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Chapter Text

It should have been a night like any other. A little quieter than most maybe, with Romeo and Carlo out, but there was certainly nothing untoward about it. The sky was cloudless, the moon and stars bright. By the fire Sophia is warm, wrapped in a plush dressing gown as she does delicate needlepoint, little flowers and butterflies onto handkerchiefs she’ll give to one of her boys. Her father is in his study, consolidating his research after his latest archeological expedition. He’ll be up late, but he’ll surely be in bed long before her lovers return from their date night, to share her bed in secret.

Sophia tucks her legs under her and basks in the glow. She’s warm and happy, satisfied, as she ties off the thread and inspects her handiwork. Little forget-me-nots and red poppies curling around the borders. She’ll have to go through Carlo and Romeo’s drawers to see which one of them needs another one, especially considering every time she tries to ask they both insist they don’t need more. The fire crackles merrily, the window panes rattle slightly as the breeze rushes through their garden. Down the hall, she can hear the light thumps as her father moves about his study. Background noise, something she would ordinarily be tuning out, but she hears something she’s not quite expecting. The front door opening, and then closing again.

Sophia frowns, looking at the clock. Only half past ten. Earlier than expected, although she’s not complaining. She won’t deny a little bit of jealousy whenever they go out without her.

She stands, tucking the handkerchief into her pocket and slips on her slippers, padding from her room with the intent to greet them at the door. Waylay her father if need be, to sneak Romeo where he shouldn’t be. When she reaches the upper landing, the foyer is empty, the only indication of where they might be the sound of another door opening and closing, further down the hall in the direction of her father’s study.

“Carlo?” Sophia calls. “Father?”

There is no response. Slowly, uncertainly, Sophia begins making her way down the hall, ears straining for any noises. Unless Valentinus had managed to intercept the both of them to bring them to his study, she finds it unusual that they would be speaking to her father before going to see her. Something isn’t right and Sophia silently curses Carlo’s prejudice towards puppets, any puppet butler or maid would be active at this hour and could contact the police at a moment’s notice. As it is, their only phone is in her father’s study, and that’s where the problem may be. She dithers by the railing before wrapping the dressing gown more tightly around her and walking slowly down the hall. All is silent for a moment before there is a sudden loud bang that makes her startle. Fear locks her in place for only a second before Sophia darts down the hallway to her father’s study.

“ Father!”

She runs, the sounds of a scuffle filling her ears. The study door is ajar and Sophia can only just see the shadow of movement, thrown by whatever lamp her father may have had on his desk. She almost collides with the wall once she reaches the door, throwing herself into the room in her haste. She stops, chest heaving with the sudden rush of activity as she takes in the sight. Her father’s desk, scattered with his research, and the upturned chair he would have been sitting in. Some of it covers the floor like leaf litter, scattered about the boxes and crates he had pulled into the room only earlier this afternoon. The rug, no longer flat, kicked aside and there, atop it, her father. Face down, dark liquid, glittering in the light of the fire and seeping from beneath him as a woman dressed in a white robe pulls her massive sword from his body. Sophia screams.

“ No!”

“My dear,” a voice says and Sophia turns, covering her mouth in shock. A tall, dark shadow peels itself from the corner, straightening his thick coat and wiping at his nose to check for blood. He leans somewhat, on an ornate cane at his side. Simon Manus.

“Simon? What-“ Her eyes flick to the woman, who is very calmly and methodically cleaning her sword off on the edge of the curtains. “Simon what happened?”

“An unfortunate accident really,” he says. “Although one that is not without opportunities.”

People don’t just get stabbed through the back on accident. Her eyes flick back as the woman sheathes her sword and begins pushing crates aside, evidently looking for something. Sophia knows the piles, the things that her father has just brought in for further study, but the woman doesn’t seem interested in those, seeming more interested in the ones he had designated as needing to be sent out of the city. She kicks a few aside as Simon finishes making himself presentable, moving to stand just in front of Sophia, hands clasped behind his back. Now very aware of how wrong this situation is, Sophia tugs her gown tighter around herself. The phone is so close, just sitting on her father’s desk, yet so far away, and even if she could reach it there would be no way of getting through to the police in time. Her only option is maybe, just maybe, being able to run for it, hide in the gardens on their property. She just needs to get out of the house.

She takes a careful step back and Simon tilts his head at her, a crooked smile drawing his scar tight across his face.

“Don’t run away now dear, you’re still needed,” he tells her.

Her breath catches in her throat  and Sophia has to force herself to try and breathe calmly. She needs a distraction, and her gaze catches on the papers scattered about the room. She tugs on the sleeves of her robe, fiddling with the tie around her waist.

“Found it,” the woman says and Simon turns his back to Sophia, striding across the room, stepping callously over her father’s body to see what the woman has found. From this angle, Sophia can’t see, but she doesn’t care. She rips the dressing gown off and throws it towards the fire, lingering only long enough to watch the fabric catch alight before quickly turning for the door, almost tripping in her haste. The woman yells and Sophia can hear the thuds as the two get tangled in each other, not caring as she sprints down the hallway. She’s almost at the landing before a hulking shadow steps out and Sophia shrieks, backpedalling towards her father’s study and further down the hall. The hallway loops around the back of the house, ordinarily giving a beautiful view of the surrounding gardens, but Sophia isn’t interested in that. They’re too high up and she’d likely break a leg if she jumped but if she can use it to get around the other side, she’s confident in her ability to escape. Behind her, the man thunders closer, pounding steps that could almost be shaking the ground with how loudly each foot falls. She almost slips again as she turns the corner, but the landing is in sight again so she steadies herself, breathing beginning to grow ragged. So close-

A meaty hand grabs her arm and wrenches her back and Sophia shrieks.

“ No! Get off me!”

She kicks and struggles but the man has her in a vice, beginning to drag her towards the landing instead of back the way they came. She’s not surprised, Sophia can smell smoke in the air. Simon is exiting the smoky hall just as they come out the other side, holding a delicate white handkerchief to his nose as he leads the way, the woman in white carrying a crate in her arms. When Simon sees her in the big man’s grip he only gives the man a curt nod and she is dragged down the stairs and towards the door.

“Let me go!” Sophia screams again. “You bastard-”

A big hand is clapped over half of her face, meaty fingers in her mouth and garbling her voice. She screams into it, trying to bite, the man doesn’t seem to notice, barely reacting to her struggling at all.

Simon follows close behind but he suddenly stops.

“Hold,” he murmurs quietly.

Simon’s companions stop, the woman setting the crate on the ground and stepping forward slightly, placing herself at the front of the group, while the man holding Sophia holds her steady. She twists in his arms, at least for the sake of it, letting out a muffled yell of frustration. Above them, smoke is beginning to billow downwards as more of the house burns, the crackling of fire growing louder, but Simon appears unphased, lips slightly parted as if beginning to say something. A moment passes and the front door flings open, a young man with dark curly hair coming loose of its hair tie coming to a panting stop just before them. Carlo.

Sophia twists in the big man’s grip, finally managing to dislodge the hand around her face and trying to desperately lunge forward. The man yanks her back and she yelps.

“ Carlo -”

Simon waves a dismissive hand and the woman lunges forward, aiming a swift punch to Carlo’s stomach that makes him double over as the air is driven from his lungs. He wheezes, but his rapid pitch forward is enough that he avoids the woman’s next strike, barely managing to bring his fists up to catch each hit as she tries again and again. He retreats, eyes flicking back towards the open door and then over to Sophia. Where is Romeo?

Simon makes a tutting noise and taps his cane on the ground and the man holding her releases his grip, stepping forward and cracking his knuckles. Simon very calmly places a hand on Sophia’s shoulder, fingers finding purchase in the joint and pressing just enough to hurt, making her gasp. In front of them, Carlo startles at the noise and it’s enough of a distraction that the woman’s fist smashes into his face, bright blood bursting forth. He grunts in pain, backpedalling as he thumbs at his broken nose.

“There is no need for violence boy,” Simon says calmly. “Do not throw your life away so needlessly, we both have what we want.”

Carlo spits and bares his bloody teeth in a snarl.

“I see.”

The woman leaps at Carlo now and he retreats across the foyer, clearly looking for something to give him an advantage. His blocks are starting to get sloppy and Sophia can already see his eye beginning to swell up as he is punched again in the face. The big man has reached Carlo by now and he grabs him, momentarily lifting him and throwing the smaller man against the wall with a crash. Carlo slumps, coughing wetly as Sophia screams.

“ NO! Simon, please stop-”

“It cannot be helped my dear,” Simon says. “If he wants to keep committing himself to this action, then there is only one way to end it. Adriana.”

He waves his hand again and the woman, Adriana, unsheathes her massive sword, dragging the tip along the floor as Carlo tries to rise. He coughs, clutching at his side as the big man also approaches, grabbing him about the neck just as he manages to reach his full height. He coughs and splutters, scrabbling at the hand now lifting him off the ground, feet kicking. He had looked so handsome when he’d left, the red satin brocade of his vest just peeking out from his black tailcoat, stark against the crisp white of his shirt. His face is a ruin now, nose broken, a cut in his hairline dribbling blood down into his one good eye, smeared across the delicate constellation on his cheeks. His shirt is stained with blood, smartly polished shoes scuffed as his kicking and struggling grows weaker. Adriana stops before him as the big man holds him out with ease, rearing her sword back. He gasps, fish-like, face slowly purpling as he tries to make eye contact with Sophia, brown eyes barely visible. His lips move, a soundless declaration.

Sophia screams, throat bloody and raw, collapsing almost in tandem with her love as he is let go, discarded from the blade like a rag doll and the big man nonchalantly makes his way back to them, hauling Sophia to her feet. She can barely support her weight and the big man grunts when she refuses to walk.

“It is for the best my dear,” Simon says as she is dragged past Carlo’s body. “A mercy, really.”

Mercy is for the poor and suffering, those in need of relief, not those who have everything, those with a long life ahead of them, one full of love and happiness. Sophia’s mind reels, far, far away and she is dragged across the rocky path to the waiting carriage. Behind them, the house burns, thick oily plumes of smoke that obscure the moon and stars overhead and a chill wind rushes past them as the big man climbs onto the front, spurring the horses into action. Simon sits opposite Sophia, a contemplative look on his face as he gazes at her. But she’s not looking at him. In her mind she is far, far away, wrapped in the embrace of the dead.

–

Sophia is barely aware as she is transported across the city, the heavy drapes of the carriage kept closed. She curls into a ball and tries to keep herself as far away from Simon and his dog as she can, never minding the fact that her head thumps painfully against the wall with each bump in the cobbles. When they eventually stop, the big man pulls her from the carriage, dragging her across the sea slick ground and across the splintered wood of the dock, where she is deposited in a tiny, dark cabin and left. Time shifts weirdly around her, the rocking boat seeming to plunge her in and out of sleep before she is pulled out again. A different dock that she barely registers as the big man, fed up with having to drag her everywhere, hoists her over his shoulder to carry her elsewhere. Sophia has no idea where she is and she doesn’t care. Maybe they’ll kill her too.

Sophia drifts but she startles to attention when she is suddenly flung off the shoulder and onto a bed. The big man snorts at her surprise, turning abruptly and leaving the room. Elsewhere, she hears a door open and close, locking behind him.

The room is… nice. A four poster bed with plush pillows, a rich red quilt over crisp white sheets, drapes on each edge that she can untie should she want extra privacy. Empty shelves, a cupboard and vanity tucked against the wall. There’s two doors, one that presumably leads out to the rest of the suite, the other presumably leading to an ensuite. When she finally plucks up the courage to leave the safe haven that is the bed, the other room reveals a dining table with enough room for six, more spotless, empty shelves, two overstuffed armchairs and a low table for casual conversation. The rooms she has been left in have that new construction feeling, the smell of sawdust and polish underneath lavender and cedar. As she runs a finger along the newly polished dining table, she is struck with the thought that this may have all been done for her. 

It makes her sick. 

One wall of the main living area is lined with windows, tall and wide that reveals the dark sky beyond. Sophia walks over to them and takes in the outside world. The view is beautiful and she can’t help but feel slightly awed by it, the ocean a dark glassy expanse that seems to stretch until the end of the world. In the distance is Krat, an ever expanding network of roads and buildings that extends all the way up to the Cathedral on the mountaintop, glittering with newly installed electric lights. It feels so close, like she can reach out and take it in her hands like the models she’d seen on display at the museum, rather than so distant and unreachable. 

Below her is the Alchemist’s base, a strange combination of ancient ruins and modern workshops, tiny ant-like figures scurrying about their business even at this late hour. Her father has never brought her to the island, first too young then later not involved enough to warrant the travel. Everything seems twisting and labyrinthine from up here, and there’s no obvious port on the beach. She remembers a dark stone room where the boat had docked but she had been so distant and far away she can barely remember anything of the trip from there to her plush prison cell. Sophia smacked the window frame in frustration, sinking to the ground as everything finally came rushing back to her. 

Her father was dead. Carlo was dead. Romeo… poor Romeo who had likely gone for help, only to return to the ruin of his home. Everything unspools, great racking cries shaking her body as she sobs, tears leaving wet streaks down her face and soaking her nightgown. She curls as tight as she can, holding onto all she has left. 

When exhaustion overtakes her, she sleeps, propped against the wall beneath the window as if her Prince Charming would climb through and save her from this place. 

–

When Sophia wakes she finds that she has been placed into the big bed, sheets tucked gently and carefully around her, her back propped up under big soft pillows. 

At the foot of the bed is Simon Manus.

He sits in a chair with his feet planted firmly on the ground, hands clasped and leaning on his cane. She thinks, for a moment, that he is sleeping as his eyes are closed and he is breathing deeply and steadily but her slight shifting in the bed makes his eyes snap open, his gaze pinning her in place.

“How are you?” He asks.

She feels… dried out. Hollowed and scraped of everything that once made her soft and kind and happy. She won’t give him the satisfaction of an answer and jerks her head deliberately away, gazing at a point somewhere to the left of the door.

He hums, deep and rumbling from inside his chest.

“That’s too bad,” he says as if she had spoken. “I imagine you’re wondering why I’ve brought you here.”

“You abducted me,” she snaps. “You killed my father, killed my boyfriend , burned down my home and you’ve abducted me.”

Simon tilts his head slightly but he doesn’t seem phased by her anger.

“I’d say you were fairly responsible for burning down your home,” he says, flexing his fingers on the handle of his cane. “Although I suppose you aren’t interested in that distinction.”

“You’re a murderer.”

“True,” he says, almost flippantly. “I won’t deny that.”

He watches Sophia like he’s expecting more from her, but she keeps her head deliberately turned away from him. After a moment, Simon breaks the silence.

“I know you are a Listener.”

Her head snaps back to him, brows furrowed in a deep frown. The only person that ever knew is her long dead mother, and that’s only because she was also a Listener.

“An exceptionally powerful one,” he continues. “And I need your powers to bring about a new world.”

“I’m not helping you,” she spits.

“My dear,” he says. “You don’t have a choice.”

Simon leaves the room and any of the hard edges Sophia feels that she had break, becoming jagged and crumbling as she draws her knees close and begins crying again. There’s nothing behind this outburst of emotion, no dwelling on the dead or lost, just an emptiness and exhaustion that she can’t even fill with her tears.

Simon Manus had been her father’s charismatic right hand man, the one who knew how to get funding from the old families, how to ask people to look the other way when the Alchemists needed to do something not entirely legal. Sophia had never agreed with how her father and his organisation did things, but her choice to not get involved meant she had very little influence on the decisions her father made. Valentinus had at least tried to act with good intentions, had always paid back moral wrongs tenfold, but Simon was ruthless. Anything that Valentinus wouldn’t do, Simon would , with no qualms against who or what it hurt. Sophia had heard the arguments the two had had, differing opinions on the Alchemist’s goals and where their research should go, but she’d always hear them reach some kind of stalemate, an agreement that the rest of the high ranking Alchemists would hear their opinions. She supposed this time, the others had agreed with Simon.

Now all cried out for the next hour, Sophia considers her next course of action, picking at the edge of her quilt as she does. 

Escape is her priority. She can’t let Simon get away with what he’s done, murdering Carlo and her father, stealing… whatever it is he stole in the process. He needs to be brought to justice, to be punished for his actions. And most of all, she can’t let Simon’s plans, whatever they are, come to fruition. She won’t aid him, she’ll refuse him at every turn if she needs to. The first thing she needs is to be able to leave her room, find a way to that secret dock. Stow away on a boat perhaps, or try and row herself to the mainland. But first, her locked cell.

There’s a faint knock at the door, so quiet that Sophia almost misses it until they knock again, slightly louder. She considers her bedroom door uncertainly, torn between wanting to see who might be knocking on her cell door, as if she could open it, and remaining petulantly in bed. Curiosity wins out and Sophia rises, padding over with bare feet to stand just in the doorway to see who her next tormentor might be. There’s a quiet jangling of keys and the faint kerchunk as the door is unlocked and opened, a young man with limp blue hair, juggling a covered tray in one hand enters the room and quickly tries to close and lock the door behind him. It suddenly occurs to Sophia that she could have just made a run for it as this poor, unfortunate fool struggles to balance the tray and fumble with keys at the same time. She takes a step forward but the man finishes locking the door and stowing the keys, turning to face her with an embarrassed look on his face.

“Hi.”

“Hello,” Sophia responds, a little uncertainly. Despite her position as prisoner she can’t help but feel like a cat watching a mouse as the man scurries across the room, suddenly stopping and dithering in front of the dining table. He holds the tray out like a peace offering. 

“I’m not hungry,” she says but as if on schedule her stomach tightens and gurgles. 

“P-Please,” he stutters. “He’ll be angry if you don’t.”

She knows who ‘he’ is. 

She reluctantly walks over and stands on the other side of the table from him, fisting the fabric on her nightgown as he haphazardly plonks the tray in front of a chair and takes a step back. She’s suddenly aware of how cold and naked she feels in the presence of this strange, timid man.

“Service is a bit lax,” Sophia says, trying to affect an air of control. 

The man flushes, shoulders jumping to his ears and his fists tightening. 

“I’m an Alchemist,” he spits. “Not waitstaff.”

“And yet here you are,” Sophia says. 

Tightening her fists briefly, she strides over to him and pushes him to the side slightly so she can stand just before the tray. She straightens it and lifts the lid revealing a slightly soggy quiche, cutlery and a napkin . She carefully removes the plate from the tray, setting it in front of the chair next to where the man had placed it and sets out napkin and cutlery, neatly aligning each perpendicular to the edge of the table. She takes a step back, mirroring the man, and gestures for him to sit. 

“I’m not eating this,” she says when the man opens his mouth to protest. “I don’t trust you and I don’t trust Simon.”

He snaps his mouth shut and scrunches up his nose. 

“If I show you it’s not p-p-poisoned,” he says. “Will you eat?”

“I’ll consider it.”

Her stomach grumbles again. 

The man fidgets before taking the seat Sophia has placed the tray in front of. He picks up the knife and bisects the quiche, pulling the two halves apart so she can see that they look normal.

“Eat some,” she says with a dismissive wave. 

The man sighs and cuts a portion that includes both pastry and filling and eats it, chewing and swallowing and even showing his empty mouth to her. Sophia huffs and reluctantly takes the seat next to him but does not begin eating. 

“Why d-do you think we’d p-p-poison you?” He asks. He leans back in the chair a little, giving her more space. 

“Simon just killed my father, he’s not above murder.”

“Valentinus…” the young man looks genuinely distressed. “I thought… I didn’t think-“

Sophia wants to cry again and she lowers her head and bites her lip as hard as she can to hold back tears. 

“I-I’m sorry,” he stutters. 

He reaches out a hand but stops himself, long fingers twitching slightly as he hovers just out of reach. Sophia sniffs loudly and scrubs at her eyes, inhaling deeply to calm herself. 

“Well I’m sure it makes no difference to you,” she says bitterly. 

“Valentinus was a g-g-good man,” he says. “Manus is…”

He trails off and his face twists into a dark, bitter emotion that seems at odds with the man’s overall delicate features. 

“There was a rumour that Manus might try something but I wasn’t expecting this.” He pauses before continuing so quietly that she almost doesn’t hear it. 

“I’ll need to let them know…”

Sophia looks at the man, really looks at him, trying to get a sense of this timid, stuttering young Alchemist. He’s easy to write off at a glance, with shoulders hunched and long hair arranged to hang limply in front of his face but she sees it then, a coldness, something dark and calculating in the shadows and creases of his eyes, the way his jaw sits just that little bit tighter. And then the moment passes and his face softens, becomes shy and nervous so naturally she could almost fool herself into believing that this man was nothing more than what he made himself seem. 

“Who are you?” Sophia asks. 

He blinks, surprised. 

“My name is Giangio.” He waits for her to say something, but she is rolling the name around in her head, trying to figure out if she recognises it. To her frustration, she doesn’t. 

“You should eat,” Giangio says after a moment. “I’ve been here a while and…”

Sophia silently “ ohs” and picks up the fork and begins eating, the quiche flavourless in her mouth. She’s not focussed on that though, she’s thinking about cold, calculating Giangio and Simon. 

And most of all she’s thinking about escape. 

—

Left to her own devices, Sophia finds boredom cuts easily through the grief. She can only spend so many long hours crying after all.

She stands for a time at the windows, but there is little information she can glean from so high up. At least she can get an idea of the outside complex, the way the Alchemists have grafted their modern labs onto strange, ancient ruins, cancerous growths that destroy what beauty these structures once had. She makes a mental note to ask someone what this place had once been.

When the distant people watching bears no fruit, she goes looking for puppets.

Sophia settles herself on the too large bed and stretches out, letting her powers spool and untether from where they sit cramped within her breast. The first thing she notices is that this place reeks of Ergo. It seeps from the stones, floods the very air with its lightning sweet miasma. And with every waking second, something draws more of it in, a sucking whirlpool with the tower she currently resides at its centre.

The second is that there are no puppets. Sophia is surprised, she would have expected this place to be crawling with puppets undertaking the menial tasks the Alchemists felt themselves above. But she can’t feel them, no crystalised souls she can call out to in hope of aid. Perhaps they are beyond her range, but try as she might, no matter how thin she stretches herself until she is sure she will snap, she can’t feel any puppets.

Sophia begins reeling back, coiling into her physical body, but she feels something, not a puppet as she first hopes but not quite human. Something… more, perhaps. She follows it, a trail that seems to spider web across the base, no clear origin in sight, spiralling tighter and tighter until-

“It is rude to spy, my dear Sophia,” Simon Manus says.

He stands amidst a crowd of fawning Alchemists but he addresses her directly. She’s not sure where this trail has brought her, but she feels caught, trapped like a fly in some spider’s sticky web while Simon watches her with the curiosity of someone who pulls the wings from living insects. The crowd seems to clamour as he addresses her, confused as he speaks to someone they cannot see, someone who is not physically there. He opens his mouth and Sophia sees-

-a grotesque giant reaching forever heavenward until-

-she snaps back to her body, retching and gasping from the strain.

Sophia collapses sideways onto the bed, allowing her heart to settle and her lungs to fill with air. What she had seen was abhorrent, an abomination in the eyes of God, but there was an inevitability to the vision she couldn’t shake, like watching a high speed collision she had no way of stopping, with Simon at every point of impact. 

What was he planning?

–

Simon visits her the next day.

It seems she has a rotating roster of food bearers because the Alchemist delivering her food isn’t Giangio, some hulking giant with tiny glasses perched atop a bulbous nose. He hovers too close as she eats, saying nothing despite her weak attempts at conversation. Her meal is interrupted when the door opens with a sudden kerchunk and both Sophia and her unfortunate companion turn towards the noise. When Simon steps into the room, the Alchemist just about falls to the ground in his haste to bow while Sophia turns back to her food, spearing another mouthful of bland, rubbery eggs and tries to chew them as insolently as possible.

“Miss Sophia,” he greets and waves the Alchemist off with a flick of his wrist. The man leaves quickly as Simon takes a seat opposite her and Sophia shovels more food into her mouth, any excuse she can get not to talk to him.

Simon sits in silence, just watching her for the moment as she keeps eating, desperately trying to avoid his gaze, desperately trying not to think of the ruin he’s caused her and how much she hates him. But the food is finite and eventually the plate is empty and her stomach churns with a breakfast she wished she hadn’t eaten.

“I do apologise for the lax hospitality,” Simon says as she sets her cutlery neatly down, fidgeting with the serviette as a desperate attempt to keep her attention elsewhere. “I am currently finalising your occupancy, amidst other things.”

Sophia doesn’t respond, making sure she keeps her gaze carefully turned away.

“Progress must continue regardless,” he continues. “I imagine you are curious.”

She is.

“No,” she spits. “I’d rather die.”

“Well that is no good,” Simon responds, his tone gentle and just this side of mocking. “But I can think of far worse things than death.”

Sophia has no doubts about that.

“This city sits on the brink of evolution and I will not pass up the opportunity to usher in a new age. And you will assist me, dear Sophia, whether you want to or not.”

There is an intensity to his expression, mouth twisted into a shape almost manic, scar stretched long and wide with fervour, that scares Sophia more than she cares to admit. For all her attempts at nonchalance, she is deeply afraid of what Simon Manus could do.

He stands and walks to the door, opening it and having a brief word to the man who’d just left. Sophia watches, anxiety gripping her lungs like a vice, as the man re enters the room while Simon stands easily to the side. The Alchemist hauls Sophia to her feet, ignoring her attempts to pull away. She is marched from the room, Simon leading the way with an almost idle pace, down stairs and corridors, walls that change from rough stone to smooth plaster on a whim as Sophia desperately tries to remember the way over the beating of her heart. The do not leave the building, only going lower and lower until she is sure they are deep underground, when Simon stops in front of metal double doors, flanked either side by two brutes with the lower halves of their faces covered with cloth masks, and one of them shoves the door open at the barest flick of their master’s wrist. 

The place he has taken them is a laboratory filled with skittering Alchemists who crawl over rough hewn stone pursuing their incomprehensible research. This place had been part of the ruins once but the large cavernous space had made it an ideal place for the jumbles of crates, tables and machinery, all laid out in a way Sophia does not understand.

“This is one of our laboratories,” Simon explains as he leads them to a sectioned off corner. Every Alchemist they pass acknowledges him in some way, bows and lowered chins, salutes of all varieties. “We will begin here today, establish a baseline, before we push further.”

She tries to shrink away from Simon and the scurrying Alchemists but it only pushes her further into the grip of her loathsome escort.

“What do you mean?” She asks. 

The Alchemist pushes back and Sophia finds herself stumbling forward into Simon when her escort lets go. The care with which Simon directs her to a chair is unsettling, all gentle hands about her shoulders, featherlight fingers brushing her skin as she is eased into the seat.

“I know you are exceptional, my dear, but I want to know how.”

The chair is padded, but Sophia cannot help noticing the restricting armrests, how easy it would be to bind her within it. A woman in white robes approaches and Sophia flinches, recognising Adriana from the previous night. She gives Sophia a hard look as she curls away from her, before setting a tray of implements almost reverentially on the table next to Simon while he removes his coat and rolls up his sleeves, rinsing his hands in a basin of water nearby. Sophia can see glass containers, scalpels, syringes and vials all laid out neatly for Simon’s use as Simon’s dog wheels a chair over and stands at attention.

“Thank you Adriana,” he says, and Sophia can almost fool herself into believing this is an ordinary doctor’s visit with the professionalism that Simon holds himself with.

“We start first,” he says, raising a syringe from the tray. “With blood.”

She wants to squirm out of the way, to bite and kick at the hand that wraps the strong leather cuff around her bicep, but Simon is nothing but efficient, finding a vein with ease and inserting the needle. Sophia can only watch with detached horror as her blood is pulled from her like juice through a straw, spiralling through the attached length of tubing and into one of the glass containers. It fills and fills, ruby red liquid that brings to mind the roses a suitor had once given her. The more he takes the colder she feels, her arm growing steadily numb and heavy, eyes drooping with fatigue until Simon suddenly stops the flow, removes the needle from her arm and passes off what he has taken to a now indistinct and faceless Alchemist.

Sophia can feel his hand on hers, the slight callouses on his fingers as he rubs at her knuckles.

“Stay awake dear Sophia,” he murmurs. “Stay with me.”

His touch is gentle and she is reminded of her father, a time when she had been delirious with fever and his hands had been a cold comfort to her burning skin. 

“I’m sorry,” he apologises and she almost believes him. “The blood is necessary.”

A glass is raised to her lips and Sophia drinks automatically, something warm and sugary sliding down her throat while Simon packs up the remaining syringes and vials and passes them to Adriana to take elsewhere.

The glass is removed and Simon gives her hand a gentle squeeze.

“There are other samples I require,” Simon says, his tone serious.

He works methodically as Sophia slowly recovers. He had taken an exceptional amount of blood, a substance she understands the need for, but there are others she does not. Skin scrapings, fingernail clippings, a winding strand of her hair. When she is well enough to stand he tells her to fill a container with urine and sends Adriana to shadow her.

When she has given all she can, Simon demands more. He has Sophia blow into a strange device, straps a cuff to her arm and pumps it tight. He measures height and weight, before bidding her to strip. That, Sophia will not do and Simon frowns, something akin to anger clouding his features.

“You do not have any say in the matter,” he says, voice a deep growl with the tightness of his jaw.

“I have given you everything you wanted,” she replies, trying to sound calm and reasonable despite her high strung heart. “But please, let me keep my decency.”

Simon makes a scoffing noise and with a wave of his hand the big Alchemist grabs her and yanks roughly at the collar of her nightgown, the thin fabric splitting along its seams. Sophia struggles now, trying to break free as he yanks again and exposes goosepimpled flesh to the chill air.

“Let me make myself clear Sophia,” Simon says. “Your cooperation is not necessary for what I need. It has been appreciated-“ he looms over her, bending slightly and shrouding his face in darkness. “But not required.”

There is a numbness now as Simon measures her. Arms and legs and torso, firm cold hands on breasts and between her legs. She cries, because her thrashing does nothing, but Simon is unmoved. Only methodical as he makes notes, voices quiet observations to Adriana who is no comfort despite Sophia’s pleading.

When he finishes, Sophia curls in on herself, pulling what remains of her nightgown around her while the three Alchemists discuss something in quiet tones a ways from her. She wonders if this is what taxidermied medical specimens feel like, split open and their insides plucked like overripe fruit for consumption, sewn anew with cotton and sawdust innards.

There is a sudden touch at her shoulder and Sophia flinches away, but the feeling persists. She looks up to find a coat being draped around her shoulders and Giangio standing over her.

“I’m sorry,” he says, and she believes him.

Chapter Text

When Sophia is escorted back to her room, everything is different. Someone has installed heavy curtains in a rich red to block the sun, the shelves artfully filled with books and sculptures. Her bed has been changed, the sheets now crisply folded at the corners and a spare throw arranged artfully across the end of the bed. The wardrobe has been left open, revealing skirts, dresses and shirts neatly hung on hangers, the chest of drawers open with new undergarments, all in varying shades of blue, grey and white.

It’s all very crisp and new and sterile.

Simon had not bothered with Sophia once he had finished violating her, only leaving her in the care of the big Alchemist who had leered at her the whole walk back. She had clutched at Giangio’s coat like a lifeline, the pale blue wool a shield against the unforgiving chill of rough stone corridors and pale white plaster.

He’s left Sophia alone for now, at least, so she crawls into the bed and cries, somehow finding more tears despite what she had presumed to be empty reservoirs. There’s a part of her that thinks about the shadow of Simon’s hand on her, how Romeo and Carlo would never touch her again if they saw the imprints on her skin. There’s another part of her that thinks this was just the first. How Simon wanted more from her and that would not be the last.

That this cannot be the thing that breaks her.

Sophia sniffs, rubbing at her nose and eyes to clear them before sitting upright. She draws her knees to her chin and exhales a shaky breath.

“Stay strong little bug,” she whispers.

It doesn’t sound anything like her father, but she can almost hear him as she speaks, the exact tone and inflection ingrained in her memory.

It’s only been two days.

–

The sun is setting by the time Sophia feels ready to leave the bed. She explores her new furnishings, running her fingers along perfect book spines and perfect curtain embroidery, pulling dresses from their hangers to inspect their fine lace and patterning. She hates that they all seem to be her size, a detail that sits bitterly in her stomach. Simon has had this planned for so long he’s gotten clothes sewn for her.

Well she can’t live in Giangio’s coat forever.

She pulls a dress from the cupboard and collects suitable undergarments from the drawer, ignoring the lace and ribbons that adorn each piece she collects.

The bath Sophia runs for herself is scalding and combined with the harsh scrubbing she gives herself, Sophia is pink and tingly when finally she finishes, hair washed and combed out in delicate chestnut waves. She feels better watching the water drain from the tub, the sadness from the past few days going with it. There is no black in the wardrobe but there is dark blue, so she dons the closest she can get to mourning garb and twists her hair up and out of the way once she deems it suitably dry.

Her pain is still rough and raw but at least the bandages have been changed.

Giangio is in the main living area when she finally exits the bathroom juggling another covered tray and his set of keys. He struggles for a moment, swearing under his breath the whole time before giving up and turning around. He startles when he sees her.

“M-miss Sophia!”

“Hello Giangio,” she responds, dipping into a shallow curtsy. “I still have your coat, if you’d like it back.”

He looks a bit flustered for a moment, fidgeting with the tray. Sophia takes pity on the man, stepping forward and taking it from him and leading him over to the dining area. He follows, fidgeting awkwardly as she is going through the motions of setting the table, like she had the day previously.

“Y-you can k-k-keep the coat,” he says, having finally found his voice. “I’m s-sorry that Simon did that to you.”

Sophia dips her head in acknowledgment, giving the young man a wry look.

“I can only thank you for the coat,” she says. “And ask that you do not apologise on behalf of that monster.”

Giangio opens and closes his mouth a few times, fish-like, as he considers her words.

“I won’t,” he finally says.

He sits across from her as Sophia eats, an almost companionable silence.

“Can I ask you something, Giangio?” she finally says, setting her cutlery to the side.

He nods.

“What is this place?”

“W-we call it Arche Abbey,” he says. “The p-p-people of ancient Krat used it as a place of p-prayer.”

Sophia nods in understanding.

“What about…” she trails off and waves her hand vaguely about, hoping to illustrate her point. Giangio gives her a blank look.

“Why’s there so much Ergo here?”

He scrutinises her and Sophia can see that hardness in his eyes again, cunning that disappears as quickly as she notices it. He turns away slightly and mouths something to himself before turning back as if nothing had happened.

“Are you familiar with the c-concept of ley lines, M-miss Sophia?”

She shakes her head, no.

“Think of air c-currents,” Giangio explains. “Air moves in particular p-p-patterns across our lands, criss-crossing together. Ergo does similar things when not crystallised. This island sits at the centre of many, many intersections. And where these lines cross, Ergo tends to p-pool.”

Sophia nods in understanding.

“Is that why there’s so much Ergo in Krat?”

“We’re not sure,” Giangio says with a shrug. He holds his hands out and interlaces his fingers, showing the connections to her.

“This island sits at the direct centre of these lines but the radius by which things p-pool is far larger. So there’s a lot of ambient Ergo here. K-krat has a lot of crystallised Ergo beneath it. So we’re assuming that it p-p-pooled there a long time ago and became dormant, forming the crystals you’re probably familiar with.”

Giangio sighs and leans back, pushing lank hair off his face with one hand.

“It was one of the k-key aspects of your father’s research before everyone shifted focus to the P-p-petrification Disease.”

“He never mentioned it,” Sophia says quietly. “So the Alchemists are working on a cure?”
Giangio’s face pinched inwards as he frowned.

“They’re researching it,” he replies, a bitter note to his voice. His answer is too vague to be any kind of comfort.

“Why would they research it if they weren’t looking for a cure?”
“Evolution.”

Simon had said the exact same thing.

“I don’t understand,” Sophia says, a rising note in her voice belying the fear she feels as such a simple word.

“I-”

Elsewhere, a clock chimes and Giangio stands abruptly, cursing.

“Sophia, listen to me.”

She sees it now, that cold edge, his sharp eyes.

“Simon is beginning to exceed the bounds we thought we had in place. His research is dangerous.”

Sophia opens her mouth to interject but Giangion cuts her off, pulling close and lowering his voice.

“I’m not sure why he so desperately needs a Listener, but I cannot imagine it’s for any good reason. So I need you to be patient, ok?”

“Are you helping me?” She whispers, not daring to hope.

“I’m going to try.”

He straightens and while Sophia can see Giangio soften at his edges, becoming small and meek, she cannot unsee that harsh line, that cold cunning, not anymore.

“Thank you,” she says.

“You’re w-welcome,” he stutters.

–

There is not much to do in her tower prison.

She rises with the sun each day and readies herself as if she were anywhere else- hair brushed and tied back, dark clothes and comfortable shoes. When the weather is cold, as it has been more often than not, she wears Giangio’s coat, the pale blue the only colour she allows herself. A different Alchemist brings her food each day on some rotating roster or some poor idiot drawing the short straw. They vary in personality, either too scared of her or Simon to respond to attempts at gathering information or are too busy hiding barely concealed disdain over having to act as her waitstaff. She hasn’t seen Giangio in some time, which worries her, but she grasps at the sliver of hope he’d given her like a lifeline.

When Sophia is by herself, as she often is, she peruses the books Simon has left, dry encyclopaedias and medical textbooks that do little to stimulate her mind but make excellent paper for the little origami animals she tries to fold from memory. 

When the boredom becomes too much, Sophia meditates, flinging her consciousness as far as it will go. She’s not sure what it is, although she could certainly take a guess, but something about the Abbey makes her powers feel… stronger. Like she is on the edge of something, a deep chasm that she knows she will not climb out of if she decides to take the plunge. Sophia holds herself back for now, keeps her powers in check, and follows Ergo trails throughout the island, trying to glean whatever information she can and avoid Simon’s sticky web as she goes.

The weather turns, and Simon comes to visit.

The sky had been dreary all day, black bloated clouds that have threatened a storm since she woke. Distant Krat isn’t even visible, swathed in sea foam and fog, and Sophia finds herself avoiding the windows, lest the dull air bring down her already dour mood.

Time passes slowly as she carefully tears a page from the anatomy book she’s working through, the colourful images of eye dissections splitting in half as she runs a careful knuckle along her fold lines. Butterflies litter her vanity these days.

There is a knock at the door and Sophia ignores it, frustrated by the polite pretence that some of the Alchemists insist upon. She couldn’t open the door even if she wanted to. Sophia doesn’t turn around but watches in the vanity’s mirror as the door opens and Simon steps through, carrying a leather bound trunk in his arms.

“Sophia, my dear,” he greets. “I was hoping to join you for dinner.”

She watches as he stands politely in the middle of her room, a dangerous ease to his posture that brings to mind a snake in the tall grass, waiting to strike. He’s dressed casually for once, the dark slacks and slouchy woollen sweater making him appear more like the uncle she had known him as when she was a girl compared to the tyrant she knows him as now. 

The only sound is the ssshk  of her fingers on the paper as she finishes the latest butterfly, vicious red and blue watching her from its wings.

“And if I say no?” Sophia asks.

His jaw tenses just slightly before relaxing again.

“I will be disappointed,” Simon says carefully. “But I think our conversation would be mutually beneficial.”

She has no excuses.

“Very well,” Sophia says, standing from her seat.

Simon’s smile is more akin to a grimace, his mouth pulling at his scar and stretching deep lines across his face. He shifts the trunk under one arm and offers the other but Sophia ignores it, preferring to sweep past him and into the dining room, picking a seat at the table that she hopes will discourage him to sit next to her. She can feel his presence at her back as Simon follows, setting the trunk at the setting opposite her and remaining standing while she seats herself.

“What did you want to discuss?” Sophia asks.

She holds herself ramrod straight, splays her hands like she is holding court. She remembers watching her father in business meetings, the way Valentinus expertly controlled the room, always getting what he wanted in a negotiation. She has nothing to offer Simon, but maybe she can get something out of this.

“I wanted to apologise,” he starts. Simon rests a hand on top of the case and taps his fingers a few times. “I have not been a good host.”

Sophia tilts her head slightly before nodding. It’s a hollow apology, barely worth her attention, but if she treats it with the level of importance Simon seems to place on it, maybe she’ll get something out of it.

“Times have been difficult,” Simon continues. “Your father’s death has left the Alchemists in a precarious position with the old families. I have needed to spend time negotiating with them, leaving little time for you.”

Sophia bites her lip at the mention of her father- does not point out that it’s his own fault that Valentinus is dead and the Alchemists’ political problems are ones of his own making. She can feel her eyes growing hot and wet with tears she has not shed in some time. Simon seems to notice because he steps forward from his overhead position and crouches in front of her, taking her hands in his, rubbing one rough finger over her knuckles.

“Was there a funeral?” She asks, throat thick and wet.

“The city organised a memorial service,” he says gently.

“I-” Sophia starts but her throat is clogged and tears are threatening to spill down her cheeks. “You kept me here and I couldn’t even attend my own father’s funeral-”

Simon shushes her, sweet and gentle.

“It was necessary. Dear Sophia, you must understand the sacrifices necessary to ensure a new world order. Your father would have understood.”

Sophia takes a deep breath, stifling her tears as best as she can. There is a sincerity to Simon’s words and actions she may be able to use, provided she can keep her focus.

“I want to see him,” she says. Play it soft and gentle, the sweet demands of a girl rather than the righteous anger of a woman. Sophia looks Simon in the eye despite her revulsion, hoping her teary gaze will do something . “Please.”

Simon softens, mouth stretched wide and apologetic. He shakes his head.

“I cannot allow that. I need you here,” he says, running at her knuckles one last time. “Growing stronger.”

Simon stands and walks around the table and over to the trunk, popping the catches and spinning it around to face her. He opens the box with some reverence, revealing a simply framed butterfly nestled in crushed velvet. A common blue, one Sophia wouldn’t normally bother with in her collection, but the way Simon stands there as if it is some kind of rarity makes her reach for it with far more care than she would normally bother with.

“I know you like to collect them,” Simon says.

Sophia nods, turning the frame in her hands. The quality is good, even if the butterfly is common and the presentation simple.

“Thank you,” she says politely, setting it to the side. Sophia gives her captor a wan smile and Simon takes that as his cue to remove the trunk and walk to the door. She hears the door open and murmured voices as she strokes an idle finger along the frame, half formed ideas bubbling through her mind.

Giangio had promised to help her escape, but his lack of contact worries her. She had hoped that, by now, he would have been by to speak with her, to at least inform her of how he might be offering his help, but she’s seen neither hide nor hair of him over these past few weeks. Even though she meditates almost daily, trying to find other ways to escape her tower cell, her Ergo abilities are limited, vision obscured without a puppet to focus upon, and her range barely extends beyond the building she is in. As much as honing her abilities will be a boon in her escape, the fact that Simon wants them to increase immediately makes her doubt that particular course of action. As much as she hates having anything to do with Simon, he may unwittingly play a vital role in her escape, provided she plays her cards right, that is.

Simon returns to the table, taking the seat opposite her with hands clasped on the table.

“We have a moment before dinner,” he starts. “Your test results have been analysed, I imagine you are curious about the results.”

Sophia would much rather forget everything that had happened that day, but she nods anyway. Simon wants to talk about it, so that’s all that matters at the moment. He spreads his hands wide, his expression lighting with something like excitement.

“Your Ergo levels are within an expected range for a Listener,” he explains. “Certainly higher than what we were expecting, but no higher than what we’ve seen before.”

“I don’t understand," she says and Simon prompts her with a wave of his hand. “How can I have Ergo inside of me?” A thought strikes her and Sophia blanches, fingers gripping tight together. “ Do I have the Petrification Disease?”

Simon shakes his head, smiling like a teacher correcting their brightest student. He reaches a hand forward to take hers again, but she snatches it away, fingers twitching with anxiety.

“No, my dear,” he says gently. “Valentinus did not tell you?”

Sophia can only shake her head as Simon’s face splits into a wide grin.

“Ergo is the very essence of humanity. Our souls, if you will. You’ll only ever find trace amounts within a human, but Ergo seeks itself. The more there is in the air, the greater chance of it binding, metastasising within someone, leading to petrification.”

“But you said I had… more?” Her voice is rising in pitch, fear still gripping her throat.

“Listeners are more in tune with their own Ergo. We don’t know why yet,” he quickly says. “But this… synchronicity is what allows you to commune with the concentrated crystals that power puppets. Your levels, much like my own, are naturally higher. That is all.”

“Your…” Sophia has to let out a steadying breath. “You’re a Listener too?”

“Yes. And imagine my surprise to discover that dear Isabelle Monad’s daughter had inherited the ability too.”

The door to her prison opens and two Alchemists carrying covered trays enter the room, almost reverentially setting plates and cutlery on the table and serving dinner for the two of them. This break gives Sophia a moment to gather her thoughts once again as Simon directs his attention away.

Ergo is the crystallised essence of people, meaning that every puppet she’s ever spoken to had been human at one point. Those who had Petrification Disease slowly, but inevitably, turned to stone- crystallised by the increased Ergo within their bodies. Sophia mulls these ideas around her mind, trying to make sense of it all.

“You’re thinking quite hard my dear,” Simon says, interrupting her thoughts.

“I…” she trails off, chewing her lip raw as she attempts to finish organising her thoughts. At some point the servers had left, leaving steaming plates of food in front of them. Steak, roasted vegetables- far richer fare than what she’d been delivered over the past few weeks. Across from her, Simon has not yet started eating and when he catches her eye he motions with the fork in his hand, an invitation to eat and to share her thoughts.

“Why haven’t people been told?” she asks. “People deserve to know that we’re using the dead as- as slaves!”

“People do know. And not just Alchemists,” Simon says, cutting through her open mouthed protest. “But is it not easier to have your tea served, your roads paved or your shit cleaned when you don’t know that the one doing it could very well have been your recently departed mother?”

Simon cuts into his steak, neat little squares that he eats with meticulous precision. “Ignorance is bliss, as they say.”

Sophia pokes at her food, listlessly cutting into the meat, fantasising what it would be like to stab into the soft flesh of Simon’s neck. She wonders if his blood would pool like her father’s.

“Most of them do not remember who they were,” Simon continues. “There have been a few cases, here and there, but nothing consistent.”

“So that’s it then,” Sophia replies bitterly. “We make the dead our labour force and pretend it’s not a problem?”

“As much as the study of awakened puppets has intrigued me, it really is no longer a priority for us Alchemists.”

Simon regards her under half-lidded eyes, continuing to eat as he speaks. Sophia spears a chunk of meat, rare and dripping, something like anger powering her knife and fork. She’s been speaking, connecting , with puppets for years and she’d never realised that it was the dead she was communing with.

“So, the Petrification Disease then?”

Simon frowns slightly, clearly surprised she would initiate a change in subject.

“We have been studying it,” he says simply.

“ And?” She prompts.

“There is no cure yet,” he says after a moment of consideration. “You cannot expect results overnight my dear.”

Sophia looks away from Simon, frustrated with his non-response. Her food has gone cold while across from her, Simon has cleared his plate, leaving his cutlery neatly crossed atop it.

“We are beginning to understand how it operates,” he says after the silence stretches on for too long. “The progression of the Disease is well documented, but we are only just beginning to understand transmission.”

Sophia nods.

“Ergo.”

“Simply put, yes. Too much contact with Ergo will increase a person’s own until Petrification begins to take effect. We are still trying to understand what it is about this influx of foreign Ergo that causes Petrification, and why a person’s natural levels do not cause it on its own.”

Sophia nods again, chewing and swallowing the last of her food. She folds in on herself slightly, uncomfortable with the ease of the conversation she had just had.  Simon stands, collecting his plate and walking over to pick hers up, gently touching her shoulder as he passes. Sophia cringes as he leaves, suddenly feeling cold and miserable.

The conversation had only been about Simon’s research but Sophia is reminded of the times she used to sit with her father, how he would tell her about the latest artefact he had found and how she would respond in kind about the most recent butterfly added to her collection.

“And what did you get up to today little bug?”

 She misses him.

“Sophia?” Her captor calls.

Sophia rapidly scrubs at her burning eyes before turning in her chair. The two Alchemists from earlier are standing in the living area, waiting expectantly as Simon hands the plates to them and she stands, walking forward to stand demurely in front of them.

“I would like to ask a consideration of you,” she starts.

Simon quirks an eyebrow but gestures for her to continue.

“I have been stuck in this room for weeks with nothing to do but sleep and grow bored. I would like to request time outside, an opportunity to walk the island.”

Simon takes a deep breath inwards as he considers her request, exhaling slowly on release.

“I believe I will be able to organise that,” he says. “There are more tests we will need to run soon, but time outside will not interrupt your schedule.”

Sophia bites her tongue, nodding slowly to let him know she understands. She fears the prospect of more tests-

-the creeping cold-

-a thousand pinpricks-

-his hands between her legs-

 -but the opportunity to walk the island will be her biggest step in finding a way to escape. 

Simon’s face splits into a wide smile, sharp and predatory with too many teeth as he steps forwards and takes her hand. He brushes oil slick lips against it like a dashing lover.

“Good night, my dear,” he says. “I will see you again soon.”

Chapter Text

Giangio is by no means a violent man. Everything about him as been crafted to the very last detail, the timid stutter and trembling hands, the way he keeps his hair just this side of greasy even though it irritates him to no end, the way he shuffles about in clothes tailored a fraction to large for his slight frame. Violence isn’t in his crafted nature, his hands having never touched a blade other than the one he used for dinner and the shears he uses to tend his plants. But Simon… Simon makes him want to shuck off every layer of his being, to take his curved blade to tender flesh just to see how he squirms.

People had called Philipus Paracelsus a demon before, and for good reason.

Sophia’s examination has drawn quite a bit of attention from the surrounding Alchemists, people desperately pretending they haven’t just watched their new leader assault a young woman the man insists will be vital to their goals. Sophia trembles in Giangio’s arms, equal parts cold and terrified, tears streaking down her cheeks as she softly sobs. He’s murmuring in her ear, pathetic attempts at comfort as she grips his coat. He wishes he could be making promises to her, for violence and blood, that Simon would suffer for daring to touch something so precious, but he can’t. Giangio keeps his head downturned, running through the practical steps of his last chemical experiment with Gold Coin Fruit in his head as Simon watches them both with a strange expression on his face. Finally, their leader turns away, waving a dismissive hand and David, the brute, pulls Sophia up and out of his arms, forcefully leading her from the room. Giangio stands, dusts off his trousers and thinks about how cold he is. 

—

He goes to make his report. 

It’s overdue all things considered, Valentinus has been dead and his daughter in their custody for two days now, but at least the death of the Krat sect of Alchemists’ leader is public knowledge. The papers had already reported the tragic burning of the Monad family home, with the bodies of Valentinus and a young man having been found, Sophia’s yet undiscovered as they sifted through the rubble. They won’t find her corpse unless Simon had the foresight to dump another body on the scene to throw off their lead. 

Arche Abbey is a large building and their numbers are not so numerous that often large sections of the buildings are unoccupied for long periods of time. The Alchemists have dormitories if they want, but most have taken over sections of the buildings near their work to avoid long treks back and forth for their nightly rest. Giangio is no exception, the Hollow Tower containing the greenhouses is the furthest place on the island from his designated room so it’s easier to take over several of the store rooms for his living spaces. Does it mean he often has a poor night’s sleep and a bad back? Yes. Is it worth it for the convenience? Also yes.

He treks up the many flights of stairs, crossing wind swept bridges and through dusty unlit hallways until he finally reaches his destination. His bedroom is more a glorified garden shed, a side chamber off one of the many open air gardens that he’d originally used for storage. Even now, with a cot and dresser shoved into the corner and a hastily erected door at the entry, its purpose is still much more for work than rest. The workbench is cluttered with test tubes and containers of chemicals, bunsen burners with long forgotten beakers of sludge sitting over them, scraps of paper with every note imaginable written on them. There’s a bag of sand that he keeps meaning to move still sitting in the corner, a stack of terracotta pots precariously next to it, candles forming stalagmites from each new one he adds to the stack. He’s been asked before how he finds anything in here and he honestly can’t, not that he’ll admit it. Giangio is not known to be well organised, and it chafes at Paracelsus every time he does actually need to find something.

Giangio wades through the mess and unties the curtain partition, plunging the back half of the room into relative darkness before using his lighter to start lighting the candles, casting a warm blush over the room. Satisfied, he pulls his personal telegraph machine from its spot under the bed and plugs it in, setting it on the bed and taking a seat next to it. From his pocket he pulls out a small notepad and pen and sends his first message.

READY FOR REPORT STOP.

He waits for a moment before the reply comes through, painstakingly writing it down as the beeps fill the room.

BEGIN REPORT STOP.

VALENTINUS DEAD STOP. SOPHIA MONAD ALIVE STOP. SHE IS A LISTENER STOP.

The telegraph is silent for what feels like a long time, long enough that Giangio wonders if they even care about his news. He wishes he could speak to someone about this, tell them that Sophia would better serve their purposes rather than Simon’s. Appeal to Glinda’s good nature perhaps, or Mombi’s lust for power. It’s not the first time that Paracelsus has found having to rely on others for help galling, but he’s not arrogant enough to believe that he could rescue Sophia on his own. The beeping starts up again so Giangio refocuses his attention.

WHAT OF ARM STOP.

WITH SIMON STOP.

There is a pause as whoever is on the other end considers the news.

CONTINUE TO OBSERVE STOP. AWAIT ORDERS STOP.

Giangio can read between the lines. Wait for the quibbling to settle and we’ll tug your leash in the direction we want you to go. He almost wants to throw the machine across the room in frustration but he resists the urge, instead going through the motions of putting the device away and burning the page he had been writing the messages on.

The Arm of God had been a remarkable find, a happy accident that Valentinus had stumbled upon deep beneath Krat. Paracelsus knows artefacts like that, powerful conduits that enhanced one's connection to Ergo, able to rewrite reality with the force of the user’s will. But Valentinus was careful, too careful, for people who cared more about the results rather than the research. Osmund called him a coward. Paracelsus simply thought the man wasn’t arrogant enough to use the Arm himself, content to let sleeping dogs lie. But under the direction of Alchemists, where even the Paracelsus they knew was careful layers of subterfuge and misdirection, Giangio had received the order to intervene, to give Simon a tip off. To let the man know that the most powerful artefact he’d ever seen, the one that would let him pursue his wildest dreams, was leaving Krat, and to let him do what he will with that information. The man had been at odds with Valentinus for some time, pushing his luck time and time again with every aspect of his research. And with Valentinus now gone, there would be no one to stand in his way, free to lead Krat’s Alchemists in whatever direction he saw fit to take them. Up until now, Paracelsus has had very little opinion on the things that Simon wants. He, like almost every Alchemist, seeks to unlock the divine secret of true immortality. He has an almost religious fervour in his search, obsessively pouring over texts relating to the one winged angel, as if the answer comes from outside of humanity rather than from within. Giangio supposes that now Simon has the Arm, he is free to pursue this theory at his leisure.

Sophia though, she puzzles him.

A powerful enough Listener could produce exactly the same results as the use of an artefact, something that Simon would not know but would likely discover in due time. But she is not nearly a Listener of that calibre, at best Giangio would consider her of above average strength and entirely untrained. Hell, Giangio would consider Simon to be a more powerful Listener despite his telepathy being so honed that it has all but destroyed his other Listener abilities. He feels her clumsy touch whenever she attempts to use her abilities, keeping his mind carefully blank just in case she finds herself drawn to it as a point of interest too often. Surely Simon would know that Sophia was not nearly as powerful as she needed to be for whatever twisted plans he had in store for the Arm. 

Unless that’s not why she’s here. Every Alchemist in that lab had seen the way he touched her, an examination that most doctors wouldn’t even consider unless it was for fertility reasons. Paracelsus has few qualms about the things he does in his line of work but that -

Something dark roils in his gut and Giangio stands, going to his cupboard to pull out his oiled raincoat, shoving his arms through to distract himself from the righteous anger he feels. He’ll go speak to Sophia, see how she is. Maybe gain some insight into why Simon is so utterly, unequivocally obsessed with her. 

—

Giangio learns two things from Sophia. 

One: she takes after her father in a lot of ways. She’s smart, charming and curious and also entirely too trusting at his offer to help. He’d barely promised her anything but her relieved response, that she would be saved , spoke volumes. A young woman likely used to being doted on and protected by others, unused to the political machinations of people willing to use and discard others once they have played their part. 

Two: he is a fool, because he’s actually going to try and save her. 

Syroy has already shown that they’re unreliable even at the best times so he needs to find a way to get her off the island potentially without their help. He wants their cooperation, because once Giangio has rescued the princess from her tower cell he’ll need somewhere safe to bring her, but he can’t rely on them to offer the potential support he wants. If they barged in, demanding custody of a newly discovered Listener, it would likely lead to a lot of political upheaval that Paracelsus doesn’t particularly care about. But if Syroy doesn’t want that kind of trouble, then Giangio doesn’t want that kind of trouble. 

There is also the issue of Giangio’s identity. Rescuing Sophia on his own will likely blow his cover, and as much as observation duty is beneath him, he’s likely to get severely reprimanded by his superiors if he can’t continue his appointed job. There’s still a certain amount of embarrassment associated with being reprimanded by people very clearly beneath him. So, Giangio needs an ally, a scapegoat if necessary, to help with his slowly forming plan.

The opportunity presents itself when Simon has five Alchemists publicly executed for treason.

Tensions have been extremely high since Valentinus’ death, the man was well liked by his peers and it’s Simon’s worst kept secret that he was responsible for it. Giangio had already seen loose factions within the Krat sect, those loyal to Valentinus or Simon respectively or those who wanted to remain neutral in the matter of petty Alchemist politics, but those allegiances were firmly cemented when Simon had announced the news two weeks previously. Some had left the Abbey, claiming that their research was now taking them elsewhere, but most had remained. Zealous fanatics who would follow whatever plans Simon had in store for them or the few who wanted to overthrow their false leader. Most Stalkers who currently worked for the Alchemist remained too, following the scent of money regardless of which hand it came from. 

Giangio had watched the little group plot and plan, keeping his distance as they lurked in shadows, whispered conversations about the best way to kill Simon and his loyal dog. Giangio doesn’t say anything, why would he? Simon is a telepath, all he needed to do is look in the conspirators general direction to know that plans for his assassination were being made.

Simon has everyone assembled in the Abbey’s main courtyard, standing on a raised platform of stone while the terrified group is led up by Stalker guards. Alchemists are soft these days, rich sons and daughters of scholars, the only blades they’ve ever touched for cadavers, blood never touching anything but gloved fingers. The group tremble in their bindings, crying as they are brought forth as an example. Paracelsus wonders how any of them thought they could spill someone else’s blood when they are too afraid to shed their own.

“Brothers, sisters,” Simon calls. “I bring before you traitors, conspirators who sought to bring about the death of your leader. It was with the quick thinking of those that are loyal and true that has spared me the same cruel fate as Valentinus.”

“NO!” One of them yells, a young man with sandy blonde hair and an overly large floral pin attached to his lapel. “He can read minds! I swear, we didn’t do anything-”

The Stalker holding him cuffs him on the back of the head and the man collapses, crying out in pain. 

“I will not tolerate dissent within this sect,” Simon continues. “Let this be a lesson to all assembled.”

Adriana, loyal dog that she is, unsheathes her massive sword and the first of the group is brought forth to the executioner’s block. The man snivels and cries, snot and tears leaking from eyes and nose as he thrashes about, but a Stalker holds him firm as another ties him in place. The assembled crowd begins to murmur, a few uttering cries of shock when they try to leave and are rebuffed by the Stalkers standing guard. Near him, one of the Stalkers shifts uneasily, crossing and uncrossing his arms before covering his mouth with a hand.

“He can’t do this,” he mutters.

“I think you’ll find he can,” Giangio mutters back.

The man flinches at his response, eyes flicking about the crowd to make sure no one else reacts. He calms when he seems to realise that the only one close enough to hear him is Giangio. 

Giangio knows the man, a foreign Stalker from the Country of the Morning who had acted as one of Valentinus’ guides during archeological expeditions. If Giangio remembers correctly, he had been there when the Arm was found.

“You worked with Valentinus,” Giangio whispers to him. “Jun? Right?”

That was at least the name he tended to give when introducing himself anyway. Giangio had seen more than one Alchemist butcher the man’s full name whenever he gave it.

“That’s right.”

On the platform ahead, the man is finally secured in place and Adriana steps forward, raising her sword high. The crowd holds its breath as Simon gestures with his hand and her sword falls in a silver arc. The man’s head comes clean off, landing with a thump into the basket beneath the block. The crowd erupts. No one has ever seen an execution before, let alone seen anyone die. The conspirators thrash in the arms of their guards, one of them faints. Giangio finds his lip curling with distaste while next to him, Jun curls further in on himself, just as fascinated as he is disgusted judging by the expression Giangio can see on his face.

“He’ll just keep doing this,” he mutters.

“Doing what?”

“ This ,” he emphasises. “Killing people just because they don’t agree with him. I saw what he did to that girl. He thinks he can get away with anything and here, he can. ”

The next prisoner is brought forward, screaming and crying until his guard hits him so hard across the face he goes limp. Jun flinches.

“The girl is Valentinus’ daughter, did you know that?” Giangio says quietly.

Jun looks at him, eyes wide before quickly disguising his expression by rubbing at his nose.

“Sophia?”

“Yes.”

The second man is executed, the shock of the death not nearly so visceral. Already, death is becoming a thing people are numb to.

“You were loyal to Valentinus,” Jun says, not quite a question.

Giangio was loyal to whoever would give him the most information, flitting back and forth like a shadow on the wall as private meetings took place, collecting as much data as he could. A much more accurate statement would be that he didn’t agree with Simon, that he thought the man was arrogant and dangerous and whose actions would do more harm than good. But Giangio nods anyway, curious to see where this will go.

“I want to rescue her,” Jun says quietly. “Even before I knew it was Sophia. What Simon has done…”

The third execution is much swifter and Jun shakes his own head as the head lands in the basket, half of a slack face visible over the rim of the wicker.

“How do you know I’m not actually working for Simon?” Giangio asks carefully. Jun makes a show of stretching, reaching up and touching the handle of his tassled blade as he does and giving Giangio a pointed look.

“I see.”

The fourth Alchemist, a young woman, is led over to the block. Her tears have stopped and she all but collapses onto the execution block, exhaustion overriding her fear. The sword is raised high once again.

“Then I believe we have much to discuss then,” Jun says. “Where do you work, perhaps I can come find you?”

Giangio shakes his head.

“I’ll find you. Where I work, it might be quiet but if we were found to be having conversations there people would immediately know something is wrong.”

Jun looks doubtful but he purses his lips and nods anyway. 

The final traitor steps forward, head held high, gaze defiant over the crowd. They are pushed to their knees but they are steely and determined.

“Simon is a traitor!” They call. “He calls ruin down upon us, and would rather watch Krat burn than lead us to glorious salvation!”

The crowd is hushed at this declaration, and even Adriana looks uneasy as she waits for Simon’s signal. But he still gives it nonetheless, the Alchemist’s head rolling just like any other. Simon turns to the crowd, raising his arms high, a great priest leading his flock to a salvation of his own making. Behind him, the body is dragged away, leaving streaks of blood in its wake. 

“Brothers, sisters! Fear not! Continue your research, your great journey towards evolution. Do not let such talk and dissent dissuade you. You do god’s work here, your actions just and holy. Now go with my blessing!”

The crowd begins to mumble and murmur and Jun shifts from foot to foot, stepping aside as Alchemists begin to wander past him. Giangio stays where he is, a rock in a river of human bodies before joining the flow, brushing slightly too close to Jun as he does.

“Artefact storage,” the Stalker whispers.

Giangio gives an almost imperceptible nod and follows the crowd back into the building, ready to wipe the blood off his hands like every other witness of the executions. The plan is coming together steadily, pieces slotting neatly into place. 

And now, to speak with Sophia.

Chapter Text

It takes a few days before Simon follows through on his promise to allow Sophia to leave her room.

She paces her room with nervous energy, round and round in circles until she thinks she could wear a hole through the floorboards and into the room below. She rearranges furniture, because if she’s going to be here a while she might as well make it her space rather than Simon’s. She stands in front of the windows and broods.

She wonders how birds must feel as they fly.

The door opens at midday as it usually does, but instead of a disgruntled Alchemist with a tray of food, a woman in white robes steps through, the handle of her massive sword peeking out from behind equally massive shoulders. Her mouth twists as Sophia takes an involuntary step backwards, almost tripping over the recently moved armchair in the process.

“Out,” Adriana spits.

Sophia flinches.

“I thought you wanted to leave your room?” The woman taunts. “Little doggy wanted to go for walks?”

Sophia flushes bright red, fighting back angry and embarrassed tears. She doesn’t even know this woman beyond the violence she has inflicted upon her life, and already she seems to have a personal grudge against her.

When Sophia doesn’t immediately move, Adriana strides forward and grabs her wrist and begins pulling her from the room, her long fast steps making Sophia half run, half stumble behind her. Even though Sophia had intended to keep an eye on their surroundings, somehow make herself a mental map, she can barely focus with the way Adriana pulls her along dark twisting corridors. Everything looks the same, and even when it doesn’t it still does. Old rough stone, white washed plaster, some corridors blocked off by rubble or scaffolding, some not. Sophia can barely keep it straight in her head. Adriana yanks and she finds herself pulled into wan sunlight, the overcast sky promising rain later. Ahead, a massive tower looms, crumbling stone crawling with vines across its surface, open arches like eyes and gnashing mouths as they stare downwards. Sophia yanks her arm free finally, causing Adriana to finally slow down and stop so Sophia walks over the edge of the bridge they are now crossing, climbing onto a fallen stone block to see over the high walls. The woman snorts.

“Hurry up,” she says. “I don’t have all day to wait for you.”

“I just want to look,” Sophia replies. 

They’re even higher than her room here, the angle different as well. She can barely see Krat from here, the fog covering the water obscuring the city, so she turns her attention instead to the Abbey below. If the Alchemists below had been ants from her room they are mites from up here, barely visible no matter how hard she squints. There is a shuffle behind her and Sophia suddenly feels a firm hand between her shoulder blades. It pushes her forward, rocking her chest into the stone and digging into her ribs uncomfortably. She squeaks as the air rushes out of her, thrashing against the hand, but the weight is heavy and firm.

“I could make it easy,” Adriana hisses. “An accident. Sir Manus would believe me, and you would be dead.”

Sophia wants to spit, to goad this woman into action, to demand her freedom one way or another, but fear grips her heart and she stiffens.

“Please,” she whimpers.

The pressure increases harshly as Adriana shoves her against the stone, stalking down the bridge as Sophia turns slowly, trying to stop her trembling. Carefully, she climbs down from the block and begins to meekly follow, clutching at her skirts with her anxiety. Adriana leads Sophia into the tower, passing through a large antechamber before the path leads them to an open walkway, massive openings with no railings revealing the empty air beyond. Sophia would be tempted to lean over the edge if Adriana hadn’t already expressed how easy it would be to be pushed. They continue upwards, through rooms filled with rubble, long abandoned workbenches from Alchemists who had since shifted their research and interest elsewhere. 

“Where are we going?” Sophia finally asks, her voice barely loud enough over the echo of their tapping feet. Adriana grunts. 

“Hurry up doggy.”

They continue upwards until the openings stop being on the outside of the tower and instead archways begin lining the inner wall of the building. Sophia can see the path as it spirals upwards, rickety wood and crumbling stone spanning the cavernous drop in the middle. The wind whistles through, tugging at their skirts with an insistent grip, one particularly strong gust almost knocking Sophia sideways. She keeps her distance from the edge, despite her curiosity. They pass through a doorway and suddenly everything changes, bare rooms suddenly filled with trestle tables of potted plants, a lush indoor garden with verdant grass, beds of flowers and vegetables, a few small trees beginning to show their wilting leaves for the winter. Small windows pepper the outer wall now and someone has set up temporary railings along the inner archways. The walls are covered in carvings, fantastical scenes and geometric designs that Sophia doesn’t recognise, half grown over with branches and vines. Adriana continues her swift strides through, snapping overgrown branches as she walks through and kicking anything that might even be remotely sitting in her way. Sophia follows more cautiously, sidestepping around anything that Adriana destroys. And still they continue higher, until they reach a long corridor with the closed door of an elevator sitting at the far end. Adriana veers to the right, tapping her foot impatiently when she reaches a doorway off to the side. For all intents and purposes, it should lead out into empty air, but as Sophia gets closer she can see what looks like a stone room built onto the exterior of the building. Inside is a tree, sitting in the centre of a temple-like room, with a domed ceiling and a circular opening cut into the stone above it. There are more carvings on the walls here, a massive winged figure looking as though it is being torn into tiny pieces by dozens of small people. In front of the tree stands Giangio, notebook in hand, and he startles when he sees the two women enter.

“A-a-adriana!”

Sophia quickly looks to the other woman but she seems entirely uninterested in Giangio, barely acknowledging the man. Sophia looks to him and he gives her a look just as confused as her own.

“Why are we here?” Sophia asks.

Adriana gestures her hand forward, waving it at the tree. There’s a cruel cast to her expression that has Sophia shifting uncomfortably.

“Do you know what that is?” Adriana asks. Sophia shakes her head. “It’s a Gold Coin Fruit Tree.”

“That’s a story,” Sophia says. She flinches when Adriana shakes her head.

“Not a story,” Adriana says, a big grin stretching across her face. “A miracle tree. Tell her how they’re made Giangio.”

With the attention directed at him, Giangio looks incredibly uncomfortable, something Sophia is not entirely sure is an act. He fusses and fidgets, gripping his notebook until already pale fingers turn ghostly white.

“I-I-I d-d-don’t think-“

“ Tell her!” Adriana spits. 

“W-w-well we don’t really know h-how they’re made,” Giangio starts but Adriana steps in his direction now, making him take a stuttering step back. “B-b-but-“

Giangio looks quickly at Sophia and then drops his gaze. 

“They’re made from Listeners.”

Sophia frowns, looking between the two as Giangio shrinks in on himself and Adriana continues to smile, waving her hand once again at the tree. Sophia steps forward, walking across the worn stone path until she reaches the tree, pressing her fingers against the old rough bark, dry bits flaking away at the touch. Dead, and likely for some time, but she immediately feels something beneath her fingertips. An indescribable feeling, until she closes her eyes and concentrates, sending her Ergo outwards just enough to see the imprint left on the tree. A woman, warped and twisted into a shape unrecognisable, unable to do anything more but blossom and bloom with the turning of the seasons. When Sophia withdraws her hand she finds her cheeks wet with tears. She sniffs, wiping at her nose. 

“Why-“ she chokes a little and takes a moment to calm herself as Adriana continues to watch her with a cruel smile. “Why are you telling me this?”

“So you know your place,” Adriana says. She begins walking forward, encroaching on Sophia’s personal space. “Sir Manus might favour you above all else but remember this, your use is only in what you can give him. Should you stop being useful like this-“ She jabs at Sophia, painful and bruising. “Then you have use in other ways.”

Something icy and cold grips at Sophia and she hunches in on herself. Simon wanted her for something, obviously, but what happened when she wasn’t what he wanted? It wasn’t a thought she’d really considered in her weeks of isolation. She should be gone by then, before he realised that she wasn’t what he wanted, but what if she wasn’t? What if she can’t escape? What if he found a way to twist her form into something so unrecognisable that she would be useful? What if he took away her legs, her arms, her body, made her into nothing more than a thing to be used as he wanted, carved her into tiny little pieces until she couldn’t even recognise herself -

Her breathing is raw and ragged, filling her ears and drowning out all sound. She clutches tight to her chest as Giangio moves in front of her, sharp wordless sounds as he argues with Adriana but the other woman does something and Giangio flinches, folding his meek protective shell around himself. Her breathing is calming, no longer filling her ears with its roar, but her heart aches. For herself, and for Giangio, who has already shown that he wants to protect her, but can’t.

Adriana looks at the two of them with disgust before reaching forward and grabbing Sophia’s wrist, pulling her out of the room and back the way they came. Sophia doesn’t bother to try to ask where they’re going, just instead tries to focus on keeping up with the other woman’s long strides and brisk pace. They go down, down, down, until Sophia starts to recognise the corridors again, as even though she’d only been there once the memory is seared into her mind like a brand. She tries to yank herself from Adriana’s grip but it’s a vice on her arm, and she pulls Sophia forward with twice the force that she had tried to pull away with. They stop just before the laboratory doors, the same dispassionate Stalkers standing and watching with dull expressions, and Adriana pulls Sophia close to hiss in her face.

“ Remember what we can do to you.”

She pushes Sophia away and the Stalkers open the door, Sophia stumbling through into the laboratory beyond. There are fewer people here than last time, a fact that pleases just as much as it frightens her. Less people to watch her be humiliated, less people to watch her be violated. One difference is that the corner of the room she has been taken to now has a curtain set up around it, pulled aside so Sophia can see the padded chair and desk that has been set up next to it. Simon is seated there, looking almost like a school teacher with his glasses and slouchy woollen sweater, perusing sheaves of paper, occasionally making annotations like he’s marking them. He doesn’t look up when Adriana stands right in front of him, bowing so deeply her head almost hits the desk he’s using.

“You’re late,” he says.

“I’m sorry, Sir Manus. We were waylaid.”

Simon finally looks up, giving Adriana a scrutinising look, his jaw clenching just slightly. He turns his attention to Sophia, who deliberately looks away. Simon exhales sharply through his nose and returns to his marking.

“That will be all Adriana.”

Adriana stiffens just slightly and bows, turning on her heel to leave the room. Sophia watches a little uncertainly as Simon continues to ignore her. She fusses and fidgets, plays with the hem of the too long sleeves, feeling the slightly scratchy wool texture against her skin. It really is a beautiful coat, a sky blue that she hadn’t seen often, and in a current style as well. It must have been expensive. She wonders how Giangio makes his money, she barely even knows what kind of research he did but she’s just seen him in those gardens then-

“You can sit my dear,” Simon says. “No need to stand around all day.”

He waves his hand towards the chair just off to the side, not the dreaded padded seat, and Sophia sits, the edge hard and uncomfortable beneath her backside. She squirms a little, unwilling to make herself comfortable.

“I had hoped to start this sooner but it seems Adriana took matters into her own hands,” he says, shuffling the papers together, neatly tapping their edges into order. “Walks outside your room are a reward, not a means to threaten you.”

Simon leans back in his chair, removing his glasses and considering her for a moment, a slight squint to his eyes before he sighs and rubs at them. He leans forward again, resting clasped hands on the desk.

“Now, I have an understanding of how powerful you are, theoretically. But I have yet to see your abilities in action.” Simon tilts his head slightly, considering her as Sophia grimaces. “Not all of your abilities. But we will discuss your snooping later.”

“That’s all I can do,” Sophia says, a little petulantly. “I just. Talk to puppets.”

Simon hums, grimacing like he’s stopping himself from saying something. He places the stack of paper in front of her and rests a pen on top. Sophia leans forward to have a better look, seeing dozens of questions written in blocky type, some answerable on a sliding scale, others in yes or no. There is no heading, no indication what it might be about. 

“What’s this?” She asks. 

“Questions,” Simon replies simply. “There is little research on Listeners, and all of it is conflicting. I am hoping that if I can narrow down shared experiences, I will know where to focus my efforts.”

Know how best to torture her more like, but she doesn’t voice her misgivings. Adriana’s threat weighs on her mind like a brick. 

“So just, answer the questions?”

“As best as you can.”

Sophia frowns but takes the pen and pulls the pages into her lap, finally allowing herself to settle more comfortably in the chair. Simon doesn’t comment, just pulls another stack of paper close to himself and settles his glasses back on his nose to begin his own work. 

It could almost be nice, sitting here like this. Other Alchemists milling about the room work almost in silence, only occasional murmured conversation or the clinking of glass, the dull shuffling of pages and the scratching of pens as the two of them complete their paperwork. Sophia could almost forget why she’s here, the torment Simon has barely started putting her through. The questions themselves are strange and seemingly unrelated. Some of them do ask about her powers- Can you speak with puppets? Are you able to sense Ergo from a distance? But they don’t all make sense- Can you hear the thoughts of others? Can you move things without touching them? Do you have a citrus allergy? She finds herself torn between wanting to lie about everything but she knows Simon would realise, especially if anything if she lied about anything he did know about. She finds a middle ground, being truthful about things she can reasonably demonstrate if asked and lying about the things that she thinks Simon doesn’t know about. He doesn’t need to know that if she really concentrates, she can repair broken puppets with a touch, restore metal to shiny and new, fix wear and tear on even the most worn puppet. It’s a weak ability anyway, and one she’s barely had to use.

“Did Adriana show you the Tree?” Simon asks.

Sophia stops her writing, fiddling with the pen for a moment. She won’t look at him.

“She did.”

He gives a heavy sigh. 

“That Gold Coin Fruit Tree has been here as long as any of us can remember. It was your father who discovered that it used to be a Listener, although I don’t know how. It’s a cruel fate, for anyone.”

Sophia purses her lips and takes a quick glance at Simon. He looks weary, slumped forward in his chair slightly. 

“Adriana said that if I wasn’t useful…”

“Nobody knows how Gold Coin Trees are made,” Simon says. “I seek evolution, yes, but I would hope to retain my humanity in the process. I would not willingly inflict that upon you.”

“So what happens then, when it turns out I’m not what you want?” Sophia bites out. “That I can’t help you with whatever you’re doing?”

Simon lets out a humming chuckle in the back of his throat, mouth stretching into a faint smile. 

“Dear Sophia, that will never happen. I have seen it.”

She resists the urge to roll her eyes. The boundaries he draws baffles her. Perfectly willing to put his hands between her legs, to perform tests and take samples she doesn’t agree to. To kill her family and abduct her from her home. To leer at her as she had grown from child to woman. And yet he drew the line at having her under his total control, to twist and transform into something that could never deny him again. Does he want her willing submission? Does he get something every time she resists, tells him no and spits in his face? Her stomach roils with the thought, that even her defiance was something that Simon wanted from her.

“How are you going?” He asks, breaking her reverie. “Done?”

Sophia looks at the few she has to do and quickly fills them in and almost slaps the stack onto the desk to get them out of her hands. Simon very calmly takes and taps the stack neatly together, flipping through idly. 

“So?” Sophia asks.

“I will need to go through it,” he says, slight exasperation leaking into his tone. “Patience, my dear.”

He sets the paper to the side, pen neatly placed on top and stands, brushing down his slightly rumpled sweater and slacks before heading to the back of the area they’re sitting in. A set of filing drawers sits in the back corner and Simon opens one, pulling out a small needle, tubing and a few vials before returning to the desk and setting them in front of Sophia.

“A blood draw, and then you can go back to your room,” he says.

Sophia immediately cringes away and Simon notices her reaction, reaching forward to take one of her hands in his, stroking cold, rough pads over her knuckles in what is evidently a soothing gesture. If anything it just makes her want to recoil from him instead.

“Only blood,” he promises. “And not that much either.”

What does she refuse, what does she give in to? Carefully, she pulls her hand away and begins removing her jacket and rolling up the sleeve of her blouse, exposing the pale crook of her arm while Simon finishes his own preparations. Her skin has pebbled in the interim, not helped by Simon’s chill touch. But, Simon is at least honest. Sophia barely feels the prick and pull of blood and even though she’s not looking she feels like it’s no time at all before Simon is shifting away. 

“I’ll have one of the Stalkers bring you back,” Simon says as he begins slipping the vials into a leather roll. “Going through your answers will not take me long, even with everything that is happening.”

“What is happening?” Sophia asks.

Simon considers her for a moment, tilting his head and making a humming noise in the back of his throat.

“There has been some push back from the old families,” Simon finally says. “They… do not all trust me like they did with your father.”

“I wonder why,” Sophia mutters.

“It is only a matter of demonstrating good will,” he replies. “If they can see progress on our research, they will understand the necessity of the things we do here. It is not unlike when Valentinus first came to Krat, we will endure as we always have.”

Sophia purses her lips, rolling them together. Simon facing difficulties is good, in her eyes at least. She hates the idea that he could be succeeding so quickly out of her tragedy so push back from the families, despite remembering how frustrating they can be to deal with, makes her inwardly grin, a giddiness bubbling in her chest. She keeps a straight face though, just dipping her head and looking away. Simon places a hand on her shoulder for a moment and walks away, returning only a moment later with one of the Stalkers guarding the lab. The man gives her a bored look.

“I will speak with you again in a few days my dear,” Simon says. “Take care.”

He allows Sophia to slip her arms back into her coat before leaning over slightly and pressing a kiss to the top of her head, just grazing the skin by her hairline. She wishes she could pretend it were Carlo or Romeo, leaning over her in an act of love and protection, but Simon’s beard is scratchy, lips dry and cold against her skin. She shivers despite herself.

–

Sophia is returned to her room just as the sun is setting, a fact that unsettles her. The lab had been windowless, the light low, and it had been easy to lose track of the time she had spent there. At least the sunset is beautiful through her windows, peaches and pinks as the sky darkens into purples and blues.

She washes and changes her clothes, only idly paying attention to the door unlocking in the other room. Her stomach grumbles despite her disinterest, Adriana’s arrival at her door earlier that day coinciding with a lunch she hadn’t received. Sophia leaves her hair undone and shrugs her coat back on. Her rooms are beginning to grow chilly, so she’ll have to broach the subject of having a fire lit with Simon soon.

Sophia returns to the main living area and finds Giangio by the table, fussing and fiddling with a covered plate, cutlery and napkin neatly placed at her usual seat. She both is and isn’t surprised to see him, surprised that after so long he would make the effort to speak with her, although she reasons it was due to her visit earlier. She’s relieved regardless, she feels she needs a friendly face after the time in Simon’s company and Adriana’s threats. Sophia crosses the length of the room and, without really thinking about it, wraps him in a hug that makes him stiffen in her grip. She quickly backs away.

“Sorry, I-”

“No,” Giangio says. He offers her a small smile. “It was just unexpected.”

He waves his hand at the plate and Sophia sits, allowing him to uncover the plate. Chicken, steamed vegetables, a portion of polenta. She watches Giangio take the seat opposite her, placing his hands placidly in his lap.

“Did you eat?” She asks.

“Yes, earlier.”

Sophia nods, a question sitting on the tip of her tongue that she stifles by placing a forkful of beans in her mouth and chewing.

“I’m sorry I haven’t been able to visit sooner,” Giangio says as she eats. “Things have been… unsettled.”

He opens and closes his mouth a few times as he considers exactly what he’s going to say. Sophia only waits, curious as to what could actually be happening amongst the Alchemists.

“Simon had five Alchemists executed the other day,” he eventually says. “Faithful to your father. They were plotting to kill him.”

She has the fork halfway to her mouth as Giangio speaks and it drops with his words, clattering onto her plate and scattering the food. She gasps.

“Executed?”

He nods.

“How? I-”

“Rumour has it that Simon can read minds,” Giangio says bluntly. “That’s how he found out. It’s… bad news for us.”

Sophia can feel herself going faint and cold and Giangio reaches his hand forward, looking as though he wants to take her hand. She doesn’t draw away and he takes it, touch soft and gentle as he carefully runs a thumb over her knuckles. It grounds her, reminding her of loving touches and kinder times.

“Stay calm,” he says softly. “There may be a way around it.”

“How?” Sophia asks. “Just you talking to me- I’m going to speak to him in a few days! He’ll know!”

“Take a deep breath,” Giangio says gently. “In and out.”

He takes an exaggerated breath in and after a moment she replicates it, focussing on copying him and the feeling of his fingers around hers. She’s calming down, feeling more in the moment than worrying about anything else. 

“If you can stay calm, focussed on your sensations in the moment, you may be able to keep him satisfied,” Giangio explains. “As best as I can tell, and that’s only with a few cursory tests, Simon only appears to read surface level thoughts. I kept other things in the forefront of my mind and I received no reaction from him. So if he can read minds, you just need to give him the book you want him to read.”

Sophia nods slowly. She feels very focussed right now and she finds herself searching Giangio’s face, not for anything in particular but as a way to take in his features. Smooth, pale skin with an almost flushed blue undertone, wispy pale hair on his brow where she thought he had none. Some freckling across his nose and cheeks, a beauty mark just above purplish lips. His lank hair is blue, yes, but it seems more like steel, shot through with deep greys that doesn’t speak to a lack of pigment. His eyes are a dark liquid, blue grey, pupils blown wide. Inhumanly beautiful, now that she’s noticed.

“Are you ok?” He asks. “This can’t be easy for you.”

Sophia flushes and quickly removes her hand, picking up her fork to begin shovelling food in her mouth to dissuade having to answer. Unladylike and rude, yes, but she doesn’t quite trust herself to speak.

“There is some good news out of all of this,” Giangio says once he seems to realise she’s not going to respond. “I’ve spoken with one of the Stalkers who used to work with your father. He’s willing to help.”

“That’s-that’s good!” She says, with maybe a little too much enthusiasm. She’d never really spoken with any of the men who her father had employed, but if Giangio had found a loyal, capable, man, then her chances of escape feel greater than they were before. Even if she’s fighting off embarrassment she can’t help the smile stretching across her face. “Who is it?”

He opens his mouth and then stops himself.

“I- Maybe I shouldn’t tell you, just in case.”

“Oh.”

It’s a good idea really. She has spent so much time in Simon’s company anyway, the last thing she needs is a stray thought getting someone else found out. But that doesn’t stop it from dampening her good mood somewhat. The thought of how much she hates Simon crosses her mind for a fleeting second.

“Ok,” she finally says. “It’s a good idea.”

She eats the rest of her increasingly cold meal in silence, Giangio a calm presence on the opposite side of the table. He’s very still when he’s not pretending to be someone else, gaze fixed somewhere over her left shoulder as he loses himself in his own thoughts.

“What do you do here?” She asks, setting her cutlery across her plate and hunching forward a little. The room’s temperature had dropped in the interim and she’s starting to feel the chill, even through the thick wool of her coat. “Are you a botanist?”

“Pharmacist,” Giangio corrects, snapping to attention. “I make medicine.”

“With… plants?”

He nods eagerly.

“Everything unnatural comes from something natural to begin with,” he says. “Plants have been used as medicine for thousands of years, by refining them down we can create something new and useful. It’s the closest thing humans have to true transmutation.”

“Oh.” Sophia thinks on it for a moment. “What about that tree?”

Giangio’s expression immediately drops and he turns his head, avoiding her eyes.

“Let’s not talk about it.”

“I want to know though, Giangio. Why would Adriana be threatening me with that?”

“Because it’s a cruel thing to happen to a person,” he snaps. Giangio sighs and leans back in his chair, rubbing thumb and forefinger over his eyes, peering at her through cracked lids. Sophia finds herself surprised by his reaction, like he’d rather not have to explain himself this time, compared to every other time he’d been so forthcoming with her questions. She pushes.

“I don’t understand though,” Sophia says. “A person can’t become a tree. And Gold Coin Fruit is just a story you tell a child, a metaphor for good fortune.”

Giangio closes his eyes and sighs.

“Listeners used to be much more prevalent in ancient times,” he starts. “Back when we were more connected with the gods, before Ergo had had the opportunity to crystallise as it has. And ancient Alchemists had a better understanding of how to harness it, to twist creatures into shapes more beneficial for the survivors. Simon would call it evolution. Gold Coin Trees are just that, twisted Listeners in a shape more useful. Crying tears capable of doing anything the user wants, lending their power to any that consumed it.”

“That’s… horrible.”

“Well you’ll be pleased to know that Adriana’s threats are hollow. We have no way of creating a new Tree. The method was lost, destroyed long ago,” Giangio says. “That Tree is the last one in all of Krat, possibly even the whole world, and it’s been dead for years.”

Sophia nods solemnly. She twists her fingers together, thinking about that faint touch she had felt earlier, the barest remnant of a long dead woman.

“She’s still there,” Sophia says quietly. “Like a ghost almost.”

Giangio opens his eyes finally and sits upright in the chair, leaning forward to scrutinise her.

“That Tree hasn’t bloomed in years,” he says. “The only thing I have from it is dried fruit, collected long before my time here. What do you mean ‘she’s still there’?”

“Like an imprint,” Sophia says, tilting her head. “I don’t know how else to describe it.”

Giangio hums, his eyes gaining that faraway look they had when she’d been eating. His lips move, no sound escaping them, as he seems to mull over what he’s thinking.

“Could you speak to her?” He asks.

“I don’t know.”

He lapses into silence again as the clock chimes, not making any effort to move. Sophia hadn’t realised how late it had gotten.

“Simon said the tests were going to start soon,” she says as a way to break the silence. “I’m… scared.”

Giangio reaches his hand forward again and she lets him take her hand but the touch isn’t the same. Stiff and formal almost, rather than that gentle comfort from earlier. But his face still twists with expected sympathy, a gentle smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. 

“Stay strong,” he says. “I will come back soon, I promise.”

He stands and collects the plate and cutlery, tidying the space and standing by the door for a moment, hand on the knob for a moment. Sophia shivers. 

“Will you eat dinner with me?” She asks. “Next time?”

Giangio is quiet for a moment before he turns and gives her a small smile. 

“Yes, I can do that,” he replies. “I look forward to it.”

He opens the door and exits the room, the click of the door locking behind him too loud against the sound of her breathing. 

It only now occurs to Sophia that the door had been unlocked this whole time. 

Chapter Text

Giangio is inclined to believe that Simon might not be able to read Sophia’s mind. 

It’s nothing more than a hunch, really. He imagines that Sophia thinks about escaping her tower often, that the conversations they’ve had together occupied her thoughts enough that she’d be thinking about them even when in Simon’s company. He knows he thinks about their conversations often enough. But Giangio hasn’t been confronted by Simon’s loyalists regarding his plans. Aside from Adriana’s spontaneous visit, an effort to intimidate Sophia, he’s seen very little of the other Alchemists. It’s how he prefers it, honestly. 

He wonders why though. What makes Sophia so special that Simon cannot read her mind? Is it some twisted attempt at respecting her privacy? Or a natural gift that Sophia possesses? Giangio wants to know, but further investigation requires revealing that Sophia isn’t at risk of jeopardising the plan, which might in turn raise the question, why can’t Giangio then tell her the plan? Giangio knows why of course, what better way to keep her trusting and dependant when she relies on him for every aspect of her escape?

Giangio lies on his cold, uncomfortable cot and considers everything that has happened over the past month, tapping a thumb against where his missing rib used to be. 

Too much. 

He’s spent a lot of time watching events unfold, and has barely ever had a hand in the performance. A month is nothing compared to his endless lifespan, and yet he suddenly feels as if these last few weeks have lasted him a lifetime. He’s never felt so… present.  

There is a clumsy touch and Giangio allows his mind to go smooth and flat, to make his soul seem like nothing special in the vast sea churning around Arche Abbey. Sophia again, meditating most likely. He wonders what would happen if he allowed her a glimpse of his true self, to plunge into the depths she only skates over. It would be easy really, shattering the ice and allowing her to flounder in the icy water, letting exhaustion drag her limbs down, current tangling around her arms and legs until she lies in the rocky depths, barely able to see the light above her. What is he here? The cruel ocean keeping her bound beneath the waves, or the diver extending a hand and pulling her to safety? Whatever he is, he takes her hand and holds her close and-

The touch recedes, skating over his blank mind, and Giangio throws his forearm over his eyes, letting out a low growl into the empty room.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Giangio mutters.

–

The weather finally turns for the season, bringing endless rain with it. It lashes at the sides of the Abbey, running in rivulets down stone walls and pooling in corridors and walkways. After long weeks of putting it off, Giangio finally completes his winter preparations. He prunes trees and weeds garden beds, and places makeshift barriers over some of the more exposed sections to alleviate any damage likely to be done by gusting wind and rain. He’ll need to do more preparations before the frost sets in, but it will do in the interim.

And when he finds that tensions amongst the Alchemists have settled enough, that Simon’s loyalists will hopefully be on less alert for anything untoward, Giangio makes the trek down to Artefact Storage to speak with Jun. 

Artefact Storage is a large wood and stone warehouse that sits unconnected to the main Abbey, requiring a short walk through the extensive courtyards of the inner walls to reach it. As Giangio crosses the courtyard, making only a token effort to avoid frigid puddles, he walks by the podium Simon had stood on only a few days previously and ordered the deaths of five Alchemists. Someone had made an attempt to clean up the blood streaks but evidently hadn’t had a lot of luck, the pale stone still stained dark. It is not the first time these pavers and bricks have tasted a man’s blood before, and Giangio has a feeling it won’t be the last time either. Gusting wind whips rain under his umbrella, almost ripping the flimsy cloth and metal from his hands, but he holds on tight and continues his trek. 

The warehouse is cold and dark when he finally reaches it, but it is at least dry once he closes the door behind him. There are electrical lights strung along the rafters but the bulbs are dim or not working at all, creating large pools of shadow on the ground. The modern conveniences of good lighting and central heating are yet to reach this building, and will likely continue to be delayed due to a lack of funding and care from Simon and his underlings.  Giangio shakes out his umbrella and sets it in the little stand by the door before approaching the counter. The space is set up not unlike a library, with rows and rows of carefully categorised shelves filled with artefacts, manuscripts and books of all types and ages. It’s typically run by Alchemists, who catalogue and maintain any new material that is discovered by those in the field, and aided by the Stalkers who would often be accompanying them on their archeological trips. The front counter is unattended so Giangio taps his knuckles gently on the smooth wood and makes his way beyond it and into the stacks. 

It’s darker back here, the dusty smell of ancient tomes filling his nostrils as he meanders the rows. His blade is in here somewhere, “donated” many years previously during a bout of frustration and depression that has led to a years long seclusion from modern society. It hadn’t exactly made him feel any better but it did mean when Paracelsus had finally decided to emerge from self imposed isolation that he hadn’t been able to retrieve his blade as easily as he’d initially assumed. 

That’s ok though, Giangio wouldn’t have the first clue on what to do with a blade like that anyway. 

Crumbling paper and parchment, dusty bottles and vials filled with rancid sludge, books falling apart at the spines and old rusty blades and tools all line the shelves, each neatly categorised and labelled. Some have sat here for years, others only months as Alchemists completed their research on the items, determining age, origin and worth before deciding on whether to keep them here or to send them onto other cities and their respective Alchemist sects. Paracelsus had dabbled in artefacts a long, long time ago but when archeologists start uncovering things that you were around for the creation of, they start to lose their interest. At least he can laugh whenever someone with more arrogance than sense mislabels something he’d made with his own hands. 

Behind him, in the direction of the entrance, warm bobbing light comes closer and quick shuffling feet startle as the light plays across the aisle he finds himself in, perusing ancient figurines depicting ancient humans prostrating themselves before inhuman gods. 

“You can’t be back here!” A voice calls. “Nobody’s on duty today, you’ll have to-“

“Jun,” Giangio interrupts. “It’s just me.”

Jun startles a little bit when Giangio turns around. He can imagine what he looks like, hair and clothes dishevelled from the weather, eyes reflecting the lamp light like a cat’s. He gives the other man a small, disarming smile and the Stalker relaxes.

“I was worried,” he says. “With everything… Well I guess I thought that when you didn’t show up immediately I thought you’d chickened out.”

Giangio resists the urge to roll his eyes.

“What’s your plan Jun?” Giangio asks. “I can get Sophia out of her room and off the island on my own.”

It’s Jun’s turn to look disbelieving. He finally lowers the lamp and gestures with his free hand, leading Giangio towards a back room. One of the offices the Alchemists would use as a workspace based on the amount of paper littered on every available surface, interspersed with various artefacts. Jun flicks the electric lights on and closes the door behind them, indicating that Giangio should take a free seat. They flicker slightly overhead.

“Where is everyone?” Giangio asks. Likely fled the island, but getting some confirmation would soothe his curiosity. He takes the seat offered to him and watches Jun walk around the table to the other side, shoving the papers to the side to set the lamp down.

“Well, Andrew was executed,” Jun says matter of factly. “And Elise left the island the next day. Says her sister is sick but I know for a fact she doesn’t have a sister. Did the right thing I’d say, won’t be long until none of us can leave the island.”

“So you’re just… here.”

“Need the job,” he replies. “Even if it’s just standing around guarding an empty warehouse.”

Giangio hums in acknowledgement. 

“So, your plan?”

“Right.” Jun leans forward and extends a hand, waving it around slightly as he begins to speak. “It’s all very well and good to say that we’ll use one of the ships that goes to and from the island to get Sophia out but they’re checking them at the ports, both sides. They’ll find any stowaways easy and if they restrict travel, which I think they will, just leaving for Krat will be even more difficult. And if we take a vessel, people will see. They’ll alert the mainland before we even get there.”

“Yes, but we’ll be bringing Sophia back,” Giangio points out. “Valentinus was well loved, remember, I’m sure the old families will be happy to see her back.” And if he can get Syroy’s support, have them waiting for their arrival, then he won't even have to worry about whether or not the old families care about her survival.

Jun shakes his head.

“They’re bringing in cannons, setting them up on the walls. Regardless of why Simon really decided to start spending your research budget on heavy artillery, he can now very easily start blowing ships out of the water.”

Simon’s paranoia catching up to him, Giangio muses.

“So? The only way on and off the island is by boat,” he says. “We don’t have a choice. I can hide her-“

Jun shakes his head, a slow smile creeping across his face.

“You know how Valentinus used to come to and from the island?”

“He had a personal vessel,” Giangio says. “Submersible. I don’t know where it is though.”

“It’s in Krat,” Jun replies. “Venigni’s repairing it, we had some problems during our last voyage. But once it’s repaired, we could take it. On a dark enough night that thing is practically invisible. No one will see us.”

Giangio finds himself nodding along. It’s a good plan, honestly one that is far better than his own. Maybe the only issue he has with it is, how long will the repairs take? At the moment, Paracelsus finds himself delaying in an effort to see what exactly Simon will get out of his research, to see how far the man will push and what results he will achieve. As much as watching Sophia suffer gets under his skin, he’s desperately curious as to what she’s capable of. But if he’s relying on someone else’s plan Sophia could very well be rescued within the week.

“So how long will it take?”

Jun slumps at the question, leaning back and to the side with his dissatisfaction.

“I don’t know,” he grumbles. “They said it would take some time, the damage was worse than we thought, and now the workers are striking…” He sighs. “It could be a month, it could be several. I don’t have a lot of say in how quickly these things go.”

Giangio nods again.

“So we wait.”

“Yes.”

Giangio finds himself tapping his fingers on the desk, the muffled ta-tump the only sound either of them make. He wonders how much he will tell Sophia later that night. 

“Can I speak with her?” Jun asks. “I want to offer condolences.”

“It might be best… not,” Giangio replies carefully. The other man’s lips thin just slightly, dissatisfaction clear as day. “If Simon can actually read minds, we don’t want him knowing of your involvement.”

He opens his mouth to protest but he seems to realise something and slowly closes it again. He shifts in his chair. 

“You might be right,” he mutters quietly. 

Keeping them separated keeps them dependent on him for contact and planning, something he needs if Paracelsus ever finds he wants to change his plans based on contact from Syroy. He offers Jun a small smile. 

“I’ll let her know,” he says. 

The Stalker nods and checks his watch, nodding to himself again. 

“You'd better go,” he says. “Just to be on the safe side.”

Giangio stands and, after a moment of consideration, sticks his hand out for a handshake. Jun takes it, his grip through brown leather gloves firm. 

“Keep your head down Alchemist,” he says. 

“Likewise,” Giangio replies.

—

There is nothing left to do but wait.

Sophia’s reaction is very careful when he tells her the news, the indication of her disappointment only being the extra force she uses to spear and eat her food. She looks tired, deep bags under her eyes that makes her pale face appear thin and haggard. He hopes she’s eating enough.

“Well that that’s then,” she finally says. 

“I’m sorry,” Giangio says, sincerely. “I-“

“No.” Sophia shakes her head. “Not your fault. Better to do it right than risk being caught and having all of this-“ she waves her free hand around. “Become harder to leave.”

A practical opinion. They continue eating in silence, the sounds of cutlery and chewing filling the room. Sophia is generally a very polite eater but she has moments, usually when she’s sitting with a cup of water half poised to drink, when she eats with her mouth open. She stares off into the distance a lot too, not the Giangio minds. He’s also trying to make it look like he’s doing the same thing but he’s really just watching her out of his peripheral, the way the warm electric lights and flickering candles reflect off her auburn hair, the way her throat bobs with each swallow or how she’ll purse her lips when she’s trying to get food out of her teeth with her tongue. She’s still wearing his coat, he can’t help but notice, but he finds it suits her.

“Do you know how to start a fire?” Sophia asks suddenly.

Giangio tilts his head in confusion and she gestures with her fork to the empty fireplace.

“It’s cold in here and I’ve never had to set one before.”

He nods slowly. Probably had puppet servants to do it for her.

“I do,” he says. “I’ll need to get you some wood from the looks of it…”

“Can you teach me?”

“I can teach you.”

He gathers their plates and takes them down to the kitchens before making the trek back up the Hollow Tower to his gardens. He has quite a bit of leftover wood chips and branches from his last prune, something that he’d been meaning to throw away but hadn’t, so he collects a sack and basket to then bring back. Giangio finds Sophia fussing with the fireplace, having pulled the grating aside and now perched on her hands and knees with her head in the opening. She’s taken her coat off, but left the long lacy sleeves of her white blouse to drag about in what looks like a fairly clean, if slightly dusty, space. She’s tied her hair back too, and when she sits back on her heels Giangio can see the wispy tendrils about her face, cheeks slightly flushed from whatever exertion she had been making. Giangio very quickly makes a point of turning away to set down the things he’s carrying, lest she see the flush on his own cheeks.

“There’s a-a thing in there,” she says, waving her hand about. “I’ve seen the maids do something with it and I thought I’d see if I could find it while you were gone.”

“The damper?” Giangio says. “They were probably opening that up so your room doesn’t fill with smoke.”

“Right.”

Sophia pokes her head back in and continues her fussing, letting out a little pleased noise when she finds what she’s looking for. With a grunt of exertion and the grinding of metal she manages to wrench it open, probably too far, but she sits back on her heels again looking incredibly pleased with herself. Giangio continues to busy himself with the wood, setting it in a neat pile just off to the side before using some of it to make a neat pile in the centre of the fireplace.

“You’ve got a lighter?” He asks.

Sophia nods and goes to get it as Giangio continues setting up a neat pile of sticks and branches for her.

“So this probably won’t go for very long, I’ll need to see about getting proper logs for you,” he tells her. “But set it up something like this. Use the wood chips as your fire starter-“ He takes the lighter and shows her how, carefully feeding smaller twigs to get the fire crackling nicely before he starts adding some of the thicker branches into the flames. Sophia watches with a look of fascinated concentration on her face.

“Thanks Giangio,” she says. “I don’t really like asking Simon for any more than I need to.”

She settles herself on the rug in front of the fire as Giangio finishes getting the fire stoked, noting that she has no tools to maintain and clean the space once it goes out. A problem for later. Sophia pats the spot next to her expectantly.

“I should probably-“

“Just a bit longer?” She asks. “Please?”

He shouldn’t. He really shouldn’t. But there is something about the way the fire reflects off her hair, the way she widens her eyes just enough, softens her expression to implore him. Oh, this is a woman who knows how to get what she wants. 

Giangio relents, sitting cross legged at a reasonable distance next to her as Sophia sighs with contentment.

“It’s been so cold in here,” she says.

Giangio hums. His own rooms are cold and uncomfortable so he won’t deny that spending time here has been pleasant for more than one reason. They sit in agreeable silence, even as the hour grows late and Sophia begins yawning more than once. But Giangio makes no move to leave and she doesn’t seem in any hurry to dismiss him. If anything, he can’t help but notice the way she keeps leaning in his direction, until she finally gives up being subtle and leans her head on his shoulder, closing her eyes with a small sigh. He watches her from this angle, the slight parting of her lips as she breathes, the rise and fall of her chest. He has to shift a little with discomfort when she rubs her cheek against his shoulder slightly, trying to make herself comfortable.

“I don’t understand what Simon wants,” she finally says quietly. “He keeps trying to get me to do weird things.”

“Like what?” Giangio finds himself asking, curiosity winning out over the caution he’s been attempting to exercise.

“He thinks I can move things with my mind,” she scoffs. “Put a chunk of Ergo in front of me and told me to move it without touching it. That’s a circus trick.”

“Well, what can you do?”

“I can talk to puppets,” she says. “Like how they talk to each other. And…” Sophia hesitates for a moment, shifting once again against his shoulder. “I can repair them.”

“What do you mean? That’s-“ He stops himself before he reveals too much.

“It’s like I’m turning back their clock,” she explains. “Like I’m resetting their Ergo to a previous point.”

“And it fixes their bodies too?”

“Yeah.”

Sophia sighs against him again as Giangio finds himself lost in thought, a deep frown on his face. He’s never heard of anything like that, and he’s spoken with a fair few Listeners in his long life. 

“I’m not very good at it,” she says. “But it’s really all I can do. I don’t know why Simon thinks I can do that other stuff though.”

Because all reports of Listener abilities vary wildly depending on who you ask. Even if it’s as weak as Sophia claims it is, it’s an incredibly strong and versatile ability. 

“Maybe you could use that to do what Simon wants?” Giangio prompts.

“Why would I want to?” She asks. Sophia finally pulls away from where she’s been leaning and looks at him, seemingly searching his face for something. He tries to keep his expression blank, maybe even erring slightly on the side of pathetic, and her slight frown softens. “I don’t want Simon to think I’m what he wants. I want him to get bored with me, to realise I can’t help him.”

The unspoken “to let me go” lingers between them. Paracelsus has been watching Simon for some time now, and he knows that once the man has his teeth in something, he’ll shake until it falls apart. Even without entirely understanding why Simon Manus wants his dear princess, Paracelsus knows that Simon won’t let Sophia go just because she isn’t exactly what he wants. He’ll take and take and take, until she fits into the mould he has set aside for her, until he can use her as he sees fit. The thought makes something harsh and violent roil in Paracelsus’ stomach, but Giangio just pats at Sophia’s hand comfortingly.

“We’ll get you out before that becomes a problem,” he tells her. “I promise.”

Chapter Text

The waiting is the worst part.

It’s always been bad but Sophia finds it’s even worse now. There’s nothing to do in her room except wait for something to happen, for an Alchemist to bring her food, for an Alchemist to take her for walks around her floor, for an Alchemist to bring her down to the labs to see Simon. For Giangio to come by to eat dinner with her, to spend her evenings trying to keep her mind off everything that makes her sad and lonely. She’s not sure what exactly draws her to him, whether it’s just her sadness and isolation aching for human connection, the first person to show her any real kindness, or if it really is a genuine attraction to the pale man who holds her at an arm’s length. Maybe, just maybe, if she can show him what she can do for him, what she can be for him, he won’t leave. That the rope she allows him to tie around her neck binds his hands also.

She finds herself thinking about Carlo and Romeo when Giangio’s absence leaves her stomach aching and empty. Carlo used to say she was needy, but they all had been in some way. Left to fend for themselves in a home that didn’t love them, not really, to take the love they wanted from each other until it wasn’t taking but giving. Carlo, with a father who might as well have been dead for all the time he spent with his son, Romeo with no family at all but an aunt who’d rather drop him off on the doorstep and wipe her hands of him, and Sophia, whose father only loved her when he remembered that his home wasn’t as empty as it seemed. Three sad children who had grown into adults who wanted nothing more to love and be loved, with hearts bigger than what was considered strictly polite. She stands in front of the mirror sometimes, skirts hiked around her hips and blouse unbuttoned to her naval and tries to pretend that her roaming hands are someone else’s, that it’s Carlo draping his arms over her shoulders and sucking roses into her neck, that it’s Romeo with his hand between her thighs, kneading and rubbing until she’s crying out his name. And then, when her skin is slick with sweat and her legs are too weak to carry her weight, she sinks to the ground and cries, because it’s only her in these cold empty rooms, and she’s scared that it’s all it will ever be.

—

Sophia sees Simon often over the next few months. He comes to her room several times a week for various reasons. Lunch or dinner together, afternoon tea once. He likes to give Sophia gifts, little trinkets to display on the shelves, hair pins and jewellery, and more books for her to read or destroy for her origami. He brings her another butterfly “for her collection”, which Sophia places just as much importance on as the first one. Simon gives her flowers once, a slightly wilted bunch that Sophia places on the mantelpiece above the fire. The bouquet is only pretty, no thought put into what he’s trying to say with the flowers he gives her, but Sophia pretends it has more meaning than it actually has and it seems to keep Simon’s disappointment at bay for the time being. As best as she can tell, Simon is trying to court her, and it’s a prospect that makes her skin crawl. At least she’s played this social scene before, she knows how to graciously accept gifts she doesn’t want and keep herself aloof enough that hopefully he’ll turn his interest elsewhere. 

He won’t, but at least she’s trying. 

Once a week she is brought down to the hated lab to sit with Simon and undergo whatever strange test or theory he has on his mind. Circus tricks- move this with your mind, make that grow faster, speak without your voice. 

“I can’t do that,” Sophia tells him with a slight laugh. “I just talk to puppets Simon.”

Across the table, Simon shakes his head. 

“You can do more than talk to puppets,” he replies. He gestures to the Ergo chunk of the table with an open palm. “I feel your clumsy attempts every night my dear. I am not a puppet, and yet you speak with me.”

Sophia cringes slightly in her seat. Every night she meditates, flings her mind as far as it can go in an effort to do something with herself. She is beginning to differentiate between souls now, to feel how the shape of humanity is different compared to a puppet, and how each human is different in turn. Simon is still the brightest spark on the island, and she can’t help how she is drawn to him like a moth to a flame. 

“Yes, but that isn’t moving things with my mind,” Sophia insists. She picks the chunk up and moves it from one end of the desk to the other, giving him an exasperated look. “There. My mind made the decision for my hand to move the Ergo chunk, and I did. Can I go back to my room now?”

Simon’s mouth twists with something sour, frustration evident in his expression. He stands, rubs at his beard and clasps his hands behind his back as he begins to walk back and forth. 

“I’ve been lenient with you,” Simon says. There’s a dark edge to his voice as he paces on the other side of the table. “Patient. But I will no longer tolerate your disobedience.”

“I keep telling you,” Sophia replies, trying to keep her voice firm and steady. “I can’t-”

“You can ,” he snaps. 

“ I can’t!”

She doesn’t see the hand, doesn’t see anything but his thunderous expression, but pain explodes across her face with a sharp crack, snapping her head to the side so fast she’s sure she’ll get whiplash. Sophia cries out, in pain, in shock and tries to raise her hand to cradle her cheek but Simon grabs her wrist and pulls her up and forward, hips digging uncomfortably into the edge of the table as he bares his teeth.

“No more excuses,” he growls.

Simon throws her back and the force knocks the chair over, Sophia landing on the hard wooden floor. She’s never been hit before, too good to receive even the smack of a ruler against her knuckles, so she cries, tears streaming down a rapidly swelling cheek. Things had been fine, they’d been going well, Simon had been treating her nicely , his hands a distant memory and now he’s yelling, hauling Sophia to her feet by the scruff of her blouse and pushing her against the table-

“ Move it!” He yells.

“ I-I-“

The other way now, a backhanded swing that has his big, bulbous knuckles colliding with her cheekbone. She wants to curl in on herself, wrap herself in layers of blankets, soothing hands and voices drying her tears and comforting her-

“ It’s ok little bug, a kiss will make it better, won’t it?”

But she can’t focus, not over the yelling, not over the way Simon is holding her down, the Ergo on the table a blurry shape through her tears, big and blue against the vast brown expanse of the desk.

“Maybe you could use that to do what Simon wants?” Giangio asks.

She doesn’t want to do what Simon wants. She’d rather die than give into his whims, allow him to carve her down to a shape he considers useful but he hits her again and she just wants it to stop-

When Sophia repairs puppets she thinks about what they used to be. Imagines wood and porcelain and metal just off the factory floor, new and shiny, smelling of polish and chemicals that make her nose wrinkle. Ergo remembers too. Ergo can remember every shape it has ever had, so she simply asks it “don’t you want to be like that again?” 

Ergo is willing if you ask politely enough. 

So she reaches for the Ergo and asks “do you remember being elsewhere? Would you like to be there again?”

There is a flurry of light, particles twisting in the still air and the chunk of Ergo moves , returning to the spot it had sat in only five minutes previously. It wobbles slightly and settles. 

The silence would be deafening if Sophia’s ears weren’t already ringing. Simon lets go of her wrist to touch the Ergo chunk carefully, picking it up, turning it over in his hands and setting it back down. He looks shocked, like he wasn’t expecting anything to happen. 

“Do it again.”

Sophia, now slumped in her chair, looks up at him warily. Her eyes are hot and swollen, cheeks wet and aching. 

“I-I don’t know how-“

His hand flashes forward and even though Sophia tries to block with her arm, to flinch away, it still catches her on the temple. She shrieks but Simon's voice is louder. 

“ DO NOT DEFY ME!” He roars. 

Trembling, she picks the chunk of Ergo up and moves it across the desk before reaching for it, asking gently, politely despite her fear and like a balm it reaches back, “you will be ok dear princess” it flickers with light and reappears where she had moved it from. 

“Amazing,” Simon breathes. “Amazing.”

He turns to Sophia and she sees something in his eye, a hunger that scares her just as much as the pain and violence of his actions. 

“You are everything I want, my dear,” he says. “It just seems you need a little… persuasion.”

—

They keep going until Sophia can no longer concentrate, pain and fatigue overriding whatever fear she may have had for Simon’s hand. 

“I think we are done for the day,” Simon says, voice half an ocean away. “You always do splendidly my dear, whenever you finally put aside your petty disobedience.”

She’d spit on him if she could feel her lips.

He checks his watch and looks past Sophia, gesturing for one of the Stalker guards by the door. The man hauls Sophia to her feet, grunting when she doesn’t bother to support her own weight. Simon ignores this display, and shuffles the papers onto his desk into some kind of order, taking his pen out and beginning to make marks on the notes he’d been taking during their session.

“Dinner tomorrow perhaps, my dear? It’s late now and I still have to finish here…”

She’d rather have dinner never with him but Simon doesn’t seem to be expecting an answer, only waving his hand dismissively to the Stalker.

The man hauls Sophia out of the lab and through the long corridors and flights of stairs back to her room. He gives up trying to make her walk and instead picks her up and cradles her close, far gentler than any of the other Stalkers had been with her up to this point. It’s difficult to see his face, one side of her vision is fuzzy and almost black, but he has the foreign features of the Country of the Morning, golden skin and slanted eyes. He’s frowning and silent the whole time as he brings her back, lips pursed into a thin line.

For once her room is a welcome sight, the Stalker unlocking the door and depositing her in one of the armchairs. He dithers, almost like he wants to do something.

“Get… out,” Sophia croaks. Just let her wallow in peace.

“You’re-”

“ Get out!” She tries again, voice stronger. Her head screams in agony the moment she raises her voice but the man startles at the force behind it. He curses under his breath and turns on his heel, leaving the room quickly.

Sophia stays slumped in the armchair for a long while. She needs to do something about her injuries, although what she isn’t necessarily sure. She’s at least fairly certain nothing is broken, her nose only feels tender from the few times it had received a glancing blow and even though her wrist aches she can at least still move it. What she really wants to do is sleep, but the room is cold and she’s having a problem concentrating on what she needs to do to be warm again. More layers? A fire? A fire could be good, but there’s a lot that goes into preparing the fireplace and she’s too tired for that. A bath maybe, and then she can try and soak out the worst of her aches and pains. Decision made, she clumsily rises and makes her way over to the bathroom, leaning heavily on furniture and door frames as she goes. 

It’s even colder in the bathroom, especially when Sophia clumsily removes her shoes and begins to pad about the tiles in socked feet. But, she’s still able to get the water running, remembering the plug almost as an afterthought, and then begins undressing completely. Coat, neatly folded onto the laundry basket, then everything to follow in a messy pile on the floor. The tub is still filling by the time she is undressed so she sits on the pile of clothes, legs splayed out on the chill tiles as warm steam fills the room. She could probably rest like this honestly, the warming air is nice against her skin and resting her head back against the wall actually isn’t all that bad for her pounding headache. She can feel her one good eye closing, her breathing evening out-

“ Sophia!”

“Giangio?” She slurs.

The Alchemist swears and Sophia hears the sound of the tap being shut off before arms are being wrapped around her and she is lifted off the ground.

“My bath,” she mutters.

“Don’t fall asleep on me,” Giangio replies, apparently not having heard her. Sophia is able to crack her good eye open to the sharp light of her rooms as the man carries her from the bathroom and back into the lounge area. She whines.

“You have a concussion Sophia,” he says, something like exasperation tinging his worried tone. “If you pass out in there you’ll drown.”

“Good,” she mutters. She hears Giangio let out a huff.

He carries her over to her bedroom and she feels herself been laid down on the bed. He fidgets with her, finally managing to get her under the covers and propped up by what feels like every pillow in her room before his hands leave. She’s still cold, maybe even more so.

“Giangio,” she moans. His dark shape reappears in the doorway and she makes a valiant effort to open her eyes properly so she can see him properly. “‘M still cold.”

“I’ll do something about that,” he says gently. He walks over to her bedside and places a big bag down, opening it to begin pulling out indistinct things from its depths. “I need to treat your injuries first. I’d ask how they happened but I already know.”

Sophia stops looking at him because turning her neck is starting to make her headache worse and instead gazes straight up instead, taking in the plush canopy of her bed. Maybe it will fall on her.

“Are you a mind reader too now?” She asks.

“I was told,” Giangio says. 

His fingers are lightly pressing on sections of her face and she hisses and winces with each featherlight touch. He swears again.

“It was “ encouragement” ,” she says, trying to emphasise the last word. “I was being disobedient -”

Giangio’s hand stops just above her skin, fingers twitching just slightly as his face mottles in splotchy colours, dark and pale all at once, his jaw tightening at her words. He turns quickly, hiding his expression behind a curtain of blue hair as he pulls a jar of something golden from the bag. Oh, he cares. Does he realise? She hopes he’ll do something about it.

“This will help,” he says quietly. 

Featherlight touches again that both sting and soothe, across cheeks and eyelid, along her lips and jaw, smearing golden cream into her skin. He traces down her neck but stops just shy of the blankets. 

“Where else did he hit you?” Giangio asks.

“Arms a bit,” Sophia says. “He missed.”

He lets out a sharp breath of air through his nose, not quite a snort, but reaches under the blankets for her arms. He inspects the bruising, covers it with a sheer layer of cream and then gently places them in her lap. The covers have gone slightly askew, exposing the tops of her bare breasts, but Giangio doesn’t seem to notice, too focussed on her medical attention rather than the fact that he’d carried her, naked, from the bathroom and tucked her into bed. Should she draw attention to it? She’s never been too worried about it with Romeo and Carlo but this is Giangio . It’s very indecent. 

He’s looking at her expectantly now. 

“Are you with me?” He asks. 

“Um…”

“Are you able to focus on me? I need to ask some questions.”

Sophia nods, wincing when her headache flares.

“Name?”

“You know my name,” she replies.

“I need to know if you know your name,” Giangio says. “You have a concussion, but I don’t know how bad it is.”

“How do you know I have a concussion?”

He huffs, clearly annoyed that she’s not answering his question.

“Because your face is black and blue and when I found you, you were passed out on the floor of the bathroom with an overflowing tub.”

Sophia’s headache flares with her indignation and she opens her mouth to protest but Giangio just gives her a look. She closes her mouth and pouts.

“I want a mirror,” she snaps.

“After.”

“Now.”

He looks exasperated again.

“If I get you the mirror will you answer my questions?”

She nods and Giangio sighs, standing and exiting the room. Sophia can hear him moving about in the other room and she hears him enter and exit the bathroom before he finally reappears holding her coat. She sits up properly, the blankets falling away, and she takes it when he hands it to her, gratefully slipping her arms into the warm wool and snuggling back down. She watches him go to her vanity, opening a few drawers at random, before he finally finds the little silver hand mirror Simon had given her. Giangio passes that to Sophia as well and she finally gets to see the extent of the damage.

It’s… not as bad as she was expecting considering the amount of pain she had been in. Now that she thinks about it, carefully prodding at the eye that is only swollen half shut, she feels less disoriented, less sore. There’s still blotchy bruising across the majority of her face, and the swelling is still quite severe, but it looks like it should have been much worse.

“Why isn’t this worse?” Sophia asks, lowering the mirror and looking at Giangio expectantly.

“It was.” He reaches out and runs gentle fingers along her jawline, tracing the edges of a blotchy red-purple bruise. She can’t help the way she leans into the touch, even though it sparks with pain. “The ointment, something new I thought would work.”

“Trying your experiments on me?”

His mouth twists a little and he nods, almost like he’s uncomfortable to admit it. Sophia hums.

“My name is Sophia,” she says. He looks at her blankly for a moment but seems to realise what she’s finally responding to. His hand lingers, knuckles poised under her chin before he finally sits on the bed next to her.

“Age?”

“I’m twenty-two.”

“Your parents?”

“Valentinus and Isabelle Monad. Both deceased.” She tries not to let her throat close up at the thought.

“Do you know what month it is?” Giangio asks.

“No.” Sophia cringes a little as he studies her. “I just don’t know, I haven’t been keeping track. It’s still 1891 though… right?”

Giangio nods slowly.

“It’s October,” he says. 

“Oh.”

Both longer and shorter than she expected. She slumps back against the pillows and holds the mirror up again. Already, the dark blotchy bruise on her jaw has faded to a sickly yellow-green.

“What was in that cream?” She asks.

“Gold Coin Fruit,” Giangio says after a quiet moment. He watches her for some kind of reaction but she stays quiet, lowering the mirror again and staring up at the canopy. She’s starting to feel tired again, and sad too.

“Can I go to sleep?”

“You have a concussion,” Giangio says, as if that answers her question.

“Well I don’t feel like I do anymore,” she says. “I’m tired, I’m still cold, and Simon is going to come for dinner tomorrow and tell me about what a success that test was now that I’m not being disobedient.”

Giangio’s expression twists again and she watches his hands twitch on the blankets. They had been so gentle and careful with her, soft and soothing as Giangio had cared for her. She wonders what else they could do. Could they be rough, pull and pinch at her flesh at her request, leave bruises in the shape of his fingerprints? She always loved it when that happened, scandalous marks that showed who she belonged to, a secret kept only by the sheerest lace. They’re different, Giangio’s hands, long and spindly compared to Simon’s short and blunt fingers. Delicate, like an insect’s.

He’s looking at her again.

“I said, I wanted to ask you another question,” he says patiently. “To make sure your concussion is healing.”

“What did you want to know?”

“You were in a relationship with someone,” he says. “What was his name?”

Why would he bring that up, now of all times? Sophia looks away from him and she feels Giangio shift uneasily on the bed. She hunches in on herself, even though it still hurts, now feeling even more miserable.

“Carlo,” she mutters. “Carlo Geppetto. We’ve been courting for three years now.”

“Courting? Not engaged?”

“It’s complicated.”

Giangio seems to ponder that for a moment and Sophia finally looks back at him. He’s evidently thinking but it’s that blank expression that he often has, that one she can’t read yet.

“Simon killed him, the night he abducted me,” she finally explains. “Ro- My Stalker guard, he went to get help.” She can only assume that’s what Romeo was doing. God, she hopes he’s ok.

“I’m sorry,” Giangio says quietly. He reaches his hand out and pats it on hers soothingly and she has to angrily scrub at her eyes with her free hand, even though it hurts, when she finds the tears prickling at the corners.

“Can I go to sleep?” She repeats. “Please?”

He purses his lips. He looks almost ready to protest again, to insist that she stay awake and answer his stupid questions but he slumps slightly and finally nods. 

“You can rest,” he tells her. 

—

He leaves the room long enough for Sophia to redress, disappointment clutching at her heart. She’s still cold, she still hurts, she’s still lonely. Every now and then she used to read trashy novels, the kind where a woman in a sheer nightgown was whisked away by a dashing ne'er-do well- a pirate, a vampire, a hunk with too many muscles and an animalistic thirst. They were stupid really, she was already living her own fantasy with two handsome men, dark and light, who would ravish her whenever she wanted. There was a hint of danger, of scandal if someone found out the elicit things they did behind closed doors. She didn’t need books for that. 

Now, she wants the brave knight, the clever fool to break into her tower room and sweep her away, skirts billowing in the wind as he holds her tight. In her mind's eye he has hair of spun gold, of dark warped metal, and he dresses in armour of gold and silver, in robes of black as night. He saves her, they kiss and his hand-

Sophia crawls back into bed and once again inspects her face. Most of the swelling is gone by now, the bruising mostly faded. One of her eyes is still black and slightly bloodshot, but she has no doubt it will be entirely gone by the morning. Truly a miracle.

Giangio taps lightly on the door and pokes his head in, entering once he sees her back in bed. He looks uncomfortable and she finds himself softening despite herself. It’s not his fault, he’s trying his best.

“I’m going to sit with you for a bit,” he says. “Just to make sure you're ok when you’re sleeping.”

Sophia nods and settles back into the sheets as Giangio turns the light off. She can hear him shuffling about in the dark, evidently finding and sitting in the chair she’d pulled in from the living room based on the slight squeak of wood. She can hear his breathing, slow and steady, lulling her to sleep and she gives into oblivion gratefully.

The island is vast, but not so vast anymore. She can trace the shape of it, can feel each mote of soul as it moves about. Most are sleeping, a few stand on duty or in labs, lost in their work. Still too indistinct to do anything with, and none would be aware of her touch even if she were strong enough to connect with them. Simon sits at the centre, his soul sharp and clear in the muddy water, and she skates around it. She feels the way his interest piques but she keeps herself as far as she can manage, barely touching his sticky web with iridescent wings. At least, like this, he cannot touch her unless she wishes it. 

But there is something closer to her. She feels it every time she flings her Ergo beyond herself, a pond with a still glassy surface and a bottom seemingly within reach. Always frozen over. She’s never tested the ice, never tried to place her weight upon it to see how it will hold, but she’s always found herself hovering above it, too curious to let it entirely be. She knows it’s someone, she wouldn’t be so aware of it otherwise. She places a hand on the surface and finds it cool to touch, a slight fizz when she draws her hand away. She tries again, an open palm on the surface and in the clear water something dark stirs to attention, casting a vast shadow across the endless bottom. She leans forward, to try and catch a glimpse of who it might be and the shape lunges, surging upwards and grabbing her sore wrist in an indistinct hand. 

“Sophia-“

“Good morning my dear,” Simon says. 

Sophia jerks awake, automatically bringing her hands up to protect her face. Realising the blow isn’t coming, she lowers her hands and wriggles further under the blankets a little petulantly. She’s glad she’d been in the right frame of mind to redress before drifting off to sleep as Simon stands at the foot of the bed, his expression impassive. 

“Who visited you last night?” He asks. 

“I don’t know,” she lies. She focuses on Simon’s stupid ugly face, desperately trying to keep his face from her mind. 

He just continues to look at her, only a slight frown on his face now. He goes to take a step closer and Sophia immediately flinches. 

“You look well,” Simon says evenly. “I want to know which of my colleagues attended you.”

Sophia just shakes her head again. 

“I don’t know,” she repeats. “I don’t pay attention to which one of your cronies comes to my room.”

His mouth thins at that. 

“I see.”

Simon finally walks around the bed, sitting next to her on the covers as Giangio had done the night previously. She tries to move away but the safety of her covers constrict her, tangling around her body and preventing her from getting away. He pats her arm.

“I am glad you are well,” he says softly. “Yesterday was a lapse, for both of us, but it has shown that if you just obey-”

“You hurt me!” Sophia cries. “Simon, I had a concussion, those are bad-”

“And you were disobedient,” he says, cutting her off. “You wouldn’t allow a dog to snap and bite would you? You need a firm hand to train animals.”

She finds her mouth going dry, half agape as she struggles to articulate her response.

“I-I- Simon-”

The hand on her arm tightens and she feels her throat close up in panic.

“Let this be a lesson you learn quicker than a dog, my dear,” Simon continues. He leans close, until she can feel his hot, heavy breath on her face, see the white flash of teeth in the dark hair of his face. His presence is overwhelming like this. “Here, I am your master, and I will no longer tolerate your disobedience. Do you understand?”

Sophia nods.

“With words.”

“Yes,” she chokes out.

“Yes what?”

She’s drowning, falling below the waves as he leans over her, forcing his crushing will onto her. There is no escape, not from this.

“Yes, sir.”

Simon leans back and stands, reaching his hand forward and placing it atop her head, a gentle caress through sleep tangled hair. She can’t move any further away and like with every other touch, she freezes in place.

“Good girl.”

Chapter Text

Artefact Storage is a good place to have a mental breakdown because no one works there anymore, less so because of all the old, valuable items he so desperately wants to break.

Jun paces circles in the abandoned office, probably wearing grooves into the dusty floors with his hard boots, but he can’t stop. He’s seen men get hurt, seen drunks get punched and lose teeth, seen trainee Stalkers walk back to their bunks with shiny purple bruises on their cheeks and wide grins from a good sparring session. But this-

God.

He hopes he did the right thing by getting Giangio.

On the desk, a letter from the Venigni Workshop sits half crumpled from the countless times he’s read it. Delivered last week, already opened. 

We regret to inform you of delays to our operations , it reads. Due to ongoing supply chain issues and staffing shortages, operations will continue to be impacted. We appreciate your patience in these trying times. 

Already, the submersible had been in the Workshop for far longer than Jun would have assumed. What had seemed to be minor cosmetic damage had turned into faulty wiring and rusty, water damaged internals, turning a few weeks at most into several months worth of repairs. Parts needed to be shipped in from other cities or custom made, installed manually by human engineers rather than machines or puppet mechanics. But worker strikes were now leading to weeks worth of factory shut downs and the import of goods was being delayed through harsh checkpoints being enforced by Krat’s old families. Delay, after delay, after delay. And now Simon was escalating. Jun thought it couldn’t get any worse, but now he worries the Alchemist is only just now scratching the surface. 

There is the squeak of the door opening and closing, the rushing sound of wind and rain and Jun stops his pacing to go see who might be visiting him. There are still a few Alchemists continuing their normal projects, having not been pulled away to research the Petrification Disease at Simon’s request, so he still gets a few visitors requesting items. It is very much not his job to be parcelling out items and maintaining Artefact Storage but there’s no one else to do it. 

He should probably ask for a raise but that would mean talking to Simon or, god forbid, Adriana, and both were a scary prospect even under normal circumstances. 

He finds Giangio standing near the entrance, hanging his umbrella up to drip by the front door. He’s certainly a dishevelled fellow, too short to be a standard size and obviously not interested in getting his clothes tailored to fit, his hair always lank and tangled by the wind. Even Jun, barely appearance conscious at all, had made sure he invested in clothes that fit and kept his hair braided out of the way. If the man didn’t have hair such an interesting shade of blue, Jun would have written him off completely. 

Giangio stands and scrubs the water from his face for a moment and finally gives Jun a nod in greeting. 

“How is she?” He demands. 

Giangio sighs and walks forward, indicating that they shouldn’t be having this conversation in the doorway. Begrudgingly, Jun follows the Alchemist into the dark shelves beyond the counter, finally settling in a dark, dusty corner by some of the weaponry. He runs his fingers along an especially strange blade, two joined circles decorated with a snake eating its own tail. 

“Sophia was well when I left her this morning,” Giangio finally says. “She had a concussion but it cleared up. She should be fine now, but I wasn’t able to check.”

Jun finds himself opening and closing his fist, the slight squeak of leather as he grips tighter every time. It’s good news, but it doesn’t calm him. 

“We need to get her out now ,” he insists. “This is just the beginning, Simon-“

“It’s always been just the beginning,” Giangio interrupts wearily. 

“So we need to get her out now-“

“Without the submersible?” Giangio gives him a pointed look. “I agree that Sophia shouldn’t be here any longer than necessary but if we need that submersible we don’t have any choice but to wait.” He sighs and finally faces Jun fully. “What’s the news?”

“More delays,” Jun grumbles. “I’m going to head to the mainland once the storm passes, see if I can do anything.”

Giangio nods. He stands there, oddly still as he seems to be thinking something over while Jun fidgets with the cuffs of his coat. He would have tried to take the afternoon ferry into Krat if the storm hadn’t rolled in when it had, and like every delay, it makes him physically itchy. He scrubs a hand along his jaw, wincing a little at the scrape of leather against unshaven skin, and tries not to pick. 

“We need to stop Simon,” Jun declares. 

There’s a sceptical tilt to Giangio’s expression but he doesn’t say anything, only nodding slightly as if to say “go on”.

“People need to know he’s responsible for killing Valentinus, and that he’s torturing people for… whatever he’s doing.”

Again, no expression change from Giangio. 

“You’ll need evidence,” he says evenly. 

“I’ll get evidence,” Jun replies firmly. “And I’ll tell everyone. He’ll go to prison for what he’s done.”

“Well I just hope you can do it quick enough to help Sophia,” Giangio says. 

—

It takes three days for the weather to be considered safe enough for the ferry to make the crossing to Krat so Jun takes the time to come up with Plan B.

He arrives in Krat at midday and pulls his hat low on his head, the wide oiled brim doing little to keep the fine mist of rain off his face. The docks are busy despite the weather, fishermen selling their daily catches, stalls of trout and bass, baskets full of shellfish. Merchants speaking with customs officers trying to bring in fancy foreign products, Syroy cloth merchants bringing in the highest quality materials for the latest Krat fashions, finely crafted furniture and glassware for the newly elevated middle class. Jun’s countrymen are the loudest group, expensive trade visas doing little to expedite the import of fine weaponry. It’s loud, it’s wet and cold and it smells too much like a sewer.

“I hate it here,” Jun mutters.

The Venigni Workshop has a space located within the dock area, a series of interconnected warehouses and workshops for the maintenance and construction of any of Venigni’s dockside products. Unlike the rest of the docks, puppets move to and fro, carrying crates and performing basic maintenance tasks under the supervision of humans. Unlike the last time he was here a chain link fence has been erected around the perimeter, keeping out a small crowd of strikers. They stare at him with mean eyes and hard mouths as he approaches the booth by the entrance, signs held almost like clubs with the way they mill about.

“Good afternoon,” Jun says, greeting the booth attendant. 

“If you insist.” The man in the booth blows smoke in Jun’s direction, smoke coiling through the protective wooden slats of the window. “What do you want?”

“I’m here to speak to the foreman,” Jun replies. “D’Angelo.”

He reaches into his pocket and pulls out the submersible’s work order, passing it quickly through the slats so it won’t get too wet. The man inspects it dully before passing it back.

“She’ll be in her office,” the man says. “Follow the fence around until you see your Stalker buddies. Give ‘em-“ He pulls a small stub of yellow paper out of a book and feeds that through the slats too. “Give ‘em this. They’ll make you give up your fancy sword most like, but we can’t take too many risks with all these rabble rousers hanging around.”

Jun nods in a “well what can you do” kind of way as he pockets the stub and work order. He gives the man a casual salute and begins following the fence in the direction indicated, ducking around a corner between two buildings to do so. As explained, two Stalkers sit under a little overhang smoking and playing cards. The one facing Jun’s direction indicates to his companion and they both stand casually, stepping forward to meet him.

“Spoke with your guy in the booth,” Jun says by way of greeting. He pulls out the stub and shows it to them like a peace offering.

“Yeah, and we keep telling ‘im that anyone can come up with something like that,” one of them laughs. “Can’t let you in buddy, foreman’s orders.”

“I need to speak with the foreman actually,” Jun replies. “Happy to wait here if you go get her. I have a work order to discuss.”

“That’s what they all say,” the other one mutters.

The first one sighs.

“C’mon, I’ll take you in. Leave y’sword here.”

Jun unbuckles the sheath of his hwando and hands it to the man staying behind, giving him a flat look when he thumbs at the guard to catch a glimpse of the blade’s bright metal.

“I want that back when I’m done,” he says.

“Just lookin’,” the man says petulantly. “I ain’t never seen one of the swords you yellow dogs use.”

Jun fights the urge to roll his eyes and follows the first man through as he unlocks the gate they’re both guarding. The yard around the warehouses is muddy and the water sucks at their boots even as they try to move quickly to get out of the rain. The puppets, mostly human sized, move at a much more careful and deliberate pace through the drizzle due to their heavier weight and fragile joints. Most are carrying crates of supplies, a few working in groups to get large pieces of machinery from one building to the next. There are only a few real people moving through the yard, another Stalker at the entrance to the main building nodding at them as they walk through and into the cold space. There are more puppets here, scurrying about under the command of their human supervisors who stand around with board clips filled with sheaves of paper and cigarettes between their lips. The Stalker leads Jun to the back of the building and up a set of stairs to an office where an older woman with short, greying hair sits at a desk, writing what appears to be a letter. She scowls when the Stalker knocks.

“What do you want?” She demands.

“Stalker to see you boss.”

Her scowl deepens when she notices Jun.

“Alright,” she says. “You-“ She points at him. “Sit. I’ll send him out when I’m done, Luca.”

Jun sits as the man leaves, leaving him alone with Nicola D’Angelo, one of Venigni’s head engineers and the foreman for this location. They’ve only had the pleasure of speaking once, a few months previously when Jun had handled placing the initial work order on Valentinus’ behalf. In the meantime, Jun had been receiving generic letters from the workshop detailing the delays they were experiencing, probably not penned by her hand. She doesn’t look happy that Jun had shown up, unannounced, to speak to her about the delays, although he couldn’t exactly blame her. He was probably one in a long line of people doing the same thing.

“You want to know where your sub is,” D’Angelo states, setting her pen down. She rummages through a drawer and pulls out a cigarette case, sticking a pre-rolled one in her mouth and lighting it. “Don’t know what to tell you sir, it’s not ready yet.”

“Circumstances have changed,” Jun says. “We need it now, regardless of the repairs it needs.”

“No can do,” she replies. She inhales deeply and exhales out of the side of her mouth and holds her hand out to start ticking things off. “Big section that we’ve ripped off the front so we can get to all that shitty wiring, that’s gotta be fixed. All that rusting around the doors and windows, so that’s plating and seals we have to replace. And Mister Venigni took the battery.”

“What-” Jun frowns. “Venigni took the battery?”

“Yessir. Saw it as an excellent opportunity to make a better one so he took the whole damn thing. Watched him take it apart myself.”

Jun slumps back in the chair, suddenly feeling exhausted. D’Angelo gives him an understanding look.

“When Mister Venigni decides he wants to do something, he goes and does it,” she says. “Even if it causes problems for others. At the very least, it’s not going to cost any extra.”

“So how much longer then?” He asks.

“Can’t say. The workers we need are all striking at the moment and we had another delay with getting the materials for the seals. So, seals alone could be another few weeks, getting workers in…” She exhales another cloud of smoke. “Personally I’d prefer to get the old guys back, they know their way around the gear better than anyone, but if I have to hire, I have to hire.”

“What do they want?” Jun asks. “Surely you can just… give them what they want?”

“Too many puppets,” D’Angelo replies. “We’ve got them filling in for all sorts of menial tasks, meant that anyone who was just a factory hand was let go. Not my decision. Had a lot of people walk out in solidarity.”

“Oh.”

“They want their jobs back and who can blame ‘em.” She sighs and scrubs a hand over her eyes. “Puppets are great for giving you extra time to do other things but if you don’t have a job, how are you going to feed yourself? Lots of people don’t have the skills to compete with puppets for those skilless jobs.”

They both sit in silence, her words hanging heavily between them. Jun’s position could never be replaced by a puppet, they were forbidden to hurt humans after all, and D’Angelo likely still held hers due to many years of training and expertise. But there were many men and women who, despite years of experience within their jobs, could be fired from their jobs and replaced by a puppet, who could work faster, more reliably and for far cheaper. Puppets could not fill every position, but the ones available required training that many did not have the money to pay for. The puppet boom had really only been a recent occurrence in the short history of modern Krat, and already a solution would need to be reached if the city hoped to prosper.

“So what about that battery then?”

D’Angelo waved an airy hand and finally stubbed out her cigarette in the overfilled ashtray.

“If Mister Venigni can get more Golden Ergo then I’m sure it will be restored sooner rather than later. Just have to wait for the exploratory team to get back.”

Jun rolled his eyes. He’d only heard the story about how the Golden Ergo had been found, a massive vein found deep within the mines to the north-west. The mines that way had long since dried up of their precious coal and metals but Ergo miners still crawled through the old tunnels, searching for the barest whiff of vibrant blue crystals. Venigni was likely paying them top prices for the barest hint of Golden Ergo.

“So that’s that then,” Jun says.

“Sorry I can’t be more help,” D’Angelo says with a nonchalant shrug. She doesn’t really sound all that sorry. “I’ll get you updated, as I already have been.”

Jun stands, feeling he’s beginning to overstay his welcome and shakes her hand when she holds it out.

“I look forward to it.”

–

The fine drizzle has turned into a steady patter by the time Jun exits D’Angelo’s office and collects his hwando from the Stalkers guarding the side gate. He holds his coat tight around him, tips his hat low, and goes looking for Medoro.

The two of them had been friends since they were teens, two immigrant children in the same boarding house hoping to make a better life for themselves in the city of the future. Jun’s sister was only five at the time, his only surviving family after the worst storm Krat had ever seen had sunk their boat, killing his parents and destroying whatever chance they had at a good start in a new city. Medoro, at least, seemed to know what he was doing. He’d been in Krat for exactly six months longer than Jun and had taken the two under his wing, getting Jun a job at the local factory while little Yoo-Jin had been boarded at the Charity House for better access to food, clothing and education. The two had gone into Stalking together, and even though their career paths had diverged they stayed close friends. 

Jun checks his watch and makes his way to the Venigni Print House where Medoro would likely still be. As much as working as a medic in Stalker groups had paid the bills when they were first starting out, Medoro had shifted his focus to journalism, using his field skills to aid in what he called “investigative reporting”. 

“Where there’s a mystery, there’s a story,” he’d once said. “And everyone loves a good story.”

The Print House at first appears to be a squat office building within the business district of Krat, and the front portion of it is, but the rear of the block is taken up by a large warehouse-like space for the newly installed printing presses built by Venigni Works. It’s a busy place, young men and women walking to and fro with stacks of paper while others sit at their desks clacking away on typewriters or scratching new stories onto paper with leaky pens. A pretty young woman sits at a receptionist’s desk, one ear glued to the receiver as she takes notes with her free hand, so Jun waits until she’s finished before he approaches the desk.

“Hi there,” she says sweetly. “What can I do for you today?”

Despite the disappointing start to his day and all of the building stress and anxiety from the past few months, Jun allows himself a charming smile, doffing his hat as he settles in front of her. She blushes prettily.

“Just looking for Medoro, sweetheart,” he says. “You wouldn't have happened to have seen him?”

“Oh! He’s-” She turns and looks over her shoulder, standing on tippy toes to get a better look. “Looks like he’s at his desk. Would you-”

“I’ll go over.” He gives her a little bow and she presses her fingers to her mouth to hide her smile.

Jun sweeps past her desk and into the open office space, easily sidestepping the people as they move about. A few stop and watch him go, clearly not expecting to see an armed Stalker in their workplace, but he is mostly ignored as he makes his way over to Medoro. His oldest friend is seated at his desk, big, thick glasses perched on a hook nose as he holds a piece of paper close to his face, clearly cross referencing it with one on his desk. When he notices Jun, Medoro removes his glasses and stands, stepping out from behind the desk with his arms held wide. He laughs when Jun returns the embrace.

“Jun, you bastard, finally decided to come back to the mainland!”

“Yeah, yeah.” He pulls away, unable to contain the big grin stretching his cheeks. It’s always good to see Medoro. “You’ve gained weight.”

“You would too with the amount of sitting down I do,” he replies with a noise of disgust. “Had to put another notch in my belt the other day.”

Jun smirks as Medoro finally pulls away, waving a dismissive hand.

“So what brings you here then?” Medoro asks. “Can’t just be for my handsome face.”

“Have lunch with me?” Jun asks. “I’ve been dying for a good lobster mornay.”

Medoro’s expression immediately drops into something sombre and serious, recognising their old code for trouble. He collects his coat and bag, waving goodbye to a few people as the two of them head out. They keep the banter light but every now and then, Medoro will steal a glance in Jun’s direction, concern writ clear as day across his face. 

They go to the Red Lobster Inn, partly because it’s an old haunt of theirs but also because they know it’s somewhere they can get a table and not be overheard. They settle themselves into a corner, order oversized pies and get down to business. 

“So what’s the story?” Medoro asks. “Last time you invoked trouble it was because you were having girl problems.”

Jun grimaces. 

“Yeah I said it was like-“

Medoro laughs at his indignation. 

“Sure. What mess am I pulling you out of this time?”

“I think I’m pulling you into one to be completely honest.” He slumps forward and takes a big gulp of his wine, almost gagging at the strong, sour taste. Medoro chuckles at his expression before holding his hand out for Jun to continue.

“So.” A big sigh. “I know where Sophia Monad is.”

“Um.” Medoro’s eyes go wide and he purses his lips while he thinks. “Ok. What?”

“Sophia Monad is alive.”

“I get that.” Medoro rubs at his eyes for a moment, buries his head in a hand before finally reaching down into his bag and pulling out a notebook and pen. It’s at this moment a waitress comes by and sets their food down but both of them ignore it beyond a brief ‘thank you’.

“Ok, let me get this straight,” he starts. “Sophia Monad, last member of the Monad family, missing from her family home after it burns down and kills her father and boyfriend. You’re telling me she’s alive? Why aren’t you going to the police with that kind of information?”

“Because the Alchemists have her,” Jun says. “Simon Manus abducted her.”

Medoro nods in understanding, albeit with a slight tinge of exasperation.

“So you want me to… write a story?”

“Simon is insane,” Jun says. “He’s got his Alchemists researching the Petrification Disease-“

“Need that,” Medoro mutters.

“But Sophia is locked up like a prisoner and brought out for experiments. He beat her the other day, really badly. He’s assaulted her too. And that’s only what I’ve seen.”

His friend makes a few notes and rubs at his nose with the blunt end of his pen.

“We’re getting her out,” Jun continues at a slightly lower volume. “But… well I want Simon ruined. We can all give a statement for every bad thing Simon’s ever done, give the police proof even, but he knows how to make things go away. There’s a reason prime suspect Simon Manus wasn’t investigated for Valentinus’ death more thoroughly.”

“So… you’re saying police corruption?” Medoro asks, interest piqued. 

“Most likely. Listen, if you can spill a story about Simon Manus kidnapping Sophia Monad, complete with proof on every fucked up thing he’s doing on that island, imagine what could happen! Worst case scenario it causes a public scandal, but that’s what we need. We get Sophia out and there’s no stopping that bastard from just trying again.”

“Cause a bit of scandal, make Krat a hard place for Simon to be,” Medoro says, catching onto what he’s saying. “It could work.”

“It will work.”

“It better,” his friend says. “I do this and I paint a huge target on my back. I’ll need proof, definitive proof, for me to even touch this with a foot long stick.”

“I’ll get it,” Jun says. “Photos, documents, whatever you need.”

Medoro hums and Jun finally picks up his fork to begin eating. The pie is cold, sticky where the filling has congealed.

“I’ll need to do my own research,” he finally mutters. Medoro sighs and looks up at Jun, running a hand down his face. He looks worn out, with big dark bags that Jun has only just noticed. They’d be covered by his glasses, and office electrical lighting would likely smooth at the cracks and hollows forming in his friend’s face, but now Jun just sees how tired he is, how old he’s getting. They’re both getting. He tries to smile, but the curve of his mouth looks far more like a grimace in the dim lights. “You’re going to get Sophia out?”

“I’m going to save her,” Jun says.

“You always did like those kinds of stories.” Medoro finally puts his pen down and reaches for his own cutlery, poking at his own cold food with a grimace. “So, what other news do you have for me?”

Jun has to laugh at that.

“Always looking for a story,” he replies pointedly.

“What can I say? I wouldn’t be in this line of work if I wasn’t.”

Medoro sticks his fork in his mouth, smiling around the tines, as Jun dredges up a story, one he’s probably told many times before, but one he knows will satisfy his friend’s curiosity.

—

He only has a few hours before the ferry leaves for the night, but Jun has one final stop before he heads back to the Abbey.

He doesn’t get to come back to Krat all that often, working under Valentinus often meant long weeks away, often not even in the country, as he served as bodyguard and treasure hunter for the Alchemist. The previous few months, spent tending Artefact Storage, are probably the longest he’s spent in some time in what is considered Krat’s territory. Normally, he jumps at the opportunity to spend time in Krat, to spend time with friends and acquaintances, to attend the occasional play and eat and drink too much good food and fine wine. But with everything, with the way that Simon now holds his leash, however loosely, Jun has found himself tentative to indulge himself as he normally would.

But he’s put off seeing his sister long enough.

She should be finished with her classes for the day so he heads over to the boarding school, the expensive one he’s been able to put her in since Valentinus started paying his wages, and stands by the front gates for a moment. It’s built in a modern style, a squat building with long walls that extend the length of the block it’s built upon and disappearing far back, beyond what Jun can see. Students mill about, boys and girls in their crisp uniforms of bottle green, cloth and leather book bags slung over shoulders, talking and laughing as they dart from awning to awning to get out of the rain. Some open umbrellas as they exit the front gate, passing Jun as they head for home while their friends wave at them from the top of the stairs before disappearing back into the building to return to their dorm rooms.

When Jun had been growing up it was only the boys who attended school, little girls had no place beyond the family home it was believed and thus were educated by their parents. Jun’s parents had been modern in their thinking, it’s why they had left their country as poor weaponsmiths in a village of too many weaponsmiths to seek out a better life for their little daughter. Jun’s a bit mixed on whether or not that plan had actually worked, his sister is receiving a formal education, yes, but their parents are dead and he spends more time away from home than with her, supporting her in the ways a pseudo father should. 

Jun shakes himself out of his reverie and of the rain collecting on the brim of his hat and takes the stairs two at a time, checking himself in at the reception desk as a family member. Normally, visitation is only allowed on the weekend but this school is kind to Stalkers, who keep strange hours and often carry big swords. The receptionist, a kindly old woman who probably should be in retirement but isn’t due to a love of children, makes a phone call and is finally able to inform Jun that Eugénie is in the library and can be brought to one of the private meeting rooms, if you so like Mister Stalker?

“I can go,” Jun tells her. “I know the way.”

The old woman frowns in that way that grandmothers tend to and clicks her tongue but assents, waving him through with a “now don’t bother the children too much, hear?”

The library is quiet and nearly empty when Jun enters, only a single student perusing the three shelves while others sit and complete their school work quietly. Yoo-Jin is one of them, sitting by herself with papers spread all about her table as she chews on the end of her pencil. The clomp of his boots catches everyone’s attention, including the woman sitting at a counter he passes, and his sister brightens visibly as he enters the room and makes his way over to her desk, her smile stretching wide across her face and crinkling her eyes.

“You’re back!” She excitedly whispers, probably a little too loud judging by the loud cough the librarian lets out. Yoo-Jin half rises from her chair and Jun sweeps forward to wrap her in a hug, earning another disapproving cough but they both ignore the woman. He can smell the soap in his sister’s hair, the slight lavender on her clothes, the scent calming and familiar. It’s been too long.

“I heard what happened, with your boss, and I got worried when you didn’t come see me but they said you were still sending money through so I wasn’t sure-”

“Yoo-Jin it’s fine, really,” he whispers into her hair. Yoo-Jin immediately relaxes in his grip and he gently pulls away, finally getting to look at her properly.

She looks well, if only a little tired. She’s still dressed in her uniform, but removed her jacket and rolled her sleeves up to her elbows in a decidedly unladylike fashion. Her fingertips are dark with graphite, palms beginning to roughen with callouses, he notices, as she pulls him down into the chair opposite hers. His sister fidgets a little, tidying her papers and fussing with her big, thick glasses and getting smudges all over the bridge of her nose, eventually settling for sitting as perfectly as she can with her hands in her lap as she waits for Jun to settle himself down. Her braid is slightly crooked, hair bunched slightly to her left side from when she pulled the braid back over her shoulder and failed to pull it tight and straight. He itches to go over and fix it for her, as he had done many times when she was young, but he stops himself, opting instead for clasping his hands casually on the table between them.

Yoo-Jin would have been the jewel of their village, with her cheeks that flushed so prettily on pale skin, eyes a shade of brown so dark they appeared almost black, magnified tenfold by her big glasses. Here, in Krat, she was mocked and ridiculed for her appearance. Her eyes were an odd shape, nose too flat and broad. She spoke with barely an accent but one nonetheless, one that the other children mocked because she sometimes struggled with her consonants. Jun had similar problems but he was a man well into his twenties and a Stalker as well, he was dangerous and exotic to anyone interested, and anyone who dared mock him often found that his steel was as good, perhaps even better, than those born of even the highest of Krat stock. Yoo-Jin was a girl, and only thirteen. Things were already difficult for her, adding close minded prejudice certainly wouldn’t help.

“Are you going to be in Krat long?” She asks.

“I’m not leaving on any trips if that’s what you’re wondering,” Jun replies. “I’m stationed at the Abbey, so I’m only a short trip away.”

Yoo-Jin nodded seriously, as if the information was incredibly important, and her bright expression drops slightly. Her eyes glitter with tears and she sniffs and rubs at them.

“I missed you.”

“I missed you too Yoo-Jin.”

Jun smiles at his sister and she finally smiles back. Almost conspiratorially, as the librarian is now watching them suspiciously, she lowers her voice and leans forward so he can hear. 

“I got into the course,” she whispers. 

“The technician course? That’s- That’s amazing!” He wants to reach over and hug her again, shout her achievements from the rooftops. Yoo-Jin has been studying so hard, working herself ragged as she practises around her regular school work. Their parents would be so proud of her, he’s sure. 

Yoo-Jin glows with pride. 

“Mister Venigni was there too and he said that my work was good!”

Jun smiles and nods as his sister launches into the story of her practical entrance exam, how she’d be starting classes part time once the new year started. This was the life their parents had wanted for her, the opportunity to be bright and beautiful in a city so unlike the village they’d both been born in. And as her story meanders to anecdotes about her school work, about what the other boys and girls are doing, the play her class had attended at the Opera House, Jun finds himself thinking about Sophia. Locked in her tower at Simon’s mercy. How she had been assaulted and beaten at his hands, how lonely and scared she must be. How terribly important it is that he rescues her from Simon’s clutches like some dashing knight, just like in the stories he found himself secretly loving. But this isn’t a story, where suffering ended the moment the princess was saved. Jun’s plan was stupid and risky and dangerous . If he couldn’t get the proof, if Medoro couldn’t write his story, then saving Sophia was all for nothing. She could be easily brought back into the Alchemist’s clutches and Jun would have painted a massive target on his back. And not just his, Yoo-Jin’s too, who was thirteen and bright and making their dead parents proud. 

He couldn’t do that to her.

Please forgive me , Jun thinks, but whose forgiveness he is asking for, he doesn’t quite know.

Chapter Text

The sun is just beginning to rise when Giangio finally stirs from the chair.

It had been a comfortable chair at least, plump and plush in red velvet, but that still hadn’t stopped the crick he had developed in his neck from the odd slouched way he had allowed himself to sit in for the long night hours. Even in the dark he had watched Sophia sleep, the delicate rise and fall of her chest, the faint sighs and moans as she dreamed. The bruising pales, at worst appearing to be a slightly washed out yellowy brown around her eye. From a scientific perspective, the cold analytical part of his mind that has ruled him for so long, the results are excellent. Gold Coin Fruit, when used with intention, could reverse damage as if it had never happened. Sophia’s powers in the palm of his hand. But the other part of him, a part he thought had long since died, is only relieved. No lasting damage beyond whatever psychological torment that Simon inflicted upon her, her pretty face and intelligent mind saved by his hand.

Giangio rubs a hand over his face and finally stands, wincing a little at the loud crack that reverberates through the room when he stretches out his aching joints. He needs to leave soon, before Sophia wakes up, before Simon remembers his pet experiment that he beat half to death. The last thing he wants is to have to explain himself to Simon. But something has him standing over Sophia’s bed, the wan light painting her skin and hair in shades of blue. His hand hovers over her, some desperate desire to reach down and stroke his fingers across her skin, to make sure she’s ok. As if feeling his want, her Ergo reaches out, too steeped in dreams to really be understanding what she is reaching for. Her powers are growing, something Giangio finds himself fascinated by. He itches to question her on that, to understand the shape of her powers and how they seem to overflow their bounds with each passing moment, unlike anything he’s ever seen before.

Her Ergo flits close, bumping up against the smooth pool of his mind and for once he allows her to see something, to see the dark unfathomable shape that he is beneath the surface. Terrible and ancient, a being she couldn’t understand unless she was touched by divinity as he was. But those kinds of things didn’t happen anymore, not when humanity was so selfish and greedy. The Alchemists thought they could, hoped they could use long rotted pieces of a god to achieve some kind of evolution, but nothing good ever came of those sorts of plans. Not yet anyway. But maybe, maybe this time they would succeed.

Paracelsus isn’t entirely sure if he wants them to succeed, but he hasn’t been sure of a lot of things these days.

Sophia stirs slightly, her hand tucking tightly under her chin as she buries her face in the pillow, silky hair tangling around her cheeks and concealing her rosebud lips. He reaches for those strands, pushing them gently aside as Sophia’s curious Ergo prods again, leaning close, too close, and he has to stop an indescribable urge to grab her hand and pull-

“Sophia,” he murmurs. “Not yet. Maybe not ever. Just rest little princess.”

She jerks away slightly when a finger brushes against her cheek and some pathetic part of him aches at the rejection. Did her lover touch her like this? Did she allow his touch? Giangio pulls himself away before he works himself into something dark and ugly and tries to suffocate that part of himself that has reared its head more times in the past few months than it ever has in his lifetime.

It won’t work but at least he can try. 

—

It’s called the Hollow Tower because in the very centre, ringed and crossed by stone and wood walkways, in a great pit that extends far down beneath the island, a shadowed hole of damp stone. No one knows who dug the pit or why it is full of long Petrified bodies in poses of rest or supplication. Even Giangio, with his incredibly long life, doesn’t know who or why it was built. He doesn’t especially care. He does sometimes wonder what would happen if he threw himself into the hole from its very top, whether he would become a splattered pulpy mess of bones and organs on the cold stone or whether he would shatter on impact, tumbling rocks to join those already there. He doubts he would survive, his longevity may keep him in stasis and make him a hardier sort of fellow but his rooms are very high up, and the pit very deep.

A fear of heights is the sort of thing most reasonable men have so Paracelsus hadn’t felt so bad when he’d gone about installing railings. 

At the very least the height keeps most people away. He’d had one coworker for a time, an older gentleman interested in the carvings on the walls. He’d make the long laborious climb each day to sit in one of the rooms or corridors and make detailed notes and sketches of the images, write up theories surrounding what each one pertained to. Giangio, pretending to be a much younger man at the time, would listen indulgently as the old rambled about the One Winged Angel, the Wolf that Chases the Moon and Starweaver as he lugged pots and bags of mulch around for his plants. The old man had died of pneumonia a few years ago, before the Petrification Disease had become a bigger concern, but Giangio had still kept his notes and read them occasionally like bedtime stories. 

So Giangio doesn’t really get visitors. If Giangio didn’t have orders that forced him down to the labs and to lurk around offices, he imagines he’d go weeks and weeks without seeing anyone. Isolation is something he’s used to, something he generally prefers, Sophia’s company notwithstanding. So he doesn’t expect company. Adriana had been a surprise, an unpleasant one at worst. But she’s no cause for concern, not really. She has no guile, a hammer in every situation that only needed fine tweezers. She doesn’t suspect unless her master tells her to and her threats, while viscous, are often empty. So he doesn’t worry about Adriana.

But he worries about Simon. Simon, with the impossible ability to read minds, to be charming and cruel in equal measure. Who held his attack dog’s leash with an iron grasp, and directed her as he pleased.

Who held the key to a god’s revival, and all the arrogance to fuck it up in equal measure. 

So when Simon finally comes to visit, Giangio has this sudden, fleeting thought that maybe the long drop is a better alternative than speaking to Sophia’s tyrant.

Snow finally begins to blanket the Abbey, a full two weeks after Simon beats Sophia. There is little to do but wait, Jun’s chagrined report of import delays, worker strikes and Venigni desperate to be the smartest man in the room has both of them chafing at the bit. Jun, at least, seems to be keeping himself busy. Giangio finds the man in places he shouldn’t be on more than one occasion, snooping through files and research papers and taking photos with a charmingly tiny camera that he had somehow smuggled onto the island. The Stalker hasn’t revealed his plans, but Giangio can certainly make assumptions about what it could be. Find and present evidence to some kind of authority and have Simon arrested for every illegal thing he’s ever done, of which the list is long and extensive. Giangio finds himself perfectly fine with the noose Jun ties for himself. He’d been prepared to make the Stalker his scapegoat from the beginning, but the man doing it of his own volition just saves Giangio the time and effort. He’ll likely have to be the one to reveal Jun’s efforts when the time comes, after all Syroy still has their eyes firmly fixed on Simon and the Arm, but he doesn’t feel so inclined to do so just yet. He’s a valuable ally for the time being.

Giangio, on the other hand, has significantly less to do.

Gardening, as a hobby, tended to depend a lot on the weather and with everything that had been happening, Giangio hadn’t exactly prepared for the weather as well as he should have. So when the cold snap came through, a great many of his plants died in the initial frost. He had woken that morning and thought, with a rather detached air, nothing lasts forever except you Paracelsus, when will you remember that?  

He does the best he can with the remaining plants but has no heart for it, finding himself listless and despondent. He hasn’t been able to see Sophia since he last attended her with every attempt foiled by guards at her door who watch him with dispassionate eyes as he walks past. Simon has evidently realised that more people had access to her room than originally intended, and even when he attempts to do her dinner delivery, the Alchemist carrying the covered tray squeaks like a mouse and refuses to give it up, clutching the metal like a lifeline as he hurried off.

So Giangio has very little to do except try and keep warm and try to keep busy. Freezing winds whip through the upper corridors, bringing glittering frost and eventually flurries of snowflakes through the uncovered openings, leaving wet piles of snow glittering in corners and eventually across walkways that Giangio frequents, forcing him to pull out a wide shovel to clear the way and to start investing in slow burning torches. He shovels irritably, chucking spadefuls of snow into the pit and watching it rain down into the darkness below before he moves onto the long standing mess of his rooms that has often made Paracelsus want to pull his hair out. He moves pots and bags of mulch, he organises paperwork and journals, he throws a great many failed experiments into the pit just to see if he’ll hear the tinkle of shattering glass when it collides with the ground below.

And then, because he doesn’t sleep nearly as much as he should and because he has no other priority than Sophia, he sits and he broods. He thinks about his awfully long life, of the people he puts himself under for the simple desire to occupy his time, to satisfy his curiosity, to ease his loneliness. And when he runs out of those things to think about, he thinks about Sophia, because when don’t his thoughts inevitably drift to the princess locked in her tower?

And that’s how Simon finds him, half slumped in a chair feeling dreary and despondent, eyes and cheeks dark and hollow from lack of sleep. A bottle would not have been out of place in his hand, and perhaps would have better explained his position in the chair. Simon, at least, has no visible reaction to his slumped posture, only standing in the doorway as if expecting to be invited in like a houseguest.

“I see,” he finally says.

Simon steps into the room and takes in the now clean space, a slight frown marring his brow. He probably doesn’t realise the mess the room has been, so Giangio lets images of the old mess fill his mind briefly, the tidying and cleaning and then lets the sensations of pain and tired leak through as he slowly rises from the chair and gives the other man a stiff bow.

“I-I-I’m s-sorry sir,” Giangio stutters, because arrogant men like Simon always seemed to think that anyone with a stutter was inherently stupid and beneath them. “I-I-“

Whatever excuse Giangio had been about to make is cut off when Simon turns to him and cracks the tip of his cane on the ground, the sound too loud in the tiny space. Giangio flinches, because Simon loves a good flinch. 

“Did you attend Sophia?” He asks. 

“W-W-What-“

“ Did you attend Sophia?”

“N-not recently s-sir,” Giangio says, thinking about cold weather and dead plants. 

“You attended her two weeks ago, correct?”

“Yes,” Giangio says with a nod, allowing a minute amount of relaxation to bleed into his posture. “She was injured, one of the Stalkers brought it to my attention.”

Simon nods, as if this corroborates what he also knows. It certainly isn’t a lie by any means, just slightly vague in details.

“And how did you attend to her?” He demands. “Her injuries were nonexistent the next morning, as if they never occurred.”

“I am a pharmacist,” Giangio replies simply. “I g-g-gave her medicine.”

“ What kind?” He snaps.

Giangio flinches again but this one is slightly more genuine. “Pharmacist” had always been the vague but generally true term he’d been referring to himself with since he arrived at the Abbey. Most people assumed he was a botanist, but usually understood the correlation between many of the plants he grew and the medicine he made from them. Gold Coin Fruit as a medicine had only ever been something he’d pitched as a theory once, one that was generally considered impossible to pursue due to the Tree’s mythical nature. The one at the Abbey was dead after all.

All natural things have a quality that can be used within medicine , he had once written. Gold Coin Fruit, produced by a creature once so intuned with their Ergo, could produce miraculous results if it were ever harnessed in such a way.

It had been a stroke of luck when Giangio had found ten pieces of dried Fruit within Artefact Storage so long ago, and he’d dived into his research greedily. But his results had stayed out of the papers he’d occasionally submitted for review, eager to keep the secret from any but those he deemed worthy. But with Simon leering over him, Giangio finds his clever lying tongue faltering for an explanation. There is no medication that could so thoroughly remove evidence of Sophia’s horrific beating so quickly, and even if he could come up with stuttering lies of mystical imported ingredients from far off countries, Simon would likely see through them in an instant. The best lies were laced with truths after all.

“M-made from Gold Coin Fruit,” Giangio stutters out. “An ointment, I h-hoped-“

“It is very fortunate for you that it worked,” Simon growls. “Sophia’s health is delicate, should it have worsened by your hand then I would not have hesitated in your punishment.”

Is that the explanation Simon gives? That Sophia is delicate and kept coddled within her rooms? Giangio can’t help the way his mind reaches for the memory of Sophia, passed out on her bathroom floor, face almost unrecognisable, how she had hung limply in his arms as he had moved her-

Simon’s expression tightens.

“Do you have more?”

“A small jar,” Giangio says carefully. He sweeps his eyes across the now clean surfaces, cursing the fact that he hadn’t been quite paying attention to where he’d been putting things. He finally alights on the black bag and makes to cross the room, to demonstrate his truthfulness to Simon, but the man shifts slightly, his heels scuffs against the stone and Giangio stops in his tracks.

“And the Fruit?”

“N-N-No sir.”

A lie, although almost not. Of the ten pieces, Giangio has one remaining which he keeps strung around his neck on a leather cord like a token. Simon makes a grunting noise as he considers the smaller man in front of him, his jaw thrust forward and square. Giangio finds himself reminded of a bulldog about to start barking furiously at an intruder, and he allows the thought to linger in his mind for perhaps a moment too long.

“You will continue to attend Sophia,” Simon says suddenly. “With your… ointment .” He grinds the word out like it pains him. 

“I-I-I-“

“She will need to be kept in good health, if she is to aid us. I’m sure you understand the consequences for failure.”

“Y-yes sir.”

He doesn’t trust it. How could he, with Simon giving him exactly what he has wanted over the last two weeks?

“Report to David Bruskin tomorrow. When you are not attending Sophia you are in the labs assisting those working on the Petrification Disease. More help is required and evidently you are not doing anything important up here.”

Paracelsus flushes a little at that. Simon catching him in a moment of weakness stings. He turns his head away to cough into the crook of his elbow to hide his face for a moment, turning back finally to offer a nod and tight smile when Simon shuffles a little in place, the tip of his cane scraping against the floor. 

“Very good.”

Simon turns to leave, giving the space another once over as he turns, long coat swishing about his ankles as he finally exits the room. Giangio remains frozen in the middle of the room for what feels like a long time, keeping his mind carefully blank until echoing footsteps finally fade away. 

This is good. This is bad. He really hopes Sophia is ok. 

—

Giangio has been snooping around the labs for a long time and gathering information for Syroy, making careful copies of research notes or writing down his observations of what the other Alchemists have been doing. So he already knows that most of the Alchemists have pivoted their research towards the Petrification Disease, trying to understand how it spreads, how it affects the body and how they can cure it. Giangio already knows the answer to the first two things they are investigating, and has a budding theory on the third, but he’s not exactly about to share. David Bruskin, the laboratory overseer and brute who had manhandled Sophia on her first day, has him running errands for many of the assorted teams. Fetch this, clean up that, make this note. The tasks are beneath him, but the information is valuable, so even though Giangio often finds himself standing around gripped with boredom, he forces himself to pay close attention to what is being investigated. 

Those infected with Petrification Disease slowly, but inevitably, begin turning to stone, all bodily liveliness being directed towards the formation of an Ergo crystal. Ergo crystals are typically found within the lower abdomen of a creature and the infection spreads from there, travelling through the bloodstream and lymphatic systems to reach other parts of the body. Infected parts are at first characterised by their pale hue and pustules as blood circulation slows and stagnates within the area, the blue pustules being a result of pooling blood and bile. From there, the affected body part “petrifies”, becoming a stone-like substance that prevents the creature from using the affected area. Limbs typically go first, while vital organs persist due to their high levels of movement and importance in sustaining the growth of the Ergo crystal. Patients typically die due to loss of function of vital systems- heart, lungs, kidneys. The Alchemists have made these discoveries slowly over the past months, dissecting infected animals and the occasional seized corpse from the mainland. Now, as Giangio runs errands for them, the Alchemists have pivoted towards a cure. Or at least, a method of destruction.

He watches as Alchemists jam live wires into partially petrified flesh to see if it convulses, sees them submerge chunks into highly acidic and alkaline solutions to watch them dissolve. One Alchemist holds a blowtorch over a beaker of infected blood and blows up his workstation, almost killing himself and his two assistants. Giangio would have laughed if he then didn’t have to haul them all into a side room to begin treating their wounds while their work space was cleaned up. He notes, somewhat coolly, that many of the Alchemists working in the labs are already infected with the Disease, apparent by the barest scent of cool, sweet rot clinging to their skin. It’s a scent only he can detect, and one he’s quite familiar with. 

Unless Simon can figure out his plans for evolution and immortality, he’s about to lose a large majority of this sect in only a few years.

Simon comes by the labs most days of the week, usually spending a few hours each day at a desk tucked in the back of the room beside a chair with restraints built into it. He does a lot of paperwork, reviewing journal articles, Alchemy papers, operations requests and expenditure reports. He leaves very little at this desk when he retires for the day, so when Giangio returns in the dead of night to rifle through the desk he gleans very little information from what is left behind. For now, Simon appears to be ordering massive amounts of building supplies- wood, metal and stone- for some project that Giangio hasn’t yet found the details of. He makes a note of it anyway, and adds “break into Simon’s personal office” back onto his to-do list.

When Simon is not managing the horrendous amounts of paperwork associated with being a sect leader, he tours the labs. He watches over shoulders or has other Alchemists explain their work to him, a stern and almost impassive expression on his face. He makes little comment on how progress is going, although Giangio can see his frustration leaking into his stiff posture and gruff responses. As much as Giangio’s directive hinges on Simon discovering how to use the Arm, the bitter, vindictive part of him hopes that Simon will fail so spectacularly that Syroy’s eventual involvement ends with some kind of punishment for the man. After the lab explosion incident, wherein Giangio and all the other Alchemists spend several days banned from the labs to allow for clean up, Simon calls all of the Alchemists together within one of the indoor amphitheatres. Many of his colleagues are apprehensive, and rightfully so. The last time everyone had been brought together like this, Simon had ordered the execution of five people. 

They walk in, school children in single file, and seat themselves on the great stone benches ringing a sunken pit in the centre. High overhead, geometric carvings of the Angel look down upon them, while below someone has set up a table and several carts of equipment, scalpels, syringes, forceps, all in neat little rows. Simon watches as they all file in, only a slight frown on his face as he watches, while Adriana stands behind him with her typical deep scowl, looking ready to growl and bark at anyone who so much as breathed the wrong way while in her master’s presence.

“Brothers, sisters,” Simon calls once everyone has seated themselves. “For many months now we have studied the Petrification Disease. We understand its origins, how it spreads, how it affects the body. And yet, we are no closer to a cure.”

Around the room, many of the Alchemists nod in agreement.

“Some time ago Valentinus discovered a wondrous artefact beneath Krat, within the Relic of Trismegistus. A piece of the long dead god. In time we will discover the means to resurrect Him, to deliver unto this world His salvation and mercy but even now, with access to only a small piece of His power, I believe we can do wondrous things.”

Simon steps back slightly and gestures to where David is standing just off to the side. The man picks up a covered cage and carries it over, setting it carefully on the table in front of Simon before removing the cloth and stepping aside. Inside is a tiny albino rabbit, pathetic and limp as it struggles to breathe. Even from his distant seat near the back of the room, Giangio can see the vibrant blue pustules and creeping grey scales of Petrification covering its back legs and lower abdomen. He frowns.

“When a creature Petrifies,” Simon starts, stepping forward and spreading his arms wide. “It achieves a higher state of being. Pure Ergo. But what stops it from achieving perfection is its inability to act in this state. Imagine what we could achieve if we could!”

And now Simon brings forth the Arm. 

Giangio feels it the moment it is brought out, that indescribable pull, that cold rot it emanates. Almost everyone in the room leans forward slightly as an unconscious reaction to that aura and Simon’s mouth stretches into a dangerous smile.

Giangio has been monitoring Simon’s progress with the Arm and he knows that Simon doesn’t understand how to use it properly. That he hasn’t uncovered its ability to harness massive amounts of Ergo to enact the user’s will. But the thought hadn’t occurred to him that just because he didn’t know how to use it correctly , doesn’t mean Simon hadn’t figured out how to use it incorrectly. 

The rabbit, despite its half petrified state, begins to struggle and cry as it is removed from the cage, thrashing weakly in Simon’s hand as he holds it by the scruff. He sets it on a metal tray, keeping one hand upon it, while with the other he motions for David to step forward. They swap places, the laboratory overseer placing a massive meaty hand over the rabbit while Simon calmly takes a syringe from one of the equipment carts. He examines it, holding it to the light and tapping the glass despite the fact that it’s empty. There’s a theatrics to his actions, and with the room under the Arm’s thrall, the observants are enraptured by his movements, Simon drinking in the attention. Giangio only continues to frown, pursing his lips. There would not be nearly enough Ergo within the rabbit, let alone the room to awaken the Arm’s power and yet…

“Humans are impure creatures,” Simon intones. “But we can evolve, become closer to purity by introducing it into ourselves. With enough, we can become as pure as the divine!”

And Simon takes the needle and inserts it into the crook of the Arm, slowly drawing back the plunger. The Arm writhes, tendrils pulsing and waving at the rotting stump while the fingers flex spasmodically, almost reaching for Simon’s wrist with the way it flaps about. Giangio leans forwards, watching as a dark, starlight liquid fills the glass chamber, as corpse pale fingers touch the inside of a warm arm-

-a thousand grasping hands reaching downwards-

Ah.

Giangio flinches as Simon raises the syringe to the light, the dark blood of divinity glittering under the amphitheatre lights. Around him, Alchemists make noises of wonder and adoration, little oohs and aahs , gasping like fish out of water. The rabbit, which has calmed under David’s gentle touch, shrieks with fear as Simon brings the syringe to the back of its tiny neck, inserting it in with little fanfare and pressing down. It struggles and cries as dark starlight floods its veins, thrashing about under the hand holding it down. And then-

Silence.

Simon picks the tiny creature up by the scruff of its neck and holds it high overhead. They all watch as the hard grey scales fall away at the movement, revealing pinkish skin where the fur had fallen out, the blue pustules receding before their very eyes. The crowd gasps, a few standing from their seats and starting forward to get a better look, a desperate need to examine the newly healed rabbit over taking them. And as Simon lowers the animal back into its cage, promising all assembled they will have the opportunity to examine the creature soon, it watches them back with dark liquid eyes, and Paracelsus knows that there is something horribly wrong with it.

–

The rabbit sits at the back of the lab on Simon’s desk when it is not being examined, calmly watching scurrying Alchemists from its cage. It is brought out often for examination, poked and prodded with syringes and scalpels near constantly as curious Alchemists attempt to discover how divine blood has changed it. And as Giangio walks by it tracks him, head turning at an almost unnatural angle sometimes to follow his movement.

That cool, sweet rot smell is strong around the rabbit and even though Simon has declared the rabbit cured, Giangio knows that is far from the case. For now, the rabbit is allowed to continue its relatively peaceful existence within the labs, but the inevitable day of its vivisection draws closer. As much as they can learn from it while it still lives, there is even more they can learn from it while it is dead. Simon, seemingly satisfied with his demonstration and how that is now directing the work of the Alchemists, takes a step back from the labs and Giangio sees him only once a week, when Sophia is brought from her rooms. And the rabbit watches on, eyes glittering in the pale lights.

The Abbey glitters with snow when Giangio wakes, white dusting every available surface like powdered sugar on gingerbread. The sky is overcast, promising more snowfall, and the wind whips through the corridors of the Hollow Tower and threatens to sweep him into the pit below with its force. He stands by an open window, nose and fingers burning with the cold and thinks about Sophia.

And then he goes down to the labs.

There is excitement amongst the Alchemists today. Finally, after long weeks of waiting, the day of the rabbit’s death has come. A simple task, a swift blow to the back of the head with a mallet and then the creature can be split open like overripe fruit, entrails lifted high above their heads as they examine them. Alchemists mill about as David prepares the space, sending people running for equipment and materials while others eagerly stand with notebooks and pencils at the ready. The rabbit, with soft peach fuzz fur half regrown around its back legs, sits patient and pliant as always, calmly observing the crowd, its gaze immediately catching Paracelsus' when he enters. It suddenly shudders and a ripple flows across its skin, leaving a strange pattern in its aftermath and distorting its features. Giangio looks around but no one standing around seems to have noticed, David too distracted by his set up and the Alchemists in too good a mood to pay attention to their victim. Curiosity has him pushing through the crowd for a closer look.

“Hello little divine,” he whispers, crouched in front of the cage with his chin resting on the desk. “What do you wish for?”

The rabbit makes a small noise and its skin ripples again, its shape slowly losing its integrity. He tilts his head slightly and hums, standing and retreating back into the crowd, which parts around him almost unconsciously as he settles to a spot he can watch from the back of the room. The rabbit moves clumsily on warped legs as it attempts to watch him, pressing itself almost like a gel against the bars of the cage. Its noises, soft before, start to grow louder, more stressed as David’s meaty hand reaches down and removes it from its prison, holding it close to his face as he seems to realise there is something wrong with it. Paracelsus, keeping firm eye contact with it, just nods.

With an ear splitting shriek the rabbit arches its back as its flesh boils and writhes, rapidly gaining mass as it bloats outwards. Skin stretches taught like a drum, stark white, as its fur seems to be pushed out of every follicle and scattering on the ground, vibrant blue pustules forming and bursting in rapid succession, spraying fluid everywhere. David drops the rabbit on the table, yelling in pain as he is coated in the liquid, blue acid rapidly eating away at his flesh and leaving deep bloody gouges in his flesh. The rabbit lands with a wet splat on the table, splashing more acid on the close by Alchemists as a few rush forward to pull their overseer away so he can be attended. There is panic and confusion, some Alchemists yelling and screaming as they run for exits, others trying to make themselves heard over the noise as they excitedly make notes on the rapidly mutating creature. The rabbit’s shrieking cuts out, the twitching mass of flesh ceasing its movements. Silence reigns through the labs. 

Paracelsus leans forward, a smile tugging at his lips. 

There is a swish THWIP and one of the Alchemists, a small mousy woman, lets out a tiny, almost inaudible gasp, going briefly rigid before she jerks forward onto her knees. Blood trickles from her mouth, breath rattling and bubbling through fluid clogged orifices as she collapses with a thwump onto the ground. The rabbit, or whatever it has now become, writhes as a mass of flesh three times its original size, too many limbs and tendrils grasping and flailing about. Blood and viscous acid drips from jagged bone spurs and as people begin to realise what has just happened, a tendril darts out and skewers a man leaning too far forward in his eagerness to observe the changes. The screaming starts again, panicked scrambling to get away as the rabbit lashes out blindly, catching at people as they push at each other. Paracelsus only watches, even going so far as to open the door to let the Alchemists stream out, dragging their wounded with them. Yells for the Stalkers, for Simon, echoes down the hallway but Paracelsus simply closes the door behind the group, locking it with a click. He doesn’t have much time.

From the table he takes a scalpel, holding the handle gently between thumb and forefinger as he approaches the creature. It has calmed somewhat, limbs only swaying gently in the air as its single remaining eye locks its gaze with him. He holds his  hands up placatingly, even though it reveals the blade in his hand, but the creature only watches as he approaches, crouching as he had before with his chin once again resting on the edge of the table. He reaches his free hand out and strokes at the chitinous skin around its eye and the thing makes a quiet burbling noise, leaning upwards slightly into the touch.

“Ah, little divine,” he whispers. “Not quite what you wished for.”

It burbles and as he watches, a bright pustule rapidly fills and bursts, splattering his face with liquid and revealing a thin, coiling tendril that reaches up to touch his cheek. He allows it, the flesh cold and sticky against his own.

“I can give you your wish,” he murmurs. “Freedom? Yes?”

It makes a squeaky inhaling noise, rapidly shuddering under his touch. He moves his hand downwards, moving to rest it over a rapidly beating heart and then lower still, where he can feel the hard lump of Ergo that now sustains it.

“I would ask something of you,” he continues. “Payment for the ferryman, you understand.”

Another shudder and the once rabbit shifts slightly, attempting to roll onto its back for him but he only moves his hand back to cup the creature’s grotesque face. He shakes his head.

“No need.” He gives a soothing rub with his thumb and raises the scalpel. “I will make it painless.”

–

Simon stands at the door of the laboratory and purses his lips.

The room is a wreck, tables and chairs overturned and smashed, blood and a viscous blue liquid splattered across walls and floors. The corpses have been removed, the wounded now currently recovering in the infirmary under the care of the head physician and that strange pharmacist he never sees around. Stepping through, Simon carefully makes his way over to the rabbit, or whatever creature it has now become. It lies splayed on the table, with too many tendrils and limbs trailing off its bloated body and onto the floor, gore pooled and dried around it. The air is redolent with rot, the smell so strong that he has to reach into his pocket and pull out the embroidered handkerchief he keeps there, the little poppies and forget-me-nots almost too charming and innocent for this macabre scene.

The rabbit had been healed , given a divine gift, and yet somehow it had mutated into a demonic shape. He doesn’t understand! How could this have happened? Unless… was the blood too much? Was less required initially, with smaller doses given over a longer period of time? It could work… the rabbit had been cured after all. Maybe it was like a reaction? A divine rejection of the imperfect even. This avenue was not totally closed off to them, it just needed refinement. More time. And when it was… the possibilities!

Standing over the corpse, he observes the way the body has been split open, half melted organs splayed upon the table. A lung, trailing intestines, a soupy puddle that could have been a set of kidneys and liver. But not heart, and no Ergo either. Simon frowns. He had spoken to everyone involved; to Bruskin who may never regain the use of his hands with how badly they had been melted, Anya and Pietr who had been the two to find and alert Adriana, who had in turn alerted him. Even little Giangio as he tiredly attended the injured. All had left the room when the creature had been alive, and by the time Simon and Adriana had reached the labs, the creature had already been dead. Even their thoughts, always truthful despite their words, revealed the image of a grotesque thrashing creature that had been alive as they ran.

He doesn’t like this. The creature, dead and gutted by someone hiding their thoughts and intentions. What could they want it for? A way to vie for his favour perhaps? Discover what went wrong and come up with a solution and present it as their own discovery? It is certainly possible, but that answer is too easy, too optimistic. No one, save a few, truly know of his ability to read minds, and someone simply looking to gain his favour wouldn’t think to shield their mind. A traitor perhaps then. There had been those who wanted his death after Valentinus had been dealt with, but what if there were spies? Infiltrators from another sect looking to claim his discoveries as their own, looking to bring about his downfall? It seems far more likely.

Simon turns from the macabre sight in front of him to where Adriana stands at a respectful distance, not quite looking at him as she examines the blood splatters on the far wall. Her brow is pulled into its customary frown but the moment he turns she snaps to attention, expression smoothing out in an instant.

“Adriana.”

“Sir?”

“I believe there may be a spy within the Abbey,” he says calmly. “Find them for me.”

“Of course, sir,” Adriana says with a bow.

She needs no further instruction and marches from the room, robes swishing about her feet. Simon stands for the moment, with the wreckage of the labs around him, and lets his mind drift a little, reaching for the people in the nearby labs. Jumbled confusing thoughts he cannot read or identify, not like this. 

“Our evolution will be at hand soon,” he rumbles to himself like an affirmation. “All in good time.”

Chapter Text

Even though Giangio sees Sophia at the labs, he is not called to attend her as promised. He still tries to see her each night, calmly meandering his way past her room on his way back to his own, but the Stalker guards are vigilant watchers outside the room, preventing his access. Simon brings her down to the labs about once a week and even though he can see her, seated at his desk or in the padded chair, he isn’t called over like expected. In fact, the one time Giangio tried to approach, assuming Simon was just expecting his presence, the other Alchemist had simply waved him away with a scornful look. 

Sophia is a pale ghost in the labs when she is there, her responses to Simon’s deep rumbling questions never audible above the other sounds the Alchemists make. She flinches and cowers whenever someone dares to approach his desk, her face always pale and tear stained whenever she is led back to her rooms. When Giangio isn’t fulfilling pointless demands he watches from across the room, posture rigid as he forces himself not to flinch. 

CRACK. 

No longer does Simon sully his skin with Sophia’s blood. Now, whenever she fails her task, he slaps a thin metal ruler across her knuckles until they’re raw and bloody, cuts and welts across fair, delicate skin. Every refusal-

CRACK. 

Every inability-

CRACK. 

Every flinch or cry, hands pulled away to stop her pain and suffering-

CRACK. 

The harsh sound of metal on skin punctuates her days at the lab. 

And still he is not called to attend. 

Giangio doesn’t understand. Sophia left every session injured, attended each with thick swathes of bandages around her fingers and once on her face. Had Simon lied to him? Told him that he would be able to see Sophia, to help her, with no real intention of following through? It is not in Simon’s nature to lie, the man abhors it. Is it something else then? Does Simon believe that a week is enough time for her to heal between each session? Surely not. Even from a distance Giangio can see that her hands are never fully healed by the time Simon starts hitting them again. So what is it then, some kind of test? Had he gotten sloppy? Allowed Simon to see the thoughts he even tried to hide from himself?

CRACK.

Giangio takes a deep breath and releases it steadily, stepping forward when one of the Alchemists impatiently waves him over. His mind is carefully blank, movements slow and measured as he is directed about.

He doesn’t look at her.

It is a week after the rabbit demonstration that Giangio is finally called for. 

There is excitement in the labs, the little rabbit a true miracle to all those who had seen its miraculous healing. While the creature is being subjected to its daily experiments- blood draws, skin and tissues sample collections and a number of tests that measure its movements and reflexes- Sophia is marched through the room. It’s been over a month since Giangio has been able to see her, to really see her, and she doesn’t look well. Her hair is lank and unwashed, her clothes hang off her body and she clutches his coat tightly around her. She looks hollow, miserable, in a way that she hadn’t when he’d been able to see her. Does she…?

They pass by where Giangio is standing, trying not to get too bored as he holds a tray that is rapidly being filled with skin samples, when Simon abruptly stops. The Alchemists immediately stop their work and bow or salute to him, Giangio dipping his head and looking away. The rabbit, ever patient, finally stops its incessant staring and turns its gaze towards Sophia. She perks up instantly, craning her neck to try and get a better look.

“Giangio,” Simon rumbles. “Sophia requires your attention today.”

The Alchemist directing Giangio gives him a look, opening his mouth as if to protest, but promptly shuts it again when faced with Simon’s stern expression. Giangio slowly sets the tray down, trying not to draw the rabbit’s attention back to him.

“S-S-Sir, I d-don’t-”

“What are you doing with that bunny?” Sophia suddenly asks. Her voice is quite soft and she looks like she’s standing on tiptoes to see over the shoulders in front of her. “Is it sick?”

Almost everyone assembled flinches as Simon turns to her, even Sophia when she realises that she may have drawn his ire. She holds stiff, bandaged hands in front of her face, as if expecting to be struck.

“It has been cured,” Simon says, an indulgent edge to his tone. “My colleagues are simply studying it.”

Her hands slowly lower but she doesn’t look up, only nodding at his explanation.

“Come, my dear,” he says. He places a hand on her shoulder to start directing her, shoulders rising upwards at the touch. “Giangio.”

“Sir, I-”

“If you don’t have your equipment then go get it, ” Simon snaps. “Try not to get lost on the way back, hm?”

Giangio scurries from the room, straightening his posture once he’s out of sight and sprinting back to his rooms. Just as much as he doesn’t want to piss off Simon any more than necessary, the thought of attending Sophia, making sure she’s ok and making sure she knows that he hasn’t abandoned her , fills his mind. He knows that her hands will require attention, swelling and bruising that will need to be reduced, any open cuts disinfected. He packs all of that into his bag, including needle and thread if she should require sutures and fresh bandages. He’s probably overpacking, Sophia appears to be seeing the Abbey’s physician already, but he wants to be careful. The little jar of ointment is the last thing he grabs. There’s so little of it to begin with, and as much as he doesn’t want her to suffer any more than necessary, he loathes the idea of running out. He has no access to more of the Fruit, and there’s so much he wants to do with what little he has. But Giangio tucks it into his pocket all the same and races back down.

The Alchemists have returned to their stations by the time he returns, panting heavily for a moment by the door, while Simon and Sophia sit in their usual spots. Their voices are elevated, loud and clear over a room that has gone silent with fear.

“I can barely move my hands-”

“You will not be given consideration for your insolence,” Simon snaps. “Even now you are attempting to defy me-”

“It’s not my fault they got infected Simon!”

CRACK.

Her head whips to the side with the force of the blow and Giangio quickly hurries over, holding his bag in front of him like a shield. Simon stands over her as Sophia shrinks in on herself but Giangio reaches them just as Simon raises his hand again, standing just enough in front of her that he’d receive the blow instead. With Simon now standing over him, Giangio forces his mind to go blank, thinking about bandaged hands, dark liquid eyes, “-that bunny?” as Simon lowers his hand, jaw clenching like a bulldog’s again.

“Giangio,” Simon forces out. “Dear Sophia has complained of an infection. You’re aware that our physician is currently indisposed?”

With early onset Petrification Disease, not that Giangio is going to mention it. The man had gone to the mainland three days previously and had not yet returned. Having only one physician onsite was simply another thing of the list of what Giangio considered were Simon’s oversights. He nods.

“Treat it,” Simon demands.

Nodding again, Giangio crouches in front of Sophia, holding his hands out for hers. Slowly, she places one in his, eyes flicking between the two of them as she does. The bandages are filthy, palms and edges stained almost black with soot and dirt, crusted blood stains across the top from where the wounds have bled through.

“H-How long have you had t-t-these on?” Giangio asks, hating the fact he has to stutter.

Sophia frowns slightly, chewing at her lower lip as he begins unwinding the bandages.

“Few days,” she finally replies, quiet like a mouse. “It’s cold in my room.”

Simon makes a noise in the back of his throat, as if he doesn’t believe the explanation, but he finally moves from where he’s been hovering at Giangio’s shoulder to go sit in his usual chair. He reaches into a drawer and pulls out a wad of papers and smacks them on the table, pulling a pen from his breast pocket to begin marking them.

Interesting. At some point, before any of the Alchemists had started their lab work for the day, someone had brought Simon’s paperwork in and set it in the desk for him. He wonders what’s on them.

Sophia winces when he tugs at the final piece of bandaging, a tiny “ow” as crusted cotton falls away. Her hand is crisscrossed with thin cuts and deep purple bruises, the skin swollen and hot to the touch as Giangio prods and pokes. 

“That hurts,” she whispers.

“S-sorry.”

It certainly is infected, although only recently as far as he can tell. He unwraps the other hand, finding similar damage, before rocking back on his heels for a moment. It would be very simple to just use the ointment and reverse all of the damage, also giving him valuable extra information about what the Fruit could do for older wounds. But, again, with a limited supply… Indecision nipping at his thoughts, Giangio leans over and pulls his bag closer, opening it up and rifling through until he finds a clean rag and the bottle of disinfectant he had packed. Sophia watches, fingers twitching, with a deep frown on her face. 

“This w-w-will sting,” he says, holding the soaked rag up. “I’m s-sorry.”

He reaches his free hand out briefly and gently rubs his knuckle on the outside of her ankle, rolling the skin on the bone before stroke downwards to the top of her foot, an attempt at soothing. She goes slightly stiff but he then moves his hand back up to take hers, gently holding it in place as he carefully runs the rag over the cuts. Sophia lets out a muffled squeak, squeezing her eyes shut and biting down on her lip. 

What else had Simon been doing that had turned her yells and screams to the whimpers of a mouse?

Once disinfected, he applies ointments that he knows will numb and soothe, for the pain and swelling, and gently smears another disinfecting cream over the open cuts. Satisfied she won’t also need stitches, he then wraps them in gauze, carefully setting each within her lap as he does.

“Remove that,” Simon says. “We have more tests today.”

“S-sir, t-they’re infected!”

Simon finally raises his head from the papers he’s perusing. From his position on the other side of the table, crouched in front of Sophia with one hand still holding hers, Giangio suddenly feels very small as Simon rises from his chair to tower over them.

“And who’s fault is that, my dear?” He asks. “A worthless stalling tactic. Surely you understand that these tests will continue regardless?”

He lets out a sigh and walks past them, going to the door to speak with one of the Stalkers. There is tense silence in the room as many of the Alchemists appear to be holding their breath, too scared to make any sound and continue their work.

“ Giangio ,” Sophia whimpers. “Please, don’t let him keep hitting me-“

“I’m trying,” he murmurs. “I’m sorry, I’m really sorry, I can’t get into your room-“

“Everyone!” Simon calls. “The labs are closed for today. Please conclude with your work, you will be able to continue it tomorrow.”

There is almost a collective sigh of relief with those words, everyone quickly packing up their experiments as best as they are able and filing out of the room. Giangio doesn’t, instead finally standing so he is facing Simon but firmly in front of Sophia. Simon only watches, expression stern, as the last Alchemist leaves before turning to the doors and closing them, the click reverberating out as they shut.

“Understand this, pharmacist,” Simon says calmly, clearly, as he begins to slowly walk back to the desk. “My dear Sophia is a vital part of our plans for evolution. She will become what we need, and yet the only thing she does is defy me. Think of it like teaching, sometimes you must employ the lash to make the lesson stick.”

With a click SWISH , Simon undoes his belt, coiling the leather around his fist for a moment before holding it not unlike a lash. Sophia lets out a whimpering noise and he feels her move behind him.

“Sir, p-please, y-y-you can’t-“

“I understand that most people here do not have the stomach for what I have to do,” Simon continues. “We train animals like this. Obedience is rewarded- good food and affection- disobedience, with punishment. It is not uncommon to beat a misbehaving dog.”

He steps forward again, the buckle clinking in his hand. 

“Sophia, we will be continuing where we left off last time.”

Simon makes his way around the desk and opens a drawer, pulling out a chunk of Ergo and setting it on one end of the desk. He holds his free hand out in a reasonable manner. 

“Move it.”

Sophia stays hunched in the chair but she reaches her hand out, appearing to concentrate for a moment. The chunk wobbles for a moment before dissolving into notes of light, reforming a foot away. Teleportation? Giangio was sure she had said her power was time manipulation. Unless… He quickly plasters a look of shock on his face, looking between the two of them as if waiting for an explanation, but Simon only taps the buckle of his belt against his hand threateningly. 

“Further my dear,” he says. 

“I can’t!” She cries. “Simon, please, I keep telling you-“

The buckle whistles through the air and collides with Sophia’s now upraised arm, making her shriek with surprise. Giangio’s not sure what’s worse, her quiet whimpers or her screaming. 

“Stop it!” Giangio yells, pushing Sophia out of the way and putting himself between them again. “Sir, if she can’t do it-“

“She can,” Simon insists. “She is simply disobeying me, lying to me.”

“Sir.” Giangio holds his hands out placatingly. “You can only beat an animal so many times before it stops being worthwhile. Dogs will tear out the throats of their masters if they’ve been beaten too many times, surely you can see that this isn’t as effective as it once was.”

Simon’s jaw tightens. 

“What are you implying?”

“That she needs rest!” Giangio insists. “Time to practise even, without the threat of-“

He immediately stops himself, the fine line he’s teetering along suddenly getting a little too precarious as Simon’s frown deepens. 

“Sir,” Giangio says, trying to change tact. “Try something else. It is what we do isn’t it? Try different approaches until we’ve exhausted all options?”

Simon’s expression does not change as he spends what feels like a very long time thinking over what has just been said. Simon Manus is not used to being questioned like this, defied by someone so clearly beneath him. He expects to be brushed off, dismissed, and punished by his loyal hound for standing in the way of Simon’s goals but- 

“Very well,” Simon finally grinds out as if it pains him to say it. “Return Sophia to her room. That will be all.”

It’s almost too good to be true but Giangio takes Sophia by the upper arm and pulls her up, guiding her out of the room quickly, past the Stalkers and down the long corridors. He’s not thinking, trying to keep his mind blank. Too much, too close, he’s never done something so stupid-

“Giangio?” Sophia whispers. He’s still dragging her along, stumbling behind him as he tries to get them back to the relative safety of her room. He finally slows his pace, letting his grip go as Sophia stops a few paces back. To their side a massive window lets in the weak winter light, blowing wind whipping Sophia’s skirts around her legs and hair across her eyes, bandaged hands held close to her chest as she shivers.

“I’m sorry,” she says.

“What- Sophia why are you sorry, I’m the one-”

Sophia rapidly shakes her head, face crumpling in on itself while she tries to hold her tears in.

“I can’t do what Simon wants,” she says. “He keeps hitting me, and I can’t focus, and I keep thinking about you and Romeo-”

“Simon is a monster,” Giangio says fiercely, crossing the gap and holding her upper arms. “I don’t expect you to fight him.”

Sophia immediately collapses against his chest, tucking herself into the space to begin quiet sobs. Somewhat awkwardly, he wraps his arms around her, hesitantly reaching up to begin running his fingers through her hair. Her face is pressed into his coat and he can hear her mumbling between sobs but he can barely make out the words.

“Sshh,” he soothes. “Come, princess. It’s ok.”

With Sophia still tucked under his arm, Giangio begins to lead her much slowly back to her room, murmuring soft nothings as they climb staircases and navigate the labyrinthine corridors. She is listless by the time they reach her door so Giangio gives up trying to guide her, opting to just pick her up and carry her through the threshold, which for some reason makes her start crying harder and bury her face in his shoulder.

The room is a wreck, looking like an intruder had been through and tossed the place. Furniture is upended, bedding is strewn across the floor and half in the fireplace. Books have been pulled from their place in the bookshelf and shredded of their pages and decorative ornaments smashed, littering the floor with paper and ceramic alike. Giangio carefully steps around the mess and, seeing that the armchair is tipped over, instead kicks some of the bedding into a rough pile that he then sets Sophia in. She huddles miserably as he starts cleaning out the fireplace, sweeping up the ash into a metal bucket that someone had left so he can begin piling logs and kindling into the space. The room is frightfully cold so he works quickly to get the fire going.

“I’m sorry,” Sophia says again.

“Whatever for?” His lighter sparks and the kindling catches so he feeds more in, coaxing the logs to begin burning as Sophia sniffs, her big blue eyes watching his every movement.

“The room.”

“I was… wondering about that,” Giangio admits. Fire now crackling merrily, he settles down opposite her, legs crossed as he picks at the buttons of his coat. “What happened?”

“I got upset,” she mumbles. “Simon came by yesterday, acting like he hadn’t done anything. And I just…” She trails off and fidgets with the edges of her bandages, not meeting his eye. “I threw some things.”

She’s done more than just thrown a few things around the room but Giangio doesn’t point that out.

“We can clean up, if you want?” He says carefully, but she shakes her head. “Do you want me to check your arm?”

Sophia looks at her hands for a moment, only seeming to realise what he’s talking about after a moment of consideration when she rolls up her sleeve. The skin where the buckle had struck her is already a deep purple and she looks at it with a resigned weariness.

“I’m fine.”

They sit in silence, the crackle and spit of logs the only sound. The room is growing warmer so Giangio finally shucks off his coat, folding it and setting it to the side as he tries to pretend he’s not staring at her. Sophia certainly isn’t hiding it, she tracks his every movement with an intensity he can’t ignore.

“Are you ok?” He asks.

Sophia purses her lips and finally looks away.

“No.”

“Can I help?”

“You are,” she replies quietly. “You stopped Simon today. And my hands, I wasn’t lying about them probably being infected I swear, and whatever you’ve done has already made them feel better.”

“They’re infected,” Giangio agrees. “How often were the dressings being changed?”

She shakes her head.

“Only after I’d see Simon and the physician.”

So once a week, if she was lucky.

“Do you know how to change them yourself?”

She shakes her head again. Giangio hums in dissatisfaction. 

They sit in silence once again, Giangio watching the pale sun start to slowly set through the open curtains. Sophia eventually shrugs off his coat and organises the pile of bedding around her to be more comfortable, curling up into a tight little ball amongst the blankets as she watches the flames behind him.

“I didn’t realise how bad it would be,” Sophia says. “At first, when I didn’t see you for all that time it wasn’t so bad. I was just really bored and I had no one to talk to and I was sad but only a little bit. I kept thinking about father and Carlo and Romeo and how much I missed them but only in this very distant way. Y’know, when you go see family in another city and you leave but you know you’re going to see them again.”

Giangio nods, even if he doesn’t quite get the analogy.

“But you kept coming by,” Sophia continues. “Every night for a bit. And you made me not feel so lonely so when I didn’t see you for all that time, I got scared. That you hated me, or you didn’t care anymore and-” Her breathing hitches and she scrubs at her eyes for a moment. “I realised I’ve never left Romeo by himself for this long. I think about how I’ve been feeling and I’m so scared he thinks the same thing, that I’ve abandoned him or- or- what if he thinks I don’t love him anymore?”

Giangio frowns. 

“I’m sure your dog-” he starts slowly but Sophia suddenly bursts into tears, curling in on herself as she starts crying again.

“ He’s my boyfriend,” she sobs. “ He’s lost both of us and he doesn’t even know I’m trying to come back-”

There are suddenly way too many questions Giangio wants to ask but he opts instead to scoot across the floor and pulling her sobbing form half into his lap, rocking slightly and stroking her hair. Her crying is somehow even more intense then it had been before, loud full body sobs that make her shake in his arms despite his attempts to soothe her. It takes a long time before her crying stops, the tears finally drying and the shaking stopping more from exhaustion rather than the sadness abating. She hiccups and repositions so she’s curled more in his lap, the new position already beginning to cramp his leg.

“Sorry,” Sophia mumbles. Giangio just shakes his head, shifting slightly to alleviate the stiffness.

“Who is Romeo?” Giangio asks carefully.

“He’s my boyfriend,” she says in a small voice.

“What about…” He blanks on the name for a second. “Carlo?”

“Him too.”

Giangio mulls this over for a moment.

“Both of them?”

She gives a tiny nod. And here’s Giangio thinking that she had no one left.

“He’s been protecting me since I was a little girl,” she says. “We had to lie, pretend he was just my Stalker guard, so he could be with both of us. Carlo and Romeo would have gotten in so much trouble if people found out.”

Giangio nods in understanding. 

“Why are you telling me then?”

“Because I trust you,” she replies. 

Sophia struggles to sit upright, still half in his lap as she seems to search his face for something. She’s still pale and hollow looking, eyes now red and swollen from all of the crying she’s been doing, but there’s a slight flush to her cheeks. She’s quite close to him actually, and he can see the alternating flecks of light and dark blue within her eyes, the rosebud lips slightly parted-

“Would you do me a favour?” She asks.

Giangio leans away from her slightly and nods.

“If I wrote a letter, would you send it? To Romeo?”

“I could do that,” he replies, clearing his throat around the dry lump that has formed. “Of course.”

“Thank you,” she whispers. And she leans forward, lips parted, and Giangio can’t help the way he’s reaching to meet her half way when-

Sophia buries her head into his chest, tucking it just under his chin, so he awkwardly pats her back with a hand. Disappointment sits heavy in his gut as Sophia settles against him, humming softly as she makes herself comfortable.

—

Before the labs each day he goes to see Sophia. He tells the Stalkers at the door that he’s attending her as a physician and, surprisingly, they let him through. It’s not a lie, it is the main reason why he goes there, so either Simon has passed along instructions to let him through or the Stalkers don’t care who goes in, too uninterested to really have an opinion on Alchemist politics. He’s just about kicking himself that he hadn’t thought to try this approach sooner. 

The sun is usually just creeping past the horizon line when he does and Sophia is often still sleeping when he is let into her room. He finds, somewhat surprisingly, that she doesn’t always sleep in her bed, sometimes finding her in the now righted armchair or in a pile of bedding she throws on the floor in front of the fire. The second place worries him, mostly because the blankets are usually tossed about in such a way that an errant ember could fly out and set it on fire if she’s not careful. Instead of waking her, Giangio will usually putter about the room for a bit, cleaning up the mess she’s made. Having now decided that Giangio is a neat and tidy person, being able to clean and organise feels like a balm against his battered soul. He rights furniture, stacks books and sweeps up broken ceramic in the main living area before turning to other rooms as well. 

As much as Sophia had described it as “thrown a few things”, it looks far more akin to a full scale tantrum. Pillows have been ripped apart, disgorging their feathery innards, clothes strewn across the floor, bathroom tiles slick with soap and creams. He’s not sure what to think of it. One part assumes the worst, that Simon had come through and destroyed her rooms in a fit of rage, while the other tried to take her at face value. Maybe she had just gotten so upset that she’d thrown a few things around. He doesn’t question her on it. 

When Sophia wakes, Giangio sits with her and attends to her injuries. He changes the bandages on her hands daily, quietly talking through what he’s doing as he does, and cares for other injuries as well. More bruising on her arms, a great mottled patch in her upper thigh that she explains is from Adriana kicking her. A cut on her cheek that is somehow the least of her injuries. She’s very quiet as he looks at them, biting her lip whenever he dabs a rag over open cuts or presses too hard on a bruise. 

“Simon hits me harder when I cry,” she finally says, three days in. “He says he can’t stand the noise.”

Her comment, made so softly as he’s rubbing a soothing cream onto her arm makes his grip tighten without meaning to. He forces himself to relax, to not let his anger show on his face, even as he thinks about tearing Simon limb from limb, forcing his silence as Paracelsus pulled entrails from his still living body-

“Don’t be angry,” Sophia says. She gives him a small smile and he has to hide his face at her words. 

He is angry. He is so, unbelievably, angry and he has no way of dealing with it beyond throwing dead plants into the pit to listen to them smash. And then, when he’s run out of pots and patience, he contacts Syroy.

Giangio updates them infrequently of the goings on at the Abbey, typically only when he has news that he believes to be important enough to share via telegraph. When he eventually returns to Syroy he’ll give them his full report, meticulous notes detailing years worth of time spent under Valentinus and now Simon. For now they only get things he believes may require their intervention. The Arm being sent away was one of them, and had prompted their intervention by proxy. So it’s not uncommon that he’ll go long periods of time without updating them. 

Giangio waits until the pale sun sinks below the horizon, maintaining the torches that line the hallways and lighting the candles in his room before he pulls the little telegraph machine out to send his message.

REPORTING STOP.

He waits for a long time before there is a response. 

PROCEED WITH REPORT STOP.

FOCUS HAS SHIFTED TO LISTENER STOP. 

If he can convince them that Simon has pivoted his research away from the Arm, that he is no longer doing what they expect, then maybe he can convince them to better aid in his rescue. Keep Simon focussed on what they want, rather than what he wants. He waits expectantly before-

STANDBY FOR CONTACT STOP.

Contact? They’d really smuggle someone into the city to speak with him? A risky manoeuvre, but a promising one. It meant they were taking him seriously.

STANDING BY STOP.

Contact cuts out and Giangio burns the paper once again, allowing the tiny flame nip at his fingertips as the words turn to ash. It will take time, two weeks at his best estimate considering the hoops they’ll need to jump through to get their man into the city, but it’s something.

And something has always been better than nothing in his eyes.

—

Two weeks later Paracelsus aids in the passing of a godling.

—

The post comes to the island every Tuesday on a supply barge stocked with food, medical supplies and Alchemy equipment. Most Alchemists don’t have family so any letters that come to the island are typically from foreign universities, rich sponsors or equipment suppliers. Giangio only ever sends requests for gardening supplies- potting mix, terracotta pots, seedlings- so when he receives the invoice for a batch of supplies he hasn’t ordered, he knows that his Syroy contact has finally arrived in Krat.

Giangio takes the ferry to the mainland the day after, tying newly washed blue hair into a tight braid and wrapping it around his head like a crown before jamming a hat over the top. He dresses with far more colour than usual, swapping black slacks and shirt for navy pinstripes and a cream shirt. He has to make do with his black raincoat but the sky is bright and clear, so he’ll remove it once he reaches the shore. He stands on the deck while the two other Alchemists making the trip with him huddle in the cabin to keep warm, cold air tugging at his coat and salt spray stinging his face. He takes a deep breath, the salt air refreshing after so many months cooped within the oppressive Abbey buildings. The smell is far less refreshing when he finally reaches Krat, salt air mixing with human function and industrial pollution. 

He navigates the streets, moving from poor dockside districts to the well kept streets of artists, poets and high society. It’s a stark difference. The docks are full of workers in dirty clothes and with stained skin performing manual labour, talking and laughing as they go about their work while Rosa Isabelle Street and Elysian Boulevard are much more peaceful, quieter, as high society men and women go about their days dressed in modern fashions of the highest quality fabric while their puppet servants trail close behind. The streets reek of Ergo, that shimmery sweet smell that the spores carry before they metastasize and exude the scent of rot. Petrification holds no qualms as to who it affects, and Giangio passes more than one petrified body, tucked just out of sight in darkened alleys in both poor and rich streets alike. Posters have started to appear on street corners warning of the dangers of Ergo, but most have been just as quickly covered by an advertisement for the latest Venigni invention or play at the Opera House. Paracelsus doesn’t hate Krat, in fact as a city that has only barely surpassed its infancy he finds it quite charming, but he does see it for what it is. A ticking clock, counting down its inevitable destruction.

The place he wants sits in the shade of the cathedral, a cutesy little cottage and garden nursery on the outskirts of Moonlight Town owned by one Mrs. Rafikova, an importer of exotic plants for Krat’s elite. She was also closely entangled in Syroy’s drug traffickers by smuggling in syrmak, an opiate derived from poppies grown on the outskirts of Syroy. Considering the new trade and import laws that Krat had just instated, it was a wonder she kept in business, but either rich people really wanted their foreign plants or, and this was the more likely scenario, Osmund considered the income she contributed well worth the effort of keeping her afloat. Regardless, Rafikova knew how to smuggle things, and people, in.

The door tinkles merrily when he enters, blissfully warm air greeting him. The front room is a small shop area resplendent with plants of all varieties,  vibrant orchids, elegant lilies, massive hanging leaves of monstera and philodendron entwined with trailing spider plants. He sees a shelf lined with novelty pots containing tiny succulents in all shapes and sizes, another with arrays of more common flowers grown in Krat, roses, daisies, sweet little begonias. Just beyond the unmanned counter is a door that leads into the attached greenhouse, with a handwritten sign advertising potted fruit trees and seedlings that Giangio heads for, leaving his coat and hat on the stand by the door. 

Amidst the rows stands an older woman, shirtsleeves rolled up, greying hair in a messy bun, kitsch apron tied around her front, moving down the line and watering plants as she goes. She waves a dismissive hand at him. 

“I will be with you in moment,” she says in a thick Syroy accent.  

“Ana Rafikova I hope you will not be too long,” Paracelsus says mildly, addressing her in Syrese. She startles, whipping around to face him before her face splits into a wide smile, flinging her arms wide. Paracelsus back steps away as Rafikova attempts to pull him into a big hug.

“Paracelsus!” She cries. “It has been too long, all I get are your stuffy letters wanting my plants-“

“And I do appreciate your patronage-“

“And you are so pale, so skinny-“

“Always been pale and skinny-“

“And tired!” She cries. “Come, I can feed you, we can partake-“ she presses two fingers to the outer corner of her lip as she mimes the action of ingesting syrmak. “And we can talk! I have these lovely plants I just got in from Africa, wonderful and flowering but said to have medicinal properties I imagine you would like that-“

“I am just here to speak with your guest,” Paracelsus says.

Rafikova immediately waves her hand dismissively,

“Bah! You Alchemists, all business no pleasure. Really, I am glad I left!”

He rolls his eyes but still allows himself to be led back to the main shop area and through a side door and into Rafikova’s home. She leads him into her kitchen, a cosy space with whitewashed walls, a massive stove and copious amounts of dried herbs and flowers hung from hooks attached to the shelves and walls. Rafikova firmly sets Paracelsus down at the little table and begins bustling around, setting a heavy copper kettle on the stovetop to begin boiling as she unearths pretty china from cupboards to place in front of him. He allows himself to lounge a little, easing back into a skin he hasn’t used in some time. Not his true face, never his true face, but something several layers closer. Rafikova chatters all the while, an endless patter he tunes in and out like a radio station.

“The seedlings, growing so nicely with that tonic you recommended-”

“And that arrogant fool, bah, would not know good syrmak if it sat on him-”

“Glinda, the little dear, so confused when a puppet came up to help her-”

“Glinda came?” Paracelsus asks. 

Rafikova laughs, tapping a teaspoon against her nose as she adds dried leaves to a pot.

“Oh yes,” she says. “Miss her did you? She misses you, you know. Lovely girl, really-“

“Where is she?” Paracelsus asks.

“She went down to the lake. Wanted to see how thick the ice was. For skating.”

Trust Glinda to turn a business trip into a sight seeing exercise. He huffs.

“She will be back soon.”

Paracelsus sighs and settles back into the chair as Rafikova sets the tea pot in front of him with two cups to match, bustling back over to a cupboard to pull out a covered cake that she serves three generous slices from. She sets two at the table before sticking a fork in the third and cheerily taking a bite.

“Ah! I outdo myself every time!”

When the tea has steeped, Paracelsus pours himself a cup while Rafikova leaves him be, promising to only be in the main shop area if she’s needed. He sips at the dark blend, deep in thought as he stares a hole in the wall. Glinda is, for all intents and purposes, the best case scenario. She is young and inexperienced, only newly inducted into the sect after many years as Evanora’s apprentice. She tended to agree with the loudest voice in the room and rarely tried to offer her own opinions, of which they were often soft and sweet. How she survived her apprenticeship to Evanora he doesn’t know, but it evidently spoke to a greater cunning than she openly displayed. Glinda would be a strong advocate for Sophia’s rescue. She would likely feel a kinship, even if they’ve never met, and if he could stress Sophia’s burgeoning abilities and growing strength as a boon to their sect, then that would hopefully catch Elphaba or Mombi’s attention. Both had Osmund’s ear, and Osmund was the man Paracelsus needed to appeal to.

The door chimes and Paracelsus hears Rafikova’s booming voice as she greets the newcomer. The voices drop immediately and he takes another sip of his tea as Rafikova appears in the doorway, her massive frame doing little to block the equally massive fur coat that stands just behind her. 

“Paracelsus!”

Glinda ducks under the other woman’s arm and starts forward, as if to hug him, but stops short when he doesn’t rise from his chair, only regarding her over the rim of his cup. She fidgets uncomfortably with her sleeves for a moment, finally removing the heavy coat and giving it to Rafikova before seating herself opposite Paracelsus. He pours her tea, and Rafikova excuses herself, making a pointed comment to both of them about the cake she’s left out before shutting the door behind her and leaving them in silence.

The other thing about Glinda was that she appeared to have feelings for him, a fact he was willing to use however necessary.

“I am surprised they sent you,” Paracelsus finally says.

“I wanted to come,” Glinda replies. “You mentioned the Listener, Valentinus’ daughter. We can always use another Listener.”

“Yes.” Paracelsus takes another sip and Glinda mirrors him. He’s glad she was the one to bring it up rather than him, it lets him know where her priorities lie. 

“Simon is directing almost all of his attention towards her, performing some kind of research he claims will aid in his “evolution”. He beats her, regularly, and almost killed her the other week.”

Glinda’s dark skin turns ashy and pale, painted red lips pinching together. 

“I- That-“

“He has done barely anything with the Arm,” Paracelsus continues. “He has lost focus.”

“Oh.” 

Glinda lowers her mouth to the rim of the ceramic cup, the slight tik tik of her teeth as she chews on the edge filling the silence. Paracelsus just watches to see what conclusion she’ll come to, whether or not she’ll believe his lies and suggest a course of action. He’ll push her, if need be, but what better way to have someone do what you want than to have them believe it’s their idea in the first place.

“We cannot have that,” Glinda finally says. “Evanora says he needs to stay focused on the Arm, Osmund desperately wants results.” She finally stops her chewing and takes a sip. “Is there any way to redirect him?”

“Not one that I know of,” he replies. “Simon is obsessed. ”

“Remove his object of obsession then?” She wonders aloud. “It would force him to focus, probably.” A beat of silence. “How easy would it be to get your Listener off the island?”

“It is possible,” he says. “But I would need your help once we got to the mainland.” He says it quite pointedly, as if it was Glinda’s help specifically he was asking for.

“I can… I can speak to Elphaba,” she finally says. “But whether or not Elphaba will listen to me, and whether or not Osmund will listen to her , is another thing entirely. Surely Simon has made some progress with the Arm.”

Paracelsus just shakes his head and Glinda looks genuinely distressed.

“That’s not good,” she says. “You have to do something, Paracelsus. Push him somehow, give him some notes-”

“I’m on thin ice as it is Glinda,” he admits. “If I start suggesting that he shifts his focus elsewhere or start doing “research”-” he crooks his fingers in air quotes. “For him? He will start really believing I’m up to no good.”

“Are you-”

Paracelsus reaches a hand forward and takes hers, giving it a reassuring squeeze. Her distress immediately calms and she places her other hand on top of his, cradling it gently. She’s so young, even by mortal standards, skin unlined, not a single grey hair in her mass of dark curls. Young people have always made him a little sad, with boundless optimism for a dark cold future that would only grind them down into something bitter and weary. It was like watching unpreserved art yellowing with age, paint cracked and peeling from the sun, colours not nearly as bright and beautiful as they had been the day they were applied to the canvas.

“I am fine Glinda,” he says. “If you help me get Sophia out, and just give me a bit of time, there will not be any problems with Simon. I will make sure of it, like I always do.”

Glinda gives him a smile that he returns so she lets go of his hand, finally reaching for her fork to begin eating the cake that Rafikova had provided. Paracelsus ignores his, opting instead to pour himself another cup of tea from the pot.

“So what is she like?” Glinda asks. She looks at him with a wide eyed innocence, fork sticking half out of her mouth.

“Strong,” he replies. “She can control time.”

Her expression immediately shifts to shock and she slowly removes the fork from her mouth, setting it on the table and leaning forward, as if she’s searching for the lie. Now, at least this time, he is telling the truth.

“That is unheard of!” She cries. “You saw her manipulate the flow of time?”

“I saw her move a chunk of Ergo through time, returning it to a position it had once sat in. She has also told me she can repair puppets, I imagine she is manipulating their Ergo to rewind their state.”

“It could just be teleportation, Paracelsus, it is not uncommon,” Glinda argues. “And you have not actually seen her repair one of this city’s automatons, have you? A lie, to make herself seem stronger than she is.”

“It occurred to me. But I do not think Sophia even understands her powers herself, she could not lie about something she does not understand. And she is strong, and grows stronger every day she is on that island. I feel her Ergo every night, it is growing , absorbing from the natural sink the island has .”

“That-” Glinda stops herself. “Ok. I will tell Elphaba, I will tell her how important it is we get your Listener off the island. Barring the distraction she is for Simon, if you are correct then she has the potential to be one of the most powerful Listeners we have ever seen. Osmund would not want something like that slipping through his fingers.”

Glinda becomes increasingly agitated as she speaks, waving her fork and hand around for emphasis before burying her head in her hands, inhaling deeply and then letting it go loudly. Paracelsus just takes another sip of his tea, watching her reaction over the rim of the cup.

“And what do you think, Glinda?”

“We need to save her!” She cries, raising her head. “Paracelsus, I want to help her. We cannot let Simon keep her, especially if he is beating her half to death! Syroy can storm in, demand she be handed over-”

“Politically risky,” he cuts in. “I have an idea, but I need you to follow through on your end. Convince Elphaba, hell go to Osmund yourself if you need to. But you need to get them to help .”

She nods enthusiastically and Paracelsus leans forward in the chair, lowering his voice as he begins to explain.

Hook. Line. Sinker.

Chapter Text

Dearest Romeo,

Not a day goes by that I don’t think of you. I have missed you more than anything sometimes I worry I’ll forget the shape of your face, but please understand I am coming back for you. One of my father’s men has taken me to the Abbey. I won’t tell you who because I don’t want you to do anything rash. As much as I appreciate it, I don’t want you getting hurt. 

There is an Alchemist here who is helping me. I think, maybe, you would like him. 

He’s like us. 

He has a plan to get me off the island, it’s just taking time so I need you to be patient. I will see you again, I promise. 

I miss

I’m scared

I love you. 

With all my heart,

Sophia

At first, Sophia assumed Giangio would only be able to visit once. But then he comes again, again, again, that quiet presence who wanders about her room like a ghost. He cleans for her, the evidence of her fight with Simon dissipating like smoke. He delivers her meals, all of them now, stopping by every few hours between time down at the labs to sit in her company. And he tends her, changing her bandages and giving her medicine, a soothing touch she wishes he would take further. She’s scared for him, that Simon will realise that he’s caring for her far more than he should, that Simon will punish him in the same way he does her. 

But she doesn’t want to lose him, lose this. That month, by herself with nothing but a monster for company, had been so unbelievably scary. Not knowing if she’d been abandoned or forgotten about. 

She doesn’t want to lose him. 

—

Sophia has three weeks of respite before Simon returns to her rooms again. The bruising has faded, the cuts all but healed barring a few scabs she can’t help picking at. The letter to Romeo sits on her desk, tear stained and faded from the charcoal she’s been trying to write with, when the door opens and her monster enters her room. Sophia flinches immediately, shoving the letter into her pocket and pressing herself back in her chair as he approaches, standing too close when he reaches her chair. 

“I understand your recovery has gone well,” he says. “I am glad.”

She doesn’t respond, only watching him warily. 

“I have given your pharmacist’s words some thought. It is true that employing the same technique of encouragement over and over again has depreciating effects, so I have taken some time to develop a schedule for you.” 

Simon smiles indulgently but Sophia doesn’t return it. As far she is concerned, this is just Simon coming up with more ways to make her life a living nightmare. 

“Come,” he says, beckoning her forward. “Let’s not start today on the wrong foot.”

Simon leads her towards the labs but not to the usual room, rather to a smaller door just off to the side. Adriana stands guard by the door and she opens it as they approach, revealing a small room, with only a table and two chairs in the middle under a single electric bulb. The fact that she’s been brought to a different room sets her on edge. No witnesses here.

“I will only be a moment,” Simon says. “Sit, relax.”

He exits the room, leaving her alone with Adriana. Now seated, Sophia hunches in the chair feeling miserable and dejected. Oh sure, Giangio will come by her room later and they’ll talk, but she’ll have to tell him how Simon beat her black and blue because she has no idea how to do what he wants. And then she’ll have to watch him grow dark and cold, that face he doesn’t want her seeing, the one beneath the mask he doesn’t want others seeing, and she’ll have to tell him not to get upset because she’s scared of what he might do.

“You are lucky,” Adriana spits. “For the care and consideration he gives you.”

“What?”

Sophia’s head whips around to where Adriana stands by the door, back impeccably straight. Her jaw is thrust forward, brow creased as she scowls at Sophia with disdain.

“Sir Manus pampers you, falls for your little lies and deceits. You delay his research with your lack of discipline.”

“I was hurt,” Sophia replies in a small voice. “I had an infection, Giangio said so.”

“And that gives you the right to stop? To delay our evolution?”

“But… don’t you rest? When you’re hurt?”

“And risk the death of my- Sir Manus?” Adriana makes a scoffing noise. “Never.”

For a moment, just a brief moment, Sophia finds herself pitying the woman. Hopelessly loyal to a man who wouldn’t give her a second look, who seemed to take her devotion for granted. She wonders if Simon had ever led her on, had ever promised Adriana anything more than what she already was. Sophia wouldn’t be able to do something like that, to lead someone around with a carrot and stick. Romeo had been by her side for as long as she could remember, a trusted friend and confidante first and then eventually lover and protector. Sophia had always felt he was hard done by their arrangement, how he had to hide for both of their sakes, so she always tried to give more than what she got from him. But she never just took from him, not like Simon.

“He’s using you Adriana,” Sophia says. “Don’t you see?”

The other woman suddenly surges forward, grabbing the front of Sophia’s shirt and yanking her upwards. Sophia squeaks in surprise, scrabbling at the hands holding on as she tries to wrench herself free.

“I give everything to Simon,” Adriana hisses, her nose only inches from Sophia’s face. “My sword, my body. Anything he desires I give to him freely. I am his to use, eternally, and should he give me a gift it will be something I cherish ‘til my dying breath. You-“ She shoves Sophia back down. “Do not deserve him.”

Sophia curls back in on herself miserably, wrapping her coat around herself to keep the cold and sad at bay. It’s almost a relief when Simon returns, breezing through as if nothing were wrong while Giangio trails nervously behind him. Sophia immediately focuses on something else, anything else, to keep thoughts about Giangio from her mind. But even though she manages to find a loose thread to pick at on the cuffs of her sleeves, that bubbling, frantic anxiety still sits in the back of her mind, making what should be careful movements as she pulls at the thread jittery.

 Her tormentor is carrying a large case, which he sets on the table and flips open to begin unpacking, while Giangio moves to stand next to her. He looks caught out, with wide eyes and tangled hair, hands fidgeting with overlong coat sleeves. She hopes it’s not genuine and instead just another part of his act.

“I have been reading some research on animal training,” Simon explains as he unpacks. A chunk of Ergo first, a leather collar with wires trailing off it, a small machine that he connects an Ergo battery to and a little box that also has wires trailing off it with a dial and a switch in the centre. “Adriana, if you could.”

Adriana approaches, plugging the wires into the machine, a little green light on the collar and box lighting up to indicate that they are powered. She picks up the collar and, holding it a little gingerly, buckles it around Sophia’s neck. The leather is tight and strange metal strips running around the inside sit flush against her skin, the chill touch causing a flush of goose pimples and raised hair along her skin. She would have struggled, if the shadow of Simon’s hand wasn’t already raised high above her head.

“S-s-sir, I d-don’t think t-t-that’s necessary,” Giangio stutters out. “Surely-”

He cuts himself off when Simon gives him a look, shrinking back slightly.

“Today, my dear, I would like to try something different, something simple,” Simon says. He waves his hand over the chunk of Ergo.

“I know you can Listen, let us start there.”

Sophia looks uncertainly around the room, to Simon who takes a leisurely seat across from her, to Adriana who has positioned herself to Simon’s right like a guard dog, to Giangio standing on her right, looking worried and confused. She reaches for the Ergo crystal but Simon just shakes his head so she hunches in on herself and stares at it instead, allowing herself to focus on the cool blue surface. It’s hard to do it with Simon in the room, his influence a dark sticky web that fills the space with its tendrils, and that deep unfathomable presence she can’t quite pinpoint. She takes a deep calming breathing and reaches for the Ergo and hears children laughing, his wife kissing his cheek softly, doctors and “my name is Jean-Luc Martin, yes, I’m self admitting”, the hospital bed with its scratchy sheets, the quarantine ward with too small windows set too high in the wall and oh, how he misses his children it’s been so long, the priest with a censer full of sweet smelling herbs, chanting in a language he can no longer hear through the stony growths over his ears, he hacks and wheezes, fluid and bile burning his throat, each breath a struggle-

Sophia sits back in her chair, feeling tired and small and overwhelmed. Listening to puppets was different, they had voices and personalities, they could direct what she Heard. They were conscious and aware of her presence, and consented to her touch. But this… This dead man frozen in his last moments, terrified to face his death as acidic fluid filled his lungs and prevented his breath-

“Sophia,” Simon rumbles like a warning. “I would not want to have to punish you on something so simple.”

She sniffs and wipes her eyes for a moment, clearing her throat.

“His name was Jean-Luc,” Sophia starts. “Father of two. He misses them, they hadn’t been able to see him since he was moved into the hospital quarantine ward.”

“Which hospital?” Simon asks.

“Santa Maria,” Sophia replies. “He drowned from fluid in his lungs. It… it hurt.”

It hurts, that Simon has had her playing with the Ergo of a dead man who only ever wanted to see his children again. But Simon takes the news nonchalantly.

“That correlates with the information I was given when I received this sample,” Simon says. “Good girl.” And then he reaches forward to take her hand, bringing it to his mouth to kiss it.

Sophia immediately flinches, snatching her hand away. It’s not the first time he’s kissed her, and she usually endures it for the sake of just getting him to leave quicker, but there’s something different about it this time. Like he’s treating it as a reward for her , rather than something to fulfil his sick fantasy.

Simon’s jaw tightens and he allows her to curl away from him. Instead, he reaches for the box still sitting on the table, holding it up meaningfully.

“Dear Sophia,” he says. “I will now explain how these sessions will go. For every success you will be rewarded, a little… treat for a good girl. But for every failure a punishment.”

“How is that any different to what you were doing before?” Sophia asks in a small, careful voice.

“You see, I had believed that simple punishment would further your growth, and it has, but it seems your progress has stagnated. So I wondered- what would happen if I varied your punishment? Not allow you time to become indifferent to it.”

Sophia can feel her mouth drop open in horror, breath roaring out and filling her ears. That’s- He was going to make it worse? A rotating list of things getting worse, and worse, and worse-

“You’re using her fear,” Giangio says quietly.

“Your growth was by far the most substantial when we first started,” Simon says. “Giangio, take the remote.”

Giangio shakes his head and once again moves to stand in front of Sophia to shield her. Like a mirror, Adriana takes her own step forward, only stopped from being completely in front of Simon by his upraised hand.

“I will not help you torture Sophia for your own sick amusement Simon-”

“Pick up the remote Giangio,” Simon says calmly. “Let’s put it this way, either you have control over how badly Sophia is punished, or I give it to Adriana.”

Giangio’s face drains of what little colour it has, fingers twitching as he is gripped by indecision. 

“No no no, Giangio no, please-“

Sophia grabs his sleeve, trying to pull him back, away, fear rattling through her nose in sharp breaths as tears begin to stream from her eyes, hands shaking with her desperate grip. Adriana would make her scream, make her suffer, make her body rack with more pain than she’s ever experienced but it least it would be her , a woman who has done nothing but continue the violence Simon has started. But Giangio, who she-

Giangio takes the remote. 

Sophia wails, desperately trying to scramble up and out of her chair, away from Simon, away from Giangio , but the coiling wires tangle around her like grasping vines, tugging and strangling at her neck. Her hands scrabble at the leather, shaking too much as she tries to undo the buckle. 

“You’ll find that dial to control the intensity of the shock Giangio,” Simon explains, ignoring her reaction. “A light shock for now, for disobedience.”

Giangio looks down at the remote, oddly still. Beneath her fingertips Sophia can feel the buckle and she scrabbles with the end of the leather, managing to unhook one end and pull it slightly taught so she can-

Pain flares through her neck, and she shrieks, skin burning where the metal underside touches. Her automatic reaction is to flail back, but it pulls at the wire connecting her to the battery, choking her further until someone grabs her around the shoulders and pushes her forward. The pain stops and Sophia finds herself leant half over the desk where she had caught herself, choking and sobbing on her own spit. 

“That was a light shock?” Simon asks, a note of amusement in his voice. “I’d hate to see what higher ones look like.”

He waves a hand and Adriana grabs her again, forcing her back into the chair to gasp and sob at the lingering pain. Giangio won’t look at her, the remote held loosely by his side. 

“Now dear,” Simon continues. “Do you remember our rules?”

Sophia hesitantly nods. 

“And what are they?”

“No s-sound,” she forces out. “Obey your every direction. Take every punishment.”

“Good girl,” Simon practically purrs. “Now-“

—

That girl is not her. 

That girl does what Simon wants, using her powers until she is cold and shaking from exhaustion. She is quiet, trying her best not to draw undue ire upon herself, her pain only heard in muffled squeaks and moans. That girl does not trust Giangio.

Sophia is far away. She stands on a black beach, gaze turned towards Krat, cold waves lapping at her shoes. Ice chunks bob on the water, gritty with dark sand and sea foam, while gulls screech overhead. She is only half aware of the girl in the Abbey. But it is better she is not. 

Sophia ?

She takes a step forward, icy water flooding around her ankles, dragging at the edge of her dress but she keeps going. 

Sophia!

Something holds her back, a gentle hand holding hers, but when she tries to wrench herself free it tugs her back, a bound rope going taught. 

Don’t lose yourself just yet Sophia, think about-

Romeo is there, in Krat, she just needs to-

THINK ABOUT ME .

Simon taps the pages he’s been writing on together, setting his pen neatly on top. 

“I think that concludes today,” he says. “You have done well, my dear.”

Sophia finds herself nodding numbly, everything still feeling dark and distant. Her cheeks are wet, eyes raw and everything aches, like every muscle had tensed all at once and then released. Around her neck the collar is hot, the leather chafing where it rubs against sensitive, burned skin. Cool fingers alight upon her neck and she flinches at the touch. 

“I’m just removing the collar,” Giangio says softly.

He touches her neck again and Sophia forces herself to go rigid as he carefully unbuckles it and removes the leather. Across the table, Adriana and Simon have a whispered conversation, barely audible despite the resounding silence of the room, occasionally looking over to the two of them. With a clink the collar comes away and Sophia shrinks back into the chair as Giangio removes it and sets it on the desk. He crouches, looking up at her as he inspects her neck, very obviously avoiding her eyes.

“I can tend these,” he murmurs. “If you want?”

“You will tend to her,” Simon cuts in. “I will not have a repeat of last time. You understand what happens if you fail me, Giangio?”

Giangio’s head is bowed, face hidden by a curtain of hair, but Sophia can see the way the line of his shoulders grows tense.

“Yes. Sir,” he bites out.

“Good. You may go now.”

Simon waves his hand dismissively as Adriana begins packing away the collar and battery. Giangio stands and holds out his hand and Sophia hesitantly takes it, allowing him to help her rise. Even though she’d rather not take his hand, not yet, her legs feel too shaky to support her weight on her own. But she tries her best, every muscle burning as she is led down the long winding corridors and up too many flights of stairs.

She’s been led down this path so many times it doesn’t take her long to realise that Giangio has decided to go a different way, one with far more elevators than stairs. She hadn’t even realised there could be multiple ways to return to her room. At least it gives her an opportunity to rest somewhat, each cramped ascent a chance to lean against the wall to try and alleviate the pressure on her legs.

“I’m sorry,” Giangio says quietly.

“I-” The words stick in her throat.

“I didn’t want Adriana to hurt you,” Giangio explains, a pleading edge to his voice. “She’s violent, so ruthless and-”

“She hates me,” Sophia says. “But I think I’d rather keep hating her than start hating you.”

He startles, blinking several times in surprise at her words. The elevator rattles to a stop and he makes no motion to leave, instead reaching his hand forward slightly. Long, pale fingers twitch in empty air before he draws it back.

“I didn’t realise.”

“You did what you thought was right,” she says. “Don’t be upset with yourself, I forgive you.”

Still a little clumsily, Sophia pushes away from the wall and limps from the elevator, turning when Giangio doesn’t quite follow her immediately. She has no idea where they are in the Abbey, and as much as she could extend her Ergo and try to figure it out, she’s exhausted from the experiments.

“Can you take me back? I’d like to rest.”

“I wanted to show you something, if you were interested,” Giangio says. He steps from the elevator and offers his arm, to which she gratefully sinks against. “But I can take you back to your room?”

“What did you want to show me?”

He begins slowly walking and Sophia allows him to continue leading her through long shadowy corridors with almost no light, eventually coming to an archway that leads to an open air bridge. The stonework is covered over with a layer of snow and ice, a chill wind immediately beginning to tug at their coats as Giangio begins the slow process of creating a path for her. Evidently, not many people came this way. Ahead, a great stone tower pierces the heavens, the top wreathed in fog and snow.

“This Abbey was built as a place of prayer,” Giangio explains as he walks. He indicates a patch of ice and Sophia skirts it, keeping a firm grip on his hand as she goes. “The people of ancient Krat worshipped a god. You’re familiar with the story of the One-Winged Angel?”

“Um… He aided Saint Frangelico.”

Giangio hums. They finish crossing the bridge and Sophia finally realises where they are. Directly in front of them is a great empty pit and above, spiralling higher and higher, stairs and walkways. Giangio’s strange home. He leads her over to the stairs, gesturing vaguely at the carvings on the walls as he does.

“The One-Winged Angel was the answer to many people’s prayers,” Giangio says. “Things were… not easy.” His voice gains a slightly far away quality as he speaks, a melancholiness that she’s never heard before. “These carvings are said to depict the acts the Angel performed.”

His pace is slow as they ascend, allowing Sophia to take note of the carvings as they climb higher. An angel, waving its hand over a field of crops, stopping a tidal wave from destroying a village, with its hands held over the bodies of many prone people.

“It did a lot of good,” Sophia says carefully.

Endless staircases give way to empty rooms, which in turn give way to Giangio’s gardens. There are significantly less plants here compared to the last time Sophia was here, and those that are appear twisted and dead in their pots.

“What happened?” She asks. She trails her hand along a snow covered branch, dislodging the icy lumps onto the grass and stone beneath their feet.

“Winter,” Giangio says. “I… didn’t prepare.”

She doesn’t quite know what to say to that and he doesn’t elaborate, instead continuing to lead her through. They pass more gardens, more empty rooms, more snow covered walkways until they finally reach the Gold Coin Tree. It sits in the centre of its room like a statue, untouched by the snow and ice like the other plants had been. Wind whips through the openings on the far side but Giangio doesn’t seem to mind, crossing the stone path until he stands just before the Tree, resting a hand against the gnarled bark.

“This Tree has been dead for a long time,” he explains. “Well before I got here. But the woman who this used to be, she agreed to this fate.”

Sophia reaches her Ergo forward, feeling the faint remnants of the Listener within. She can’t get anything from what she does feel, no thoughts or feelings barring a faint warmth.

“How do you know?”

“She was sick,” Giangio says, not answering her question. “And the Angel made her an offer she couldn’t refuse. An… evolution into a higher being. And she was revered for her sacrifice. Or so the story goes anyway.”

Sophia steps forward, carefully with the blowing wind and her unsteady legs, joining Giangio by the Tree. She also places her hand on the bark, feeling its roughness, the way it flakes slightly beneath her fingertips, tracing her fingers until they stop just short of Giangio’s. He looks at it for a moment before lowering his hand, turning to face her with a worried look on his face.

“I can treat your neck now, if you want?”

Sophia now reaches her hand to her neck, the touch making her wince slightly. She had forgotten about it, although maybe that had been intentional.

“Yes, please.”

Giangio brings her out and towards one of the rooms off to the side, revealing what almost looks like a storage shed. A table is tucked up against the wall with a chair in front of it, the surface neatly laid out with equipment she’d seen down in the labs. The back half of the room is partitioned off with a curtain and while Giangio starts making for that, Sophia stops in the doorway. There’s something… off about the room she can’t quite place. 

“What’s wrong?” He asks. 

She shakes her head, not quite able to articulate what she can feel. It feels like she’s waiting for something to happen, a strange intensity to the air that pushes at her Ergo.

Giangio studies her for a moment. 

“Can you feel it?”

She nods, even though it is a vague term. Giangio raises his head, as if in understanding, and raises his hand as if to beckon her forward. 

“I’ll show you.” 

She steps through and he brings her to the back, lifting the curtain so she can duck under. The space is entirely dark here, with no windows or natural light, so Giangio begins lighting the many, many candles that litter the space. If anything, this looks like Giangio’s bedroom. There’s a lumpy looking bed tucked into the corner, a dresser and nightstand, and another desk shoved against the wall. On the desk is an Ergo crystal, about the size of her fist, sitting almost innocently on its own but she immediately recoils from this sight. This is what’s emitting that feeling, almost a corruption coiling from it like a miasma. 

“What is that?” She demands. “What’s wrong with it?”

“Simon tried to cure a rabbit of Petrification Disease,” Giangio explains. He sweeps past and takes a piece of cloth and dumping it on top of the chunk, the horrid feeling immediately abating. “It didn’t work.”

She thinks about the little white rabbit with dark liquid eyes that had watched her all those weeks ago, that strange ancient awareness that had bubbled just below the surface. She hadn’t believed that Simon had cured it, something slick and wrong that she could feel even without extending her Ergo that had exuded from it like oil. Giangio gently guides her over to the lumpy bed, bidding her sit as he collects a black bag shoved in a corner and sets it on the table, beginning to pull jars and bottles out as he does. 

“What happened to the rabbit?”

“It had to be put down.”

He approaches now with a jar in his hand that he unscrews, filling the room with the strong smell of herbs. He inspects it before putting some on his fingers, going to touch her neck before stopping. 

“This will soothe the burns,” he says. “May I?”

Sophia nods and tilts her head so he can apply the cream. It stings a little as he applies it, and she almost whines as the sensation, a weird hot and cold all at once. Giangio draws his hand away, screwing the lid of the jar back on with crisp, sharp motions. 

“You can be as loud as you need to be,” he says darkly. “Scream if you have to.”

“You’ll-“ hurt me, she almost says but she shuts her mouth at the dark look on Giangio’s face. 

“I’m not going to hurt you more for being in pain,” he says. The look on his face is that dark one he gets, the one he won’t let her see, a barely contained rage that twists his face into something beautifully monstrous. “I might be a monster but I’m not like Simon.”

“You’re not a monster!” Sophia protests. “You’re helping me, standing up to Simon and giving me medicine whenever I’m hurt-“

His dark expression morphs into one of surprise, his mouth opening and closing several times like he wants to protest but can’t think of the words. Sophia reaches a hand out to cup his cheek, running a thumb along alabaster skin before standing and leaning forward, using the barest touch to pull him down to her level. He complies and Sophia presses her lips to his, feeling his cold smooth lips beneath hers. She has always craved physical affection, the barest of touches on her skin, the deep passionate kisses, and she pushes, mouthing lightly on his lips to encourage him and Giangio responds, something hungry biting back, exploring her mouth with his tongue until they’re both panting when he pulls away. He has a dumbfounded look on his face, eyes flicking about her face as if trying to take in every detail. 

“That’s better,” Sophia murmurs. She leans forward for another, smaller kiss, sucking on his lower lip as she does. 

“You don’t- I-“

“None of that,” she admonishes. She flicks the front of his coat, which he looks at a little stupidly before looking back to her. “I’ve already got one man in my life who likes to be self-deprecating, I won’t have another.”

Giangio clears his throat. 

“Um. Right.”

He very abruptly turns back to the bag on the table, and the brief look she gets of his face is of a man trying very hard to think of something else. She’d poke and tease at him if she wasn’t just about to ruin the mood. The letter feels like a lead weight in her pocket now that she’s remembered it, and she pulls it out hesitantly.

“Giangio,” she says. “I’ve written my letter.”

He’s been carefully packing his black bag but he stops for a moment, barely a hitch before he places the last bottle back. Giangio turns, his expression that careful blank it goes when he’s upset, his movements jerky and stiff as he takes the letter. 

“Thank you,” Sophia says. She reaches a hand forward, cupping his cheek again and he softens, leaning into the touch.

“Anything for you,” he murmurs. 

—

Winter gives ways to spring, the snow melting in rivulets down stone facings and sculptures. Snow storms become regular storms, which die down into pattering rains, and the sun begins to show its face again against a beautiful blue sky.

Sophia’s days vary wildly. Sometimes they are soft, sunlight streaming through the windows and painting everything in a glow. Giangio visits and they talk, about everything and nothing. He tells her about the plants he can grow now that the weather has begun to clear and how the Alchemists are still struggling to develop their cure for the Petrification Disease. He has no progress on their plans for escape, but he tells her there is so much out of his hands that the only thing they can do is wait. In turn she talks about her own life. She tells him about her charity work in her mother’s name and how she liked to collect rare and beautiful butterflies and frame them in wood and glass. Sometimes they kiss, fumbling attempts like school children experimenting in darkened corners, but Romeo and Carlo always weigh heavily on her mind afterwards. Giangio is a beautiful, kind man, one she’d gladly accept into her life, but she knows that once she leaves the island, she’ll simply be returning to the life she once had. Romeo is in Krat, waiting for her, and she’ll gladly return to him with open arms. But where does that leave Giangio, her sweet protector and rescuer? She can’t just use him and toss him to the side. It’s not in her nature. But she knows that not everyone loves like she does, too much for too many, and she sees that blankness he gets whenever she talks about Romeo.

He offers no update on her letter, and she does not ask.

Other times her days are bleak, colourless and devoid of any warmth. Simon is a dark shape at her door, showing up with no warning to play at courting her again. In some ways it feels like a game. A rich suitor shows up at her door offering flowers and gifts, hoping to woo an eligible lady but his company is boorish and distasteful, while the young man who can offer little but his company and affection steals her away into dark corners for a chance at her favour. Even though time spent with Giangio is a bright piece of happiness during her lonely days, Simon’s unexpected appearance lends an undercurrent of fear to each trist. What if he walks in on them as they speak amiably about the best way to care for orchids, or as Giangio reads and explains one of the anatomy books to her, or as Giangio snakes his hand up the back of her blouse, the touch electric as he sucks roses into the hollow of her throat?

Simon talks too, about how well his Alchemists are doing in their pursuit of a cure, about how much he is learning from his research into her abilities. He tells her that Krat is holding a “Grand Exhibition”, and that new facilities are being built to accommodate all of the foreign visitors they are expecting. It won’t be for some time, Simon tells her, but by the time of the opening he knows that the Alchemists will have many wonderful things to show for their hard work.

Sophia doesn’t talk during these dinners and afternoon teas, not that Simon minds. She is every bit the dutiful woman, serving tea and listening intently to his stories in abject fear that he might want something from her. As, afterall, the experiments do not stop.

While Simon comes by to her room to sit and talk to her multiple times a week, he takes her down to the labs far less frequently. Every visit is a guessing game- will they sit and talk for an hour or will Sophia be subjected to experiments she cannot remember, the only evidence being the scars it leaves behind?

He takes her down to the labs, sometimes to the big room where other Alchemists scurry about, sometimes to a private space where her suffering can be kept secret and contained. Sometimes Adriana is there, sometimes Giangio, sometimes another faceless Alchemist. Sometimes it is just the two of them. Simon will unearth a case, presenting the Ergo and whatever the newest method of punishment. A red hot poker that leaves crackling burns on her upper thighs or the riding crop that leaves welts in tiger stripes across her back or the collar that makes every muscle spasm and convulse. The rules are simple, as they always have been. Do as you are told, do it quickly, do it quietly and do it better . The girl knows these rules intimately. But Sophia…

Sophia cannot bear these sessions. She has always been allowed to be fragile, and even when circumstances force her to be otherwise, she finds she cannot muster up the courage to endure. So it is easier to go away. To let the girl endure in her place. To wander the Abbey corridors like a ghost, to sit on the beach and watch the waves lap at the shore. She would go further, she could  go further, but something keeps her here. That dark shape that won’t show itself to her perhaps, always felt but never seen.

As spring continues, and the weather grows warmer, Simon watches her oddly. Like he’s trying to solve a puzzle that only he can see during their sessions together.

“A different task for you today,” Simon says at the beginning of one of their sessions. 

The brazier of coals in the corner sizzles softly, making the room almost too warm with its heat. Simon stands close to it, rolling up the sleeves of his crisp white shirt before donning thick leather gloves, inspecting the end of the fire poker briefly before nestling it once again into the coals. Sophia shivers despite the heat. Stripped to her underwear, it’s easy to see the shiny burn scars covering her legs from the countless times Simon has pressed the poker into her skin. In these sessions she is not permitted a chair to curl into and Simon hits her whenever she attempts to cover her nakedness, so Sophia finds herself clasping and unclasping her hands by her side in a desperate attempt to keep herself obedient.

“You are to stay here,” he says. “These exercises are going well and displaying great improvement but I need you here.”

“Sir-” Simon likes it when she calls him that. “I don’t understand.”

“You are not… present , when we are testing,” Simon explains. He begins to pace, a slow back and forth on the other side of the table as he speaks. “At first I thought you were just being obedient but I realised that you were not really here. You simply left a shell, with enough Ergo to keep it animated. It is interesting, but not conducive with the kind of results I need.”

“Sir, I really don’t understand what you’re talking about-”

Simon stops his pacing and takes the poker from the coals, holding it out towards her. The tip glows cherry red.

“What have I said about lying?” He asks.

“No lies,” Sophia replies in a small voice.

“Correct. Now turn.”

With shaking legs, Sophia turns, presenting her left side to him, desperately forcing herself to be obedient. If she is good the touch of the poker will be brief and the wound it leaves behind shallow enough to heal within a few short weeks. Simon inspects her pale skin, running a gloved hand over a relatively unburnt section before drawing the tip of the poker across her skin in one quick motion. 

The beach is calm today, the breeze pleasant against her skin. Krat is clearly visible on the horizon, billowing plumes of industrial smoke clouding the air above it. She is not alone on the beach as she normally is, to her left-

Simon is standing over her, nose bare inches from her face as he scrutinises her before he pulls away. Her thigh flares with pain and she can feel silent tears streaking down her cheeks.

“What did I say, about staying here?” He asks, voice dangerously quiet.

“You wanted me-”

“ I told you to stay here!”  He roars. “Disobedient, liar-”

He turns in a circle and raises his fist as if to strike her but he stops when Sophia shrinks from him, unintentionally holding her arms up to protect her face.

“Pain,” he mutters. “Pain makes you…”

He turns away from her, muttering under his breath as he thinks before abruptly walking out of the room, the door shutting with a bang that makes her jump. Now left alone she huddles into a crouch, even though it makes her now injured leg shriek with pain, covering herself as best as she can. She waits for Simon to return, time stretching in long agonising minutes. She measures it in the way her leg throbs, the rattle of her breath through her mouth, the beating of her heart-

“I wanted to test a theory,” Giangio says. “People have been saying there’s a ghost down by the water.”

Sophia throws herself at him, desperately curling into his chest as he holds her close. His touch is different, Giangio is a much smaller man and she doesn’t quite fit right against him, but the moment he starts making soothing noises and stroking fingers through her hair none of the differences matter anymore.

“I can’t stay there,” she cries. “When he hurts me, I don’t know what to do, it’s just too much and-“

“Ssshh,” he soothes. “It’s ok. Anywhere is better than there.”

She stays in Giangio’s embrace, too scared to let go and face the world. It would be easier if it could always be like this, kept safe and warm by Romeo Giangio. She wheezes out a rattling sigh against his chest. 

“How do you do it?” He murmurs, like he’s not quite talking to her. “Splitting your Ergo? Dangerous… Unheard of…”

She inhales another wheezing breath and Giangio holds her at arm’s length , concern clouding his features. 

“Deep breath with me,” he instructs but as Sophia tries to copy his example her breath catches in her throat, something tight constricting her air flow. She wheezes, trying to suck in air but finds she can’t. 

“You have to go back,” he says, pushing her away. “Go!”

She lunges for him, desperately scared as she tries and fails again to draw in breath, lungs beginning to burn, but he back steps, pointing desperately at the distant Abbey. 

“Go, Sop-“

“-hia,” Simon rumbles. “Finally returning?”

She scrabbles at the hand around her neck but Simon no longer seems interested in strangling her now that he has her attention. He releases and Sophia coughs and chokes, greedily drawing in air and falling back against the table for what little support it provides. 

“So, another way to defy me,” Simon says. He begins pacing again, back and forth, back and forth, his tone mild, almost like he’s not that upset. “I’d punish you but it seems to have no effect anymore.”

He finally turns, stopping and leaning over the table. The long forgotten Ergo crystal casts his face in iridescent blue, his blind eye a milky pearl. 

“You are splitting your Ergo,” Simon states. “And returning to yourself, completely intact.”

It sounds like he’s trying to verbally work through a difficult problem, so Sophia doesn’t respond. The only thing she knows is that she’s going away . Simon looks down at the Ergo chunk, as if it will reveal some grand mystery. 

“How?” He mutters. “Split Ergo has barely any power output, it’s why Ergo mining is so inefficient compared to harvesting…” He mouths something inaudible before finally directing his attention back to her. “Sophia. You will split this Ergo.”

“I don’t know how,” she replies quietly. “I don’t know what I’m doing, all I know is that you keep hurting me-“ Her voice rises with something like hysteria until she stops herself, remembering who stands in front of her. Simon’s jaw works, clenching and unclenching with a clicking noise. 

“Well you better figure it out,” he says harshly. “We have all day, and I’ll bring you back as many times as I need.”

Sophia’s hands unconsciously go to her throat which still aches and burns from the imprint of his hands. 

“So, my dear. Split the Ergo.”

Simon does not move, so she forces herself to approach the table, picking up the chunk and inspecting it. It’s hard to concentrate with the pain in her leg but she forces herself to stay in the moment. She wants nothing more than to leave, let the girl handle this task, but Simon somehow knows when she fades in and out. So she inspects the Ergo, taking in the cracks, the tiny motes of firelight that flicker beneath its surface, the etching of the Covenant on its surface. Ergo, by its very nature, seeks itself. She has no idea how to break a chunk like this. She tries running a nail along a crack, then along the etching, but nothing seems to happen. When she reaches her Ergo out, to Listen, she is only brought into the memory of a dead man. Simon makes an impatient grunting noise across the table, standing from his lean and walking over to the brazier. He checks the poker again, finding the tip still hot as he holds it out in front of him. The message is clear: hurry up. 

—

They proceed long into the night, Sophia only able to track the time with her visits to the beach. She doesn’t mean to fade out as often as she does, but Simon’s impatience forces his hand to punishment seemingly more often than normal. Her legs screech with pain, lines of burnt flesh like a railroad on her skin and each breath makes bruised throat muscles spasm. So it’s a relief when the Ergo suddenly splits, a jagged line that leaves most of the chunk intact but seemingly satisfies Simon enough to finally call one of the Stalkers so she can be escorted back to her room. She collects her bundle of clothes and holds them close, only shrugging in her coat to keep out the chill, and follows the Stalker at a limping pace back to her room. 

The Abbey is a different place at night, long dark corridors somehow even darker, torches throwing long flickering shadows across carvings and reliefs on the walls. She’d be scared of these dark hallways if she didn’t have other, very real reasons to be. Her room at least is well lit, electric lights and a cheery fire bathing the space in a warm glow. It’s strange to think that she thinks of this space as almost a home now, a near safe haven away from the labs. Giangio is already waiting for her when the Stalker opens the door for her and he immediately turns from staring into the fire to grab Sophia and pull her into his arms, nevermind the fact he might be seen by the Stalker at the door.

“Giangio, what are you-”

“ What did he do to you? ” He whispers. He holds her tightly as if she could disappear in an instant.

“Nothing worse than usual,” Sophia tries to say, to downplay the horror of her day, but Giangio makes a sharp hissing noise through his teeth. “Giangio, please, can you just-”

“You kept appearing and disappearing from the beach, it was like you were being pulled back -”

“Giangio!” She cries. Sophia pulls herself out of his arms, crying out when fabric grazes her wounds unexpectedly. She forces herself to keep upright, to look him in the eyes as his face twists with a snarl. “Stop! Please. I just- I can’t, not anymore today.”

She heaves out a heavy sigh and limps over to the armchair, collapsing gratefully into it at a slightly odd angle to keep the worst of her wounds touching anything. The burn lines are a bright inflamed red, the skin shiny and swollen and almost black in some sections. Giangio looks almost ready to throw something when he sees them, stomping into her room and returning only a moment later with his black bag. He’s almost throwing things as he unpacks jars and bandages, kneeling heavily in front of her once he has everything in hand. His gentle touch is a stark contrast, almost reverent as he applies his miracle ointment to the worst of the burns and soothing herbal salves to the others. Bandages are wound around her thigh, over and under, outside to inside to outside again. And once he is finally done leans over and presses his lips to the thick swath, head bowed in supplication before her. Sophia reaches her hand forward and runs her fingers through his hair, silky starlight strands winking in the light, before he finally raises his head to look at her. He no longer looks as angry as he did, vicious snarl now replaced with a soft sadness that makes her heart ache. Her hand trails down now, tracing the curve of his cheek and Giangio takes her hand, pressing his lips into her palm.

“Will you stay the night?” She asks. She shouldn’t, the risk too great, the guilt too heavy. Please say no.

“Of course,” he murmurs.

Dear god, what are you doing?

Chapter Text

Spring in Krat can best be described as wet. All weather in Krat can best be described as wet really, the only difference being the insipid heat that starts to permeate the air. Rain patters off ceramic tiles, dribbling down gutters and eaves and into the cracks of cobblestones and pavers, forming puddles that people and puppets splash through alike. 

Jun stands beneath an awning, checking his watch periodically, and lets out an irritable huff. He should have gone to see Medoro, rather than let the other man meet with him. He had no sense for the time. 

“Jun!” Speak of the devil. 

Jun waves as Medoro splashes through an especially deep puddle, cursing loudly as water flicks up and soaks the bottom of his trousers. He settles next to the Stalker, kicking his feet as if that would do anything. 

“You ready to head off?” Medoro asks. 

“You dressed right?” Jun asks with a raised eyebrow. “You realise we’re going to a mine, those kind of clothes aren’t exactly practical.”

Medoro looks down at his suit, the edges of his pants splattered with mud and rainwater, before sticking a foot out. 

“This boots are perfectly practical,” he says. “Used to wear them back in the day.”

“Three years ago you mean.”

“Well yeah.”

“And you used to complain about blisters the whole time,” Jun says with a laugh. “I’m not carrying your dumb ass if you get any, you know that right?”

Medoro mock pouts but still falls into step beside him. 

“It’s too early for this,” he says cheerfully. 

Jun rolls his eyes. 

It’s four months on and the submersible still isn’t fixed. Well, not exactly. The wiring had been redone, the rusty panelling and leaky seals replaced. The paint and metal was bright and shiny and new, factory fresh and ready for another dive. Except it couldn’t, because Venigni still hadn’t made a new battery. 

The search for Golden Ergo was taking a frustratingly long time, and in the meantime all Jun could do was wait. Try and stay on the island, gather as much evidence as he could for Medoro’s story. Until he couldn’t, with Simon refusing to pay for an expedition lead when there were no longer any expeditions. 

“I appreciate you stepping into the position of storage assistant,” Simon had said, hands clasped in front of him on the desk. “We can continue paying you for that position, but not as an expedition leader.”

Simon had then slid across a contract on creamy white paper. Everything accounted for, a job that paid less, and did not require him on the island nearly as often. What choice had Jun had? He needed the money, to support himself and to keep paying Yoo-Jin’s school fees but he also needed access to the island, for the evidence, for Sophia. So he’d signed the contract under Simon’s toothy smile and went looking for another job. 

That had been around the time of the lab accident. 

He’d gone on the hunt for jobs after that, with two days a week spent on the island manning Artefact Storage, the other five undertaking odd jobs for the company he worked under. Guard duty, sample retrieval for Alchemists, escorting and protecting the rich and famous. The kind of work he had done when he’d first started out, the kind that was either dangerous, or didn’t pay enough. But he had no choice, little Yoo-Jin had started her apprenticeship at the Workshop Tower one day a week and now had additional fees that needed paying. So Jun took what he could get, consequences be damned. So it’s one of the reasons he’s now taking the carriage with Medoro out to the mines. 

Venigni’s fruitless search had finally borne fruit. 

The expedition, of which it consisted of five miners, a surveyor and a Stalker, had managed to find a vein of Ergo within one of the long abandoned mineshafts. It had been a large quantity and after days of careful digging they had uncovered one of the greatest prizes- a crystalline formation of Golden Ergo. Spirits were high, the men were set to receive an excellent payday after all, but tragedy had struck. While attempting to extract the Golden Ergo, a weak portion of the tunnel had collapsed, trapping the six men, with the Stalker guarding the entrance the only one unaffected. The man had immediately sounded the alarm and support had been brought in, specially paid for by Venigni. Jun, considered one of the experts in cave in rescues due to his own experiences in abandoned ruins, had been called in to help, while Medoro had elected to tag along as both reporter and medic for any of the surviving men.

The tunnel collapse had occurred fifteen hours previously and the trip was four hours by carriage.

They arrive at the excavation site in the early afternoon. People mill about, workers taking breaks from the long hours of chipping away at stone, puppets continuing to haul chunks away, a few Stalkers who had been on duty in the area and the mine owner, Vigo Kozlov, with his own retinue of puppets and humans. Surprisingly, Lorenzini Venigni is also there, looking immaculately dressed in signature coat and glasses as he speaks with one of the Stalkers. Jun hops off the carriage with the rest of the workers, a fresh crew of miners to begin chipping away at the rubble, and makes his way over to Kozlov with Medoro in tow.

“Sir,” Jun says with a stiff little bow. “I heard you wanted me.”

Kozlov is a little man with a nervous demeanour and a heavy accent, who fusses and fidgets with his hands as he speaks.

“A-actually-“

“Ah! Compagno! Signor Jun, yes?”

Venigni approaches with his arms held wide, almost as if he’s about to embrace the both of them, so Jun takes a step back, just in case. Medoro taps his arm and gestures towards the Stalkers to let him know where he’s going before trotting off to start interviewing people.

“That’s me sir.”

“Wonderful!”

Venigni sweeps him towards the tunnel entrance, his butler following closely behind at a sedate pace.

“You came highly recommended,” Venigni says. “I heard you’ve managed to get people out of worse scrapes than this!”

“I don’t know how much help I could be,” Jun says with a frown. “Looks like you’ve already got rubble being cleared, so that’s usually the gist of it.”

Venigni shakes his head.

“Most of the men are in a, um, outside chamber. But one of the men is separated. They’ve told me it’s worse back there, more fragile. Once we have everyone else out I want you to take a look, si?”

Jun nods, watching the line of fresh workers begin to enter the tunnel.

“I can do that sir.”

Time ticks by. Rubble is carted from the tunnel, Kozlov calls for tea and the mine owner and Venigni retire off to the side to engage in polite conversation about this sorry state of affairs. Medoro interviews anyone who’ll talk to him and then huddles himself on a rock to continue his note taking. The clouds finally dissipate, bringing with it the weak afternoon sun and a brisk wind that has those waiting around huddling down in their coats. Jun lounges by Medoro watching the entrance, so he’s one of the first to see the rescued miners as they are supported from the tunnel to the sound of yells for medics and cheers from those resting. He stands and stretches out cramped limbs before heading over to the tunnel. Venigni bounds his way over too, clapping his hands with excitement.

“Bravo!” He calls. “Now, Signor, let’s go have a look!”

Jun is handed one lamp while Venigni’s butler is handed the other and the three of them head down into the tunnel. It slopes somewhat and the ground is slick with mud and trickling water, little pools forming in some of the deeper divots. The first section of the cave in is quite a ways back, the path twisting and winding into the earth. Venigni’s breath becomes laboured and it takes Jun a second to realise it’s not because the Prince of Krat is unfit, he’s scared. 

“You alright there sir?” Jun asks. 

“Um si, of course,” Venigni replies but the smile he gives is strained. 

“We can take a moment, if you need. Or you can go back if you want, you don’t need to come down here.”

“No, I will be fine.”

They continue down, Venigni’s breathing and nervous shuffling still very loud. Jun huffs a sigh, some rich boy needing to soothe his guilty soul is the last thing he needs when he starts any dangerous work. 

“Who recommended me?” Jun asks. 

“Scusi?” Venigni asks, confused. 

Jun stops by a corner, the gentle turn of it giving them a small amount of privacy. Just beyond, they can see torch and electric lights, the sounds of rubble being cleared as a puppet stumps past them with a wheelbarrow full of rocks. 

“You said I was recommended.”

“Ah!” Venigni seems to perk up a little. “Valentinus Monad! In his own roundabout way. We were good friends and when he talked about work he mentioned a very experienced man from the Country of the Morning who saved his life! So I thought you’d be the best man for the job!”

That… made sense. It was strange to think about Valentinus Monad six months after his passing. He was a larger than life figure when spoken about in conversation but he really was just… a man. Someone who told horrible dad jokes and complained whenever the coffee was brewed too strong and always insisted on wearing his fuzzy sheepskin slippers around the campsite even when the conditions weren’t ideal. Who spoke about his daughter fondly and was always looking for little trinkets to win her favour after an absence that went longer than necessary. 

“I was heartbroken to discover that he’d died in that terrible accident, and that Sophia was missing-“

“I know where Sophia is.”

He blurts the words out without thinking and Venigni’s face morphs into one of almost comical shock. 

“You-what-how-“

Jun pushes himself into Venigni’s personal space and huddles him against the wall as another puppet wanders by. 

“You need to be careful with what I’m about to tell you,” Jun hisses. 

“Sir, I don’t think that is necessary-“ the butler attempts to cut in but Jun gives it a glare and it promptly backs away, going to stand like a sentry near the bend in the path. 

“I can be discreet,” Venigni squeaks out. “If it’s a matter of money or-“

“I’m not trying to ransom her,” Jun growls in disgust. “I’m trying to save her. And I need your help.”

Boyish shock and fear morphs into a cool, calculating interest. 

“Look,” Jun says. “We’ve got a trapped man to rescue, and Golden Ergo to recover. Can this wait? Maybe until we’re somewhere… private?”

“Si,” Venigni says with a firm nod. “I think I would like to help too. Allora, we rescue this man, and then we chat.”

The last man, the surveyor, is trapped on the other side of a narrow gap with a large chunk of stone wedged on top of his ankle, the rest of him covered in sharp rocks that left only his head and left arm free. Jun squeezes himself through the gap, reassures the man that they’re getting him out, and then sets people and puppets alike to work. They cart rubble out, not to the outside of the tunnel as they had been doing previously but instead line the edges of the tunnel with it to save time. They reinforce walls and ceilings with sturdy posts and beams. When the gap is large enough to reach the man without squeezing they repeat the process. Venigni, despite his inability (or unwillingness) to help physically, still manages to keep the man in high spirits. They talk and laugh and Venigni sends for tea and biscuits so the man can eat. And then, finally, after long hours of toiling away, they are ready.

“So,” Jun says, crouched in front of the man. “How’re you holding up?”

The man gives a bit of a shrug.

“Foot hurts.”

“We’ve got doctors waiting for you,” Jun replies. At least one, if Medoro could be counted. Jun had made the call to get a proper doctor in, just in case, but he wasn’t sure if they had arrived yet.

“Right, we’ve got a rope and pulley system set up,” Jun explains. “We’ve got a team of puppets here who’ll lift the rock and then Venigni and myself will pull you out.”

“Me?” Venigni asks, pointing a finger at himself.

“It should be easy,” Jun continues, ignoring him. “You’ll be out in no time.”

The man nods and Jun gets the assembled puppets into position while he and Venigni stand on either side of the man’s shoulders. 

“One, two… THREE!”

The puppets heave on the rock with the sound of scraping joints and popping wires. Slowly, slowly, the rock lifts and together the two pull the trapped man out. The man groans in pain as his injured foot is agitated and his skin scrapes over the rough stone floor, but they have no trouble removing him. Jun signals for the rock to be lowered and the puppets let go, the rock falling with a crash.

Jun immediately begins organising the man’s transport out of the tunnel as Venigni speaks once more to the man, a puppet walking over to lift him into a bridal carry and begin tromping towards the exit. Venigni watches for a moment, before turning back to Jun.

“He said the Ergo is on the other side of this rock,” he says. “I’ll make sure this place gets reinforced properly before we send in another team. Although…” He ponders for a moment. “I have been developing a mining puppet. Only a prototype so far but this place might be good for a test run.”

Jun nods, uninterested in the inventor’s plans.

“Now, as far as what you were telling me earlier…” Venigni holds a knuckle to his chin for a moment. “Come back to my office tomorrow afternoon. We can chat, work something out.”

Jun nods and they head back out to the waning daylight, even the weak light of the sun making Jun squint after long hours in darkness. A doctor had arrived in the interim, so Medoro is standing by the man taking his statement while a few other reporters who had also arrived do the same. Jun calls Medoro over and the man makes a few brief notes before trotting over.

“My feet are killing me,” he says cheerfully.

“I’m not carrying you,” Jun warns. “Come on, we’re gonna go speak to Venigni.”

Medoro’s eyebrows shoot up into his already receding hairline with surprise.

“You managed to get a meeting with Venigni?”

“I did,” Jun replies. “I think he’s going to help us, but we need to be convincing. Think you can help?” 

“Of course!” Medoro puffs his chest out. “We’ll convince Venigni no problem!”

—

The Venigni Estate is by far the most opulent estate within Krat. The grounds are massive with flat manicured lawns and gorgeously sculpted topiary and hedges, blank puppets posed like statues atop pedestals. As the elaborately filgreed gates are opened, Jun has to take a moment to stare at the centrepiece of the gravel path leading up to the door. A massive fountain sits in the middle, with jets of water that arc up at regular intervals. Beautifully sculpted sea creatures leap from stone waves, fish and dolphins in graceful arcs around a jutting piece of rock in the middle. Jun squints at this, trying to make sense of it, while Medoro makes a spluttery noise, half shock, half laughter.

“You think it’s life sized?” He laughs.

Sitting atop the rock is Venigni, signature glasses perched on his nose and nothing else.

“It’s gotta be exaggerated,” Jun replies.

They both stare at it for another moment.

“We could ask?” Medoro ventures.

They make their way to the front door where they are greeted by Venigni’s butler, a puppet Jun had noticed following on Venigni’s heels all through their time at the mine tunnels but was only now taking any notice of. The butler gives a stiff bow to both of them, spreading an arm wide in welcome.

“Good afternoon sirs,” the butler says. “Please, come in. Master Venigni is expecting you.”

The butler takes their coats, although Jun doesn’t give up his sword, before leading them through the mansion. The opulence continues even here, plush carpets lining polished floorboards, richly embroidered tapestries and curtains hang over walls and windows, and the corridors are lined with imported and local decorative pieces alike, ceramics, pottery, metalwork sculptures and paintings all from the most talented hands of this late century. Venigni’s study is no different, albeit far messier than the rest of the house. Where everything within the main halls and rooms of the buildings are spotless, picked over with a fine tooth comb for the barest hints of dust, the office looks like a storm had blown through it. A desk and several tables sit in haphazard positions within the room, looking as if they had started off in one place and then been moved at a later date. Every surface is covered in something, blueprints, technical documents, what looks like an invoice that Jun steps over, as well as puppets and other mechanical devices in various states of repair. Venigni is sitting at his desk, which at the very least sits roughly centred in the room, absolutely swamped by files, books and papers, talking on the phone to someone. When he sees them enter he gestures for them to wait a moment, before hanging up the phone.

“Signor Jun!” He calls. “And your friend! Come, sit. We have much to discuss.”

He waves his hand somewhat vaguely in front of him, before seeming to realise there are no chairs set in front of the desk. He rubs the back of his neck sheepishly.

“Pulchinella, could you…?”

“Of course sir,” his butler responds. “I will also bring refreshments.”

It then stumps off out the door, leaving it slightly ajar. Venigni walks around the table and takes Jun’s hand in his, giving him a firm handshake before stepping over and doing the same to Medoro.

“Lorenzini Venigni at your service,” he says in formal introduction. “I know your name-” he nods his head at Jun. “But you are…?”

“Medoro.”

“Ah, molto bene.”

Pulchinella the butler re-enters the room, two chairs carried awkwardly in front of it, which it sets down in front of the desk. Once arranged to its liking, the butler stumps out once again, shutting the door behind it. Venigni once again waves his hand, and the two sit while Venigni takes his own seat in the predictably opulent seat on the other side.

“So,” Venigni says. “Explain to me what you told me at the mines.”

Jun looks to Medoro for a moment and takes a deep breath to steady a sudden rise in nerves. While he’s not especially worried that Venigni won’t help him, so far the man has shown a need to help regardless of the situation, it’s a matter of making sure he knows how dire the situation is.

“On the night Valentinus died, Simon Manus abducted his daughter, Sophia,” Jun begins. “He brought her to Arche Abbey for a reason I’m not entirely sure of. Regardless, once a week he takes Sophia down to his labs and tortures her- electric shocks, branding, beatings- all for something he thinks she can do for him.”

Venigni listens with his lips pressed into a thin line, his complexion slightly pale. He nods, to get Jun to continue.

“The plan is to rescue Sophia and to use collected evidence to have Simon arrested.”

“I’ve been looking into it,” Medoro adds. “Simon has a lot more political power than Valentinus did, he’s been throwing a lot of money around to get the Old Families on his side, and he already has the police force in his pocket. If we can gather enough evidence, we hope it will expose a lot of corruption that’s been allowed to creep into Krat.”

“I see,’ Venigni says, nodding his head. “But what makes you think I’m not working for Simon?”

“Two reasons,” Medoro says. “One- I’ve looked into you. You’re politically influential but you don’t play politics. You’re perfectly happy to abide by the rules the Old Families set for you. All the decisions you’ve made have been perfectly above board. I’d recommend doing a sweep through your staff though.”

Venigni grimaces.

“Two-” Meodoro continues. “You’ve got too much money. You don’t need to be bought.”

That elicits a chuckle from the inventor and he leans back in his chair, relaxing slightly. Pulchinella enters once more, setting a tray of tea and biscuits between them, pouring a light herbal blend into delicate cups, before once again leaving. Venigni immediately snags one of the biscuits and bites into it, cascading crumbs down his front.

“So,” he says with an airy wave of his hand. “Simon has more power than sense and dear Sophia Monad needs a knight in shining armour. What’s your plan for rescuing her?”

“Getting her out of her room is easy,” Jun admits. “I have an ally who can do that for us. Getting her off the island is more difficult, they search any cargo that gets loaded on, and most people would recognise her. Trying to lie about why we would be transporting her off the island without Simon will be difficult, given the level of control he’s enacting. But, with the submersible, and on a cloudy enough night, I think we could smuggle her off that way.”

Venigni tilts his head, considering.

“The one in the workshop?” He asks.

“Yes.”

“It’s fixed. Why, we could rescue her now-“

“You took the battery sir,” Jun says pointedly. 

Venigni makes a face, looking a little like a caught out school boy. 

“I didn’t realise you’d need it,” he grumbles.

He huffs and shoves another biscuit in his mouth while Jun takes a sip of his tea. From the Country of the Morning, based on the slightly sweet undertones, although the additional herbs would have come from Krat. Expertly brewed too, most people burned the leaves. Jun savours the cup for a moment, long forgotten memories of drinking tea on a battered veranda as his father explained the method that made their blades so strong. 

“ Now, Sae-Jun…”

“So now you’re just waiting for a new battery,” Venigni says, having now finished sulking. “Well, I have some good news from that perspective.”

He shuffles through a few stacks of paper on his desk, tipping a few things on the floor in the process, before unearthing a sheet of paper that he taps with his hand. 

“I have received the report from the miners,” he says. “The chunk of Golden Ergo they found is not large but the quality is good. Once they finish extracting it I will be able to refine it for use in the battery. Now-“

Here, Venigni looks a bit sheepish. 

“It will take time to make the battery. The new design will be far more efficient than the last one, but it’s untested. I know time is of the essence but I need to get this right.”

Jun looks at Medoro for a moment then back to Venigni. 

“Do you have an estimate, sir?” He asks. 

Venigni exhales sharply. 

“It could take a few more months.” He begins ticking off on his fingers. “Refining, building, testing… Three months at best. And that’s if it works first try. I’d estimate closer to four, five at worst.”

Jun nods. Three months is a long time to have to let Sophia keep being tortured, but if that was the best Venigni could do then there was no rushing it. At the very least, the timing would be slightly better. Trying to take the submersible out on a cloudless summer night could only spell trouble. 

“That’s probably better for me,” Medoro adds. “I’ve got a lot of evidence about dirty cops and the members of the Families taking bribes but no clear link to Simon yet. It’s just… taking extra time.”

“Do you need assistance?” Venigni asks. “If it’s a matter of splitting your time between work and your investigation I can finance it.”

“Finance..?”

“Yes.” Venigni nods his head enthusiastically. “I’ll make up some reason, travel guide reporter perhaps, and I’ll put you both on my books. Make sure you don’t have to worry about anything but this, and it can even give you an excuse if you ever need to go somewhere you might not be allowed.”

“What’s the excuse?” Medoro asks uncertainly.

“‘Venigni sent me!’” The inventor crows. “Works every time.”

Medoro chuckles.

“Well, I don’t see anything wrong with that,” he replies. “Jun?”

Jun shakes his head. It’s a far better deal than either of them could ask for.

“That’s it then!” Venigni declares cheerfully, clapping his hands together and rubbing them vigorously. “I will have a contract drawn up, placing you both in my employ. And we’ll put an end to this madness, the three of us together!”

Venigni stands and begins ushering them out of his study, an arm around each of their shoulders. Jun grimaces slightly. Venigni has good intentions, although he finds the enthusiasm to be a little much. But at the very least, progress is being made. The battery will be built, Sophia will be rescued, Simon will be laid low. On paper, it’s so incredibly easy sounding.

Jun just hopes it stays that way.

Chapter Text

He’s like us, the letter reads.

What does that mean?

–

The moon is a watchful eye over the Abbey, a pale orb in a cloud streaked sky that bathes the island in its silver glow. The air is chill, but not overly cold, so the Stalkers on duty don’t huddle by their torches and fires as much as they used to, instead they watch vigilantly down hallways and through arched windows, their gaze a mirror of the overhead moon. On a night like this, any aspiring thief would muffle their boots with rags and smear cat dust on their exposed skin to better conceal themselves from watchful eyes. But not Paracelsus.

Sophia is a lovely figure next to him, with pale skin like smooth marble, strands of hair haloing her head like spun fire, disturbed only by the delicate rise and fall of her chest. The bruising on her neck is dark and ugly, deep purples and reds in the shape of another man’s hands while the burns on her leg appear almost black under the moon’s light. He reaches a hand out, stroking a finger along the curve of her cheek bone and she stiffens at the touch momentarily before settling back into the pillow with an incoherent mumble. Sleeping with her, sharing her touch, her scent, her company, filled a part of him he’d long left empty. Why build a relationship with someone when you were always going to outlive them? Forever is a lonely business, but one he has worked in for a long time. He knows how this goes, watching someone he lo- cares for grow old and crippled, passing him by as he remains stuck within the gears of time. Sophia is just another woman, nothing particularly special about her. But he is drawn to her regardless, moth to a flame.

He has to leave.

As much as Paracelsus wants to stay, he runs the very real risk of being discovered. An Alchemist could come by to deliver breakfast, a Stalker could be sent to bring Sophia down to the labs, Simon could decide he wants to visit. He’s pushing his luck by staying even half the night.

He rolls out of the bed and tucks the covers around Sophia carefully before redressing. Slacks, dark button down, scuffed dress shoes and then oiled rain coat over that. He’ll leave his bag here for now, it’s barely worth taking back to his room with the amount of times he’s needed to tend Sophia’s wounds anyway. And then it’s to the door where a Stalker stands on guard. A young man, with his back to the door, watching outwards for anyone who might pass by, who might attempt to break into the prisoner’s room. He shuffles and fidgets every few minutes, clearly bored with his assignment. He stands fairly close to the door, almost leaning on it in fact, but that is no issue really. People do not see what they are not looking for.

Paracelsus slips through the open door, carefully shutting it behind him and ducking into the closest shadow. The man rubs at his nose, eyes scanning the seemingly empty corridor before he reaches into a pocket to pull out his watch. He makes a grumbling noise, dissatisfied that so little time has passed. 

The Abbey is a different place at night. Corridors that haven’t had electrical lighting installed are lit instead by torches and lanterns, casting flickering shadows across the walls amidst pools of light. In corridors left entirely unlit, of which there are many due to the sheer size of the sprawling complex, moonlight streams in silvery beams, bathing ancient carvings in stark relief against pale stone. Stalkers patrol the corridors or stand at corners, far more than there used to be. It doesn’t make Paracelsus’ trip more difficult, simply slower. A few stand and chat in amiable conversation, others tend blades and weapons to pass the time. Very few are diligent and watchful against the creeping dark. 

Simon’s office is on the top floor of the main building, a spacious room with an impressive view of the beach and Krat beyond. Paracelsus has been to it on more than one occasion to look for information to add to his reports, but not recently. He’s been spending too much time worrying about Sophia physically that he hasn’t taken the time to actually find out what Simon is getting out of each torture session. He watches the door for a moment, a grand ornate thing covered in carvings of trees and animals, and the Stalker guarding it. The woman paces back and forth, bored and on the lookout for something to make her night more interesting. The corridor is well lit, resplendent with new installed electric lighting, leaving Paracelsus with few shadows to work with. He could simply sit and wait, hope she would grow inattentive and give him the chance to slip by, but that could take too long. It’s late now, but the sun will rise eventually. 

He lets out a quiet hum and makes himself comfortable, settling in to wait for the time being when something strange happens. Another Stalker, their back to Paracelsus, approaches the guard and they have a brief, quiet conversation before the woman gratefully leaves, walking briskly down the hall and past Paracelsus wreathed in shadow. The Stalker now on guard, a man based on his broad shoulders, stands there for a moment, inspecting the door, tracing a hand over the carvings and eventually tests the handle, finding it locked. He then pulls something out of his coat and, looking to both sides to make sure he’s alone, begins picking the lock. But the Stalker isn’t alone, and Paracelsus recognises the distinctive features of the man. 

Jun. What an interesting coincidence.  

He fusses with the lock for a moment and it clicks open, hinges creaking just barely as he pushes the door inwards. Making a quick decision, Paracelsus darts forward, crossing the distance in a heartbeat and placing his palm on the door as Jun begins to close it. The man startles, hand immediately going to his sword hilt. 

“You- Giangio?” He nods and Jun immediately relaxes. “What are you doing here?”

“I could ask you the same question,” Giangio says pointedly. 

Jin’s expression sours.

“If I can’t trust you anymore, I’ll have to take action,” he says but Giangio puts his hands up placatingly, offering an easy smile. 

“You’re looking for information on Simon,” he states. “So am I. And we are both overdue for a chat.”

Jun’s expression doesn’t change but he ushers Giangio, shutting the door behind them and plunging them into darkness. Jun fumbles around for the light switch and Giangio just sighs, reaching for it easily and flicking it on. The light is harsh for a moment before it dims to a comfortable illumination. The other man nods in thanks and immediately heads for Simon’s desk.

The study is a well appointed room, plush carpets cover the floor, bookcases filled with leather bound volumes of modern scientific studies or extremely rare books of ancient history. A glass case in the back corner contains imported ceramics and sculptures from the Country of the Morning while the mantelpiece is decorated with framed butterflies on either side of an empty frame. Simon’s desk takes pride of place, a massive oak monstrosity that sits just in front of the curtained windows, with locked drawers decorated with brass fittings. On either side of the windows sit his filing cabinets, each six drawers high, suitably deep, and all locked.

Giangio takes his place next to Jun as he begins fiddling with one of the locks, grunting as he gets it open.

“It’s been months,” Giangio says.

Jun grimaces and huffs out a sigh, opening the drawer with probably more force than intended. Pens, pencils, a pocket knife and a few candle stubs roll and rattle around in the drawer.

“What the hell?” Jun mutters.

He huffs again and shoves the drawer closed, leaning over further to start on the next lock. Giangio pointedly taps his finger on the desk, making no move of his own to look for information. He already knows where it will be anyway.

“I don’t have anything you,” Jun says. “That damned sub still isn’t fixed.”

“It’s been months ,” Giangio repeats.

Jun throws his hands up in exasperation.

“Look,” he says, leaning against the desk. “It’s fixed. They replaced all the rusty bits and the faulty wiring and even gave it a nice shiny coat of paint so it’s all fixed on the outside except it isn’t because Venigni wanted everyone to know how big his dick is and decided the old battery wasn’t good enough, so he went to go make a new one and then forgot .”

Jun points a finger at Giangio, who takes a half step back as the Stalker’s frustration reaches its peak.

“So yes, I know it’s been months. And it’s going to be even longer. I’ve spoken to Venigni, the battery is getting made but at best it’s three months.”

Giangio blinks in surprise as Jun turns back to the drawer and finishes unlocking it, wrenching it open with a curse. More useless junk. 

Three months really isn’t all that long at all. Not when you’ve got to wade through layers and layers of bureaucracy to get anything done. He still hasn’t received any word from Glinda about whether they’ll help or not, and the lack of response weighs heavily on him. 

“You want the filing cabinets,” Giangio says.

Jun grunts and closes the drawer, turning and walking over to the filing cabinets to begin unlocking them. When one clicks open, Jun finds himself faced with rows and rows of files and notebooks, all neatly ordered numerically or alphabetically. Giangio goes to join him, once again not making any effort to go for the information he wants. The Stalker looks at him for a moment, then back to the files, pulling a few out at random to read the labels before shoving them back.

“How is she?” He asks quietly.

Giangio closes the drawer Jun is looking at and points to a different one, indicating that he should open it. After a moment he does and Giangio pushes the files aside to unearth a thick sheaf bound in leather and string that he brings over to the desk. He begins meticulously unpacking it, from back to front, oldest first.

“What-”

Giangio just puts the first page in front of Jun, and points to the name at the top. Sophia Monad.

“She’s not good,” he finally says. “You know about the experiments?”

“Only that they’re basically torture,” Jun grimaces at the admission. “I’m not on the island as much as I used to be.” 

Giangio wondered about that. During winter, Jun had been a constant shadow, taking notes, taking pictures, being everywhere he shouldn’t. And then one day, Giangio just hadn’t seen him anymore. He would have assumed the Stalker had been found out, if it wasn’t for the fact Simon hadn’t made an announcement about a caught spy or traitor.

“I’m not being paid what I used to,” Jun explains. “I was Valentinus’ expedition leader. No Valentinus, no expeditions, no job. I’ve had to take work on the mainland. They’re paying me to maintain the artefacts but it’s not enough.” He pauses, pursing his lips as he contemplates for a moment. “I have a sister I’m trying to support.”

Now it’s Giangio’s turn to purse his lips. He doesn’t especially care that Jun has a sister, and no longer spends as much time on the island. Perhaps, if anything, it’s meant his snooping hasn’t been found out sooner. A fortunate situation for him.

“Simon is attempting to make Sophia a key part of his evolution plans,” Giangio explains. “She is a Listener, she can speak to and hear Ergo, and Simon wants her stronger. He thinks torturing her is doing that.”

He points to the first page, indicating a number near the bottom, before pulling out a different one, dated much more recently, and indicates the same spot. The most recent number is significantly higher.

“The most scientific way to track is by the Ergo in her blood,” he continues. “You’ll see here…”

Jun looks a little bewildered at the report.

“I don’t think I understand,” he says.

“You don’t need to,” Giangio says sharply. “What you need to know is that Sophia is regularly tortured for Simon’s sick amusement. The proof is in here. That’s the information you’re after, isn’t it?”

He pulls page after page from the file, initial lab notes, formalised reports, an envelope full of film negatives, tosses them towards Jun. He looks shocked that there’s so much, picking up a page at random and silently mouthing the words.

“Is it- is it working?” Jun asks, expression both shocked and disgusted. “The torture, all this…” 

Giangio snorts.

“No. Sophia is getting stronger because she’s here, on this island. She’s managing to absorb ambient Ergo from the air.”

Jun shakes his head like he doesn’t understand, which makes sense. Giangio is having to explain a lot of very complex things in layman’s terms, and without a lot of the context the nuance is being lost in translation. The other man exhales a shaky breath, shuffling the information into some semblance of order. 

“How could it have gotten so bad?” He asks.

“Simon is a psychopath,” Giangio replies simply. He moves away from the desk and knocks lightly on another one of the filing cabinet drawers. “Open this for me?”

“Uh, sure.”

Jun quickly gets the drawer popped open and Giangio takes out what he’s looking for. There’s so much in here that the information is actually spread across three separate files. He’s already made notes and copies of all the information in the first file, so he takes out the two most recent and sets them on the other side of the desk and settles into the chair with ankle crossed over knee. Like this, he can prop the file up and peruse as leisurely as he feels like. Across from him, Jun frowns. He has a camera out and will occasionally take a photograph of particularly interesting information in between taking notes.

“What’s that?” He asks.

“All of the research on the Petrification Disease,” Giangio replies.

“Ah.”

There is no cure for the Petrification Disease. The Alchemists have looked into seemingly hundreds of different ways to treat the Disease- infecting the patient with other diseases in an attempt to create a vaccine and the amputation of limbs were among the first methods tested before they turned to more esoteric answers. Prayer, witchcraft. None worked.

There is no cure for the Petrification Disease.

But Simon had seen the experiment with the rabbit as a success. No matter the fact that it had become an incomplete godling before their very eyes, wish unfulfilled. Simon saw potential.

Simon saw evolution.

More infected rabbits had been acquired and more blood from the Arm used. Smaller quantities, over a long period of time. More rabbit deaths, from Petrification, from horrifying mutations that had warped the creature’s body too much before its wish could be fulfilled. 

It is strange, Simon comments. Those further along with the Disease are more likely to mutate rather than succumb. I have had their Ergo levels test and find that those who are late stage have more Ergo within their bodies. Is the Arm reacting to the Ergo?

He begins injecting rabbits with liquid Ergo before using the blood and his theory bears fruit. Those with higher concentration of Ergo within their bodies mutate quicker but still die. Simon’s words are professional, mild mannered, but his frustration is evident.

At the very least, we know that fire will effectively destroy a mutated carcass.

His research stalls here, long hours spent trying to discover the right ratio for… something. On one hand, Simon still strives for a cure. But on the other, he sees the potential for evolution. The Arm is making these poor creatures stronger, however momentarily, and he wants to harness both. 

The Petrification Disease is the lock, Arm the key. I just need to see how they fit together.

He still hasn’t figured it out. How frustrating. Giangio looks up from the file to where Jun is standing. He’s also packing the files away as neatly as he can. He looks over to the grand clock by the door and winces at the time. Almost five in the morning, they’ve both been here a long time.

“Three months?” Giangio asks. “Is there no way to speed that up.”

Jun sighs and scrubs a hand across his face.

“That’s the best case scenario,” he replies. “It could be closer to five months or longer.”

They sit for a moment before Giangio lets out a weary sigh, moving to close the file and put it back as he found it, but something makes him pause. A note at the bottom of a set of lab notes.

Sophia’s results have come back higher again, Simon writes. They now sit above that of the highest recorded Listener and above the level of a late stage Petrification patient. Her powers grow with each test, but are once again beginning to stagnate. Would application of more Ergo be beneficial?

And then, in smaller writing and almost entirely scribbled out-

What would happen if I gave her the blood?

–

Petrification does discriminate. 

Most would argue otherwise, young or old, sick or healthy, rich or poor, it didn’t matter who you were, if you ingested enough Ergo you were almost guaranteed to contract the Disease. 

But Paracelsus knows. Everyone had Ergo within them, trace amounts, never enough to crystallise on its own. Some had more, some had less. Most Listeners had more, it was part of how they were so in tune with Ergo in the first place. Ergo, by its nature, sought itself, which was how ambient Ergo would bind with a person’s natural levels. From there, if there was too much, it would crystallise, and Petrification would begin. The more you had to begin with, the quicker you would contract the Disease. 

But that excluded Listeners. 

Listeners, due to their connection to their own Ergo, could keep it separated. It was an unconscious response, most did not realise they were doing it. But a Listener would never absorb enough Ergo to contract Petrification Disease. 

Except Sophia. 

Sophia, with some strange, innate ability that allowed her to absorb the ambient Ergo in the air, who grew steadily stronger with each passing moment. It was unheard of. Unthinkable. And a worry. Sophia’s unconscious ability to absorb Ergo put her at risk of Petrification, each passing second on the island another chance for it to finally bear fruit. Giangio watches her more closely, checks more thoroughly every time he tends her for the barest signs of the Disease. But he finds nothing, for now. 

Simon backs away from her, his experiments only occurring once over the next month. His attention returns instead to the main laboratory, where Giangio stands quietly and complacently, directed this way and that by Alchemists still trying, and failing, to find a cure. This, at least, has not changed. He starts to see Jun more often as he stands there trying not to doze off, once again lurking in places he shouldn’t be. His little camera makes a little click every time it goes off, a noise that is often barely audible over whatever other noise is occurring in the labs. Evidently, his need for information has been expedited with the now established deadline. 

And, much to Paracelsus’ chagrin, he sees Adriana lurking around too. 

Normally, the woman is Simon’s pale shadow, the loyal dog always at his beck and call. But now she lurks and loiters, or at least tries to, an alarming amount. He had noticed she seemed to be spending a lot of time supervising the labs after the initial incident with the rabbit, and at first he had wondered if it was Simon’s attempt to protect his underlings from any further incidents. But then he finds her elsewhere, following other Alchemists as they walk from place to place, loitering around storage areas and once he had found her going through one Alchemist’s personal belongings, while the frightened man looked on with terror in his eyes.

So she was looking for something, or someone. 

It’s only a matter of time before little Giangio was remembered, so far away in the Hollow Tower. He takes inventory of everything he has within his possession and divides it into piles- what would he be fine with Adriana finding, and what wouldn’t. The telegraph machine is obvious, as are the rabbit’s remains. A book of pressed flowers, carefully categorised, and an old folio containing old research papers that he’s written, one of which just about crumples apart in his hands, and finds he definitely doesn’t want Adriana seeing these and deciding to present them to Simon. There are a few trinkets too, old sentimental pieces of jewellery, chunks of sea glass and driftwood, a hank of blue hair tied with a piece of twine that is as soft as the day it was given to him. There are memories here, sometimes ones he doesn’t want to remember, but still things he doesn’t want others seeing. Pieces of something so well hidden even he no longer remembers the shape of it.

The pile is small, but damning, so the next order of business is hiding everything. The telegraph machine has to stay close so he ends up finding an old pot that he is able to hide the little machine in by sitting another pot over the top of it, and then placing a bag of mulch on top of that . The other items are a little harder to think of a good place to hide. He considers places around his rooms, and even in some of the more public areas to hide it in plain sight, but an even better idea occurs to him.

Paracelsus wraps the items as best as he can, paying special attention to the rabbit’s remains, before packing them into his bag. On top go extra medical supplies, more bandages and clean rags and an extra jar of burn cream since he’s going through it at an alarming speed, and then he heads off, down the twisting winding stairs and to Sophia’s room. 

The corridor is empty, room unguarded, meaning Sophia is likely elsewhere. Either being taken for her walk or down with Simon in the lab. It’s easier this way, he won’t have to explain why he’s hiding his trinkets amidst her belongings. 

For a prisoner, Sophia’s room is prettily decorated, as befits a woman of her social class. The floorboards are kept swept and polished, intricately designed rugs cover the floor, the furniture is well made and plush, and kept artfully covered with cushions and throws. Her shelves are filled with books and trinkets, encyclopaedias, books on anatomy and engineering, an atlas, as well as pretty ceramic vases, little glass sculptures and framed butterflies arranged nicely. If Giangio didn’t know any better, he’d say it looked like the typical rooms of a high society lady either living with her father or husband.

The first thing he hides are the rabbit’s remains. These are the things he is most concerned about, as aside from how dangerous they are in the wrong hands, and how damning they would be if they were found, Sophia can sense them. She’d find them easily if he didn't hide them carefully. He rifles through her clothing drawers, as even though he has doubts Simon or Adriana would be going through them without good reason, Sophia herself would use them regularly enough to find them herself. From there he moves onto cupboards, dismissing her wardrobe and under sink cabinets for similar reasons. Other places he could hide it are too obvious, tucked into a corner at the back of her shelves or in decorative vases, but as he is once again standing in the doorway of Sophia’s bedroom and looking at her massive four poster bed and definitely not thinking about every time he’d watched her sleep, Giangio has an idea.

Getting on his hands and knees, he pushes the dust ruffle out of the way and peers under the bed to find… nothing actually. Just a lot of dust and dirt. All things considered, it’s the perfect place. He pulls the rabbit’s remains from his bag and unwraps them, the piece of Ergo that pulses with a strange energy and the perfectly preserved heart that still twitches in his hands. Both valuable specimens to bring back to Syroy. He inhales and exhales deeply before rewrapping them, half shoving himself under the bed to place them up against the wall and, somewhat unfortunately, right by where Sophia would rest her head. Hopefully he’s wrapped them well enough.

He pulls himself out and hurriedly dusts himself down, grimacing at the worst of the dusty marks now marring his clothes. Giangio sighs, and then returns to his work.

Trinkets and baubles from bygone years now litter the bottom of his bag so he takes each one out and examines it closely, before finding somewhere in the room to hide it. The polished chunk of driftwood is placed artfully on a shelf between framed butterflies, the handful of sea glass and pretty shells placed on another next to the atlas. He slips the folio of pressed flowers and the one containing his centuries old writings on that shelf too, the nameless spines inconspicuous next to an anatomy book. The jewellery is placed in Sophia’s jewellery box, the old tarnished pieces considerably more delicate compared to the chunky rings and necklaces Simon has decided to give her. The only thing that doesn’t fit is the brooch, a fairly large silver trimmed butterfly with a sapphire set in the middle of it. Paracelsus had never worn it, the piece too big and gaudy once he’d actually taken it back to his lodgings and had a proper look at it. But he’d kept it anyway. Maybe Sophia would like it? He doesn’t see her wear anything but the tiny sapphire studs she’d had on since her abduction. Paracelsus thinks it would quite suit her, with her proclivity towards butterflies and the colour blue. As he stands over the jewellery box, brooch held loosely in his hand as he thinks about whether he should leave it here or try to find somewhere else he could hide it, the door creaks slightly and he immediately startles to attention. Giangio quickly hides the brooch, hands behind his back as he takes a step away from the dresser. Sophia stands in the doorway of her room, looking pale and tired, but mostly just confused. It’s not the first time he’d decided to wait in her rooms, generally expecting the worst, but it’s probably the first time he’s been in her bedroom without her permission.

“Hi Giangio,” she says. 

“Sophia.” He shuffles in place, trying not to look caught out. “Are you ok?”

She makes a shrugging motion and Giangio has to make a concerted effort to stop the bitter anger that swells in his chest. He shoves the brooch into his pocket and goes to her, taking her hand and guiding her with the other around her shoulders until she is seated on the edge of the bed. She’s moving slowly, which means she’s hurt again. 

“Wait here a moment,” he says, leaning forward to place a gentle kiss on the side of her mouth before exiting the room for his bag. 

When he returns only a moment later, Sophia has kicked off her shoes and seems to be in the process of trying to change. Her blouse is half undone but she seems to have abandoned that in favour of trying to remove her petticoat without standing up. As a result, she’s gotten quite tangled in the fabric and she’s now lying half sprawled across the sheets looking exhausted and defeated. 

“Do you need a hand?” Giangio asks. 

“I just need…” She sighs. “Yes.”

She doesn’t move so he very carefully sets his bag down and approaches, resting his knee on the bed so he can reach. He places a hand on her ankle and she gives no response. 

“Sophia? May I?”

A muffled hum and a nod. Giangio exhales through his nose and carefully untangles the skirt from around her legs before pushing it up, so it sits just on her hips but covers between her legs. He then reaches under the material to find the tie keeping the petticoat in place, grimacing at the odd way he has to sit over her. Sophia shuffles in place a little and he finally locates it, tugging at the knot to undo it before sliding the material down her legs, Sophia doing nothing but adjusting her weight so he can remove it easier. 

“Are you ok?” He asks. She doesn’t respond and he shakes her knee, demanding attention. “Sophia?”

“Why is Simon doing this?” She asks. “He keeps talking about evolution and how I’m going to be so much help but I don’t know what any of that means .”

Giangio sighs. He seats himself a bit more comfortably on the edge of the bed, running a hand slowly along her leg as he begins checking for pustules. 

“Do you know what the Alchemists’ mission is?” He asks. Sophia shakes her head and finally decides to prop herself up slightly, shoving a pillow under her head so she can watch him. “The Alchemists have always sought immortality. We were offered divinity so long ago and squandered the opportunity, so every man and woman in the organisation has the arrogance to believe they could achieve it through their own means. Simon is no different.”

“Simon uses the word ‘evolution’,” Sophia points out. She flexes her foot in his hand as he runs firm fingers along the arch. “That tickles.”

“Sorry.” He does a cursory check of her toenails, since he’s seen pustules starting there before, before moving up to her ankle, testing the joint as he does. “Evolution, immortality. It’s all the same to Simon. It’s about a higher state of being. Humans are fragile creatures, but if they can grow, ‘evolve’-“ He holds up a free hand to do air quotes. “Past their imperfections then surely that will also mean transcending death.”

Hands now roaming higher, Giangio checks the back of her knee, feeling the way the knobbly kneecap shifts between his fingers, before turning to the other leg and starting again. 

“I don’t know why he wants you,” he admits. “I don’t know how you can help with his definition of evolution, especially not with the way he’s been treating you.”

Sophia sighs, fingers plucking idly at the buttons on her shirt while Giangio finishes with the other leg. Nothing, not yet. 

“Where did you get hurt?” He asks, standing and going over to his bag. 

“I didn’t,” Sophia replies quietly. “Not today.”

“Did you see Simon today?”

“Yes. We just talked.” She sounds just as confused as Giangio feels. “He was talking about his evolution stuff again and then he took my blood and gave me an injection. Didn’t ask me to do anything or even hit me for saying anything.”

Giangio feels his blood run cold, a rushing filling his ears.

“What colour was it?”

“Blue.”

Paracelsus surges towards her, pulling her up and yanking at the sleeves of her blouse, causing her to cry out in shock.

“What are you-“

The sleeve is pulled up, revealing the pale crook of her arm. Her veins are stark and blue, the same on both sides when he pulls the other forward. Sophia tries to yank free but he holds tight with an iron grip, desperately looking for something, anything , that shows him what Simon’s just done.

“Let go!” She yells.

Sophia finally manages to pull her arm away, recoiling from his fervent grasp, huddling in on herself against the plush pillows. She looks… oh god, she looks scared. Of him. Of Paracelsus.

“I’m sorry,” she murmurs, hands now held in front of her face. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, please-“

“Sophia.” Giangio reaches for her again, hands stopping just shy of her foot. “You’re ok.”

Her hands slowly lower, revealing a pale face, cheeks and eyes blotchy and red. Sophia takes a breath, her exhale long and stuttering.

“Sophia,” Giangio says softly.  “I’m not…” He places his hand on her foot and she flinches. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

“What were you doing then?” She whispers.

“Simon is injecting you with Ergo,” he replies. “I’m looking for…”

“Signs of infection?” Sophia says, completing his sentence. He nods and looks away from her. “Am I going to get sick?”

His response sticks in his throat, whether truth or lie he doesn’t know. Sophia just huddles in on herself, looking small and scared. 

“I’m tired,” She says. “Can you let me sleep?”

He doesn’t want to leave her.

“Do you need anything?” Paracelsus asks. “Before I go?”

Sophia shakes her head.

“Please leave.”

He can only nod, collecting his bag and starting to walk out the door before stopping by the jewellery box, the brooch cold against his fingers as he fidgets with it in his pocket. Giangio takes it out and holds it between thumb and forefinger, showing it to her.

“I got you this,” he says. “I’ll just… leave it here.”

He sets it on the vanity and leaves, shutting the door softly behind him.

Chapter Text

“This will make you stronger,” Simon says, a firm hand around her wrist.

The needle is large and the liquid burns when it enters her flesh, thick and viscous and blue. She’s trying to be brave and quiet, to not go away, but it’s hard to focus, to stay present-

“Stay here dear Sophia,” Simon rumbles. 

And like that the needle is empty. She imagines the fluid filling her veins, coating her flesh, painting everything sick and blue, as he packs everything away into a case, watching her for a long moment like he’s trying to decide something. 

“You love him,” Simon suddenly states. 

Sophia looks at him, wide eyed, trying to keep her mind flat and blank, trying to think of only gold hair and green eyes but traitorous thoughts only see blue, blue, blue-

“He’s kind to me,” Sophia replies quietly. “I miss Romeo. I miss Carlo. ”

Simon’s lips thin but he doesn’t hit her. He seems almost resigned as he eventually sighs and stands from the chair, walking to the door and stopping just by it. 

“He won’t save you,” he says. “Men like that, they think of nothing but their own skin.”

“A-and what makes you any different?” Sophia demands. 

Simon turns back to her, his expression flat and neutral. 

“At least I do not lie to you.”

—

Her gut churns and roils over the next week, a constant nausea that makes her feel as if she could throw up at any moment. Simon visits her in her room daily, suddenly gentle and attentive in his care. 

“How do you feel?” He asks. 

“Sick.”

Sophia hasn’t bothered to get out of bed today, feeling sore and uncomfortable, the smell of the soup he’s brought her making her empty gut cramp. Simon sits on the edge of her bed, the picture of a concerned lover.

“You need to eat,” he says. “To keep your strength up.”

He holds the bowl out and Sophia takes it, lest he decide to start force feeding her instead. She stirs the liquid, watching at the way the oily film dances and shimmers in the electric lights. Chunks of vegetables, carrot, onion, celery, float in the wake of her trailing spoon.

“Eat.” Not a command, not yet, but almost.

The soup is thin and watery, coating the inside of her mouth with oil and she almost gags when she tries to swallow, but Sophia forces herself to keep it down under Simon’s watchful eye. He hums. 

“This will continue for a while,” he says. “The injections, the sickness. I do apologise for the discomfort. But you are behaving admirably and that is not something I will overlook.”

He leans forward and places a hand on her leg now, tapping his fingers idly against her shin. Soft, but not so soft that she can’t feel it through her blankets.

“A reward,” he says. “Anything you want, my dear.”

“Anything?” Sophia asks. It’s too good to be true, surely.

“Within reason,” Simon replies.

Sophia purses her lips, looking down at the dregs of soup in her bowl. The only thing she wants from here is freedom, to be able to go home to her father and Romeo and Carlo, but there is no way Simon can do that for her. He’d never allow her to leave the island, not while he still believed she could do something for him.

“I understand that you are lonely,” Simon says, once the silence has stretched on for a long time. “Perhaps…” The tapping of his fingers stops and he moves his hand higher up her leg, resting it just by her knee with the thumb facing between her legs. She automatically shifts, closing her legs even though the position now makes her lower back and hips hurt. Anger flashes across his face for a moment before Simon’s face settles back into a neutral expression. 

“I’m ok,” Sophia says quietly. “Thank you, but I think I just want to rest.”

“I see.”

Sophia doesn’t understand Simon Manus. Perfectly willing to assault her so long ago, and yet tiptoed around the idea of forcing himself on her in an effort to satiate his lust and obsession for her. Maybe she’d prefer it if he did, it would make her capable of hating his whole being rather than just parts of him. He stands and takes the empty bowl cradled in her hands, leaning over to plant a gentle kiss in her hairline. Does he regret? Does he remember the violence and pain he’s inflicted upon her, remember her crying and pleading? Does he do this because he believes his goals so lofty that he can harden his heart and put her to the side?

“I will be back later,” Simon says. “For blood, and one more injection. And then we should be able to proceed as normal.”

Sophia looks away from him, not bothering to return his farewell. Being able to understand him wouldn’t make her life any easier, he would still be cruel and kind in equal measure. On her vanity, the brooch Giangio had left for her winks and sparkles in the light. She hasn’t bothered to look at it, not with the way it reminds her of their… well it wasn’t an argument. Neither had raised their voices and the only thing that had happened was that Sophia had asked him to leave when he clearly didn’t want to. Giangio was kind, respectful, but obviously that hid a part of him Sophia had only ever caught glimpses of. To see that part turned on her, violent and intense in its actions, it scared her.

“He’s just looking out for me,” Sophia murmurs. “He’s not like Simon.”

—

Simon draws her blood and then returns two days later to once again take her down to the labs for more experiments. As promised, she can never predict what he might inflict on her on any given day, as any equipment he might need he always brings in later. Once seated, Simon leaves and returns with the chunk of Ergo, not the same one she had split all those weeks ago, and sets it on the table. What circus trick today? Make it move, split it in half, divulge its intimate secrets to a man who doesn’t care?

“You will move it today,” Simon says, taking the opposite seat and opening up his notebook. “Begin.”

This one Sophia can do almost without thinking, back and forth across the table in motes of light. Simon’s face is impassive as she performs, her gut beginning to roil with each use of her powers. Her nausea had abated somewhat but now it returns in full force and after the sixth move, she almost throws up into her lap.

“Good,” Simon says.

Sophia clamps her hand to her lips and swallows thickly around the bile that fills her mouth. Simon takes the Ergo chunk and sets it in front of her, standing to now stand beside her.

“Split the Ergo.”

This trick is newer and harder to do but Sophia focuses on the chunk, trying to focus on anything but her stomach. She gags suddenly and has to clamp her hand back to her mouth.

“I’m going to throw up,” she whines.

Simon frowns but does not immediately move to hit her so she takes a moment to instead focus on settling her stomach. He moves back to his seat and makes a note before returning to her side, gesturing for her to turn and face him. She does, hunching in on herself, but Simon moves her crossed arms out of the way, pressing his hand against her stomach, pushing lightly about the area. His frown deepens as Sophia goes stiff, scared as to what else he might do.

“You’ve been sick since the first injection,” he finally says. It’s not a question but she nods anyway. “Your bloodwork shows incredibly high levels of Ergo.”

“I’m not…” I’m looking for signs of infection. “Do I have Petrification Disease?”

“Nausea is not one of the symptoms,” Simon replies. “Try splitting the Ergo again.”

With his hand still on her stomach, Sophia looks once again to the chunk and tries to focus against all of the conflicting sensations. Her stomach heaves again, Simon suddenly pressing down hard as it does, before the Ergo splits, another imperfect line breaking it into two pieces. Bile fills her mouth and dribbles onto her hand, soaking her skirt. 

“I see.”

Simon abruptly leaves the room, leaving Sophia with the rising sour of her stomach as she finally heaves over the side of her chair, what little food she’d eaten for her lunch splattering across the floor. She’s exhausted by the time her stomach is completely empty, muscles cramping from the effort. She sits limply in the chair, ignoring the cold and rancid smell now filling the room, drifting-

-the water is knee deep and cold but it’s the furthest she’s ever gotten, that tether holding her to the island slackening each time. She turns and there he is, Giangio, standing on the beach watching her.

“How do you always know to find me here?” She asks.

“I don’t,” he admits. “It’s a lucky guess.”

She wades back onto the sand and Giangio pulls her in close, wrapping her in a tight embrace. She clutches at his shirt, anchoring herself close. He presses lips to the top of her head and inhales deeply.

“I’m sick,” she whispers. “And you left me again.”

“Simon keeps coming by,” he says. “I can’t see you when he does that.”

Sophia pulls away and searches his face, looking for something, although what she’s not entirely sure. 

“I’ll come by tonight,” he says.

Giangio leans forward, moving to press his lips against hers, the softest graze of his flesh-

“-cus,” Simon says. “Ah, good. You’re back. Remember-“

“I need to stay here,” Sophia mumbles. She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand.

“I’ll forgive this one lapse.”

Simon has brought a case with him, small and slim and when he opens it, Sophia sees a long, slim needle sitting within its plush casing. The barrel is filled with a strange liquid, dark and starry all at once. It looks nothing like the Ergo he’s been injecting her with, but it fills her with that strange dread the rabbit had.

“What is-“ Sophia stops herself, flicking her gaze up to Simon momentarily.

“The key to our evolution my dear,” he rumbles. “I believe this will help.”

He takes her arm and holds it firmly, the crook of her arm facing upwards as he moves her sleeve out of the way. Her veins are dark and prominent, a few of them hard and corded from each injection, and the skin is ripe with purpling bruises around each injection site. Simon examines the area for a moment before taking the syringe and pressing it into a large bruise without any warning. Sophia has to muffle a shriek as the thick needle slides in, high pitched whining filling her throat at the pain. There is a moment and then Simon presses on the plunger, the liquid like thick syrup as it fills her veins, her vision blurring with pain, with cold, with-

Little Princess, what is your wish?

She is standing in the ruins of her bedroom.

Her bedroom, not the room that has served as her cell for all these months. The window is smashed, the drapes water damaged and ripped, dressers hang half open with clothes hanging from their open mouths and her bed sheets are ripped and stained. But… it’s hers . 

“How did I…?”

Sophia turns a circle, tears prickling at her eyes as she runs her hand across the destroyed vanity, the scattered beads and jewellery rolling with her touch. She goes to the window, stepping gingerly though the puddle of broken glass and looks out, taking in the overgrown gardens and destroyed front gate, to what look like two puppet guards standing at attention in front of the twisted iron bars. There’s a person there, seemingly trying to speak with the guards, becoming increasingly frustrated as they begin to gesticulate wildly, their voice rising into a shout.

One she recognises.

Sophia rushes from the room, ignoring her roiling stomach, the way old wounds flare, picking her skirts up so she can move faster across splintered floorboards and around fallen roof beams. She’s barely taking in the fire damage, focussing instead on getting to the front doors, which hang off their hinges, stumbling across overgrown gravel and grass.

“Romeo!” She cries. “ Romeo, it’s me! I’m back, I’m here-”

The man at the gate stumbles, shifting awkwardly as he tries to see around the puppets. He pushes forward, struggling against the puppets that now try to hold him back, shock written clear as day across his face and she’s so close, reaching her hand forward to grab his through the bars.

“ Sop -

“-hia, you have done wonderfully,” Simon rumbles. “More than I ever could have hoped from you.”

What happened?

The Ergo chunk sits perfectly in front of her, no evidence of having split it visible on its smooth surface. Simon is now opposite her, smiling indulgently as he looks over his notebook, pages upon pages of cramped words filling the paper.

What happened?

“What-” She’s too scared to ask, too scared to let him know that she hadn’t been present when he had so explicitly demanded it. But she hasn’t been punished, she can’t feel the ache of blossoming bruises on her skin. Simon didn’t know.  

“Yes, my dear?”

Sophia shakes her head and Simon returns to his notes, humming to himself as he does.

“The potential…” He murmurs. “Yes, this is what I wanted to see.”

He snaps the notebook shut and stands, walking around the table to help Sophia to her feet. She stumbles, her legs feeling weak and unresponsive and Simon frowns as he supports her weight. The flinch is almost automatic, the fear that he’d hit her suddenly at the forefront of her mind, but Simon appears to be in an indulgent mood. He brings her from the room and, instead of passing her off to a waiting Stalker or Alchemist, he walks with her. Up the stairs, through corridors and across walkways, a slow pace that Sophia can keep up with on her stiff, shaking legs. A gentleman as he opens the door to her room, carefully leading her over to the pile of blankets she’d decided to dump in front of the fireplace last night, when the night had been just a bit too chill and she felt like she needed a change of scenery from her bed. Sophia huddles herself into the pile, watching in surprise as Simon begins preparing the fireplace, quickly and efficiently filling the room with the snapping of burning logs. He crouches, watching the flames flicker for a moment before turning to her. Like this, the jagged scar that splits his face looked deep and cragged, ugly against what would have otherwise been a handsome face.

“You will be the first,” he says softly. “An Angel, the one who brings about our evolution. I can see it, clear as day.”

He leans forward, one hand anchoring him to the floor just by her torso while the other reaches forward, tilting her chin up and towards him. Sophia tries to turn away but he applies just enough pressure, keeping her head in place as he brushes his lips against hers. Simon’s beard scratches and his lips are dry, the taste of old smoke redolent on his tongue as he probes just inside her mouth. She wants to pull away, to gag or scream or hit, but she has to force herself to be stiff and still, hoping he’ll lose interest. He pulls away, barely, her head still held in position as he looks at her with his single eye blown wide.

“Divinity,” he murmurs. “I can taste it already.”

Sophia now recoils, pressing herself back and away, as far as she can, Simon’s body looming over like a bulldog’s. She squeezes her eyes shut expecting the blow, the violent hand pulling her back, but there is only a barely audible sigh and the shuffle of fabric as his presence suddenly lifts, the slight squeak of leather shoes and the cracking of old knees as he stands. 

“In time,” he says, just as quietly. “You’ll see.”

Sophia now watches him, one eye half open as she still expects the blow to come, as Simon brushes himself down and turns away to leave. He suddenly hesitates at the door as the handle rattles, opening to reveal Giangio trying to balance keys and a tray of food at the same time. Simon, still in the doorway with his hand half raised for the handle, is motionless, Sophia unable to see his face with his back turned, but she can see Giangio’s. Surprise flickers across his face before it settles into the careful blankness she knows well.

“Simon,” he says carefully. 

He has to crane his neck upwards to look at the other man properly, taking a half step back to make it easier, while Simon goes stiff and rigid, chin almost buried in his chest to look at Giangio better. Despite the height difference, and even with the way both of them have their heads tilted to look at each other, Sophia is reminded of two dogs having a standoff, straining their leashes as they both tried to intimidate the other. 

“Giangio.”

Silence stretches on until Sophia shifts, disrupting her blankets and Giangio finally stops staring at Simon, instead lowering his head to look at her. He stares for a moment, nostrils suddenly flaring, before he turns back to Simon with a now  thunderous look on his face.

“What did you do?” He demands.

“Nothing that wasn’t necessary,” Simon replies calmly.

“You could have killed her! Do you have any idea-”

“You and I both know that isn’t the case,” Simon interrupts.

Giangio’s fingers are white knuckled around the food tray and Sophia is almost certain that he’ll throw it at any minute as his face twists with a barely contained anger. Simon lets out a noise, almost a laugh, before finally stepping away from the open door, mockingly sweeping his arm wide. Giangio steps through, keeping Simon in his sight until he has to set the tray down on the table near Sophia’s side. She reaches a hand out, resting it on his shoe with one finger barely touching his ankle as he turns back to Simon and the open door.

“I won’t keep you from your princess,” he says. “Go on, tell her how you’ll protect her, how you’ll save her. Tell her another lie .”

Giangio lurches forward, as if to attack Simon, but Sophia grabs desperately at him, latching onto the fabric of his pants and holding tight.

“Please, please, please,” she begs. “Giangio, don’t, please-”

“We’ll talk later, I think,” Simon says calmly. “Good night dear Sophia. Giangio.”

Simon turns, closing the door behind him as Giangio finally breaks free of her grip, almost running across the room to try and reach the door before it closes. Simon doesn’t lock it, but it’s like the physical barrier was the only thing he needed to stop Giangio’s assault as he just about collides with the door, letting out a guttural yell in fury as he slams a fist into the door. The wood splinters on impact and Sophia lets out a whimper, flinching and curling in on herself for protection.

“Please don’t,” she whimpers. “Please don’t.”

She doesn’t want this Giangio, the one who is so obsessed with her protection that he’s angry and violent, she wants the one that handles her with gentle touches and soothing tones. She suddenly wishes he was quiet and meek again, the man she had met almost a year ago now on that fateful day. He thumps back across the room again, his hands grabbing her about the shoulders as he tries to get her to uncurl.

“Sophia-” he starts, snaking a hand under her chin to try and force it up. “ Sophia! Look at me, goddammit-”

“No!”

“ Sophia-”

He forces her chin up and now he’s staring at her, eyes flicking about her face as he roughly moves it from side to side, moving to pull her collar down before ripping up her sleeves. She tries to pull away but he holds her in place firmly, hand around her wrist like a vice as he takes in the bruising and corded veins that decorate the crook of her arm.

“Giangio, please-” She begs but he’s gone frighteningly still, face mottling dark and light as his eyes widen, his nostrils flaring as he inhales loudly through his anger. “ Please , let me go-”

“ I can’t!” He yells. Giangio surges forward, now pinning her arm above her head as he knocks her over, supporting himself with his free hand by her hip while his knee rests between her legs. His breathing is hard and heavy against her face, making the tears tracks streaking down her cheeks feel sticky against her skin, and his pupils are tiny, bare pinpricks in a sea of blue.

“I can’t lose you too!” He cries, desperation cracking his voice. “ Not again.”

Manic energy disappearing as quickly as it appeared, Giangio all but collapses on top of her, burying his face into the crook of her shoulder as he begins to sob silently, the grip on her hand finally going slack. Sophia brings that hand down now, stroking fingers through silk soft hair to try and soothe him.

“It’s ok,” she murmurs. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Somewhat awkwardly, since he’s still on top of her and he’s much heavier than expected, Sophia manages to sit herself upright as Giangio continues to bury his head into her shoulder, his hands now gripping the back of her blouse as she positions the both of them more comfortably.

“Please don’t do that again,” she says, pressing her lips to the top of his head and kissing gently. “Please. You don’t need to fight Simon, and when you get…” She trails off as his fingers suddenly grip tighter, nails digging into the skin of her back. “Giangio. Stop. You’re hurting me.”

“I’m trying to protect you,” he mumbles into her shoulder.

“I know,” she replies. Sophia presses another kiss into his hair and his grip loosens. “Good, that’s good. Protect me other ways, dear sweet. Prove Simon wrong.”

“He’s hurting you,” Giangio insists.

Sophia won’t deny him that, but she doesn’t voice her agreement. She doesn’t want his violence, not when it is so easily turned on her these days. Giangio finally raises his head and looks at her, his face flushed and eyes red rimmed from his anger. He looks like he’s working hard against something, jaw square and locked as his gaze flickers about.

“I don’t want to lose you,” he finally says. “I’m not going to- I can’t-”

“You’re not going to lose me,” Sophia says firmly. She leans forward just slightly and kisses his cheek, just barely grazing the edge of his lips. “I’m fine. I just want you to be gentle. Please.” 

Giangio kisses back, featherlight as he moves from her cheek to her lips, his hand finally moving to cup her jaw. The other cradles the back of her head, splayed fingers cupping her skull as he leans her back again, although not as far this time. He sucks on her lips and she hums. 

“Giangio,” she murmurs. “Giangio, Giangio. My lonely lover. What happened to make you this way?”

It’s only rhetorical, Sophia enjoying the attention far too much after Simon’s rough treatment today, but Giangio pulls away and considers her for a moment. Like this, with the firelight painting warm shadows across cold skin, setting ocean eyes ablaze, he’s beautiful. A statue made flesh, divine art, made all the more unique by his imperfections. He wets his lips before pulling back entirely, settling himself opposite but with his legs still tangled with hers. 

“I’ve had to watch a lot of people I know and cared about die,” he finally says. “I’ve lived a far longer life than you’d expect. It’s easy to become lonely like this. The people I work for-“ He waves a vague hand before setting it on her knee. “They don’t know. And I don’t think they’d care all that much. With them, someone like me is just another tool, another pawn in their game where all they want is power.”

“I don’t understand,” Sophia says. He looks so young, barely older than her. Was Giangio’s life simply filled with so much death and tragedy that it made it seem like forever? He shakes his head.

“Don’t worry about it. Maybe, when this is all over, I can explain things a little better.” Giangio sighs before finally removing his coat and unbuttoning the lower half of his shirt, pulling it out from where it’s tucked into his pants to reveal the flat expanse of skin of his abdomen. She’s not quite sure what she’s looking at at first, it simply looks like an ordinary stomach but Giangio hikes the shirt up higher and shifts, revealing the way the bones of his ribs slide against pale flesh. He’s missing one, as far as she can tell. 

“The physical cost was insignificant,” Giangio says, as if this makes what he’s explaining any easier to understand. “But when I agreed to this I didn’t realise that I would continue to pay for the rest of my life.”

He lowers his shirt, beginning to redress, but Sophia clumsily crawls forward and snakes her hand under his shirt, rubbing her palm across the flat section of missing bone, fingers trailing upward as she gently cups around his nipple. He shudders and exhales loudly, like he’s trying to keep himself composed. 

“You don’t need to be lonely anymore,” Sophia murmurs. “When you’re here, with me, I don’t feel so lonely. I hope I can do the same for you.”

Giangio makes a choking noise. 

“I don’t want to lose you.” 

She rubs her thumb gently across his nipple while she uses the other hand to cup his cheek. He shudders again, flesh pebbling under her touch. 

“You won’t.”

Sophia kisses him again and this time he returns it, properly, lips on hers. There’s a hungriness now, from both of them, a desire to eat their fill before it goes, and Sophia traces the shape of his mouth with her tongue, feeling the way it seems to fit her perfectly. Giangio’s hand comes up to cradle her head again, the other placing itself between their bodies and pressing against her stomach. Sophia continues her own careful touches, tracing the shape of his pectoral muscle before she curves it under his arm and onto his back, rubbing along the knobbly bones of his spine. They’ve kissed before, like this, teetering on the edge of something more each time and Sophia finds herself pushing again. She’s been alone for so long that she wants him, so desperately that-

Giangio breaks away suddenly and Sophia finds herself panting for breath at the loss of contact. She hadn’t realised she’d needed to breathe, almost like he’d been sustaining her with his own. 

“You should eat,” he says. He sounds like he’s trying to focus on anything but her passionate touch. 

“I’m not hungry,” she replies. Not for food anyway. 

“You should eat,” he repeats.

Giangio slides himself out from under her and stands, taking a moment to turn around and adjust himself before going to the tray he had set down earlier to finally uncover it. He pulls a face at what he sees before picking it up to then set in front of her. More soup, with a slightly congealed layer of oil across the top.

“Sorry.”

Sophia grimaces at it and sets it to the side, setting it close enough to the fire so that, maybe, it will heat up a bit. Now that everything has settled down everything feels far more present, real, and she’s almost keenly aware of the bile still staining her skirt. 

“Can you help me stand? I’d like to change.”

Giangio holds his hand out and she takes it, her legs still stiff and shaky as he helps her rise. He helps her walk to her room and carefully sets her on the edge of her bed.

“How long have your legs been like that?” He asks.

Sophia reaches under her pillow and pulls out her nightgown before beginning to undo the buttons of her blouse, frowning when Giangio turns away from her. She’d never particularly had a problem with Carlo and Romeo watching while she changed, and Giangio had been spending a lot of time with his hands up her skirts to check for signs of Petrification. Him giving her this privacy now seems arbitrary at this point.
“You’ve seen me naked,” she says, rather than answering his question.

“That was… different.” He goes slightly tense at the memory.

“That’s the point,” Sophia replies pertly. “I’m barely undressing. You can look.”

Giangio finally turns back as she throws her blouse off and begins struggling out of all the stupid fabric she has to put on each day. She’s not sure why she bothers with most of it any more, the only people she sees are Alchemists, and even then mostly Simon, and the only things she ever seems to do is get tortured by Simon on a regular basis or spend long hours in her room trying not to go crazy as she recovers from said torture. What’s the point in being society’s definition of presentable when she’s no longer in it?

“Your legs?” Giangio asks again.

She still hasn’t tried to stand on her own as she finally manages to wiggle out of the upper layer of her skirts and throw it to the side, beginning to work on the slightly stained petticoat now.

“Just today,” Sophia replies with a huff. “I’ve been nauseous since Simon started giving me all those injections, and tired too.”

“You were at the beach.”

Giangio finally stops dithering and comes over, reaching out to help her wriggle out of the petticoat and throw it to the side. 

“You were too,” Sophia says. He hasn’t moved away, standing with a knee between her legs to anchor himself against the bed, one hand slightly raised to keep his balance. She’s only sitting there in chemise and drawers and she picks at the hem to get him to move his knee so she can divest herself of her top layer and finally change into her nightgown. “I wasn’t feeling well. I needed to leave.”

Giangio shifts his knee and she finally shucks off her chemise, baring her chest to him without much thought as she also tosses that into the messy pile of clothes on the floor. Her torso is no longer the smooth, bare canvas it used to be, now splattered with pinkish scars and blotchy yellow bruises from every time Simon or one of his lackeys has hit her during his experiments. Giangio’s raised hand flexes, anger flashing across his face as he takes in the injuries, before he reaches forward to carefully trace his fingers along some of the darker bruises. She only winces a little, shivering a little at the cool, delicate touch, nipples pebbling into pale points. Giangio is always very silent when he takes her in like this, a slight frown on his face as if he’s experiencing something for the first time and trying to understand it. Romeo and Carlo had always been vocal, heaping onto herself and each other adulations of beauty, so she’s not used to the silence. Her confidence and desire to titillate suddenly plummets and she moves to cover her bare chest but Giangio carefully takes her wrists and sets her hands to the side. His wandering hand cups her breast, a decent handful for him, and he strokes a thumb over a pebbled nipple.

“Is it ok?” She whispers.

He looks shocked that she would even ask him that.

“It’s-” He swallows thickly. “Sophia you’re beautiful.”

She heaves out a sigh of relief, finally reaching for her nightgown and putting it on. Giangio only moves his hand away for a moment, reaching out once again to cup her breast through the cotton and lace before trailing it upward to cup her jaw. Sophia leans forward as he leans down and they kiss again, far softer and gentler than before. This is what she wants, what she craves from Giangio. Softness, sweetness, protection in a far gentler way.

“Can you stand?” He asks.

Sophia nods and, with his help, rises back onto shaky feet. She tries a few slow steps on her own before he goes to her and helps her back to the spot by the fire, settling her back onto the pile of blankets, grabbing a few cushions to better support her back. The soup that had been left is by no means particularly warm, but at least the oil is no longer a yellow, congealed layer on the top. As she sips at it, going slowly to keep her stomach from acting up, Giangio just watches her out of the corner of his eye, not bothering to hide it like he normally does.

“I’m going to need to check for signs of Petrification,” he finally says. “Before you go to bed.”

“Simon said the nausea isn’t a symptom,” Sophia says. “And I’m feeling a bit better, I promise.”

Giangio shakes his head.

“It’s not. But I’m worried about your legs. The weakness is concerning.”

Sophia purses her lips but doesn’t protest. She’s exhausted, like usual, after a long day of trying to use her powers for Simon, and coupled with the week long nausea she’s frankly not surprised it’s catching up to her in a tangible sense. But if that means Giangio wants to place his hands on her in that amazing gentle way that he does, who is she to stop him?

Sophia finishes with her soup and Giangio sets the bowl aside, bidding her lay down in front of him. He motions and she allows him to hike her nightgown around her hips, keeping between her legs covered despite still wearing her drawers, and takes her left foot and places it in his lap. He kneads the heel, moving upwards along the arch and to the toes, carefully rubbing at each as he inspects them, leaning over to press a kiss to her ankle as he raises her leg slightly. He rubs at the knobbly bone on her ankle before trailing higher, rubbing a thumb into the plush flesh around her knee and up her thigh. He’s firm but gentle, the movements he’s using far different to the typically efficient motions of when he’s only checking for pustules or hard scales. Yes, he’s checking her legs over as promised, but there’s something else there too, and Sophia can’t help the way it makes her squirm. After everything they’ve done over the course of the evening, their outburst of emotions, the hungry kisses, and exploration of each other’s flesh, she needs him to hurry up and do something, lest she shamelessly take matters into her own hands.

Giangio stops at the edge of her nightgown, shuffling in place as he prepares to check over the other leg but she grabs his hand and forces him higher, moving the hem out of the way so she can place it on the clothed vee between her legs. She moves the leg not in his lap, effectively spreading them, and resettles his hand so his thumb just rests over the spot she enjoys so much. Giangio raises an eyebrow.

“Are you sure?” He asks carefully. “I’m not-”

“Giangio I swear to god.”

Sophia presses down with his hand, grinding against it until he finally starts firmly circling with his thumb. With her hands now free, she leverages herself up just enough to grab his collar and pull him down, kissing him fiercely as he now leans over her. Her breathing hitches as he adjusts the pattern of his movements, the adjusted position now meaning he cups between her legs, stroking his fingers lightly, but still hard enough to be felt, along her folds. He hums, mouth curving into a smile as he returns her kiss, sucking on her lower lip near the corner of her mouth. With Giangio now in the position she wants, doing what she wants, her hands now go to him, scrabbling blindly at the buttons of his shirt to expose his chest so she can run her hands along his skin, stroking along his lopsided rib cage, down his stomach and to the hollows of his hips, where she begins attempting to undo his button fly. He stops his strokes, collecting her hands with his and pushing them away. When she attempts to try again, he takes one of her hands and sets it on her breast, squeezing slightly before letting go.

“Greedy,” he murmurs.

“You weren’t-” She whines as the stroking between her legs starts up again.

“Patience,” he says. “Now, I need you to squeeze- yes good, like that-”

One particularly good stroke makes Sophia involuntarily squeeze her breast and she gasps at the sensation.

“Giangio!”

He grins at her, slightly lopsided and almost too close for her to see properly. He moves his hand so the fingers now settle gently on the skin just above the waistband of her drawers and when he looks at her, a silent ask for permission, she nods enthusiastically. With efficient movements, he undoes the tie and pulls the soaked garment down, his fingers now settling against that sensitive nub of flesh that has her raising her hips into the touch. He pulls away from his kiss, once again silently examining her, fingers going slowly, not nearly as fast or as firm as she’d now like. Sophia tries to help him along, once again using her hips to grind against his touch but he uses his now free hand to push against her stomach, frowning slightly as he does. His movements stutter, and stop. 

“Giangio-“

He looks at her and Sophia is sure her stomach drops through the floor. Oh god-

Slowly, too slowly, Giangio inserts a finger and Sophia whines at the intrusion, too much and not enough all at once, nothing more than a thin tip and blunt nail that begins to stroke at her inner walls. It makes her squeeze at her breast, wearing divots into the surface with her nails. He shifts with a rustle of fabric and he’s leaning over her now, the angle shifting the finger deeper as his thumb once again finds that nub of pleasure. 

“Ah!”

She’s so close, after all this teasing, she just needs another, or deeper, or faster-

“Sophia,” he says softly. 

She just whines in response as his free hand ghosts over her sweat slick skin. She wants to return the favour but she can barely think, especially as he inserts one finger and then another with barely any resistance, long and thin and teasing at that spot in side of her as he angles just right-

Sophia cries out as her pleasure peaks, curling upwards and into Giangio’s chest as she starts to tremble and shake with exertion. His movements slow but do not stop, stroking through her orgasm until she’s crying from the sensation, wherein he finally halts. She can see the curve of his smile as he looks down at her, panting and exhausted. 

“How was that?” He asks softly. 

“ Wonderful,” she breathes. “But- Giangio, I can-“

She reaches again for him but he bats her hand away. 

“Later.”

He wipes a thumb over her wet cheeks and heaves himself up, padding over to the bathroom before returning with a damp cloth and towel. He helps prop her up and begins wiping down sweat slick skin, down her neck and across the valley of her breasts before moving up her legs and between her thighs. If he’s uncomfortable or in want of relief he certainly doesn’t show it as he continues to care for her gently, his touch lulling her to sleep. She finds herself drifting, eyes struggling to stay open as he takes the towel and begins patting her now water damp skin down, kneading at her sore legs as he does. 

“Will you stay?” She asks. He doesn’t normally. 

Giangio is silent for a while, almost like he hasn’t heard her as he begins tucking her into the comfortable pile she’s made for herself amidst the blankets. Each motion is a covert attempt to touch her, fixing the blankets around her legs leading to an open palmed trail into her inner thigh, fiddling with a tangle near the blanket’s edge an excuse to cup her breast again and knead the flesh through her nightgown, adjusting the pillows by her head leading to him leaning over and cupping her cheek so he can kiss her so sweetly. But he still stands as if to leave, Sophia once again grabbing at his pants to hold him in place. 

“Please. Stay.”

Giangio’s expression is hard to read, clearly thinking about something, but he finally softens and crouches back down. He cups her cheek and Sophia holds his wrist with both hands, kissing his palm as she does. 

“I’ll stay,” he murmurs. “I’ll keep you safe.”

Chapter Text

Adriana finds him standing in the centre of the Cradle, back turned to the makeshift stairs that have been constructed up to the great platform that covers the Abyss. The wind is blustery today, but the sun is warm, although it does little to heat his cold skin. Too much weighs on his mind, worry outstripping any gladness he might now feel.

Sophia is sick.

“Sir Manus wishes to see you,” Adriana calls.

She won’t approach him closely, rather keeping a distance that requires her to raise her voice over the gusting wind. Her robes whip in the wind, great fluttery white strands that threaten to fling her into the sky like a kite. Paracelsus turns.

Does she realise who he is yet?

Simon’s office is different during the day, the natural light painting everything with harsher shadows compared to the warm glow of lamps and candles Paracelsus normally lit the room with when he entered the room at night. Adriana leads him in and bows to Simon, who sits at his desk ignoring them as they enter. He simply waves a hand and Adriana backs out, likely to guard the door, to come running at her master’s call at a moment’s notice. A blunder, really. She should be waiting in the room if she hoped to protect him.

Paracelsus stands before Simon’s desk, hands clasped lightly behind his back as he waits for the other man to finish his writing. It’s a power move, a way to make your opponent seem less important, to let the wind fall from the sails of any complainant standing before you. It certainly worked to irritate Paracelsus, the times he was forced to spend too long waiting for Osmund to pull his head out of his ass and get on with whatever trivial task the Wizard wanted from him.

“Giangio,” Simon finally says. He finishes what he was writing with a flourish and sets his pen down, lacing his fingers together for a moment before gesturing to the chair opposite him. “Sit. We have much to discuss.”

“I’ll stand, thank you.”

Simon hums and tilts his head but does not insist, instead reaching for a file and setting it in front of him. He opens it and spins it around, sliding it across the table so Paracelsus can see it. Giangio’s employment file, with only a single page containing his description and specialisation on it.

“This-” Simon starts. “Is your file.”

Paracelsus only raises an eyebrow, waiting for him to continue.

“You see, your interest in Sophia interests me ,” he continues. “You are a pharmacist by experience, with an additional specialisation in botany. I would have expected you to be pursuing research into the cure of the Petrification Disease, like many of your colleagues. Yet…” He pauses. “You have shown undue interest in my Listener.”
“She’s not yours,” Paracelsus can’t help himself cut in.

“No.” The word is said very quietly, like something he doesn’t want to admit. “No, she isn’t.”

Silence stretches between them, Paracelsus perfectly willing to wait for Simon to get to the point.

“Why are you so interested in her?” Simon finally asks.

“No theories?” Paracelsus replies. “I would have thought you’d have some.”

“I believe you are in love with her,” he says. “But I don’t think that completely explains your interest.”

Paracelsus thinks back to the previous night, of Sophia’s whimpers and cries, the way she had soaked his sleeve with her arousal. He takes a vindictive pleasure at the way Simon’s face pinches inwards as his mind is read, allowing a cruel smile to stretch his features.

“Are you just upset that Sophia will never love you?” Paracelsus taunts. “That she’ll never look at you the way she does me? That every attempt you’ve ever made only ever ends with her doing everything in her power to be elsewhere ?” He laughs. “What is she to you that you’ll humiliate yourself every time you try to be more than just her abuser?”

Simon’s face, previously lined with his anger over Paracelsus’ actions, goes strangely impassive as he listens, only a slight frown marring his features as he settles back in his chair.

“Sophia is the key to our evolution,” Simon says. “She always has been. But she has been held back, lacking the power and experience needed to bring it about. She controls time, did you know that? Imagine, if she could propel a human forward in time to a point when they could no longer become sick or age, to a time where they had evolved beyond their human limitations. She could give us the immortality all Alchemists seek.”

Paracelsus scoffs.

“Sophia is a Listener . She can’t do that.”

“Not at the moment,” Simon agrees. “But you’ve seen the power of the Arm of God. She will be the Angel that guides us forward, I will make her into what we need if necessary. Give her the power she needs through the Petrification Disease, allow her to reach that higher state of being and then give her the Arm to wield. She will be perfect, divine in every way.”

Paracelsus feels everything slow, his breath suddenly too loud as it rattles in his ears and despite the pleasant temperature of the office, he can feel himself growing cold, like blood draining from all his limbs.

“You’ll kill her,” he whispers.

“I won’t,” Simon replies. “She has already reacted remarkably to a small infusion from the Arm, imagine what she could do with more!”

Sophia is sick.

And Sophia is going to die.

“You’ll kill her,” Paracelsus repeats, firmer this time. “That Arm will not give Sophia the powers or evolution you think it will. At best it will attempt to use every last ounce of Ergo in her body to grant her dying wish before using whatever’s left to remake itself, and maybe then that godling will heed your pleas. At worst you birth a malformed god that chokes to death on its own blood as it claws its way out of her carcass. In every scenario, Sophia dies and you do not get what you want.”

“I see.” 

Simon considers him for a moment, jaw stiff and square as he works it slowly. Syroy will probably yell at him for revealing how the Arm works, even though he hadn’t gone into the specifics, but Paracelsus feels like he has no choice. He knows that Simon is obsessed with Sophia, loves her despite each rejection. Surely Simon won’t want her to die.

“There are hundreds of poor fools with Petrification Disease,” Giangio continues, struggling to keep the desperation from his voice. “Even amongst your staff. Use one of them, sacrifice them to the Arm.”

Simon shakes his head and Giangio can just see the barest hint of a smile on his face.

“Giangio,” he says. “Giangio, I don’t think you understand. Give the power of our evolution to someone else? Someone who doesn’t understand it, who could not control it? I don’t think so. Sophia will not die, she will be reborn. And she will lead us to a new world.”

He chuckles at the stricken look on Giangio’s face.

“I understand now. Go, have your time with her. I am not so jealous I cannot share from time to time. But know that when the time comes, I will take her for what I need her for.”

Simon waves a hand to dismiss him, pulling the file forward and closing it before moving onto a different stack of pages. He starts writing again, looking up only briefly to where Giangio hasn’t moved, too shocked to do anything but clench his fists and try to contain his fury.

“You may go now.”

—

Sophia is sick. 

The smell fills her rooms, a sweet cold rot that clings to every surface like a fungus, coating Paracelsus’ tongue when he kisses her. She sleeps now, curled in her bed at his insistence, hands fisting the sheets as she moans through a nightmare. These days, her unconscious touch encompasses him, every dream made stronger by Simon’s meddling. It’s all Paracelsus can do to keep her out, even though all he wants is to let her in. 

Begrudgingly, Simon is right. While Sophia may have come to the island weak and inexperienced, the amount of Ergo she has absorbed meant she was by far the strongest Listener he had ever seen. The Arm was powered by massive amounts of Ergo and directed by a person’s will, if Simon had injected her with any of its blood it was a true testament to her strength that she’d survived. 

But such strength came at a price, one Simon was perfectly willing to pay. 

Even if Paracelsus couldn’t smell the sickness on her, there were other signs of her now failing body. While she has not yet shown growths of hard black scales or the bright blue pustules common among the afflicted, the weakness in her legs was a concerning sign. Her joints were likely calcifying beneath the skin and restricting the blood flow to her muscles. He’d also felt a hard lump in her stomach when he’d pressed upon it, no bigger than a chicken’s egg. Her Ergo had finally crystallised, and it was only a matter of time before it became too big for the space it occupied. From there it would encompass her organs, using their mass to feed its growth until there was nothing left, although usually by that point the patient was already completely dead, unable to survive without these vital structures. There’s no saving her at this point, the infection had already started and there was no cure. The Alchemists weren’t even trying at this point, Simon wanted people to get sick as a means of further his research. So that left him, Paracelsus. 

Around his neck is the last piece of Gold Coin Fruit, old and dry. Even with the other nine pieces there had been barely enough to make the jar of ointment, and even that was dwindling with how much he’d had to use it recently. The Fruit was the key, he’s sure of it. But without any way to replenish his stores, any hope of research and development falls short. 

He gets down on his knees and shoves himself half under the bed, feeling around for the rabbit remains blindly as he tries not to disrupt the mattress. Sophia shifts but doesn’t wake and Paracelsus finally pulls out what he’s looking for. Both pieces are still wrapped, although they’ve become dusty in the short period of time under the bed and he immediately frowns when he feels the wrapping containing the Ergo. It’s looser, like the crystal had shrunk. Pursing his lips, he double checks that Sophia is still sleeping before padding out of the room on bare feet into the main living area, grabbing his black bag as he goes and setting everything down on the coffee table before settling himself into one of the chairs. He unwraps the heart first, the bluish muscle still twitching in his grip and sets that aside for a makeshift experiment. But first, he turns to the Ergo, unwrapping it carefully and holding it up to the afternoon sun now streaming through the windows. It had been fairly large for the creature it had originally come from, fist sized and beautifully faceted in a way that was uncommon for harvested Ergo. Now it’s much smaller, maybe half the size and the surface is rough and pitted like someone had chipped away at it with a chisel. He can still feel its cold slick aura so he quickly wraps it back up again before turning to look towards Sophia’s room. She’s probably absorbing it, like every other mote of Ergo that gets pulled to the island, and it’s closer proximity to her means it’s degrading far quicker. He lets out a quiet curse, feeling somewhat stupid for not having thought of it in the first place.

With that mystery solved, he rifles through his bag and pulls out the jar of Gold Coin Fruit ointment, uncapping it and using the nail of his pinky finger to take a small dollop out. From there, he picks up the heart and applies the ointment, covering as much of the muscle as he can. It takes only a moment, the blue surface becoming a light grey before flushing into a rich pink. The twitching stutters, the alive part at odds with the strange mutated parts the majority of the organ is. Dark blood dribbles from one of the arteries and into his hand, seeping through the gaps in his fingers and onto his pants.

Well, that certainly validated a theory, but it didn’t exactly fill him with any hope. The Gold Coin Fruit could be used to cure Petrification, to reverse the mutations caused by the Arm of God, but without any Fruit, he had no way of further testing its capabilities or developing a proper delivery system for the miracle. Paracelsus almost throws the heart at the wall, just to vent some frustration, but he instead wraps it back up and tucks it into his bag along with the Ergo crystal. He’ll put the crystal back where he’d hidden it for safe keeping, even though Sophia will probably absorb it before the month is out, and he’ll take the heart back to his room and likely dispose of it. For now he pads over to the bathroom and strips off his pants to rinse them in the sink, removing as much evidence of the blood as he can before hanging them over the towel rail to dry. For once, he allows himself a moment of vanity, leaning forward to check his reflection in the mirror. His skin is pale and smooth, marred only by ancient freckles and moles he had when he was a child, the only thing particularly abnormal being his lopsided rib cage. Paracelsus had been called beautiful before, handsome sometimes, and he supposes he isn’t without aesthetic appeal. His nose is straight, his eyes a brilliant shade of blue and when he scrapes his hair out of the way, holding it in a fist behind his head, his cheekbones are that kind of prominent that varies between gaunt and sophisticated. Paracelsus turns his gaze lower, running a finger across his collarbone for a moment. He’s looking especially skinny these days, finding that he doesn’t quite have the appetite for meals, and that is reflected in the prominent bones and joints poking out of his skin. He’s seen corpses with more meat on their bones. His skin is mostly smooth and hairless, barring what little grows under his arms and between his legs, and almost like marble in its texture. As he runs a finger over the divot of his navel, not really thinking about anything, blush pale arms reach around him and cup at his pecs, a thumb stoking at his nipple. It immediately pebbles at her touch, Sophia’s fingers gentle and deft. Like this, the difference in their skin is stark, his pale more like blue grey stone compared to her lively peaches and cream.

“Mornin’,” she mumbles into his back.

“It’s the afternoon.”

Sophia makes an unhappy moaning noise.

“Are you feeling any better?” Giangio asks. “Legs all good?”

“They’re ok,” she replies in another mumble.

He turns and rests his back against the sink, taking in her sleep marred features. Even like this she’s still quite beautiful, her skin that lovely pale women used to mutilate themselves over, her hair a vibrant auburn even when tangled by sleep. She leans forward to rest her head against him, now pressing her forehead into his chest as he runs his fingers through the tangles in her hair. For a moment, Paracelsus allows himself to bask. He wants this. The domesticity of sleeping and waking up together, long lazy days spent in bed. He’d give up everything that he has now, not that he considers it much of a sacrifice given how generally distasteful he finds working for Syroy, for a chance to have forever with Sophia. He puts her sickness out of mind, just for the moment, even as he coats his lips in her rot when he kisses her head.

Now he just needs to find a way to save her.

–

Giangio spends the rest of the day with Sophia, keeping the fact that he’s spoken to Simon already a secret. No need to tell her Simon’s plans just yet, no need to let her know she might as well already be dead.

Sophia moves slowly about the room while Giangio watches, going about a belated morning routine. Bathing, brushing her hair, dressing, all done with laborious movements that speak to an exhaustion or pain weighing at her limbs. She insists she’s alright, waving him off when he tries to help, but Giangio knows that she’s struggling. Even if her illness is only in its early stages, he can only imagine the toll the Arm would have had on her. It will take her days, potentially even weeks to recover from something like that, even with good health.

“Are you hungry?” He asks, once she’s dressed and curled onto the floor next to him, looking almost ready to fall asleep again.

“Yeah,” Sophia replies tiredly. 

She lets out a heavy sigh while Giangio looks at the clock on the mantelpiece. He’s surprised no one has come by sooner to drop off a tray of food, as even though he’s often bullying the other Alchemists into letting him take it, they still have a system in place for whenever he doesn’t. Something about this rubs him the wrong way.

“I’ll go get you something,” he says, rubbing at her upper arms. “Do you want to go back to bed?”

“I shouldn’t,” she mumbles.

“You’re…” Sick. “Nothing wrong with being tired. You did quite a bit yesterday.”

Sophia shifts, snuggling in closer to him.

“Can we do that again?” She asks, tilting her head to look up at him. “And… well I fell asleep before I could return the favour.”

Giangio feels his cheeks heat up. It’s not that he doesn’t want her touching him, even without attempting to bring him to a peak he’s found her touch to be quite pleasant, Giangio just doesn’t want her feeling like doing that for him is an obligation. He likes doing this for her.

“I can handle myself,” he says.

He wriggles out from under her, making her pout in annoyance, and scoops her up easily to bring her back into the bedroom.

“I want to do something for you,” Sophia says firmly. “I don’t think it’s fair that I get everything and you get nothing. I can do anything you want, I don’t mind.”

A thought crosses his mind but he quickly dismisses it.

“Dinner and rest first,” he says. “Then we’ll see.”

He tucks her back into bed and redresses, grimacing at the damp wool as he slides his pants back on. He looks hardly presentable, his shirt is rumpled, pants still obviously wet, hair tangled, but he puts his coat back on and runs his fingers through the knots in his hair until they look good enough. It’s not like anyone will pay very much attention to him anyway, aside from leaving the room that morning to get some fresh air, and then be marched over to Simon’s study, he hadn’t left the room today. He’d seen barely anyone around, so no one would know he was in Sophia’s room. Giangio goes to the door and opens in, stopping when the guard at the door turns to him as if he was expected.

“You have to stay in there,” the man says. He has a cotton kerchief wound around the lower half of his face, muffling him somewhat. “Manus’ orders.”

Giangio frowns.

“I’m retrieving food for Sophia,” he says. “And once I’ve finished attending her I’ll need to return to my room, so I can continue my own work. I’ve-“

“Manus’ order,” the Stalker says in a bored voice. “Food’ll be up soon.”

He makes a shooing motion to Giangio and he steps away, allowing the man to close the door. He finds himself standing there for a moment, feeling a bit foolish. Of course Simon wouldn’t just let him get away with whatever he wanted to with Sophia. Has he finally realised that Giangio could help her escape? This development makes that seem likely. What better way to stop her escape than to trap her would-be helper in with her?

Giangio goes back to Sophia’s room where she has snuggled herself into the covers, only the top of her head visible. Also a concerning sign, if she’s cold then it meant her body was struggling to regulate her internal temperature. Giangio sits on the bed next to her and dips his hand under the covers, feeling her forehead with the back of his hand. Warm enough, although he’s not the greatest judge of temperature. He’ll need to remember to grab a thermometer when he’s finally able to leave the room. 

“That was quick,” Sophia mumbles. 

“Can’t leave the room,” he replies. 

She wiggles herself up slightly. 

“They let you out earlier.”

He shakes his head and shrugs. 

“Well I guess I can do something for you then,” Sophia says. She props herself upright and makes grabbing motions for him, latching onto his lapel when he leans forward slightly and pulling him forward the whole way. “Let’s get this off.”

His body is immediately interested in that but Giangio forces himself to pull away from her insistence. He does start undoing the buttons of his coat as she begins pouting. 

“How are you feeling?” He asks. 

“I’m ok,” she lies. At his expression she pulls a face. “I’m tired.”

“Then no, you don’t need to do anything for me.”

Sophia whines. 

“But I want to!”

Giangio shrugs again and pulls his coat off, removing his shoes too so he can now sit cross legged on the edge of the bed. Sophia thumps back onto the pillows, mock sulking. 

“I hate feeling like this,” she says. “I want to do things and it all just feels like too much.” She huffs. “You haven’t told me how long until you can get me out of here.”

“You haven’t asked. We also agreed that I couldn’t tell you, in case Simon found out.”

“ You agreed . I didn’t.”

Giangio mentally weighs up the benefits of telling her. Keeping it a secret kept her reliant on him, but she was already doing that and she would continue to be as she got sicker. Telling her a vague number, especially one Jun hadn’t promised would be accurate due to problems Giangio could only guess at, would likely disappoint her if the time frame came and went with no progress to show for it. And there was also the issue of Syroy. He’d received no confirmation of their help in the interim months since he’d spoken with Glinda, and the fact worried him. Had she not passed his message along? Were they still deliberating the logistics of her rescue, or did they simply not want to help? The last option makes him anxious.

“There’s been an issue,” Giangio says, mostly the truth. “We don’t know how long it could take, could be three months, could be six months.”

“Longer?” Sophia asks incredulously. “It’s already been a year!”

It has almost been a year. Giangio winces, which makes Sophia wince in response. 

“Sorry, I-“ She swallows. “I didn’t mean- you’re trying so hard-“

Giangio takes her hand and squeezes it gently. 

“You have every right to be upset,” he tells her. “It’s all very well and good for me to ask for your patience but you’re the way getting abused by Simon. I’m fine, he can’t hurt me. I have to do better for you.”

Sophia smiles at him, eyes going glassy with tears at his words. He does mean it. He needs to try and protect her better, Osmund and his demands be damned. But he needed to know if Glinda had followed through and got him the sanctuary Sophia would need once she was off the island. Because once she was off the island she was in just as much danger as she was on it. 

And that meant getting in contact with them again. 

—

Giangio spends three days locked in Sophia’s room, a fact that sets him on edge. If Simon wanted him locked away he could have easily ordered him imprisoned in the cells buried within the rock of the island, but instead he’d simply been… left. A cell is a cell, regardless of how plush it is, but the fact that Simon had just left him with Sophia seems strange. 

I am not so jealous I cannot share from time to time. The words ring in his head and make him shudder with distaste. 

He can leave easily, if he so wished it. The guards are inattentive, especially late at night, so it would be easy to slip between shadows to return to his rooms, attend his plants, contact Syroy. But he doesn’t. Sophia demands his attention almost every waking hour, not that he particularly blames her. When there is no food to eat, there is little in her rooms to do. She shows him the books she’s torn to shreds to construct hundreds of folded butterflies but when he asks what else she occupies her time with, Sophia goes very quiet and mumbles something he doesn’t quite catch. He can only imagine how lonely and bored she would get on her own. So they talk, like they used to, Giangio checks her over for signs of Petrification, like normal, and they have sex. Only once more, because as much as Sophia wants it, Giangio doesn’t think he could keep up if he gave in to her every demand. He’s starting to understand why she had two lovers before him. 

But they do things together, things she would not have otherwise been able to do on her own. Together they sacrifice a few of her butterflies and construct a makeshift set of cards. Sophia gets overly excited with competitive games, slapping his hand extremely hard on a number of occasions to win a round, while another time Giangio calmly explains how to play solitaire. Sophia suggests poker, but neither of them know the rules well enough and they have nothing to bet with except, Sophia points out with a cat-like smile on her face, their clothes, so that idea falls to the wayside pretty quickly. Sophia’s health improves, the weakness in her legs almost nonexistent by the third day. Giangio gets her doing exercises, showing her the best way to stretch her limbs and massage her joints. It won’t stop her joints from calcifying, but it might help once they do.

It’s just after lunch on the third day, when Giangio has Sophia’s foot in his hand, pressing down on the top to get it to flex, when the door handle jiggles and opens. Sophia lowers her foot, retreating to the corner of the couch, while Giangio rises from his crouch and seats himself on the edge of the coffee table, angling to sit just in front of her. Simon steps through the door followed closely by Adriana, who sets herself by the door as Simon walks to stand just in front of Giangio.

“I appreciate your cooperation,” Simon says. “You are free to leave.”

Giangio raises an eyebrow.

“That’s it?”

Simon ignores him and turns to Sophia, holding his hand out.

“Come, my dear. You have rested enough, we must continue our work.”

Sophia shakes her head fiercely.

“I won’t,” she says. Simon takes a half step forward and Sophia curls in on herself even smaller, tucking her hands against her mouth like a prayer. “Y-you can’t make me.”

Another step forward and Giangio stands, pushing himself as close as he can to Simon to prevent him from getting any closer. He looms overhead but Giangio ignores the height difference, keeping himself as much a physical barrier as possible.

“You’ll kill her,” he hisses. “I thought you loved her.”

“Sacrifice is necessary, dear Giangio,” Simon rumbles. “I thought you understood that.”

Simon waves his hand and Adriana approaches, suddenly reaching forward and wrenching Giangio away by the front of his shirt. Stumbling, he fights to right himself as Adriana trips his feet and sends him sprawling, easily locking his arm behind his back and driving her knee into the small of his back. He curses, he hasn’t been in a fight for so long that he’s gotten rusty, and even then he was never one for hand to hand combat.

“Get-“ He tries to spit but Adriana repositions her knee, driving the air from his lungs and preventing his words. He lets out a wheezy snarl instead, since it’s about the only thing he can do, while behind him, Sophia flings herself from the couch in an effort to get to him, propelling herself into Simon’s arms. She kicks and spits weakly.

“He didn’t do anything!” She cries.

Simon puts his arms around her, almost like a hug, and runs his hand through her hair until she wears herself out, exhaustion making her droop in his embrace. Simon begins leading her out of the room and Sophia follows, propelled by the hand around her shoulder. She turns her head at the door, taking in Giangio’s still pinned form. He can’t do much, as he’s fairly certain Adriana is attempting to choke him with her knee based on where she’s finally settled it, but he’s able to jerk out a nod to her before Simon sweeps her through the door and out of sight.

“Adriana!” He calls.

The woman on top of Giangio huffs angrily and kicks at his ribs once she finally stands.

“I know you’re hiding something,” she spits. “Just because you’ve hid it well doesn’t mean we won’t find it.”

Giangio levers himself up and leans against the coffee table, feeling the patch where she’d kicked him, more for show than anything. She can’t hurt him in any meaningful way. He wheezes in a few breaths and just shrugs at her.

“I don’t have anything to hide Adriana,” he lies.

Adriana’s face twists in a snarl but she seems to remember herself, adjusting her posture and turning sharply on her heel. She stops by the door.

“We’re watching you pharmacist,” she spits over her shoulder. “Don’t think Sir Manus will let you get away with this insolence.”

She slams the door, her clomping footsteps echoing down the hallway and Giangio pulls himself onto his feet and brushes himself down.

Well. It was only a matter of time before he fucked up this badly.

—

Giangio discovers the reason he was locked in Sophia’s room pretty easily. 

When he returns to the Hollow Tower and his rooms, Giangio discovers almost everything destroyed. Pots smashed and bags of mulch scattered, what few experiments he’s been working on scattered across the floor and table, leaking fluid everywhere. His clothes are scattered, several genuinely good shirts stained with dirt and mud, one of them missing an arm. He feels like a bitter ex has just come through his place to destroy his belongings rather than the leader of an Alchemist sect looking for evidence of his transgressions. Because that’s all Simon could be doing really- looking for something to pin on him other than his relationship with Sophia. Giangio nudges a chunk of terracotta with his foot and considers. Why was Simon letting him get away with his relationship to Sophia? Was it to keep her happy? To show that Simon could be generous by allowing her what she wanted, however small a gesture? It was possible. While Simon may not know it, Giangio having the opportunity to sit with her, to care for her, to promise her freedom, it gave her the hope and strength to continue to endure the torture. Can’t have your prisoner falling to ennui if you needed her for something.

He should have gone down to the beach. 

Instead Giangio goes looking for his telegraph machine. 

For a moment, anxiety grips his chest but when he manages to pull a broken bag of mulch off the pot he hid it in he calms. The machine is as he left it, albeit a little dusty from where he left it. Considering the mess that was made, he’s lucky that they missed it. He takes it into his room, ignoring the destroyed pillars of wax and the fact that his sheets are all over the floor, and plugs it in, hunting around until he finds a piece of paper and pencil stub for note taking. 

AWAITING RESPONSE STOP, he sends.

There is a long pause, so long that Giangio wonders if anyone will even send anything back. But then-

SUBMIT REPORT STOP.

Maybe they had misunderstood him? He was the one expecting a response that they had spent months deliberating on, why would a status report change the answer?

LISTENER SICK STOP , he sends. INJECTED WITH BLOOD FROM ARM STOP. AWAITING RESPONSE STOP.

Another long pause.

CONTINUE OBSERVATION STOP.

Giangio feels himself go cold, fingers tripping over the machine as he frantically types out his messages, trying to explain the fear and urgency he feels in just a few short words.

SHE WILL DIE STOP.

CONTINUE OBSERVATION STOP, they repeat. NECESSARY STEP STOP.

NOT NECESSARY STOP. 

The next sentence takes far longer to come through, the quiet beeping filling his ears as he laboriously writes down each letter. But he can hear Osmund’s silky tones as clear as day, as if the man stands over him now, breathing cigar smoke in his face as he leans down to whisper in his ear.

ARE YOU COMPROMISED PARACELSUS?

Paracelsus sucks in a breath.

NO.

CONTINUE OBSERVATION STOP. REPORT FINDINGS STOP.

He throws the machine into the pit, barely able to see the way the delicate pieces shatter against the stone below. Maybe the long drop is easier.

—

Unsurprisingly, Giangio is no longer afforded the freedom he once had. Everywhere he goes, a Stalker follows at a respectable distance, watching, observing and likely reporting his every action back to Simon. He doesn’t bother to go to the labs to play at being a lab assistant, instead he throws himself into research on Gold Coin Fruit Trees. Knowing more about them had always been a true passion of his, understanding the long dead Listeners and how their powers in life created such a miracle fruit, and how that could better humankind. He’d only taken this job as a means of following through on a lead, that the Abbey had a Tree on their grounds. Finding out it had been dead had broken his heart, but Paracelsus had persisted despite it. Now he needed to do the impossible once again, and find another Gold Coin Fruit Tree. So he returns to his books and follows stories and rumours to long accounted for dead ends. Nothing. The only story that had ever borne fruit was the rumour of a miraculous Tree within Krat, one that the anonymous writer had claimed had healed his bad back when he’d eaten the fruit, and that when he’d tried to visit it again he’d found the entrance gone. Arche Abbey was considered to be a part of Krat by most locals, and when Giangio had arrived on the island the entrance to the Hollow Tower was in the process of being reinforced due to a structural collapse that occurred years previously.

He throws another pot into the pit, never mind the fact that he’s running out.

Sophia begins receiving her injections again, small weekly doses of concentrated Ergo. What little strength she had regained evaporates almost instantly, and she spends most of his visits just resting in her bed or on the couch, curled in a ball under too many blankets despite the warm temperature. At least he is left alone for these, the Stalker standing just outside the door with Sophia’s own guard while Giangio cares for her.

“He’s not getting me to do things,” Sophia tells him. “Which is nice, I guess. He just gives me an injection, takes some blood. Asks me how I’m feeling.”

Sophia tilts her head slightly while Giangio checks the crook of her knee for the umpteenth time.

“He’s mad,” she says. “He doesn't want to show it so he’s trying to be nice to me, but I know he’s upset we’re sleeping together. He was like that for a bit with my mother too.”

It’s Giangio’s turn to tilt his head. Sophia doesn’t talk about her parents very much, so her volunteering this information is worth listening to.

“What do you mean? I was under the impression that Valentinus and Simon were…” Friends is the wrong word, even from an outsider's perspective. The two were known for their frequent disagreements on how the sect should be run, but everyone knew that Valentinus was notorious for publicly damning unsavoury acts to get ahead while ordering them of Simon in secret. “They were good colleagues.”

“They were,” Sophia assents. “But father told me that Simon loved my mother. They both came to Krat together, and when it came time to solidify a foothold in the city, my father married my mother. She was the youngest daughter of one of the Old Families, you know. But yeah, Simon approached her first but mother turned him down. When she died, Simon was really upset about it, I remember him crying at the funeral.”

“How did your mother die, if you don’t mind me asking?”

Sophia shrugs.

“I was little, but father said she was sick.” Sophia taps her temple. “She just went to the hotel one day and that was it.” 

Suicide?

“That’s why I did all that charity work. Father said it was a way to remember the good stuff mum did.” Sophia suddenly looks away from Giangio, guilt marring her brow. He reaches a hand forward and takes the one she’s using to pick at a loose thread on her blankets, running the pad of his thumb over her knuckles. “Mother was a Listener too, but… she used to tell me that it was the devil speaking to us. That we were both going to hell. It really scared me, and I was kind of glad when I found out that she wasn’t coming back. I was seven, and then once I realised that “not coming back” meant she had killed herself…”

Sophia sighs and scrubs at her eyes with a hand before offering Giangio a watery smile. He only frowns back at her, crawling up the bed so he can now sit next to her and pull her close. She accepts the hug gratefully, burying her face into his shoulder, but he’s only vaguely paying attention as he rubs her shoulder. It makes sense that her mother was a Listener, the ability was typically passed down bloodlines although there had been occasions where it had cropped up randomly or skipped a generation or two. But he still finds himself curious about the late Isabelle Monad. Listener births and deaths were kept well reported within the Alchemist sects, they were, after all, part of the reason they were able to study Ergo so closely and with such clarity. Both Sophia and her mother were undocumented, which meant Valentinus had kept them hidden for a reason. Not one he would ever divulge, but maybe one Giangio could find out. He’ll need to go to Krat then, visit their library and their public records building, see what he could discover.

He gives Sophia a light squeeze and she sighs in his arms, oblivious to his musings. He’d need to go as soon as well, the earliest possible day for the submersible to be finished draws closer, and once Sophia is off the island, Giangio has no doubts that returning to the island for any reason would be the equivalent of a death sentence for him. He’ll need to make sure that any research he needs to do, he does it now before he gets himself in even more trouble.

—

It’s a bright sunny day when Giangio is able to board the ferry back to Krat. Sophia has already done her day with Simon this week and is now recovering, spending up to three days after her “treatment” in such a state of lethargy that she does little but eat and sleep or, if she’s especially unlucky, vomiting up every meal she ingests. At the very least, Simon will only ever spend one day a week with her, his other duties as sect leader requiring him to spend long days doing unfathomable amounts of paperwork for the administration of the organisation. So Giangio doesn’t feel especially bad when he kisses her cheek and wishes her a good day, promising to be back to deliver her dinner. She makes grabbing motions with her hands but her grip is weak and he pulls away easily, laughing softly at her exaggerated grumbles.

Once in Krat it's easy to slip his Stalker tail and go to the public records office to request the documents on the late Isabelle Monad. Births, deaths and marriages were all public record and the clerk at the desk is a kindly old woman who walks him through the stacks to where the certificate is located.

“Terribly tragic,” she says. “The city- Ah we mourned for weeks! To lose a kind soul such as her.”

The certificate tells him very little. Isabelle Monad was thirty-seven when she died and was considered of sound body, her death ruled a suicide by hanging near fifteen years ago. No evidence of a struggle, no signs of foul play. The most suspicious thing about the certificate was that it had been signed off by Valentinus Monad, witnessed by one Antonia Cerasani. To have Valentinus sign off on his own wife’s death certificate was definitely unusual, and a secret he would keep in his grave, but this Antonia was worth trying to speak with.

The clerk directs him to Hotel Krat to speak with the proprietress so Giangio heads that way. The day is wearing on, the sun now high in the sky, and the streets are busy with Krat citizens and puppets alike. It makes navigation to the Hotel slower, as Giangio finds himself having to duck and weave around meandering groups and slowly moving carriages. The Hotel sits by the sea, a grand building on the cliffside that serves as a thoroughfare from the train station and Engineer’s Workshop to Elysian Boulevard and Rosa Isabelle Street. The foyer is busy, guests checking in and people walking to and from their destinations, so Giangio stands by the front doors for a moment taking in the building. At the front desk a puppet butler stands and greets guests tirelessly while human attendants scurry about with carts piled high with luggage, dinner trays and toiletries. In the centre of the grand foyer is a large contraption, a slowly spinning globe filled to the brim with Ergo. A Stargazer, and an especially large one at that. Paracelsus takes a deep breath, feeling the way the Ergo fills his lungs like pollen on the breeze. Stargazers were a blessing and a curse, a newly invented way to capture the ambient Ergo in the air and condense it into a crystallised form. While they absorbed any Ergo in the area, they had a nasty habit of creating great clouds of Ergo that hung around them like spores, as the capturing process was often too slow for the amount of Ergo in the air. This particular Stargazer didn’t appear to be condensing the Ergo it captured, rather leaving shimmering motes sparkling beneath its thick glass surface like some oversized Christmas bauble. Giangio wouldn’t envy anyone in the area if the device ever broke, he imagines it would lead to the biggest outbreak of Petrification Disease Krat would ever see.

Seeing that the front desk is now free from guests, Giangio trots over, noting somewhat absently a strange feeling as he enters further into the Hotel. Almost like he’s being watched. He looks around for a moment, wondering if maybe his Stalker tail had managed to find him again, but everyone around seems thoroughly uninterested in the blue haired man dithering by the front desk. The puppet tilts its head, face kept in a rictus expression of professional concern as it greets him.

“Welcome to Hotel Krat,” it says. “How may I help you today?”

“I was hoping to speak with the proprietress,” Giangio says. “Antonia Cerasani?”

The puppet nods, consulting some paper on its desk for a moment before directing its attention back to him.

“Lady Antonia is busy. My apologies sir,” it says. “Would you like me to pass on a message?”

Giangio considers for a moment, pursing his lips as he thinks.

“How long have you worked here?”

“Since my creation sir.” It stands there for a moment, clasped hands clicking as they cycle through open and closed. “Fifteen years I believe.”

“You would have known Isabelle Monad,” Giangio says, more to himself, but the puppet nods.

“The Monads were regular guests at the Hotel,” the puppet says. “It was a sad day to hear of Sir Valentinus’ passing.”

“Were you there, the day Isabelle Monad killed herself?” Giangio asks.

The puppet tilts its head again, clicking fingers abruptly stopping their cycle.

“I was.” It sounds hesitant to respond.

“Did you find her body?”

“No sir.” 

“Someone else?” Giangio frowns, considering his next question. “Where did-”

“Sir,” the puppet interrupts. “I do not believe I can help you with these questions. I would advise you to speak with the police regarding this matter.”

“Of course.” Well that was unusual, a puppet attempting to hide something. Giangio considers the butler for a moment. He’s no Listener, he can’t connect with Ergo the way that Sophia can, so he can’t probe more intimately for questions. Stepping away from the front desk he goes to stand in front of the Stargazer, staring up at it as he thinks. He’s no closer to finding out anything about Isabelle Monad and why Valentinus had decided to keep her hidden. He feels like he’s wasted his day doing this. Frustrated, he decides to head up the stairs leading to Elysian Boulevard but he pauses on the landing, the feeling of being watched growing stronger as he approaches the doors. He slows, walking out into the courtyard but the attention seems to drift the moment he leaves the Hotel building, so he walks back onto the landing, frowning as he walks in a circle trying to get a better sense of where the feeling is coming from. A few people give him odd looks, but pass him by, while the butler notices and begins clomping over to him.

“Sir-”

To his left, so Giangio heads up the stairs to the upper landing, walking only a short distance before he finds himself standing in a dead end. The feeling is the strongest here, but still distant. He places a hand against the wall and knocks, testing the sound until the dull thump thump becomes a hollow clunk . A false wall. Emboldened, Giangio starts looking for seams, a mechanism, but-

“Philipus Paracelsus.”

Paracelsus turns, looking for the voice but finds nothing. Even with the barrier of the wall, the feeling seems to grow stronger, all eyes on him.

“ Liar. Thief. Coward. ”

“ I’m saving her,” he grits out. “I need the Fruit, for her-”

Paracelsus feels his breath catching in his throat, heart squeezing in the grip of an insubstantial hand.

“ Selfish. You will hurt my daughter.”

“No-”

A hand suddenly alights on his shoulder and Giangio finds himself anchored back to himself, the watchful presence retreating. The puppet butler stands next to him, head tilted slightly as it considers him.

“Sir,” the butler says. “I am kindly advising you to leave the premises. If you do not, I will be forced to inform the police.”

“Who was that?” Giangio demands. “You felt it, I know you would have.”

“Lady Isabelle,” the puppet replies after a long moment. 

“Not dead then,” he mutters.

“Not alive,” the puppet counters. “Sir, Lady Isabelle has requested you leave the premises. I would advise you do so.”

He wants to protest, but there’s no point. The butler can very well get the authorities involved to have him removed from the property, and Giangio doesn’t exactly need “legal trouble” tacked onto his growing list of problems. He places a hand against the wall for a moment before turning back to the puppet.

“Can you tell Lady Isabelle something then?”

The puppet considers him for a long moment, fingers clicking through their endless cycle, before nodding carefully.

“Can you let her know that her daughter is sick? And that I’m trying to come up with a cure?”

The clicking fingers stop.

“Sophia Monad is alive?”

“Not if I can’t help her,” Giangio insists fiercely. “Tell Isabelle Monad that if she doesn’t let me help Sophia, she’s going to suffer a fate worse than any religious hell she believed in. Do you understand?”

“Yes sir,” the puppet replies. “I believe I do.”

Chapter Text

When Sophia is left alone, she thinks about Romeo.

She tries not to most days, thinking about him only reminds her of how lonely and sad she is. It reminds her of poor Carlo and the way he had jerked lifelessly on the end of Adriana’s sword, the bright spray of blood-

Sophia takes a calming breath, rubbing the tears from her eyes.

The memories have a golden glow to them, incandescent lighting and blurred edges making features difficult to make out. Romeo’s smile is softer, his skin blurred, the shapes of his eyes like a smudge of ink on paper. When he speaks it is not with his voice, but only a half remembered approximation. Could she pick him from a crowd? Would she recognise his gait, his laugh, his smell?

She misses him. She wants to remember him.

She wishes she couldn’t remember anything at all.

—

“How do you feel, my dear?” Simon asks.

“Tired.” Always so tired.

“Any nausea?”

“Not today,” she says. “Some yesterday though.”

“And Giangio,” Simon starts. “Has he reported anything of concern?”

She shakes her head.

Simon hums.

They sit in one of the private lab rooms as Simon finishes preparing the needle, inserting it into her thigh and pushing down the plunger. Her arms are too ruined for injections at the moment, although Simon promises they’ll heal, so he’s started using her legs. It burns for a moment before the syringe empties and he removes it, setting it to the side. He wipes the area down and presses a small gauze pad over it to clot the pinprick. He looks tired. A bit sad too. This new routine, of weekly injections and blood tests rather than terrifying experiments has made Simon melancholic, and Sophia finds she doesn’t know how to deal with this side of him. At least she could be scared of his anger and frustration.

“Giangio is lying to you,” Simon says wearily.

Sophia forces air out of her nose in disbelief but doesn’t respond. This is an old conversation, ever since she’d started having sex with Giangio. Simon insists that Giangio is lying to her, that he doesn’t love or care about her, that he’ll only hurt her worse than Simon ever does, and all Sophia can do is disagree.

“You’re sick,” Simon continues. “He hasn’t told you that, has he?”

“I’m not sick,” Sophia says. “I don’t have any of the signs. And besides, he would have told me. He’s not horrible like you.”

Simon pulls an exasperated face at the childish jab and finally removes the gauze from the injection site, looking at it carefully before sliding back into his chair. 

“I imagine he has told you there is no Petrification, no pustules or scales that are the common signs?”

Sophia nods.

“There are other signs too,” Simon explains. “The nausea isn’t, but this is.”

He suddenly reaches a hand forward and presses it against her stomach, making Sophia stiffen in her chair, expecting the worst. He feels about for a moment, pressing hard until he seems to find what he’s looking for.

“That,” he says.

“What?” She’s not sure what he’s referring to.

Simon takes her hand, pressing it against the same place on her stomach, forcing her to push hard against… something. It almost feels like the end of a bone, hard and round and not very large, but the placement is all wrong. Sophia frowns, trying not to let her sudden anxiety show.

“That,” he repeats. “Is an Ergo crystal.”

“Ah-You- Simon, you told me that everyone has Ergo in them-“

“Not crystallised,” he says firmly. 

Simon takes her hand and slides it under his waistcoat, pressing it firmly against his stomach. It just feels soft, fleshy, the cotton of his shirt crisp against her fingers. 

“See-“ He moves her hand so she can just feel the edge of his pelvis before moving it across, pressing firmly as he goes. “Nothing. You are sick Sophia.”

It’s everything she ever feared. 

“ No . You’re lying-“ Everything is too much and she wrenches her hand away from him, curling into the chair to try and get as far away as possible. She can’t be sick, she can’t be, because if she’s sick, she’s dead -

“I have never lied to you dear,” Simon says softly. He reaches a hand out slowly. “I’m sorry. But-“

“ No!” She shrieks. Any fear she would normally have of Simon is forgotten in an instant, and she jerks away from his outreached hand. “You hurt me, you made me sick and now I’m going to die!”

“Sophia, my dear, please. You won’t die.” He takes her hand, ignoring the fact she’s trying to pull away from him, and runs the pad of his thumb over the skin in what would otherwise have been a soothing manner. “You will evolve, be reborn into something far greater.”

“I don’t want that!” She cries. “I just want to go home, to see Romeo, Carlo, my father- I just-“

She can’t breathe, her throat and nose clogged by choking mucus, her eyes burning as she cries in earnest. Simon makes a noise but she can barely hear it over her own sobbing and when he leans over to embrace her, Sophia can’t help that she lets him. For a moment, this is no longer Simon Manus, leader of the Alchemists, murderer and abuser, but Uncle Simon, who used to ask her about the butterflies she would draw all over her worksheets and would clumsily tie blue ribbons in her hair.

“I understand you are scared,” Simon rumbles. “But I promise you will be fine. Your evolution will be beautiful, and then you will truly be ready for the task I have for you.”

“I’m going to die,” she whispers.

“It is not a true death,” he says, as if that is any consolation. “Come, I would like you to see something.”

Sophia immediately stiffens in his arms. She tries to jerk free but Simon just holds her firmly, stroking a hand through her hair for a moment before he finally lets her go. He stands and offers his hand and she has to take it, as her legs feel equal parts weak and heavy. The moment she stands vertigo makes her head spin and stomach roil and she has to clutch the edge of the table while Simon waits, surprisingly patient, until it settles.

“Why-” She has to cough around the phlegm in her throat before she can continue her question. “Why are you being so nice to me now?”

Simon offers his arm to her again and she takes it, clutching tightly as he leads her out of the room and down a corridor. She’s been this way only rarely, most of the time when she is allowed on walks the Alchemist supervising her will only let her walk the short distance to one of the open air bridges spanning between buildings, while Giangio only ever takes her to the Hollow Tower. She knows that down this particular corridor, and around a few corners, they’ll eventually reach an outdoor courtyard surrounded by a few buildings. As they walk, Simon is very quiet, gaze distant, acting as if she hasn’t spoken. Has she stumped him? Does Simon really have no good reason for why his behaviour changes so drastically? Surely not. Sophia considers prompting him but they finally exit the oppressive corridors of the Abbey and into the sunshine of the courtyard. The wall looms high overhead, casting a dark shadow over the space, but where they stand, just for the moment, the sun is bright and warm against her skin. It would be a lovely day in Krat.

“We have recently had some volunteers arrive on the island,” Simon tells her suddenly, leading her down the steps and off to one of the other buildings. “All sick, near death. You see, as much as I wish to focus all my efforts on you my dear, I am still searching for a cure.”

The building Simon leads her to is long and squat, built from a yellowish sandstone and covered in geometric carvings, not unlike many of the corridors within the main Abbey. When they enter Sophia sees that it may have been a church once, with even rows of pillars bracketing a central aisle leading up to a plain stone altar. If there had been glass in the windows they have long since been destroyed or removed, and the openings allow light to stream in and the smoke from candles to waft out. There are a few Alchemists and Stalkers in this main area, setting up crates of equipment or struggling to move things down a tight staircase beyond the altar. Simon waits for the stairs to clear before leading Sophia below, bare electric bulbs strung at regular intervals lighting their way.

“We have had success with animal subjects,” Simon explains. “We have not been able to cure the Disease, not yet, but we have been able to delay the Petrification.”

“You’re…” Sophia has to take a moment to breathe, all this walking and stairs wearing on her already fragile energy. Simon has been moderating his walking speed for her, but it’s still faster than she would have liked. “You’re prolonging it?”

“So far, yes.”

They reach the bottom, the stairs opening out to a long room lined with hospital beds, what once might have been a crypt based on the alcoves built into the walls. Only three of them are occupied, two men and a woman. All of them are covered in thin white sheets, some of them already stained with the telltale blue of burst pustules, and each are hooked up to an IV full of clear fluid. By the entrance, an Alchemist hands Simon two strips of cloths, one of which he hands to Sophia, before tying it around the lower half of his face. She clumsily does the same, keeping it mostly in place with her hand as Simon leads her over to one of the beds. The man in the bed wheezes out laborious breaths, what little of his flesh remaining covered in a sheen of sweat. 

“This man will die soon,” Simon says nonchalantly. “His family have asked we do what we can to prolong his life.”

“Does he know?” Sophia asks.

“Likely not,” he replies with a shrug. “The hospital he came from have kept him heavily sedated to ease his pain.”

As Simon speaks, one of the Alchemists approaches the man’s bed with a small case. When she opens it, Sophia sees a syringe filled with that strange starlight liquid that Simon had injected her with, the one that had made her feel strong and weak at the same time, that had allowed her to leave the island and go home again. The woman unscrews a cap on the IV container and holds the syringe flush with the opening, emptying the contents into the clear fluid already going into the man’s veins. It swirls and glitters in the electric lighting like nothing Sophia has ever seen before.

“That- That’s what you injected me with.”

Sophia looks up to Simon but his expression is difficult to read with the lower half of his face covered, his blind eye facing her. 

“Can you feel the Ergo in here?” He asks.

Sophia frowns, reaching her awareness out to try and get a sense for things. Simon’s presence is the largest but she has gotten adept at avoiding his sticky presence so she ignores his web and instead tries to reach under and through. She can feel the Alchemists in the room above and the few working in the room they are currently in, their Ergo like tiny motes of light. There’s so little there and it’s hard to reach, like trying to force her hard through dense layers of cotton batton, that she’s never been able to communicate with it properly. The Ergo of the man in front of her is no different, like there’s too much flesh and blood in the way of her touch. She wonders if she could speak with his Ergo, if she concentrated and tried very hard. She could reverse the time of Ergo chunks and all that they connected to, so could she save this man? 

Sophia approaches him, letting go of Simon’s arm in the process, and rests a careful hand on the sheets. The Alchemist in attendance makes a noise as if to say something but Simon waves his hand, causing whatever protest it might have been to die off in her throat. Sophia reaches for the Ergo, pushing, pushing, pushing as hard as she can through layers and layers, trying not to rip and tear as she goes. On the bed, the man suddenly jerks, making Sophia flinch back, removing her hand in the process. 

“Again,” Simon rumbles. 

Suddenly Simon is too close, his presence dark and sticky against her back. What had just started out as curiosity, a desire to help, was now coated in her fear, choking her throat as she tried to be small and quiet and obedient. With a shaking hand, Sophia sets her fingers on the dying man’s arm once again, trying not to flinch away when he shudders in place. Starlight filters through the tangle of the IV line and she tries not to look at the tiny bit of flesh the needle disappears into, the way it seems to bubble and shift in fleshy grey. She focuses instead on his Ergo, a hard lumpy knot that seems to flare with spikes, not from her touch but from pain. He makes a loud wheezing noise and looks to her, suddenly very awake. 

“Kill…Me…”

“I-I’m trying to help,” Sophia says, her voice too loud in the silence of the room. “I-I-“

The man burbles and wheezes and Sophia reaches for his Ergo again, trying to find the shape it once was, but it shifts between her fingers like sand. There’s just so much in the way it’s hard to keep her grip on it and when he shudders and shifts again Simon suddenly pulls her away. 

“I-I-“

“That’s enough,” Simon says abruptly. “Come.”

Her gut roils and she almost throws up at the sudden movement but she lets herself be led quickly back up the stairs. Things become loud and confusing suddenly as Simon begins directing the Stalkers milling about in the upper room back down the stairs to attend to something. Did Sophia do something to that man? She’s not sure. She tries to ask but her voice catches in her throat, barely more than a squeak coming from strangled vocal cords. When she tries to extend her awareness downwards, to check on the man, everything feels coated in a dark sticky rot that makes her retch, throwing up what little food was in her stomach into the floor. Simon looks at her with distaste for a moment before giving final directions to the Alchemists in the room and dragging Sophia out and into the courtyard. She throws up again at the top of the stairs when Simon pauses, and he finally lets her hand go so she can sink to the ground. 

“Sorry, I’m sorry-“

She’s babbling, trying to beg forgiveness for wrongs she knows she hasn’t done but will be punished for nonetheless, but Simon is just standing there, grinding his jaw as he stares into the distance.

“Stop crying,” he snaps and Sophia immediately holds her hands to her mouth, trying to contain her sobs. “That was…” He’s still not looking at her. “Disappointing.”

“I-I’m sorry-“

“Stop crying,” he repeats, less anger in his voice. “You were not the cause of this failed test, although your attempt to help was pitiful.”

Simon pulls her up and begins escorting her back into the main Abbey building, no longer bothering to walk slowly for her. Sophia trips and stumbles as they walk, struggling to keep up. 

“I will grant that you did try,” Simon says after a long moment. “But you are not strong enough yet.”

Sophia looks at Simon for a moment, trying to gauge his reaction. He’s angry, sort of, but not at her. The alternating light in the corridors, the grand open archways that let in the natural light and the darkened hallways lit by strung electric bulbs, paint his face in shifting shadows. Soft and harsh all at once.

“What happened?” She asks. “I thought, maybe… like with puppets. I could feel his Ergo. And-”

“In time, my dear,” Simon rumbles.

Simon takes her straight back to her room, helping her more carefully through the threshold and over to one of the armchairs. Sophia sits gratefully, ready to pass out then and there.

“I believe we will be ready for another test soon,” Simon says. “A few days, perhaps.”

She doesn’t want to do more tests, she wants to spend the rest of her miserable life sleeping. Sophia looks at Simon wearily for a moment, before looking at a point beyond his shoulder. Giangio isn’t here, which means she’s going to have to spend the next few hours wallowing in loneliness.

“Ok.”

Simon’s jaw clenches for a moment and he leans over to take her hand, ghosting his lips carefully over her knuckles. A thought occurs to her, something that makes her giggle.

“What’s so funny?” He asks.

“I’m sick, ” Sophia giggles. “And here you are, kissing me like some fair maiden. Ha!”

Simon looks confused, drawing away but he doesn’t release his grip on her hand. Sophia wiggles her more upright in the chair, leaning forward as if to tell him a secret.

“I’m sick,” she repeats. “And now you’ll get sick too, and oh! Even dear Giangio, who’s been fucking me-”

Simon rears back in anger and surprise, free hand reaching out and striking her across the cheek. It makes her head whip to the side but she still laughs despite the ache.

“Maybe we’ll all Petrify together!”

“STOP IT!” Simon roars. “You will not- we will not-”

“Are you scared Simon?” Sophia taunts. She tries to rise from the chair, using the hand that Simon is still holding her with to try and leverage herself up but he wrenches it away as if burned. “You wanted to kiss me before Simon, what happened to that?”

“You will not die ,” he says firmly, but Sophia is sure she detects a pleading edge to his voice. 

“We all die in the end,” she replies bitterly. She lets herself slump in the chair, allowing her eyes to drift closed. She’s exhausted again. “I’m just going to die sooner rather than later.”

Simon’s jaw clenches and he seems unable to respond to that, instead shifting his posture firm and upright, turning away slightly. 

“Rest,” he commands. “Put those thoughts out of your mind. I will return.”

And Simon turns on his heel and leaves, slamming the door firmly behind him. Sophia exhales slowly before levering herself up. Nap time. She staggers over to her room, using furniture and walls to stop herself from tipping over, before snuggling under her blankets. She doesn’t bother undressing beyond removing her coat, and sleep takes her quickly when she calls to it. 

–

There is a hand shaking her shoulder and Sophia groans at the movement. Everything feels fuzzy, her eyes sticky and mouth filled with that tacky sour taste she gets whenever she’s hungover. She’s able to get one eye open and the blurry face of Giangio swims into view. He’s wearing a dark shirt with several of the buttons near the collar undone and for once he’s tied his hair out of the way. Sophia thinks he looks nicer like that, less drab, his high cheekbones lending a sophistication to his face that makes him look almost like a statue when seen in the right light. He’s holding a tray of food precariously with one hand, a concerned frown wrinkling his brow.

“You look nice,” she mumbles.

“Simon hit you again,” he says.

Sophia struggles to prop herself upright as Giangio sets the tray of food down, shoving a few pillows behind her to make it easier. He sits on the edge of the bed, reaching out and cupping her jaw gently to inspect her face, turning it with only the slightest pressure from his fingertips. She imagines the bruise is quite large.

“Any pain?” He asks.

“A little,” Sophia admits. “But I think it will be ok.”

Giangio always looks pained whenever she downplays her injuries, but if she made a big deal out of every one of them, she’d get nothing done. There were often so many, and most of them so bad, that bruises like this were no longer any concern of hers. Giangio leans forward and kisses her other cheek before standing and walking out of the room, returning with his black bag of medical supplies. He rifles through and pulls out a little pot of ointment that fills the room with potent smelling herbs when he uncaps it, and a bottle of capsules, of which he hands her one.

“What happened?” Giangio asks softly.

He hands her a glass of water and she takes the medicine, swallowing the capsule with some difficulty, before he starts smearing the ointment on her skin. It’s cool against her swollen skin, and his touch is gentle. She wishes it were elsewhere.

“I’m sick,” she replies softly. “Simon told me.”

“H-How-”

Something like fear flickers across Giangio’s face but Sophia takes the hand now hovering by her cheek and presses against it. His fingers twitch slightly.

“You couldn’t have known,” she tells him softly. “I don’t have the normal signs. My Ergo- it’s crystallised.”

She takes the hand and moves it lower, pressing it against her stomach in the approximate spot Simon had pressed earlier. Giangio looks like he’s trying to process a complicated series of emotions, shock, anger, sadness, all at once, mouth twitching as he thinks. 

“I- You-”

“I’m sorry,” she says.

“Why are you sorry?” He demands. “It’s not your fault- Simon’s been pumping you full of Ergo as if-” He stops whatever tirade he had been about to start, jaw grinding shut. “ I’m sorry. I should have caught this sooner- Told you-”

“And then what?” She feels exhausted. “Giangio, I’m going to die. I-”

Exhaustion gives way to sadness and even though she was trying so hard not to care about it anymore, thinking about it hurts so much. She can feel tears beginning to well in her eyes and even though she wipes them away they just keep coming, running tracks through the ointment Giangio has just applied to her face. Giangio shuffles himself forward and pulls her close, allowing her to smear tears and ointment all over his nice clean shirt as he runs fingers through her hair.

“Even if I escape,” she whispers. “It doesn’t matter. I’m sick.”

“I-” Giangio clears his throat. “You don’t want Simon to use you though, do you?”

She shakes her head.

“Then escaping is worth it.”

They sit there for a moment, Giangio allowing Sophia to calm down and dry her tears before she lets go. She sits and eats, slow and careful slurps of soup before she begins nibbling at the hunk of bread on the side. She understands why her diet has been fairly bland lately, but what she wouldn’t give for something richer. Steaks, pasta in rich creamy sauces, cakes so delicate and sweet they made her mouth hurt. Alcohol even, la bleiwies had always sat bitterly on her tongue but the buzz it gave her was far more enjoyable compared to the lighter wines she favoured.  

“Have you told Romeo?” Sophia asks. 

“Pardon?”

Giangio’s brow dips into a deep frown, a customary expression whenever she brings up her remaining boyfriend. She suddenly feels like she shouldn’t have brought the topic up and cringes away from him. 

“Nevermind,” she mutters. 

“We won’t be able to go back to Krat,” Giangio says carefully. “Simon will be looking for you.”

“No but-“ The thought hadn’t occurred to her. “But what about Romeo? He can help, he’s a Stalker, he used to protect me-“

Giangio makes a noise in the back of his throat, like an aborted scoff. He looks away. 

“We need to get you somewhere safe first,” Giangio says. “The person I’m working with, he’s a Stalker too. Until you’re safe, I don’t think we should be bringing just anyone into…” He waves a hand around while he searches for the right word. “This.”

Sophia purses her lips and tries not to be disappointed. 

“And-“ Giangio coughs. “Wouldn’t it be better if you were cured first?”

You wouldn’t want Romeo to get sick too is left unsaid. 

“What about you? I, um.” She thinks briefly of her taunts to Simon, said more to make him angry than with any proper thought behind them. But now that she’s thinking about it… “Giangio, I don’t want you getting sick either.”

He smirks and pats her hand. 

“I’ll be fine.”

It’s said to make her feel better but it doesn’t. Sophia shifts so she can look at him squarely in the eyes. 

“Can you be careful, please?”

“Of course.”

He leans forward and kisses her, his tongue probing the inside of her mouth. She knows she shouldn’t, that just this proximity could make him unwell, but she can’t help but moan. His hands are sure as he slides them across fabric and skin, one settling by her breast, the other cradling her backside and when Sophia pulls back to pant, Giangio’s mouth is curved into a grin. 

“Please-“

But his mouth is on hers again and whatever she had been begging for dies in her mouth. For him to stop? For him to continue? It doesn’t matter, as she puts all thoughts out of her mind and lets herself forget the things that make her sad. 

—

Simon comes by two days later and brings her down to the labs. They sit in that private room as he once again pulls out a chunk of Ergo for her to use. It’s the same, always the same. 

After an hour, or what feels like an hour with no clocks on the wall, Simon hums as he taps the blunt tips of his fingers against the table while Sophia keeps a hand over her mouth, breathing steadily and carefully. She’s had no nausea since her last injection two days previously, which had been considered a good sign, until using her powers had brought it back with full force. He’d made no notes during the session, only watched her with half lidded eyes as she struggled not to throw up. At least he wasn’t hitting her, a small mercy. 

“Come with me.”

He stands abruptly and pulls Sophia from the chair, walking almost too fast for her to keep up with. He leads her out of the labs, down twisting corridors and stairs until they once again reach the courtyard. It is much busier today, more people milling around that little church building where sick people were thrust into darkness to die. The crowd parts around the two of them as they walk, a few people bowing or saluting as they head inside and back down the stairs.

There are only two people once they reach the bottom of the stairs to the crypt, the same Alchemist woman tending a single patient near the back of the room. The Alchemist bows, but Simon waves her off.

“I will need a single syringe,” Simon tells her. “Normal dose. Bring one of the guards with you when you return.”

The woman bows again and trots back up the stairs. There is a small table and a few chairs in the corner with equipment and supplies set up on it, trays for tools, a notebook with curly handwriting covering its pages, a few jars and bottles of medicine, and Simon directs Sophia to sit down at it, which she does so gladly. Simon stands in front of her, hands clasped behind his back, shifting back and forth as if he wants to start pacing.

“You are stagnating again,” Simon explains. “I had hoped the injections of Ergo would increase your powers but it seems they have only done that to a certain point. It seems you have grown as much as you can on your own.”

The Alchemist woman returns with a Stalker trailing behind her, a man Sophia is sure she vaguely recognises. Even Simon frowns at the man for a moment before turning back to the Alchemist. She holds out a case to Simon, which he takes, before returning to the sick man on the hospital bed, murmuring to him as she wrings out a wet cloth. The Stalker looks at Sophia with pursed lips before Simon directs him over to the Alchemist woman with a wave of his hand.

Simon shows Sophia the case and opens it, revealing another syringe with that strange starry liquid. She pulls away from it as far as she can in her chair.

“This will help,” Simon continues as if he hadn’t been interrupted. “I have already seen the strength it can give you. And with your… infection, you will only get stronger.”

Sophia can only watch as he crouches in front of her, pushing her skirts up around her hips so he can reach the meat of her thighs. He rubs a hand over the skin, selecting a spot that is still unbruised before quickly and efficiently inserting the needle in and pressing down the plunger. Sophia whines around the pain, squeezing her eyes just as-

Little Princess.

Sophia moans.

“No- I don’t-”

Princess. What do you wish for?

“Nothing! Please-”

WHAT DO YOU WISH FOR?

She recognises this room.

The wallpaper peeling at the corners, the cheap countertop scored with knife marks, the cloudy glass hiding chipped porcelain mugs, bowls and plates.  She approaches one of the chairs and presses it slightly with her fingertips, the legs rocking with their mismatched lengths. Against the wall, because there is no separate lounge room, is the couch. 

This is the apartment in Malum. 

Excitement makes Sophia twitchy, a sudden desire to move about their little home almost making her trip over herself. It’s almost as she remembers it, but there’s a dank air to the place, far more pervasive than it had been the last time she remembers. She’d wanted them out of here because she worried about black mould and leaking ceilings, and it seemed her fears had been warranted. There’s a big black bloom in the middle of the ceiling and she can see an area that looks like it’s sagging slightly over a pile of musty smelling sheets. Even the couch, the one she had demanded they get rid of so she could buy them a new one, had a slight stickiness to it and a large stain on one of the cushions. 

The grime pervades the apartment, dirty dishes that can only be several days old sit in the sink, empty wine bottles on almost every counter, some stacked in neat piles against furniture or in corners. The bathroom tiles are covered in mould and soap scum, the towel hanging is over the rail stiff and musty, and Sophia sees a barely stocked first aid kit on the edge of the sink, the bandages hanging out of it stained brown. When she goes into the bedroom she is struck by this strange, voyeuristic feeling, a tightness in her throat as the reality finally sinks in. This is Romeo’s apartment, the once fine clothes she runs her fingers across recognisably his, but he clearly hasn’t been coping. His sadness hangs over the apartment like a dark cloud, even without him there, and Sophia can’t stand it. She can barely stand her own. She wants to let him know that she’s alright, that she’s coming home, she’s being rescued, please be patient a little longer , but there’s no paper for her to leave a message on. The letter she sent so long ago is missing, the thought that it was never even sent crossing her mind only long enough for her to dismiss it. Sophia thumps from the bedroom, almost tripping over the rug in the process and stands in the middle of the central room, fists on her hips as she thinks. She has to let Romeo know that she’s still alright, mostly, and that she’ll be coming back to him. Could she find him? She’s not sure, he spent the majority of his time in her company, it’s not like he had hobbies he did on his own. She could ask neighbours, she supposes, see if they knew where he went during the day. It's not ideal, but she feels like she can’t just wait around until he comes home. She wants to see him now. 

Resolved, Sophia takes a slightly wheezy breath, rubbing at the tightness in her throat before heading to the front door, her finger touching a the handle before-

She’s standing where she started. Startled, Sophia looks at her hands for a moment before marching back over to the door, hand clutching the handle-

Back where she started. Like blinking her eyes, one minute in front of the door, the next in the centre of the tiny lounge. 

Everything bubbles to the surface, some feral frustration that makes her scream until her lungs give out, throat tightening the longer she exhales. This wasn’t the freedom she wanted, this was just another lonely prison she has no escape from. She wheezes, trying to breathe deeply but the air is getting caught in her throat again-

“SOPHIA!”

Simon stands over her, hand around her throat as she begins to thrash and struggle against his grip, mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water.

“You defy me, again and again and again!” He screams. Simon’s anger is normally so controlled but this, the spit flying from his mouth, the rapid purpling of his face and the vein throbbing in his temple, this is nothing like Sophia’s ever seen. “After everything I do for you, the gift I have given you!”

Her vision is blurring and going dark but Simon suddenly releases, allowing Sophia to gasp and splutter, head pounding and stomach roiling as she tries to breathe. 

“Must I remind you every time?” He demands. “Will the lesson never stick?”

His hand flashes out, the knuckles cracking across her cheek and making her head whip to the side. Dazed and disoriented Sophia curls over herself and throws up, much to Simon’s disgust. There’s a hand on her arm, keeping her steady and upright as her muscles cramp.

“Stupid, selfish, lying,” Simon rants as he begins pacing. “I give you this gift, I make you stronger than you ever could have been and you squander it. You try to run away, to hide, when you could be embracing it, fulfilling your potential. Giving yourself to that pathetic creature-” He suddenly stops and takes a deep breath, turning away from her. Simon’s attention now directed elsewhere, Sophia tries to orient herself.

She is standing in front of the sick man, his body strange and mutated. Some sections of his skin are covered in the hard, stoney scales, the cracks lined with crystalline blue, while what remains of his flesh is pale and grey, horribly bloated and streaked with blue veins and pustules. One of the pustules, a large one on the side of his face, had burst and was leaking viscous blue fluid onto his bed. It exposed what little muscle remained in his cheek, the flesh pallid and grey like rotten meat, his teeth startlingly white. He makes a high pitched wheezing noise, his one remaining eye rolled back into his skull.

He hadn’t looked like this before the injection.

Sophia jerks back, stumbling in the grip of whoever is still holding her. The Stalker that she can’t quite place is holding her upright and he adjusts his grip so she doesn’t fall over.

“What-”

“What happened?” Simon snaps. He wheels around and looms over her. “You failed , dear Sophia, where you had no reason to. With your attention split-” He makes a sharp expanding motion with his hands. “And wasted your opportunity.”

Simon exhales sharply and waves the Alchemist over while Sophia cringes away from him. She hadn’t wanted the injection, to split herself and not know what was happening. She’s exhausted, head pounding, stomach cramping, her legs barely supporting her, and the Stalker seems to realise because he bends over her, shifting his grip and gently leading her back over to the abandoned chair. He’s very gentle as he gets her to sit, moving hair off her sweat slick brow as she collapses.

“Are you ok?” He asks gently. She shakes her head. “It-”

Simon approaches now with the Alchemist woman just behind him holding a tray with a syringe, several vials and a length of tubing that she sets on the table. Simon gives the Stalker a hard look.

“You are not needed here Jun,” he says sharply. “You may go.”

The Stalker, Jun, looks ready to protest but snaps his mouth shut quickly, giving Sophia one last look before striding out of the room, his heavy footsteps echoing down the stairs as he ascends. Simon’s mouth twists as he watches the other man leave before he turns back to Sophia, holding his hand out expectantly to the Alchemist woman standing by. She hurriedly preps a syringe with the tubing and it feeds into one of the vials before passing it to him while he sharply rips aside her skirts to reveal her bruised thigh. The skin, where it is not ripe and purple, is pale and blue tinged, no longer the blush of healthy flesh, and shot through with dark corded veins. They spider across the skin like grasping vines or trailing roots, disappearing into the crook of her knee and under the cotton of her drawers. The Alchemist woman quickly looks away, as if embarrassed, while Simon just considers her leg, running a hand across the mottled surface while he searches for the right spot. He pinches a section of skin, making Sophia bite her lip to fight back a yelp, before he inserts the needle in and pulls back the plunger, the spiralling tube filling with ruby liquid. Sophia looks away, focussing instead on staying conscious amidst all of the discomfort she’s facing.

“We will resume this test in three days,” Simon says. There is still a tight inflection to his words. “You should not need a further dose after such a short period.”

The needle is removed and Simon begins packing up the equipment, the many vials of blood he had collected looking wrong in the dim lights of the crypt. He makes a dismissive gesture and the Alchemist woman helps Sophia to her feet, staggering under her weight for a moment. Simon ignores them both as he goes to stand over the sick man, the inconsistent lighting provided by the electric bulbs painting his face with strange shadows, the only sounds the dying man’s wheezing and the faintest mumbling as Simon speaks. But Sophia isn’t afforded the opportunity to try and listen in, she is tugged up the stairs and eventually returned to her room, to wait until Simon once again wants her.

–

Despite the warm night Sophia tucks herself under a mountain of blankets, the extra warmth and weight comforting after days filled with discomfort. She wonders if this is what caterpillars feel like, snug in their cocoons before they lose themselves completely to their new forms. Blearily, she rolls over, patting the space next to her but, as usual, Giangio is missing. In her exhausted, sleep-addled brain, this is just as disappointing as it was yesterday. It was hard work to try and get him to stay the night, even if they had had sex, and even if she was able to convince him to share her bed after the act he was always frustratingly missing in the morning. Sometimes he was only in the other room, starily broodily at the paper butterflies she’d managed to arrange along the mantelpiece, more often than not he’d returned to his own room in the distant Hollow Tower. There’s a muffled sound of a door opening in the other room, followed by footsteps, so he’s probably in the other room.

Sophia rolls over, intent to just go back to sleep since the sun is just barely peeking through the curtains and Simon isn’t due to torture her for another two days at least , but there is a sudden bang and the sound of raised voices. Giangio’s and… Adriana’s.

With aching limbs, Sophia scrambles to prop herself up, snagging her nightgown from where it had been thrown and shoving it over her head so she’s at least partially decent, before scanning the room for her drawers. On the other side, flung near the door. Maybe if she’s quick-

Pounding footsteps approach and instead Sophia clumsily lunges for her coat, throwing the blue wool over her shoulders and barely managing to stay upright as the door opens with a crash, Adriana’s pale form sweeping through like an angry ghost. As Sophia cringes away, half perched on the edge of the bed, Adriana’s gaze flicks about the room, settling on the underwear on the floor, the tangled sheets, the hickeys Sophia had insisted upon blooming up her neck. 

“No better than a common whore ,” she hisses. 

Behind her, Giangio appears in the doorway, shirt half open and feet bare, hair tangled in its braid, looking angry. 

“She’s not ready,” he insists. “Surely Simon knows-“

“Sir Manus has decreed the tests continue. Those who do not try are not rewarded pharmacist.” Adriana spits it like a dirty word. 

“It’s only been a day,” Sophia tries to say, but her voice is tiny, barely a squeak. Adriana hears her regardless. 

“And you will be tested. This is not a discussion, slut .” Adriana grabs her hand and pulls Sophia from the bed. 

Giangio grabs for her and Sophia finds herself stuck in a momentary tug of war until Adriana lets go, turning with her face twisted in a sneer. Sophia sags against Giangio. 

“You’re hurting her,” he says. 

Adriana scoffs, as if that were the point. 

“Let her dress, at least,” Giangio says, trying to be diplomatic. “Come on.”

He begins leading Sophia back into the bedroom carefully, watching Adriana as he does, but she seems to be feeling generous at the moment. She crosses her arms and turns around just as Giangio closes the door behind them. He lets out an explosive breath. 

“You can’t let me go,” Sophia whispers. “Please, Simon will hurt me again, I know it.”

“I-“

Even though he keeps holding on to her, Giangio refuses to meet her eyes, instead staring a hole into the wall just above her bed. He’s very tense around her. 

“Please,” she whispers again. 

“I can’t stop her,” Giangio says. “I’m sorry.”

She remembers how Adriana had thrown him to the floor as if he were nothing, the way he had wheezed defiantly under her knee. Sophia buries her face into his chest and tries not to cry.  

He helps her dress quickly, Adriana’s clomping footsteps as she paces like a ticking clock counting down their time together. Once dressed, Giangio helps her rise again and escorts her from the room, where Adriana has finally stopped her pacing and is now staring at the door like it will make them move faster. Her scowl deepens somehow.

“Hurry up,” she snaps.

Adriana grabs Sophia’s arm and drags her from the room, Sophia having only the barest chance to look back at Giangio standing in the doorway. He looks worried, porcelain skin heavily creased by the frown marring his brow.

I’ll see you- he begins to mouth but Sophia is yanked around the corner, cutting off his message.

She wishes he would come too. She’s glad he doesn’t.

Adriana pulls her down the main laboratory rather than the private room that Simon has been preferring recently. The change in space to somewhere more public sets Sophia on edge- as much as she hates being alone with Simon, being somewhere people could see her be hurt and humiliated, again, is just as bad. She’d much rather be spending the day sleeping. At least the laboratory is mostly empty, Simon is standing by his desk speaking quietly to a man with horribly mangled hands and tiny glasses perched atop a bulbous nose as he checks the bindings on a padded chair. Simon looks over as the two of them enter, pursing his lips.

“Thank you Adriana, that will be all.”

Adriana bows stiffly and strides out of the room, closing the door with a loud click , leaving Sophia standing in front of Simon as he frowns down at her.

“You disappoint me,” he finally says. “I have given you a gift and you squandered it, potentially setting us back weeks. There is much to be done, and I cannot allow delays of this length. So-”

The Alchemist steps forward and wraps a meaty hand around Sophia’s bicep, the scarring on his hands doing little to reduce his strong grip on her arm. He drags her to the chair and forces her to sit, beginning to buckle restraints around her arms, the plush padding of the seat doing little to alleviate the discomfort. Somehow, this is worse. Simon had never restrained her during their sessions, the threat of his violence always keeping her in place, but she could still flinch away from the hits, cringe and protect herself to a degree whenever he decided to inflict pain upon her body. As Sophia struggles against the bonds, Simon stepping forward now to press his hands against her shoulders to keep her from thrashing too much against rapidly tightening restraints, she realises there would be no defending herself. Simon could hit her, burn her, electrocute her as much as he wanted and she had no escape. The realisation makes her go limp, the desire to drift away strong until the hands migrate from her shoulders to her throat, the pressure enough to make Sophia immediately try to jerk away. Simon is very close to her now, Sophia able to see every pore and hair follicle on his face, the dry cracking skin on his lips as a moist tongue flicks out to wet them. He smells like smoke and something overwhelmingly bitter and sweet at the same time, and she’s almost certain he’s going to kiss her again, shove his tongue in her mouth and invade her lungs with his breath, but Simon pulls away as the other Alchemist winds the final strap of leather around her forehead, firmly binding her to the headrest.

“So, we must begin again.”

Simon turns to his desk, barely within Sophia’s peripheral vision, and pulls out a syringe filled with bright blue Ergo.

“An injection once a week takes too long,” he explains. “And your Ergo levels were greatly reduced by yesterday’s test. So we will not waste our time with one syringe at a time.”

Simon lowers the syringe and instead raises an empty glass container that he attaches to an IV pole. From there he wheels it to Sophia’s shoulder, just out of sight, and begins uncoiling a length of tubing that he attaches to the container and leaves free hanging. With that prepared, he then takes a fine needle, holding it over the delicate skin and veins of her hand as Sophia tries not to tremble, having to shut her eyes as he selects a vein and inserts it without warning. Her hands flex, jostling the needle now inserted in her skin but Simon winds a length of gauze around it before then attaching the tubing to it. IV now properly prepared, Simon moves back into her line of sight, looming over her.

“You will spend today restoring your Ergo,” Simon explains. “All of it, for as long as it takes. And then we will continue where we left off.” He gives her a pleasant smile, as if they had simply had a meeting interrupted by a minor inconvenience. 

The Alchemist returns, carrying with him a large bottle of dark glass and stoppered with a waxed cork. Once removed, the room is filled with the lightning sweet smell of Ergo and Sophia immediately jerks and struggles as much as she can against her binds, her limbs still weak and sluggish, but the Alchemist ignores her and strides over to the empty IV container. She can’t see him so she looks at Simon instead.

“Please, please don’t,” she begs. “It will be too much-”

“This is exactly as much as you’ve already taken my dear,” Simon says. “And a little more because I want you as strong as you can possibly be.”

The liquid burns as it slides through her veins, coiling and curling around the bones and muscles of her arms and into her heart. She can feel it, flooding every part of her body with dark and cold, tears streaming down her cheeks as she whines. She can’t escape it, the bindings too strong for her shaking, and as she tries to disappear, to allow the swell of the ocean to take her far away Simon places his hand around her throat and squeezes.

“You will stay here,” he says in a low voice. “For as long as it takes.”

Time stretches on immeasurably. The waxing day brings Alchemists into the laboratory to pursue their research, Sophia too incoherent from fear and pain to pay any attention to what they are doing. Some of them approach her, having brief conversations with Simon before inspecting her. They run their hands over her skin, shifting her head from side to side as much as it will move, shine lights in her eyes or stick their fingers in her mouth. Whenever Sophia drifts, barely tangible visits to the seaside, Simon places his hands around her neck and squeezes until saliva dribbles from her mouth, every extremity feeling like a balloon about to burst under the pressure. When the container of Ergo runs dry, Sophia can feel it, the rushing cold no longer filling her veins. It’s midmorning, and she jerks her head, trying to get Simon’s attention. She’s done, she’s been so good, eaten her fill, she couldn’t possibly have another bite-

He’s been sitting at his desk, filling out paperwork and he just smiles indulgently when he finally realises.

“Bruskin,” Simon calls, and when the Alchemist approaches with another bottle of Ergo, Sophia begins crying again.

A second, a third, a fourth, more and more Ergo flooding her veins until surely her blood is more blue than red. She can’t think, can’t concentrate, and when she is given a break in the middle of the day to relieve herself she spends her thirty minutes throwing up blue tinged bile instead. She can barely walk back to the seat, but it doesn’t stop there. More and more, losing count as she begins to drift in and out of consciousness. Even Simon’s choking grip can’t bring her back anymore, too inured to the pain to even register it anymore.

The water is around her shoulders now, feet barely touching the sandy ground as she treads the icy water. She could swim back to Krat, she thinks.

“You keep fading out,” Giangio calls to her.

He never enters the water so Sophia turns around and swims back, struggling out of the foam as not quite real fabric weighs her down. She’s not sure why this feels so real when her body isn’t even here to properly experience it.

“Simon keeps bringing me back,” she tells him.

Giangio steps forward and takes her hand, helping Sophia through the last few steps of the water, a deep frown on his face.

“You’ve been there for a while,” he says. “What’s happening?”

“You could just come help me,” Sophia snaps, immediately cringing at her harsh tone. “Sorry.”

Giangio scrutinises her face, using one hand to rub her arm while the other moves errant strands of hair away from her face.

“It doesn’t-”

“Her Ergo levels are quite high,” the other Alchemist is saying. He looks to Sophia and then back to Simon. “Are you sure?”

Simon shuffles a sheet of paper on his desk and shows it to the man. The lights seem dimmer, Sophia notes, her vision still crusted and blurry from passing out. She assumes she’d passed out anyway. At least there’s no Ergo in the IV at the moment, the flooding pain in her veins having abated, but the Alchemist has a fresh bottle of Ergo sitting on Simon’s desk that he’s toying with the cork of. He looks to Sophia quickly again.

“If that is the case…”

He uncorks the bottle and he shuffles over to the container, the splash and gurgle of liquid filling it barely loud enough over her renewed sobs.

“Please Simon…”

“Ah, you’re awake.” Simon stands and positions himself in front of her, hands clasped behind his back like he’s about to give a lecture. “I will forgive your lapse this time. You have been sleeping, and I know how beneficial rest can be for the body.”

Sophia doesn’t feel like she’s been sleeping but she doesn’t want to dispute him on that.

“Please,” she begs instead. “I can’t take any more.”

“Oh, but I believe you can,” Simon replies. “Your levels are higher than we’ve ever seen! And all you do is absorb more and more! Truly, exciting.”

He leans forward now.

“But I want to see how much you can truly take,” he continues. “And when I am finished, perhaps then you will be ready.”

The pain is familiar but that doesn’t make it any easier. Sophia whines as Ergo once again floods her body, hot and cold all at once, limbs feeling dead and stiff in their bindings. Simon only smiles, reaching forward to brush errant strands of hair from her sweaty brow.

“Divine,” he murmurs.

—

The sky is a divine patchwork of stars, each one a glimmering bead against silky darkness. As Sophia floats, buoyed only by icy waves, she wonders if they look down upon her. 

—

Romeo sleeps in his apartment, long legs trailing off the couch as he snores through his alcohol induced dreams. Sophia brushes the hair off his face, taking in scruff on his cheeks and the sallow caste to his skin, the trail of vomit that dribbles from his mouth. With some difficulty, she pushes him onto his side and the bubbling breaths erupting from his throat suddenly clear and he snorts, waking only enough to wipe his mouth and roll onto his front. Good enough. 

“I’m coming my dear,” she whispers. “I promise.”

—

The stars blink lazily at her, the curve of a smile cutting through the inky blackness. 

Little Princess , they whisper. 

—

A man sits at his desk, deep bags weighing down an already sagging face. In his hands he prods at a mechanical joint with a screwdriver, muttering as he does. 

“It should be…”

Something gives a metallic snap and he grunts in frustration, throwing the screwdriver onto the desk with a clunk. He stares into the distance, looking through Sophia as he ponders. After a moment he shakes his head and leans over to grab something from a drawer, starting his work again. 

“You should rest,” Sophia tells him. “This won’t bring Carlo back.”

Giuseppe Geppetto doesn’t respond, he can’t hear her, and Sophia shakes her head sadly. She places a hand on his shoulder, touch featherlight. 

“This is what drove Carlo away in the first place,” she murmurs. “I’m sorry you don’t know how to change.”

—

Little Princess.

A hand reaches down, a thousand hands touching and caressing, holding gently, holding firmly. She reaches her hand out, fingers splayed like branches. 

—

A man sits at a typewriter, cigarette between his fingers like a pointer as he gesticulates for emphasis. 

“So, just get her out now,” he says. “I don’t understand your dilemma.”

The other man in the room rubs at his eyes and lets out an explosive breath. 

“I’m worried I don’t have enough evidence,” he says. “If we rescue her now, I can’t go back. Simon will know.”

“Well Jun, I can’t tell you if you’ve got enough evidence,” the man at the typewriter says. “You won’t show me what you’ve got.”

“I haven’t gotten them developed,” he replies snippily. 

Jun, the Stalker from earlier. Who are they rescuing? Is it her? Is he the ally Giangio won’t tell her about?

Sophia steps out of the corner as Jun begins to grumble and pace, his heavy boots walking a well worn path in the carpet. The other man brings his cigarette to his mouth and inhales deeply, holding the smoke before puffing out three perfect rings, watching them dissipate with a weary air. Sophia skirts around his shoulder and bends down to read the title of his work. 

CORRUPTION IN KRAT , EXCLUSIVE EVIDENCE.

As she begins to read, the man flinches away from her, frowning deeply as he watches the way her lips move silently as she reads. Jun stops his pacing and frowns also. 

“ What’s wrong?”

“Well it’s the strangest thing,” the man says. “But I could have sworn I was being watched.”

—

Fingertips almost touch but something grabs her around the middle and yanks her down, sea foam filling her lungs. Further and further, until not even the pale light of the moon is visible, until her chest burns from lack of oxygen and her head feels like it will crumple in on itself with the pressure. The thing holding her is a dark shape, binding her hands and legs together as it finally wheels around to face her. 

—

She stands in Simon’s office. 

Simon rises to his feet, looking just as startled to see her as she is to see him, and she backs up against the door as he approaches. He strides quickly to her, bracketing her body with his as she struggles for the handle, fingers slipping against the polished brass. 

“You are…” He strokes his fingers down her cheek, using a knuckle to raise her chin. “I had not realised.”

“Get off me,” Sophia spits. 

Simon backs away slightly, but his hand stays raised, mimicking the shape of her face. He looks sad, a grief overtaking his features in a way Sophia hadn’t realised would make him look so vulnerable. 

“You look like your mother,” he says softly. “She would have been divine too, if Valentinus hadn’t stepped in.”

“My mother is dead,” Sophia says bluntly. “And the way it’s going, so will I.”

“I know.”

He finally backs away completely, hand dropping to his side. He refuses to meet her eyes. 

“I’m sorry.”

—

“Don’t leave me,” the shape begs.

She couldn’t if she tried, her bindings too tight as the thing begins to circle around her. She recognises it, she thinks.

—

She’s in her room. Her tower cell, standing by the fireplace as Giangio paces back and forth. His bag is open, jars, bottles and medical equipment strewn across almost every surface. He talks to himself as he paces, frantic muttering as he wipes a hand across his brow, leaving blue streaks in its wake. 

“There must be something else you can try,” he mumbles. “Give her the last one? Completely undiluted… and with Simon’s…”

He spins on his heel, staggering to a halt when he notices Sophia standing there watching him. His mouth gapes for a second before he rushes forward, grabbing her shoulders, her cheeks, pulling her close like she’s about to drift away. 

“Is this real?” She whispers. “I can’t tell.”

“It’s real,” he whispers back. “It’s real to me.”

—

“I can’t let you go,” the shape says.

“You have to,” she tells it.

Something tugs at her, something far bigger and greater than the shape and it loses its grip. It shrieks the sound fading into the endless tone of a high clear crystal but Sophia lets herself be taken, too exhausted to have much opinion on who wants her. The sea, the stars, it doesn’t matter. All she wants is to sleep.

Whatever takes her is gentle with its grip, cradling her in its embrace, lulling her to that oblivion she so wants. Things flash before her, lights, sounds, smells, all strange and confusing visions.

Romeo, with his hair like a halo about his head, a pillow placed on his face.

Geppetto, standing over a half completed puppet, head curled in its lap as he cries.

Jun, placing a dog’s head over his like a mask.

Simon, kneeling in front of a bed, while a restless shape moans through its sleep.

And then-

Romeo, clad in armour of gold and silver, standing amidst the wreckage of a building, blade clutched in his hand, horror leaving his mouth agape-

Geppetto, kissing the puppet’s cheek, promising to return soon, to just be patient for your father- why does it look like Carlo?

Jun, removing his mask, face flushed and feverish as he pulls out his little journal, pain from his leg arcing through his body, beginning to write one last entry-

Simon, standing in front of a strange Arm, tendrils of flesh waving in the air as a man with a contraption filled with blue fluid strapped to his back helps Simon undress, before marking a stark black line on his bicep. Simon turns to climb on an operating table but stops, expression growing soft when he sees her.

“Sophia,” he whispers. “You’re-“

—

Sophia wakes in a bubble, everything bright and fuzzy between her lashes. There is pain in her stomach, back and hips, but the sensation is muted, like a needle into thick gloves. She shifts her head to the side, following the trailing IV line to the container next to her head. The liquid is clear.

She turns her head again, fuzziness clearing as she settles her gaze on Giangio, sitting in the chair next to her bed. He’s watching her closely, expression intense before he catches her eye and it softens.

“Hi,” she murmurs. Her throat is dry and scratchy.

“Hi.”

He stands, joints making loud cracking noises as he stretches briefly before he goes to her bedside table, pouring water from a pitcher into a glass and holding it out for her. Sophia reaches shaky hands forward to take it but Giangio doesn’t let go, instead raising it to her lips so she can drink.

“Easy now,” he murmurs. “Sips.”

She sips at the glass, wetting her parched tongue until he draws the glass away.

“What happened?” She asks. “I don’t… I don’t really remember much.”

Giangio’s brow pinches inwards and he turns away, setting the glass down. He looks haggard, deep bags under his eyes from lack of sleep, cheeks hollow from not eating. Sophia is struck by how old he looks despite his unlined visage. He sits on the edge of her bed and takes her free hand, rubbing his smooth fingers over her knuckles.

“Simon had you on an Ergo drip, do you remember that?”

“I remember.” As much as she’d prefer not to. “For most of the day.”

“Simon left you there,” Giangio spits. “I hadn’t realised how bad it was, I didn’t get you until nearly midnight.”

“Oh.” Sophia nods and tries to shift to make herself feel more comfortable. Her legs feel like dead weight. “What time is it now?”

He lets out a heavy sigh.

“Sophia, it’s been three weeks.”

“Oh.” Her voice is tiny.

“Sophia I’m-“

“Don’t say you’re sorry Giangio,” Sophia says tiredly. “Do not apologise on behalf of that monster.”

She lets herself lean back on the pillows, closing her eyes briefly. Her memories are jumbled together, things that could have been real indistinguishable from those that aren’t. How much was a dream? She can’t tell. It probably doesn’t matter. She opens her eyes again and looks at Giangio again.

“Can you help me up?”

He helps proper her up fully but when she tries to swing her legs out from under the covers she finds them stiff and unresponsive. She goes to remove the covers but Giangio takes her hand, stopping her from sweeping them aside.

“Let me look,” Sophia says.

He shakes his head.

“While you slept,” Giangio explains. “Your Ergo grew. Too big, too fast.” He holds his free hand up, using his fingers to demonstrate something roughly the size of a small chicken’s egg before letting go of her hand and using both of his to show her something close to the size of a football. “We had to remove it. Well, as much as we could.”

Sophia holds her hand over her stomach, the light pressure making the dull ache flare.

“We?”

“I needed Simon’s help,” he admits. “He has staff, resources, things I can’t do on my own. You… You lost a lot.”

He swallows and reaches to take the hand she has pressed to her stomach.

“And there’s also… your legs. They, um. They’re Petrified.”

Sophia stares at her legs, currently covered by blankets. She imagines them, pale skin with a light dusting of hair over the surface, the one toe that had always sat abnormally long compared to the others. She tries wiggling them but nothing happens and she feels something like muted fear sitting in her throat.

“I want to see,” she says, trying to keep her voice steady.

Giangio purses his lips but gets off the edge of the bed, carefully pulling the blankets away. At some point she’d been dressed in her nightgown, the stark white cotton stained slightly blue around her midsection. He lifts the hem to her knees, revealing the dark scales of Petrification covering her calves. It’s strange really, her left foot has kept most of its definition, all five toes intact, with cracks of blue and grey flesh winding their way up to her knee while her right foot almost resembles a mannequin’s, only the barest outline of toes under slick black stone. She tries to move them again, bend her knee, her ankle, flex her feet, but they stay stubbornly still, almost as if they aren’t hers anymore. Sophia sniffs, suddenly aware of the tears leaking down her cheeks as she reaches forward to touch the craggy surface.

“I can’t feel anything,” she whispers, throat thick with her tears. “Giangio-“

Sophia grabs for him, pulling him down to her level so she can cry into his chest. Everything hurts, except no longer everything because her legs, which have been giving her so much trouble for so long, are now no longer hers to feel the pain of. She’ll never walk again and her escape, once so close, feels so far out of reach. Giangio hushes her, running soothing fingers through her hair and down her back.

“It will be ok,” he murmurs. “I promise.”

She wants to believe him. But for once, she has to agree with Simon. Giangio is lying to her.

Chapter Text

Giangio is sure she’s dead when he finally finds her, strapped in place to a padded chair in a darkened lab, but when she lets out a rattling breath he almost cries then and there. He rushes to her, hands shaking as he yanks on sturdy leather straps, almost forgetting the needle still in her hand when he goes to lift her. The container is empty, the glass and tubing stained blue, but the bottles across Simon’s desk tell a damning story.

“I should have come sooner,” he mutters, carefully removing the needle in her hand. He has no clean bandages so he uses the length of gauze that had been keeping it in place, rewrapping the wound with a cleaner section.

Sophia is in a bad state but he’s not going to know the extent of the damage until he examines her properly, so he needs to get her somewhere better than a padded chair and a cold laboratory. The fact that Simon had left her? Far more callous and cruel than Giangio was expecting, even from him. Her head lolls now that it has been freed of its binds, dipping into her chest for a moment before Giangio has to raise her chin when he hears her breathing cut out. Blue fluid dribbles from her mouth, bubbling at the corners of her lips, and stains what had been a crisp white blouse. When he lifts her, holding her upright as he decides the best way to carry her, she moans softly. He can feel a hard lump in her stomach, the small Ergo crystal now a massive growth that distends her skin. He needs to be careful, lest the crystal have any spiked protrusions on it pierce her delicate skin. He settles for shifting her into a bridal carry, adjusting her as carefully as possible before he leaves the labs, walking the distance as quickly as he can.

He doesn’t bother with the lights when he gets back to her room, almost tripping over the furniture as he bulldogs his way over to her room and carefully sets her on the bed, propping her up slightly with pillows. At some point in the rush back she’d throw up on herself, more blue fluid staining her blouse and skin, and she’s started shivering, from cold or from muscle cramps he’s not sure. Giangio settles a light blanket over her and grabs a towel and washcloth from the bathroom, dampening the latter so he can start cleaning her up. From there it’s a slow careful process, wiping the blue from her face and neck, stripping off her blouse and tossing it aside so he can wipe down her torso, slick with sweat and bile. He ties her hair out of the way, the vibrant auburn strands brittle between his fingers and inexplicably shot through with a blue not unlike his own. Her skin is pale, almost grey and her veins are a corded, vibrant blue up her arm and spider webbing out from her heart. When he removes her skirt Giangio has to stop and step out of the room, weeks long fear and frustration finally bubbling to the surface. Her feet, skin pallid and grey like the rest of her, are covered in bright blue pustules, her right so badly swollen that saying she still has toes would be considered generous. The pustules don’t extend very far, mostly covering the ball of her foot and her toes, but patches of skin have already gone dark with Petrification. When he tries to move her ankle, to see how bad it might be beneath the surface, Sophia lets out a gurgling cry of pain.

He covers her legs with blankets and turns his attention to her stomach. The skin is swollen and stretched taut over jutting protrusions, her Ergo threatening to pierce the skin at any moment. When he presses gently, getting an idea for exactly how big it is now, she twitches and shakes, blue bile bubbling from her lips and forcing him to roll Sophia onto her side so she doesn’t choke.

Giangio has no idea what to do, Paracelsus has no idea what to do. He’s never seen an Ergo crystal this big beneath still living flesh and he has no idea what such a rapid influx of Ergo could have done to the rest of her body. Anxiety makes his muscles move, covering Sophia to keep her warm before he exits the room, scattering his bag about the room as he tries to figure out what to do. He has medicine to ease her pain, medicine to reduce any swelling, medicine to keep her calm and docile. But nothing that could reduce the size of an Ergo crystal, to reverse the Petrification and pustules climbing her legs. His miracle ointment, of which there is barely any left, would be of no use here. Perhaps it would remove some of the pustules, rejuvenate some of the Petrification, but it won’t deal with the crystal. He runs a hand across his face, barely registering the way it smears across his brow. 

“There must be something else you can try,” Giangio mumbles. He has one Gold Coin Fruit left, dried and hanging around his neck like a pendant. “Give her the last one? Completely undiluted… and with Simon’s…” 

He’s never used the Fruit without a delivery medium, in this case the ointment. It made the Fruit go further, but it also diluted its potency. He’s reluctant to try the full power of it on her, especially when she’s in such a vulnerable state. He also doesn’t like the idea of using it while Sophia exists in a state that serves Simon more than it serves herself. He worries that, like the Arm, it could somehow sense Simon’s unconscious desires and grant those rather than heal her. Ergo, despite its immense power and varied application, is far too finicky for such fine work.

He spins on his heel, intending to keep pacing until some kind of solution presents itself but staggers to a stop when he sees Sophia standing by the fireplace, watching him. Her form has that incorporealness it has on the beach, flickering slightly around the edges. She looks beautiful like this, an inner light casting the barest glow and making her look like divinity made flesh. Now, her expression is slightly vacant, like she’s not entirely there, even by her own standards. Giangio rushes forward and grabs her shoulders, her cheeks, before pulling her in close, trying to keep her anchored to him as she’s liable to drift away at any moment. 

“Is this real?” She whispers. “I can’t tell.”

He runs fingers through her hair, still that beautiful auburn, as it cascades down her back. Even as he holds her he can feel her fading until he’s only grasping at the air.

“It’s real,” he whispers back. “It’s real to me.”

—

Simon arrives in the early morning, sweeping through and regarding Giangio with a stern expression on his face. Giangio, having paced until he could no longer walk, is slumped in one of the armchairs desperately wishing he had a bottle of alcohol so he could drink himself into a stupor. He lets images of violence flash through his mind, of Paracelsus ripping Simon limb from limb, of dissecting him while still awake, of simply wrapping his hands around Simon’s throat and squeezing until his neck cracked . Simon’s frown deepens.

“I don’t like this any better than you,” he says, breaking the tense silence.

“Why? Because your pet project will actually die now?” Paracelsus scoffs. “That intangible concept of evolution deludes you no longer I see.”

“She will not die,” Simon spits. “Get up. Show me how she is.”

With an exaggerated sigh, Paracelsus pushes himself out of the chair and leads Simon over to the closed door of Sophia’s bedroom. 

Sophia is no better eight hours later, but at least she is no worse. That cold rot smell permeates the room, making Simon wrinkle his nose with distaste, and the air feels moist and warm from a lack of airflow. Paracelsus takes a damp cloth, folding it to a section not stained blue, and wipes it across her brow and mouth before sitting on the edge of the bed, picking at her limp fingers while Simon takes in the sight. 

“I see,” he finally says. “What can you tell me about her state?”

Paracelsus gives Simon a hard look, grinding his teeth together from the ease with which Simon takes control of the situation. He’s almost tempted to force Simon to do his own examination rather than benefit from the work he’s already done, but Paracelsus stops himself. He’s entirely out of ideas to help Sophia more than he already has, so getting Simon’s help is by far his last option, but he’s at his limit. He’ll withhold any information he needs to, of course, but he’ll play along for the time being.

“Bad,” he finally says. “Her Ergo has grown exponentially and she’s begun Petrification. At this rate, she won’t last for her so-called “evolution”, she’ll barely last the week.”

Simon frowns down at Sophia’s prone form, eyes flicking about as he thinks. 

“Sophia is strong,” he says. “She will survive.”

Paracelsus lets out an exasperated sigh. Simon has been insistent that Sophia would survive until he deemed her ready, but gave no explanation for why he had so much faith.

“This does not set us back,” Simon continues. “If anything, this is only the start. If we act quickly-”

“You aren’t seriously considering giving her the blood, are you?” Paracelsus demands. “You’ll kill her.”

“You have very little faith, Giangio,” Simon replies.

“There’s having faith and there’s being realistic,” he counters. “Simon, the Arm operates off Ergo and wishes. There’s probably enough Ergo here to give you whatever wish you want, but that much power would completely drain her. You want evolution. Sophia will give that to you but she won’t survive the process. You want her to survive, I know you do.”

Somehow, Simon’s frown deepens as he takes in Paracelsus’ argument. Paracelsus knows that he holds his plans for evolution high enough above everything else, but he always talks about it in terms of bringing Sophia with him. He might be willing to hurt her to get what he wants, but would he sacrifice her completely?

“I have noticed,” Simon begins slowly. “That on the occasions when Sophia had the opportunity to use the blood, it greatly reduced her Ergo levels.”

“It’s feeding off it,” Paracelsus replies. “Sophia makes a wish, or you force one on her, and it takes whatever energy she has collected. It’s why people don’t just use the Arm by themselves. They’re not like Sophia, able to restore their Ergo and increase it. They just kill themselves in the process.”

Simon considers for another moment, heading tilting as he watches her breathe. Fluid bubbles from her mouth, air wheezing through her lips, so Paracelsus reaches forward and dabs it away before carefully rolling her onto her side. Her wheezing dies down and she twitches under his touch, seeming to settle.

“It could help,” Simon says, a rare moment of uncertainty pitching his voice slightly up. “Sophia makes a wish, as you say, and it uses the Ergo crystal within her body to power it. It would reduce the size of it, yes?”

“Just as much as it could kill her altogether.”

“But it could work,” Simon counters. 

“The risk is too great!” Paracelsus looks at him aghast. “You’d really risk it?”

Simon gives him a measured look, setting his posture squarely. Whatever uncertainty he’d had only a moment ago has vanished, leaving only that sure arrogance he wears as easily as his suits. He extends a hand, almost like an invitation, which Paracelsus regards warily. 

“If I order it, then it will be done,” Simon says simply. “Do remember what I do to traitors.”

The execution had been almost a year ago, and it had deterred all thoughts of dissent from the remaining Alchemists. Only the truly loyal, or truly stupid remained. 

“You couldn’t kill me if you tried Simon,” Paracelsus spits. “You won’t use the blood on her. I won’t let you. Not while there’s still other options.”

Simon quirks an eyebrow, amused. 

“Well we’ll see about that, won’t we?”

—

Sophia’s condition only gets worse over the next few days. Unable to sleep, Giangio spends his every hour attending her, setting up an IV for fluid and nutrients, keeping her clean and free of bedsores and making sure she stays warm. He marks the line of the pustules and Petrification, to keep an eye on its progression, but is horrified to discover it growing far faster than expected. By the third day it has already entirely encompassed her feet, fusing the toes of her right foot together, and is now creeping up her calves. 

The crystal in her stomach also serves as cause for concern. With a typical Petrification patient, a crystal of this size was typically only present in those considered late stage, on death’s door. By that point they were mostly immobile. But Sophia could still move, and did so frequently. Plagued by dreams that made her cry and moan or spasming shakes that made her limbs flail about, the sharp protrusions Giangio could see distending the skin would be scraping against sensitive organs, putting her at risk of internal bleeding. And with the amount of Ergo in her system, and with the bile she would infrequently vomit up being stained blue, it was be difficult for him to tell how much of it her body purging excess Ergo, and how much of it was her coughing up Ergo corrupted fluids.

So Giangio attends her. He paces. He has no idea what to do.

Simon is right, once again.

Using blood from the Arm would, theoretically, use up any of the excess Ergo contributing to Sophia’s Petrification. If the wish were powerful enough, it might even take from the crystallised Ergo. But there was a risk. Simon wanted, more than anything, for the evolution of mankind, immortality. If he injected Sophia with the blood he could very well force his plans upon her, resulting in her death. Even Paracelsus administering it could inflict an unconscious desire upon her. But Giangio finds himself without any other solutions. He has no time to try and gain access to what he assumes is a Gold Coin Fruit Tree hidden on Hotel Krat’s grounds, no time to develop a cure, no time to find something else. So when Simon comes by Sophia’s room on the fifth day, Giangio puts his pride aside and asks for help.

“I want to save her,” Giangio says without preamble. 

Simon turns and tilts his head, waiting patiently for him to continue. Standing over Sophia the way he does he looks like a shadow of death, like the dark shape that Paracelsus so often takes on himself. His expression is neutral, no smug smile, no frown creasing his brow, but it still fills Giangio with anger. How can Simon be so passive and calm about such a decision? 

“I do not have the time or resources to develop a cure for her,” Giangio says, as if Simon needs to know his reasons. “If we administer the blood, and it works, then Sophia will have a chance at a cure. I will have the time I need to save her.”

Simon quirks an eyebrow at this.

“You really think you can save her?” He asks.

“I have to at least try,” Giangio insists. “You aren’t. The only thing you care about are your plans for evolution.”

Simon doesn’t respond, only shrugging slightly. He bends over and takes Sophia’s free hand, kissing it lightly before approaching Giangio, gesturing with his hand. Giangio steps out of the way, allowing Simon to walk through and then following behind him, shutting the door behind them. Simon stands by the coffee table, hands clasped loosely behind his back while Giangio stands opposite, arms crossed over his chest. Both regard each other somewhat warily.

“I will be able to provide a dose of the blood,” Simon says, breaking the silence. “It can be administered tomorrow in fact-”

“You are not giving her the blood,” Giangio says, cutting through his explanation.

“Someone has to give it to her.”

“ I’ll give it to her,” he replies firmly. 

Simon gives a slight chuckle and smirk.

“Jealousy is an ugly emotion,” he says, a taunting edge to his voice. “Surely you can share, especially after I’ve been so generous.”

Giangio feels the blood rush to his head, a dull roar filling his ears as he clenches his fists. Killing Simon now would be easy, taking everything he needed from the other man’s corpse to save his princess. What does he care, about Simon’s goals of evolution, of watching him blunder about trying to discover how to use the Arm? Rid yourself of the problem, Paracelsus, no one will miss him-

Simon takes an involuntary step back, frowning as he gleans Giangio’s surface thoughts of hate and violence. His past is paved with it, what’s a little more blood on his hands-

“You may administer the blood,” Simon says, cutting through his thoughts. He looks visibly taken aback as Giangio lets a smile with too many teeth stretch across his face. “I will bring the sample tomorrow, make any necessary preparations.”

“Good,” Giangio replies sharply. 

The dark pall that has settled over the room softens slightly as Simon turns away and Giangio lets his expression drop. Good, let him run, tail between his legs, from something far greater than him-

“What are you?” Simon asks. He stops with the door partially open, half out of the room with it held almost like a shield in front of him. 

“Scared, Simon Manus?” Paracelsus replies instead. “Not very like you.”

His jaw clenches, cheeks going slightly pink beneath the wiry black hair of his beard. Giangio just gives him that same smile, just this close to being something more dangerous than it actually was. Simon inhales sharply, expression twisting as he shakes his head slightly and quickly backs out of the room. The door slams behind him with a bang . 

“That was cruel,” Sophia’s ghost says. 

She flits as she pleases throughout the island, appearing and disappearing to those more intune with Ergo. On the beach like usual, but also in the labs, in darkened corridors, once in Simon’s office when Giangio had broken in to find out why exactly he had thought pumping Sophia full of Ergo had been a good idea. She was often forgetful and confused, and never stayed in one place for more than a few moments. 

Giangio only sighs at her comment, adrenaline high calming in her presence. Unfortunately, he did still need Simon. Syroy did still want him to use the Arm, and Giangio couldn’t deny his own curiosity on whether or not he’d manage to succeed.

“What time is it?” Sophia asks. She always asks for the time. 

Giangio checks his watch. 

“It’s eleven-thirty. Why do you ask?”

Sophia hums and holds a hand out to him, running a thumb down his cheek when he steps close enough. Like this, her touch is far colder and almost insubstantial, like the breeze pressing against his skin. 

“You haven’t eaten,” she says. 

He can’t remember the last time he ate. 

“I’m not hungry,” he tells her instead. 

“You should eat,” she insists. Sophia sighs when he shakes his head, mouth twisting into a wry smile. “Will you eat dinner with me later then? At least?”

He can’t deny her something so simple. And when he returns, hours later, he sits by her bedside and eats. The food is ash and rot in his mouth but he chokes it down anyway, while beside him Sophia wheezes through an uneasy sleep.

“It’s going to be ok,” he whispers.

–

Simon follows through on his word and returns the next day with a simple wooden case. Inside is the blood, dark and starry in the glass tube, the faintest scent of rot hanging like a cloud around it. Simon shows it to him before snapping the case shut.

“I will allow you to administer this to her,” Simon says sternly. “But understand this, should Sophia die, there will be consequences.”

Giangio snorts. 

Simon doesn’t give up the case, instead pushing past Giangio to Sophia’s room. She lies as she always has, on her back with the covers around her shoulders and slightly propped up by pillows, one arm above the covers to accommodate the spiralling IV line. Her brow is slick with sweat, loose strands of hair sticking to her damp skin. Giangio would need to brush and braid it again once this was done. Her breathing is no better than it was yesterday, wheezing through blue stained lips. 

Simon sets the case on the bedside table and moves around to the other side of the bed, watching Sophia with intensity, before reaching down and moving a strand of hair out of the way.

“She will be beautiful,” he murmurs.

Giangio sighs and takes his place on the other side. He opens the case and removes the syringe, holding it up to the light as he inspects it for a moment. It shimmers like stardust, swirling as he tilts it in the light. He thumbs the plunger just enough to make a drop form at the tip of the needle, thick and dark liquid and with an almost irresistible pull that has Giangio swiftly lowering the needle and reaching for Sophia’s arm, adjusting it to expose the crook of her elbow. Most of her veins are dark and corded but after careful consideration he’s able to find one he believes will be suitable. The needle slides in easily and Giangio pushes on the plunger, dark liquid slowly filling her veins. He thinks about the day he met Sophia, tired and sad, her smile and laugh as he got to know her, the way she whined and moaned at his ministrations, how she was all his-

Giangio retreats quickly, lest his desires get the better of him and watches with anxiety clutching at his throat for the worst to happen. Simon makes a huffing noise and crosses his arms, the only evidence of his own concerns. They stand there waiting patiently and, slowly, Sophia’s breathing eases, her wheezing turning into just the faintest puffs. Her pale skin seems to flush with colour, not becoming entirely healthy but no longer looking grey and dead. She shifts beneath the sheets, not with pain but more like normal sleep movements, settling into a comfortable position. Giangio exhales slowly while Simon steps forward, placing his hand on her brow. He frowns, while Giangio grabs his discarded stethoscope, pressing the disc to her chest to listen. Her heartbeat had been erratic, slow and steady most of the time before suddenly becoming a staccato pattern, before easing off again. Now it remains steady. Dipping down and to the side, Giangio now listens to her lungs, finding them now clear of any fluid that had been sitting on them. Simon looks at him expectantly, and rather than answer the wordless question, he simply passes the stethoscope over so the other man can listen. While Simon does that, Giangio pulls the covers aside and examines her stomach and legs. The Petrification and pustules have not changed, the damage having spread to just below the knee on both legs in the interim, but he was not expecting it to. The crystal in her stomach is what he is mostly interested in. Where the skin had once been pale and distended, stretched taut over spiked growths, it now sits smooth and flat. When Giangio palpates the area he still finds the crystal beneath, the surface area still rather large, but far smoother and rounder than it had been. He keeps a hand resting on her skin and finally allows himself to breathe. Simon looks at him expectantly again.

“It’s better,” Giangio says. “Far better.”

“And she has survived,” he rumbles. There’s a smug tilt to his growing smile.

“Yes, thank god.”

Paracelsus doesn’t like being wrong often, but he’ll allow it just this once.

“Well,” Simon says, straightening. He places a hand on Sophia’s stomach and lightly presses, also feeling the crystal. “This was a success then. More doses will be required of course, and additional Ergo to ensure her survival but-”

“You can’t be serious,” Giangio interrupts. “Simon-“

Sophia suddenly lets out a long, low moan and Simon snatches his hand away from her stomach as if burned. Where her breathing had been calm and soft, now it rattles dryly through her throat and when Giangio grabs for the stethoscope to listen, it rushes and wheezes around something in her lungs.  

“Something’s there,” he says, not because he cares about what Simon will do but because he is scared .

Giangio continues to listen as her breathing shortens, becoming dry and gasping, her mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. He holds her mouth open to try and see inside but she starts to thrash, making it difficult to keep his grip. 

“Hold her,” he growls at Simon, who looks about ready to protest but then quickly places his hands on her shoulders. 

“She was fine a moment ago,” Simon says. 

“And then you touched her,” Giangio snaps. He has no idea if this is because of Simon. Better to blame him anyway. 

Sophia still attempts to thrash about but with Simon hanging on carefully, Giangio is able to get a better look inside her gaping mouth. Her throat convulses and at first he thinks it may be swollen shut, but as the light hits it just right he finds that whatever sits in the way is not the pretty pink of her muscles but rather dark and blue. Carefully, because even though he’s fairly small his hands are far bigger than what’s needed, he manages to stick two fingers inside her mouth, attempting to use the tips to pull out the obstruction. Simon makes a noise of disgust as Sophia gags, half open eyes rolling back in their sockets, but Giangio hangs on tight, keeping her jaw firmly open. Teeth scrape against his skin as she attempts to close around him but he ignores it, blindly reaching, fingers slipping against the thing until-

Giangio withdraws his fingers, the abdomen of a large blue butterfly gripped between his fingers. The thing shuffles and shakes in his grip before he repositions, allowing it to perch on his fingers. Its wings are damp, as if it had just crawled out of its cocoon, and it fans them slowly. Sophia’s breathing calms as Simon releases his hands from Sophia’s shoulders. 

“That was…” Simon regards the butterfly warily. 

Giangio reaches for the stethoscope again and presses it against Sophia’s chest, listening carefully. There’s still that same rushing and wheezing, although currently not as bad. 

“There’s more,” Giangio says grimly. 

“How many?” Simon demands.

“I don’t know,” he admits. “Too many. I won’t know for certain unless…” He’s not going to suggest cutting Sophia open in case Simon decides it’s a good idea.  

“Can they be removed?”

“I don’t know.” Giangio moves the stethoscope down to her abdomen. Beneath the wet gurgling of her body is a dry rustling noise that makes him frown. “I think…” 

He moves the stethoscope back up to her chest, comparing the sounds. 

“Well?” 

“I don’t think it’s directly in her lungs,” Giangio says slowly. “It’s more in her abdominal cavity from the sounds of it.”

“That doesn’t explain how she coughed up… that ,” Simon says, pointing at the butterfly still perched on Giangio’s hand. It was being remarkably well behaved considering the amount Giangio was moving about.

He just shrugs at Simon’s exasperation.

“Who knows what the blood actually did to her,” Giangio says. “But this is… not good.”

As if on cue, Sophia begins to shudder and gasp again, her throat convulsing as another butterfly appears, this time crawling out of her mouth on its own. It rests on her lips fanning its wings of saliva and mucus while Sophia’s breathing calms once again.

“I will begin making preparations,” Simon says. “It is like those things are hatching from inside her. If there are more, which I do not doubt there are, then I want all of them removed and studied.”

Giangio purses his lips but doesn’t protest. Aside from needing any unhatched butterflies and empty cocoons removed, Giangio is desperately curious as to what the blood has actually done to her. What did she wish for that could have brought about such a strange phenomenon?

Simon looks down at Sophia, jaw set squarely as he watches her sleep. 

“I will return,” he finally says. “Keep her alive.”

Giangio can only nod as Simon turns on his heel and exits the room, the closing door a distant sound. 

Giangio raises the butterfly sitting on his finger, inspecting it closely. He’s no expert on bugs, but it seems fairly normal. Big and blue, and when he crushes it in his fist the yellow ichor that stains his hand is no different from any other insect he’s killed. He wipes hand on the blanket before running a knuckle down her jaw.

“Is this what you are?” He murmurs. “A butterfly, undergoing a metamorphosis?”

Sophia shudders slightly beneath his touch.

“You will be beautiful, if that is the case,” Giangio continues. “A beautiful specimen, one for study, display, for gentle delicate care.”

And all mine.

–

It takes Simon three days to make his preparations, during which more butterflies hatch from their cocoons. They litter her rooms, blue ones with wingspans bigger than his hands, tiny white ones no bigger than a coin, ones with wings shot through with orange, brown and yellow, or ones so transparent he can see right through them. Giangio doesn’t quite know what to do with them, he tries opening the windows and the door to let them out but they remain stubbornly in place, most barely bothering to move when he approaches. At least there are no further choking incidents, as while the butterflies crawling out of her mouth temporarily block her airways, no more get stuck. It doesn’t stop Giangio being constantly on edge, waiting for the worst, as they hatch at all hours of the day and night. 

He hasn’t had very much sleep lately, and it’s really starting to catch up with him.

Sophia’s ghost delights in them. While she had previously only spent brief periods of time in her room, either preferring to be elsewhere on the island or just simply not present, now she would spend quiet hours surrounded by the insects. She seems stronger, more lively. Unfortunately, she is far more distant, barely acknowledging Giangio when he tries to speak with her. As much as being ignored frustrates him, he hopes that this is a sign of some kind of recovery.

Simon comes at midday with a group of Alchemists with him, two carrying a stretcher and another three trailing behind. Sophia’s ghost, who has been entirely unresponsive to Giangio’s calls and lost in her own world while she stood with the butterflies, perks up at the opening door but quickly flinches and retreats to the opposite side of the room to stand and watch the group warily. While the Alchemists all troop past Giangio, currently sprawled in a chair folding and unfolding one of Sophia’s origami butterflies, Simon stops and stares at Sophia’s ghost with a troubled expression on his face. 

“I’m assuming you see her,” he says in lieu of a greeting.

“I do,” Giangio replies.

Sophia’s ghost flinches, her shoulders hunching up to her ears as she brings a knuckle to her mouth, before she flickers and disappears. Simon’s tongue flicks out and wets his lips, his frown somehow growing deeper.

“I wondered where she went,” he says softly.

“She normally goes down to the beach.” Giangio stands and stretches, back and knees audibly cracking before he goes to collect his medical supplies. Glass clinks as he takes bottles and jars and sets them neatly in his bag. “She likes the butterflies.”

Simon nods.

The Alchemists exit Sophia’s room with her body carried on the stretcher between them, the five of them walking quickly and carefully from the room. 

“We will be performing her surgery in the main suite,” Simon says, turning slightly away. “You are welcome to observe.”

“But not participate,” Giangio says with an arched eyebrow. 

“No,” Simon replies. “I will have no interruptions.”

He gives Giangio a look, as if daring him to argue, but he remains silent. Giangio understands that, on file at least, he wouldn’t be much use during surgery. He’s perfectly capable of performing such a simple procedure on his own if the situation had called for it, but he’ll allow Simon this small win. As much as they were at odds with each other, he needed the other man amenable for as long as possible.

Giangio follows Simon and the other Alchemists down to the main operating suite, a recently renovated room within the main building. Where it had once been a large stone room, one believed to have been used for meetings or prayer, now it has been tiled over, turning the room bright and chilly. In the centre is the main operating table, situated over a drain, while three tiers of stalls ring around the table and extend towards the back wall. Alchemists mill about as the group enters, Sophia being carried over to a small side door for what Giangio presumes is surgery prep, while Simon goes to speak with Bruskin, who hasn’t fully recovered the use of his hands but can still stand and order people around. 

Giangio finds a corner to hide himself in and watches the room. He doesn’t like that Simon is turning this into a demonstration for the other Alchemists, something they can gawk at like children. Maybe he should have argued for more involvement in this. As Giangio stands there, grinding his teeth and wringing the strap of his bag, Adriana walks up to him with a sour look on her face. 

“Come with me,” she orders. 

“I’m good thanks,” he replies. The spot he’s found is actually pretty good, with a clear enough view and close enough that he can approach without getting tangled on someone on his way over. 

“It’s not a request,” Adriana says sharply. 

Warily, Giangio follows Adriana as she leads him over to the stalls, now beginning to fill with Alchemists picking their positions, moving chairs about as they try to get the best spot for observation, pulling notebooks out to take notes once settled. Adriana grabs a chair and uses it almost like a battering ram to get through the milling people, plonking it down at the end of a row on the second level, gesturing sharply for him to sit.

“I think-” Giangio tries to protest but Adriana takes a step forward and grabs the front of his shirt, pulling him in close.

“Either you sit here,” she hisses. “Or you go. Your choice.”

She thrusts him away, causing him to stumble back into someone who seems to be trying very hard to look and if they’re not involved. Righting himself, Giangio sits, eyes flicking to where Adriana has set herself up like a guard. Simon clearly doesn’t trust him not to cause a scene, which makes him wonder whether Simon has something else planned. It worries him.

Giangio rubs his hands together and rests his chin on his fist, leaning forward as Simon finally walks over to the room off to the side and disappears. Bruskin starts calling for order and any straggling Alchemists finally take their seats as Simon walks back out, having removed his light overcoat and vest and is instead wearing a long white apron over his shirt. Behind him, attending Alchemists stand by, the three from earlier now also wearing their own aprons while Sophia is wheeled in on a covered gurney by the other two. Giangio can see that her hair has been neatly brushed and tied out of the way, while below the sheet he can just see a thin hospital gown covering her shoulders. A big blue butterfly fans its wings on her cheek, unbothered by the commotion.

“Settle! Settle everyone,” Simon calls.

The room immediately calms at their leader’s command, all leaning forward in attention. Next to him, Adriana goes rigid.

“Today we have the opportunity to see evolution in the making,” Simon starts. “For months we have toiled away, creating a vessel for our salvation. Sophia stands at the brink of her evolution, a shining example of what we can all become. A better humanity, something far greater. Unfortunately, as all humans are, she is flawed. That is why we, as Alchemists, must be humanity’s guiding hand, pioneers of a new future.”

As Simon speaks, Sophia is shifted from the gurney to the operating table and an IV pole is wheeled over, filled with dark blood. She is then strapped down with sturdy leather belts around arms, legs and across her torso and pelvis. Once secured, one of the assistants undoes the ties down the middle of her gown, exposing her stomach and sternum to the cold air, but keeping her privacy by positioning just so around her breasts and genitals. Instruments are laid out, scalpels, forceps, syringes, a specimen dish and even a wire box for what Giangio assumes will be any live insects that haven’t yet escaped her body. Something about this feels wrong but Giangio can’t quite tell what. 

“Witness,” Simon calls. “Evolution first hand.”

He turns and walks around the operating table so he stands behind Sophia but still faces the assembly. From there, he holds a hand out and one of the attending Alchemists hands him a scalpel, which he holds high overhead before bringing it down on Sophia’s stomach, soft flesh parting in one stroke. Skin, fat, muscle, all peeling away in an ooze of dark blood that seems to mix with pooling Ergo, red and blue swirling together like oil and water. An attendant steps forward with a gauze roll that he begins to use to mop up the fluids, while Simon stops his slicing and points to another attendant.

“Blood, for now.”

As the second Alchemist finally begins setting up the IV, the third and final attendant attaches a retractor to either side of the wound to keep it open. As Simon waits, Sophia lets out a high pitched moan, not waking but still attempting to thrash in her bonds.

“ Please!” Her voice cries, from everywhere and nowhere. “ It hurts!”

And that’s when it hits him.

Simon has only just now started providing her with a blood transfusion. But there’s no anaesthetic, no pain relief. Simon is cutting her open and she can feel everything.

Giangio attempts to stand and lurch forward but an Alchemist sits too close to him on one side, Adriana standing guard on the other. As he rises, Adriana grabs the back of his neck and slams him forward into the table, making his teeth almost bite clean through his tongue when his chin collides with the wooden surface. She leans over, breath puffing warm and wet in his ear.

“Watch, little pharmacist,” she hisses. “Or things will get worse for both of you.”

Giangio tries to push back against her hand but Adriana is a formidable woman, and much like the last time she held him down he struggles to move more than an inch in her grip. The man next to him shuffles his chair out of the way, very clearly wanting nothing to do with the situation.

Below, Simon now continues to cut, slicing deeper and deeper as Sophia moans and squirms. He is slow and methodical, narrating as he goes.

“And through, like this… And…”

With a flourish he lifts the bloody scalpel high overhead while the Alchemist finishes securing the bloody flaps of skin to the side. With the movement a rush of butterflies come forth, twenty or so, almost as if an iridescent cloud rising into the air. A few of the observing Alchemists shriek in surprise, especially when the butterflies deign to land on the observers, and one person faints. Simon just looks smug.

“As all are aware, Sophia has been receiving Ergo transfusions to pave the way for her evolution. In combination with the blood, Sophia has grown a swarm of butterflies within her, some have hatched as you just saw, some have not.” Simon holds his hand out again and he is handed a pair of forceps, which he brings down into the cavity. He pulls, grunting softly at the effort, and finally extracts a crystalline cocoon that he raises into the light. It glitters like an Ergo crystal, before he sets it into the specimen tray. 

“Evolution can be sculpted,” he continues. Simon reaches in once again and pulls out another cocoon, this one with a squirming butterfly half out of its crystalline prison. “This is not needed, but it lends promise to our work. So we remove all that is undesired, and start fresh.”

Simon picks through Sophia’s stomach cavity, removing butterflies and cocoons as he goes. Every moan and whine of pain sets Giangio on edge, fruitless attempts to break free forgotten as he can only watch Sophia endure. Instead, he tries to fill his thoughts with as much hate as possible, Simon on the table while Paracelsus stands above, running his hands over slick intestines as if trying to divine a future, of squeezing organs between his hands until they resemble a paste, of tugging lungs free and letting him drown in his own blood-

It takes too long for Simon to remove the insects from within Sophia as he keeps stopping to lecture the assembled, passing cocoons around for people to make notes and sketches of, taking samples of Sophia’s strange Ergo mixed blood and tissue. Up, towards her lungs he reaches, pulling dainty blue butterflies off her rib cage, but with the massive Ergo crystal crushing her organs he finds himself unable to remove anything that may have settled further down. 

“This is not something to worry about,” Simon says. He holds a hand out and one of the attending Alchemists hands him a small hammer and chisel. “We can simply… remove, the obstruction.”

“No!” Paracelsus yells. “Stop! You’ll-“

Adriana lifts him up by the shirt collar and slams him into the desk so hard he’s sure something would shatter if he weren’t so durable. As it is, the impact dazes him, cutting off his protests. 

Splitting Ergo wasn’t that simple. Ergo, with its propensity to seek itself and merge together, did not sit separately within its mass. Once absorbed by a living person it became that person’s Ergo, losing its distinction from whence it came. Like salt dissolved in water, creating that distinction again was not so easy. So when Ergo crystals were broken, it was pieces of a person’s soul being separated from a whole. Personality, memories, all lost. It was why puppets could not remember who they once were. 

Paracelsus can barely think over the rage filling his head, face pressed firmly into the desk to prevent him from moving. All he can hear, and barely so over the rushing in his ears, is the tink tink of the chisel on the Ergo crystal and the breathy moans of Sophia as she continues to suffer. There was no knowing what would happen to her if Simon removed part or all of the Ergo crystal within her stomach. Paracelsus tries to move again but Adriana’s grip is iron so he just allows himself to go limp. He can’t save her, not from this. All he’ll have is the aftermath, of which he finds himself desperately curious scared of. 

After a long time Adriana softens her grip, allowing Paracelsus to sit up enough to watch as Simon ceases his tapping and passes the tools to the side, now reaching down to pull out the Ergo crystal. Its large, and still mostly intact, the surface beautifully faceted. When Simon holds it up to the light it casts a spray of rainbows across the front row, making a few Alchemists “ ooh ” in appreciation. 

“In time,” Simon explains as he hands the chunk off to one of his attendants. “This will be returned to Sophia, when her evolution better suits the shape we require. Its removal allows us to check for further damage and remove any if need be.”

Simon holds his hand out and is given forceps so he can continue his examination of the cavity. 

“I can see here,” Simon continues. “That Petrification has begun within the abdominal cavity. While it is atypical for Petrification to take place on the organs at this stage, the size of the crystal makes me expect this result.” He hums for a moment, poking and prodding contemplatively. “It appears Petrification has started with her reproductive organs, they can be easily removed, but the spread to her lower intestine is a little more complicated.”

Simon seems to make a decision and nods to himself, murmuring to one of his attendants, who scurries off.

“We will begin by removing the Petrified flesh.”

And so the operation continues. 

Petrified flesh is carefully removed, held up to the light for all to see and then removed, Simon talking all the while. Alchemists nod, make appreciative noises, even call out questions that Simon answers with an indulgent smile. He calls a woman over and has her examine the cavity, has her feel the flesh, healthy and Petrified alike. It’s like a class Paracelsus attended once, where the professor had gleefully dissected a corpse for the attending students, explaining the best ways to do so on a live patient as he went. But this is no cadaver, and Sophia’s moans finally peter out to silence, exhaustion making her unconscious body finally grow slack. Paracelsus can only watch, pinned down like an insect as finally, finally, Simon finishes his poking and prodding, removing the last of the Petrified flesh and cocoons still present. Flesh is sewn together, small careful stitches through muscle and skin and then gauze is applied. The Alchemists, seeing the demonstration coming to an end, begin to grow restless but a firm look and raised hand has everyone settle in their seats. With the danger considered past, Adriana finally relinquishes her grip, allowing Giangio to sit entirely upright, knuckles white around the edge of the desk. He wants to go to Sophia, more than anything, but Simon’s dog still lingers too close. He finally clenches his fists and tries not to vibrate with anger and impatience. 

“Settle everyone,” Simon calls. “With such a positive outcome, Sophia will now go into recovery and will be barred from visitors. Samples will be available for study during lab sessions, please see Bruskin for any specific requests. And now…”

With a wave of his hand everyone is dismissed, the crowd erupting into whispered conversation. Giangio goes to stand but Adriana puts her hand on the back of his neck again, pushing just enough that he stays in his chair. 

“We can go,” he tells her. 

“You will stay here,” she replies. Adriana tracks Simon as he moves about, directing the Alchemists wheeling Sophia away and speaking to anyone with questions. 

“I can help her,” Giangio says. He can’t help the way his voice pitches up slightly into a pleading tone. 

“Your whore doesn’t need anymore help,” Adriana snaps, finally turning to look at him. “Be thankful that Sir Manus has allowed her to live, despite her uselessness.”

He snarls at her, ready to snap back but Simon finally approaches them, regarding Giangio coolly. 

“I believe I asked for no interruptions,” Simon says. 

“You wouldn’t have had any if you’d told me you were planning on removing Sophia’s Ergo,” Giangio snaps. “Do you have any idea-“

“There were no risks,” Simon cuts him off. “I spoke with her.”

“And did you tell her you weren’t going to give her any pain relief? Did you tell her she was going to experience every little slice through nerve and muscle and-“

“Enough.” Simon holds up a hand, cutting off Giangio’s angry rant. “Adriana, dear, please escort our little pharmacist back to his room. Lock the door, Sophia needs her time to recover and I don’t want him getting any ideas.”

Giangio bares his teeth as Adriana yanks him up by the arm and begins pulling him down the stairs and out of the room. By the door, he yanks away from her just enough to turn and face Simon, opening his mouth to yell something, a threat, a taunt, he’s not sure anymore as instead, at the back of the room, hidden in the corner of the stalls, stands Jun. He stands somewhat awkwardly by the far aisle, a deep frown marring his face, but then a brief sound rings out, barely heard over the fading voices as the final Alchemists stand about in conversation. 

A camera shutter. Click.

He then quickly shuffles about and begins heading down the stairs, ignored by everyone still left. Adriana tugs on Giangio’s arm but he resists, just a little longer as Jun pauses at the bottom of the stairs, and finally catches sight of Giangio by the door. A tense moment, another tug from Adriana, and as Giangio finally allows himself to be moved, Jun mouths something.

It’s ready.

—

It is night when Sophia is finally returned to her room. 

Three Alchemists, one who opens the door and flicks on the lights while two others carry the stretcher between them. As Giangio watches them, unseen from his slumped position in what is very quickly becoming his favourite armchair, he is reminded of a church procession. The reverence with which they carry Sophia brings to mind holy idols and saint relics, of long dead things made powerful by their passing. 

Now in her rooms the group seems a little lost on what to do, evidently only having been told to bring back and nothing further. Paracelsus rises, bringing himself to his full height and steps forward out of the shadows, causing the one in front to visibly flinch.

“Bring her to bed,” he tells them. 

They all have a full head on him but Paracelsus seems to loom over them, shadow far greater as he follows close behind. Their leader scurries to her bedroom and opens the door so the two with the stretcher can carry her through, carefully lifting her and depositing her onto the mattress. Sophia is silent, but her brow is beaded with sweat.

“Get out,” Paracelsus orders.

The three of them look at each other, one opening their mouth to protest, but quickly snapping shut at the expression on his face. They scramble out of the room and Paracelsus finally allows himself to step forward and brush a hand across Sophia’s brow. Her breathing hitches momentarily before calming.

She looks better than he was expecting. While her face is drawn and pale from pain, she no longer cries and whimpers. Her breathing is steady, no longer plagued by the hatching of insects within her, and her stomach is flat beneath the bandages. He removes those, finding that even though the wound has the typical bruising and dried blood of fresh surgery, it is not especially ugly or messy. It will likely leave a large and permanent scar, but, dare he say, it might even be considered pretty, especially compared to the other ones that litter her skin. Giangio goes to his bag and pulls out the jar of miracle ointment and opens it. There is barely a smear left up but he scoops out all that he can and applies it to the stitches, watching as the bruising fades and the wound heals to barely more than a thin line in her flesh. He can remove the stitching later, when he’s finally able to leave the room for more supplies. She’ll need pain medication still, and an IV to administer it, but from there it will simply be a case of waiting for her to wake.

There is no knowing what removing such a large chunk of Ergo from a living person could do. When Sophia wakes up, will she remember anything? Will she have memories of him, of her life before her imprisonment? Will her personality remain intact, that fierce wit that was now hidden under layers and layers of fear and pain? Will she even wake at all?

Tucking Sophia back in, Giangio leaves the room and returns to his armchair, running a hand over his face as he flops back down. In the time since he had left the room and then returned, someone had come through and cleaned up, changed Sophia’s bedsheets, arranged furniture and, most importantly, removed all of the lingering butterflies. In some ways Giangio mourns their loss, a small piece that he could share with her unresponsive ghost. Hands reach down, ghosting over his shoulders and crossing to sit on either side of his chest, her mouth resting a hair breadth from his ear. Sophia hums, the sound more like the wind rushing through leaves.

“You seem tired,” she murmurs. “Long day?”

“You don’t remember.” It’s not a question.

“How could I forget?”

She doesn’t remember, even though she insists otherwise. Sometimes Giangio wonders if she is enacting a memory.

“Can I make you feel better?” Sophia asks. She trails a hand across his chest, squeezing at the barely there muscle through his shirt. She hums again, the sound slightly tinged with confusion and he raises a hand to take hers. 

“I can make you feel better,” she insists.

“I’m fine Sophia, really,” Giangio tells her. “I need to speak with Jun tomorrow, and then when you wake-“

“I’m not sleeping,” she says. “I’m right here.”

She sounds so sincere that he almost believes her.

“Sophia,” he says softly. 

He pulls away so he can finally look at her but in that instant her presence vanishes and he finds himself alone again.

—

Sophia doesn’t wake the next day but Giangio isn’t expecting her to. It worries him, yes, the anticipation of whether or not she’ll be ok. But he also knows that Sophia desperately needs her rest. She’s had a rough week. 

He heads down to the labs to acquire an IV and dips into the Abbey’s drug supply for anything he thinks she might need. Strong pain relief mostly, but also anything that will keep her calm and docile. From there it is a simple matter of going to find Jun. 

It’s a beautiful day on the island, as despite the heat a cool sea breeze rolls off the ocean and the high outer walls plunge the inner buildings into a deep shade that requires lighting even at the sun’s peak. Giangio rolls his sleeves up and ties his hair off his neck and makes his way down the too many stairs to Artefact Storage, where he assumes Jun will be. With the Stalker not on the island as often, it’s a coin toss as to whether his presence in the lab was his first or last day of work for the Alchemists. 

The building is cool and quiet, perfect for the storage of delicate items and when Giangio closes the door for a moment he allows himself a moment to stand and bask in the silence. He hadn’t realised how noisy the Abbey could be, the echoing whispers down its halls, the whistling wind through drafty corridors, even Sophia’s quiet breathing. He’s starting to remember why he made his home in the Hollow Tower. 

There is no one at the front desk so Giangio lets himself through to the shelves, meandering slightly as he runs his fingers over dusty shelves. For someone who’s meant to be tending Artefact Storage, Jun certainly wasn’t keeping up with maintenance. Towards the back is the office so Giangio makes his way over there, making sure the shuffle and thump of his shoes is loud enough as to not startle. The door is closed so he knocks, eliciting a muffled curse, the sound of paper shuffling and something being dropped in liquid. There is another curse. 

“Hang on just a moment!” Jun calls. 

Giangio raises an eyebrow. He sounds stressed. 

It takes about five minutes but finally Jun opens the door, barely more than a crack, and squeezes through to stand in front of him. He’s out of breath slightly. 

“What are you doing in there?” Giangio asks. 

“Oh, it’s you,” Jun says. “I’m, um. Just developing some photos.”

“I see.”

Both men regard each other warily for a moment. 

“I saw what happened to Sophia,” Jun says, finally breaking the silence. “How could Simon do that to her?”

“He cares more about his plans than her,” Giangio replies. “And once those have been fulfilled she will be discarded. And that’s why we need to get her off the island.”

“Well that’s the good news I suppose.” Jun huffs and begins gently trying to lead Giangio away from the door. Back through the shelves and towards the front desk, which isn’t the most ideal spot for having a conversation like they’re about to have, but evidently Jun wants to keep whatever he’s doing in the office a secret, even from him. He’ll have to find out what, and soon. 

“So Venigni was finally able to complete the battery,” Jun says as they settle by the desk. “So we can take the sub whenever.”

“When was it completed?” Giangio asks, just out of curiosity, but Jun immediately flushes a deep pink. 

“Last week.”

Giangio opens his mouth but quickly shuts it again. As much as he’d like to express his displeasure by ripping Jun apart, he knows why the Stalker has delayed Sophia’s rescue. He wants evidence, and is willing to let Sophia suffer for it. Instead, Giangio exhales loudly and unclenches his fist, trying to release the growing anger. 

“If I had known this would happen,” Jun says, quiet and pleading. “Then I would have told you sooner.”

“We wouldn’t have been able to bring her off the island immediately,” Giangio replies, too quick and too sharp. “Not safely anyway.”

“But we can now, right?”

Giangio shakes his head. 

“Unfortunately, it would be best to see if Sophia wakes,” he explains. “And there is the issue of the weather too.”

Jun nods in agreement.
“We should wait until a storm rolls in, or at least significant cloud cover,” Jun says but Giangio shakes his head.

“That could take too long. There’s a new moon in three weeks, if Sophia wakes before then, then we should aim for that night.”

“If?”

Giangio grimaces and Jun nods again.

“I guess we’ll just have to wait and see.”

Jun leans against the desk and crosses his arms, staring at a spot beyond Giangio’s hip. He lets out a heavy sigh, visibly deflating.

“I’m worried,” he says. “About Sophia, yes. But I’m worried about my sister. If, when, we do this, I’m going to be ruining every chance she’s ever had in Krat.”

Giangio tilts his head slightly but doesn’t respond, but Jun doesn’t seem to mind. He raises a hand and runs it through his hair, errant strands coming loose as his fingers go.

“She’s going to be a technician, you know,” he says. “She has an apprenticeship at the Workshop Tower. They said she was really clever, and that one day she could do whatever she set her mind to. And… she wouldn’t have had that opportunity back home.”

Jun lets out a dry laugh.

“Funny how I still think of that village as home.”

“Well if you’re so worried about her,” Giangio says. “Make arrangements. Take her elsewhere.”

It just seems like the most practical solution to the problem. As much as Krat is an up and coming city, there are plenty of other places that would gladly take a young apprentice like Jun’s sister. A part of him makes him open his mouth to offer assistance, just to make him shut up, but Jun just sighs.

“I don’t think you get it.”

Giangio doesn’t, so he just shrugs.

“What you do with your sister is up to you,” Giangio says. “My only concern is Sophia.”

Jun rolls his eyes.

“So what is your plan anyway?” He asks. “I help you get off the island and then… what?”

“I’m getting her out of Krat.”

“Yes, but where?”

Well that certainly was a question. At first Giangio had wanted to bring her into the care of Osmund’s witches, but considering they’d refused to aid her escape, that was no longer an option. He still knew people in Syroy, he’d just have to take her to them instead. 

“I’ll take her to Syroy,” Giangio explains. “I know people there that can help. And, when Sophia is ready, we’ll go elsewhere.”

Jun nods. 

“Keep her as far away from Simon as possible,” he summises and Giangio nods in agreement.

“So now I’m waiting on you, ” Jun says with a slight laugh but Giangio just gives him a flat look. “I should get my affairs in order then. Just in case. But three weeks, minimum, should be enough time.”

Giangio nods again and Jun sticks his hand out for a shake. Reluctantly, he takes it, finding the Stalker’s grip to be incredibly firm, almost to a crushing degree, but he doesn’t seem to be doing it out of any ill will. In fact, he’s smiling at Giangio.

“I’ll wait for your instruction then,” he says. “Best of luck, with Sophia’s care. I’d be more help but…”

“You’ve done enough,” Giangio tells him. “Thank you.”

Jun gives Giangio’s hand another firm shake and back away, turning sharply on his heel. As he watches the Stalker retreat into the depths of Artefact Storage, Giangio swears he hears him mutter something, tone laced with worry. 

“Everything is going to be alright, Yoo-Jin. I promise.”

—

Sophia wakes two weeks later and as she cries over the loss of her legs, Giangio wonders if everything really will be alright.

Chapter Text

Once she has cried herself dry, Sophia decides to sleep. 

In her dreams she is happy and whole, loved and cared for by those around her. There is no Petrification. No Simon. No Giangio.

She is at Krat Central Park today, the tall trees and meandering paths a welcome reprieve from the cold stone of the Abbey. With nothing else to do, she walks, enjoying the way the wind tugs at strands of her hair or the edges of her coat. The sun is warm, the leaves rustle and cast dappled shadows and ducks waddle about, begging for crumbs of food from the people also enjoying their idle walks. Most people ignore her, they can’t see her like this, but one person calls out to her, a photographer with his camera and little studio set up by the lake.

“Miss!” He calls. “Miss! May I have a moment of your time?”

A few people give him strange looks but Sophia picks her way across the grass to greet him, curious.

“I’m surprised you can see me,” Sophia says.

“So you are not actually here,” the man surmises. He has a slight Syroy accent. “I thought it strange that no one else was reacting to you. But I dare say, I recognise you. Have we been acquainted before?”

Sophia considers the man for a moment. He has a fairly plain face, with no obvious features that would set him apart from a crowd, making him difficult to recognise. But she remembers the studio, at least.

“You were taking photos here, a few years ago,” Sophia says. “You took a photo of myself and Carlo.”

The man nods.

“And your Stalker boyfriend too.”

Sophia flushes.

“He’s-“

“I will not tell,” he says. “My name is Dmitri Gray, if you did not remember. I have improved my craft, perhaps you would be interested?”

Sophia looks at the little studio space he has set up, with a decorative folding screen, the lights hooked up to Ergo batteries, the clunky camera itself.

“I can’t pay you,” she says. 

Dmitri waves his hand dismissively and begins trying to direct her in front of the screen, having her stand on a particular spot and posing her. She allows it, starting to feel absent and foggy as he does.

“It would be my pleasure to photograph someone as beautiful as you,” he says. “Now, hold that pose.”

When she wakes again, Sophia is alone. It’s hard to tell how long it’s been. The sun had sat halfway up the sky, mid morning at the latest, while now it sat in almost the same spot, but with blush tinting the horizon. Late afternoon then, but on the same day? She can’t tell.

Everything aches but Sophia forces herself upright and removes the covers, once again taking in the blackened stumps growing from her knees. She has no sensation, no control over them, simply dead weight, but she can still move her hips and her knees, to a certain degree. With a lot of difficulty, she flings one leg over the side of the bed, having to use her hands to shift the appendage, and then the other. They thump heavily against the bed frame and floor, the weight dragging on her knees uncomfortably, and the effort makes her stomach scream with pain. Sophia can only assume that the IV line she’s hooked up to is filled with painkillers, and probably why she still feels drowsy and uncoordinated, but she’s thankful for it. Giangio had not been particularly specific on what else he had removed in addition to the Ergo crystal but she can only imagine the extra pain she could be in.

With feet now positioned on the floor, Sophia tests her weight, shifting forward slightly but gripping the IV pole and moving her centre of mass just over the edge of the bed. Her feet don’t move, which is what she had hoped for, so Sophia then uses the pole to lever herself up and into a standing position. It feels very strange, and quite uncomfortable, like her knees are forcing her full weight down and into something hard and jagged, but she’s upright. Carefully, she tries shifting her weight and muscles around until she’s kind of able to force a leg, her right one, upwards so the knee sits at a right angle and the clubbed foot dangles. And then, she sort of flings it forward, shifting her weight so it “steps”. The angle of her foot is a little strange, having not quite Petrified flat, but it still lands on the carpet with a loud thump, forcing her legs apart into a painful stretch as she holds onto the pole for dear life. Now all she needs to do is drag the other one forward-

The IV pole shifts from under her and Sophia loses her balance, tumbling forward with a shriek. Her outstretched palms catch the floor, jarring up her arms and sending piercing pain through her stomach. As all the pain and frustration bubbles up into wailing tears, the door suddenly slams open and Giangio stands there looking panicked. 

“I hate this!” She cries. “I want to go home!”

His panicked expression shifts to confusion and then guilt. Giangio quickly steps forward and crouches in front of her, pulling Sophia into his lap to begin soothing her. His fingers are gentle through her hair, aimless stroking becoming the  careful picking of knots, untangling the rat’s nest of her hair. 

“I’m taking you home,” he says gently. “Sophia, it’s going to be ok.”

“It-”

Giangio hushes her, pressing his lips onto her head.

“Don’t cry,” he murmurs. “It will be alright.”

He always said that, and yet it was never true.

“In a week,” he says slowly, quietly. “There’s going to be a night as black as pitch. And when that night comes, we’ll leave this place. We’ll go far away, where Simon can’t hurt you. And where you can rest, and heal.”

“I’m-” Sophia has to stop and rub at her eyes, pulling away slightly so she can search his face. “I’m going to be free?”

“Free from here, free from Simon,” Giangio says with a slight quirk of his lips. “You’ll be safe with me, I promise.”

All the tension melts from her body and Sophia slumps back against Giangio. She’ll be able to go home, to see Romeo, to be far away from all this . Giangio still picks through her hair, deft fingers working gently through the strands and she finds herself soothed by the motions. She’s already growing drowsy, eyes closing with exhaustion.

“Back to bed?” He murmurs.

Sophia moans in frustration, forcing herself back awake, squirming in his arms. The motions send pain shooting through her stomach and tug at the IV line buried in her hand, the sensations helping keep her awake and alert. Giangio frowns and helps her, shifting her from a lying down position to one more upright.

“Back to bed,” he says, and he wriggles out from under her, rising to his feet so he can then lean down. Giangio lifts her easily, useless legs dangling over his arm as he then places her back on the bed and tucks the covers back up around her shoulders.

“I don’t want to go back to bed,” Sophia says as he works. “I-“

“You need rest,” Giangio says gently. “Otherwise you won’t have the strength when we need to leave.”

“I was sleeping for three weeks ,” Sophia counters. She’s starting to feel drowsy again, now that she’s warm and comfortable in the bed, and Giangio’s hand in stroking through her hair and down her cheek and jaw-

“I want to get up .”

“Not today,” he replies. “Tomorrow.”

Sophia moans again but it’s halfhearted. She would have thought that three weeks of rest would have given her all the energy in the world, and yet here she was, barely able to keep her eyes open for more than five minutes. The world seems to shift around her, the room she’s in starting to look more like her old bedroom with its blue quilt and decorative rug rather than the reds and bare floorboards. It’s nice, being home again.

“Fine,” she mutters.

“Good.”

Giangio leans forward and places a kiss on her forehead, intending to pull away, but Sophia grabs him and mashes her lips against his. It’s by no means a particularly good kiss but she hopes it gets her intent across. Her loneliness, her need. Giangio flails for a moment, caught off balance, but he rights himself and returns the motion, a hungriness in his actions that speaks to long pent up weeks. Good. Maybe he’ll do something for her then. Her hands migrate to his shirt, blindly picking at the buttons, but he pulls away. 

“Not now,” he says. He looks as though saying that has taken all of his willpower. 

Sophia flops back into the pillows, defeated, as Giangio finally steps away from the bed. He opens his mouth, as if to say something, but shuts it quickly and instead just licks his lips. Now all of her energy truly feels gone so Sophia allows her eyes to close, exhaling deeply. 

“G’Night Giangio.”

“Good night, dear princess.”

—

Sophia dreams.

She watches in her dreams, standing by the seashore watching the waves roll in, standing in the Alchemists’ new Petrification Ward watching as they administer medicine to dying patients. Standing atop a high tower, standing by the Gold Coin Tree, by the Abbey’s entrance, in its dungeons. In her room as a formless shape watches her back. 

Sometimes that is all they are, dreams. 

But other times they are more real. Her dreams are bright and hazy, like the sun’s glare reflecting off the surface of something shiny and often Sophia finds that this haziness follows her into the waking world. On the third day, after she’s eaten, Giangio takes her to the armchair and sets her down, crouching in front of her once he has a fire going. Realistically, it should be too hot for a fire like this one, but Sophia finds herself too cold to even consider going without. Giangio must be sweltering in his dark shirt and woollen trousers, but he doesn’t seem to notice. Instead, he looks at her with reverence, but also with something tired and sad too. He holds a hand out and cups her cheek, Romeo’s spun gold hair catching the light and glittering. He smiles at her, green eyes crinkling, just as she remembers. 

“I can explain what happened a bit more,” he says. “If you want.”

Sophia nods. She shifts in the chair, uncomfortable and frustrated by her legs and the needle still in her hand. Romeo, seeing her wriggling, helps her get more comfortable. 

“Your Ergo grew quite large,” he tells her. “We-“ He pauses and grimaces. “We were worried it would cause serious damage. So… we removed it.”

Sophia frowns. She is sure she can remember bits and pieces of her time asleep but trying to think back only muddies the colours. Gold loses its lustre, smearing into blue steel but she blinks and everything seems to correct itself. 

“Ok.”

“We had to remove other things,” Romeo tells her. Tanned skin loses its healthy flush momentarily but changes back just as quickly. 

“Are you ok?” She interrupts. 

“Yes…” Romeo frowns back at her. “Sophia, are you awake?”

She opens her mouth to respond but is hit by a sudden wave of vertigo that pitches her forward. Strong hands grab her, keeping from colliding with the man in front of her but it’s hard to tell who it is. Pale and grey, or lively and tanned, nails with an impossibly perfect manicure or ones chewed ragged. It’s hard to remember who should be in front of her. 

“Giangio?” She says, uncertainty pitching it up into a question. 

“What are you seeing?” The man asks, demands. “What do you see?”

“I see you!” She cries. “I see you, please stop, you’re scaring me!”

The grip on her shoulders shifts, forcing her gaze upright. She can’t tell who is in front of her, the light is too bright and hazy, everything like oil paints that have smeared together. She’s dreaming, she has to be, and if she’s scared all she needs to do is go away-

She’s in the gardens of the Monad family estate.

The grass is brown and dead, what bushes remain tangled and overgrown, statues and walls covered in a brown film of dead lichen. But she’s sitting on a bench before a dried up fountain as a man leans against her leg, ripping at the grass. This is… It can’t be a memory, as the sensations are too real, the gardens more dead than the well manicured lawns she remembers. But something about this tickles at her, a familiarity she can’t place.

“Don’t rip at the grass,” Sophia says. “We want it to grow.”

The man shifts restlessly but stops picking at the grass, finally opting to flop against her leg dramatically. His shape is indistinct, gold and steel mixing together until she can no longer tell where he started. The man finally rises, a tall dark shadow that stands over her, blind eye bursting from his socket as his hand reaches forward-

“You see,” Simon says, the hand around her neck tightening momentarily. “It is like a survival instinct, like how a suffocating man will open his mouth even though there is no air.”

He releases and Sophia gasps, trying to push herself as far away from him as possible. She’s in bed again, somehow, and there’s very little distance she can make from her tormentor. Giangio stands behind Simon, arms folded and a grimace on his face. 

“She’s back,” Giangio says stiffly. 

“I realise,” Simon replies. “Employ a little pressure, if you’re so worried about her.”

“What-“ Sophia coughs. “What happened? How long was I asleep?”

“It’s still the same day,” Giangio says. “So only a few hours.”

“What have I told you about staying present, dear Sophia?” Simon asks. Sophia cringes away, curling as small as she can. 

“That I have to stay,” she replies in a small voice. 

“Good girl.”

Simon stands from where he has sat himself on the edge of the bed and walks up to Giangio, stopping just off to the side. Simon towers over him but Giangio stands locked jawed and defiant. 

“She has a week,” Simon says. “Make sure dear Sophia is ready.”

He sweeps from the room, not allowing Giangio the benefit of a response. He seethes in the doorway, staring at a point in the distance and breathing heavily, clenching and unclenching his fists. He shifts, his shape changing into something with too many eyes, the room swirling with a strange kind of darkness before Sophia blinks and it corrects itself. Giangio takes one final calming breath and goes to her, cupping her cheek and resting his forehead against hers. She tries not to flinch against the sensation of cold, sharp claws. 

“I’m sorry,” she whispers. “Things don’t feel right at the moment.”

“What can you see?” He asks softly. “I need to know Sophia. I need to know that you’re alright.”

The sensation changes, warmth bleeding into her skin at the points of contact but it’s hard to look at him properly. It’s Giangio, surely it is, but things are bright and hazy again. The shift and change must mean it’s a dream but the insistence with which he holds her makes it feel real. Sophia squeezes her eyes shut and focuses, not trusting her vision. 

“I can see you,” she tells him. “Giangio.” She has to force his name out of her throat. 

“Look at me,” he says. He tilts her chin upwards, moving backwards slightly so they’re face to face. “Sophia, open your eyes.”

She opens her eyes a crack, taking in the gold hair and the green eyes. The man in front of her searches her face with an intensity that makes her uncertain and uncomfortable. He reaches for her again, face flickering.

“What can you see?” He whispers.

She doesn’t know how to respond. She just wants to go away, to truly sleep and not have to worry about how scared and confused she feels. Things shift and fade, hands disappearing from her face, blankets no longer covering her as she stands-

A voice sighs and there is sudden pressure on her throat, immediately forcing her back into the moment. Giangio leans over her, hand around her neck as his thumb presses against the soft flesh, just enough to begin cutting off her airflow.

“Sophia,” he says softly. “I need you present. I can’t have you going away, not while we’re this close.”

She nods and Giangio shifts his hand, cupping her cheek instead.

“We had to use the blood on you,” he tells her softly. “And I’m worried what it could have done, what your wish could have been.”

Sophia doesn’t understand what he means. She tries to think back but that just makes everything swim and shift again. She shakes her head to clear it.

“I’m tired, Giangio,” she replies. “I’m scared. I don’t understand what’s happening. I want to sleep, to go away-”

“Don’t.”

“I won’t.” She’ll try at the very least. “Can you just make me feel better, please?”

He leans forward into her and she reciprocates, kissing him gently on the corner of his mouth. His hand moves from her cheek and through her hair, cradling the back of her head and encouraging her to lie back completely as he shifts to lean over her. His other hand wanders, weight fully propped on his elbow which makes him comfortably close to her, the desperate heat she desires now flush against her. She wants to spread her legs but the shift is awkward with the way her feet sit frozen under the sheets. 

“Did you see it?” Giangio murmurs. “God reaching down to cradle you in its arms, its divine princess, as you shucked off your mortal form?”

She doesn’t understand what he’s saying but his mouth is in the crook of her neck now, sucking and marking in just the way she likes, making her moan and forget how unhappy she is. Pain flares through her stomach but it is more like a muscle ache, easy to ignore in the pursuit of something more. Giangio’s hand dips below the sheets, caressing her body through the thin cotton of her nightgown, teasing at the skin of her thighs. It’s almost unbearably sensitive as he traces along the line of Petrification, darting in and out of sensation as he strokes the skin. Sophia whines at the touch. 

“And to think I thought so little of you,” he continues. “I should have known that you would only be in your infancy, that you would undergo such a metamorphosis to be truly beautiful.”

“Giangio, what are you-“

He finds that spot and her words dissolve into moans, Sophia reaching her peak in an embarrassingly short time. As Sophia comes down, Giangio taking the time to wipe the sweat from her limbs, the world takes on that golden haze again. His hands are strong, sure but also gentle, and he takes the time to place gentle kisses against the skin. Steel, gold, she tries to focus but they blur together. Is this a memory? For some reason she doesn’t want him to know. 

The man lays down next to her and Sophia tries to shift onto her side, getting her upper body situated but struggling once again with her legs. He helps her, shifting them so one bends over the other, the knee bent and resting on the mattress, before settling in to hold her. She can feel him, pressed against her back. He must be uncomfortable, surely, and she’d been so greedy. 

“I can help you,” Sophia says. She’s getting tired but surely she can stay awake for him. “Whatever you want.”

“I’ll be fine,” he murmurs into the crook of her neck. 

It’s Giangio, surely it’s him. He never lets her do anything below the belt with him, while Romeo would have made a shy request if he hadn’t yet reached his peak, and Carlo would have already been doing something about it. Sophia whines unhappily, but she is exhausted. She’ll try again next time. 

—

Her days pass as if in a dream.

Giangio, or at least something that looks like him explains in more detail what she had missed. That they had used “blood” on her in an attempt to reduce the size of the crystal, that they had instead turned to surgery. That in the process they had been required to remove her reproductive organs, that she could no longer bear children. The words are said in a dream and at first Sophia doesn’t believe him. There hadn’t yet been a discussion about children with Carlo and Romeo, as it was she was an unmarried woman living with two men who weren’t relatives, so having children out of wedlock would have created an even larger scandal. And marriage, with their relationship as it was, was a touchy subject. But Sophia had always assumed, even as a little girl, that she would marry a kind man and have his children. It was her duty as a woman to do so, and it wasn’t something that particularly bothered her. She liked children, when they weren’t screaming too loudly and were behaving themselves, so she had simply accepted it as her lot in life.

But now there was no choice.

When the world shifts and the figure in her room leaves, going to get lunch it says, Sophia gives in to sleep. She leaves this place, just for the moment, so she doesn’t have to think of another thing that has been taken from her, and that there is no possibility of getting back. She wanders the black beach and rubs chunks of sea glass between her fingers, the smooth texture soothing as she stares across the water, thoughtless and empty in her musings. The pressure in her throat is the signal for her to return, Giangio’s face swimming into view as he gives her an apologetic smile and a bowl of soup for her trouble.

She lives the week in a daze, asleep even when she is awake, unsure of who she speaks to. Sometimes, she thinks it is Romeo, her sweet knight come to take her away from this place, with soft and gentle touches. Other times she is sure it is Simon or that dark restless shape, firm and forceful with her in their care. It is, as she often has to remind herself, only Giangio. The one who can be cruel and kind in equal measure, who saw a frightened girl curled in on herself and thought she was more than just a thing. He holds her like broken glass, crumbling and delicate and liable to cut if he’s not careful. 

On the fifth day, Giangio removes the IV from her hand, and for the first time since she woke Sophia feels present in the room, that oppressive exhaustion that has hung over her like a heavy cloud having finally lifted. But with it comes the pain, the dull ache roaring to life. Giangio watches her closely as he inspects her limbs, the ritual of checking for Petrification having become one of checking to see how far it has spread.

“Are you in pain?” He asks. “We can put you back on the drip if it’s too bad.”

Sophia shakes her head, ignoring the way it hurts.

“I don’t feel right,” she tells him. “It’s hard to stay awake.”

Giangio raises his head and considers her for a moment, nodding as if coming to a conclusion.

“Let me know if you need anything then.”

Giangio rubs at the Petrification, considering the line of dark ink he’d drawn on her. As much as Sophia doesn’t like to think about it, she knows that it’s spreading. Another blue pustule had formed in the crook of her knee, making it even more difficult to move the joint and leaving her leg in a half bent position. Giangio inspects it carefully, rubbing very gently at flesh she can barely feel before he turns to the bedside table and takes a syringe from it. From there, he carefully inserts the needle and pulls back the plunger, blue fluid quickly filling the glass casing. Sophia just sighs.

“That’s not going to stop you know,” she says.

“I know,” he replies. “But it makes it a bit easier for you, yes?”

He withdraws the needle, the skin now resembling a deflated blister, and experimentally flexes her leg for her. It no longer rubs, which she supposes is nice.

“I will admit to some selfishness,” Giangio continues, setting the syringe aside. “I can study this. Hopefully make some headway on something for you.”

“There’s no cure.”

“Not yet,” he points out. “But don’t give up hope.”

Sophia wants to point out that it’s not like Simon is developing a cure but just thinking about him brings ash and rot to her mouth. She coughs instead and slumps against the pillows.

“How’s your breathing?” Giangio asks.

“It’s fine,” she mutters.

She already feels exhausted.

“Can I do anything for you?” Romeo asks. “You’re being so patient for me.”

Sophia squeezes her eyes shut and opens them again, gold bleeding into steel. Giangio looks at her expectantly.

“Maybe later,” she says, and she means it. Once she’s rested, once she’s grown used to the increased pain.

“Of course,” Giangio says. He reaches over and gives her hand a squeeze before tucking her back in. “Let me know if you need anything.”

The world tips and shifts slightly but Sophia closes her eyes, allowing sleep to take her once again.

—

“Is there anything you want to take with you?” Giangio asks later. 

Sophia had requested to be brought into the living room, the chair she had been settled into positioned in such a way she could watch the sunset if she wanted. She’s staring out the window and wondering if the sun’s rays will make her blind.

“No.”

She can hear him shuffling about behind her before he comes around to stand in front of her, effectively blocking her view. She blinks the spots from her eyes, pretending that the way Giangio’s form shifts to Romeo’s is merely a trick of the light.

“Are you sure?” He asks. “We can’t come back.”

Sophia rolls her eyes as if that isn’t obvious. She hates everything in this room, the way Simon had custom made her gilded cage based on some abstract idea he had about her.

“I think we should burn it,” she says, somewhat petulantly. It’s Giangio’s turn to roll his eyes this time but he smirks nonetheless.

“Think about it,” he replies. 

He reaches forward and wraps his arms around her, lifting her easily out of the chair so he can walk the few paces and set her on the floor in front of the fire. He helps her settle in the cushions before handing her a plate of food, a chicken breast, a portion of polenta and a salad, mostly consisting of spinach. Everything is unseasoned, as her diet has mostly been lately, but the solid food at least is a welcome change. She tries not to gag around the spinach while Giangio watches her eat, the rising nausea almost like an old friend at this point.

“What will you do, once we’re off the island?” Sophia asks. She knows what she wants to do, but Giangio so rarely talks about himself that she can’t even begin to guess where he might go, or what he might do. 

Giangio tilts his head. 

“I have to look after you.”

Sophia huffs and points her fork at him. 

“You won’t always be looking after me,” she says, even as his face blurs and shifts. “I keep telling you that.”

Romeo frowns at her, tilting his head slightly. 

“You’ve never said that to me,” he replies. “Sophia, are you awake right now?”

She looks away from him, unhappily shoving more food in her mouth. That’s always the question. “Are you awake?” As if she can’t trust her own vision. She can’t, not really. These days she doesn’t care whether she’s awake or asleep, only that they don’t turn into nightmares. 

“I just want to know what you’ll do once we’re home,” she mumbles. 

Romeo sighs and shifts in place, crossing his legs and holding onto his ankles as he slumps forward slightly. 

“I suppose I’ll go back to Syroy,” he says. “Got things there I’ll need to do, reports to make.”

Out of the corner of her eye Romeo’s form shifts again, darkness pooling through his hair like ink in a river, too many eyes opening and closing as they watch her finish her meal. 

“I want you to come too,” the figure continues. “As much as I hate to admit it, there are people there who can probably be of more help to you.”

Sophia sets her plate aside as the figure shifts once more, taking Giangio’s form. It’s hard to tell how much of this conversation she will remember later, especially considering it’s probably a dream. It’s a nice dream at least. 

With dinner now finished, Sophia pulls herself forward so she can crawl into Giangio’s lap, already feeling sleepy. She curls as best as she can while he begins running his fingers through her hair. It’s not the same as it was, large chunks of it having darkened to that blueish grey colour that Giangio’s is, looking quite strange against the bright auburn.

“Tired again?”

Sophia pouts.

“I can put you back to bed,” Giangio offers. His face swims but Sophia rolls onto her back and forces herself to focus on him, the pale freckles, the wispy hair on his brow, his startlingly blue eyes. So very different from Romeo.

“Don’t wanna,” Sophia mumbles.

She reaches a hand up and he leans into it, pressing a kiss into her palm. His hands sit just near her neck, fingers pressing lightly as they caress her skin.

“What would you like?” He asks.

His hands move down, dipping under the edge of her nightgown, trailing lightly over her rapidly pebbling skin. His fingers are long and they stop just shy of her nipples, palms resting on the flat expanse just below her collarbone, spread to follow the curve of her breast. Sophia shivers as they rest there.

“This?” He asks.

Giangio rapidly slides his hands up again and shifts so he can curve himself over the top of her, mouth impossibly close and yet not touching as Sophia hovers her hand near his cheek. She can feel the phantom presence of his hands hovering over her body, ready to touch at her command.

“Or this?”

“ Both ,” she gasps.

Giangio gives a light chuckle, mouth curving into a smile.

“And if I told you you couldn’t have both?”

Sophia whines.

“Greedy.”

He finally closes the distance, his nose grazing her chin as he kisses her. His hands rub at her bare arms, sliding under her nightgown again to massage gently at her breasts. It’s soothing just as much as it is arousing, and Sophia finds that it is a nice undercurrent to her drowsiness. She could crest and fall asleep like this, but she doesn’t want that. She slides her hand down his cheek to his chest, fumbling at the buttons of his shirt, the angle too awkward for her to get much headway. One, two, three buttons until she can get a hand down his shirt to caress his chest, fingertips trailing along prominent bones and stretched taut skin, until she finds his nipple. She rubs a thumb across as Giangio seems to catch hers in the connection between his thumb and forefinger and pulls down, tugging firmly on the sensitive flesh and making her gasp into his mouth. He grins as he alternates between massaging the breast and tugging at the nipple, making Sophia arch against him and whine, hand curled against his chest, all thoughts of trying to pleasure him forgotten for the moment.

“ Please,” she’s finally able to gasp out. “ Please. Let me-”

An especially firm motion, kneading down and into a pull that cuts off her words as she lets out a strangled gasp.

“For you, princess,” he murmurs, a smile curling his lips as he kisses her. “Anything.”

Giangio shifts, wriggling out from under Sophia so he can now sit to the side of her, replacing the legs she had been leaning against with a pillow. Sophia grabs another pillow for good measure, propping herself more upright. One hand still rests on her breast, the other cupping her cheek for a moment, a contemplative look on his face. 

“What would you like?” He asks.

His hair catches the firelight, reflecting bright metal back but it’s hard to tell what colour it might be. The low light of the room, whether a product of the waning night or of her deepening dream, obscures his face, casting it in a soft shadow.

“Shirt,” Sophia says. He’s too far away for Sophia to do it herself. “And pants.”

The man obliges, deftly undoing the last of the buttons to leave his shirt undone but he hesitates at the waistband of his trousers. His expression is difficult to see, but he looks anxious. Giangio then. 

“You can… leave them.” She tries not to feel disappointed. She’s not sure why but Giangio will never remove his pants around her and her attempts to do it herself are always thwarted. She wonders if it’s some kind of anxiety around his shape, Carlo had once told her that comparing size had been typical bedroom banter when they were teens. 

Giangio must see her disappointed expression because he visibly steels himself and removes his belt and undoes the fly with a speed one could almost mistake for excitement. The pants are removed just as quickly, but he goes no further, remaining in plain white drawers that are a strange contrast to his usual dark garb. 

“You have nice legs,” Sophia offers but he gives her a grimace that she can only grin at. 

With Giangio now half naked, Sophia wriggles and shifts so she can hike her nightgown around her hips but he stops her from going any further, keeping the fabric puddled around her groin. He picks at the edge of her drawers, hooking a thumb under the hum and sliding it along her thigh, but he goes no further than that. The movements are contemplative, as if he’s occupying idle hands while he thinks of what to do next. 

“I want you,” Sophia whispers. “All of you.”

Giangio opens his mouth as if to protest but she cuts him off. 

“Don’t you dare say you’re too big,” she says sternly. “I’m not a virgin.”

It's almost comical, his surprise, the way his mouth snaps shut and his eyebrows shoot into his hairline, so Sophia giggles. Holding her hands out, she makes grabbing motions until he leans forward and so she can reach the edges of his shirt and pull him in for another kiss. 

“I’m far from divine,” she murmurs. She sucks on his bottom lip for a moment, peppering the edges of his mouth with featherlight touches as she speaks. “Divinity doesn’t just spread her legs for everyone.”

“Divinity isn’t defined by virtue,” he replies between kisses. His tone is conversational, as if he’s simply correcting a fact. “We wouldn’t have nearly as many gods as we do if a few of them hadn’t decided to indulge a little.”

Sophia lets out a humming laugh. Letting go, she places her palms on his chest, beginning to knead at what little fat he has in an approximation of what he’d been doing to her, while his hands stroke down her sides. His thumbs rub at her sensitive ribs through the cotton before trailing lower, eventually caressing at her thighs and down further still. He then rubs from her knees, with barely any sensitivity, up to the inner vee of her legs, sliding under the hem of her drawers and rests his fingers just shy of the join between hip and leg. Sophia hums appreciatively, a noise that Giangio copies. 

He leans forward and gives her a quick kiss before he pulls away completely, leaving her hands with nothing to do as he finally removes his shirt, setting it to the side. He shuffles back slightly and raises a hand, hovering it over her groin.

“May I?”

Sophia nods and he reaches down, reverently raising the hem of her nightgown to sit about her middle, just covering the scar down her abdomen, before deftly untying her drawers and sliding them down her legs, setting them aside too. He looks at her like she’s the most perfect thing he’s ever seen before he rests one hand on her, cupping gently while the other goes to the flesh around her hips and thigh, beginning to knead gently. Sophia sighs with contentment, closing her eyes momentarily and arching into his hand to chase some kind of stimulation. He takes that as permission, grinding his palm against that sweet spot until her breathing starts to hitch, any words she might try to say starting to become moans. 

With one smooth motion, a finger is inserted, his hand shifting so his thumb can continue to rub at the spot. A second finger is quickly added, stroking and stretching as Sophia writhes and moans. 

“I love the noises you make,” he says. 

“W-What?”

Sophia starts to open her eyes but he presses just right and she lets out a whine, going taught and squeezing her eyes shut. She’s so close and she hasn’t gotten what she wants yet.

“So quiet,” he murmurs. Sophia can feel him leaning over her so she opens her eyes, gazing up at his shrouded face, glittering strands like a halo around his head. 

“But with just the slightest touch-” He crooks his fingers and Sophia keens , high and needy as she fists at the pillows beneath her. “Ah. Like music.”

“ Please ,” she begs. “ I want- Please, I want, I need -”

“Patience. Just a little longer.”

Sophia holds the pillows under her for dear life, biting her lip as the fingers pump twice more before being drawn out, trailing along that spot before disappearing entirely. She feels so empty and cold now. Opening her eyes, Sophia watches as the man over her raises himself upright, tugging at the tie of his drawers, thumbing at the band for a moment. He regards her under golden lashes, pursing his lips momentarily.

“Please,” she whispers.

“Anything for you.”

Slowly, he slides them down his hips, shifting just enough so he can set them aside, leaving him entirely naked. He’s beautiful, skin a pale alabaster fair tan, stretched taut over sharp bones a thin layer of fat and sturdy muscle covering his frame. His skin is slightly flushed, as even though he’s been relatively calm for her, Sophia can see a creeping purple pink across his chest, indicating his growing arousal. And as he leans over her, she catches a glimpse of blue steel bright gold curls at the base of his penis, already half erect. She reaches down, to take it in her hands, but he uses his free hand, since the other is supporting his weight over her, to bat her aside gently. Pouting, Sophia instead places her hands on his shoulders, squeezing the muscle encouragingly.

He reaches down and she can feel him stroking himself, his knuckles brushing against the skin of her thigh as he goes, his breathing deepening while Sophia continues to massage. He groans after a moment, chin dipping to his chest before he looks at her with bright eyes. She feels herself clench around nothing, whining softly.

“Yes?”

“Yes, oh please-”

Sophia feels him slide in slowly, the stretch just slightly more than his two fingers making her moan. It feels like forever before he finally sits himself flush against her, exhaling loudly into her face. She moves a hand from his shoulder to cup his face, taking in the fierce concentration as he tries not to peak immediately. It’s an expression she knows well.

“Sorry,” he gasps after a moment. “It-It’s been so long.”

“You’re doing wonderfully,” she murmurs. She brushes a strand of gold from his sweat slick brow. “Whenever you’re ready.”

It’s permission he’s been waiting for and he slowly pulls back, every nerve alighting with pleasure as he does. Sophia moans, fingers digging into his shoulder as he slides back in, building to a steady rhythm. His breathing is harsh and heavy, barely covering the slap of skin on skin as his strokes begin to grow more and more erratic. She can already feel it, that peak so close that she can almost taste it and she arches her back to deepen the feeling, to shift the angle perfectly.

“ Please-” she moans. “ Please, I’m so close, Romeo-”

Immediately, the sensation stops, the man over her stopping mid stroke. His breathing is still harsh and heavy but it takes on an almost sobbing undertone, stuttering slightly. Sophia opens her eyes, to question what might be wrong, but instead she is faced with his horrified expression, one hand raised to now rest over her throat.

“ Sophia-” he chokes out. “Sophia. Please, I need to know.”

His face shifts, melting and blurring together as he applies pressure, long steel blue hair curtaining a face with too many blind eyes staring down at her.

“Gia-” Sophia tries to force out his name but she can’t breath, his hand too tight around her throat even as she scrabbles at it, trying to pry stoney fingers free. “Ple-”

Giangio releases his grip as if burned, pulling away so rapidly it hurts and makes her cry out but he doesn’t seem to care anymore. He leaps to his feet and collects his discarded clothes.

“Giangio!” Sophia tries to reach for him, to pull him down so she can apologise, explain, but he only gives her a look, anger, sadness, resignation, before he strides away, slamming the bathroom door behind him.

She raises a hand to her mouth, trying to cover the racking sobs escaping her mouth. She curls in on herself as best as she is able, ignoring the pain building in her stomach.

“Please,” she whispers. “I’m so sorry. I don’t know what’s wrong with me-”

There is a sudden slam and a crash, followed by tinkling glass before the bathroom door is flung open again. Giangio is haphazardly dressed, not even wearing shoes, but he strides for the entrance, barely giving her a glance.

“Giangio!” Sophia cries out. “Please, I’m sorry-”

He turns to her but despite his wet cheeks, his expression is carefully blank. He only nods his head formally, stepping through the door.

“Goodnight, Miss Sophia.”

Chapter Text

How could he be so stupid?

Chapter Text

“She’s awake, “ Giangio tells him.

Jun pauses in his organising, letting out a deep sigh of relief. He had been worried that Sophia might never wake up, too physically traumatised to make a full recovery, and that they’d be rescuing only her body instead. He’s unbelievably glad that she’s recovered.

“So we can rescue her,” Jun replies. “In about a week?”

“Seven days from now,” Giangio says with a nod. “No moon, so it will be dark.”

“We’ll still need to be careful,” Jun points out but Giangio makes a dismissive motion with his head.

“I’m aware.”

Giangio looks like a different man in the two weeks since Jun has seen him. He’s always been a slight man but stress and lack of sleep have stripped almost every bit of flesh from his bones, leaving him haggard and gaunt. It makes Jun wonder if the rumours were true, and what exactly Sophia saw in this walking corpse that made the sex so good. He shakes his head quickly, dismissing the unfair thought. 

“I have to care for her in the meantime,” Giangio says. “Seven days from now, come to her room just before midnight. The door will be unlocked. The only thing we will be doing is taking Sophia down to the dock, so bring anything you need with you.”

“I’ll make sure the sub is docked and ready,” Jun replies. “It’s still in Krat, told Simon Venigni wanted to give it a new paint job before he finally let it go.”

The other man makes out a bitter laugh. 

“Yeah, that makes sense.”

They both stand there for a moment, the conversation obviously done but Giangio seemingly unwilling to leave. It takes Jun a moment to realise that he’s looking at the desk he’s tidying, frowning just slightly. 

Jun has not been idle in these past weeks. 

He’s been collecting evidence for a fair few months at this point, copies of documents, the occasional photo, but recently he’s gone into a frenzy, documenting anything even half way relevant. Multiple forays into Simon’s office to create duplicates of his reports, taking originals whenever possible, picking through the Alchemists’ scientific library for the research the lower ranked members were undertaking, once again copying or taking anything he can get his hands on. And photographs, hundreds of sneakily taken pictures depicting the experiments they conduct. From there it was a matter of learning how to have the photos developed, and then using Artefact Storage’s facilities to do so. Medoro had been a huge help, his Krat corruption story was proceeding apace due to Venigni’s endorsement, so he had taken the time to show Jun the Venigni Print House’s photography lab. Their resident photographer was a mousy woman with glasses too big for her face who’d taken an immediate liking to Jun, enthusiastically teaching him the best way to get his photos developed and sending him on his way with too many test prints. 

All of the photographs had been developed on the island, the best and worst place to get them done. Everything was available to him in Artefact Storage, the space, the chemicals, making set up and work easy to facilitate. But he risked having someone find out, an Alchemist with no concept of privacy or even Simon with his dubious ability to read minds. Jun even finds himself a little leery at having Giangio see them. 

The man in question finally reaches over and takes one, a particularly gorey one of a half mutated rabbit, blood and Ergo puddling about the furry white body like an oil slick, and considers it for a moment. 

“Do you think your plan will work?” Giangio asks. “Simon has powerful friends, he can just make something like this go away.”

“It will,” Jun replies firmly. “It has to.”

He hums and shrugs, his doubt making Jun bristle. His plan needs to work, otherwise Sophia and other people like her will continue to be in danger from people like Simon. 

“I’ll see you in seven days,” Giangio says abruptly. 

Jun nods as Giangio turns on his heel and exits the room, disappearing into the stacks as he makes his way to the exit.  

—

The night is as predicted, cold, cloudless and utterly dark, barely even a star visible in the inky blackness. Despite the hot summer days, the temperature plummets overnight, leaving everyone out and about wrapped in their thick coats or huddled by the fire to stay warm. Even Jun, as he stands by the dock with his hands shoved into his pockets and with his shoulders hunched around his ears. 

There are few people around, only a single Stalker by the entrance who’s spending more of his time trying to speak to those on duty just down the hall rather than watch the docks. Why would he need to anyway? Few people know about the dock built into the island, sheltered from all who would approach from the Krat side of the island, and any boat sailing by would be picked up by those manning the searchlights on the walls. Jun checks his watch and nods to himself. Almost midnight. Time to get going. 

He keeps a steady pace as he heads through the Abbey’s corridors. Fast enough that he’ll reach Sophia’s room in a timely manner, but not so fast that anyone on duty would mark him as suspicious. So he passes a few people, dips his head in acknowledgment as he goes, smiles when needed. 

Her door is unguarded, as expected, and unlocked, also as expected. Jun fidgets by the door for a moment, adjusts the bag with every ounce of evidence he’s ever been able to find so that it sits comfortably over his hwando. Opening that door means going through with a plan that’s a year in the making, one that could completely ruin the Alchemists, or completely ruin his own life instead. He takes a deep breath, and he opens the door.

The first thing he notices is how hot the room is. The air is stifling, and the moment the door opens it’s like being blasted by a newly opened oven. It’s cold, yes, but surely not that cold. He can already feel himself sweating, and he’s barely stepped foot inside. The room has an air of neglect to it, as if no one had been by to clean for a few days. Jun knows that someone does come by, fairly regularly, to clean and do Sophia’s washing, but it seems as though that hasn’t been the case. Decorative blankets have been pulled onto the floor, as have pillows, the bathroom door is open and he can see a towel snaking out of the doorway. At first he doesn’t see her but when he goes to inspect the fire, filled to the brim with ashes, he finds a young woman curled in a nest of blankets and pillows, half propped against the foot of the couch. She looks half asleep, eyes lidded and expression blank as she stares into the fire, and she has no reaction when Jun approaches and crouches across from her. 

“Sophia?” 

Nothing seems to change until, very slowly, her eyes slide away from the fire and instead look at him. It’s very disconcerting. 

“Sophia,” he tries again. “Can you wake up?”

Jun reaches forward to shake her gently but she seems to rouse herself, straightening from her tilt and blinking her eyes a few times to clear them. 

“I’m awake,” she murmurs, more to herself than him. Sophia looks up at Jun, shakes her head as if to focus herself then really scrutinises him. “I recognise you.”

“I used to work for your father,” Jun replies. “And I’ve been trying to help you. My name is Jun, it’s nice to finally meet you.”

Sophia hums.

“Are you bringing me to Simon?” She asks. “It’s late but I wouldn’t put it past him.”

“No I’m-“ Jun forces himself to smile at her as he does a small bow, like a gentleman. “I’m going to help you escape.”

Sophia immediately perks up, unwrapping her hands from the blankets she’s cocooned herself and using them to sit herself completely upright, and then rapidly scraping her fingers through her hair in what he can only assume is a way to let out some excess energy. 

“I didn’t think that was still happening,” she says as she goes, untying her messy bun to begin untangling the hair. “I haven’t seen Giangio in two days so I thought I’d be stuck here.”

Jun raises an eyebrow. 

“Of course we’re still rescuing you,” he says. “Whatever gave you that impression?”

“We, um.” Her rapid movements still and she starts chewing on her lower lip. “We had a falling out.”

“Oh.” That’s not good. “Will you be ready to head off soon?”

“Ah-“ Sophia quickly leverages herself up to peer over the couch to have a look at the room and then thumps back into the pile. “As long as you don’t mind me staying dressed like this, then yes.”

She begins unwrapping her blanket cocoon a little more, revealing that she’s only dressed in a nightgown. She dithers for a moment, and looks away from him a little embarrassed.

“Actually, I want to grab something while we wait. Can you help me get to my room? I can’t walk.”

Jun frowns at the admission but still positions himself so he can scoop her into his arms. She’s fairly light, and now that she’s entirely unwrapped he can see the blackened stumps hanging from her thighs. Petrified from the knee down, as far as he can tell, and traced through with vibrant blue fissures of infected flesh.

“Sorry,” she says.

“No it’s…” It’s not what he was expecting. “Giangio didn’t mention it.”

Jun had only seen Sophia sporadically during her time on the island, and always at her worst moments. The last time he had seen her was during her surgery, almost an autopsy cadaver as Simon removed the Ergo crystal growing inside her. He supposes he should have figured that she had the Petrification Disease.

“I’m sorry,” she says again, much quieter.

Jun carries her over to her bedroom, depositing her on the bed for the moment. The room is clean and tidy, the bed neatly made, the cupboards and drawers all closed.  It looks like it hasn’t been used, at least not recently, a stark contrast to the living room, where everything is in some way lying on the floor. The observation makes Jun frown, troubled.

“Where have you been sleeping?”

Sophia hunches her shoulders, pausing in her resumed hair fixing to cringe.

“By the fire,” she says quietly. “It’s hard to get back to bed.”

“You-” He has to pause and take a steadying breath. “What about the Alchemists giving you food? Surely they could have carried you.”

“I’m sick , Jun,” Sophia snaps. “They leave my food at the door and expect me to drag myself over there if I want to eat.”

“And Giangio-”

“He hates me,” she says, sniffing angrily and rubbing at her eyes. 

“Oh.”

Jun shuffles in place uncomfortably as Sophia sniffs once again, visibly steeling her resolve before finishing with her hair, twisting it into a knot on the back of her head and pinning it in place. It used to be red, if he remembers correctly, but now it looks almost blue grey, only a few streaks of its original colour remaining.

“Would you be able to grab the coat for me?” She asks. “In the cupboard, it’s blue.”

Jun obliges, walking over and pulling out a pale blue woollen coat with a big silver butterfly pinned to the lapel. He’s seen her in it a few times, and when he hands it over she quickly shoves her arms into it, hugging them around her body. She just about disappears into it, the cut far too big for her.

“Anything else?” He asks. 

Sophia shakes her head which surprises him. He would have thought she’d want to take some things with her. He supposed it saves him some trouble, considering he’ll need to carry her down to the sub. 

Jun steps forward and with her permission, picks Sophia up again and heads for the living room and the entrance to her rooms. He stops just by the door, to give Sophia an opportunity to make any last minute decisions, but she looks as if she’s fallen asleep again, with her head resting against his chest and eyes closed. 

“Sophia,” he prompts. “We’re heading out.”

“Ok,” she murmurs. She somehow curls in on herself further, shifting in his arms, and lets out a sigh. “Will Giangio be there?”

Jun adjusts his grip and shrugs, before remembering that she can’t see it, and instead makes a noise to indicate he doesn’t know. He sticks his head out the door, determines the coast is clear, before heading into the hallway. 

“Will we see Romeo?” She asks.

“I don’t know who that is,” he whispers in return. “Voice down, ok?”

Sophia hums, finally cracking an eye open to look at him.

“He can help,” she murmurs. “He’s sad at the moment, but if we go see him he’ll help.”

“He’s in Krat?”

Sophia nods. 

As they trot down a long flight of stairs, quietly and cautiously, Jun considers his options. 

The plan had been to take Sophia from her room, escorted by Giangio, and take her down to the dock, where they’d take the sub back to Krat, going as deep as they could to avoid the searchlights. From there, they part ways, Giangio to take Sophia to his safe house, and Jun would make his way to Medoro to drop off the evidence. After that, it would be a matter of laying low until the article was published. If Giangio had bailed on the plan at the last minute, as it seemed, Jun would need to take Sophia to a safe place first before he dropped off the evidence with Medoro. He doubted his friend would take too kindly to having to harbour an infected woman in his house, even if it was Sophia Monad. Her inability to walk certainly made things more complicated, it made moving through Krat stealthily far more difficult, and he didn’t exactly have room in his little apartment for her for an extended period of time. This Romeo though…

“Where is he?” Jun asks. 

“Drinking at the Red Lobster Inn,” she says. Sophia takes a beat at the oddly specific comment, cheeks turning slightly pink as if realising how strange that sounded. “His apartment is in Malum.”

“Oh. And you reckon he’ll help? I know we weren’t really telling each other anything because of Simon, but Giangio didn’t mention anyone else.”

They reach the bottom of the stairs and Jun takes a moment to check around the corners, finding the corridor empty. They’re moving into much more trafficked areas of the Abbey, even late at night, so they’ll need to be more cautious from here on out. 

“He’ll help,” Sophia whispers. She nods her head firmly. “He misses me.” And then, even quieter somehow. “I miss him too.”

Jun’s not going to get into it. 

He adjusts his grip and starts heading down the winding corridors and stairs, moving much slower and more carefully, keeping to the shadows where possible. The corridors are strangely empty, the usual guard posts devoid of people he had passed barely fifteen minutes ago. It makes the going quicker, but sets Jun on edge. While there could be a situation elsewhere on the island, calling guards away to help, there were some spots that were only abandoned under the most dire of situations and he knows that isn’t the case. He’d be able to tell. In his arms, Sophia closes her eyes and her breathing evens out, indicating that she’s somehow managed to fall asleep. Her recovery must be exhausting if she’s able to fall asleep that quickly. Jun takes a moment to rest, worry making him chew at the inside of his cheeks as he awkwardly repositions her again. There are a few ways to get down to the docks, and he only knows one of them with any degree of certainty. He could head through the dungeons far below the island, using their twisting labyrinthine corridors to cross a section of the complex that would be guarded, thus avoiding running into anyone. Another possibility is heading back up again and using the various sky bridges connecting sections of the Abbey together, but particularly the ones that would lead him through the more ruined sections of the Abbey. There would be guards, but less. The final option, and the one he knows best, is just through the main walkways. He’s not so familiar with the dungeons, risking him getting lost, and the ruined sections of the Abbey would likely require traversal over ancient rubble, something that would be difficult with Sophia incapacitated as she is. But the lack of guards through the main corridors, so far, tempts him. 

“Sophia?” He murmurs, jostling her a little. 

“Romeo?”

Jun frowns and shakes his head, even though she still has her eyes closed. 

“Just me. We’re going to push our luck, sound good?” 

She just hums. 

He begins moving again, taking a much slower and careful pace. He keeps his head on a swivel, any faint sound causing him to lock in place, the barest movements sending him darting into shadows. He’s jumping at nothing mostly, rats and birds shuffling about in the rubble and corners of rooms, but he knows something isn’t right. There should be guards at every corner, patrolling every corridor, but there’s no one in sight. Not even an Alchemist running a midnight errand. But he’s getting close, too close to start inspecting gift horses. He picks up the pace, boots shuffling and thumping against the stone, his bag and Sophia bouncing against his body as he starts jogging. Around this corner, down these stairs-

There is no guard by the dock but the torches and electric lights are still lit once he enters the cavern, footsteps echoing against the natural stone walls that make up the exterior of the dock. In the distance, the sweeping beam of the searchlights flashing periodically across the water and even further still the lights of Krat glittering like stars. He places Sophia and his bag on one of the benches that line the edge and jogs over to the sub, boots clanking across the metal walkway up to the sealed hatch. The wheel is tight and he grunts as he shoves it around, the hatch opening on squeaking hinges that are too loud in the space. From there he jumps inside, moving as quickly as he can to the front to turn the thing on and get the engine primed, deciding that worrying about getting Sophia comfortable for the journey can wait until they’re on said journey. Getting her through the top is his biggest concern, since dropping her down isn’t exactly ideal and the squeeze is too small to carry her in his arms. He quickly curses Giangio, since an extra pair of hands would be really useful right now, and climbs back out to go get to his charge.

Sophia has sat herself upright and is now watching his return, still hunched into her coat like a protective cocoon. 

“Where’s Giangio?” She asks. “He should be here!”

Jun holds his hands out placatingly, looking over his shoulder quickly before he crouches in front of her. Sophia’s eyes are glassy with tears, brow pulled into frown, confusion dragging at her features. 

“Sshh, voice down,” he says gently. “He left, remember?”

She shakes her head rapidly. 

“No, no, he said he was helping, saving me-“ She brings her hands to her mouth to cover a gasp. “What’s happening? How long-“

“Hey, it’s alright.” Jun has to fight the urge to just grab her and put her in the sub, her obvious confusion be damned. They don’t have time for him to soothe her deteriorating mental state. “It’s only been a bit.”

Sophia visibly relaxes, sinking back into her coat and leaning against the rough stone of the walls. She looks just about ready to fall asleep again. 

“We’ll wait for him, won’t we?”

“He went ahead,” Jun lies, trying to keep his voice soft and soothing. “We’re gonna meet with him, in Krat.”

She gives a tiny nod. 

“I miss him.”

“I know you do,” he says. “Now-“

He rises from his crouch and reaches forward to begin scooping her into his arms, but stops at the sound of shuffling feet and heavy boots making their way down the stairs. There’s no time to just pull her along, especially not with his bag of evidence sitting next to her, so he straightens and turns instead, drawing his hwando and readying the blade. Sophia lets out a distressed moan, and he hears her shuffled back against the wall. 

Down the stairs come the Stalkers, far too many for the two of them, all with their weapons at the ready. In the middle is Simon, looking very much like he’s about to head out for an afternoon stroll, with Adriana close behind. Jun shifts, making sure he’s standing in front of Sophia and the oncoming tide as they surround the two of them, blocking off both the stairs and the way to the sub.

“Come now,” Simon says, his voice easily resounding throughout the cavern. “There will be no need for ugliness. Weapons down.”

Jun just adjusts his grip, but all of the Stalkers lower their weapons, simply standing at attention. He knows most of these people, even if it isn’t well. Pierre, who preferred a pipe over cigarettes, Alexei, who was always fiddling with one of his two blades. The twins, Anne and Alain with their matching polearms, and Maximilian, who everyone called Maxie. More, with faces bathed in shadow, too distant for Jun to make out. People he’s spoken to, worked with however briefly. People he could tentatively say he was friends with, maybe just a fondly remembered coworker if he was unlucky. And all people who wouldn’t listen to empathy or reason, more interested in a paycheck than Sophia’s wellbeing.

“I see,” Simon says neutrally. 

He steps out of the group and stands just out of Jun’s range, cane held loosely in his hand as he settles in front. The Alchemist gives his best approximation of a smile, lopsided and baring too many teeth.

“This can be forgiven,” he says easily. “We can take Sophia back to her room, let her rest. It’s going to be a big day for her tomorrow.”

“Please no,” she faintly whispers. 

“I can’t let you do that,” Jun says, trying to keep his voice steady and firm. Killing Simon would be easy, and would likely break the spirits of the men and women simply waiting for an easy paycheck, but his loyal attack dog stood too close behind. She’d gut him in a heartbeat. Easier to just give up Sophia now, maybe still have a chance of seeing Yoo-Jin again.

Fuck.

“I can’t let you do that,” he repeats.

“A pity,” Simon says. “But it is of no concern of mine whether Sophia is returned to me willingly or otherwise.”

Simon waves a hand and two of the Stalkers step forward, Alexei readying his twin daggers while Pierre adopts a formal fencing posture.

“She’s being hurt!” Jun insists. “Can’t you see?”

Alexei shrugs.

“It’s just a job, Jun.”

Pierre is the one to spring forward first, his rapier thrusting forward like a stinging insect. Jun blocks them neatly, keeping one eye on Alexei who immediately begins to circle around. Pierre was the bastard son of a noble, raised in the lap of luxury until his father finally managed to produce a true born heir for the estate, and his fighting style shows it. He’s caught up in technical fencing forms and has never drawn blood in his life, more suited as a trumped up guardsmen than attack dog. Alexei was a different story, raised on the streets and in the underground fighting rings of Syroy before a run-in with the law forced him out of the city. He was brutal, and fought dirty. Pierre’s unspoken job would be to distract while Alexei flanked Jun, allowing him an easy kill, but if Jun could deal with Alexei immediately he wouldn’t have to worry about splitting his attention. Jun rushes forward, swinging his blade in a wide arc and slashing across his opponents chest, biting through cloth and leather but failing to draw blood as Pierre yelps and desperately attempts to scramble away. It’s enough of a distraction that gives Jun the opportunity to whirl around as Alexei lunges forward, the clash of steel on steel reverberating throughout the cavern. Jun’s only vaguely aware of the yells of the watching crowd, of Sophia’s terrified expression as the fighting suddenly veers too close to her, forcing Jun into an unfavourable position and earning him a cut above his brow for his troubles. He darts back and forth, finally managing to force Pierre out of the fight by cutting long stripes along his inner thighs and close to his knees, allowing him to finally focus his full attention on Alexei. The man is fast, attacking and retreating to just out of Jun’s range. He’ll need to do something risky if he wants to try and stop the man, who’s not as deterred by his injuries as Pierre. Jun lunges forward, aiming for the gap just under the man’s arm and Alexei skitters out of the way, falling for the feint as Jun is able to turn it into a wide slash that cuts through the meat of his bicep. Alexei grunts as he tries and fails valiantly to hold up the dagger on his injured side. He’s moving slower now, his strikes wilder, with blood running easily down a trembling hand and pain pulling his face into a grimace. Alexei was a fighter, trained to push through injuries such as these, he wouldn’t give up until he was on the ground, dead or unconscious and Jun earns himself more injuries from a harder to predict blade as it slices through the air in desperation. Jun hisses as the dagger thrusts forward and drags through his side, a shallow cut that spans the depth of his torso that has Alexei overextended and slow to recover. It’s the opportunity he needs. With the other man lunging low, Jun spins himself out of the way and grips his hwando in two hands, twisting so he can raise the blade high and plunge the tip downwards and through Alexei’s back and out his stomach. The assembled Stalkers break out into shouts as their comrade spits and gurgles, collapsing into a bloody heap when Jun rips his blade free. Blood pools thickly around him, faint choking breathes the only thing indicating that the man was still alive.

The group is wary, keeping weapons drawn but also their distance from Jun, Alexei’s body like a line in the sand. A few people fidget, obviously wanting to dash forward and attend to their fallen comrade, but find themselves unable to break the uneasy stalemate. Jun pants, air scalding his throat as he gulps it down, ignoring the blood that trickles from the gash on his head and the sticky wet on his shirt.

“I will kill each and every one of you,” Jun says between breaths. “If it means Sophia can be free.”

From the back, Simon purses his lips before gesturing again. Adriana steps forward, the remaining Stalkers scrambling out of her way as she removes her massive sword from behind her back. She doesn’t unsheathe it, instead holding the flat of it in front of her like a massive shield before dashing forward. The impact is like being trampled by a horse, unrelenting and heavy as they collide, Jun unable to do more than take her weight and try to stop the momentum. They skid backwards, making Sophia yell out in fear, and Adriana tries to fling him aside with the flat of her blade. It smacks into his torso, making him grunt, but he holds steady, instead turning and using her weight to then throw Adriana away. The woman sprawls, baring her teeth as she rises to her feet. 

“What inspires such loyalty?” She demands. “Did the whore spread her legs for you too?”

“I could say the same to you,” Jun replies and the Stalkers titter around Simon despite his harsh glare.

Jun readies his blade and charges as Adriana gets to her feet, attempting to slash across her stomach but she brings her blade up to catch the blow, once again pushing back. It knocks him off balance but he rights himself quickly enough to bring his blade up to catch the blunt edge of the scabbard as she swings at him. The impact jars up his arms and she doesn’t let up, swing after swing after swing that threatens to break his blade. He backpedals, trying to get out of her monstrous range but the tip collides with his side with an almighty crack . Jun skitters away, a palm now placed over the probably broken rib as he gasps for air. It hurts like nobody’s business. 

Adriana gives him no opportunity to rest, rushing forward to once again try and fling him aside with the flat of her blade. The blade collides and Jun is flung aside, losing his balance and grip on his blade. He skids on the uneven flooring, the rough stone slicing at exposed skin, before he finally stops just before the metal grating. Wheezing, he attempts to lift himself up but something heavy suddenly settles itself on his back and grabs his momentarily outstretched arm and wrenches it to the side and back. He lets out something halfway between a groan and a scream as Adriana readjusts her crushing weight, stretching his arm to its absolute limit as she holds it in place. Simon finally makes his way over, the tip of his cane tapping lightly on the ground as he considers Jun’s prone form. He sighs. 

“Well fought,” Simon rumbles. “It was over the moment Giangio made his choice, and yet you continued anyway. A waste, but an entertaining one.”

He waves his hand and Adriana yanks. Jun howls, the visceral feeling of muscle and tendons stretching beyond their limits until they tear, setting his arm ablaze with pain. Adriana lets go and he feels his arm drop to the ground like a dead weight, only distantly aware of the woman finally getting off him and stepping to the side. From this angle he can just see Sophia, huddled in her bright blue cocoon, chanting desperate apologies. 

“ I’m sorry, I’m sorry, please, you should have run, left me, why would bother with someone like me-”

Adriana kicks him for good measure.

“Come,” Simon says. “Sophia, you will need rest, what with all the commotion and stress of the night. And-” he flicks a hand dismissively. “Take this one to a cell for now.”

Jun feels like he is very distant as two remaining Stalkers haul him to his feet, an all encompassing dull ache flooding his body while his shoulder screams in agony. As they drag him away, feet catching on the stairs, he watches Simon kneel in front of Sophia reverently, almost in supplication with the way he holds Sophia’s hands in his.

“Dear,” he murmurs, barely audible. “You mustn't run, mustn’t be scared. Your evolution is a beautiful, wondrous thing.”

“I’m tired,” she whispers back. “Please..”

Her words are drowned out by the shuffling of feet, and Jun is dragged away to his fate.

–

He’s not sure how long he spends in that cell. There is no light, barring a single bare bulb that burns too bright when he looks at it, but not bright enough when he stands away from the bars. His shoulder burns with pain, likely dislocated, and hangs like a heavy weight out of its socket. Breathing is difficult too, each gasp like a knife jamming itself into his side, and his side is tacky with blood.

So Jun sleeps when he can, plans when he can’t. Tries to, anyway. How do you escape from a cell, on an island, far from land, with one arm and no equipment? He finds that he’s spending most of his time coming to terms with his impending death, really. Simon is not above public execution, and Jun has dared to commit the highest treason among Alchemists.

Time wears on. Hunger cramps at his stomach, a barely felt pain over everything else, but thirst makes his mouth tacky, his lips shrivelling and cracking with each pained breath. Humans can live two days without water, give or take. Maybe Simon simply intended to let Jun waste away, rather than waste time and energy on a rapidly shrinking problem. A stress headache turns into a dehydration headache, and Jun finds himself unable to gain any respite in his sleep. 

He hopes Sophia is ok.

Shadows shift and stretch, the bulb flickering and abruptly blowing out. Darkness fills the cell, miles of stone suddenly pressing down on him, making it even harder to breath-

Something, stepping out of the darkness. An angel, perhaps, in the right light. Pale skin, eyes like vibrant crystals shining in a light that the creature seems to cast from its own body. But Jun knows a devil when he sees it. He uncurls from the corner he’d been content to die in and shuffles up to the bars, so close that he can feel the bitter cold the metal seems to radiate.

“What are you doing here?” he demands. 

“I came to see you,” Giangio replies. “I heard what happened.”

“Save your pity,” Jun spits. “Where were you? Sophia was crying for you.”

Giangio doesn’t respond for a moment, staring at him with strange unblinking eyes instead. He then looks away, so quick it’s almost like a flinch.

“I had other matters to attend to.”

“You coward, ” Jun snarls. “You sold us out! Did she stop being good enough for you? Did she finally tell you no?”

Giangio’s head whips back to face him, expression turning ugly, skin mottling purple and white. He steps forward, just as close to the bars as Jun stands, breathing harsh and uneven. Jun just laughs.

“Pathetic,” he taunts. “She stops being a good lay and suddenly-”

Giangio’s hand shoots through the bars and catches Jun by the throat in a grip so tight and firm any words he had been about to say die in a strained whistle. He scrabbles at the vice around his throat, purchase difficult to find with only one hand, and the grip tightens. Dark spots dance in front of his eyes.

“Finish that sentence,” Giangio growls. “I dare you.”

Jun can only gasp for air like a dying fish until he finally releases. Jun sags against the bars, supporting his weight suddenly too much for him.

“I came to let you out,” Giangio says stiffly. “Simon has ordered your execution for tomorrow, at midday.”
“So?” Jun asks, rubbing at his neck. Air rattles through his abused throat as he glares at the man in front of him. “Why let me out?”

“You have a sister,” Giangio replies simply.

Shock has any of the anger Jun had felt towards the man bleed out of him. He opens his mouth, coughs, and clears his throat. It still burns.

“And what about Sophia?”

“I-” Once again, Giangio won’t look at him. “What Simon is doing is necessary.”

“But-”

Giangio glares at him again and Jun shuts his mouth.

“Take this second chance while you can Jun,” Giangio says. “If you try to rescue Sophia, if you try to expose Simon, just know that you’ll be dealing with a far bigger power than Simon. Think about Yoo-Jin.”

Jun shakes his head, finally looking away from the devil behind the bars in front of him. He… can’t leave Yoo-Jin alone. He can’t leave her to fend for herself, not in a world that already made it hard enough for the two of them together.

“Fine,” he says shortly.

“Good.” Jun can’t see Giangio’s hands but there’s a rustle of cloth and the squeak of hinges and the cell door opens inwards, allowing Jun to shuffle his way through. The Alchemist is a far shorter man than he is, but Jun finds himself feeling small and insignificant next to him.

“There is a boat at the dock,” Giangio explains. “Containing any equipment you might need. It will break apart on the rocks on Krat’s cliffside, and you will drown, your body not being found for another two weeks. Entirely unrecognisable.”

“I-” Jun swallows. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me,” Giangio says with a huff. “You’re a good man Jun. And good men spend too much of their time dying before they’re ready.”

Jun grimaces, but nods his head regardless. Giangio makes no motion to go so Jun moves past him, each step an agony as he makes his way up the stairs and back to the deserted dock. Giangio had been truthful this time, but he still finds himself on edge as he goes through the process of casting off, slowed by only one working arm. And then it’s to Krat, the glittering city of opportunity across the waves. He couldn’t save the princess, couldn’t reveal Simon’s cruelty to the world. But maybe he can keep his baby sister safe, at the very least.

Chapter Text

Simon carries Sophia back to her room, a journey that had felt like forever in the Stalker’s arms, but no time at all in her captor’s. It’s a surprising display of care from him, but not one she particularly appreciates. Giangio had promised her home, Jun had gotten himself hurt for her, and yet she’s no closer to freedom.

“I want to go home,” she murmurs.

Simon sighs, shifting his grip as they start up the stairs. One of his knees cracks.

“This is your home Sophia,” he says, but instead of sounding angry he just sounds tired. It’s a far cry from that strange reverence he had shown her only minutes previously. “This must continue.”

They walk in silence, all the way back up to her tower cell and into her bed. Simon gives the living room a distasteful look as he carries her through, taking in the discarded blankets, towels and cushions covering the floor. Sophia suddenly feels very embarrassed. 

“Where’s Giangio?” She asks in a small voice. “Jun said he went ahead. He-“ she doesn’t want to think about what Simon will do with him.

“Giangio left the island two days ago,” Simon replies matter of factly. He reaches around her to adjust some of her pillows, giving her a gentle push to get her to lie back. “He sold you out Sophia.”

She shakes her head emphatically. He wouldn’t, he was going to save her, bring her home, he lo-

Simon chuckles in the back of his throat, mouth twisted into a cruel smile.

“Not as much a saviour as you thought,” he says. “I told you he was a coward.”

“Don’t say that about him!” Sophia cries. 

“Why shouldn’t I? I’m right.” There’s something unbelievably petty about his tone that makes Sophia’s eyes well with tears. He cups her cheek, sliding his thumb along her jawline as he finally straightens, expression shifting into smugness. I’ve won, it says.

“Now that your caretaker has resigned,” Simon says, settling into a comfortable position with his hands clasped behind his back. “I will be organising a team for your personal care. Testing will continue as planned, starting tomorrow. Do you have any questions?”

“What about Jun?” Sophia asks.

“The Stalker?” She nods. “He will be executed. Aside from attempting to abduct you, he is a foreign spy. I do not take kindly to being spied upon by my rivals.”

Sophia rubs at her eyes, sniffing as Simon continues to stand over her. All Jun had done was try to rescue her, she doesn’t care that he was stealing information. Maybe he could have gotten it out into the world, told people about how horrible and cruel Simon was, but that was no longer a possibility.

“Please don’t kill him.”

Simon just shakes his head.

“It is a lesson, and you know the best kind.” He starts to turn, giving her a long look over his shoulder. “Get some sleep, my dear. You will need your strength in the coming days.”

He completes his turn and leaves, flicking off the light and shutting the door behind him, leaving Sophia in the darkness. She runs her hands over the blankets, getting a feel for the texture of the material. She hasn’t been able to sleep in this bed since Giangio left, unable to drag herself up and onto the mattress, and she sinks into the pillows and under the covers. He couldn’t have left her. Simon must be lying to her, trying to get a rise out of her, or break her spirit even sooner. He just needed time to cool off, get his thoughts in order and then she could apologise. Explain. Try not to hallucinate her boyfriend in his place.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers to the dark room. “Please come back.”

—

When Sophia wakes she finds Giangio in the chair next to her, hunched forward with his hands clasped as if in prayer. She wriggles in place, rubbing the sleep from her eyes with stiff hands. A sign of Petrification, or just residual sleep?

“Morning,” she murmurs. 

“How do you feel?”

“Sore.” Sophia sighs. “Tired.”

Giangio hums, deep and rumbling in the back of his throat. 

“I’ll get the IV set up again.”

“I don’t want the IV,” she protests, but he only gives her a firm look. 

“I’ll get the IV set up.”

He stands and walks to the door, sticking his head out and saying a quiet word to someone on the other side. Sophia frowns. Giangio doesn’t normally come to her rooms with other people, in fact she was fairly certain he despised everyone on the island except herself. He walks back and sits again, reaching a hand forward and taking hers, rubbing cold calloused fingertips over her knuckles. 

“Are you ok?” Sophia asks in a small voice. She feels like speaking out of turn, when their relationship is as tentative as it is, will only make things worse. 

“I am well,” Giangio replies, a faint frown marring his perfect brow. He looks like he’s about to say something but stops himself, instead just scrutinising Sophia. She heaves herself further up the pillows, finally throwing some of her blankets aside. It’s the height of summer and she’s only just now beginning to feel the heat.

“Breakfast first,” Giangio says. “And then to the labs. It has been some time since we have worked together.”

“What?” Sophia blurts out. “When-“

She cuts herself off, mind reeling. What did he mean? Was he referring to every time that Simon had tortured her and he had been forced to watch or, worse, every time that he had been forced to hold the instruments himself? Did he see that as “working together”? Why did he sound so nonchalant, so pleased about the prospect? Did he enjoy participating in her torture? Was he-

Giangio’s face smears and runs like wet paint and Sophia recoils when he reaches forward to take her hand. 

“What can you see, my dear?”

Are you awake?

A knock at the door interrupts Sophia as she begins to open her mouth, some kind of plea still sitting on her tongue. The hand about to be placed on her own snaps back, and Giangio rises heavily, striding over and opening the door. A young Alchemist stands in the doorway holding a tray of food that he holds out like a peace offering.

“Of course.”

Giangio steps aside, allowing the man to enter before stepping through to the other side. Sophia can just see him talking to unknown people just beyond before he appears back in the doorway.

“Eat, rest,” he commands. “I will have you brought down when it is time.”

The Alchemist puts the tray of food on her lap as Giangio sweeps from the room, taking the other unknown people with him. This is wrong, all wrong, but she’s too exhausted to try and figure out what’s happening. Everything is muddled and dreamlike again, the lights too bright, the colours both too saturated and not saturated enough. Even the man in the room with her, standing just off to the side and looking incredibly nervous amidst his smeared features.

“Am I awake?” She asks, more to herself than anything but the man in the room flinches.

“You are,” he replies in a high pitched voice. “But, um. I’m not supposed to talk to you. Sir Manus said.“

“Of course,” she says softly. Can’t have another one of his men falling under her spell. 

Sophia eats, the bland porridge sticking to her tongue as the Alchemist watches her nervously. She’s only been awake for half an hour at most and she’s exhausted. If anything she misses when she had too much energy, those long days when she’d pace in endless circles or when she’d take to destroying her room. Better days than this.

Once finished the Alchemist takes her bowl and tray retreats from the room, leaving Sophia to her own company once again. Being able to sleep in her own bed is nice, her sore and tight muscles are certainly thanking her, but it complicates other aspects of her life. She’ll need to drag herself over to the bathroom to relieve herself and try to clean herself off with a cold damp cloth, and the drop onto the floor has never looked so high.

“Stupid Alchemists,” she mutters, as she throws the blankets aside and begins the exhausting process of manually moving her legs around. “Stupid Simon. Doing this to me and then not even helping with it.”

She gets both legs over the edge of the bed and tests her weight on them once again. The only thing she can use to help support her weight is the side table, so she awkwardly leans over to place a hand on it to lever herself up and onto her knees. It’s like kneeling on broken glass and one of the joints makes a snapping noise, shooting pain up her leg and making her bite back a scream.

“I hate you,” she whispers. “I hate you, I hate you, I hate you-“

Lowering herself onto her hands, Sophia starts the long, painful and humiliating crawl out of the room, fumbling with the door handle to her bedroom before she is finally able to enter back into the living area. She’s been left be for the time being, thank god, and her pile of blankets in front of the fire has been removed. When Giangio stays for an extended period of time her washing and cleaning tends to be left, so she won’t be surprised if by the time she returns to her room, after Simon has had her fill of torturing her, she’ll have clean sheets and a dusted room.

She heads over to the bathroom and with a great deal of difficulty manages to haul herself up to relieve herself, using the opportunity of sitting upright to try and figure out what’s going on. Her head still feels fuzzy, the colours too strange, but the pain in her legs and stomach has at least kept her awake for the time being. 

The escape had failed, somehow Simon had found out. He’d lied, told her that Giangio had revealed the plan and left, and yet she’d just seen him . Sophia chews on her lip for a moment, considering how he’d been acting… weird. Had Simon said something? Threatened him? Adriana had thrown her weight around with Giangio enough that he could be scared for his life, and as much as she wished it wasn’t the case, maybe he was simply putting himself first. She needed to speak with him again, find out what was wrong. Apologise. She didn’t want Simon succeeding in whatever he had planned for her, she wanted to go home. Live out the rest of her life with Romeo before she succumbed to Petrification.

Bring Giangio with her.

Feeling somewhat resolved, Sophia lowers herself back onto the floor and pulls herself across the tiles, avoiding the pile of glass that she’d carefully managed to sweep together after the mirror had been broken. From there, she pulls her washcloth down from the sink and slides over to the bath, awkwardly reaching her hand around to wet it from those taps, rather than the higher up basin. Giangio had been kind enough to carry her to the bathroom, patiently waiting and even assisting her when she’d needed it. She burned with humiliation every time she’d had to ask, a strong enough emotion that it helped cut through any lingering drowsiness. Now she wishes he was here to help, the two days on her own were only the beginning and she dreaded to think of how she’d care for herself once the Petrification spread past her knees, and even into her hands.

Sophia leans against the side of the tub and begins wiping herself down, shivering at the film of cold water now covering her skin. Her hair needs a wash, desperately, and it’s tangled uncomfortably at the base of her neck. Across from her, the pile of glass glitters like stars on the tiles, only flashes of her reflection visible in what had once been a mirror. Most of the chunks are fairly large, and all are sharp. She reaches over and gingerly picks up one of the pieces on top, one shaped almost like a blade without a handle. She could hurt herself with this, hell, she could hurt someone else with this. She chews her lip again, eyes scanning the room. Someone will clean this pile up eventually, and having a blade sort of close by would be a boon. Maybe she could kill Simon with this.

Maybe she could kill herself.

Carefully, Sophia drags herself out of the bathroom and over to the fireplace, lamenting that someone had decided to take her blankets. She just wants to wrap herself up and go to sleep but now she has nothing to do that with. Very carefully, she slides the chunk of glass between the wood of the frame and the fabric of the couch cushion, close enough to the edge that she can easily wiggle her fingers into the gap and pull it out, but not so close it was obviously visible. Now, truly exhausted, she grabs the pillows that haven’t been removed and places them about herself, two behind her back against the couch, another to her side and the final one hugged to her stomach for comfort. She’s aching and sore again, and one of the pustules on her leg is now weeping blue fluid down her Petrified calf. She sighs and leans back into the cushions to get some rest.

–

Sophia isn’t sure how long she sleeps, but when she wakes the sun is high in the sky, streaming through open curtains in bright shafts. There are Alchemists in her room, more than she’s ever seen. Simon stands in the middle of the room directing them as they haul things through the door and into her room. Medical equipment as far as she can tell. Sophia flops back onto the cushions, gazing up at a ceiling that smears from wooden rafters to a bright clear sky, only faintly speckled with clouds. Krat Central Park would be lovely today.

“Ah, you’re awake,” Simon says, noticing her movement and walking over. He crouches in front of her, frowning slightly. “Why are you here?”

“Can’t get back into bed by myself,” she mumbles. “Had to use the bathroom.”

Simon hums, rubbing a knuckle on his chin for a moment.

“It slipped my mind that you would have needed assistance so soon,” he admits. “I will make sure you have an attendant by the time we return.”

Sophia huffs and rolls her eyes, finally forcing herself properly upright as Simon stands and walks over to one of the Alchemists, once again starting to direct them as he pleases. She’s certainly not interested in what he’s doing, not anymore. For all she knows he’s setting up torture devices in her room and she wouldn’t be able to do anything about it. She closes her eyes, intending to go back to sleep, but something shuffles in front of her, cloth and fabric and as Sophia opens her eyes again, an Alchemist reaches down and roughly hauls her up by the arm. She shrieks in surprise as she is lifted, now supported only by the arm the Alchemist is holding her by as her legs sit at awkward angles, unable to support her weight.

“Let go!” She cries.

The cry has caught the attention of everyone in the room, people stopping and turning as Sophia struggles against the man now easily grabbing her and hoisting her over his shoulder like a flour sack. She shrieks again, smacking him weakly with her fist, making him grunt.

“Let go!”

The Alchemist spins in place, now putting Sophia face to face with Simon as he stands in front of her with a frown on his face.

“This will continue regardless of what you want,” he says. “I would advise not wearing yourself out so soon.”

“Fuck you.” Swearing feels good, a bright spot of adrenaline amongst everything currently upsetting her.

Simon just sighs, waving his hand dismissively. Everyone breaks out of their reverie, continuing whatever they had been doing as the Alchemist currently holding her begins walking out of the room. Sophia hits the man again, trying to flail about as much as possible so she’ll be dropped but the man has an iron grasp. The only thing she gets for her trouble is a tearing pain through her stomach and enough exhaustion to last the rest of the day. She finally flops against his shoulder, defeated.

“Where are you taking me?” She asks.

The man doesn’t respond for a long time.

“Labs,” he says in a slow, deep voice.

“Lucky me,” she mutters. 

Sophia lets out a big huff and tries to shift in the man’s grip so the pressure on her stomach isn’t as great but he just bounces her back into position. She huffs again.

“I’m going to sleep,” she announces. “Don’t wake me when we get there.”

At least she can fall asleep whenever she wants these days.

–

Sophia doesn’t wake in the labs like she had expected, rather she finds herself once again back in her bed, tucked neatly under the covers. The room is dark, the curtains drawn, but she can see a faint light under the crack from the living room. Shuffling in place she flings the covers aside and starts moving her legs but the door opens, revealing a figure haloed in light from the living room. She can’t make out their face. 

“What are you doing?” He asks. 

“I’m getting up.”

“I can see that.” The shadows of his face shift into a frown. “ Why?”

“I don’t want to be here!” Sophia cries. She’s just woken up and somehow she’s already gotten into an argument. She just wants to cry and go back to sleep. “When I’m here -“ she smacks the mattress. “It’s hard to move around my room, and then when I’m out there-“ she flings her hand in the general direction of the door. “I can’t put myself back to bed! So what’s the point putting me here if I’m just going to end up by the fire anyway!”

The figure in the door looks a bit stunned for a moment, clearly taken aback by her outburst. It feels like the most amount of energy she’s expended since she first woke up a week ago, and she’s already sagging in on herself. She’s crying again. 

“I had not realised,” the figure says carefully, almost apologetically. He steps forward, light no longer haloing him but face still unrecognisable. Either it is Simon, or it is Giangio. She can’t bring herself to care. 

Gently, he helps lift her legs and put them back on the mattress, once again tucking her in. His hands are cold but gentle, deft fingers moving strands of hair off her face, a thumb wiping a tear from eyes. 

“I have people here to help you,” Giangio says gently. “You won’t have to do it yourself anymore.”

Giangio leaves for a moment before returning with two people, switching the light on as they all enter the room. They’re both big and burly, dressed in the worn leathers of Stalkers and in almost identical shirts and trousers. The woman has her dark hair braided into a crown around her head, the man has the sides of his shaved and a closely cropped beard. 

“This is Hans and Greta,” Giangio says, pointing to the man and woman respectively. “They will be assisting with anything that requires a bit of force, or heavy lifting.”

Sophia opens her mouth to protest, surely Giangio could just help again, but then remembers that she still hasn’t apologised. He probably still doesn’t want very much to do with her. 

“I will be your primary physician,” he continues. “But you will have other Alchemists attending to your medical care.”

“Um, thank you,” Sophia starts. The Stalkers both have equally bored expressions on their faces, eyes boring holes into the wall behind her. “Can we talk-“

Giangio doesn’t seem to hear her, instead placing a small bell on her bedside table. 

“Use this for help,” he tells her. “Whoever is on duty will hear it.”

Greta nods, finally flicking her eyes down to acknowledge Sophia. 

“We used to be witch hunters,” she says in a thick accent. “But now we babysitters.”

Sophia flushes a deep pink, cheeks burning. She’d rather die than ask one of them to carry her from the bed. 

Giangio dismisses them both with a wave of his hand, Hans closing the door behind them and leaving Sophia alone with Giangio. 

“Giangio can we talk, please-“

His head snaps over to her, brow scrunched into a heavy, scrutinising frown. 

“What did you say?”

Sophia cringes away but remembers that she’s trying to apologise, forcing herself to lean forward and make a grabbing motion with her hand. Giangio eyes it distastefully. 

“I just want to talk,” she says. “Please, I can explain-“

He shakes his head. 

“That’s not what I want to know.”

Giangio takes quick strides to her and leans over, suddenly a massive dark shape filling her vision. His face smears. 

“What did you call me?”

—

Sophia is left be for the next few days, seeing neither Simon nor Giangio. She has nothing to do but wait, for Simon to decide what experiments he wants to do next, and for Giangio to speak with her beyond the veneer of professionalism he presents. It’s worse than he was pretending to be a stuttering fool, at least then he had been kind. 

Her new Stalker babysitters are surprisingly nice to her. Greta, her day caretaker, is very no nonsense about Sophia’s situation. 

“We here to assist you,” she says in that flat way of speaking. “We may not like, but it is job. So-” She claps her hands together, making Sophia flinch. “I carry.”

And Greta does, carrying Sophia from her bed to her chair by the fire and to the bathroom, even once helping her into the tub, despite how hot Sophia’s cheeks burn. 

Hans watches her overnight, a hulking shape in her doorway while she tries to sleep. 

“Do you have to stand there?” Sophia asks. Like this, her exhaustion makes him look like a hunchbacked troll. It’s not helped by the fact that his French is almost nonexistent, only ever grunting in response. 

“Ja,” he replies in that deep rumble of his. 

“Can you not?”

“Nicht.”

Sophia can only sigh. 

They leave her mostly alone, offering no conversation beyond what is necessary. Sophia finds boredom nipping at her once again, giving into sleep more than she would prefer. 

There is a different Alchemist each day, always some nervous stuttery thing that wants to be around her less than her guards. They reconnect the IV, filled with clear liquid that immediately makes her drowsy, and just generally check her condition. They place a stethoscope over her chest and stomach, they take her blood pressure and once do a blood draw. Like Giangio, they mark the line of Petrification in her legs and examine other parts of her body for telltale signs, done with a clinical touch rather than his tender hands. They ask questions too. Are you in pain? Any stiffness? When you dream, what do you see?

Sophia suffers through it like she always has. 

Simon comes to her finally, a stiffness in his gait and storm on his brow as he dismisses her caretakers. 

“When was the last time you saw him?” Simon demands. 

Sophia rubs at her eyes blearily, having only just woken from one of her many midday naps. The colours seem… normal, she supposes. 

“It was… a few days ago?” She says. It’s hard to keep track of days when she sleeps for so long. “After the…” she trails off, waving her hand in a way that hopefully indicates “the Escape Attempt” without having to say it.  

“That was me ,” Simon says forcefully. “You-“

He cuts himself off, scrutinising her for a moment. 

“Are you awake right now?”

Sophia flushes, recoiling as he leans closer.

“Yes,” she says. For once she is actually certain of it.

Simon backs away, rubbing his knuckle against his chin as he thinks for a moment. Sophia takes a moment to properly look at him in a way she hasn’t in a while. He seems stressed for once, his clothing not as immaculately pressed as usual, his beard looking like it needs a trim. His eyes have slight bags under them, she actually finds herself noticing the lines etched deep into his skin. He looks old.

“You are seeing what you want to see,” he suddenly says. “A leftover wish perhaps.”

“What are you talking about?” Sophia asks. 

“Giangio has not been on the island in almost a week,” Simon tells her. “Or so I thought. Good news for you, my dear. Your Stalker friend has escaped, no doubt aided by your lover.”

Simon looks far from happy to be sharing the news with her.

“But… I saw him. Three days ago.” But Sophia begins to lose conviction even as she’s telling him. The colours had been too strange, his face too murky. The conversation they’d had…

“I don’t understand,” she finally says unhappily.

Simon steps forward and sits on the edge of her bed, reaching over to take a hand in his. His hands are cold and dry as he rubs a thumb over her knuckles, but the motion is soothing. Sophia keeps her gaze firmly locked on a spot just by her wrist, refusing to look at him, repulsed by how calmed she feels.

“You appear to be seeing what you want to see,” Simon explains. “You want to see him, yes?” Sophia nods unhappily. “Then you see him in place of me.”

Simon keeps rubbing at her knuckles, now looking down and away from her. Sophia spares a glance, idly noting tell tale grey hairs. 

“It seems he cares about you far less than you care about him,” he says tiredly. “I would have assumed he’d come to see you before finally departing.”

Sophia would have thought so too. 

“We had a falling out,” she mutters. 

“So I surmised.”

Silence for a time. 

“You have recovered well, all things considered,” Simon finally says, tone shifting. “You did well in separating your Ergo like that.”

Sophia frowns in confusion. 

“What do you mean? You always beat me when I separate it.”

The comment is pointed and Simon frowns back at her. 

“I told you to, while you were comatose.” He considers her blank expression. “You don’t remember.”

Sophia shakes her head. Her memories from her time asleep are thick and syrupy, distorted and running through her fingers every time she tries to look at them. 

“No matter. I’m sure you have been told already. We were required to remove a substantial portion of Ergo from your stomach, along with a number of Petrified organs. The Ergo had only the barest traces of your own, allowing you to keep yourself present. You absorb the ambient Ergo from the air passively, and the fact this island acts as a magnet leaves me unsurprised it would then gravitate towards you. It was an interesting blend, mostly human, but we found a significant portion to be that of a rabbit’s.”

“A rabbit?”

“Yes,” Simon says smoothly. “We had your rooms searched the other day. It comes as no surprise that we found an Ergo portion under your bed, along with a highly mutated rabbit’s heart.”

Sophia pulls a disgusted face at that. She would have smelled something like that, surely. 

“It seems your pharmacist was experimenting on you in secret.”

Her disgust morphs into shock and indignation, an expression that Simon chuckles at. 

“Your Ergo levels are within acceptable ranges,” he continues. “We will do your exercises tomorrow, keep you in practice. There is something I wanted to see but it is taking more time than I thought it would.”

Some new torture method she’s sure but Sophia isn’t about snap at him about it. 

Simon finally lets go of her hand and instead reaches out to cup her jaw, leaning over so he can place a kiss against her forehead. She hunches in on herself but doesn’t flinch away. 

“Get some rest,” he murmurs. 

“I was,” she replies petulantly. 

Simon lets out a short hum and helps Sophia settle back down into the cushions before checking the IV. 

“How is your pain?”

Sophia shrugs unhelpfully. 

“I will have the dose reduced,” he says. “And I will return tomorrow.”

—

There is comfort in the routine Simon sets. While before, when Sophia had the company of another man, Simon would come by at irregular intervals. Sometimes it would only be once a week, for dinner, other times it would be multiple dinners and a trip down to the lab. 

Sometimes she wouldn’t see him at all. 

Now, Simon visits her every second day. Why he visits her tends to differ depending on his mood, sometimes they eat together, lunch, dinner, tea, or he’ll just sit and try to talk with her. He tells her about the outside world, about how work on the Exhibition, mentioned so many months ago is proceeding apace, how new tram lines have been built and opened to the public. He tells her how beautiful the flowers had been, blooming in the parks and beneath the Cathedral, how moved he had felt by the Archbishop’s sermon. He brings her flowers, less like a lover and more like someone visiting a sick family member. It feels like an apology. 

It feels like mourning. 

When he comes by for his experiments it feels like nothing has changed. He brings instruments of punishment, the shock collar and metal ruler, and chunks of Ergo for her. Sophia isn’t moved from her rooms, rather just from her bed and into the living area and set on a couch. She practises moving and splitting Ergo, having finally gotten a knack for how exactly her abilities work. 

“I think I’m moving it backwards,” Sophia finally says in a small voice one day. The collar is around her neck, lovingly latched in place, so speaking out of turn scares her. 

“Backwards?” Simon has the switch held in his hand, but he hasn’t had to use it yet. 

Sophia nods. She picks the chunk of Ergo up and with an exaggerated motion and moves it across the table before setting it down. Now, concentrating, she tries to move the chunk back. Unknown to Simon, she’s been trying to practise moving things slowly, having things move as if held by an invisible hand rather than simply disappearing and appearing. She had noticed that, when she had been able to do that, the chunks had followed the exact path they had initially travelled. 

The chunk of Ergo wobbles and in fits and starts follows the exaggerated motion in reverse before clunking back onto the table. Sophia exhales sharply, exhausted by the effort. 

“You did not mention it was… time you could control,” Simon says slowly. His thumb traces the edge of the switch like a threat. 

“I didn’t know!” Sophia protests. “I thought I could just talk to puppets! Everything else…”

They had only discovered the extent of her abilities due to Simon’s intervention. 

“Could you reverse Petrification?” Simon asks sharply. 

“I don’t think so,” Sophia says miserably. “Every time I reach out- it’s like I can’t speak to it, like there’s something in the way. Puppets, these chunks, there’s no barrier.” I would have healed myself is left unsaid.

Simon hums and reaches for his pen, making a few notes and leafing through the pages in his lap. 

“This aligns with a theory I’ve had,” he says. “I have wanted to use the Arm to evolve humanity and to do so I required a suitable user. Your abilities have been a boon; latent absorption of Ergo, your ability to rewind time. I believe the Arm cannot do complete miracles, it requires something to already be there as a starting point. Using the Arm and my wish will simply grow your abilities, rather than giving you new ones.”

Sophia looks at Simon blankly. What he’s trying to explain to her makes next to no sense with the lack of context he’s clearly expecting her to have. 

“Before… this,” she waves a hand at the Ergo chunk, trying to indicate what she had just shown him. “What exactly were you trying to do?”

“What I am doing has not changed,” Simon says firmly. “You will be reborn as a god, and you will usher in an age of evolution for humanity. Whether by your own powers or by powers gifted to you.”

Sophia wrinkles her nose. More rubbish about evolution, more rubbish about how she’ll help him. But…

“What do you mean “reborn”?” Sophia asks carefully. “Being reborn…” Realisation begins to dawn and she can’t help the way she recoils from him, trying and failing to draw useless legs closer to her so she can curl in on them. “You’re going to kill me.”

“No-”

“Yes!” She cries. “To be reborn you have to die first and that means you’ll kill me, all for your stupid plan-”

Pain blazes through her body, hot and sharp where the collar touches her neck. It’s only for a second, maybe two, but it’s enough to cut off her hysteria with a scream. She pants as the pain fades, eyes prickling with tears as she watches Simon fearfully while he holds the switch out in front of him with all the nonchalance and danger of a knife.

“What have I said?” He asks.

“No crying,” she mumbles. “Do as you’re told.”

“Yes, good.” Simon stands and gestures to Greta, who has stood by the door watching with a bored expression on her face. She walks over and picks Sophia up as if she were nothing, nodding to Simon in deference. He begins unbuckling Sophia’s collar, not looking at the Stalker as he speaks.

“Bring Sophia to bed, she requires rest,” he says. “You’ve done well today, barring this small lapse. You will be perfect when the time comes, I just know it.”

Greta walks Sophia back to her bedroom, leaving Simon to mull over his paperwork in silence. The Stalker only sets Sophia on the edge, leaving Sophia to tuck herself back in, but she finds herself twisting her fingers into latticework, chewing on her lip as she thinks.

“He’s going to kill me,” she says quietly. She looks up at the other woman, rubbing at teary eyes, hoping that she can garner some sympathy, maybe even gain an ally.

“Everyone die,” Greta says brusquely. “Some sooner than other. Die by Manus, die by old age, same thing. In the end, you dead.”

Sophia sniffs, wiping at her eyes. She doesn’t want to die, not by Simon’s hand, and his claim that she would be reborn does nothing to alleviate her fears. She now doubts that Greta or her brother would rescue her, and the thought of begging for their help scares her. At best they would only laugh at her, and reinforce what she already knows.

Giangio isn’t coming back, and there’s no one to save her.

Tears begin streaming down her face and Sophia allows herself to cry, allows herself to let out racking sobs that hurt her stomach and make it hard to breathe. Greta leaves, unimpressed with the display, but Sophia does it for herself. That’s all this is, Simon fattening her up for ritual slaughter, a sacrifice to mankind and its evolution. Will Simon hold the knife himself? She hates the idea of staring her death in the face but it would be a coward’s order if Simon is not the one to do it himself. 

Her tears eventually dry, leaving Sophia tired and achey, desperate for the comfort that sleep brings her. She wishes there was someone to hold her through this, someone to kiss her sweetly and tell her that everything was going to be alright. It’s become harder to reach Krat, that leash that kept her tethered to the island now tighter than ever. In some ways she had thought it was Giangio and her connection to him, but now she wonders if it could be her holding herself back. Her frail crippled body keeping her from her love. If only she could leave it behind, untether herself and reach out for Romeo to beg for his help. Sophia has no idea how, any attempts to cross the water only pulling her back, and she fears what else could happen should Simon decide to start injecting her with Ergo, or worse, again. 

On the beach she rolls chunks of sea glass between her fingers and she wonders what would happen if she killed herself. 

–

Sophia spends the next week thinking about the glass shard tucked into the couch.

Death is a scary thing to have to contemplate. Sophia likes to think that, as a young woman with a kind heart, she’s worthy of living a long life. She’s always thought she would. But Simon plans for her death, somehow intending to turn her into a god in the process. She doesn’t want to be a god, and she certainly doesn’t want to serve him for the rest of her life. 

So she thinks about the glass shard. 

She thinks it would hurt. She’s gotten paper cuts, stabbed herself with sewing needles on accident, and those had hurt. Slicing open her wrists, cutting her throat, surely that would hurt more. Sophia doesn’t like pain, and even if she’s become more used to it with the amount Simon inflicts upon her, that doesn’t make the thought any easier. Without the shard in her hands, she’s not sure she could bring herself to act upon her desire. 

She asks Hans to bring her to the couch after dinner and she sits amidst the cushions folding butterflies, the paper thin and fragile from constant attention. The shard is right next to her, hidden in the gap of the couch, and it would be easy to wiggle her fingers down to pull it out. So, when Hans turns his back, she does so. The chunk is large and easy to find but as she tries to pull it out the tip of her finger grazes the sharp edge. Sophia hisses, jerking her hand away before inspecting the bright spot of blood that has formed. The wound is tiny but it stings. She sucks on it, wincing a little at the pain. 

Could she do that to herself? This had been an accident, but could she hold the sharp edge against her delicate flesh and press hard enough, cut deep enough so that nothing Simon did would save her?

Without meaning to, Sophia bursts into tears. She can’t even do anything to help herself, too used to relying on the help of others. Her only option out and she can’t even bring herself to go through with it. Suddenly, arms wrap themselves around her, pulling her into a careful hug. 

“Don’t cry,” Giangio says softly. “Keep faith my dear.”

“You’re not real!” Sophia sobs. “And even if you were, you won’t help me!”

“Oh Sophia,” he murmurs.

Deft hands card through her hair, picking at the knots and matting she’s allowed to accumulate. His hand cradles her skull as he pulls away, allowing Sophia to look at the smeared mess of his face. Too many eyes blink at her.

“Who do you see?” He asks.

“I-I don’t know,” she hiccups.

He hums and pulls her close again, his indistinct voice saying something above her head. 

“You will be watched more carefully from now on,” he says. “I will not have you with a weapon.”

Sophia flinches, pulling away from the man, his face starting to gain some clarity to it. Long hair blue steel resolves itself into well combed dark locks, and while there are still too many eyes staring at her, all of them are blind. 

Simon holds up the fragment of glass carefully between his fingers, the portion of her reflection she can see revealing a pale scared girl with straggly blue hair. There is a tiny spot of blood on the edge. 

“You will not kill me,” he says. “And you will not kill yourself.”

Chapter Text

The seasons turn, summer giving way to autumn with blustery winds and frequent rainfall. Sophia asks to be brought to the hollow tower, just to sit with the plants, but is denied. She is instead brought books to while away her time, safari journals, research portfolios and children’s stories with brightly coloured pictures. All priceless, all discarded. 

She finds herself listless more often than not, boredom exacerbating her exhaustion and leading her to spend long days sleeping. These periods asleep last far longer than she expects, days bleeding into nights bleeding into days once again. Simon is the one who points it out to her after she tells him the incorrect date, just a bland observation as he makes as he notes it on his paperwork. Sophia can barely bring herself to care about it, not when sleep is her only safe refuge. 

There is monotony in the routine Simon brings, even if his presence brings with it anxiety about her impending fate. They sit and talk, or he takes samples from her body, or he performs more tests. Her knees finally scab over, leaving them bent at awkward angles, and they both regard it with all the importance of bad weather.

“It was going to happen eventually,” Sophia says quietly as Simon draws a new line of ink across her skin. 

“It was,” he agrees.

The routine changes, however, during a particularly blustery storm. Wind howls through the corridors of the Abbey, barely heard in the warmth and safety of her room while Sophia sits by the fire wrapped in more blankets than most would deem necessary. It’s as she sits there, contemplating whether she could burn herself to death without anyone noticing, that the door to her rooms is opened and a whole group of Alchemists enter her room. Even Greta, sitting in one of the armchairs and darning a sock looks surprised by the group as they enter. Between the group, five in total, they carry a trunk case with them, clearly heavy by the way they all struggle to set it gently on the ground. And then, just as quickly and inexplicably as they entered, the group leaves, offering no explanation for their behaviour. Greta puts aside her sewing and approaches the box cautiously, reaching for the knife she keeps tucked into the small of her back as she does. She unlatches it and lifts the lid, expression shifting to confusion as she takes in whatever is inside. 

“What is it?” Sophia asks. 

“It is…” Greta’s brow twists as she searches for the right word. “Doll.”

“A doll?”

Sophia unwraps herself and begins the arduous task of trying to drag herself over. Ever since her legs had Petrified into crooked shapes, it is even harder to get around by herself. 

Greta snaps the lid shut and waves Sophia away, dragging the case over and setting it by where she was sitting. The Stalker opens the case back up again and Sophia peers inside, nausea making her stomach roll at the sight. Greta’s initial assessment of the thing being a doll is not far off the mark, the puppet is made of fine porcelain with a pretty rosebud mouth and delicate blush on its pale cheeks. Its eyes are closed, as if sleeping, and its hands are crossed over its chest like a mummy’s. The thing isn’t clothed as far as Sophia can see, and the sheet that had once covered it sits puddled to the side of it rather than over its naked form. She grimaces in disgust at what appears to be the suggestion of genitals between its legs. She hastily covers the thing, looking up at Greta who has an equally perturbed look on her face. 

“I will ask about this,” she says slowly. “I was not informed of experiments for today.”

Greta straightens and shuts the case but leaves it next to Sophia. 

“I will be back,” the Stalker warns. “Do not get into trouble.”

This would have been the perfect opportunity to kill herself but the glass shard was confiscated weeks ago, and Sophia’s not entirely sure she could stick her head in the fire or lift herself into the tub to drown herself. She just watches the woman leave before settling her gaze back on the trunk. There’s something very unsettling about Simon having a puppet doll delivered to her room, especially one so eerily made. Simon was a creep, but as far as she knew, he wasn’t a pedophile. 

Sophie drags herself slightly forward and opens the box once again, focussing on the puppet’s face. It is frighteningly lifelike, lips and cheeks surprisingly plush and soft when she reaches a hand out to poke at the skin, which is smattered with faint freckles. Its eyelashes are long and feathery, its hair like auburn silk as she rubs it between her fingers. Its Ergo is certainly interesting, even though the puppet is dormant Sophia can feel its resonance without even trying, like a warm glow as she holds her hand over its chest. There’s something about it she can’t quite place. It’s large too, far larger than most puppets she’s interacted with. 

As she’s inspecting the puppet, trying to figure out its Ergo, the door to her rooms open and Greta steps through, followed closely by her brother and Simon. Sophia looks to the barely open curtains, seeing that the sky is now well and truly dark, although the rain has not abated. She’d been left by herself for far longer than usual and she hadn’t bothered to help herself in any way. She curses herself internally. 

“I see that my men brought you the puppet,” Simon says, eyeing the open trunk. 

“What’s wrong with it?” Sophia asks. “Aside from the obvious.”

Simon opens his mouth and then closes it, frowning at her pointed comment. He strides over and crouches adjacent, so he hovers over the doll’s head.

“There is nothing wrong with her,” he says. “A mutual experiment, that is all. I had hoped to perform them before I released her into your care.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Sophia snaps. “I don’t need another babysitter.”

“She is for you to care for,” Simon says, ignoring her tone. “Once my work is done. There is no need for puppets in the Abbey, and she is built to be a child regardless. I see no use discarding a perfectly acceptable puppet and fine Ergo specimen.”

Everything about this feels wrong, and she can’t help the way she’s subconsciously prodding at the Ergo, like a tongue in the gap of her teeth. She opens her mouth and closes it again, unsure of how exactly to voice her thoughts.

“I don’t want a doll, Simon,” Sophia finally says. “I’m not exactly in a state to be caring for things anyway. I spend most of my days sleeping.” An admittance that hurts when spoken out loud, but anything to try and dissuade Simon from something she doesn’t want.

“Think of her as company then,” Simon says dismissively. “She will be self-sufficient in your absence, do not worry about that.”

Sophia huffs and settles herself back, intending to go back to staring into the fire, but Simon motions to the Stalkers.

“Greta, put Sophia to bed. Hans, with me.”

She opens her mouth to protest but Sophia is easily scooped up and carried away, not even giving her the chance to see what Simon might be doing with the doll. Greta deposits her easily on the bed, not moving until Sophia starts tucking herself in, shoving copious pillows under her knees to accommodate the awkward angle they now sit at.

“What does that mean for you?” Sophia asks. “Looks like Simon’s replacing you.”

Greta shrugs.

“Make no difference what job I do,” she replies. “I am guard now. If Manus say I guard somewhere else, I guard somewhere else.”

Sophia pouts. As much as Greta and her brother are no help to her, at least they are a routine she can appreciate. A puppet was an unknown variable. Maybe she could use it somehow, but surely Simon would know that and put measures in place. She sinks into the pillows and into sleep, thinking about porcelain white skin and Ergo blue eyes.

—

Sophia’s dreams are incoherent lately. She knows that she dreams, and that often during those dreams she goes away, but she’s been having trouble remembering them clearly. It’s hard enough that sometimes time awake feels more like a dream than reality. 

She stands in a ruined portion of the Abbey, the stone cold and biting beneath her bare feet. The wind blusters and blows and rain lashes through the dark sky beyond. Sophia takes a cautious step forward, avoiding the puddles as best as she can, head on a swivel. This feels more like a nightmare than a dream. 

“Hello?” She calls. 

This isn’t somewhere she’s been before. She leans over the opening, taking in the long drop before she quickly recoils from the buffeting wind. She can barely see Krat in the distance with the storm blowing as it is, but she strains her eyes regardless. She desperately wants to return but finds that her body’s tether is still too short. Sighing, she sits on the stone bench by the window and watches the storm sightlessly. It’s better than being in her room. 

The dream drags on, the sky bleeding and smearing with dawn, day and dusk. Rain ceases and begins again and clouds swirl in patterns. Sophia watches this with only faint interest. Even in her dreams she’s tired. Something tugs at her hand but she ignores it, instead finding herself content to close her eyes and list sideways. The tugging is more insistent, something at both hand and skirt now. Sophia groans and opens her eyes again, finding herself looking down at a child. 

Not a child. A doll. 

“Mama,” it says. There’s a disconnect with the way it opens its mouth and where its voice comes from. Like the movement of its lips is delayed by half a second. “You have to wake up now.”

Sophia scrambles away, loose stones skittering out from under her feet as she wrenches free of the thing. The doll’s face is blank for a moment before its brow tilts downwards into a frown. If it were human, it looks like it would cry. 

“I’m not your mother,” Sophia says harshly. “I can't be a mother and I’m sure Carlo would rather die than adopt a puppet-“

And Carlo is dead. 

The doll sniffs and wipes at its eyes, valiantly holding back tears at Sophia’s harsh tone. Some part of her aches at a child in distress, but she has to hold herself back from comforting it. It’s a puppet , and one of Simon’s experiments too. Surely this thing will be used to torture her in some way once she wakes. 

“Mama,” the thing cries. “Please, you have to wake up, Papa is scared-“

“Get out!” Sophia yells. “Devil child-“

The thing bursts into tears and races from the room, bare feet clacking harshly against the stone. Sophia cringes slightly, ashamed of herself, but forces herself back upright. This is a dream, and things hurt in dreams are not hurt in real life. 

Sophia returns to the bench and settles herself in to watch distant Krat through the rain. 

—

Something tugs at her hand again and this time Sophia knows she isn’t dreaming. With bleary eyes, she looks to the source, cringing at the doll puppet tugging at her. It seems Simon had decided to wake the damnable thing. 

Someone has done its hair in braids. 

“Mama,” it says softly. Much like in the dream, its mouth does not move in sync with its words. “Mama!”

Sophia jerks her hand away, dragging herself as far away from the puppet as she can with sleep weak hands. The puppet’s expression, startlingly lifelike, immediately drops. 

“Greta!” Sophia calls. “Hans! What-“

The door opens and instead of either of her Stalker caretakers, Simon steps through. Just beyond, Sophia can just see pale sunlight streaming through open curtains. The storm has lifted it seems. 

Simon holds a hand out and the doll runs over with arms outstretched, falling into Simon’s embrace. He smiles at Sophia, slightly smug. 

“Good to see you’re awake,” he says. “Bella was worried about you.”

“You named it,” Sophia says. 

“Of course she has a name,” Simon replies. “How else would I call for her?”

Sophia wants to hit him. 

“It’s a puppet .”

Simon pats the doll’s head and quietly directs her out of the room, shutting the door behind it. He sits on the edge of Sophia’s bed, giving her a look not unlike a disappointed teacher. 

“In Krat there has been an increase in puppets awakening to their former selves,” Simon says. “It has been a topic of interest, although not a pressing one. A good friend of mine is interested in attempting to force an awakening, and I’ve agreed to help. I believe you may be able to do so with your abilities.”

Sophia stares at him. 

“I also wasn’t lying when I said she would be company,” Simon continues. “Doll puppets are all the rage at the moment, programmed to act like obedient children so would-be parents have an idea of what it would be like caring for one. This is what I have been provided. I know you have experience.”

Sophia flicks her gaze over to the closed door, unable to hide her curled lip. 

“You’re sick,” she finally says. Simon shrugs. “I’m not helping you with that thing. I think I’d much prefer you digging hot iron into my skin actually.”

“I don’t think that’s true.” Simon stands and pats Sophia’s hand. “You will help with her. If you must see it as one of our sessions together then I will arrange it so. But you will help.”

He exits the room, leaving the door wide open for a clear view of the doll. It’s currently sitting on the floor with an actual doll clutched in its hands, watching as Simon walks over to it. He bends over and says something, patting the top of its head before he straightens and turns to someone else. More words are exchanged, nothing Sophia can hear, but Greta finally steps into view as Simon leaves. The doll watches the exchange with wide eyes before turning to look at Sophia. Hesitantly, toy clutched like a shield across its chest, it walks back to the doorway of Sophia’s bedroom, not entering and instead scuffing its bare feet. From a distance it is certainly easy to mistake for a real child, the twin braids done neatly with ribbons, the sweet blue dress, but the skin is too white and it moves just a little too jerkily to be natural. Sophia purses her lips at it. 

“What do you want?” She snaps. 

“Papa says you’re lonely,” it says, in a soft, sweet voice. “Would you like to play?”

“I can’t,” Sophia replies. “My legs are…” she casts about for the right word. “Broken.”

It feels natural to slip into the cadence she used with the younger children in the orphanage, to be soft and sweet for an unloved and unwanted child. This isn’t a child, she has to remind herself. This is just another means for Simon to experiment on her. She hardens the line of her mouth. 

“Go away.”

“We can play in here Mama,” the doll says brightly. “Look-“

“I said go away,” Sophia snaps. “And stop calling me that.”

The doll lowers the toy it had just been about to show her, ducking its head and cringing away. Sophia has to bite her lip and clench her fists to stop herself from reaching out in comfort. 

“Yes, Miss Sophia,” it says. The puppet bows and exits the room, closing the door behind it. Sophia sighs, sinking down against her pillows again. This is the last thing she wants. 

—

The doll is a nuisance. 

It constantly begs to play, bringing Sophia books and toys that Simon has clearly lavished upon it like a real child. Every time she demands the thing stop calling her mother it will return hours later as if the command hasn’t been made, babbling happily. Sophia can hardly sleep with the noise it makes, her midday naps constantly interrupted. 

She hates it. 

Greta is amused by the thing, reading it stories when the doll presents her with books that Sophia has rejected and even participating in halting hand games that neither of them have any idea how the doll knows. At least it does not sleep in her room, Greta will always escort it out when her brother comes to take over during the night, returning with it every morning. 

“Is Manus order,” she says when Sophia questions her. “She cute. I do not mind.”