Chapter Text
Silvena,
It has been so long since I last had the chance to see your face. You were but a girl then – now, a woman. And as skilled in your practice as your father once was, I’m sure. I’m so proud of you. Your father would be, too.
It is so cold without you here beside me. Are you happy where you are now? Do you ever think of home? Do you still think of me? Do you remember the songs we used to sing? I miss those. I miss you.
I’ve fallen ill recently, and I don’t believe I have much longer left among the living. My time is running out. I’m here waiting for you to see me one last time. Come home to me – back to the labyrinthian town by the Gorkhon. I want to say my goodbyes, and see the kind of woman into whom you have grown.
Make haste, little Lyka,
Your Mother
Lyka read over the letter often during the long walk back to her hometown—sometimes tracing over the cursive with the tips of her fingers as she imagined her mother writing it for her. She had not been back to the town since she was a child. She had spent many of her days in the polyhedron. She remembered it fondly.
The trip home was long and arduous. She couldn’t stop to rest too often; she would be losing time. Time was valuable. Her feet were sore and aching—she had to stop every couple of hours to rewrap her toes and tighten the laces on her boots. Luckily, she had thought to bring an extra pair, but those couldn’t be used until she finally arrived in the town. She couldn’t go to see her mother in what could potentially be her last moments in ratty old shoes now, could she? No, of course not! She needed her mother to know that she could live comfortably on her own and afforded niceties such as new shoes.
The way to the town was easy to find, but it was unremarkable, boring. A slog. The hardest part of the trip was how slow and uninteresting it was. All hills and flatlands, and she was the only person for miles. Very few people ever came to or left from that region, and no passenger trains ran through the area. It was a small, closely-knit type of place—sequestered in the vast middle of nowhere.
The wind whipped against her face as she stared up at the town. It was just how she had remembered leaving it. The architecture and people there were strange and different compared to the types that Lyka had grown accustomed to seeing in the Capital.
Lyka swallowed deeply. Would she remember anyone there? Would they recognize her? Her grandfather warned that the locals were not particularly welcoming towards strangers—she would need to make herself known and ensure that people knew that she belonged to the Belov family. Not doing so could spell out disaster otherwise and could surely lead to a grave misunderstanding. Reputation had always been everything to the people who lived there.
Lyka could feel their stares on her back as she walked through the streets, and she walked quickly as to avoid them. Lyka was utterly lost, but too afraid to ask anyone for help or directions in finding her way through the maze of a town. Her pale eye peered up at the shop signs above her—she could find some kind of boarding first and arrange a room to stay in. Then she could use that as a caveat to asking her host about her mother’s whereabouts. That seemed like the best course of action. She needed someone hospitable for help—someone she could feel like she might be able to trust.
There was no way she could return to her childhood home; her mother couldn’t be staying there—not after the fire. She had already passed its ruins several times as she wandered the streets. At one such point, she stopped just for a moment to marvel at what remained of the stairs, which now led to nowhere. She couldn't remember where her room was; few of the walls still remained. It looked like an impossible structure, and she wondered what was still holding it up after all these years. She peered down at her mother’s letter, turning it this way and that as she walked, and observed the paper front-and-back for any kind of indication of an address. But there was nothing of the sort. At this point, Lyka wondered how the letter could have found its way to her.
While hopelessly focused on the mysterious origins of her mother’s letter and pondering her options, Lyka had no awareness of her surroundings and soon found herself colliding with someone. Lyka gasped, nearly dropping the parchment, and appearing mortified. She hadn’t been there for even a day yet, and she’d already embarrassed herself by being careless!
“I’m so s—” She couldn’t find the rest of her words when she looked up at the masked figure in front of her. They were obviously a man. He stared back at her—at least she thought so. There was no indication of eyes or an expression through the three pitch-black holes of his ivory mask. From his body language, he just seemed confused. He tilted his head, placing his hands on his hips. Lyka’s tongue quickly rested flat against the floor of her mouth as it found its way back to what she wanted to say. It only took her a few seconds to take stock of the situation after doing so.
“I apologize,” She spoke more clearly this time, her fingers untightening from the letter, which was now sufficiently crinkled. She looked a bit pensive though; uncertain of what exactly to say to the stranger in front of her since she couldn’t read him well enough, “I wasn’t looking where I was going.”
The masked man now waved his hands in front of himself, long fingers wiggling a bit, “Oh, no, no! I must apologize,” The masked man shook his head, “I was blocking the path, after all! I was so busy practicing my newest act!”
Lyka blinked, “Act? What is this… outfit you’re wearing?” She looked over the lanky man, careful not to call his garb a mere ‘costume,’ else she may offend him somehow. For all she knew, this could be some odd manner of cultural garb.
“I am but a humble tragedian,” He bowed low with a slight flourish of the wrist.
“Tragedian… like some kind of actor?” She tilted her hand, “I’ve never seen your type here before.”
“Most people never will!” He responded matter-of-factly and stood up straight again, “Now behold: my current act!”
The tragedian began to wander in small circles, keeping to his spot before exclaiming, “Woe, I am hopelessly lost! I am wandering aimlessly in circles—wasting valuable time of my existence! If only I would put aside my pride and ask someone for assistance!”
Despite the yelling of the actor, none of the passersby seemed to care or notice. They paid him no mind.
Lyka quickly realized that the tragedian was “holding” an invisible piece of paper, and balked in disbelief, “A-Are you mocking me?!”
The tragedian ceased his act and bowed before returning to his previous bored stance, hands on his hips as he stood tall above the alchemist, “I am merely playing my part: a lost person! It is quite convincing, no?”
“Your acting could use some work,” Lyka scoffed and crossed her arms over her chest, appearing unamused.
The tragedian hunched over slightly in disappointment, his long arms now hanging down in front of him in a limp, sad manner. He hung his head.
“How was my acting just now?” Lyka quickly dropped her serious expression in favor of a more light-hearted one in its place and smiled, “I call it: ‘Stop teasing me and give me directions, please.’”
The tragedian straightened up again, seeming surprised for a second, before leaning in close and placing a hand on Lyka’s shoulder. He pointed behind her, “That place back there, see? Where that barrel of water is?”
Lyka nodded.
“Go past it, and then go left. Keep going, going, going straight until you reach the end of the road. The house on the left should have someone inside of it—an older woman. She will house you for a small fee. In fact, she may even know you. But that’s just a guess.”
Lyka repeated those instructions back to herself a few times, memorizing the directions in her head. She felt him lift his hand from her shoulder, before quickly growing confused.
“Wait, how do you know I’m looking for housing?” Lyka whipped back around to face the tragedian again, but he was already gone without a trace. She looked around for a moment, feeling weirded out, but shrugged. A lucky guess, maybe. Either way, he probably snuck off while she was distracted to tend to his own business. Lyka returned to her thoughts and repeated the directions once more before following them.
Luckily for Lyka, the tragedian’s directions were accurate. She managed to find her way to where she needed to go, and everything went as predicted by the tragedian. The home he led her to belonged to an older woman named Madame Katya Yakovna, who was close friends with Lyka’s mother. A black-haired woman with tired, dark eyes and sharp features. The madame was glad to allow Lyka to stay in her spare room for a small price.
Lyka now sat on her bed, tying her laces. She’d changed out some of her clothes for fresher ones and switched her boots for her nicer pair. The ones that she wore on the way were nothing more than trash to her now, though. They were in shambles; she had walked so much on the journey here that the soles were completely worn down. But she still could not rest until she finally saw her mother again.
After tightening her laces and making sure her pants were tucked neatly into them, Lyka stood up and traversed down the stairs to see her hostess once more.
“Madame Yakovna,” Lyka greeted and bowed lightly as she stepped into the lounge—the room closest to the front door.
“No need to be so formal, Miss Belova. We are family,” The Madame was leisurely laying over her loveseat, sipping on some kind of alcohol from a tall glass, and reading a book about foreign architecture.
“Of course,” Lyka gave a nod, “Thank you again for allowing me to stay in your home.”
“It is the least I could do for you—a chance to repay your family for what they did for me. My own daughter would have died were it not for your father’s medicine. May he rest well. Poor Efim...”
“I don’t know where I could have gone, otherwise.” Lyka smiled gently.
“Trust me, dear, you would have had nowhere else. You’re lucky you found me.”
Lyka thought back to the tragedian who pointed her here, nodding slowly, “Yes. I am quite lucky.”
“You remember my daughter, don’t you? You used to play together often.”
“Yes. Tatiana, right? What is she up to?”
“Married, with children of her own now. Do you have any children, Miss Belova? Someone special in your life?”
“No, Madame. Just myself. I don’t have time for things like that; I’ve been too busy with my career and honing my practice.”
“That’s right. After your father’s sudden death, your grandfather needed to train a new protégé. It must have been hard for him, having to train yet another apprentice. Especially since the alchemists in your family have always been men. It must have been a disappointment for him.”
Lyka couldn’t help but feel annoyed—it felt as though the madame was subtly implying that she was not qualified to practice alchemy, “Sometimes traditions must be changed in order to usher in a new era. It is an important job. My grandfather was fine with it, it was his idea. Had he chosen not to take me in, his knowledge would have vanished from the world. I would have simply married a wealthy man and given him children. Much like you and your daughter have,” Lyka was quick to mask the rude reply with something more polite, “Raising the new generations is a noble task. My respect to you both.”
As much as Lyka had tried to shroud her backhanded compliment, the Madame was quick to retort, “I imagine that would be a nigh-impossible task, considering your disfigurement,” She gently gestured to Lyka’s bandaged face, "It's for the best that your grandfather taught you an alternative skill."
Yeah, if using a man for his money and popping out some kids is a skill, Lyka couldn't help musing to herself. Of course, she would never say this out loud. She would definitely be kicked out.
“Yes, the disfigurement I attained the night my father perished. Kind of you to remind me,” Lyka maintained her unbothered smile, “Sometimes I need a reality check.”
The was an awkward silence between the both of them now, only interrupted by Madame Katya’s idle page-turning and sipping.
Lyka broke the silence, remembering the task at hand, “He really was very skilled with medicine. I remember people called him a miracle worker when I was a child. I hope that I can only grow to be even half as talented as he was in life,” She finally took a seat on the couch against the wall so that she could be across from Madame Katya and speak with her about more important things.
“He had the golden touch.”
Lyka nodded slowly for a moment, and then hesitantly spoke again, “Speaking of my family, Madame Katya, I must ask: whereabout is my mother?”
Katya froze mid-sip and quickly placed her glass down on the table beside her along with her book—which she took care to quickly tuck the corner of her current page in on before shutting. She had an almost pitying expression on her face.
“Is something the matter?” Lyka appeared alarmed by her reaction.
“Oh, baarhani. I’m so sorry,” Madame Katya slowly shook her head.
“Yes, I recently got the news that she was—”
“Dead.”
Lyka was stunned.
She stood up and exclaimed, “What?!” She placed a hand to her head to pull her fringe away from her face, “Was I too late? Has she already succumbed to her sickness?”
Katya raised her brows as she squinted, “Lyka, you’re about five years too late. She is long dead already. She has been well-grieved.”
“Five—” Lyka’s voice rose, but she stopped to take a breath. She felt like the walls were closing in on her, “No, no. You must be mistaken! That’s not possible— look! She sent me this letter! It’s undated, but it must be recent—"
The alchemist’s hands shook as she trailed off and pulled the letter from her pocket. Her thoughts were running wild, and her vision had become hazy. She held the paper out for Katya to read. Katya took it, but quickly became as perplexed as Lyka had been—but for a different reason.
“Miss Belova, I don’t know how else to say this, but this letter is not from your mother.”
“What makes you say that?” Lyka shook her head, motioning to the letter, “You barely looked at it.”
“I knew your mother since we were children—I knew her better than you could have. And I know for a fact that she never learned to write in cursive. You have been deceived.”
“That can’t be—maybe she learned it recently? Or she had it scribed because she was too weakened by disease to write it herself.”
“How could she learn anything recently, dear? She is part of the Earth now. I was at her funeral. Perhaps this letter made it to you too late.”
Lyka was silent as she tried to process all of this. Slowly, she fell back to sit on the couch again, slumping down into the worn loveseat and staring up at the peeling ceiling.
“You look pale,” Madame Katya spoke again, “Why don’t you go rest? This must be a lot for you to take in all at once.”
“I’m always pale,” Lyka replied, taking a deep breath. After a beat, she looked at Katya again.
“How did she die?" Lyka questioned bluntly. She wanted a straightforward answer, and she wouldn’t be satisfied until she got one.
“I shouldn’t say it now. I’m sorry. Allow yourself time to grieve first.”
“So, it wasn’t sickness?”
There was a deafening silence, only slightly broken by the gentle creaking of the old house’s bones. That silence was everything Lyka needed to know.
Lyka stood from the couch again, and the Madame moved to help her up, but Lyka rose her hand in gentle rejection, “I don’t need help, thank you. You’re right. I should go rest. It’s dark out anyway.”
Katya nodded slowly, “Fetch me if you need anything, dear.”
“Of course,” Lyka walked stiffly up the stairs, “Goodnight, Madame Katya.”
The short walk up the stairs felt like a century in Lyka’s mind. She slowly, quietly shut the door as she faced it. Her gaze remained on the ground as her hand slid off of the handle. Soon enough, she was shaking in her boots—but tears did not pour from her eyes, and not even did a whimper manage to escape from her mouth. She held it in, and held herself together—literally and figuratively, as her arms wrapped themselves around her. Now everything hurt: her head, her chest, her feet. Her heart simply raced against her chest, thrumming against her core. She felt short of breath, and Lyka couldn’t help squeezing her arms more tightly around her bosom—as though trying to calm her heart—to tell it that everything would be… okay. Or maybe just fine. She wasn’t sure, she couldn’t keep her thoughts straight—
Lyka slowly turned around, trying her best to suck in deep breaths. She could feel some semblance of calm begin to wash over her again. She just needed to get her mind in order and keep holding herself together. Her gaze rose up from the scratched wooden floor and back to ahead of her, and she would have screamed were it not for her lack of breath—but instead, she gasped sharply in such a way that her lungs felt as though they were dry and burning—as she came face-to-face with the same ivory mask as she had seen earlier.
She recoiled, and he mirrored her, although in that ever-taunting, eccentric manner that Lyka was already growing used to.
“You!” Lyka whisper-shouted.
“Who, me?” The tragedian pointed to himself and looked around, before striding to take a seat on the bed.
“What are you doing in here?” Lyka’s voice shook—not because she was afraid, but more because she was still trying to sort out her own complex emotions.
“Stealing,” The mime nonchalantly stated as he lifted a small bag of various things and calmly rifled through it, “And you should too if you want to make it out of this town alive.”
“I could never! That’s wrong,” Lyka shook her head and stomped over to snatch the bag away and check it for any of her own belongings, “Food, medicine, jewelry! This isn’t just petty thievery; you’re stealing from the mouths of others!”
“Right or wrong is no matter here. Would you rather be dead, or remain among the living? All that matters is you, yourself, and yours. You should keep that in mind if you want to survive in this town. Of course, you’re used to being spoiled, aren’t you?”
“I’ll have you know I’m perfectly self-sufficient, thank you very much,” Lyka dropped the bag onto the tragedian’s lap upon seeing none of her own things in it, “I just know how to make an honest living. You’re lucky I don’t call the guards. Why are you really here? Don’t you know better than to intrude on a girl’s room?”
“Well, I had to come to check on you—make sure you found your way here alright and that you were progressing properly.”
“Well, now you know,” She placed her hands on her hips as she looked down at him sternly, “And now you can leave. Bye-bye!” She pointed to the door.
“Hold on—just a moment!” The tragedian raised his hands innocently, “Don’t I get a reward?”
“For what?” Lyka deadpanned, “Breaking in and going through my things? Be gone. I have enough to worry about right now, you fool-of-a-man. I am not in the mood for games.”
“No need to be so cruel, Ms. Lyka,” The tragedian clasped his hands pleadingly before her, “I did help you—and as you saw, I didn’t take anything from you. I simply invited myself in.”
“You ought to invite yourself out,” Lyka took a seat at the vanity as she grew wearier, sighing. Carefully, she began to unwrap the bandages from around the right side of her head.
Lyka peered at herself in the broken mirror, looking at the tight, scarred skin that was being slowly revealed from beneath the bandages. She was blind in that eye; it was milky-white and the skin around it malformed and shrunken—contorted around the socket. The entire right side of her face stung at the sensation of the air simply even brushing against it.
“Shut that blasted window,” She muttered to the tragedian. He nodded, crawling across the bed, and leaning forward to squeeze the squeaky windowpane shut with a quick clap and then undrawing the heavy curtains.
Meanwhile, the young alchemist reached for her bag to pull out a fresh roll of bandages and a vial full of some pale ointment—a concoction that she often brewed for herself and always made sure to have plenty of. She popped the cork from it.
She retrieved a small cloth from her pocket to collect this ointment on before dabbing it along the skin on her bad side. She let out a sigh of discomfort, still not used to cool sensations such as this one on the sensitive skin. Even after all these years of caring for it daily.
“Why do you wear a mask?” She asked idly, curious of her intruder's costume.
“All tragedians wear them,” He sat on the bed still, legs crisscrossed as he hunched over with his chin resting in the palms of his hands. He looked bored as per usual and watched Lyka tend to her burnt skin, "I could ask the same thing of you.”
“You can already tell very clearly why. I can’t go around with an unwrapped face. It wouldn’t just frighten people; it would be a health risk to myself.”
“That’s not the mask I was referring to.”
“Hmm?” Lyka hummed disinterestedly in response but leaned in closer to the mirror to peer into the fragment of glass that showed the actor seated behind her.
“You don’t act like your true self around people, Belova. You’re sly; you wear whatever mask you think they would most like to see you in. You worry too much about what others think of you, and when their opinion of you is poor or they insult you, you lash out or grow insecure. Have you considered becoming an actor? You’re quite a good one.”
“Thank you for the psychoanalysis. Have you thought about becoming a psychologist? I do hope not,” Lyka retorted dryly, “Now, answer my question. Why hide your face, exactly?”
“I have abandoned my ego. Who I am or who I was has never been important. All that matters is who I can become.”
“I don’t really understand, to be honest,” Lyka set down the cloth on the vanity and picked up the roll of bandages.
“I don’t really expect you to,” the Tragedian replied in a surprisingly cheerful manner, and then stood to his feet. He took a couple of long steps to stand right behind her—and then swiftly snatched the roll of bandages from her hand.
“Hey—” Lyka began to protest but was silenced by the mime placing his long index finger over her lips.
“Not so loudly, the Madame may hear you. Allow me to assist you, Miss Belova.”
She huffed but then gave a single stiff nod in reply, crossing her hands over her lap impatiently.
“Good girl,” he chided calmly.
“Don’t say things like that,” Lyka flushed.
The tragedian stifled a laugh, which Lyka could clearly tell, “Oh please, you’re too sensitive. Now, kindly stay still…”