Intermezzo

by wakabayashi_moriaki

Summary:

Four one-shots that take place around the time of Scarpia's Sting (and possibly a bit before). Tags will be updated as more chapters are voted on and written.

Chapter 1: The Turquoise City

Almond woke up, face first on the cool bright turquoise pavement. He did not know how he got there. There was no explanation to be found nearby, either. He simply had fallen down fighting in Helix and woke up in this strange place.

 

I wonder what happened to the others? he thought, a mere formality. His thoughts were a blur, as was the static night sky with its light blue-green stars shining dully like Glowshells.

 

As Almond stood up and dusted himself off, he noticed that his Postknight uniform, his arm, and his skin were in perfect condition. So were his eyes.

 

Normally, he would be shocked. Moments ago, he had just been slashed at, stabbed in the eye, and had his arm broken.

 

However, like one sleepless or feverish, he paid no attention to such inconsistencies, and only wondered how and why he seemed to take two seconds per step. He wondered why his arm seemed to jerk so suddenly instead of sweeping from one point to another. He looked around, though his neck seemed much stiffer than before.

 

The turquoise city seemed to be something out of a vision. Pulsing, glowing blue crystals were harnessed and strung with invisible threads to light the city. Not a single crack or unintentional irregularity was to be found in its architecture. Sturdy ropes and canvas awnings made for empty storefronts were kept in perfect condition. Gazebos made of concrete showed no signs of weathering. Crystal window panes seemed almost invisible in the light. Alien flora was confined to planters and pots, though there were a few errant sprigs that dared to defy their containers. Almond could not identify the plants.

 

He peered into several windows. There was no sign of life, save for furniture and errant wall decorations like family pictures and feathered masks. Strange runes were everywhere, which he barely recognized as the wise words. The whole process seemed to have taken hours.

 

Almond looked up at the sky again. What was once a night sky with white-blue stars was now obscured by a great concrete thing, with intricate patterns carved into it. It seemed to surround the city, like a dome. However, the strange pillars reminded him of fingers with wide tips. The strange web above seemed like a palm where the fingers had originated from and diverged into those great twisting columns.

 

The gigantic city was an art project. Almond immediately assumed this, for there was no other sensible explanation for it. After all, save for the plants, he appeared to be the only living thing in the city.

 

He did not know about bacteria.

 

What is this place? Almond thought as he tried to look natural. Was this place inhabited by Aegles? If so, where are they? What happe-

 

There we go.

 

Before he could finish his thoughts, an unfamiliar voice cut him off. It was a voice without description, without emotion. It could not have been human, or Aegle, or Wyord, or any other living and intelligent species. It was as loud as it needed to be.

 

In a blink, the once empty streets were populated with all sorts of Aegles and livestock. Sheep-like beasts were led by disgruntled shepherds. Strange horned steeds carried well-dressed nobles as they peered at the passerby below with veiled disgust. The animals dared not to soil the streets, save for the strange butterflies which left clouds of sparkling dust as they hovered about waiting for corpses to feast on. Children chased strange beetle-like insects through the streets, shriek-laughing as the beetles touched the ground and took off to the sky again and again. Almond could hear snatches of old songs sung by long-dead voices as the wind quickly blew by his ears. The sharp-eared people went about their lives, haggling with various merchants, entering inns, sweeping porches, heading out to patrol the streets and highways. Sometimes, a streak of light would pass over his head with an eerie whistle. He would be the only one to show any reaction to this odd phenomenon.

 

Almond could not understand the strange tongue that the Aegles in this city spoke, which he knew they called the Wise Words. It didn't matter, since he noticed they would simply ignore him. It was not because he was a spirit or they were a mirage. He could feel them bumping into him, every time. Children would nearly knock him over, uniformed rangers seemed to brush him aside like he was a shrub of some sort. There was no reaction from any of these collision-happy individuals.

 

He soon realized that these people did not see him, or realized he existed. They simply moved about, regardless of what stood in their way.

 

To his surprise, his neck and limbs were nowhere near as stiff as before. He could see his arm perform its full range of motion as he reached to brush an errant salmon lock from his eyes.

 

He decided to try to find someone to ask for directions, not realizing that it was highly likely that everyone in this city would be unresponsive to him.

 

He spotted a blue-haired scholar with a bored expression. They stood outside, eating a purple banana and reading a book. As Almond approached, they suddenly looked up. He smiled, and tried asking for directions.

 

They ignored him. It dawned on Almond that this blue-haired scholar was not staring at him, but through him.

 

He tried asking several other people, including a shy-looking blonde merchant, but this was futile.

 

He sighed.

 

So here I am, lost in this weird city while my friends are probably looking for me in Helix… he thought as he glumly walked the streets. His brown leather boots seemed to be in almost pristine condition.

 

Almond caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. His Rank-B uniform was clean and starched. His visor was in good enough condition, though getting the scratch marks off the shiny bill was a nigh impossible task. His spiky hair was soft and shiny from meticulous care. He looked in the reflection and saw two bright red eyes staring back.

 

He'd always taken great pride in his appearance. If one was to be a Postknight, they would need to look the part.

 

He smiled widely. He hadn't smiled like that since the day he was taking his picture for his official license.

 

Of course! he thought. Every city has a Knightmail delivery box! I really need to catch up on my tokens, anyhow.

 

He took off running, weaving effortlessly through the crowded streets. He soon caught that familiar, welcome sight.

 

He opened it, hoping for a delivery, but it was empty.

 

Almond heard a strange and directionless chorus of laughter. He quickly turned around, ready to defend his pride. No one seemed to have noticed, though.

 

He realized that the laughter was coming from inside the delivery box itself.

 

A sock puppet popped out, piloted by a pale arm. It had dozens of black button eyes and resembled the purple knee-high sock that he lost a few months ago. Almost instinctively, he checked his boots. One foot was bare, the other was clad in a knee-high purple sock.

 

The purple sock puppet stopped laughing for a moment.

 

“YOU WERE SLOWER THAN THE LAST ONE,” it spoke in a loud legion of genderless and accentless voices.

 

Almond tried to ask it for clarification. To his horror, he could not speak or open his mouth beyond a fraction of an inch.

 

“I’M JUST AS CONFUSED AS YOU ARE, SINCE THIS TEST WAS MEANT FOR ANOTHER.”

 

What does it me-

 

“ARE YOU QUESTIONING ME?” it snapped, interrupting his thought.

 

Almond went pale with shock, then he became bewildered. Something told him to run, but he was paralyzed with an ancient primal dread.

 

“COME ON, I CAN'T BITE.”

 

Wait, what's going on? Why should I be listening to that thing, anyway? How does it know what I’m thinking? thought Almond as he regained a sliver of resolve.

 

“I HEARD THAT,” it said angrily, showing emotion for the first time.

 

A booklet fell from the sky, as well as a chewed-up lead pencil.

 

“YOUR TEST BEGINS NOW.”

 

It was made of cheap, slightly gray paper that was soft to the touch. No sound was made as Almond flipped through the hair-thin pages. It was the kind of paper that would disintegrate into gray mush with a drop of water and tear if one rubbed it too hard with an eraser. Erasers would wear this paper thin and fluffy as loose fibers were roughed up. Even the most delicate pencil marks left silver scars on that paper.

 

Almond could not understand the runes, but tried his best to read through the first thirty pages of the booklet.

 

I wish this was in Kurestian, he thought.

 

A good fifty pages were devoted to diagrams of plants, blueprints for machines that seemed to use something far greater than Crystabits and gears, anatomical diagrams of various creatures, and mathematical equations and proofs beyond what mortal minds could comprehend.

 

One single page remained. It was a double-sided answer sheet, with weird little circles organized all neatly. There were random dark circles in every row.

 

He recognized the format of the final page, as he had taken and aced multiple written exams at the Postknight academy. A multiple choice section on those exams was an inevitability, like taxes and death.

 

He suddenly burst out laughing, the first time he had been able to make any noise ever since he entered that strange city.

 

“Wait a minute! This is an answer key!” Almond suddenly cried out, finding satisfaction in realizing that perhaps his test would be much simpler than he thought.

 

The puppet appeared before him, larger than before.

 

“YOU SPENT HALF AN HOUR FIGURING THAT OUT.”

 

Is that good? Was that the test? Did I pass it? Almond wondered.

 

Without a word, it grew even larger, and playfully grabbed him in its hand-mouth like a dog holding a toy.

 

Almond was too terrified to scream or protest. Before he could comprehend his situation, he was dropped into a bottomless well. The sound of rushing wind drowned out any noise he could've made as he saw the light above him shrink into a white pinprick.

 

He struggled to open his left eye. Everything felt heavy and his vision was blurry. He felt as though his insides were stuffed with cotton, and his whole mouth felt numb. There was a tingling in his right arm, which he realized was being held up and wrapped.

 

He could not see who was bandaging his arm, but he recognized the voice singing softly. It was the Wyord Alchemist, Bra'him.

 

Almond quickly fell back asleep.

 

There was no use in explaining what had happened. He wouldn't have the strength to do so now, nor would he ever have the blessed ability to forget what he had seen on those eighty-one sheets of fragile cheap gray paper.

Chapter 2: Azucena

Almond knocked on the door to the Larkspur Suite. There was some muffled conversation before a rubenesque green-haired woman opened the door.

She had warm, friendly green eyes. Her cheeks were puffy, her thick round glasses had permanently stuck-on plant residue on its lenses, and most of her hair was kept in a thick braid that fell to her waist. The braid was held together with a pink silk ribbon.

Almond’s heart dropped to his stomach. He knew this woman, despite never talking to her or delivering anything for her. He’d seen her accompany Peanut while foraging for herbs outside of Maille. At the border outpost, Magnus would often spend the long uneventful days looking through her old oft-thumbed-through photographs and reading her letters which were partially faded from Magnus’s index finger running across every line for years. 

When Magnus finally made amends with Almond, he shared her photographs with the Postknight. There was a look of pride and a hint of remorse as he recounted how they had met in Pompon after he failed his Postknight exam for the final time.

The woman in the doorway was prettier than the pictures let on. It was little wonder that the soldier Magnus adored her so much, willing to sacrifice everything for his girl stuck halfway across the continent. He’d even turn his own spear on his countrymen for her, as Almond had found out the hard way.

“You must be Fleur,” Almond said.

The woman nodded with a motherly smile. It seemed as though she was analyzing him, now. When one spent time in Aldor, they tended to forget that not everything could be analyzed and classified like the various things they studied.

Her clothes make her look older than she actually is, Almond thought almost instinctively. Perhaps this observation was from years of overhearing his mother gossip with her assistants after another citizeness dropped off clothes to be mended. He thought that Fleur’s blue-green vest over that conservative beige dress of hers gave a matronly look. It was fitting enough for an alchemist, but it gave off an air of uncharacteristic stodginess and rigidity.

The woman in the doorway asked softly, “Hello. Can I help you?”

“There’s been a little disturbance last night. The advisor sent me to question several of the people here. You mind if I come in?” Almond responded.

“Oh, please do!”

He entered, glancing over his right shoulder and scanning the room for potential threats. He only saw books, notebooks, and quills scattered about and covered with muffin crumbs. As Fleur gestured for him to take a seat, Almond caught the curious and unwavering gaze of a pink-blue haired scholar.

“Xander, I presume?” Almond asked. He already assumed this was Xander, the same one that Berlin had photographed whilst he was absolutely engrossed in his studies. She’d bragged about the time she replaced an apple he was eating with a potato, and how he didn’t even notice the difference.

The scholar nodded. He had wide turquoise eyes, slightly glassy and bloodshot from long hours of almost-interrupted study of a nondescript nature. His chapped lips were always slightly parted and his glasses were spotless, unlike Fleur’s own glasses. He was thin, and around Almond’s height. Though the room was warm, Xander wore a thick blue coat, the kind that was popular with the Aldor scholars. It gave off the illusion of durability, but Almond knew that they would always fall apart at the seams within weeks. His mother would be repairing those coats throughout the winter.

The Postknight must’ve written a thousand apologetic letters to the scholars in Aldor, taking full responsibility for his actions. It didn’t matter that he was considered a mere accessory to that dreaded Guardmaster, a real hero like his cousin would’ve stood up to the likes of gods.

He wasn’t afraid of being banned from that place. He just hated the uncertainty that hung in the air as he waited for responses that never came.

Just get over it! Just make a small comment, then we can all move on and hopefully get some actual information, Almond thought.

“I’m really sorry about what I did back in Aldor,” Almond said. It felt as though a small weight had been lifted off his back. Perhaps they wouldn’t forgive him. He wouldn’t blame them.

Fleur and Xander stared at him for a moment, then Fleur shook her head, grinning sheepishly.

“Ah, so you were the Postknight sending all of those letters. We all thought you’d realize we didn’t hold a grudge. I understand you’re upset, but you’ve done a lot to help-”

“And those letters came in handy when we ran out of napkins during that potluck last Tuesday,” Xander suddenly interjected with a smile. He had no idea how loud he was.

Fleur gave Xander a stern look. He quickly turned red while mumbling, “S-sorry.”

Almond cleared his throat. The matter of potlucks and apologies would have to wait.

 

“Fleur, I’m going to have to talk to both of you, but neither of you can leave the room. This is going to be a bit complicated, so you might wanna sit down,” Almond addressed the green-haired woman, gesturing to the chairs and table nearby. He turned to Xander.

“I’ll need you to go to another part of the room for a few minutes, and not interrupt us. You think you can do that?”

Xander nodded.

“Now, this is going to be a little complicated, but Xander, do you mind moving away from us for a little bit? You should still be in the room, but I’m going to ask Fleur some questions first.”

Xander nodded, slightly confused. He went aside and sat on the bed, still eyeing his mother and the Postknight. Almond took a deep breath and flipped his notebook open to the next fresh page.

“Now, your name is Fleur, and your hometown is…Aldor. Is that correct?” the salmon-haired Postknight asked. He could’ve sworn that she had been a Pompon native, though he wasn’t in a position to question Thalia’s list of suspects.

“Yes.”

Xander was still curiously staring at the Postknight and Fleur from the unmade bed. It was like being watched by a young dog that was too old to be a pup and too young to know better than to mind its own business. Almond gave him a quick nod, then jotted down a few notes. Had the ink been smearing, his right pinky would’ve been blackened like a coal miner’s hands.

“What do you do for a living?” he asked.

Fleur thought for a moment. Her eyes widened, she looked to be seven years younger for a brief moment. She returned to her normal self again.

“I’m an alchemist. I study herbs,” she spoke with a touch of frost in her eyes and voice. It was a different kind of frigidity than what Lacey had shown, but it was cold nonetheless.

“Alright…Where were you last night?” Almond continued, betraying nothing. 

“Well, while the sun was still out, I was in the courtyard examining the plants, for fun. Thennnnnn-” her voice became increasingly higher-pitched as she raced to remember what happened next.

“I went back inside for a bit. Around…nine? Yes, around nine o’clock, I was trying to convince Xander to take a break from his studies so he could eat something,” Fleur recalled slowly. She paused every so often, her eyes darting back and forth as she silently counted off on her fingers in a random fashion.

“I-I did eat something, Mrs. Fleur,” Xander called out suddenly. Almond must’ve given him quite a nasty look, because he immediately slunk back down. Fleur gave Almond a disapproving look. Almond had a feeling he would be the next murder, unless he was able to do something.

“Sorry, I just needed no interruptions. The advisor really wanted good results, and…well… you understand, right?” Almond quickly rectified.

Fleur nodded. There was a thin icy smile on her lips.

“Xander is basically my son. I understand you don’t mean any harm, but I can’t be too sure of that. Now, as I was going to say, well, I needed a break after that, so I went for a walk in the courtyard again. I saw one of Magnus’s old friends so I went over and we talked. We must’ve been out there for a while, but when I saw this dark figure running away from the King Charles Wing, I got scared and I ran off to the room to see if Xander was alright. He was alright,” she concluded.

Almond nearly dropped his pen. His left eye widened, and he swore he could almost feel his right eye open as well. This was the breakthrough he was hoping so desperately for.

“Fleur! Describe that dark figure, right now! I want details!” he exclaimed. 

“Couldn’t see much. All I could see was that it was darker than the rest of the area. It didn’t make any sounds, either. I couldn’t make out how tall it was, or any other features. I was too busy making sure Xander was alright,” she said. She looked back at Xander and gave him a smile.

Excitement turned from elation to frustration. It wasn’t her fault she couldn’t identify the figure, he just wished she remembered more. But he couldn’t afford to be caught up in excitement.

Xander seemed to be intently looking at Almond, still curious. He was lying on his stomach, head propped up by his hands.

Almond looked up, there was no ignoring the scholar. He put his pen down with an exasperated sigh.

“Do…Do you mind staring somewhere else? You’re makin’ me nervous, Xander,” Almond said in a raised voice. He paused for a second, then his left eye twitched with realization. He looked behind his right shoulder, then his left.

“S-sorry.”

“No, no. Just that I don’t wanna lose another eye. Please, carry on staring.”

Fleur seemed annoyed, but Almond hoped she was still calm enough to carry on with questioning.

“So who was the friend you were talking to?” Almond asked.

Her response was curt.

“Fisher.”

Almond thumbed through the notes that Thalia had taken, making out Fisher’s name. He tutted slightly and then confirmed, “Yup, he mentioned talking to you.”

Something gripped the Postknight by the right shoulder, and a single drop of sweat trickled down his neck. He snapped his head to the right again, scanning the area for anything to confirm his sudden paranoia. There was nothing, no sound and no trace that anything other than static room air had been behind him.

He swallowed slightly. Fleur looked concerned, Xander looked confused. The salmon-haired Postknight shook his head quickly.

“Sorry, thought I saw something. Now, tell me what you thought of the former Guardmaster, Osric,” Almond said flatly, hoping to disguise his panic and urgency.

Fleur seemed to have caught on that it was no simple disturbance. The coldness melted, for now.

“My mother and I worked on the Caspid Stew block project which he was funding. He was polite enough, I suppose. Never stuck around for tea or small talk. I had the dishonor of being the one to tell him that the first prototype was being used as rat poison instead of consumption due to its high sodium content,” Fleur said with a grim chuckle. “He wasn’t very pleased about that, since the first prototype came from his observations about the infamous Ruxus guild rations.”

It figures something so disgusting was his brainchild, Almond thought. He had once tasted the results of rehydrating Caspid Stew blocks. It coated one’s mouth with the oiliest, saltiest, gamiest taste of spoiled wolf meat.

“Did he make any offers to you? Anything that could potentially help him against the Postknights?” he asked.

“No, none. We were all so busy trying to get that damn thing to taste remotely tolerable that we couldn’t possibly do anything else,” Fleur said, shuddering as she recalled the numerous taste tests. She stopped the act, then leaned forward with a serious look.

“This isn’t just a simple noise complaint, is it?”

Almond nodded quickly, but gestured for her to lean forward slightly.

“Remain calm, but the former Guardmaster was murdered last night. I’m questioning all of the suspects. Don’t say anything about this to Xander right now, I don’t want him to panic on me, not now,” he whispered into her ear. Almond noted Fleur smelled like plant matter.

He sat back down. The scholar on the bed cocked his head like a puppy, and Almond ignored him. He knew any acknowledgment would break the delicate tension in the air.

“I…see. By Her Grace, that’s awful,” Fleur said in a low voice. “Can’t say I feel bad, though.”

“Yeah, that seems to be everyone’s reaction,” Almond grunted as he scrawled a few more notes.

He thought about what his next words should be, very carefully. He knew he couldn’t tip off Xander, and he knew he had to gauge Fleur’s willingness to kill quickly.

“Aside from torturing our tongues with the Caspid Stew blocks, you’ve got no intention of hurting people, right?” he asked. He was secretly very pleased with how subtly he handled the situation.

Fleur, however, seemed unimpressed.

“That was my mother’s recipe. But no, we only intend to help others, which is why we decided to take the project. A small gesture to thank the soldiers keeping us safe, even if they’re halfway across the Spine like my own soldier,” the green-haired woman said as she polished her glasses. She gave Almond a knowing wink.

Good, she knew what I meant, Almond thought.

“So, why are you here anyway?” Almond asked.

“I’m here for Xander. He’s quite nervous about the trial, you see.”

“I think that’s all I wanted, thank you.”

Almond stood up for a quick stretch, then locked his eye with the scholar’s turquoise gaze.

“Now, Xander, I’d like to ask you some questions as well,” Almond addressed the scholar across the room.

---

“I’ll leave you two to it, but if I see you doing something I don’t like, I will intervene, Advisor be damned,” Fleur warned the Postknight, pointing at her left eye and giving him a stern look. 

She paused for a moment, before her face softened. She whispered, “Postknight, if you’re running out of time, please don’t ask him about crystals, unless it's absolutely necessary. I’m only telling you this because you seem like you’re in a rush.”

She sat on the bed, examining her fingernails and pretending to ignore the Postknight and the scholar.

Xander took a few moments to get comfortable in the chair, and a minute to gain enough courage to look at the Postknight again.

I get the feeling he might not want to be talking about something like this for too long. I’ll have to be quick, hopefully I don’t miss anything, Almond thought.

“Just to clarify, your name’s Xander?”

Xander nodded. It was such a stupid question to repeat, but stupid mistakes were even deadlier.

“Your hometown is Aldor, and you live with Fleur. Is that right?”

Xander nodded again. He seemed quite fidgety. Almond was just glad he was able to get any form of an answer.

“Now, you’re a scholar, huh?” Almond asked.

“Yes,” Xander replied. He wasn’t the most attractive, or the most charismatic, but there was a charm in his awkwardness. 

Almond had a hunch that he studied crystals, and heeded Fleur’s warning. The subject would remain terra incognita for now.

“Where were you last night?” Almond asked, thinking that this might be the last normal question he would be able to ask the scholar.

“I-I was in this room, studying,” Xander said. He spoke as though Almond was across the room and not directly next to him. He was not looking at the Postknight, only at the hem of his blue coat. He fidgeted at the thread that already fell out, a good five inches of a shiny gossamery fiber. Almond could already see that thing mailed to his mother in Maille with half the sleeve falling out.

“That checks out. So, Fleur told me that you’re here for the trial. I am, too, for that incident with the Guardian Golem rune. Why are you here, though? That’s what I want to know,” Almond smiled.

“Wh-wha? Well, it’s classified! I-I’m not allowed to say anything about it!” Xander stammered, louder than usual. His pupils shrank, his eyes darted back and forth.

“The Advisor asked me to question you and your mother about this, so I guess I’m allowed to know what you did,” Almond replied calmly.

Xander turned around.

“Mrs. Fleur, it’s alright if I tell him why I’m here, right?”

“I’ll allow it,” Fleur said, still not looking at either Xander or Almond.

Almond hoped this express approval would make Xander less nervous.

“W-well, I’m here to confirm that Osric had approached multiple people to smuggle highly confidential research out of Aldor,” Xander responded. He appeared to be radiating tension.

So what could he have possibly been researching that Osric wanted to get his hands on? Almond thought as he quickly glanced over his right shoulder, an unconscious movement. 

“I see. Could you tell me how you specifically got involved?” Almond asked. He adjusted his eyepatch slightly, and he wondered if Xander’s nervousness had started to get to him.

“The Guardmaster approached me with an offer to research a new type of magic. H-however, when I kept asking him for details, he didn’t give me any, so I told Mrs. Fleur and she said I shouldn’t get involved. S-so I didn’t,” Xander responded, a little quieter than before.

Almond laid his pen down for a second. The Postknight thought of what Osric had told him as he faltered fifty meters away from the outpost, scroll in pocket. He knew he had to obey the Guardmaster, but something gripped him. Some unknown force planted his feet to the ground and refused to let him rush past the guards and destroy this beacon of warmth and knowledge in the bosom of Mount Aldor.

“You’ll be a hero. Almond, you’ll be the sacrificial lamb, while all of your friends walk away,” said the Guardmaster, his voice icier than the air. He always looked disgusted with those he deemed beneath him.

I remember I was horrified. I was- still am- willing to sacrifice a lot to the Postknights. I just-he was just so…evil about the whole thing. I couldn’t take it, I couldn’t listen to him anymore. I wish I could’ve talked to Peanut, like what Xander did with Fleur. I wish I could’ve talked to the Commander, or anyone. I wish I had stayed frozen outside of that Outpost, Almond thought.

“Good call. Did he try to approach you or any of your colleagues during the Guardian Golem incident?” Almond asked, tapping the top of his notebook with his pen.

“W-well, he did order all of our barracks to be investigated, since he mentioned something about a domestic terrorist and the Goldkeeper’s daughter hiding in our outpost. He never mentioned a merchant smuggling confidential research, which surprised me. I-I was really scared, though. I thought he- Well, I thought he’d find out about-” Xander suddenly fell silent, and his eyes dropped to the floor, too scared to even stutter.

Almond knew who he was referring to.

“You meant Raz?”

Xander turned pale like milk. Almond suddenly felt a pang of guilt.

He quickly said in as reassuring a manner as possible, “I, well, I think I’m her friend. I think . It’s alright, I’m not going to tell on you, just tell me if he tried to hurt you or anything.”

There was no response. Xander still didn't look at Almond, not even when he repeated the question.

Perhaps he was blackmailed, like me! I wonder what could’ve made him so scared. He couldn’t have been pressured into working for Osric, which means… he thought.

Almond began to ask, “Did…did he threaten you with a knife or something? I mean, it must’ve been-”

Xander emitted a small high-pitched squeak, wincing.

“So, did he threaten you?” Almond asked when he felt that Xander should be calm enough.

Xander shook his head violently.

“D-don’t mention knives! I-I-I can’t stand those things!” he spoke all of the sudden, so utterly frightened that his voice barely had a fraction of the volume it usually had. His right eye twitched, and Almond felt a pang of jealousy.

Xander buried his face in his hands, clutching at his hair.

Almond looked up to see Fleur glaring at him with a maternal fury.

The Postknight tried to consider himself brave, despite all of the times he had been rendered helpless with fear. This time, he felt inescapable and inevitable dread, as though he had stared into the face of Eolin herself.

He quickly changed his tune, not wanting to face Fleur’s wrath. The scholar was obviously distressed, and Almond needed to try to get him to cooperate quickly.

“Xander?” he asked gently.

The pink-blue haired youth was unresponsive, only clutching and relaxing his grip on his hair. It was hard to watch.

Almond stood up and walked over to Xander, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder. Xander flinched.

“Look, I’m sorry about what I said earlier.”

Almond saw no response as he sat down on the table in front of Xander.

If apologies won't work, perhaps I can distract him, thought Almond.

“Uhm, I never asked you this, but what do you study?” the Postknight asked, trying his hardest to innocently smile.

It took a minute, but Xander seemed to calm down enough. His turquoise eyes began to twinkle slightly as he stated, “I study crystals.”

He paused for a second.

“Mrs. Fleur says I should probably ask before telling people about my research, so do you want me to tell you more about the crystals?” he asked.

Almond knew it was going to end badly, no matter what he answered. Either he would face the wrath of Fleur, or lose valuable time listening to Xander.

The choice was simple.

Almond nodded, “Sure. I’d love to hear about them.”

The next fifteen minutes went by in a daze.

Xander was passionate, very passionate about the crystals. He lost his stammer, his exhaustion, his nervousness. He had a wide smile, and when he blushed the tips of his ears and his nose turned pinkish-red. His eyes sparkled like a blue-green ocean as he talked a mile a minute, louder and more expressive than before. Any hope of interrupting him for even a simple question about molecular structures was quickly dashed within a minute.

Almond tried to follow, but he lost track when Xander started to talk about time and the quantum physics involved with quartz watches.

Almond remembered Damien was similarly passionate about dark magic. However, Damien was much more relaxed as he explained the different applications of his hobby, even taking questions. However, Almond didn't have the heart to admit that the answers left him with only more confusion. He was sure that someone like Raz or even Berlin would be smart enough to be able to follow along. Despite doing well in the academic classes at the Postknight Academy, he was never the type to spend long sedentary hours indoors doing nothing but analysis, theories, and writing until his quill broke. Even in the library, he was shifting about in his seat, itching to run or waiting for someone to call out his name.

Both teachers were engaging in their own way. One was like the crystal candlestick, warm and approachable as it glowed. The other was like a bonfire, roaring and energetic as it lit the night sky with a bright orange glow.

In the end, though, the ametrine-eyed Damien spoke to him on a much deeper level than the turquoise-eyed Xander.

Fleur had also found herself staring at the two as one listened to the other talk for what felt like eternity and like an instant at the same time. Her eyes seemed to fix not on her son, but the scarred salmon-haired Postknight who had the aura of a confused student trying to keep up with his professor in a private meeting after class. She recognized his mannerisms and even some of his features that weren't overshadowed by scars, the eyepatch, or wayward salmon locks.

She knew that Xander needed to let his audience go soon. She cleared her throat quite loudly, but the scholar still held his audience in his snare.

 

“Xander,” she said in a raised voice.

 

Xander ignored her, and started to talk about the crystals inside of hard cheese.

 

“Xander,” she said again, even louder.

 

He still continued, as though possessed by a primordial force that could rival Eolin. He now explained the structure of water and how it affected its volume as it froze and melted.

 

“XANDER!” she shouted. She knew she needed to get to him somehow.

 

The two youths jumped at the sound of her voice.

“Wha- I was just getting to the good part!” Xander said with a hint of exasperation as he snapped his head to look at his mother sitting on the bed.

“You got others to question, right, Postknight? I’m so sorry, he always gets like this when someone mentions crystals, and I mean, I was, well…” she addressed Almond before falling quiet. She smiled politely and looked away.

“No, no. Just didn’t want to end up as a second corpse here after I made your kid cry or something,” Almond attempted to joke, then flipped through his notes. To his surprise, he managed to capture quite a bit of information before he asked that fatal question.

Xander seemed to not notice this slip-up, and neither did Almond.

Good thing I didn't write down any of Xander’s impromptu lecture, thought Almond.

“Well, I think that’s everything. Thank you both again,” he said as he stood up.

“Good luck getting to the bottom of that disturbance,” Fleur said absently. Almond couldn't see her with Xander standing up and offering to see him to the door.

 

Almond's notes

Name: Fleur

Age: 24

Occupation: Scholar

Hometown: Aldor

Means: Unknown. Unless if she had a strength-boosting potion lying around, she wouldn't have the physical strength to take down someone like Osric regardless. Also, I don’t think being married to Magnus would be enough to get clearance to get access to the armory. I honestly won't be surprised if she did pull some strings though.

Motive: None. Seemed to have a working business relationship with Osric, even if they had their disagreements.

Opportunity: Was talking to a guard outside in the courtyard shortly before the murder happened. Was she trying to distract someone, or give a signal?

 

Addendum: She scares me. Also, who was that figure she mentioned? Why were they near the guest rooms? Did one of the guests, or a guard charged with patrolling the guest wing kill Osric?

---

Almond's Notes, Continued

Name: Xander

Age: 18

Occupation: Scholar

Hometown: Aldor

Means: None. He doesn't seem to have the physical strength to take down a skilled fighter. Plus, he doesn't like sharp objects.

Motive: Fear over being discovered as the one hiding Raz, possibly? It's a weak reason though.

Opportunity: None. Was busy inside his room at the time of the murder.

 

Addendum: I really wish I could have let him talk about crystals forever, but I really needed to get going before next winter. Also, he seemed a little too skittish when I mentioned knives. Almost like he's overreacting. Either he really doesn't like sharp objects or he's hiding something.

---

Fleur sighed as she heard the door close. Her hands gripped a Crystal of Life pendant, her knuckles turning whiter than freshly fallen snow. Her head was bowed, as though in prayer. The orange crystal was as sacred as cheap glass to her at that moment, yet she still clung to it as though it would solve her problems.

“I-I wish I had more time to talk about the crystals, Mrs. Fleur,” Xander said with a slight blush. “He’s not as amazing as Berlin is, but I think I’d like to get to know him better in the future.”

Fleur hoped he would stay where he wouldn’t see the look on her face or understand it.

 

“Just when I thought I was over him,” she whispered. “He pulls me back in.”

---

Heave. Retch. Heave.

It was a good thing Damien refused the sandwich earlier, as it surely would've ended up all over his desk in partially-digested bits by now. His mouth was salty, his tongue was swollen, his eyes were stinging. He swallowed back the nausea, squeezing his thumbs to choke back whatever acidic humor was traveling up his throat.

“Look at you now,” he whispered as he looked up at his own reflection in the mirror.

It was a sorry sight.

Only Eolin would know how long he was in that room, half-dressed in that overpriced orange kimono that Lumero brunette sold him five months ago.

He could not sleep, his eyes were glassy and bloodshot. His arms felt much weaker than normal. The quicks of his fingernails still had some tiny specks of dark red dirt and they stung.

His breathing was shallow, and he swore he could feel his ribs like the teeth of a whalebone comb. The large purple splotches that covered his torso refused to fade, taunting him.

Today was supposed to be his day to shine as a courtroom artist, capturing the aftermath of the former Guardmaster's betrayal. The trial would've begun at dawn. He would see the whole momentous thing from the public seating area.

Soldiers, merchants, and others who were braver than he would take the stand, testifying about the manipulation they endured. Of course, there would be the one Postknight who would have to testify. The one-eyed youth regarded the Anti-knights, the Draconic Order, and other groups he deemed ‘villains’ with apprehension. When the subject of the trial came up, his face went bloodless and he fell silent. Damien shuddered as he thought about what he might've been forced to do.

Damien knew the sun no longer blushed behind the black horizon.

A small part of him irrationally prayed for a guard to knock on his door, yelling at him to get his sketchbook.

There was only silence.

It could've been hours. Or minutes. Perhaps it was an eternity and he was stuck behind the Halcyome or in a pocket dimension.

“Get a grip,” he said to the reflection, like what his boss had told him before. “GET A GRIP!”

Damien swatted at his own cheek to wake himself up. He was overthinking things. Things will go on as planned. He'd still sketch the scenes in the courtroom, he'd still get paid.

The brunet quickly touched the fresh writing in his open diary. Dry. He placed it into his bag. The cordial was still full enough that he wasn't able to tell if he had taken his dose today. It didn't matter. He would still be nervous, and his hands shook like those of a scholar caffeinated. The sketchbook lay before him on the table, bound in black leather with half of its pages torn out.

He'd always been a talented artist. Shading. Inking. Keeping his hand steady enough to make sure the lines were equally weighted. He'd improved quite a bit after taking an apprenticeship, too. He looked through his sketches.

There was that dark-skinned blonde in the courtyard. She seemed dignified and important despite wearing a common soldier’s uniform.

Then there was the white-haired shepherd, playing his lyre for himself. He seemed lost in his own world, content as long as he could sit by the courtyard’s stone fountain and pluck his instrument's strings to form simple but soothing melodies.

Damien took great pleasure in exaggerating that Lumero brunette’s blemishes. There were her unflattering red bumps. Her blackheads. Her rheum-filled lashes. Her fingers that were thick and red like cheap erasers, smudged from handling mammon. She might’ve been right about the kimono complementing his eyes, but the same thing that applied to broken clocks also applied to charlatans like her.

He'd drawn others, too. There were guards, the rare glimpse of that overworked advisor who had hired him, and he'd even drawn his own reflection.

However, there were a good ten pages of that salmon-haired Postknight, the most he’d ever done with a single subject. It was his best work, his worst work.

Almond was animated and expressive, like a Noxie dancer performing on a stage.

“Yet it all feels so lifeless and dull!” Damien exclaimed, slamming the sketchbook shut.

He knew he had to capture the heated moments. He knew he could do it. Even if it felt lacking to him, it would be more than enough for those who paid him for his art.

Yet, as he tried his hardest to capture the fleeting moments, it would always feel stiff and static once colored and shaded. The Postknight may as well have been a wooden mannequin with a pretty face, a burlesque of life and its infinite joys.

The worst part of being a courtroom artist was finding the spark, the drive. Many times, he felt uninspired, rigid, and slow. Other times, he drew as though he was possessed, ignoring the injuries he’d often accidentally inflict on himself as a result of his madness. Then, when he was sober, he would see his handiwork and become overcome with disappointment once more.

 

Knock. Knock.

 

It was a guard. It had to be.

He scrambled to the door, making sure the dark purple blemishes were hidden well. He opened the door to find that living, breathing Postknight Almond standing with a notebook in his hand.

Notes:

This took long enough, eh?
Azucena is Manrico's accidental adoptive mother in Il Trovatore. Great opera, even though I couldn't understand the plot.
Fixed typos and formatting
This chapter was meant to be a sort of what-if, like what if Xander and Fleur were in Scarpia's Sting. I was very close to making them actual suspects while writing that story, but decided against it, mainly because it was a sleep deprived whim.
The ending with Damien was basically me having an anxiety attack and writer's block, ended up taking a 2+ week hiatus from this fic after writing the initial draft of this.

A lot of Xander's mannerisms are actually based off my own/other students at my school. (I happen to have Asperger's, in case if writing 4 fanfics for a Malaysian mobile game wasn't a big enough indicator.)

Both my dad and I have the tendency to talk for long periods of time when we're really interested in something, so there's that.

I also gave Almond some of my own mannerisms (such as thinking about mom's judgemental comments, being extremely worried when people don't respond to my apologies, the works.)

I was flippant between calling this chapter "Azucena" versus "Recondita Armonia", but people liked "Azucena" more.

Also there's a little bit of Almond/Xander baiting because I thought some of you might like that.

References:
-The Office (Creed is eating an apple. I found a potato.)
-Godfather Part 3 (Just when I thought I was out, they pull me back in.)
-Caspid Stew Blocks
Updated some text
this was tiring. hopefully the next chapter is a breather before chapter 4...

Chapter 3: Jamais Vu

The air in Violetfair was warm and earthy-smelling, the ground was deceptively slick and black under the perpetual blanket of leaves. It was here where two short-haired girls were training a salamander to breathe fire on command. One girl was taller, had blue hair, wore a Postknight’s A-Rank uniform, and sported a mole under her right eye. She was Postknight Berlin Hwan. Her companion had messy yellow hair, wore clumsily-stitched clothes made of rough materials, and was never seen without a bandage or two attached to some visible part of her body. Her name was Katrina, and she was a runaway from Ironwald. The salamander was the size of a small wolf cub, with stubby legs, six glowing orange frills that looked like live embers, and a fat tail. His name was Marlowe.

 

“Marlowe, fire!” Berlin commanded. She pointed to a nearby pile of twigs, holding a soft piece of durian in one hand.

The salamander belched a small cloud of soot. Berlin looked at Katrina and shrugged.

“Should I just give it to him? Eh, why not. He’s doing better than yesterday.”

Berlin lowered her hand, and it was soon swallowed by the salamander. After a moment, she managed to wrestle her hand out, and wiped off the stinging and oddly warm saliva.

“Good boy,” she said with a smile. She gave Marlowe a pat on the head, to which the latter barked in approval. “Whaddya say we do a few more?”

A few minutes later, Marlowe let out a giant jet of fire. It was more than enough to set the twigs ablaze. Berlin and Katrina grinned at each other.

Berlin looked over at a dot in the distance. It looked like the royal advisor Thalia. She knew what to do.

 

“Oooh, the government’s after you now, Katrina! Look, I’ll tell her that it’s your idea and-WOAH, HEY! I WAS JOKING! I WAS JUST MESSING WITH YOU, MAN!” Berlin teased, but switched to panic as she saw the frightened look on Katrina’s face.

Katrina seemed slightly less worried.

“I wonder what the Advisor’s here for, anyway… wait, she’s approaching us. Ohhhh, this can’t be good. I’ll put out the fire before we have another Pompon on our hands,” Berlin said as she quickly stomped out the fire. She tried to keep her calm, but let out an involuntary yelp as she looked up to see Thalia standing over her.

Thalia was taller than Berlin. Her expensive purple robe with its white fur collar looked heavy and sturdy. Her glasses were unusually spotless, she looked more alert and less paranoid than usual. Her gray eyes sparkled with some feral determination. Her gold earrings seemed cheap and gaudy against the rest of her attire, and her pink-purple hair was glossy like a polished gemstone.

 

“Hello, Your Excellency,” Berlin said as she bowed. She tried to hide her anxiety, hoping the advisor wouldn’t take her for an arsonist and arrest her.

“I come on behalf the Royal Court. I was told I’d find a certain Postknight Berlin Hwan here,” Thalia said. She spoke with the slightest hint of an unplaceable and strangely familiar accent. Berlin wondered if the advisor always had that accent.

“Y-yes, that’s me.”

She turned to Katrina and mouthed the words “I love you.”
Perhaps she was being too dramatic, but she didn’t want to leave that unspoken in case anything bad happened.

 

“Don’t look so worried!” the advisor chuckled, a little too carefree. She soon became more serious. “We’ll need some privacy, so if you’d follow me…”

“I’m not being detained, am I?” Berlin asked as she followed Thalia.

“No, no. Nothing of the sort.”

 

The parlor in Miles’ inn looked as though it had been cleaned for the first time in years. Berlin assumed there simply weren’t enough wealthy visitors to justify maintaining the space on a regular basis.

“Perfect spot. I’ve known Miles for years, he minds his own business as long as we pay up front and don’t break anything,” Thalia said as she sat down. She rubbed her hands quickly, clapped once.

“What did you want to discuss?”

“About ten days ago, Princess Johanna received a letter from the Helix Outpost. The Postknight who delivered it mentioned you were supposed to deliver it. I was tasked with looking into it,” the advisor answered matter-of-factly.

Berlin felt something grab her in the guts and squeeze them. She took a gulp of air.

 

“So I was supposed to deliver the message, but Almond stole it and ran off. He has a bad habit of stealing my deliveries, you see. First there was that petition, then there was that Golem Rune, now-” Berlin paused and her eyes widened with realization. “You’re tellin’ me he made it to Caldemount? Is he alive?”

“We cannot disclose his condition to the public at this time,” the advisor responded, looking at her nails. She had the air of an apathetic secretary, not one of the King’s most trusted officials.

How is that even classified information? Is-did they kill him? Is he an Infernal? It’s not like Amethyst where she has a reason to keep silent! Berlin thought.

She batted her eyelashes in shock.

“You serious?”

She almost added more, but decided to keep her mouth shut for the sake of her own freedom.

“If I could tell you, I would. Now, time is running out for us both,” Thalia said in the same expressionless tone. Her accent was slightly stronger. Perhaps it was the Caldemount accent, and Berlin hadn’t noticed it.

 

Berlin told Thalia everything she could. 

 

How the initial messenger had been found dead with his skull caved in. 

“I’ll get ahh… my sis-I mean, someone to recover the corpse,” Thalia said, with slight hesitation.

 

How the old champion had been overthrown.

“There is no need to explain Helix culture to me. We know enough about that already.”

 

How the Dune Pirates had nearly overwhelmed the camp.

“Interesting...”

 

Aside from that, Thalia was silent, taking notes in some strange shorthand. Strangely enough, she did not ask any questions, or seem remotely curious about Berlin’s strange statements. Berlin almost considered making things up to mess with Thalia, but decided it would probably backfire on her.

 

“-And we’re not sure what that contraption does either, in case you’re wondering. I don’t think even Asteria knows, and she’s been working on that thing nonstop. I don’t think she’s left her workshop once over the past two days,” Berlin concluded, though she felt like something was still missing. “Is that enough?”

 

“It’ll do for now,” Thalia said.

“Great!” Berlin said as she attempted to leave.

“One more thing,” the advisor said, motioning for Berlin to sit back down.

Berlin quietly groaned.

 

“You were involved with a certain incident in Aldor several months ago involving the then-Guardmaster Osric. Were you approached by him?”

“No.”

“Did he offer you anything?”

“Nope.”
“Did you see or hear anything relating to his treason?”

Berlin thought for a moment. Her mind raced, and then she remembered what she had witnessed on that mountain.

“I overheard Almond accusing Osric of tricking him. Apparently he’d been duped into doing Osric’s dirty work, and was told he’d be a hero or something? I’m not sure if he was like, blackmailed or if he was really that stupid,” Berlin said with a slight hint of schadenfreude. She thought for a moment, then continued, “We all tried asking for details, but he never really said a whole lot, he just said he’s scared to say anything and then he changes the topic.”

Thalia let out a curious grunt.

“Yeah, that’s pretty much all I remember, regarding hearing anything regarding his treason. Like, I did see him before that, but I thought he was just on his usual ‘Postknight bad’ tirade. I guess I did listen to you and the Commander talkin’ about it. Oh, and I guess I saw Osric arrested but like, we all did so…”

Berlin pursed her lips for a moment, unsure if she should say anything more.

“I don’t know how relevant it is, but I heard Almond complaining to the Wyord Alchemist Bra’him about not being able to fall asleep easily. Apparently it’s been like that for months,” Berlin finally said. “I wonder if it’s related to what happened in Aldor.”

Thalia wrote in her notebook as she whispered, “Very…scary…to Postknights…”

She looked up.

“Interesting. Now, do you have any questions for me? As someone speaking on behalf of the royal court, I’d like to hear what the Kurestians have to say,” Thalia said as she smiled warmly. Berlin swore that she could see the Advisor had fangs.

 

“Yeah, actually,” Berlin began. “Why are you asking me this, anyways? I already gave my statement to you at Aldor. And if it’s about any other details, shouldn’t you be asking Commander Cassie about that? And what about going to Helix yourself to get the details about the letter? I’m just here to deliver some weird contraption that I fought some weird giant crab machine for.”

Thalia looked thoughtful for a moment.

“Your commander and your government are not gods. It takes a while for information to travel around Prism.”

Berlin looked puzzled, but Thalia’s look said she would not elaborate on her statements.

The advisor stood up.

”What we talked about today is highly confidential, so we hope you stay silent about this. We appreciate your cooperation, Postknight Berlin,” she said. She made her way to the door, then paused. “May the-may the wise waters guide you.”

 

As Thalia left, Berlin had a strange feeling in her chest, gut, and back of her head. She tried to ignore it as she set out to find Katrina.

 

To her relief, Katrina seemed to have moved from sleeping behind Miles’s inn to sleeping on a couch in Miles’s inn. Katrina was relaxed, her feet on the table in front of her as Marlowe lay in her lap. The salamander was too full of durian to move around much.

“And you didn’t break or dirty anything! Good job,” Berlin remarked.

“It’s so that you and Miles won’t yell at me,” Katrina replied, ignoring Berlin’s mock condescension. “So, whatever did the Advisor want with you?”

“Uuuugh, something about one of my deliveries. Apparently I can’t say anything else,” Berlin said as she flopped on the couch next to Katrina. Marlowe found the willpower to move from Katrina’s lap to Berlin’s.

“Oooh, what was it?”

“I’m not telling~” Berlin said in a singsong voice.

“Whaaaaaaaaaaaa- come on, I bet it was like, a bomb! Wait no, an alligator! Did you deliver an alligator? I’m telling everyone you delivered an alligator, and it, like, ate Princess Johanna!” Katrina speculated with a smile.

Berlin had an idea. She pretended to be shocked.

“How did you know?” she asked.

“Well, lucky guess! Besides, I keep seeing alligators in the newspaper comics lately. Miles has a subscription to Caldemount Times,” Katrina explained.

Berlin was confused at her logic, but decided it would be a bad idea to question it.

I already lost enough of my brain listening to Almond rationalize his decisions…let alone my other friends. I’m still not sure why Amsterdam thought honey was an effective insecticide, Berlin thought.

“But you got a few things wrong. It was a gharial. And it ate Osric,” the blue-haired Postknight said with a mischievous grin. “Nom.”

“No way!” Katrina gasped.

“It’s true, I swear on my Postknight license, Kat.”

“Huh, but their snouts are so skinny…I guess this one must’ve been really hungry.”

“I guess. Mind if I tell you something? There’s one thing about the Advisor,” Berlin said. “And it’s been buggin’ me all evening.”

She leaned forward.

“Call me crazy, but I’m pretty sure that wasn’t actually the Advisor.”

---

It was a cold dark evening, but the crackling fireplace in Thalia’s office made the room feel smaller and warmer.

Thalia looked tired, pale, and her unpainted face was dotted with red acne. She flipped through document after document. There was the Snow Ruffian’s testimony which arrived in the morning, accompanied by Postknight Berlin Hwan’s statements that she received an hour ago. She reached for her cup of tea on the desk. It was empty. She checked the teapot, and it surrendered a few drops of brown-yellow water mixed with leaves.

 

She rang the bell for a good minute. A maid appeared, looking rather startled.

“So sorry I’m late, Your-”

“It’s fine. Did our Mistelle contractor return with information on the Summoner? They ought to be here by now.”

“N-no. I’ll go check though.”

“Yes. Could you also bring some more tea? The Quivtol kind, if we still have it.”

Thalia sank back in her chair as the maid left.

She knew that such information would be redundant at this point. The Postknight in the prison tower already had his name cleared many times over, the letter’s authenticity proven. She’d almost felt bad for subjecting him to so many questions. However, at least he could sleep at night, not worrying about keeping the heart of Kurestal beating.

 

The tea was from Violetfair, and the Summoner’s files were in front of Thalia’s desk. She blinked. It was blurry, she had to read the writing several times over. She could almost hear the words bounce around in her head. Her heart raced, her mouth tasted of tea and morning breath, the sky behind the window was pinker than a rouged cheek.

Makeup. Notebook. Pen.

She moved like a rusted and poorly made automaton. The door swung shut behind her as she made her way to the interrogation room again.

Notes:

Thank you Forg, Fusion, and eld for helping out with proofreading this. Also, shoutout to everyone who voted on the chapter 3 title and contents!
Behind the scenes:
-the conversation at the beginning was originally going to be a very long poop joke.
-The thing about Osric being eaten by a gharial was inspired by the Simpsons Death Note episode.
-Osric is still alive in this chapter, but the bit about the alligator versus the gharial was unintentional foreshadowing for Scarpia's Sting.
-hoping it's clear enough that Berlin was talking to a Noxie and not the real Thalia
-Also hoping my attempt at giving Berlin an actual personality worked.
-Katrina was originally supposed to be in Senna's house, but Lime's comments helped rewrite the scene.

Chapter 4: Baptism by Fire

Summary:

DISCLAIMER: IT IS STRONGLY RECOMMENDED THAT YOU READ SCARPIA'S STING BEFORE READING THIS, AS THERE ARE SPOILERS.

 

btw did you know that mustard helps make your grilled cheese more melty it's true

The Rosavern was bustling as usual, gold and ale flowing freely. It was one of the pricier taverns in Caldemount, but it was a place that people swore by. The buxom orange-haired owner gossiped with the drunken regulars at the bar. A pale bamboo pole of a teenager promoted the nightly special of duck cassoulet to every table he served.

 

“It's created by Chef Fortuna,” the waiter said in his thick Amerannean accent as he tried and failed to tuck his black curtain bang behind his ear.

 

Three people sat at a table set for four.

 

A bottle-blonde Amerannean girl poked at some rotted arugula leaves with her fork.

“It must be the end of the season,” she remarked. “The salad tastes less fresh than usual.”

She looked about the room, confirming no one was paying attention to her or her dinner companions.

“Look, it's a tavern. I'm fairly certain half of these people haven't heard of a salad. The other half think it's a garnish,” a black-haired bespectacled young man responded. He had a large bit of steak gristle lodged between his front teeth and a purple smear on the corner of his mouth. “Also, I'm pretty sure that if a waiter warns you about ordering something, you might want to rethink your order, Chervil.”

“There's literally nothing vegetarian on the menu though,” replied Chervil. “It's all meat.”

“There’s chicken and fish,” a large redhead suggested with a hint of jest as she wagged a cleaned duck bone like a finger. She wetted the corner of her napkin and wiped her black-haired companion’s mouth with it. “Willard, dear, you have something on your face~”

“Stop it, Lucy…” Willard whined, playfully swatting her hand.

 

Chervil smirked. During outings like these, it was hard to believe that they were all Anti-Knights capable of committing acts of domestic terrorism.

 

A pale disheveled young girl with long indigo hair suddenly appeared at the table, panting and covered with drying vomit.

 

“Captain Damien’s fallen ill. We have to head back,” said the unexpected tableside visitor.

 

The table was abandoned mid-meal.

 

The four made their way to the Anti-Knights’ Caldemount headquarters, making sure to keep their voices low enough.

 

“-So, where was that meeting, Bryum?” Lucy asked the indigo-haired girl.

“The Fat Duchess.”

“Ain't that the place where you kept getting pinkeye as a waitress?”

“That was a different tavern, Chervil. No, the place isn’t that dirty.”

Lucy piped up with her theory.

“Maybe it's his Fractured Recovery Disease? I dunno if nausea’s a symptom, though…”

Fractured Recovery Disease was an illness that had a chance to develop after one recovered from the Fractured Plague.

“Nope. There’s a lot of nasty symptoms, but nausea is not one of them. And I thought you were supposed to be an Alchemist, Lucy. ”

“Wait, maybe he was poisoned. Then again, being a desperate tryhard ain’t exactly a solid reason to kill someone…”

“Unlikely. He’d be dead by now if someone wanted him killed. Besides, making your lethal poison a fast-acting emetic seems a little counter-intuitive.”

“Maybe we’re overthinking it. What if he’s just stressed out?”

“Probably. Hey, did we pay for that meal?”

“Oh crap.”

“Maybe we can get Damien to foot the bill like we're his wench o’ the week."

“Yeah, give him another reason to puke all over us. I hope he stains that nice dirndl of yours.”

---

A well-dressed, tall, slender brunet was lying on his side on a thin-looking bed. He was unnaturally pale and seemed to be swallowing back the urge to vomit into the half-filled wooden bucket that was on the floor in front of him. If it weren’t for his expression and the fact he was half-covered in his own stomach’s contents, he would’ve been quite handsome.

 

“I guess I should be grateful there’s no blood…” he groaned as he squinted over the edge of the bed and into the bucket.

Suddenly, his ears pricked. He could hear the conversation outside his door before it opened. In an instant, he sat upright and adopted a more stoic expression. He turned to greet the four visitors that were now looking at him with anticipation and concern.

 

“Apologies for cutting your recon mission short tonight,” he said as he wiped his mouth with his sleeve. He quickly inspected the aftermath with a slight grimace. “No, Bryum, I don’t think I’ll need an Alchemist. Maybe a washerwoman, but I’ll survive.”

“No, no! We’re here to follow your orders, Captain!” Lucy declared. The others voiced their agreement.

“Please, I’m still Damien, regardless of the promotion,” the brunet tiredly said. “I called you all here for a very important mission. Chervil, get rid of any potential eavesdroppers. Also, you mind taking that bucket out?”

 

Chervil soon returned empty-handed.

“Coast’s clear.”

 

“Excellent. I have a new mission for all of us. It’s something that no one else here can know about,” Damien began. He looked around quickly. “I just found out that Kraig was responsible for creating and spreading the Fractured Plague seven years ago.”

 

The room seemed to freeze over. Damien had never called the Anti-Knights’ leader by his name before.

“I’ve sacrificed quite a bit for this organization, as we all did. However, while all of you were working to serve the leader, I was trying to please the man I thought was my father.”

He took a deep breath, with a little difficulty.

“But what sort of father would kill the mother of his own children and leave his son crippled? He’s nothing more than the man who’d been with my mother all those years ago. I guess I should’ve taken the hint when he asked me to hunt down Razielle and ensure she no longer posed a threat to the Anti-Knights, but I was just hoping that he’d let me call him ‘Father’ like that she-wolf once did. I never liked that girl, but now I realize that Kraig had been using us both as tools.”

 

“I suppose I should consider myself lucky, though. I survived the Fractured Plague, unlike my mother. I was able to live somewhat normally with this Fractured Recovery Disease, while a good number of others were housebound. I’d been lucky to evade arrest after bombing the princess, and I often wonder if some higher being sent that falcon to help me frame the Postknights’ former commander for murdering the former Guardmaster, Osric. But most importantly, I should’ve considered myself fortunate that Kraig never paid any attention to me until recently.”

 

“By Eolin…”

 

“Eolin herself will frown upon it, but I’m going to kill Kraig and you’ll kill anyone else that stands in my way of doing that. Being named his successor is no longer enough for me. We’re going to take over the Anti-Knights.”

---

It had been five weeks since a vomit-covered Damien vowed to kill Kraig. He’d cleaned up since then, but the fire in his ametrine eyes still burned as brightly as they did back then. By day, he’d do his duties as a stone-faced captain. He wouldn’t even shed an errant tear when he heard about his fellow officers going missing, only to show up dead several days later.

 

While working, he only ever showed subtle disgust as he discussed important matters with Kraig. The subject matters were often disagreeable, but the worst part was having to find an alcohol that was worthy of Kraig’s esteemed palate. Most of Damien’s paychecks were spent on all kinds of rare alcohols so that they would not drink from the same bottle two days in a row. Damien hated the taste of alcohol, so he only drank a small amount each time.

 

Kraig’s second-in-command, a tall man named Lance, was always closely watching the two. Lance was a tall man who always held a large spear and was seemingly inseparable from his full suit of dark armor. No one had seen him without his armor on.

 

“First you assassinate that backstabbing son of a she-wolf, now you’re giving me the gifts I like. You keep proving me wrong about you being just another tryhard, and I’m glad,” Kraig said one day as Damien presented him with a stack of missing persons flyers and a bottle of 12-year old scotch.

Five and a half weeks had passed. Damien was in civilian clothes, examining the now-abandoned wishboards. The parchment and paper notes that were once crisp and clean were now faded and tattered.

“Come to think of it,” he thought aloud. “I haven’t seen a Postknight in weeks.”

---

Seven weeks had passed. Damien was sitting on the edge of the Fontana Fountain. His chest felt tighter than usual, and there was a throbbing pain on the left side of his chest. He’d been attacked the week prior by two Royal Guards. He killed one, and the other died before Damien could get him to confess their motive. However, the confession would’ve been a formality.

 

“Pardon my Wise Words, sugar, but I’ll be damned!” the blond Alchemist exclaimed as he looked at the wound in his chest. “A hair deeper, and I’m more than certain they would’ve pierced your heart.”

 

The new medicine that the Alchemist prescribed was much more effective at calming Damien’s nerves, and it made it much easier to breathe beyond just short gasps. Even though breathing was easier, he still kept his old habit of taking frequent breaks to catch his breath.

 

He took a moment to observe the people in the square and sketch them in the leather sketchbook he carried during his days off. Even though he’d officially retired as a courtroom artist shortly after his promotion to Captain, he still enjoyed drawing. He wondered if his attempts to immortalize the fleeting moments in his subject’s lives would last for a long time, or if his legacy would die long before he did. It was much more relaxing to draw for pleasure than for pay and he was happy with his own art more often than not. He knew there was always room to improve, but he felt that as long as he kept drawing, it would be enough.

 

The blond Alchemist was busy lifting his daughter into the air. He did not seem to notice Damien.

A gangly freckled preteen boy was chasing a flock of pigeons.

Another artist, a starry-eyed painter, was arguing with a young kimono-clad girl he’d hired as a model. She accused him of painting her skin like it was moldy cheese. It was quite obvious that they were in a relationship from the way they bickered like an old couple.

 

Damien smiled slightly and thought of his own muse, the salmon-haired Postknight. He’d promised to write every day, but Damien hadn’t heard anything ever since they’d parted ways months ago. He wondered if the Postknight remembered him at all.

He’d initially tried to downplay his feelings for the Postknight, but it was much harder to conceal his love than it was to lie about his scheme to murder the former Guardmaster Osric.

 

“You care too much about your new tools, kid,” Kraig said as he read Damien’s report regarding Osric’s death, a report that Damien foolishly forgot to proofread. “Remember, love will blind and weaken you.”

“I know, I should’ve kept my head clear. Then again, I wish Almond was a girl. It’d have been a lot easier to manipulate him…”

 

“…and a lot easier to forget you, my falcon,” Damien sighed. He looked down at the half-empty page. All of the subjects he’d chosen had long since left, leaving him alone at the fountain with his pencil slack in his hand.

 

“Damien?”

The unfamiliar voice was high-pitched.

 

Damien turned around to find a blue-orange haired Postknight wearing an A-Rank uniform. He dropped his pencil in shock and his heart seemed to stop in his chest.

 

“Postknight Achilde, at your service!” the blue-orange haired Postknight said with a grin. “It’s been so long since I’ve been able to say that. Ah, I have a delivery for you, from Maille.”

 

Damien carefully opened the knightmail scroll, and took the envelope out. It was the official Postknight stationery, the kind that the officers would use. He’d known this from the informational briefings.

He felt something unexplainable as he recognized the handwriting as Almond’s.

 

“W-Wait here for a minute,” Damien managed to stammer out. Of course, Achilde was just a friendly scarred face in the evening Caldemount crowd, but he was a welcoming sight.

“Sure thing! I’ll be happy to stick around if you have any questions,” Achilde said with a nod.

 

Dear Damien,

 

Everything is going well here in Maille. Sorry I haven’t been able to write at all, I’ve been busy with my promotion. A dozen of us were made Captains to help with restructuring the Postknights. I never expected that I’d be Captain so suddenly, let alone at all.

 

I have to get back to work soon. Captain Commander Colin expects me to fill out the corrected employee wage forms from 1825 by lunch time, and Captain Commander Seraphine expects me to organize and label 24! cabinets of budget-related documents. I promise I’ll try to write again soon.

 

Love,

Almond

 

Damien saw something on the back of the letter, and turned the short note around. It was a messy emotional draft that was clearly never meant for anyone to see. Most of the words were blotted out with tears or thick ink lines clearly meant to censor his thoughts. All Damien could see was a few fragments that still managed to make a few somewhat coherent sentences by some miracle.

Damien…The Guardmaster…Commander Cassandra…, my cousin has been haunting me and I can’t sleep at night…I wish…quit…I regret-

 

Damien frowned and looked up at Achilde, who was swaying side to side and observing the brunet.

 

“Achilde, right?”

The blue-orange haired Postknight nodded.

“Did you talk to Almond lately?”

Achilde paused slightly.

“I report to him, soooo yes.”

“How is he?”

“He’s doing well.”

Damien swore he could feel some hint of nervousness as Achilde smiled and nodded. It was natural, as Achilde looked quite tired.

“I suppose I shouldn’t keep you waiting. Thank you, Postknight Achilde.”

 

As the blue-orange haired Postknight walked away, Damien felt a sharp pain and clutched his side. The wound hurt, but the remorse was worse.

---

Eight weeks. Damien’s wounds were healing slowly, but there had not been another attempt on his life.

 

In the closet, there was a clear glass bottle of vodka. It was the most expensive alcohol he’d purchased and it was almost impossible to track down. The liquid was clear as water, smelled ever-so-slightly of fresh peaches, supposedly had no taste with a smooth mouthfeel, and it now contained a lethal amount of a tasteless colorless poison he’d helped develop.

 

Damien’s heart was in his mouth, but he remembered to keep a straight face. Soon, he and his friends wouldn’t have to commit so many acts of violence. Perhaps with this one final meeting, the future could be more peaceful for the Anti-Knights.

He entered Kraig’s office.

 

“Ah, if it isn’t Damien…you’re quite early,” Kraig said with a smile. Despite his age, he looked to be in his mid-thirties, and had dark purple hair and eyes. “How’re you holding up?”

If Damien gained a little weight and developed a peaches-and-cream complexion, he would’ve been a spitting image of Kraig at the same age.

 

“Better. Wouldn’t want to keep you waiting,” Damien replied as he placed the bottle on the desk. The last few months had steeled his nerves. What was once a noticeable tremor was now barely noticeable.

 

“How did you track this one down?” Kraig asked as he examined the vodka carefully. “Well, I suppose if you could find the caged bird, you could find damn near anything.”

Damien noticed a light ring of black sediment at the bottom of the bottle and prayed that Kraig didn’t notice.

Kraig praised the alcohol, and Damien’s tastes.

How strange. These moments inside the office, sharing a drink… they’re probably the only times we’ve ever bonded like father and son. But it was all for an opportunity like this, Damien thought to himself.

 

“To the Anti-Knights!”

For the first time, Damien accidentally spilled his drink on the floor. Kraig emptied his glass like usual. Damien looked up at the clock on the wall. It was 6:18 in the evening. Lance stood watch, like always. 

 

“Ahhh…delightful. Now,” Kraig said. “Why did you come here?”

 

“I was hoping to discuss some matters with you regarding safety in the fields.”

 

“Of course! I heard the reports. I still miss Innsbruck, he was quite the fighter back when we were just a small group in the Fractured Forest,” Kraig mused.

 

“I used to call him ‘Uncle Innsbruck’ when I first joined. Don’t know if you knew that,” Damien replied.

 

“Is that so?” Kraig asked, looking surprised.

 

“Well, I was going to discuss new safety measures sooner, but I had to deal with other pressing issues,” Damien said, ignoring Kraig. “It appears as though the Postknights are now allowing their members to use weapons specifically made for killing.”

 

“The old regulations never stopped them from bumping off several of our own…you ought to have some, Damien. I noticed you spilled your drink earlier.”

“I’m just nervous, and I’d like to stay sober for this meeting.”

“Wise call. You’re much smarter than you look, I wish I’d noticed your talent sooner.”

“I’m honored, sir, but I have some more bad news.”

“Perhaps you should have a drink after all.”

“It appears the Royal Guards are now allowed to use lethal force when dealing with groups they deem ‘domestic terrorists’, including our own organization.”

“I’ve noticed that too…and it’s mostly in areas that you order your subordinates to patrol.”

“I- well, I’d never raise a hand against the Anti-Knights. Besides-” Damien paused to unbutton his shirt, revealing the bloody bandages that were wrapped around his chest. “I was targeted, too.”

Kraig looked unsurprised.

 

The time was 6:28. Damien needed just ten more minutes to see if his plan had worked. He suppressed the urge to cough.

“Who do you think could’ve done this?” Kraig asked.

“You did.”

Kraig burst into laughter.

“You’re quite clever, Damien! I never expected you to survive that, let alone figure it out.”

“But why?”

“Why? Think! I knew something was wrong with you after that meeting at The Fat Duchess.”

“You killed thousands of good people, like my mother. Not to mention, because of your ‘failure’ that is the Fractured Plague, I’ve been in constant pain for the last seven years.”

“Chaos and order both demand blood, Damien. The plague was deadly, but think about how many more people the government killed with their inaction. Or the Postknights. It doesn’t matter how fast your little falcon can fly, it can only hunt one thing at a time, even if it has the power to kill multiple quarry at once.”

Damien felt nauseated.

“What if Razielle caught the plague? Or Lance? Or-”

“Love will distract you and weaken you. Didn’t I tell you that?”

“Of course. But why did you think something was off after the The Fat Duchess meeting?”

“Highly skilled Captains kept going missing in areas you were watching. Your subordinates kept getting injuries from patrols where nothing happened. I knew the whole time.”

“Why didn’t you act sooner? You could’ve saved some good men like Innsbruck.”

“I needed to get rid of them, anyway. The days of being stuck in the Fractured Forest are over. We’ll need new minds if we ever want to take over all of the Spine and let chaos dictate everything.”

“You’re even worse than I imagined.”

“Why-” Kraig began a horrible coughing fit.

 

The time was 6:45.

 

“You-!” Kraig gasped. He stood up, lost his balance. Lance attempted to help, but Kraig ordered him back to his usual position. He managed to stand upright again by supporting his weight on the corner of his desk.

Damien only watched on with a cold disappointed expression as the life left Kraig’s eyes. He fell to the floor and twitched for a minute. With that, the Dark Knight was unmistakably dead, an undignified end away from the combat and chaos that he obsessed with in life.

 

Lance immediately charged at Damien, and thrust his spear at him. The blade cut his skin, but Damien came prepared.

Lance fell onto his knees after Damien had sapped some of his strength to heal the cut on his chest. He was careful to not take too much, to keep him alive.

“S-Spare me…” Lance stammered.

Damien paused for a moment, looking contemplative. He could hear the footsteps already. He felt a sudden rush of relief.

 

“Don’t worry, I won’t kill you.”

Lance broke down in silent sobs.

 

Damien slowly stepped backwards, until he could feel the doorknob on his hand. He immediately opened the door and closed it gently.

He looked behind himself to see his friends. The four others who had helped him kill Kraig and the other officers that stood in Damien’s way.

 

“He’s inside. Do what you will.”

The sounds of struggle were brief and muffled from behind the office door.

 

Damien made his way back to his quarters and spent a good long minute staring at his own reflection. His initial self-satisfied smile of a revenge well-earned slowly faded to a stoic mask.

Notes:

Well, that took far too long. Quite honestly, I was about to cancel this chapter and leave this at 3 chapters. This was one of the most difficult stories I've written, and it's changed a LOT. Weirdly enough, I felt I was phoning it in with this one-shot, but I'm glad I can finally start to work on Kha'tiabasis (my upcoming fic about Dev'loka)!
I wrote this partially because I wanted to see what an alternate ending would look like. Also, I felt that in Scarpia's Sting, I did a bad job with writing a chronically ill character, and I was hoping this would be a better attempt at writing such a character.
I'm still surprised people found Damien to be an enjoyable character.

Fixed a minor mistake

Thank you, random person on the Tasting History Discord for suggesting the type of alcohol that Damien would use to kill Kraig.
Also would like to thank Fusion for his really in-depth insight and Seventy_third for the support.
Thank you, Sketchy Shumai, for letting me use Achilde.
And a big thank you for everyone who read this and my other works. I genuinely appreciate everything.

Things that were voted on:
-the tavern that everyone eats at in the beginning (rosavern)
-The dish featured at the tavern (duck cassoulet)
-The title

References:
-Duck Cassoulet (was originally going to be in Scarpia's Sting)
-That Arby's tweet ("Don't worry, vegetarians, we also serve chicken and fish!")
-F.D.C. Willard (yes, that's where Willard gets his name from)
-Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds (Where Lucy got her name)
-The Death of Stalin (Damien being covered in puke)
-Scarface (Frank's and Mel's deaths, Damien's almost-assassination)
-The King in Yellow (the painter and his model)
-Breaking Bad (Don Eladio's death)
-The Godfather video game (Baptism by Fire is the name of the final mission where you help Michael assassinate the heads of the five families)
-Postknight Achilde (Sketchy Shumai's OC)
-Lance (Dark Lance, Panagiotis's OC)

Here's just some of the changes made over the course of writing this:
-This was originally supposed to be psychological horror/hurt comfort
-Almond was originally going to be used as a proximity trigger for a dark magic bomb, and he and Kraig would've interacted. He also would've gotten a much bigger presence.
-There was originally going to be a dinner date scene with Almond at the beginning
-Damien was originally going to poison Kraig and all of the other captains at once
-Silas was going to have a bigger role
-Thalia was going to appear
-Damien was going to steal Raz's summoning cards (kinda like what was going to happen in the PK2 beta)
-The Postknights were going to be in MUCH worse condition, same with Damien's health (described in greater detail than what's in the story right now)

Forgive any typos right now, I'm very tired but glad to be done.

Vittoria! VITTORIA!

Notes:

I took a lot of inspiration from Lovecraft and standardized testing. I was actually once handed an answer sheet instead of the test form once. Also, this was actually taken partially from a deleted scene from Scarpia's Sting where Almond went into detail about his weird dreams.

Fun fact: originally, Almond was going to do the sock puppet's taxes here.

I think we all know who, or at least can guess what the puppet actually is.

Oh, and I think I should add that Bra'him is singing a lullaby for Almond at the end.