Lucian, just before the fall

by finerandbonnier

Summary:

A totally unrelated series of recollections, half remember truths, and outright fabrications regarding London shortly before the event that would come to be known as the Fall and that hold no greater meaning or significance.

Chapter 1: The Eremitic Lodger

I didn’t pay much attention to the voices at first if I’m being honest. In London if you drop everything to spy on whatever gaggle of drunks stagger past your window you’d never get anything done. Plus, being in the attic room, as I am, there was considerable distance between myself and the street.

Really, it’s a surprise I heard anything intelligible at all.

I think it was the mention of a betrayal that first piqued my interest.

Or was it a theft?

Yes, that was it. One of the voices in particular was really quite loud and kept going on about a theft and I got up from my bed to have a look and see, hoping that if my sleep was going to be disturbed then I might as well get some entertainment out of whatever drunken brawl was sure to start outside my window.

There was a small gathering on the other side of the road. They seemed quite a merry lot, in the euphemistic sense of the word if you catch my meaning. At first glance I took them for homogenous, all older, well-dressed gentlemen but then I noticed the odd one out in the middle of the group. He was dressed in the livery of an officer of Her Majesty’s Army, surrounded by the other men and gesticulating wildly.

I could just about make out his face barely illuminated as it was by the streetlamps. It didn’t mean anything to me then, I didn’t even realise I’d seen him before around the neighbourhood until Harjit showed me his picture months later.

He must have been pretty far gone. He was slurring his words but his voice was raised enough to just carry through the thin glass of my window. He seemed agitated to me, even beyond what is usual for soldier in his cups and he kept talking about needing to warn everyone, about darkness and bats.

Wait.

Did he mention bats? Or have I just invented that out of whole cloth, linking an unrelated event to the catastrophe that happened only a few days later. He definitely talked about a disaster I remember that much, but that needn’t have meant the Fall. Much more likely it was some personal tragedy. The kind that to a drunk mind seems as monumental as the world’s end but turns much more manageable in the sober light of day.

I was just about to retire back to bed as I was, and I am ashamed to admit this knowing what I do now, bored at the lack of action when the group turned on the young officer. They picked him up about his armpits as one of them unlocked the door to the tenement across the road and carried the now struggling lad off through the threshold and into the darkness of the house. That was the last I saw of them.

It may have been the last I saw of the house come to think of it.

I’m told it disappeared during the Fall or sometime shortly after, replaced by a similar building that for months I took to be the original. Terribly unneighbourly I know, not to notice an adjacent property up and vanishing but I must confess I was somewhat out of sorts in the months following our decent through the earth’s crust.

Black dog, if you must know.

Still this all happened a few days before the Fall. The lad could hardly have been in the building when it disappeared, he wasn’t so drunk it’d take days to sleep off the hangover. And if he was? What that would do to a person? Well, that doesn’t bear thinking about now does it?

Chapter 2: The Evanesced Soldier

You accept the first drink begrudgingly. It’s not a wise choice, you’re well aware, but after what you’ve just learned your nerves could use steadying and the pub you’ve chosen is a familiar enough haunting ground to feel safe. Harjit always warns you that if you keep sticking your nose into other people’s business one day you’d find out something you didn’t want to know. Now it’s finally happened.

The second drink follows the first in short succession, provided by the gentleman to your right without any discussion. You don’t know him well but you do know his face and, if pressed, you’re sure you could recall his name. You’ve accepted drinks from worse.

It’s around the third drink when you realise something is wrong. Three measures should not be hitting you this hard, this quick, even accounting for the generous hand of the man pouring. Not you, a man who’d snuck whisky from out his father’s drinks cabinet at a frankly scandalous age, a man who could (and on one infamous occasion had) drank the rest of Her Majesty’s 74th Regiment of Foot under the table. This is something more than alcohol. Something worse. Your glass is topped up again before the burning liquid has had time to hit your stomach.

You move to stand, instincts flaring even under the combined weight of the drink and whatever the drink had been spiked with. This proves a mistake. If you thought the effect was heavy sitting down it hits you tenfold as you rise. Your visions swims and you sway. A hand claps on your shoulder steadying you and a jovial voice near your left ear announces to the room something about his friend having indulged too much and an assurance he’d see them home. The hand tightens and pulls you away from the bar. Clumsily your feet fail to navigate the stool you’d been sat on and the two of you plunge toward the ale-soaked, wooden floor. Before you can hit it other hands reach out and grab you.

You blink

 

… and when your eyes reopen you’re outside on a foggy London street with no knowledge of how you got there. The group around you has shifted and multiplied and you try to commit them to memory through the mental and literal haze. Faces fail to stick, your eyes glancing off them no matter how hard you try. A voice rings out from somewhere in the small crowd around you asking about what you’d discovered that day. What had you discovered? It was very important; you know that much. And terrible. Important and terrible. Why can’t you remember?

“I-i-i-i don’t know.” Christ alive, when was the last time you’d stuttered? You thought your father had beaten that out of you by age twelve.

A gruff voice from somewhere behind speaks out, “Give him some more.”

You tense as a flurry of movement ripples through the group. Someone produces an uncorked hipflask and offers it to you. The scent coming off it isn’t alcohol; it isn’t of anything you’ve ever smelled before. Not bad exactly, just wrong. You shake your head and try to back away.

Suddenly an unseen hand sinks into your hair and pulls hard forcing your head back as the mouth of the flask is thrust past your lips. You struggle and the rim clangs painfully against your teeth. Hands grab at you and then more hands but you fight harder. The movement forces liquid across your tongue, vile tasting and thick as treacle. You close your throat desperate not to consume whatever it is that’s currently in your mouth as you wrench your head back and forth in an attempt to break free. There is a brief moment of elation when you make progress, dislodging a few of your captors but then a hand snakes round from behind you and pinches your nose shut.

You stop breathing but keep struggling. The burning in your throat that was already present is joined by the screaming of your lungs desperate for air. You try to hold on but it’s futile. Maybe it takes seconds or maybe it takes minutes, you can’t tell, but eventually the pressure becomes unbearable and your vision that was already blurry is now completely dark. You give one last impotent spasm. Then it’s over and you gasp and gulp and half swallowing, half choking the substance slides down your gullet.

You blink

 

… and when your eyes reopen you’re outside on a foggy London street with no knowledge of how you got there. You try to focus on the streetlamp across from you but it’s swaying in the wind.

No, that can’t be right. Lampposts don’t sway.

Oh, you’re drunk. You’ve been in this state enough times to know that you’ll have a hell of a hangover when you wake tomorrow. But it’s fine because you’re surrounded by friends. Smartly dressed friends who are walking you safely home and holding tight onto you to make sure you don’t fall. It’s really very kind of them, especially when you can’t quite remember who they are.

You realise belatedly you’ve been talking all this time, the words spilling from your lips without any conscious effort of your part. Telling your friends about the terrible secret you’d uncovered. About the impending disaster you had to warn everyone about. Starting with Harjit. Do they know Harjit? They must, they’re your friends after all. How could they not know Harjit? You were going to tell him first but now you’ve told them and so they’re the first to know. It doesn’t really matter though, you assure them. Because you’re going to tell everybody. The words are tumbling out of your mouth with no effort, you don’t even need to think about them. So you don’t. You tell them everything.

About the hallway you shouldn’t have been in and the room you shouldn’t have entered. The locked drawer you shouldn’t have had the key to and the letter you shouldn’t have read. The secret you shouldn’t know. That the treacherous queen has sold London, that the city is going to be spirited off beneath the earth by bats (bats?!). That every building and every person and every creature residing in every building have been bargained away and that in only a few days’ time the payment will come due.

You can’t quite make out the detail of the faces of your friends as they take in what you’re saying but you get the impression they are not happy. You try to reassure them, impress upon them that while what you’re saying is an unimaginable catastrophe it hasn’t happen yet and can be stopped. This plan relies on the city being unprepared and unable to act. If the populace is forewarned, if the secret gets out, it will fail. Your voice has gotten louder, more insistent. All of you can warn London. You will warn London.

The next person to know must be Harjit though, you owe him that much. If he ended up trapped here forever, doubly your fault, you’re not sure how you could live with yourself. When he agreed to follow you back to Britain it had been a hard-fought thing. Not that you blame him for his hesitancy. His distaste for this country is well founded, you know that better than most and you don’t blame him. His presence in the small rooms you share is a testament to how just much he loves you, if it was anything less he’d never have left his home. You can’t stand the thought of him stuck for eternity in a city he loathes.

Lost in your own mind and distracted by thoughts of your lover, thoughts you do not realise you are still voicing, you do not notice the danger you’re in until it’s too late. Two pairs of hands lodge themselves under your armpits and hoist you upwards.

You try to struggle but you’re almost completely off the ground and your legs flail wildly kicking the air. One of the men cuffs you about the head as they half carry, half drag you through the door of a nearby tenement house. You cry out but no one answers. Inside, they pull you along down the length of the darkened hallway and through to a room at the back of the building.

There they dump you unceremoniously on the threadbare carpet. Someone binds your wrists to a pipe on the wall and you lash out with your leg, boot connecting with his shin. You’re given the satisfaction of hearing him grunt in pain but nothing more. They leave you. Your eyes adjust somewhat to the darkness but there’s not much to see. A few books scattered on the floor, shed pages lying around them and a lopsided chair with a missing leg. The only thing of note is the writing carved into the wallpaper across from you.

At first glance you think it’s Greek, put there by some rebellious student of the classics. Then you notice it’s glowing. How is it glowing? You stare at it, unable to bring yourself to look away. It glows brighter, burning itself onto your retina, into your brain. It hurts. You can’t think of anything else but the characters in front of you. The soft curves invite your eyes to follow them along impossible trajectories, the harsh corners take contradictory non-Euclidean angles, the loops double back on themselves and your brain does the same. Something shifts in you. Something breaks.

You blink

Chapter 3: The Nescient Lover

Harjit glanced at the door. Lucian should have been back by now.

Not that he was worried, Lucian often kept odd hours and Harjit knew for long experience that any anxiety on his part was futile. Lucian would inevitably stride through the door as though he was perfectly on time, sweep him into a kiss and chide him for fretting. He could hear it now, Scottish brogue thick in his ear as his lover teased him for ever doubting his safe return.

Still, it was late.

He looked around him, the room was as tidy as it ever got living with Lucian. The deck of cards on the sideboard was neatly pack away in its box instead of scatted about the place. There were minimal items of clothing draped across the back of the tired old armchair in the corner. Fresh candles flickered in the holders and any trace of stray wax had been removed. Cleaning had given Harjit a small release for his anxious energy but now even that failed to sooth him as he thumbed at a stubborn water stain on the nearby wooden table. He should really just retire for the evening, but sleep seemed far off and unappealing while Lucian was still out there in the dark and damp and cold. He simply could not shake the feeling something was terribly wrong.

It had never been like this back home. There he and Lucian had stolen private moments when they could and slipped away again afterward without a care, safe in the knowledge they would always be drawn back together like the gravitational pull of celestial bodies. There had been danger of course but in a familiar setting it had felt manageable, exciting even. Any time apart had been taxing but bearable while surrounded by the familiar faces of family and friends. Here unease settled over him like thick London smog whenever Lucian was out of sight. This city still felt like enemy territory. Perhaps it always would.

The dissatisfaction at his present situation made the absence of Lucian ache all the more strongly and vice versa, his absence turned Harjit’s mood toward his circumstance more black. Perhaps it was unfair to put so much on one man but Lucian was his home now. A lifeline without which he would be adrift in the heart of the British Empire, a city that was hostile to him and to which he was equally hostile in return. Was it any wonder he could not settle in this place? Damp, dark, squalid London, cruel to her own and crueller still to outsiders.

If Lucian were present he would have grinned and teased and in his own singular way managed to coax Harjit out of his dour mood as he had done on prior evenings, cajoling him with pleasant memories until he admitted London wasn’t all bad. He’d have reminded him of the pub on the corner with the excellent beer and a nook that the two of them could slip into and hide from prying eyes, of the tearoom they frequented with the proprietress who always gave them extra biscuits because Lucian complemented her cooking so exuberantly, of the children who watched him with wide-eyed fascination and admiration as he worked. But Lucian was not present and Harjit could not reach those memories unprompted.

The clock chimed the hour in the corner shaking Harjit from his reverie. Enough of this, he thought, no more fretting, no more cleaning, no more waiting at the door like a jilted spouse. He would go to bed and Lucian could return when best it pleased him. He had work in the morning and it would not do to be half asleep on the beat. Besides, if he knew Lucian (and he did, intimately) the man would likely wake him on his return, either inadvertently with clumsy, drunk movements climbing into bed or deliberately seeking affection. It was with this knowledge Harjit climbed the stairs and dressed for bed. Laying down on a mattress that felt slightly too big for one he shut his eyes and willed his mind to clear. Sleep might not come easily but he would lie there until he drifted off feeling safe in the knowledge that when next he opened his eyes there would be the comforting warmth of Lucian lying beside him.

Chapter 4: The Injudicious Pawn

To my dearest wife Henrietta,

I know I said I would write to you more often but I’ve struggled to find anything worthy to say. London remains a bore and I am no closer to securing a source of income beyond my army pension which, as you well know, is hardly enough for us to live on let alone pay for the renovations needed to Howorth Hall. Really the lower classes don’t know how lucky they have it, they at least can take up a trade and earn their keep. It’s not like I can turn my hand to business, father would spin in his grave.

I’m staying in a truly squalid little hotel at the moment in an attempt to stretch the pennies. The decor is three seasons out of date and the bellboy is easily the shiftiest thing I ever saw. Fairly certain he’s stolen one of my handkerchiefs. I’ve been raising hell with the management about it and if they find it on him I’ll insist he’s carted off to Newgate.

I’m planning on meeting with some of my old army chums later this week. With any luck maybe one of them will have some idea of an appropriate way for us to raise the sum we need without selling off what remains of grandmother’s jewellery. Failing that I might be able to persuade one of them at least to put me up for a few days and get me out of this dreadful place.

I’ll write again soon. If that American chap comes sniffing around Lilliana again don’t let him leave without a proposal, Lord knows we could use his money.

Missing you and the girls terribly.

Yours always,

 

Â̸̵̸̴̶̵̵̵̸̷̵̷̷̴̸̶̶̸̸̴̴̢̧̺̯̗̺̟̥̘̜͈̟͇̱͉͕̳̤̩͇̼̓̈́̋̽̅̈̂̈̐̌͊̆̏̂̒̅̕͝͝͝l̶̷̸̶̸̴̶̶̸̵̵̷̵̶̴̶̵̶̷̵̶̢̢̡̜̟͔͖̰͕̳̫̯͈͕̝͍̫̗͖͍̖̆̋̎͑̉̀́̊̈́̃̈́̇̈͗̽̌͗̓̍̚̕o̶̶̸̸̴̷̶̷̶̷̸̸̷̸̷̸̶̵̷̷̴̫̪̪̖̺͔͓͇̫̱̹̱̦̬̲͖̪̦̣͎̯͛̾̓̇̂̓̑͛̃̓̌͊͂͐͆͆̈́̓̆͊͠y̴̸̵̸̷̵̴̸̵̷̷̷̴̵̴̸̴̸̴̵̵̨̧̛͙̲͚̥̘̩̭͔̖̟̮͉̯̖͕͈̫͙͋̃̋̆̍̿͗̔̆̏̿̈́̉̀̂̀͆̂͊̕ͅś̶̵̴̵̷̸̶̵̷̸̵̶̷̷̶̷̵̷̵̶̷̢̢̢̨̨̜̥̻̣̠̦̪͔̪̗̞͕̫͇͋̾̉̽̈́̂̿̈̊̿̑̓̐̕̕̚̕͝͠͠ͅͅĭ̷̴̴̸̴̸̵̸̸̶̴̵̵̸̴̶̷̴̸̶̶̢͖͚͈̝͚̤̗̠͕̱̹͓͔̹͎͈̟͕̫̳͒̂̽͂́̾́͑́̊̔͋̃̑͒̌̑̍̕͝ư̸̵̵̸̸̵̸̶̷̸̶̵̶̵̵̵̵̸̷̵̸̡̨̛̛̞͔̹͕͖̱̗͎̦̯̮̩̰̼̟̗͎͖̍͗́̍̐̋̋͒̈́͗̽̓̈́̊͂̕͜͠s̵̶̸̶̵̴̵̵̸̷̴̵̸̵̵̷̶̵̸̴̛̯̣͎̝̦̙̹̱̲͚͔̦̙̗̞̠͚̟͔͐̽͋́͋̒͗̇̇̎̈̈́̈́̄̀̒͘͘͝

 

...

My dear Henrietta,

I’ve just returned from dinner and thought I’d better write.

It was nice to see the old boys again but sadly they were no use at all to us. In fact, I’m feeling rather put out about it. They’re clearly not short on money but they got rather cagey when I bought it up the source of it. Sebastian mentioned something about some grand game but was quickly shot down by the others. Strange, I can’t imagine they’re winning that much gambling. It’s a fine pastime of course but hardly a steady money earner. I shall see if I can catch him alone and get him to spill whatever secret they’re keeping, he’s always been loose lipped. If they’ve worked out a sure bet on the gee-gees and haven’t told me I’ll be furious.

In other news, over port one of the chaps called over a young officer with the most striking set of whiskers and we got talking. The lad’s from Scotland, could hardly understand him at times but I persevered. He’s recently back from the Punjab or some other such place and was very keen on hearing some of our old war stories, especially the ones regarding the security measures Sebastian had to take with communications to and from the palace. He insisted they meet up next week for drinks so they can go over it in more detail. I don’t suppose there’s much harm to it, what with him being military himself. Probably just wants to compare notes.

Worry not dear, I’ll come up with some brilliant plan and get us back on our feet. In the meantime, if you have to sell something to get by start with my grandfather's watch collection. It may not fetch much but it’s hideous and I’d be glad to see the back of it. And please try to be discreet, I don’t want the whole shire knowing we’re flat broke.

Fondest regards and much love,

 

Â̸̵̸̴̶̵̵̵̸̷̵̷̷̴̸̶̶̸̸̴̴̢̧̺̯̗̺̟̥̘̜͈̟͇̱͉͕̳̤̩͇̼̓̈́̋̽̅̈̂̈̐̌͊̆̏̂̒̅̕͝͝͝l̶̷̸̶̸̴̶̶̸̵̵̷̵̶̴̶̵̶̷̵̶̢̢̡̜̟͔͖̰͕̳̫̯͈͕̝͍̫̗͖͍̖̆̋̎͑̉̀́̊̈́̃̈́̇̈͗̽̌͗̓̍̚̕o̶̶̸̸̴̷̶̷̶̷̸̸̷̸̷̸̶̵̷̷̴̫̪̪̖̺͔͓͇̫̱̹̱̦̬̲͖̪̦̣͎̯͛̾̓̇̂̓̑͛̃̓̌͊͂͐͆͆̈́̓̆͊͠y̴̸̵̸̷̵̴̸̵̷̷̷̴̵̴̸̴̸̴̵̵̨̧̛͙̲͚̥̘̩̭͔̖̟̮͉̯̖͕͈̫͙͋̃̋̆̍̿͗̔̆̏̿̈́̉̀̂̀͆̂͊̕ͅś̶̵̴̵̷̸̶̵̷̸̵̶̷̷̶̷̵̷̵̶̷̢̢̢̨̨̜̥̻̣̠̦̪͔̪̗̞͕̫͇͋̾̉̽̈́̂̿̈̊̿̑̓̐̕̕̚̕͝͠͠ͅͅĭ̷̴̴̸̴̸̵̸̸̶̴̵̵̸̴̶̷̴̸̶̶̢͖͚͈̝͚̤̗̠͕̱̹͓͔̹͎͈̟͕̫̳͒̂̽͂́̾́͑́̊̔͋̃̑͒̌̑̍̕͝ư̸̵̵̸̸̵̸̶̷̸̶̵̶̵̵̵̵̸̷̵̸̡̨̛̛̞͔̹͕͖̱̗͎̦̯̮̩̰̼̟̗͎͖̍͗́̍̐̋̋͒̈́͗̽̓̈́̊͂̕͜͠s̵̶̸̶̵̴̵̵̸̷̴̵̸̵̵̷̶̵̸̴̛̯̣͎̝̦̙̹̱̲͚͔̦̙̗̞̠͚̟͔͐̽͋́͋̒͗̇̇̎̈̈́̈́̄̀̒͘͘͝

 

...

Dearest,

Just a brief epistle this time but I had to tell you at once. I may have found a solution to our liquidity problem. Can’t go too much into it but I had the strangest encounter yesterday. A gentleman I’d never seen before approached me in the hotel lobby and made it clear he knew about our financial situation.

I nearly had him tossed out of the place for the cheek of it but luckily, shrewd man that I am, I heard him out. He said he was representing someone of great importance who had taken an interest in a recent acquaintance of mine. Can’t mention the name in writing dear, obviously, but I’ll tell you the whole tale when I’m back in Yorkshire. Anyway he wants me to do a little job for him, nothing sordid don’t you worry. I’ve just got to keep an eye on a chap, maybe run intercept. Shouldn’t take too long and then I’ll be back by your side with enough money to set the family up until the children’s grandchildren are grown.

Eagerly awaiting the day I return to you,

 

Â̸̵̸̴̶̵̵̵̸̷̵̷̷̴̸̶̶̸̸̴̴̢̧̺̯̗̺̟̥̘̜͈̟͇̱͉͕̳̤̩͇̼̓̈́̋̽̅̈̂̈̐̌͊̆̏̂̒̅̕͝͝͝l̶̷̸̶̸̴̶̶̸̵̵̷̵̶̴̶̵̶̷̵̶̢̢̡̜̟͔͖̰͕̳̫̯͈͕̝͍̫̗͖͍̖̆̋̎͑̉̀́̊̈́̃̈́̇̈͗̽̌͗̓̍̚̕o̶̶̸̸̴̷̶̷̶̷̸̸̷̸̷̸̶̵̷̷̴̫̪̪̖̺͔͓͇̫̱̹̱̦̬̲͖̪̦̣͎̯͛̾̓̇̂̓̑͛̃̓̌͊͂͐͆͆̈́̓̆͊͠y̴̸̵̸̷̵̴̸̵̷̷̷̴̵̴̸̴̸̴̵̵̨̧̛͙̲͚̥̘̩̭͔̖̟̮͉̯̖͕͈̫͙͋̃̋̆̍̿͗̔̆̏̿̈́̉̀̂̀͆̂͊̕ͅś̶̵̴̵̷̸̶̵̷̸̵̶̷̷̶̷̵̷̵̶̷̢̢̢̨̨̜̥̻̣̠̦̪͔̪̗̞͕̫͇͋̾̉̽̈́̂̿̈̊̿̑̓̐̕̕̚̕͝͠͠ͅͅĭ̷̴̴̸̴̸̵̸̸̶̴̵̵̸̴̶̷̴̸̶̶̢͖͚͈̝͚̤̗̠͕̱̹͓͔̹͎͈̟͕̫̳͒̂̽͂́̾́͑́̊̔͋̃̑͒̌̑̍̕͝ư̸̵̵̸̸̵̸̶̷̸̶̵̶̵̵̵̵̸̷̵̸̡̨̛̛̞͔̹͕͖̱̗͎̦̯̮̩̰̼̟̗͎͖̍͗́̍̐̋̋͒̈́͗̽̓̈́̊͂̕͜͠s̵̶̸̶̵̴̵̵̸̷̴̵̸̵̵̷̶̵̸̴̛̯̣͎̝̦̙̹̱̲͚͔̦̙̗̞̠͚̟͔͐̽͋́͋̒͗̇̇̎̈̈́̈́̄̀̒͘͘͝

 

...

Hettie my love,

I hope this letter gets to you but I fear I’m being watched and my mail interfered with.

I think I’ve made a terrible mistake. I did the job I told you about, it started fine and then it went so quickly downhill and sideways I couldn’t keep on top of it. If I had known what I was agreeing to from the start I would never, never –

Worse still I met the man from the lobby again and he refuses to pay me. I did everything he asked. I sat at the bar, I poured the whiskey spiked with that foul black liquid like I was told. But apparently the job’s not done yet.

He wants me to go back to the room we left the poor bastard in. Tonight. He says I just need to sit with him through the night “to make sure”. Hettie I’m scared.

Do not come find me. You must avoid London.

 

Â̸̵̸̴̶̵̵̵̸̷̵̷̷̴̸̶̶̸̸̴̴̢̧̺̯̗̺̟̥̘̜͈̟͇̱͉͕̳̤̩͇̼̓̈́̋̽̅̈̂̈̐̌͊̆̏̂̒̅̕͝͝͝l̶̷̸̶̸̴̶̶̸̵̵̷̵̶̴̶̵̶̷̵̶̢̢̡̜̟͔͖̰͕̳̫̯͈͕̝͍̫̗͖͍̖̆̋̎͑̉̀́̊̈́̃̈́̇̈͗̽̌͗̓̍̚̕o̶̶̸̸̴̷̶̷̶̷̸̸̷̸̷̸̶̵̷̷̴̫̪̪̖̺͔͓͇̫̱̹̱̦̬̲͖̪̦̣͎̯͛̾̓̇̂̓̑͛̃̓̌͊͂͐͆͆̈́̓̆͊͠y̴̸̵̸̷̵̴̸̵̷̷̷̴̵̴̸̴̸̴̵̵̨̧̛͙̲͚̥̘̩̭͔̖̟̮͉̯̖͕͈̫͙͋̃̋̆̍̿͗̔̆̏̿̈́̉̀̂̀͆̂͊̕ͅś̶̵̴̵̷̸̶̵̷̸̵̶̷̷̶̷̵̷̵̶̷̢̢̢̨̨̜̥̻̣̠̦̪͔̪̗̞͕̫͇͋̾̉̽̈́̂̿̈̊̿̑̓̐̕̕̚̕͝͠͠ͅͅĭ̷̴̴̸̴̸̵̸̸̶̴̵̵̸̴̶̷̴̸̶̶̢͖͚͈̝͚̤̗̠͕̱̹͓͔̹͎͈̟͕̫̳͒̂̽͂́̾́͑́̊̔͋̃̑͒̌̑̍̕͝ư̸̵̵̸̸̵̸̶̷̸̶̵̶̵̵̵̵̸̷̵̸̡̨̛̛̞͔̹͕͖̱̗͎̦̯̮̩̰̼̟̗͎͖̍͗́̍̐̋̋͒̈́͗̽̓̈́̊͂̕͜͠s̵̶̸̶̵̴̵̵̸̷̴̵̸̵̵̷̶̵̸̴̛̯̣͎̝̦̙̹̱̲͚͔̦̙̗̞̠͚̟͔͐̽͋́͋̒͗̇̇̎̈̈́̈́̄̀̒͘͘͝

 

...

Mrs. Henrietta

Thank you for your recent episilitorum.

Unfortunamostely, we have no recordification of anyone in ownership of the mentioned nomenclaturery. The recent temporality experiencified by London has resulted in a larger than normal amountifull of misplacified and/or irrecoverableant persons. This does not mean that your spouse/loved one/relative/maiden aunt/nemesis/mentor/mentee/manatee/or other is not persentificated in or aroundaboutsive our city, simply that they do not appearify in our recordifications.

We hope most embigonedly this has been of some help to you and your personage.

Yours sincerely,

The Ministry of Accounting and Recounting

Notes:

Ngl, I had enormous fun writing Mister Pages' boilerplate "Sorry we lost your loved one when we dropped London through the earth" letter.

Chapter 5: The Splintered Dreamer

Archie woke with a start, his skin clammy and his undershirt uncomfortably stuck by sweat to the hollow of his back. It was the dream again. The one that floated in the back of his mind. He had other dreams of course. Dreams of home, of Glasgow in the winter and snowflakes melting on his sister’s hair. Dreams of far-flung locales inspired by the books he read, wind catching the canvas of a tall ship as soldiers in scarlet coats bustled across the deck or the scent of foreign cooking on a hot breeze as he walked along a dusty road. But no matter how his dreams started inevitably they would shift before the end to the same familiar but half-remembered scene.

A terrible secret. A betrayal. A theft in the night. The cobbled stones shifting beneath his feet as though they were waves on a great sea, wet and glistening in the moonlight. A hand at his back, holding him steady. A hand at his back, pushing him to the floor. His head swimming from drink or drugs or something else. An imploring voice that wasn’t his own emanating from his throat as he sounded words he couldn’t understand across a tongue heavy with the taste of whiskey. A struggle. Being dragged. Being lifted. Being carried. A locked door opening and leading to a dark hallway. Red symbols that hurt to look at carved into wallpaper. And above all else the one throughline that centred itself in his mind. He had to warn them. Warn London. Warn him.

If only he knew who it was, this mystery man who occupied his sleeping thoughts. He had a vague sense of someone tall with broad shoulders and the colour blue, but the face of the man remained frustratingly out of reach, trapped behind a haze of dream fog impenetrable to his waking self. At first he’d tried to force the image to the front of his mind. The futile attempts had only served to leave him with a splitting headache that had him reaching for his medical supplies. Then he tried subtler methods, confident that if only he could ignore the thought for long enough it would make itself known to him in time. Dreams can be fickle he thought, try to catch them and they’ll slip through your grasping fingers. Better to wait and let it come to him.

Except it never did. And so the cycle would continue, the desperate mission of his dream, it’s urgency hounding him into the waking world and the emptiness that followed, that disquieting feeling that he had forgotten something of grave importance that he could not shake until he dreamt again.

On his best days it was almost easy to discount the dream, to face it down with facts and logic and turn it into a small thing that he was foolish to exhaust so much mental effort over. The dream was just a dream. Plenty of people had bad dreams in the Neath, Archie knew that better than anyone. It was nothing a little laudanum wouldn’t fix if he had any to spare. On his worst days it was hard to tell where the dream stopped and reality started. He would walk along the Thames asleep in his bed at Mrs. Chapman’s and wake to find himself beside the Stolen River. He would turn a corner on a street in the Neath and then be walking along a London road above, fresh air ruffling his hair and alcohol on his breath surrounded by gentlemen in fine clothing.

There was another man too when he got that bad. A smiling man in a stovepipe hat and a coat with bright brass buttons and eyes too old for his face. He listened to Archie’s ramblings with the patience of a doting parent and somehow never made him feel like he was going mad. Or more accurately, he made it seem like going mad was the sanest thing of all.

Archie shook his head. He had more pressing things to focus on. There was a city full of patients to attend to down in the Neath that relied on him being lucid and fully present, not caught up in his own head. He moved to the small washbasin Mrs Chapman had provided for his room and splashed a little water on his face. He was a doctoral student from Glasgow who had been training in London when it fell, he reminded himself.

He had never stood on the deck of a ship off the southern coast of Africa. He had never walked through an open-air market as the scent of turmeric filled his nostrils. And he had certainly never staggered through the streets of London in a desperate attempt to warn Harjit Singh.

Chapter 6: The Adjustive Writer

The writer picked up her pen, held it to the page long enough to leave an ugly black spot then put it down again. She was no stranger to writer’s block. What writer is? But this was different, she wasn’t stumbling over characterisation or motive or what new disaster to subject the newly wedded Mrs Overhardt to. For once in her life, she knew exactly what to write. She just didn’t know why.

This was an unheard-of problem for the writer, who had previously always had a reason for what she penned. Money and catharsis were her two main staples. Neither applied here. The characters were, for once, not based off a relative or society acquaintance who had irritated her; they had sprung fully formed into her mind. And certainly no magazine in London would pay her for a story about a romantic relationship between two men. Still the call to write was irresistible and her hand unconsciously reached for the pen again.

A writing exercise then, she thought, and nothing more.

 

He glanced at the door knowing his lover should have been back far earlier. How typical of him, he thought. This was sadly not an uncommon situation for the man; many a previous evening had been spent like this. His partner off galivanting about the city. Him left behind waiting at home.

Earlier in the evening he had tried to distract his racing mind by throwing himself into cleaning the small living space the pair rented. Now he sat in wait for the tell-tale sound of a key turning in the lock that would announce his love’s return. Without the diversion of physical activity his mind shifted to thoughts of home. He’d travelled so far based only on the strength of his affection. What if it had been misplaced?

There was not much to like about his current lodgings beyond the man he shared them with. The rooms were cramped and frequently damp. The landlady short tempered. The city paled, often literally, in comparison with his homeland. He missed it terribly. Perhaps he would have been happier had he stayed there.

The sound of movement at the door roused the man from his reverie with a start. He leapt toward it just in time to catch the handle and prevent it from slamming into the wall as the door swung open. There stood in the threshold was the one he’d been waiting for, a little worse for wear perhaps and stinking of alcohol but safe and unharmed. The smile that stretched across that bewhiskered face was drunken but no less loving for it. His partner stepped through the door from the darkened hallway and into the candlelight of the room. Without a word he embraced his patient lover and swept him into a kiss. Hands gripped tight onto clothing as they lingered far longer in each other’s arms than they should have, neither willing to part.

The pair stepped further into the room; the door nudged shut with an idle flick of a foot. All worry and homesickness had fled the instant they were reunited.

Parting from the kiss but remaining so close he could feel the other’s breath heavy on his lips the man finally broke the silence. “What time do you call this?” he asked.

His love’s grin widened even further. “Did I worry you? You’ve got that look on your face that says you’ve been moping. Good god, you even tidied up! It must have been dire.”

“I’m fine, I just – I do worry about you. It’s hard not to the way you charge about sticking your nose into things that don’t concern you.”

“Occupational hazard with a nose as large as mine. Now where have you put my cards? Don’t tell me you’ve packed them away.” He began rummaging through drawers and cupboards, pulling the freshly tidied items out haphazardly and returning the room to its natural state of chaos. Turning from his enterprise to look over his shoulder at his lover he added, “I’ll always return to you, you know that right? I didn’t drag you halfway across the world just to abandon you.”

“You can’t possibly promise that.”

“Yes, I can.” He spoke with a finality that would brook no argument no matter how much one might want to point out the cold rational impossibility of what he was saying. “Now, how about a nightcap before bed, I think we’ve both had a long evening?”

The man nodded his assent and the other pulled a bottle of whiskey from the back of the drawer and collected two glasses from the sideboard. He poured a generous measure into each glass and handed one of them to his partner who knocked most of the measure back with barely a grimace before speaking.

“Did you find what you were looking for?”

“Hmm, no. Total dead end, nothing interesting at the palace at all and after I took such a risk getting in. It’s strange, I was so sure I was onto something.”

“Well, perhaps that’s for the best.”

The two stood in silence for the minute or so it took to finish their drinks. There was no need for words. Then, with the alcohol gently warming their stomachs, they retired to bed together where they would remain until the sun rose and the demands of the new day stirred them from their slumber.

 

Satisfied she had gotten whatever compulsion had possessed her out of her system the writer picked up the paper and carried it over to the fireplace. There she consigned it to the dim flames. For a few seconds it seemed the paper would not light and it lay there instead, suspended in time; the flames licking around it and over it but not consuming it. Then the spell broke and all at once the paper took and burst into brilliant flame, burned to ashes in an instance as though it were flash paper. No, the writer realised as she peered into the grate, not burned to ashes. For there were no ashes. The flames had completely devoured her writing leaving no trace.

Notes:

If I ever have the fun idea to rewrite a scene I've already written but as though someone else was writing it and also use zero names even though it features two people of the same gender someone needs to hit me.

One more chapter after this, which *fingers crossed* should be up over the weekend if I can drag myself away from Baldur's Gate 3 long enough to finish editing it!

Chapter 7: The Roseate Couple

It was late. The fireworks had died out a while ago and with them the majority of the crowd that had flooded the banks of the Stolen River had dispersed. Little pockets of people remained, a couple or small group here and there who were unwilling to let the frivolities of the Feast end quite so soon. Some meandered along the paths talking animatedly with their companions, some stole away to darkened corners where they allowed the illusion of privacy to embolden them, and some simply sat and watched the city go by.

One such couple sat by themselves overlooking the ruins of Parliament. The spot had been carefully chosen to give them the best view but also keep a good distance from any possible eavesdroppers. They rested almost shoulder to shoulder, hands placed near each other’s but not quite touching. A barrier of less than an inch that neither could quite bring themselves to break.

There the pair sat unspeaking as they watched strangers scurry home through the night back to their beds. Or at least to someone’s bed. The silence that stretched between them was not quite comfortable but it was, at least to them, better than the alternative. There was simply too much to say for either one to risk breaking the silence.

Archie turned to Harjit and studied the other man’s profile. He’d always found Harjit handsome, but how much of that attraction was genuine and not just a holdover of some forgotten past? Did it even matter? And Harjit, did he truly want Archie or was this just the closest he could get to having Lucian back? Would he leave when it became clear that Archie was no longer the man he loved? His eyes trailed along the length of Harjit’s nose and across his lips. He’d kissed them once or twice before his arrest, moments stolen in hidden buildings late at night. It had all been much easier then.

His melancholy gaze eventually disturbed his companion and Harjit turned from watching the broken face of the Clock Tower with a slight smile on his face. His eyebrow cocked, inviting Archie to speak what was on his mind.

“Sorry, it’s nothin’,” Archie’s voice was hoarse as he spoke. “I’m just thinking,”

“About?” Harjit responded.

Archie paused. Any subject he bought up had the potential to be fraught, to break the uneasy peace the two of them had settled into since the trial. With Lucian his lack of memories created a distance that made discussing him almost easy, like talking about a tragedy you’d heard had befallen a distant relative. It was sad, of course, but abstract. Far removed from him. He felt no real connection between himself and the man he supposedly used to be. But for Harjit it was the opposite, almost anything would be easier for him than looking into Archie’s unremembering eyes, the remanent of Lucian, while talking about the things they had once shared a lifetime ago.

This was dangerous ground. Still, Archie thought, we will have to broach it at some point. Maybe if he spoke of what fragments he could remember from his dreams it might persuade Harjit to open up a little himself, or maybe it would just give him false hope that Lucian was still somewhere recoverable. Harjit bore his hurt like a wounded animal; he didn’t let it show. If Archie misstepped he may not realise it until it was too late.

“I dinnae remember being Lucian but I think I remember the shift. Or I dream of it at least,” Archie spoke, hoping he wasn’t about to ruin the evening.

Harjit looked at him patiently. If the topic distressed him, he did not show it. “Will you tell me about it?”

“Aye, if you’ll trade me. I know it’s difficult for you to talk about him, Lucian, to me. And I get it, I do. I’ve no’ always been too sensitive when talking of him. But I do want to know more about him, about who I they say I was. Tell me a story about him, any which one you choose, and I'll tell you of my dream.”

Harjit nodded slowly, “I think I can manage that.”

“So, which of us is going to start?”

“I asked first, so courtesy states it should be you.” No smile stretched across Harjit’s lips but his eyes were warm and fond despite the seriousness of his voice.

Well, Archie could hardly argue with that, could he? He took a deep breath to centre himself and began.

“I’ve dreamt a lot of the events leading up to it but they’re always a jumble. The moment itself is a rarer dream but it’s clearer. Always follows the same path. I wake in a dark room. My body aches and my mind is pounding. My hands are bound behind me, attached to something I can’t see and no matter how hard I struggle I cannae move them. There’s nothing much in the room with me, a couple of books maybe and one or two bits of furniture that are too dark for me to make out the shape of. And of course, there are the scarlet letters on the wall.

“I know you’ve seen it yourself, the writing on some of the buildings around here. Think I told you at some point they were just beggar marks but we both know better now, don’t we? I don’t know how long Lucian was stuck there. It could have been minutes or days from what I dreamt. And there was nothing to do but stare at the wall. At that damn lettering.”

Archie’s voice shifted as he continued talking. His eyes that had once focused on Harjit’s own now stared through him. He spoke like a man possessed, unaware of his surroundings.

“I couldnae read them but by the end he must’ve understood them well enough. Glyphs that laid dormant until the city fell and then activated in a searing burst of light. Turning a building that Was into a building that Was Not. The pain was immense. I felt my whole body aflame, he should have burned to ash but we remained, alive and still somehow burning hotter and hotter. Some small version of the house fell with the city and it took the bits of Lucian that became me with it. Most of it stayed on the surface as a mockery of consequential science and law until the sun’s light hit it and cleansed all trace of it from the Earth, Lucian included –”

Harjit had been quietly taking in Archie’s words until the last part. Confused he interrupted, “What does that mean, a ‘building that Was Not’?”

His voice broke whatever spell had gripped hold of Archie and the other man looked equally confused. “I – I don’t know. It’s what those marks said, what action they caused, I’m sure of it. But I do not know the meaning behind it.” His gaze hardened, “I mean to find out though.”

Harjit’s hand reached out, finally spanning the gap that they had kept between themselves. His fingers clasped around Archie’s, cradling the other man’s hand in his own. Despite the chill in the air he was burning hot.

“I suppose I owe you a tale of Lucian then.”

“It can wait for another time –” Harjit started to protest but Archie cut him off with a weary smile. “It’s fine, truth be told I’m awful tired. You can tell me some other night.”

Archie moved to stand and say his goodbye. In response Harjit’s grip on his hand tightened and before he could second guess himself he voiced the question that had hung in the air between the two of them since they first met that evening, since the trial even, "So, where does this leave us?”

Archie hovered in the air for a moment partway between sitting and standing before settling back down with a breath. He shifted and positioned himself directly facing Harjit, gazing deep into his eyes as he spoke, “About where we were before I’d say, but with a wee bit more knowledge.

"I’m very fond of you Harjit. But I like you in much the same way I did before all this business with David and the trial, as Archie. I cannae love you the way Lucian did because I’m no’ him. Even if I did manage to regain some of what was taken from me that night it’d take years and I’d still not be the man you loved. And I understand if that’s not enough for you and you’d prefer a clean break. There’d be no hard feelings. But I cannae be with you if you’re just waiting for me to remember that I’m someone I’m not.”

Archie’s words hung in the air as Harjit listened to him, face blank and his thoughts impenetrable. When he finally spoke it was with clear conviction, “Months ago, you talked to me at length about how the two of us could carve out a life here in the Neath. A little house of our own with room for a clinic downstairs. You doctoring and me guiding people, bringing back what monsters I killed so you could make medicine from them. No more box room in a boarding house, no more constabulary.”

“I remember.”

“I think I’d like that.”

“Aye, I would too. And if your heart changes – “

“I’ll let you know, and you will do the same.”

“Agreed.”

Hands still clasped together they held each other’s gaze. Neither could be sure where this would go or how long it would last, but both were committed to the attempt and, for now at least, that would be enough.

Notes:

Well there it is, final chapter! I'll almost certainly write more about these two at some point. I've got a few ideas knocking about for some small one-shots and maybe something longer based off the Harjit/Archie/PC ending of MotR but I'd need to get some semblance of plot worked out for that or it'll get away from me and I'll never finish it.