Chapter Text
The past three years have been a disorienting mess, and they’re the only years I’ve ever known. Sometimes I’m…fine. My body and soul don’t tussle with each other to the point I feel like my own adversary. Sometimes I’m in constant pain and confusion, to the dismay of my teacher, Asra, who has tried so hard to keep me safe, and halfway sane.
Now, after being summoned to the palace, I have to pretend I’m not entirely unprepared to face the world, especially when my task is to find the Count’s murderer. I did, of course, have a life going back further than three years, but I don’t remember a thing from it. I don’t really consider whoever created the memories I’m missing as me. Whatever this body has experienced previously offers up no insight into how I’m supposed to maneuver it today.
The library is quiet. I’ve been reading Doctor Devorak’s scrolls and perusing his illustrations for the past hour. I met the man himself only days ago, and while a pang in my heart tells me he couldn’t have killed Count Lucio, I don’t actually know him, do I? Besides, if I have doubts regarding his character, the best way to resolve them is to rifle through his personal belongings.
There’s a letter I have trouble deciphering, due to the messy handwriting. He must have been in a hurry. And upset, if the emotional remnants I’m picking up from the paper can be trusted. It’s been addressed to a ‘Dear Sister’, the words more carefully written than all the others. Further down, I come across a name. Pasha. Could that be Portia? I suppose it makes sense. She seemed awfully upset when she saw him outside my shop (which he was trying to break into, once again).
I set the letter aside for safekeeping. I’ll pursue the link between them later. Moving on, there are a few more documents, and some drawings beneath them. One in particular catches my eye. It isn’t in the same style as the others I’ve seen from the doctor. I lift it from the desk to get a closer look.
The illustration is of a nude man with a variety of objects either lacerating or crushing different parts of his body. A club collides with his head, an axe with his shoulder, a spear with his foot. A sword pierces his ribs. It’s extremely realistic, like someone in grayscale walked right onto the parchment. It’s titled: Wound Man. This isn’t the same handwriting as I found in the letters and documents. It’s more controlled, neater, more clinical. Julian didn’t draw this.
“Do you like it?” a chilly voice comes.
My breath catches in my throat. I can’t feel the presence of whoever just spoke, but there’s a sense of coldness, warping my own energy like I’m standing next to a black hole.
Barely suppressing a shiver, I hesitantly turn around, and I’m faced with the Quaestor. I tilt my head. I met them a couple days ago along with the other courtiers. I hadn’t noticed this strange feeling then. Maybe it was cloaked by the more lively energies of the others.
“Valdemar,” I say in greeting. I glance at the Wound Man, then back up at them. “Is this yours?”
They don’t bother looking at the drawing. Maybe they saw it over my shoulder already, but they’re a little far away for that to make sense. Maybe my reaction gave it away.
“It is, yes,” they confirm. They tilt their head, much like I did mine. Their pupils are just slits in the middle of their bright red irises, and the way they’re looking at me makes the hair stand up on my arms. “Do you like it?” they repeat.
I avert my eyes to the parchment. Their gaze is too intense to hold, resembling the way a cat would fixate on a mouse it’s about to dispatch. I use this as an excuse to study the figure again while I decide how to respond.
“It’s morbid.” The man slumps like he’s already dead, yet his wounds bleed as only the living can. “But fascinating, I have to admit. I’ve never seen anything so detailed in any book. I guess I like it,” I add so they don’t have to ask again.
I think I’m telling the truth. The skill is impressive, and though it creeps me out a little, I find myself interested in why they drew it.
“That may indicate something about you,” they say, their voice almost taunting, like they have any ground to stand on. They’re the artist, after all. “An interest in medicine, perhaps?”
I have a feeling that’s not where they were going with their comment. They were implying something.
I shrug, letting it go. “I haven’t thought much about it. My focus is mainly on magic.”
They take a step forward, observing me. I’m not sure why.
“And murder mysteries, apparently,” they remark. “Your investigation is going poorly, I assume?”
I narrow my eyes at them. “Why do you say that?”
They smile pleasantly. Is it supposed to be pleasant? I can’t tell, but it’s obvious they’re enjoying whatever thoughts are running through their head.
“If you had any strong leads, you wouldn’t be here, admiring the art and snooping through meaningless letters.” They squint, challenging me to argue.
A thought occurs to me. I don’t know how long they’ve been here, watching me, before coming close enough for me to realize they’re there.
“How did you get in here?” I ask. “I didn’t hear the doors, and there are no other entrances.”
Their smile sharpens. “There are no other entrances that you know of,” they correct me.
That’s probably the most extensive answer I’m getting from them. They have a secret room or passageway somewhere. Why a trusted member of the royal court would need such a thing, I’m unsure.
“Well, anyway. It’s not that I don’t have any leads. I’m just trying to get all the facts before settling on a course of action,” I explain.
They hum, like they’re dissatisfied with my answer. Then, they let out a little sigh and turn to leave.
“Wait,” I call out, more questions rising to my tongue the moment I might not have the chance to ask them. They stop, but they don’t face me. “You’re the head physician, aren’t you?”
Now they do turn back around. It’s obvious where their sole interest lies.
“Yes. Are you needing an examination? Is there something…wrong with you?” They say it almost playfully. Their words don’t sound very benevolent.
“No, that’s not why I’m asking.” I sound so unsure, but I have no reason to be. This isn’t about me, anyway. “Did Doctor Devorak ever work under you?”
A blank look settles on their features. They’re either trying to place the name, or they don’t care about what I said at all.
“Devorak,” they echo. “Oh, Number 069? I do recall him being under my command.”
I perk up. “Do you remember anything about him? His character, any behaviors you found strange?”
Their hands, which were clasped in front of them, fall gracefully to their sides. They step forward again, and this time they’re closer. I should be able to hear their breaths, or feel them on my cheek. I don’t.
“I could ask you the same thing.” They raise their brows. “You worked with him more closely than I ever cared to.”
I try to back up, but the desk is right there.
“What do you mean?” I whisper.
Light dances in their eyes. They’re having fun.
“You mean you don’t know?” They laugh softly. “Wonderful. How far back does your memory go? How many of your friends watch you fail to recognize them?”
Pain blooms behind my eyes. Headaches used to be a more frequent occurrence for me, arising when I tried to peel back the layers of my past and force myself to remember. I’ve made peace, for the most part, with leaving my old self behind, so they don’t happen often anymore. But, I might be able to learn something here. I should at least try.
“What do you know about me?” I ask, trying to temper my desperation.
“What do you know about yourself?” they retort. “I wouldn’t want to needlessly relitigate every boring detail.”
A flare of anger makes my headache worse. “I don’t know anything!”
The look in their eyes tells me I’m only in for more frustration.
“First of all, you are a magician’s apprentice,” they state sagely. I roll my eyes, about to shut down the conversation entirely. They’re toying with me. “And, before that, you were a doctor’s apprentice. See what being patient gets you?”
My eyes widen. “A doctor’s?” Their earlier claim fits into place with this one. “I was Julian’s apprentice. Holy shit.” I laugh wryly. “I’ve really been getting passed around, huh?”
Valdemar looks like they don’t quite understand what I mean, but they’re just slightly disinterested enough not to ask for clarification.
“I never took mind of what you two were doing, because it was quite mundane research, but there may be a wealth of information inside that skull of yours. If only you knew how to unearth it.”
They gaze longingly at my forehead, likely envisioning my brain as they do. I shift uncomfortably.
“I assume you do.” I’m still holding the drawing of the Wound Man. Their knowledge of human anatomy must be almost unparalleled. Maybe that extends to the functions of it, and not just the shape. “Whenever I try to remember anything from before three years ago, I only end up hurting myself. Do you think there’s a way to access my memories safely?”
They smirk. Mischievously. “What’s a little danger in the name of science? Really, where’s your sense of adventure?”
They’re clearly all too happy to let me risk myself in whatever process they’re thinking of. For the last year, at least, I’ve resigned myself to a new life separate from the one I had before. I felt abandoned, in a way, by who I used to be. Sometimes I don’t even want to know about my old self. But, those memories could be tied to the case. They might be necessary.
“I guess, if there’s something you have in mind, I’d be willing to try it,” I say, relenting.
“Hmm.” Their eyes are so piercing. I should feel vaguely threatened by the way they look at me, but curiosity overrides any fear I’d otherwise have. “I underestimated you. I figured you’d be too fearful.”
I decide it’s best if I don’t show how scared I really am.
“I fear more what will happen if I don’t uncover the truth than I fear the process of finding it,” I declare, trying to sound brave. “Can you help me recover my memories?”
They raise a hand to their chin, performing for me their thinking process.
“Can I? Probably so.” They lean forward, and there’s nowhere for me to go. I’m trapped. “The real question is if I want to help you.”
I’m beginning to see what motivates them. They’re chasing their own enjoyment. Justice and compassion are either secondary, or entirely cast to the wayside. Their idea of fun may be cryptic, or worse, but hopefully it’s predictable enough that I can use it to my advantage.
“I understand if you’re busy,” I say, like I’ve already given up before the fight is truly over. “It’s just that, no one has ever been able to explain what I’m struggling with. I can’t remember a thing about my past, and any time I get close, it feels as if I’m dying. People look at me when I pass through the streets like they’ve seen a ghost. Sometimes I wonder if I’m even alive at all, or if I’m walking around in someone else’s corpse.”
A dual flicker of annoyance and intrigue animates Valdemar’s delicate features. They straighten their posture and fix me with an unimpressed look.
“Goodness. You don’t have to beg.” The corner of their mouth lifts. “No amount of begging will do you any good. I already made up my mind.”
I encourage them to continue with a docile and inquisitive gaze. I don’t want to come off as demanding, or anticipatory. They seem like the type to need absolute authority over a situation.
“I’ll aid you in recovering your memories. But, don’t expect this to be a painless experience,” they warn, their tone almost warm. “It could very well leave you permanently scarred, and worse off than you are now. It could even kill you.”
It sounds like my death isn’t that big of a deterrent for them. It’d be one more data point in the thrilling science experiments they’re conducting.
“I know. But how different can death be from the shadow of a life I’ve been enduring?” I ask. I hope I don’t mean that.
They smile widely, exposing a mouth full of terribly sharp teeth. I suddenly realize that this is the first time I’ve seen them without their surgical mask. They’re still too close for me to do anything other than squirm, and I don’t dare to move at all.
“A fragile creature like you is bound to find that out in due time,” they say delightedly. “Worry not, though, because as long as there are more mysteries that can only be uncovered while you live, I won’t go out of my way to shorten your life.”
What the actual hell is going on with this whole court? It finally sinks in how odd my short time at the palace has been. I thought Consul Valerius intentionally spilling wine on me was the worst of the impropriety I’d face, but I’ve received threats of violence from the Pontifex, and here in the serenity of the library I’m basically being told that death is the punishment for failing to keep the Quaestor’s interest.
My expression must have revealed my rumination, because Valdemar takes an almost soothing approach when they next speak.
“Oh, don’t lose your nerve now, you’ve been very strong so far,” they coo. “I’m sure there are a great many things I can discover from you. I have it on good authority that you, little apprentice, are quite the unique case.”
It’s probably useless to ask them what they mean. All they reveal to me is what they intend to, regardless of what I say. And, I’m becoming exhausted. My head hurts, and the weight of what little I’ve been told of my past is so heavy. I feel more disconnected from who I used to be than ever before.
“What, you want me to be your apprentice?” I snicker. I have enough energy to be annoying, if nothing else. “I might as well be a community resource.”
Valdemar hardly reacts. “Is that what you inferred from what I said? Curious. Maybe that’s more wishful thinking on your end than it is intent on mine.”
Embarrassed, I stare at the Wound Man, which is the only thing I can think to focus on that isn’t them. I trace the lines of a few of the weapons with my gaze. They could be right. What if my past isn’t as distant as it feels? I must have chosen to be Julian’s apprentice for a reason. There was something driving me. What if that drive is still there, waiting to be awoken? Part of me yearns to don the old role and see if it triggers anything.
“Maybe,” I agree. “That’s the only identity I’ve ever known, and it predates my memory. I guess I subconsciously clung to that as the role I’m used to filling.”
Moving slowly and precisely, I put the drawing down on the desk and lean slightly in towards Valdemar, as they did to me, though less intrusive. They show no signs of discomfort, so I continue on.
“If you let me play pretend for a while, it would prove to be an interesting experiment, I think.” I keep my face neutral. It’s best if they determine my words and actions the way they prefer. “Besides, I’d like to know more about your Wound Man. Perhaps, as your apprentice for the day, I could?”
They fold their arms behind their back. They’ve made a decision, for better or worse.
“You’re so desperate that it’s almost endearing,” they say, their tone unreadable. “Confused, lonely, and grasping at any loose threads of the tapestry that is your fractured mind. If you aren’t careful, one mere tug will unravel you entirely.”
Humiliation, again. Every time I gain confidence in our back and forth, they pull the rug out from under my feet with no small amount of glee.
“I’m not—”
“Lonely?” they interrupt. They look at me with faux pity, shaking their head. I can’t grasp how they’re able to predict my refutations. “Who do you have, then? The Countess has been courteous with you, of course, but surely you haven’t mistaken that as anything other than business. Your master, who I’m sure cherishes you deeply, can’t bring himself to stay for more than a week at a time, is that right? Oh, how the palace loves to gossip. I don’t even need to pay attention to hear such things. I wonder how you missed all of it.”
Don’t cry in front of them! That’s probably what the damn sadist wants.
“And you’re above the very concept of loneliness, aren’t you?” I say scathingly. “I doubt it’s companionship you want. That’s far too mundane. But you want recognition, or awe, or fear. I’m sure the Wound Man didn’t find himself on Julian’s desk on his own. What other awful things have you been longing to show someone?”
Their scarlet eyes shine with an unnatural light. They’re amused, and not the least taken aback by what I said.
“I do enjoy a good show. Since the days of the plague ended, there have been woefully few opportunities to frighten or entice the other doctors, or any guest I could convince to take a tour.” They close their eyes wistfully, their shoulders relaxing as they think back to those times.
“A tour of what?” I press, apprehension growing in the pit of my stomach.
They look at me through their long lashes, a flash of dangerous teeth showing between their lips.
“The dungeons,” they say, like it’s obvious. “Where I work. Where you worked, under my and Doctor 069’s orders.”
Need to be down there again.
I shake my head. The pain in my temples is getting worse. This is why I had given up on remembering my past in the first place. It wasn’t worth hurting myself and feeling more hopeless than when I began. But Valdemar’s tempting me with the possibility of my memories being within arm’s reach, and it’s maddening.
“Have you already given up?” they ask, feigning concern. “I told you I’d help you recover your memories, did I not? And, I suppose, a game of pretend is as good a place to start as any.”
I take a deep breath. I won’t survive my time with them if I’m so high strung that their every jab strikes me down.
“No, I’m not giving up that easily,” I reply with a determined grin.
They stare at me, unblinking, for what must be a full minute. They’re entirely still. In the silence, I’m made all the more aware of how wrong their aura feels. It’s like they’re not even hu—
“Well, I should give you the grand tour, shouldn’t I?” they finally say, reaching for me with a quickness I wasn’t expecting. Their hand finds my back and they usher me along to one of the bookshelves.
I force myself not to yelp or jump when they make contact with me. Their touch is icy, and it’s solid enough that instead of flesh, I imagine stone enclosed in their black leather gloves.
“Any new apprentice should be well acclimated to their work environment before their training begins,” they continue. I struggle to keep up with their odd pace. “And there are so many dangerous things down in the deep, dark dungeons. What sort of instructor would I be if I didn’t prepare you for the trials ahead?”
I’m going to regret this. All I can hope for is that whatever I gain from this outweighs what I stand to lose, such as my sanity or a few limbs.
When we stop in front of a wall of books, I look at them, confused.
“What are we doing here?” I ask.
Their hand slips from my back and they take hold of a book above my shoulder. If I swayed forward even an inch, we’d practically be pressed together. I can’t tell if the proximity is an intimidation tactic, or if they’re oblivious to the concept of personal space.
When I’m able to shake off the nervousness from how close they are, I turn my gaze to where they’ve pulled two books halfway out of the shelf. Gravity should send them tumbling to the ground, but they stay put in their tilted positions. Valdemar tips one more book in this fashion, and the entire wall begins to shift. I gasp as a passageway is revealed. This must be how they got in without me noticing. It’s far enough from Julian’s desk that I might not have heard the creaking of the shelf.
“Does the Countess know this exists?” I murmur, too intrigued by the shadowy stairwell to feel properly afraid.
“No one does,” they respond. I can feel their eyes on me. “Except for the doctors working under me who survived the plague. Those, however, are few and far between.”
The air wafting up from the corridor is stale and damp. I have a feeling that most of the people who went into the dungeons never came back up.
I laugh shakily. “If I went missing down there, no one would know where to look.”
“Thrilling, isn’t it?” They give me a gentle push. “After you, my apprentice.”
Here goes nothing.