it's too late to bite your tongue. What do we do?

     You take a deep breath, but you can't smell the legislacerators beyond the tavern. Your reach doesn't extend that far, and Mindfang has much more experience being on this side of the law than you do.

     “They are still debating how best to strike,” Mindfang says, sounding uninterested. “But they do have us surrounded, and they are going to charge sooner rather than later. May I see your cane for a moment?”

     It's placed between the table and the bench, resting against your thigh. You tip it to the side, so that it rests against Mindfang's. She finishes off the piece of grubloaf she was eating, crooks two fingers beneath the dragon's head, and you know what she's going to do. You hook one of your own fingers around the sheath, so that when she pulls the cane up and throws it over her shoulder in one swift movement, like a spear, the tip of the blade cuts cleanly through the proprietor's chest.

     There is a breathless gasp, a gurgle, blood on his lips and then on the floor. The memory of the man is wrapped up in three, four seconds of silence, before the tavern becomes a cacophony of falling chairs and footsteps; there are plenty who would dine in the same room as Marquise Spinneret Mindfang purely to say that they had, but there are few who would dare to challenge her.

     The proprietor is braver than them all, in that regard. Braver, and also deader.

     “You'll be needing that,” Mindfang says, rising to her feet and placing her hat atop her head with one hand. You retrace your steps to the bar, find the proprietor slumped against the wall. Your blade hasn't quite gone all the way through, hasn't pinned him to the wall, and with a hand placed on his shoulder and a sharp tug, the cane is yours again.

     You would've valued a man like this, in the past. An informant, willing to put his life on the line for justice. Justice, and a reward that must've been worth his weight in gold. But now he is not a good man to you; he is not an ally of the law you hold love for, and his blood runs warm over the backs of your hands. Mindfang was entitled to this. Mindfang should've gripped his mind and had him peel his own nails back, one by one.

     You push the body to the floor, wiping your blade on his sleeve. You don't bother sheathing it again, knowing what's to come.

     Mindfang stacks the used plates neatly atop one another, but keeps hold of the paring knife. You hear her tap it against the edge of the bar as she draws closer and says, “Two options present themselves to you tonight, Redglare. Either you stand by my side, and together, we walk out of this ill-considered tavern. We will have to fight, but we will win; surely you know better than to doubt that. Or you deliver yourself back to your precious law, and they welcome you back into the fold, only to draw a noose around your neck. You will not live long, but you will do so by your own ideals, and die at peace with yourself.”

     You tighten your grip on your cane, brandishing it before you.

     “You know nothing of my ideals.”

     “Wonderful,” she says, walking alongside you to the tavern doors, “I know you do not need me to protect you, but I will.”

     You'll never find out how many bodies you cut through.

     You step out of the tavern, and meet the initial volley with your blade out, lashing, wrist working as quickly as if you were wielding a whip. The legislacerators are all well trained, but you've always been better, and those they've brought along with them are brutal but sloppy, trying to make feeble grasps for glory. There's blood all over your new outfit, and Mindfang presses her back to yours, and says, “Well, now that they've dispersed somewhat—” and takes hold of the minds she can.

     She tosses the paring knife into the crowd. They fight for possession of it, and the victor embeds it into their own forehead.

     It's not the first fight you've ever been in, and certainly won't be the last, but you've never experienced such a freedom of movement before. Mindfang stops fighting before you do, and tells you it's quite enough; their numbers are extensive, reinforcements will be here any time now, because they should know they can only lay claim to you through fatigue.

     “Heh,” you reply, twisting your wrist to free your blade from the curve of someone's neck, and then laugh in earnest.

*

     Operatives from the courtblock are scattered throughout the city. It's easier to sniff them out, in the open, without the scent of breakfast and yesterday's alcohol to fog your senses, and between you and Mindfang, you manage to evade them for long enough to slip away. Well, you don't slip away, per se—you double back on yourselves, and when Mindfang's sure no one is watching, she pries somebody's cellar open, and down you both go.

     It's dark inside: you smell damp spots on the floor and walls alike, and no light skims across your face. You've no problem navigating the small space, but Mindfang bumps her shoulder into yours, and then the wall, before muttering that her eyes will adjust to the dark, any moment now. You find yourself a wall to lean against, take measured breaths, drawing in your surroundings. There was meat in here, and recently too; a good thing it was taken up to the owner's nourishblock, otherwise you might not have fit down here.

     Mindfang assures you that they won't think to look this close to the tavern. They'll assume you escaped the city, made for one of Mindfang's old haunts. So long as you didn't leave a rainbow of blood behind you, Mindfang adds, and you curl your fingers towards your palm, only now realising how grimy your skin is. Hard to tell, when everything around you smells of sodden earth and rotting wood.

     She isn't on edge. If anything, she's bored; she must have waited for the coast to clear hundreds of times before. Her nonchalance on the matter helps you keep your calm in turn, but when you really get to the heart of the issue, you realise that what happens to you doesn't matter one way or the other. Either you go on living your life as a mockery of a free woman at Mindfang's side, or the legislacerators tear open the cellar doors like hands sunk into a ribcage, and put an end to things.

     You almost hope for the latter. You've taken the lives of not only lowbloods and petty criminals, but of those you once devoted every fibre of your being to. You're a wretched re-imaginating of yourself, someone you no longer recognise through a veil of laughter, and you wonder how many of the things you're just now discovering about yourself have always been true. You're still holding your cane, and you can feel your pulse fight against the space between the handle and your palm. It's not exhaustion that the fight's dispensed upon you, but exhilaration; you're smiling still, there's no doubt about that.

     You've always been better than most.

     It wouldn't be far-fetched to say you were given this skill set for a reason.

     Mindfang says that you need to hide for hours, at the very least, and you agree. To pass the time, you close your eyes and count down the seconds, reaching two hundred and fifty-three before Mindfang speaks up.

     “When did you first take a life?”

     As with most questions she asks, memories flare in the back of your mind before you can think to outright ignore her. It isn't an unpleasant event to recall because of how it made you feel; it's unpleasant because that same feeling no longer weighs you down, no longer wells up in your chest whenever you draw your blade. You became unflinching for the law, made your face into a stony mask of itself, and did what you had to, purely because it was the right thing to do. It was for justice.

     Or it was, back then. Now it's for survival, and you feel no remorse for cutting down those the courtblock would deem to be good, honest people.

     “I was five,” you tell her, because if you fill the air with the sound of your own voice, then your thoughts won't scrape at your ears quite as much. “My lusus had not yet hatched, and one of Her Imperious Condescension's men was on leave. He had recently returned to Alternia, downed alcohol that even you could not stomach, and became lost in the woods.”

     “Did you have your eyes at the time?”

     “I still have my eyes, Marquise, stored safely in my skull.”

     You could see then. It'd been close to dawn when you'd heard the clomp of boots on walkways between trees; reflecting on it now, the sound had been so distant that your head may as well have been held underwater. Not knowing any better, you'd immediately darted from your respiteblock to hunt out the source of the disturbance, unprepared for whatever it could be. For all you knew, it was a falling branch or a particularly lively nut creature making a nuisance of itself. Your hive was deep in a forest, a natural barrier from the rest of Alternia while your lusus was still sleeping, and you'd never had notable problems with any trolls before.

     But there he was, swaying on the bridge, as if each of his limbs was a branch in the wind. He didn't even notice you until you gasped, and then he reached for the nearest tree to balance himself, swearing loudly when the rough bark caught on his palm. You couldn't understand what he was saying, your pulse was pounding in your ears, but there was a knife in his hand, and all you could think about was the latest book you'd read, and how it'd covered self-defence.

     You weren't very big or strong, but he was very drunk, mumbling something about cutting you open to make grub sauce, and you were too terrified to run away. So you'd done the only thing you could: you'd charged forward.

     “I had my sight,” you tell Mindfang, who patiently waits for you to tell your tale. There's nothing to do but kill time down here. “But I no longer remember it that way. It doesn't matter what he looked like, when he climbed the ladders leant against trees; I remember the sound he made when he hit the ground below than I do the way he looked.”

     Mindfang thinks in images, far from abstract, always painfully detailed. You've no doubt that she's imagining his head cracked open against a tree root, arms twisted at unnatural angles, horns chipped and splintered.

     “How did you feel? Once the deed was done?”

     “Just. Afterwards, I found a rope, and strung him up by his neck from a tree. As a warning.” You scowl, and before Mindfang can question you, add, “But I was only a wiggler then. My concept of justice was ill-informed. I felt then as I do today, but there is nothing good or just about this.”

     Mindfang's on you within a moment. She's laughing or scoffing, one or the other, arm crossing your collarbone, pinning you to the wall. She hisses right in your ear, and you can't do anything but grit your teeth; she's stronger than you, and if you were to draw your blade here, you'd splice your own flesh in the process.

     “For the first few sweeps of my life, my lusus would hunt what food she could, trapping smaller creatures in her web, often giving me her share, as well. When I grew older, I began to understand what it was I could feel emanating from her: hunger. Deep, resounding hunger. So I did the only thing I knew how to, claimed a blade for my own, and cut the throat of the first lowblood I happened upon.” You feel as if she's scanning your face as she speaks, though it's too dark for her to make out anything in your expression. “I was four. Is this your idea of a just world?”

     You don't feel sorry for her for a single moment. Her life has been no harder than any other troll's, and she has survived for dozen upon dozens of sweeps, given powers uncommon to one of her caste, as if to make up for her lusus' small stature. She takes more in her raids than most ever have, and lived a life of luxury built upon miserable conquests, surrounded by piles of treasure and slaves alike.

     It wouldn't take her much more than a heartbeat to build back the life she once had. Ships can be made anew, gamblignants can be salvaged from any corner of the globe, and her reputation is still cast in iron; only the very foolish would consider crossing her.

     “The law gives you lowbloods to do with as you please.” You push against her, but she doesn't budge. “Or are you truly that desperate to drive me to pity?”

     She doesn't answer. Doesn't laugh again, either, and pushes down harder on your collarbone. Something tells you that she isn't trying to remind you of the noose around your throat that even sopor barely stops you from dreaming of; she isn't even trying to hurt you, necessarily. And so you relax, letting your body fall slack against the wall. She clicks her tongue, moves her arm away, and grabs you by the shoulders.

     Mindfang tugs at your collar, and there's a pinching of metal snapping against the back of your neck. She retreats to the far side of the cellar, not far enough away, and you bring a hand to your collarbone, though you already know what she's taken from you.

     “How little I know of your ideals indeed,” she murmurs to herself, pleased. She lets out a muffled breath, teeth scraping fabric as she pulls one of her gloves away, and you imagine her tracing the shape of your pendant with her thumb. There's no clinking of metal touching metal; she's uncovered her flesh hand, then. “What do we have here, Redglare?”

     Your blood doesn't run any colder than it already is. The colour doesn't drain from your face.

     There are things about yourself that you've kept secret from the courtblock, things you've tried to keep hidden from even yourself. Mindfang could ask you a hundred questions, could learn about every kill between your first and last, every trial you've proceeded over, everyone you've ever questioned, every breath you've ever taken, and she still wouldn't know as much about you as she does now. In your mind, the shape of the symbol brands her open palm.

     Had this been discovered in your old life, it would've meant certain death for you. A death you would've been well-deserving of. The Empress has outlawed the Sufferer's symbol for reasons that aren't your place to question, and though you followed the word of the law to the letter, with every moment that you were inside the courtblock, you defied them in some small, overwhelming way.

     You would feel sick to your stomach with each night that passed, and conjured up a thousand ways to explain yourself. It wasn't really you, this Sufferer sympathiser: it was a small faction of your mind you couldn't account for, a subconscious desire to sabotage yourself. You were testing the strength of your loyalty by leading yourself into temptation, and standing tall against it.

     Your fingers thread around Mindfang's wrist, and she tips the necklace into your open hand.

     “An interesting man, the Sufferer,” Mindfang muses, not pulling her hand from your grasp. You don't know why you're still holding onto her, but the panic is belatedly settling in. You're red hot, blood burning, fear manifesting as a pounding between your temples. There aren't many who would openly breathe such a name, and when Mindfang does, there's bile in your throat. “It is a rare gift to die for what one believes in, to be made a martyr. A martyr that will never again be spoken of outside of dank cellars and on the tongues of those who would see fit to lose them, but regardless, he died bound in irons, and fragments of his memory resound in much the same way.”

     There are few who know of the Sufferer, not wishing to bring any more misfortune down on their heads than is already necessary, and fewer still familiar with his teachings. Whispers of his work reached your ears in the form of burning silence and dusty tomes you were already blind to, and you have struggled against yourself for every scrap of knowledge you could find. But of course Mindfang knows his beliefs as well as she knows the high seas. If knowledge is forbidden, if the mere inking of symbols is considered treason, then of course she'll have already sunk her teeth into parts that no one else alive would dare to even whisper.

     “What do you care for his teachings, Marquise?”

     Your knees feel weak but your legs don't falter. It doesn't matter who finds out about the pendant around your throat, doesn't matter whether Mindfang or the courtblock knows of your heresy: your life is being demanded of you as means of payment, and there is nothing more left to take from you. Your grasp on Mindfang's wrist goes slack, but rather than pull away, she takes hold of your hand between her finger and thumb, as if to remind you that she's still there. Though darkness hasn't been a problem for you in a long while.

     “Do not presume that your apparent blasphemy affords you the higher moral ground here. We are but a shade away on the hemospectrum, and in the grand scheme of things, I am no less likely to care for his beliefs than you are.”

     You could probably run her through, now that she isn't pressed against you. But that wouldn't bring you anything but instant gratification, in the long run.

     You click your tongue. If you can focus on arguing Mindfang's line of reasoning, then you can distract yourself from the way you're certain the cellar walls must be closing in around you. A whisper of the Sufferer's name, a glimpse of his symbol from beneath your clothing, and the Empress likely has due cause to make the ground press in from all sides. Ridiculous, you know, but recognising the absurdity of your fears does nothing to extinguish them.

     “Then you believe in equality?” You sneer; the word shouldn't even be able to reach her ears. “Beliefs not put into action. I've seen the way you treat the lower castes.”

     “And you've yet to see the way I treat those that the social order deems more worthy of being than I am,” she says with a hum, and there's an odd note of honesty that comes with what she says next; nothing you can feel or taste in the air around you conflicts with it. “There are things I know to be true about myself, Redglare, that would enable you to sleep without turbulent dreams, if only you could accept the same about yourself. I expect I would be the person I am, or some facsimile of what I had made myself, no matter the world I was born into, and no matter the rules therein. I use people as I see fit, and their caste has little bearing on that. I do not restrict my company to what the spectrum deems fit.

     “You may wonder why or how I have no respect for, no faith in, the system you have been initiated into and prepared for since the moment you hatched. The answer is simple: there is nothing just in exulting one caste over the other, in setting out a different web of rules for every colour under our scorching sun. You are as lawless as the brutes you have always struggled against, Redglare. The only difference between them and you is that you have a wider-spread sense of organisation, and far more refined methods of brutality to deal with things that those beyond yourself have deemed of me unjust.”

     Mindfang is the only person who would brandish herself as a monster and still feel entitled to drag you down to her level and lower, satisfied spite ripe in her voice. And what is there for you to say in return? That the same thought has occurred to you a hundred times before, and that she speaks the truth clearer than any bureaucrat, any subject of the law? Her words are block colours and her sentences run in straight, bold lines; her points do not run together, they don't muddle and mix into a murky brown, and she bestows a certain clarity upon you that makes you wish you never had so much as a single thought in your head to question anything.

     You pull your arm back, but Mindfang doesn't let you go. You won't struggle, not for her, and so you lift your free hand, pressing it to the side of her face. She doesn't flinch, this time. She's still wearing her eye patch, and you run your thumb across the surface, pressing down hard enough to trace the curve of her eye itself. It's the same red as your own, and you breathe it in through the leather.

     “Mindfang,” you say very, very clearly. You're smiling; your face hurts. “I walked out of a tavern by your side, blade in hand, when I should've offered up the last dregs of my life to those who had hunted us as if it was the only sport they ever knew. I cut through three legislacerators, countless courtblock operatives, and it did not feel any different than the times I have run through petty criminals who couldn't be restrained.”

     Mindfang lets go of your wrist, carefully taking the necklace from your grasp. She presses her tongue to her top lip, and says, “Continue.”

     “You may well have dragged me from the courtblock, and you may be disproportionately proud of that, but nobody had a rope around my throat today.”

     You remove your hand from her face before you're forced to feel her smile, and though you hear the pleased note tangled up in her breath, you don't particularly care. Mindfang pulls the chain taunt between both hands, apologises for having snapped the first link of the chain, and you tilt your head forward, letting her fasten it back around your neck.

     The rest of your refuge passes in silence. You imagine a world where the Sufferer's visions became a reality; where the killing of a lowblood wasn't even permitted by a sea dweller, and where executions wouldn't have been the solution to all of society's problems. A world where you would've been held accountable for the death of the drunk troll whose bones eventually slipped from the noose and littered the forest floor, a world where failing the courtblock wasn't a death sentence, didn't bring with it a lifetime of persecution.

     You wonder where your place would be in this new, better world. You wouldn't be able to hold your blade out in front of you and carve justice into those you deemed in dire need of it. Perhaps your place in this world, a world that demanded your restraint, would be behind bars. Until now, you've only followed the law because it suits your beliefs, caters to your needs. You turned your back on it in exploring what remained of the Sufferer's teachings because there were parts of yourself you didn't understand; you always thought that the you in your legislacerator's uniform, hunting down whoever the Grand Highblood asked of you, was your true self, but now you aren't so certain.

     You've laughed while people lie dying at your feet, straining your ears to take in their very last heartbeat, listening to the blood gush from wounds you've created.

     Change the rules, and you really aren't any different from Mindfang.

Chapter Text

     Lightning lingers between the window and sky. Thunder is lost to the sound of doors slamming throughout the mansion, and the tremors and flashes of the outside world have little bearing on your composure. The table you're sat at has legs as thick as tree trunks, is wiped down before and after every use; the hive you've taken refuge in is a far cry from the taverns you've been acquainting yourself with lately.

     The ceilings are so high your voice has to fight to scrape against them. Countless blocks join onto countless hallways, each one more lavishly decorated than the last, each carpet smelling richer than the one you stepped on before it. The master of the hivehold shares his caste with Mindfang, and has made his fortune through the buying and selling of slaves. After the death of Orphaner Dualscar (which is no laughing matter, Mindfang assures you with a smile), Mindfang had his considerable collection of slaves sent to the trader, and as such, feels well within her rights to take as much refuge within his mansion as she needs.

     He is wary of her presence, yours as well, but he can neither have one who isn't below him on the hemospectrum thrown out, nor supplicate himself to one who doesn't outrank him. And so the trader reluctantly allows you to make his hive your own, and promptly does his best to avoid any and all interactions. Luckily, the mansion is large enough for him to hole up in a private wing, only surfacing to attend to business. He's purchased some of the treasure you've uncovered, as he certainly has the funds for it, and has already had some of the pieces put up on display in some of the larger blocks used to entertain guests.

     You knew him in your old life, though only by name. He's one of the courtblock's biggest benefactors, and with all the financial aid he's provided in the past dozen sweeps, they're at least willing to not send legislacerators directly into the heart of his hive. They don't strike until you head out on yet another excursion, lying in wait, and ultimately, it makes no difference to you.

     Once you've killed a dozen legislacerators, it's not worth keeping count.

     Mindfang hasn't wasted any time in making herself feel at home. She's staked her claim in the largest guestblock, and helps herself to the food, drink and slave girls alike. For your part, you accept the grudgingly-given hospitality with good grace, take a modest room for yourself, eat and drink when the cook's prepared your meals, and only speak with the slaves to ask for directions.

     You've got an old pocket watch clasped in your palm, something you dug out from beneath the ruins of what once may have been a hive as grand as this one. It was raining then, just as it is now. The mud turned to slush around your fingers, ruined yet another outfit, but what you'd unearthed had been worth it. Not necessarily in a sense that was financially viable, because some of the so-called treasure turned out to be nothing more than useless gaudy trinkets, much like the watch in your hand. But there's something rewarding in uncovering these things from the ground that were forgotten long centuries ago; something rewarding in living and working for yourself.

     You pull the watch apart, fingertip pressing tentatively against the cogs and springs inside. You doubt you can fix it with nothing more than your bare hands, but it's a welcomed, relaxing distraction. Mindfang's writing in her journal opposite you, using a feather that would probably sit well pinned to the side of her hat. The tip chimes against the neck of the inkwell, like a bell sounding to announce her intent to let the words flow from her mind and out from between her fingers, and then scrapes against the thick pages of her journal, letters perfectly formed. She never stops to cross through anything she's committed to paper.

     “Where to next?” you ask as a spring rolls out of the pocket watch and across the table. You're tired of the mansion, have been there five nights already while the storm rolls by, and if it hasn't passed by dusk tomorrow, you're going to brave the dark clouds overheard. The first few weeks of the dark season are always turbulent, but they haven't managed to kill you yet.

     “Hmm.” Mindfang holds the note until she finishes her sentence, slips the quill back into the inkwell, and then breathes lightly on the open pages, helping it dry. “While I can hardly blame you for feeling restless, due in no part to the overwhelming lack of entertainment our gracious host supplies, I'm afraid I have business to attend to.”

     “Business?” You've been trying to get the spring back in, but it slips between your fingers when you try pushing it into place, and you give up before frustration can dampen your mood. You push all of the pieces that have come loose back into the watch and barely managed to get the front back on, but don't mourn the lose of a potentially working antique. You keep it in your hand, thumb running along the casing, taking in the patterns cut into the metal. “Has it really been that long?”

     “Almost a perigee, actually.”

     You know what she's talking about, and she knows you know, but there are things she prefers to keep to herself. Any of the slaves could be eavesdropping, and then the city would be burning with rumours of Mindfang's lusus, too small to catch a meal for itself.

     She doesn't ask if you'll be joining her, but you give her a slight nod in acknowledgement of the time that's passed, and she understands well enough that you don't wish to be confined to this hive any longer. You'll accompany Mindfang to her hive if only for the fresh air, and the chance to let Pyralspite stretch her wings. It's been weeks since you saw her. She's helped you on two of your five treasure hunts already, but that had been out of necessity; though you know she can handle herself better than you and Mindfang put together, you still don't want to risk exposing her to those who would hurt her to get to you.

     In one of your more frantic moods, when the rain and cold had blocked your nose and numbed your other senses, you'd suggested using Pyralspite's breath to melt the courtblock into the brickwork it was built upon. It was a quick-fix solution to the problem of trying to cut down legislacerators when you couldn't even hear the sound of their footsteps over the rain, but Mindfang had only chuckled, saying there'd be no long-term satisfaction in it. As much as she'd like to see them burn, naturally.

     “The mandatory donation of genetic material,” Mindfang begins as you walk towards the hive's double doors. The slaves in the hallway pretend not to hear her. “Another odd practise enforced by the law. Why dictate that hastily-made, poorly-matched couplings ought be formed between the futilely unwilling, out of the base instinct to stay alive, and all for a few reluctant drops of fluid? It's akin to trying to procure blood from a stone. If there was any sense to be found in this social order of ours, then those eager to donate would be applauded for their enthusiasm, and invited to deposit the goods whenever the mood struck them.”

     Those eager to donate, you would've said, weeks ago, like yourself, Marquise. You hum your reply, a flat yes, though not begrudgingly given. There are things in Mindfang you will never approve of, methods she relies on that you'll always condone, but you've come to learn that you don't give away great chunks of yourself in agreeing with her. Her unspoken implication is, naturally, The Sufferer would never have approved of mandatory donation, but either even Mindfang isn't brave enough to speak his name in a hive full of eared-walls, or it's too early in the evening for frivolity of the sort.

     You take your cloak from one of the slaves standing at the door, and thank them for it with a sharp nod. You sling it over your shoulders as the slaves hold open the doors for you and Mindfang, hood pulled up immediately, wanting to keep as much of the rain off you as possible.

     You're entirely aware of what it is Mindfang's doing. Trying to entice you onto her side – a side you've already toed the line of in abandoning the courtblock – through hushed whispers of the Sufferer's struggle, as if the two of you are sharing in a secret world no one has even dared to cast their minds to before. You'd beseech her to cut out her own tongue, if there wasn't a beguiled honesty hidden beneath and beyond her words, a longing for something you can't yet place.

     Pyralspite's settled down by a river beyond the hive. She's no less fond of Mindfang than she was the first time they met, and fear still flares up in Mindfang whenever they come face-to-face, as if your crumbling hostilities towards her are going to strengthen your lusus' resolve to have her cooked and devoured in a few quick snaps.

     Mindfang does as good a job as possible of masking this, always greets Pyralspite as cheerfully as she does dramatically, removing her hat to swoop and bow. Pyralspite grunts, and you pat her snout, silently apologising for not having finished off the pirate yet. Her resentment keeps you grounded, reminds you not to be too taken in by Mindfang's words, no matter how boldly she speaks them.

     When you're both sat astride Pyralspite, the ridges of her spine serving as a seat, fingers wrapped around the edges of scales for purchase, Mindfang leans forward and murmurs something, as if she doesn't want Pyralspite to hear it.

     “I once thought I could hate you,” she says, voice taking on a tone you've never heard from her before. Something close to embarrassment, only the sort that she finds droll. “Admittedly, I can be rather hasty in such matters.”

     You laugh as Pyralspite takes to the skies, once again feeling that you've outclassed Mindfang in some way. You've always realised that the only black between you was of the platonic sort.

*

     On the way past the mansion, Mindfang spots one of the slaves heading back to the hive, arms full of supplies from the market. “He'll do,” Mindfang says, and you signal for Pyralspite to fly lower. She catches him between her talons, and he would've spent the whole trip to Mindfang's hive screeching and wailing, if not for the way Mindfang seizes his mind and has him clamp his hands over his own mouth.

     When you land outside of the castle, you grab him by one horn and force his head down against a rock, in order to get it over and done with. When that doesn't quite do the trick, you sigh, and leave him for Mindfang to deal with. She pulls a knife from her boot, draws blood from his throat, and hoists him up over one shoulder. Mindfang walks ahead, navigating the traps, and you don't ask if she needs any help with her load.

     You're subjected to the strangest feeling of being watched. It's a cool, trickling sensation, running down your spine; something you can sense but never again participate in. If you voiced your concerns, Mindfang would only say that you're being paranoid, though your paranoia has served you well on numerous occasions. There are wanted posters of the both of you plastered up in practically every city, town and port you visit, and Mindfang assures you that the quality of said illustrations leaves a lot to be desired. You've been turned in countless times, have lost track of the number of squads the courtblock has sent to track you down, but as Mindfang does not comment on anything untoward in your immediate surroundings, you decide to keep any discomfort to yourself. It's simply the feel of raindrops the size of caegars pattering against your cloak that's putting you on edge.

     Mindfang's lusus isn't out in the courtyard, this time. So as to avoid washing away in the floods of rain water that run in rivulets between the tiles laid out beneath you. You pull your hood back once you're in one of the blocks, probably designed to accommodate guests, once upon a time, and shake out your wet hair. The spider scuttles across the floor, and laughter doesn't tear itself from your throat. There's no shock to be suffered from the reveal of her lusus' stature now that it's no longer a novelty, only the ebb and flow of realisation that drifts in and out of your mind when you compare this visit to the first.

     Mindfang isn't the woman you thought she was. You knew nothing about her and wanted to keep it that way, for fear of what the truth would evoke in you, and you now know that she isn't going to drag you anywhere you don't want to be, isn't going to stab you in the back while you sleep. She's much too smart for that.

     She knows how to hurt you, how to really hurt you, and the same is true of you. It doesn't matter how many of her ships you burn down, how the law snaps at her heels, how many parts of her you peeled away. You'd have to run her lusus through before you got to the very core of her. It's reassuring to know this, somehow, as if the weight of your knowledge levels the scales, and puts you on equal footing.

     Mindfang doesn't shy away from her lusus' skittish affections. She lets the spider rise up on its back four legs to meet her as she kneels, and you hear the way the lusus clicks away happily as her teeth chatter against the surface of Mindfang's metal arm. You hear her scuttle around, glad that Mindfang hasn't lost any more pieces since her last visit, and Mindfang heaves out a sigh, muttering, “Yes, yes. I've brought you another body.”

     Mindfang's behaviour is relaxed, for the most part, though you can't say whether it's because she trusts you, or now knows you well enough to realise there's little point in mustering up embarrassment in your presence. Maybe you aren't enough to draw such things from her; no longer a whole person, now that she's taken you apart and become acquainted with the pieces.

     Your nails press to your palms, but the tension soon fades away when when it dawns on you that no troll, other than those who end up as spider food, has been permitted into her keep before.

     When her lusus begins eating, Mindfang decides that it's time for the two of you to take your leave. Pressure mounts above you as another wave of the storm promises to roll overhead, and you don't want Pyralspite flying between the crackles of lightning; you only hope she's outside waiting for you, having been told to do as she pleases, to hunt out food for herself. She's more than capable.

     With one hand, you drag your fingertips across the uneven stones that make up the walls, fingers grasping at nothing as you come to a window. The feeling of being watched hits you again, dries out your mouth and stops you in your tracks. You swing out your other arm, grab the side of Mindfang's jacket to stop her too, and when she tries to ask you what's wrong, you silence her with a hiss.

     It takes all of your concentration to seek it out. You grit your teeth until your head hurts and strain your mind, trying to listen to the sounds laced between rainfall, trying to smell something mixed up in wet earth and damp grass.

     You wish you hadn't tried, once you finally breathe it in. In an instant, everything inside of you snaps back to the way it was a perigee ago. You stand straighter, sneer at Mindfang's mere presence by your side, and feel the rigidity of caste and law slip strings beneath your skin, tugging at you as they please. For a moment, it's as if you've never hunted treasure, never questioned the rule of the land that comes from the sea: you are a legislacerator, an agent of the courtblock, as likely to grow gills as you are to turn your back on your role in life.

     You are, you realise, letting your body fall slack, breath growing heavy, only yourself when you let go of those things; when you force the doctrine etched into your mind to relinquish control to what it is you've truly become, or otherwise always been.

     Letting go of Mindfang, you turn sharply, heading back towards the block where Mindfang's lusus is enjoying a meal. Mindfang follows without questioning you, and takes a seat inside of the block, on one of the few pieces of furniture inside the castle.

     “Are you going to tell me what has sought to delay us thus?”

     You sit opposite her, eyes closed, fingers threaded together. Between the two of you, Mindfang's lusus gorges itself, the clip-clip-clip of fangs and the pounding of rain being the only things you can hear. It's as if you imagined what dislodged the fear in your chest before.

     “You can't sense it?”

     Mindfang hums non-committally, and does her best to seek out the source of the disruption. You know she does so because you feel fingers press to your mind as her influence spreads, and though you don't know if she's intentionally trying to crack you open in the process, some part of you longs for her success.

     And then, once her powers pass through you and beyond the castle walls, she says in an uncertain, taut voice, “... a subjugglator.”

     You nod. There's no need to point out that the courtblock is finally taking the threat the both of you pose seriously, because you both know what this means. In your lifetime, you haven't known of a subjugglator to embark on a mission like this before. It's certainly not unheard of, but they tend to prefer having their desired criminals brought before them by their legislacerators, where they can luxuriate in crushing skulls between their palms as they see fit. Any other targets the Subjugglators actively help themselves tend to be arbitrary choices; unfortunate trolls who find themselves in the wrong place at the wrong time.

     “The law would have us prostrate ourselves before the highblood, and be grateful that our lives were being torn from us in such a way.”

     The law, Mindfang says, not your law. To her way of thinking, you've proven yourself distinct from the imposed social order; no need to let her down, then.

     “How long until Pyralspite returns?” she asks. A dragon will help even the odds, and the fact that she considers herself out-matched in any way doesn't sit well with you. This is the woman who cut His Honourable Tyranny down with one arm. Even though His Honourable Tyranny was something of a bigger target and had, in recent sweeps, devoted much of his time to one spot. He had been rusty, but you still hope that Mindfang's caution is all for show.

     You make a guess, “Too long,” and when Mindfang doesn't move, add on, “He could tear through the walls with his bare hands.”

     That gets her to her feet. If there's to be a fight, it's going to be out in the open, far from the walls of her hive, further still from her lusus. If she's to die, then you do Mindfang the honour of assuming she might do one decent thing before her death, and draw the subjugglator away from the castle's inhabitants.

     She reaches out a hand to you, and says, “Shall we?”

     You take it, allow her to help you to your feet, and before you make your way to the battlefield, she stops off in one of the blocks, retrieving a sword.

     The subjugglator doesn't reek of sopor slime. It isn't that the rain has washed it away; it simply hasn't been there in a long time. You'd stand more of a chance, were he drugged, powers sedated for his own good as well as yours. He's been sitting on a rock waiting for the two of you to emerge, crushing handfuls of stones to pass the time. Mindfang tells you that he's carrying the subjugglators' token weapon, a club, and you draw your blade, keeping the sheath clutched tightly in your left hand. You never know; in a fit of desperation, it might absorb some of the club's impact, before it reaches your skull.

     “It's odd. My name is known across every inch of the globe, while the Sufferer's is never even spoken of,” Mindfang murmurs as you draw closer to the subjugglator, and he rises to meet you. “And yet there is more resonance in the mere whispering of his title.”

     “You're afraid of dying?” you ask, incredulous. To his credit, the subjugglator does not attempt to lecture you at length on the nature of your wrong-doings, as the legislacerators have. “Of being forgotten?”

     “No. I'm not going to die here. Not today. But you might.”

     It is equal parts warning and threat, but at the same time, neither of those things; there are parts of Mindfang you've yet to uncover, just when you thought you were beginning to understand her. You don't reply to this, because the time for talk is over, and the two of you circle the subjugglator, blades pointing at him, in what is ultimately a futile movement. He spins on the spot, club swinging out, and the sends the two of you flying.

     You're in the air for no more than two seconds, but from the pain that racks your back when you crash against a jutting out rock, you may as well have been thrown into a ravine and landed in a dried-out riverbed. This is it; this is exactly how you felt when Mindfang had the lowbloods string you up on the gallows, exactly how you felt in that long moment between releasing and catching you again. Your throat aches, but not from the memory. You turn to the side, spitting out blood.

     Why not just give up? Mindfang's back on her feet already but won't be for long, and whether you fight or not, the subjugglator's going to be striking your body with the club long after you're dead. It's the natural order of things: the highbloods have strength that you can't even fathom, and that's why they rule. Laws are there for a reason, you think grimly.

     You dig your sheath into the ground, pulling yourself up. The rock stops digging into your back, and the sudden loss of pressure makes you feel as if you've left bones behind. You hear a thud and a clang, Mindfang barely managing to block his blows, being knocked to the ground time and time again. The subjugglator is toying with her. He could killed her in a single swing, if he wanted to.

     As you edge closer, he doesn't even acknowledge you. He's counted you out of the fight, and is content amusing himself with Mindfang. You smell blood in the air, all of it blue, none of it higher; laws are there for a reason. You could stand by the subjugglator's side, help him cut down Mindfang in a way that would bring a smile to his face, and maybe that would earn you the law's forgiveness. The subjugglators rule over the land, and he must have some sway with the Grand Highblood. He could reinstate you, or at least offer you exile over certain death. Exile over running each and every day of your life, knowing that your paranoia is the only thing that keeps you alive. Exile and a dank cave, living a life as miserable as Darkleer's.

     It's inevitable. Mindfang should've seen it coming long ago, and is probably only now fully comprehending the gravity of her mistakes. She should've hanged you when she had the chance.

     She's on the ground again, and you hear every drop of rain strike the blade of her sword as it's knocked from her hand, lost to the long grass. There's a rattle, something being drawn from her pockets; her dice, you think, and the cold brought by the rain and the fear the subjugglator naturally oozes from every pore makes her hands tremble. It isn't a favourable roll. Not even her luck stretches indefinitely.

     No blades materialise in the air. The ground doesn't open up and swallow the subjugglator whole, though you do hear it splinter in your ears, dry ground cracking beneath the sludgy surface slathered there by the storm. Everything shakes, and when it does, you realise what drove your waning loyalties towards the subjugglator: fear. The very thing the entire Empire has always been founded in.

     It's difficult to acknowledge anything resembling terror when the whole world seems to be trembling along with you. Mindfang's roll doesn't last long, but it's enough for the subjugglator to have lost his footing for half a second. And half a second's all you need. Sheath dropped to the ground, you hold your cane above your head, gripped tightly between both hands, and with a thrust, you drive the tip of the blade through the back of his neck and into the roof of his mouth. It takes some doing, but he's just like anyone else, flesh and blood, far from impossible to bring to his knees.

     The subjugglator falls face-first into the dirt. Neither you nor Mindfang say anything, because your ears are full of both your heartbeats and her raggedy breath, and so you pull your blade very carefully from the back of the subjugglator's neck. You don't offer your hand out to Mindfang. You're having a difficult time believing that he's really dead, that you've won, but when Mindfang stands, she fumbles in the wet grass for her sword, and sinks it into his back, just in case.

     Mindfang stands before you, silent. The impromptu earthquake has long since passed, but her feet are still unsteady on the cracked ground as she makes her way towards you. You don't know why she's heading towards you, why she's doing anything beyond throwing her head back with laughter and making her role in the fight out to be greater than it truly was, but she's moving quickly, and before you can even flinch, her hands are pressed against the sides of your face.

     Mindfang's lips are on yours, but the fact that she's kissing you doesn't sink in at first, because the rain streaks down your faces, gathers at your mouths, and it's all you can taste. But then you are very, very aware of what she's daring to do, in the same way that your body conspires against you with the stark reminder of how much every broken bone and bruise hurts. Mindfang's a good deal taller than you, has to lean down to kiss you, and so you push yourself up on tiptoes, fingers wrapping around one of her wrists so that you don't slip in the mud, needing to put yourself on the same level as her.

     And in doing so, you kiss her back. Willingly, without turning it over in your mind again and again, desperate for some vague chain of reasoning that lets you believe that you aren't giving into her or yourself, you're kissing her. She exhales softly onto your lips but doesn't move back, brushes her mouth against yours to ease the raindrops away, and when you finally comprehend what it is you're doing, you lift your cane, and cut her arm off at the shoulder joint.

*

     You've never felt so foolish in all your life.

     Every time you recall how you reacted, which happens at startlingly regular intervals, and without warning, you find yourself cringing and tensing. You're unable to escape the memory, and it plays out over and over again, stuck on repeat, running in slow motion. Try as you might to convince yourself that it's nothing to torment yourself over as you are, no amount of teeth-gritting or forcing your memories elsewhere will help you forget the truth of the matter.

     Mindfang kissed you, and how did you react? Like a wiggler, incompetent and afraid. You lifted your arm as if something greater than yourself was in control, cut off her metal arm, and then stood there in silence until she eventually found it within herself to form an empty “Ah.”

     Ridiculous. You never should've reacted like that.

     You should've cut her flesh arm off. Should've drawn some blood.

     Mindfang shows no inclination towards berating you or forgiveness, and doesn't relish in what she's driven you to. She's not a woman who does anything in moderation, and she definitely doesn't spark off moderate emotions. She kneels down to pick up her discarded arm, drags the subjugglator inside the castle for her lusus to feast upon, and waits for Pyralspite to return. Before climbing onto her back, you press your fingertips to your lips, but immediately draw your hand away, as if Pyralspite can see you do so.

     There's no need to ask Mindfang where to head. You guide Pyralspite towards Darkleer's cave, and once you arrive, you're as lugubrious as you were the first time you set foot inside. For different reasons, of course, but Darkleer doesn't care to find out what those are. Barely acknowledging your existence, he grimly welcomes Mindfang inside, as the sweeps of protection she's afforded him deem he must.

     It doesn't take as long as the first fitting. The part of the metal that's wielded into her shoulder is intact, so all that really needs to be replaced is the steel shoulder itself; and to make things even quicker, Darkleer's just going to slot a new arm into the joint. He's been working on an upgraded model since Mindfang last departed. Anything to wear away the empty hours, you suppose.

     While Mindfang is busy being seen to, you wonder if life will become any easier for you, having killed the subjugglator as you have. Perhaps his ilk will think it a great joke, and allow the two of you to continue amusing them deeply.

     You head to the next town without passing a word to Mindfang. Her spirits seem to have improved, now that the initial shock of both the fight and your sharp reflexes have worn off, but she isn't up for mocking you, quite yet. Her body must be battered and bruised as yours is; leaning back on Pyralspite, the wind picks up hints of moss green and dark purple from her skin.

     In the next town you come across, Mindfang pulls the wanted posters from outside the tavern she's chosen, and you waste no time in retiring to your respiteblock. Mindfang doesn't say as much, but you assume it's alright to take all the time you need to recover, to piece yourself back together. You relax immediately, sleeping surprisingly well. Fear doesn't touch you, anymore. Let the legislacerators come, if they must. You've taken down a subjugglator with nothing more than a cane. You can handle whatever the courtblock throws your way.

     For six nights, you spend time focusing on only yourself. You keep no company, and engage in no conversations other than to ask the tavern owner whether Mindfang has checked out yet or not. Though you don't actually expect her to leave without you. You procure new clothing, when standing is once again something you feel like going through with, and take long showers to help work the pain away.

     The pain does ease, within a few days. It doesn't fade entirely, and you'd consider drinking from the bar below you, if you were confident enough to stomach it. The one thing that doesn't begin to work its way out of your system is the recollection of your reaction, red hot anger flaring up inside of you each time it plays out. You imagine what Mindfang must think of it all. You scold yourself for caring what Mindfang thinks in the first place, but there's no real scorn behind it.

     On the seventh night, when you're no longer worried that your bones might rattle beneath your skin like Mindfang's dice, you head into the heart of the tavern, knowing you'll find her there. As much as your mind pleads with you to, you can't ignore her forever, and you're too proud to let her seek you out first.

     There she is, sat on a table in the centre of the tavern, with a crowd surrounding her. The centre of attention, as always, and you pretend not to feel quite as gratified as you do when she seamlessly waves them all off, upon spotting you. You get a sniff of them as they filter back to their own tables, none of them pretending to have no intention of eavesdropping on your conversation. They aren't whores, or at least not whores of the calibre Mindfang entertains. Pirates, perhaps, or those who have notions of becoming such; she's bound to return to the sea, eventually.

     “Redglare,” she says, and she's smiling. She hasn't had much to drink, but it's still more than you.

     “Mindfang,” you reply, and then because she'd do the same, sit next to her, not opposite. “What were you discussing?”

     “I was simply sharing stories with fellow patrons,” she says, pushing a drink towards you.

     There's an ease that comes with settling into conversation with Mindfang that would've turned your stomach, long weeks ago. Now, it only bothers you because you aren't bothered; and as it happens, it's frighteningly easy to quell that feeling. But you aren't repressing it: once it's gone, that's it. It isn't going to rise again.

     “What manner of stories?” you ask, taking a sip of the alcohol. You press the pad of your tongue to the roof of your mouth, surprised by the taste for a split second, but it runs down your throat easily enough. It doesn't make your stomach churn.

     Mindfang doesn't answer. Not with words, anyway. She takes one of your hands in her own, and though she's not wearing gloves, nothing in your body urges you to pull away. You let her guide your hand over to the centre of the tabletop, and she presses your palms down against it, before sliding her fingers over yours. She helps you trace the shape of the sign she's carved into the wood, just like your pendant, and you smile into your drink, not moving your hand away.

*

     Mindfang has spider webs that cling to her hipbones, and work their way down to the tops of her thighs. A ship sails on her right arm, sails billowing in the wind, waves pulled this way and that by the twin moons above. A skull rests against one shoulder blade, thick, undulating tentacles spread from the small of her back, and snakes twist around her thighs while a crown presses to the side of her throat.

     There are a thousand details in the tattoos lost to you, and you know them as well as you do as much from her lavish descriptions as the workings of the tip of your tongue. They are as black as a hole in some places, brightly coloured and sparking against the grey of her skin in others, and you rake your nails across them, seeing if the tastes change under pressure.

     You laze back against a pile of cushions, stretched out on the bed. Mindfang lies before you on her front, chin propped up on your stomach. She's talking about all the treasure there still is for you to uncover, all the whisperings of the Sufferer's work that you still spread to the wind, but you aren't listening. Not in a way that lets you take in each of her words individually. Your head buzzes, teeth tingling, body light and heavy and not really feeling as if it's there at all.

     You drop a hand to the side of her head, and after a moment, tilt it towards her cheek. She smiles, bows her head to press a kiss to your hipbone, and returns her chin to its resting place as you begin to rake your fingers through her hair, almost tenderly. Almost. She's an awful woman, and this thought alone is the only one that keeps you grounded; this ought be the phase of utter infatuation, the stage of you being blinded to her flaws, but you understand her more clearly now than you ever have.

     “What was inked on your left arm?” you ask. She turns her head towards your arm, kisses the inside of your wrist, and you shiver, just a little.

     “How did you lose your vision?”

     She plants kisses up the inside of your arm before, during and after the question. You breathe a huff of a laugh, tighten your fingers in her hair, and ease her head back a little. She looks up at you, and you don't shy away from it. In some ways, you welcome her shameless stares more than anything else; she's responsible for what you've become, or for making you realise what you've always been, and she should be made to drink down the sight of it.

     Justice is not always just, she tells you. Things don't have to be immediately clear for you to understand them fully, and the limits of your physical form aren't going to stop you from peeling back layers of Alternia and finding a better world buried deep beneath a rotten crust.

     “A tale for another time,” you tell her, and she laughs, murmuring of course against your stomach when you release your grip on her.

     Tearing this lawless word down and burning the rubble can wait for another time, too. The axiomatic truth you believe in won't fade with time, even as one ruler is forced to abdicate to the next, and Mindfang's hands at your thighs provide all the incentive you need to live in the moment, and learn to break the social order apart bit by bit, night by night.