Entry tags:
I know it for what it is, but it beats the alternative
For Darlington, the idea had been there for a while, a seed that needed time as much as opportunity to germinate. There was and had always been something strange about the Darrow History exhibit--the doors to the gallery always locked, exhibit installs perpetually in a state of setup or teardown, burst pipes and other renovations continually in need. Once, he'd even found the whole wing closed for a wedding the events staff said had been booked for months. When he'd pressed, however politely, for more details on any of those, the most he ever got was blank stares or the same bland non-answers all of the city transplants grow to expect from Darrow's native residents.
It was a mystery, bizarre and complicated, exactly the kind of thing that wouldn't have been within his purview with Lethe but that he'd have unabashedly wished could be. Something was behind those doors, and the longer he went not knowing what it was, the more appealing the idea of finding out became.
The strange, slow vanishing of the non-transplanted Darrowites was unnerving, to be sure, but as the museum grew quieter and more deserted, the louder the thought of taking this opportunity became. This place has to have a history, a concrete narrative that explains what it is now and what it had been in the past, a cohesive whole instead of the oft-conflicting memories of its citizens. The possibility of finally getting there, of the satisfaction of discovery, keeps him up some nights and makes him distracted on other days; without really realizing it, Darlington starts to think of it as inevitable. To no surprise, Alex wants nothing to do with the idea, but it's no work at all to involve Palamedes--and Camilla, for where one goes so does the other, and God knows they could use the backup--in roughing out a plan, debating this detail and arguing over that bit of timing until they have something that feels as though it's going to work.
If they get caught, it's more than grounds for Darlington's termination, even arrest for all three of them--but in a vast complex of empty exhibit halls and abandoned offices, who's going to be there to know? On the appointed day, Darlington ignores Alex's huffy, pregnant glares and heads into the city, driving along eerily empty streets until a snarl of stalled and vacant cars forces him to park the car on a--hidden and nondescript, because the last thing he's prepared to do is explain to an already-irritated Galaxy Stern that their car was stolen on top of everything else--side street and walk the rest of the way.
They'd agreed to meet around the side of the building, near the smaller and less conspicuous staff entrance. Darlington checks again that he has his keycard and looks through the bag he'd brought, full of tools that might or might not be necessary depending what they find. In a city as empty as Darrow is now, even the quietest approach is noticeable; hearing footsteps coming closer, he looks up, relieved to see the twin figures of his friends.
And, for today, partners in whatever kind of mystery this turns out to be.
It was a mystery, bizarre and complicated, exactly the kind of thing that wouldn't have been within his purview with Lethe but that he'd have unabashedly wished could be. Something was behind those doors, and the longer he went not knowing what it was, the more appealing the idea of finding out became.
The strange, slow vanishing of the non-transplanted Darrowites was unnerving, to be sure, but as the museum grew quieter and more deserted, the louder the thought of taking this opportunity became. This place has to have a history, a concrete narrative that explains what it is now and what it had been in the past, a cohesive whole instead of the oft-conflicting memories of its citizens. The possibility of finally getting there, of the satisfaction of discovery, keeps him up some nights and makes him distracted on other days; without really realizing it, Darlington starts to think of it as inevitable. To no surprise, Alex wants nothing to do with the idea, but it's no work at all to involve Palamedes--and Camilla, for where one goes so does the other, and God knows they could use the backup--in roughing out a plan, debating this detail and arguing over that bit of timing until they have something that feels as though it's going to work.
If they get caught, it's more than grounds for Darlington's termination, even arrest for all three of them--but in a vast complex of empty exhibit halls and abandoned offices, who's going to be there to know? On the appointed day, Darlington ignores Alex's huffy, pregnant glares and heads into the city, driving along eerily empty streets until a snarl of stalled and vacant cars forces him to park the car on a--hidden and nondescript, because the last thing he's prepared to do is explain to an already-irritated Galaxy Stern that their car was stolen on top of everything else--side street and walk the rest of the way.
They'd agreed to meet around the side of the building, near the smaller and less conspicuous staff entrance. Darlington checks again that he has his keycard and looks through the bag he'd brought, full of tools that might or might not be necessary depending what they find. In a city as empty as Darrow is now, even the quietest approach is noticeable; hearing footsteps coming closer, he looks up, relieved to see the twin figures of his friends.
And, for today, partners in whatever kind of mystery this turns out to be.
(no subject)
[[from here]]
His focus would be drawn to her, is drawn to her, no matter what she's wearing. Still, as she steps back out onto the floor, there's no way he'd ever be able to ignore her. Darlington feels his face heat, but it's more desire than embarrassment.
His focus would be drawn to her, is drawn to her, no matter what she's wearing. Still, as she steps back out onto the floor, there's no way he'd ever be able to ignore her. Darlington feels his face heat, but it's more desire than embarrassment.
though it's been said many times, many ways
It’s strange to think of where he was a year ago, exactly. Waking up in Alex’s bed, hung over from the shame of the night before and the lingering effects of whatever Manuscript had given him, preparing for his first full day in a city outside of the world he knew and realizing in the process that he’d lost nearly two months in the space of a breath. There were more shocks to come, more alterations in what he thought to be true, but very little had managed to surpass the disorientation of that initial beginning to his tenure in Darrow.
Back then, Darlington had wondered what they might have done at home, if Alex would’ve been on a plane to California at the start of break--or if he might have managed to convince her to stay, to spend Christmas at Black Elm with him. What they got instead was better, that makeshift celebration with hastily-bought gifts and the smell of a half-remembered recipe wafting from Alex’s kitchen; the start of something new, even if neither of them had known the depths of that newness at the time. And now, a year on, through hard work and some kind of miracle, he gets what he’d wondered about after all.
Christmas Day will be just for them, presents and breakfast and relaxing by the fire, but tonight is a chance to celebrate. They decorate the main floor of Black Elm, filling the rooms they’ve already managed to furnish with light and warmth, the tree they’d bought earlier in the month standing by one of the large picture windows in the great room. Alex cooks all of Estrea Stern’s recipes she can think of, adds a few of Bernadette’s that Darlington remembers from his childhood. There’s music low on the stereo, a fire lit in the vast fireplace, the new table and chairs they’d bought for the formal dining room arranged just so beneath the chandelier at the center of the room. Even Kirby gets into the spirit in a new, festive collar, bright red against his black fur.
Above all, they’ve invited the people that matter, the few who have come to mean something--to one or both of them--in the year that’s just passed. It’s the first real party Black Elm has seen in many years, not since Darlington’s grandfather was alive. It feels, once again, like starting something new.
[[tag in, tag around, enjoy the party!]]
Back then, Darlington had wondered what they might have done at home, if Alex would’ve been on a plane to California at the start of break--or if he might have managed to convince her to stay, to spend Christmas at Black Elm with him. What they got instead was better, that makeshift celebration with hastily-bought gifts and the smell of a half-remembered recipe wafting from Alex’s kitchen; the start of something new, even if neither of them had known the depths of that newness at the time. And now, a year on, through hard work and some kind of miracle, he gets what he’d wondered about after all.
Christmas Day will be just for them, presents and breakfast and relaxing by the fire, but tonight is a chance to celebrate. They decorate the main floor of Black Elm, filling the rooms they’ve already managed to furnish with light and warmth, the tree they’d bought earlier in the month standing by one of the large picture windows in the great room. Alex cooks all of Estrea Stern’s recipes she can think of, adds a few of Bernadette’s that Darlington remembers from his childhood. There’s music low on the stereo, a fire lit in the vast fireplace, the new table and chairs they’d bought for the formal dining room arranged just so beneath the chandelier at the center of the room. Even Kirby gets into the spirit in a new, festive collar, bright red against his black fur.
Above all, they’ve invited the people that matter, the few who have come to mean something--to one or both of them--in the year that’s just passed. It’s the first real party Black Elm has seen in many years, not since Darlington’s grandfather was alive. It feels, once again, like starting something new.
[[tag in, tag around, enjoy the party!]]
Entry tags:
old and forgotten, this frozen sand
Even as a child, Darlington understood how singular, how private, a place Black Elm was. His world was its crumbling towers and vast hallways, the ever-changing, ever growing gardens that surrounded the house on all sides, its only inhabitants himself, his grandfather, and their housekeeper Bernadette. It was all he needed, a magic he didn't have to seek to understand because it was always there.
And when things changed, when Daniel Tabor Arlington III was dead and buried and the care of the house fell to him, it was that long-practiced secrecy that kept him safe. He bolted the doors after his parents left, learned to survive in bits and pieces, selling what he could to ensure that the house--and himself, though the wearier he grew, the less important that seemed--would make it through another day, another winter, another year. Having so rarely invited friends over before, it didn't seem strange that even those scant invitations stopped, or turned into far more polite alternatives: the public library, staying late after school, refusing a ride back to Westville with a gracious smile and a thanks, but I have my bike. With no one to see the house standing empty, there were no questions he had to field about what a teenaged boy was doing all on his own, about where his parents were (New York, as always) or when they would be back (never, if he could help it).
Darlington had no problem with lying, not really, but avoiding it entirely meant he couldn't be trapped, that his secret was safe--for another day, another winter, another year.
The desperation of it faded with time, though even then he was sparing with when and to whom he showed Black Elm. It had become an outgrowth of his heart and his soul, the one thing tethering him to the world. Dean Sandow had seen it, of course, and Michelle, an act of trust towards the people introducing him to another kind of magic. Alex's invitation had been slightly forced, like so much else about knowing her there and then; both of them drenched in a thunderstorm and not that far from the house, its vast fireplace just waiting to be put to work.
That hasn't changed much in Darrow, now that Black Elm is here. Alex has opened the doors to far more people, had friends over or merely extended an invitation for some future time, while he still waits and thinks, wanting to be sure in some way he can't define. It's something that should change, and that knowledge pushes him to pick up his phone and give Caleb a call. There are repairs to be done, that perpetual fight against age and time Darlington's been aware of his whole life, and having another set of hands will only make it easier. They make plans for that weekend, a Saturday afternoon that promises to be clear and just a little chill, exactly the kind of autumnal weather he's always loved. As he waits for Caleb's knock on the door, Darlington wanders through the ground floor of the house, room by room.
And when things changed, when Daniel Tabor Arlington III was dead and buried and the care of the house fell to him, it was that long-practiced secrecy that kept him safe. He bolted the doors after his parents left, learned to survive in bits and pieces, selling what he could to ensure that the house--and himself, though the wearier he grew, the less important that seemed--would make it through another day, another winter, another year. Having so rarely invited friends over before, it didn't seem strange that even those scant invitations stopped, or turned into far more polite alternatives: the public library, staying late after school, refusing a ride back to Westville with a gracious smile and a thanks, but I have my bike. With no one to see the house standing empty, there were no questions he had to field about what a teenaged boy was doing all on his own, about where his parents were (New York, as always) or when they would be back (never, if he could help it).
Darlington had no problem with lying, not really, but avoiding it entirely meant he couldn't be trapped, that his secret was safe--for another day, another winter, another year.
The desperation of it faded with time, though even then he was sparing with when and to whom he showed Black Elm. It had become an outgrowth of his heart and his soul, the one thing tethering him to the world. Dean Sandow had seen it, of course, and Michelle, an act of trust towards the people introducing him to another kind of magic. Alex's invitation had been slightly forced, like so much else about knowing her there and then; both of them drenched in a thunderstorm and not that far from the house, its vast fireplace just waiting to be put to work.
That hasn't changed much in Darrow, now that Black Elm is here. Alex has opened the doors to far more people, had friends over or merely extended an invitation for some future time, while he still waits and thinks, wanting to be sure in some way he can't define. It's something that should change, and that knowledge pushes him to pick up his phone and give Caleb a call. There are repairs to be done, that perpetual fight against age and time Darlington's been aware of his whole life, and having another set of hands will only make it easier. They make plans for that weekend, a Saturday afternoon that promises to be clear and just a little chill, exactly the kind of autumnal weather he's always loved. As he waits for Caleb's knock on the door, Darlington wanders through the ground floor of the house, room by room.
wooden floors, walls and window sills, tables and chairs worn by all of the dust
The calls haven't been coming at a rate Darlington might call constant, but come they have over the last week or so, steady enough to be suspicious. Always the same two numbers, the same two voices--one bright and chipper, the other almost oily in its overconfidence--and the same message, the thing he cannot parse. They call about investment opportunities, about return potential and competitive markets, and the only thing keeping him from passing it all off as an unfortunate run of wrong numbers is the fact that they call him by name, every single time.
There's something in all of it that reminds him of his childhood, the Layabouts and their infrequent visits that grew more urgent the sicker his grandfather got, until they'd become a temporary constant there at the end. His mother's bizarre health foods displacing Bernadette's casseroles in the fridge, his father wandering from room to room downstairs talking about assessing Black Elm like it was a specimen in a lab, a body on a table just waiting for the autopsy. To them, he supposes, it had been. They'd wanted him to sell, demanded it and bullied him the same as they had his grandfather, and their anger when he'd rebuffed them was still as clear now as it had been at fifteen, that day in his room.
This house is worthless, Danny. Worse than worthless. Only the land is valuable.
The profits can be shared. You can come to New York, take advantage of all the opportunities that will open for you there.
Do you really think you'll be some Lord of Black Elm, Daniel? You don't rule this place. It rules you.
There's no way this can be that, but it's on his mind anyway as he lounges on the couch reading, looking over at his phone when it starts to buzz. Seeing one of those now-familiar numbers, his thumb hovers over the Reject icon on the screen before shifting, tapping Accept instead. "Tell me why you keep calling me."
The conversation that follows is short, and unbelievable, and ends with him scribbling down an address on the flyleaf of his book. "You're going to lose this number," he says, just before ending the call. "I will never be interested in any offer you think up." He's out the door a minute later, hailing a cab outside Dimera. He nearly bungles the address; memory taking over for a moment, guiding his tongue to the more familiar cadences of his old one in Westville.
It can't be possible, but he'll never forgive himself if he doesn't check.
Darlington recognizes it from the moment they pull up to the drive; the gravel, the gentle curve, the stone columns flanking either side and the lamps dotting the pathways just beyond. The trees are in full leaf, green rather than the mottled oranges and yellows he remembers, but each of them is as familiar to him as they've ever been before. He pays the driver, his hand already trembling when he pulls the door handle to get out of the car and a hope he doesn't want to acknowledge fizzing in his chest.
It only gets stronger as he walks up the drive, the stones crunching beneath his feet. When the house comes into view--stone and crumbling towers, the solid wood of the door and the dark slate of the steps, each window glinting in the late afternoon light--he stops right where he is and stares. This was his home, his anchor, and the lack of it over the last seven months had been a loss too painful for him to acknowledge. Not until now, with it restored to him at last.
He fumbles his phone out of his pocket, pulling up Alex's number, texting her the address and a photograph he takes with shaking hands. Tell me I'm not hallucinating again, Stern. Get here and tell me this is real.
There's something in all of it that reminds him of his childhood, the Layabouts and their infrequent visits that grew more urgent the sicker his grandfather got, until they'd become a temporary constant there at the end. His mother's bizarre health foods displacing Bernadette's casseroles in the fridge, his father wandering from room to room downstairs talking about assessing Black Elm like it was a specimen in a lab, a body on a table just waiting for the autopsy. To them, he supposes, it had been. They'd wanted him to sell, demanded it and bullied him the same as they had his grandfather, and their anger when he'd rebuffed them was still as clear now as it had been at fifteen, that day in his room.
This house is worthless, Danny. Worse than worthless. Only the land is valuable.
The profits can be shared. You can come to New York, take advantage of all the opportunities that will open for you there.
Do you really think you'll be some Lord of Black Elm, Daniel? You don't rule this place. It rules you.
There's no way this can be that, but it's on his mind anyway as he lounges on the couch reading, looking over at his phone when it starts to buzz. Seeing one of those now-familiar numbers, his thumb hovers over the Reject icon on the screen before shifting, tapping Accept instead. "Tell me why you keep calling me."
The conversation that follows is short, and unbelievable, and ends with him scribbling down an address on the flyleaf of his book. "You're going to lose this number," he says, just before ending the call. "I will never be interested in any offer you think up." He's out the door a minute later, hailing a cab outside Dimera. He nearly bungles the address; memory taking over for a moment, guiding his tongue to the more familiar cadences of his old one in Westville.
It can't be possible, but he'll never forgive himself if he doesn't check.
Darlington recognizes it from the moment they pull up to the drive; the gravel, the gentle curve, the stone columns flanking either side and the lamps dotting the pathways just beyond. The trees are in full leaf, green rather than the mottled oranges and yellows he remembers, but each of them is as familiar to him as they've ever been before. He pays the driver, his hand already trembling when he pulls the door handle to get out of the car and a hope he doesn't want to acknowledge fizzing in his chest.
It only gets stronger as he walks up the drive, the stones crunching beneath his feet. When the house comes into view--stone and crumbling towers, the solid wood of the door and the dark slate of the steps, each window glinting in the late afternoon light--he stops right where he is and stares. This was his home, his anchor, and the lack of it over the last seven months had been a loss too painful for him to acknowledge. Not until now, with it restored to him at last.
He fumbles his phone out of his pocket, pulling up Alex's number, texting her the address and a photograph he takes with shaking hands. Tell me I'm not hallucinating again, Stern. Get here and tell me this is real.
Entry tags:
we kept our hearts from view, this time we're problem solving
To say they get back to normal wouldn't be true. There's enough that's changed, that's needed to change, that whatever they'd been before isn't a place they can return to now. Darlington moves his things out of the Bramford and back to their apartment in Dimera, paying the exorbitant repair costs the landlord quoted him for the bedroom door just so he won't have to look at the splintered frame and all it represents. He and Alex talk, sometimes more deeply than he thinks they ever had before, other times about absolutely nothing at all. He still takes Kirby for a run in the morning, and he's still over there for dinner almost every night.
Day by day, over the next few weeks, it starts to feel like something's building out of the ashes.
When they'd first begun, Alex had said it could be like dating, starting fresh in a way they hadn't really taken the chance to do before. So far, it's felt like that; slow, and careful, and a little cautious as they feel out the edges of these new boundaries. Almost normal, when so little in their life--here or at home--had been that way for years.
Darlington brings up the idea, dinner out instead of in, one day when they're just sitting on the couch with Kirby. An actual date, maybe, to mark another step forward in the thing growing between them. He picks one of their favorites, a place downtown that's upscale and intimate, making the reservation for an evening Alex has off of work. That night, he showers and dresses, calling a cab and asking the driver to wait outside the Bramford while he goes to the second floor and knocks on Alex's door.
He still has a key, just as she has one to Dimera, but tonight he wants to do everything right.
Day by day, over the next few weeks, it starts to feel like something's building out of the ashes.
When they'd first begun, Alex had said it could be like dating, starting fresh in a way they hadn't really taken the chance to do before. So far, it's felt like that; slow, and careful, and a little cautious as they feel out the edges of these new boundaries. Almost normal, when so little in their life--here or at home--had been that way for years.
Darlington brings up the idea, dinner out instead of in, one day when they're just sitting on the couch with Kirby. An actual date, maybe, to mark another step forward in the thing growing between them. He picks one of their favorites, a place downtown that's upscale and intimate, making the reservation for an evening Alex has off of work. That night, he showers and dresses, calling a cab and asking the driver to wait outside the Bramford while he goes to the second floor and knocks on Alex's door.
He still has a key, just as she has one to Dimera, but tonight he wants to do everything right.
Entry tags:
and the name of the game is just the living
They keep Alex at the hospital for a few days, as much for observation as for treatment. Darlington stays as much as he can, calling out of work and finding someone to take care of Kirby, making quick trips home to change and shower before he's back again. When they talk, it's stilted and hesitant, inconsequential things that only emphasize the enormity of what they're both avoiding.
It could go on like this. Maybe it'd be better if it did. But Darlington knows neither of them can ignore it forever.
He's there when she's discharged, the removal of all the tubes and wires from her slim frame only serving to emphasize how thin she is, and how unsteady. He hands her the change of clothes he'd brought, loose, comfortable things, going out into the hallway while she dresses. The cab ride from the hospital back to the Bramford is a silent thing, both of them looking out of opposite windows, their hands resting on the seat between them with fingers just barely touching.
Kirby jumps off the couch when they come in, nearly losing his mind with simple canine joy as he snuffles first at Alex, then Darlington, then Alex again, his tail practically a dark blur as it whips back and forth. "Down," he says, but there's no force in it. Alex goes to the couch, Kirby following, and Darlington scrubs a hand through his hair.
"I'll run you a bath," he offers. "If you'd like, and then...I think we should talk. Finally."
It could go on like this. Maybe it'd be better if it did. But Darlington knows neither of them can ignore it forever.
He's there when she's discharged, the removal of all the tubes and wires from her slim frame only serving to emphasize how thin she is, and how unsteady. He hands her the change of clothes he'd brought, loose, comfortable things, going out into the hallway while she dresses. The cab ride from the hospital back to the Bramford is a silent thing, both of them looking out of opposite windows, their hands resting on the seat between them with fingers just barely touching.
Kirby jumps off the couch when they come in, nearly losing his mind with simple canine joy as he snuffles first at Alex, then Darlington, then Alex again, his tail practically a dark blur as it whips back and forth. "Down," he says, but there's no force in it. Alex goes to the couch, Kirby following, and Darlington scrubs a hand through his hair.
"I'll run you a bath," he offers. "If you'd like, and then...I think we should talk. Finally."
Entry tags:
latin words across my heart, symbols of infinity
The last few days have been nothing but ruin, his few texts to Alex going unanswered and the one call he'd made sent to her voicemail with a speed that suggested something deliberate. The garbage bag with the bat and their fouled sheets still sits in the corner of the bedroom like something evil; he'll need to get rid of it before it starts to smell, but he can't yet. Not when it feels like the last link he has to a girl he never expected.
Alex had accused him that night of being more consumed by the how and not the why, and she hadn't been wrong. The reasons mattered, but not as much as the fact that she'd managed to do something he'd previously thought impossible. She'd let in a Grey, absorbed Helen Watson's spirit in an act of--what? Desperation? Anger? Thoughtless destruction? He still didn't know, any more than he understood how the aftermath of it hadn't left her as unresponsive as the other prospective candidates Lethe had documented and monitored, catatonic shells forever changed by their brush with things beyond the Veil. All Alex had suffered was a rough awakening by some EMT and an extended hospital stay as the fentanyl worked its way out of her system.
And the loss of her friend, her boyfriend, and everyone she'd ever known, but right now Darlington looks at that with a little less pity than he had before.
Were he back in New Haven, he'd have access to the collected stores of Lethe, the files and books and artifacts held at Il Bastone. He'd be able to start making some kind of sense of what he'd learned, falling into research and pulling evidence out of the library; the Albemarle Book and the house itself might disapprove, along with Dawes, but Darlington could weather that scorn for the sake of finding a solution to a mystery he knows would threaten them all. Here, there's nothing, or as good as such. He's done his best, late nights of search after search on his laptop, a glass of scotch beside him and Kirby watching from the couch or curled at the foot of the bed. He'd even tried the Darrow Public Library, not that it led to much of anything other than frustration.
None of it is leading anywhere, until he recalls a fragment of his conversation with Luke at the festival. Like a big library full of scary stuff, he'd said, talking with an odd confidence about some Archive within the bounds of the city containing accounts and records, things that just maybe he'd be able to use. It feels ludicrous to be taking the word of a child, especially at a time like this, but right now Darlington's ready to try venturing down just about any avenue.
Another search turns up an address only a few blocks away, and the next day, Darlington leaves work and heads directly for it. The outside is...unassuming, to say the least, none of the ostentation of the tombs he's used to or even Il Bastone's quiet red-brick grandeur, but he pushes the front door open and steps inside. Whatever he might find, at least it's better than nothing.
Alex had accused him that night of being more consumed by the how and not the why, and she hadn't been wrong. The reasons mattered, but not as much as the fact that she'd managed to do something he'd previously thought impossible. She'd let in a Grey, absorbed Helen Watson's spirit in an act of--what? Desperation? Anger? Thoughtless destruction? He still didn't know, any more than he understood how the aftermath of it hadn't left her as unresponsive as the other prospective candidates Lethe had documented and monitored, catatonic shells forever changed by their brush with things beyond the Veil. All Alex had suffered was a rough awakening by some EMT and an extended hospital stay as the fentanyl worked its way out of her system.
And the loss of her friend, her boyfriend, and everyone she'd ever known, but right now Darlington looks at that with a little less pity than he had before.
Were he back in New Haven, he'd have access to the collected stores of Lethe, the files and books and artifacts held at Il Bastone. He'd be able to start making some kind of sense of what he'd learned, falling into research and pulling evidence out of the library; the Albemarle Book and the house itself might disapprove, along with Dawes, but Darlington could weather that scorn for the sake of finding a solution to a mystery he knows would threaten them all. Here, there's nothing, or as good as such. He's done his best, late nights of search after search on his laptop, a glass of scotch beside him and Kirby watching from the couch or curled at the foot of the bed. He'd even tried the Darrow Public Library, not that it led to much of anything other than frustration.
None of it is leading anywhere, until he recalls a fragment of his conversation with Luke at the festival. Like a big library full of scary stuff, he'd said, talking with an odd confidence about some Archive within the bounds of the city containing accounts and records, things that just maybe he'd be able to use. It feels ludicrous to be taking the word of a child, especially at a time like this, but right now Darlington's ready to try venturing down just about any avenue.
Another search turns up an address only a few blocks away, and the next day, Darlington leaves work and heads directly for it. The outside is...unassuming, to say the least, none of the ostentation of the tombs he's used to or even Il Bastone's quiet red-brick grandeur, but he pushes the front door open and steps inside. Whatever he might find, at least it's better than nothing.
Entry tags:
you want a revelation, some kind of resolution
Darlington’s been looking for answers his entire life. It’s the pursuit that matters, the chase that leads up to that satisfying feeling of a goal reached or a door swinging wide and letting him through, admitting him to somewhere he couldn’t have gotten to without all those hours of study and practice and dedication. He’s the person he is because of all of that: because he strove to be better, whether that meant training in the ballroom at Black Elm or spending hours drilling his way through flashcards in Mandarin, Dutch, Latin, Greek; filling the Albemarle Book with query after query in his Dante year, until Michelle finally had a conversation with the house and he’d found himself limited to no more than seven requests a week because you’re going to wind up like Chester Vance if you’re not careful, Darlington. He asks questions of everyone, of everything, always searching for some new bit of information, something that cracks the world open for him a little bit more. He loves it.
All too recently, though, he’s found that there are some questions that come harder than others; some answers he doesn’t know that he wants to find.
It feels like the two of them have been skirting around the topic of his future, Alex’s past, since the first moment he’d been truly himself in Darrow, sipping coffee in her bed the day before Christmas, his head still pounding from the aftereffects of Manuscript’s prank. Then, it had seemed almost like the least shocking thing in a litany of so many others. Compared to the all-too-present reality of having fallen into a pocket universe, to Alex being attacked by some rogue member of Scroll & Key or befriending one of New Haven’s most notorious Grays, to the fact he’d stared at Hiram’s Crucible glowing in the early morning sunlight in the corner of her bedroom, the thought that Sandow sends him on some Lethe-sponsored research trip hardly seemed traumatic enough to compare. Maybe it isn’t; maybe it doesn’t matter. But Darlington knows he hasn’t imagined the walls that go up behind Alex’s eyes when he mentions it, the sudden tension that snaps into her shoulders even when they’re at home and far from the reach of any Grays. There’s more to the story than she’s telling, a layer of answers waiting to be revealed.
He could wait. Possibly, he should. But the closer they grow, their lives entangling in ways both of them had only let themselves think fleetingly about at home, the more important knowing this particular truth becomes. Something happens to make him leave, to abandon Alex halfway through her training and cause her to come to the kind of harm that freezes his blood to think about, even when he can see her here and whole and safe--and nothing about it feels like just an ordinary research trip. It feels, if he thinks about it too long, like a fracturing. Like him having done something unforgivable, shattering whatever equilibrium exists between them and then turning tail and leaving her to deal with the fallout alone.
It’s the choice of a coward, a fool, exactly the kind of person he’s never wanted to be, and if he can fix it here--if he can find a way to never bring it about in the first place--he knows he has to try. Even if getting the answer causes both of them some pain along the way.
Neither of them have anywhere to be tonight, no late night events at the museum that require him to stay and staff the desk, Alex off the schedule at the club tonight and tomorrow. He makes dinner, opens a bottle of wine. It’s perfect, the kind of peace that still seems like such a rare and unexpected thing to have found with one another, and by the time they’re settled on the couch Darlington wonders if he shouldn’t let it continue. He can’t, he knows he can’t. He’s pushed this search for answers back too long and too far as it is.
The show they’d been watching comes to an end, the credits starting to roll, and Darlington reaches for the remote to stop it before the next episode starts to play. She's settled there against him, her head resting against his chest; he looks down at her and takes a breath, hoping the choice he’s about to make is the right one.
“Alex,” he says, and then to his surprise, he finds he can’t say anything else at all.
All too recently, though, he’s found that there are some questions that come harder than others; some answers he doesn’t know that he wants to find.
It feels like the two of them have been skirting around the topic of his future, Alex’s past, since the first moment he’d been truly himself in Darrow, sipping coffee in her bed the day before Christmas, his head still pounding from the aftereffects of Manuscript’s prank. Then, it had seemed almost like the least shocking thing in a litany of so many others. Compared to the all-too-present reality of having fallen into a pocket universe, to Alex being attacked by some rogue member of Scroll & Key or befriending one of New Haven’s most notorious Grays, to the fact he’d stared at Hiram’s Crucible glowing in the early morning sunlight in the corner of her bedroom, the thought that Sandow sends him on some Lethe-sponsored research trip hardly seemed traumatic enough to compare. Maybe it isn’t; maybe it doesn’t matter. But Darlington knows he hasn’t imagined the walls that go up behind Alex’s eyes when he mentions it, the sudden tension that snaps into her shoulders even when they’re at home and far from the reach of any Grays. There’s more to the story than she’s telling, a layer of answers waiting to be revealed.
He could wait. Possibly, he should. But the closer they grow, their lives entangling in ways both of them had only let themselves think fleetingly about at home, the more important knowing this particular truth becomes. Something happens to make him leave, to abandon Alex halfway through her training and cause her to come to the kind of harm that freezes his blood to think about, even when he can see her here and whole and safe--and nothing about it feels like just an ordinary research trip. It feels, if he thinks about it too long, like a fracturing. Like him having done something unforgivable, shattering whatever equilibrium exists between them and then turning tail and leaving her to deal with the fallout alone.
It’s the choice of a coward, a fool, exactly the kind of person he’s never wanted to be, and if he can fix it here--if he can find a way to never bring it about in the first place--he knows he has to try. Even if getting the answer causes both of them some pain along the way.
Neither of them have anywhere to be tonight, no late night events at the museum that require him to stay and staff the desk, Alex off the schedule at the club tonight and tomorrow. He makes dinner, opens a bottle of wine. It’s perfect, the kind of peace that still seems like such a rare and unexpected thing to have found with one another, and by the time they’re settled on the couch Darlington wonders if he shouldn’t let it continue. He can’t, he knows he can’t. He’s pushed this search for answers back too long and too far as it is.
The show they’d been watching comes to an end, the credits starting to roll, and Darlington reaches for the remote to stop it before the next episode starts to play. She's settled there against him, her head resting against his chest; he looks down at her and takes a breath, hoping the choice he’s about to make is the right one.
“Alex,” he says, and then to his surprise, he finds he can’t say anything else at all.
Entry tags:
are you led to the assumption that your company is something that I need?
To say that he and Alex have come to an understanding about the kind of work she’s chosen to pursue is something that seems to carry implications about his character Darlington’s not sure he likes. They’re deserved, maybe, given how poorly--and wasn’t that an understatement--he’d reacted at first, but deserved doesn’t mean at all that he has to like them. But they’ve talked, the two of them, and tried to acknowledge each others’ perspectives with clearer and more level heads than they’d managed before, and while it all should have happened much sooner than it did, at least now they’ve settled into something the both of them can live with.
It doesn’t entirely stop his concern, nor his tendency to sleep a little shallowly on nights she’s working until she’s home and curled up beside him, and certainly hasn’t lessened the way he still bristles at any mention of Joseph Kavinsky’s name, but perhaps nothing ever really will.
By choice, he hasn’t been back to the club--and as far as he thinks Alex knows, that’s the only time he’s ever been--since the night he’d come to apologize, the night when he’d let go of the difficult, stubborn parts of himself he’d clung to for reasons he stopped believing in almost as soon as they occurred. He’d have happily kept it that way, at least for the time being, but Alex had texted about an hour and a half into her shift; a short message about having forgotten a pair of heels she needed for a set at the back of her closet and asking him to bring them by. And, well, saying no to Alex Stern is something he’s never been particularly good at doing anyway.
So he goes, finding the shoes and putting them in some tote bag one of them got for free at a city event, hailing a cab outside the Bramford and once again weathering the smirking, winking look the driver shoots him in the mirror when he rattles off the address. The cab turns onto Paper and pulls to a stop outside the club; Darlington pays, already typing out a message to Alex--Outside now; where should I meet you?--as he gets out of the car and starts towards the front doors.
It doesn’t entirely stop his concern, nor his tendency to sleep a little shallowly on nights she’s working until she’s home and curled up beside him, and certainly hasn’t lessened the way he still bristles at any mention of Joseph Kavinsky’s name, but perhaps nothing ever really will.
By choice, he hasn’t been back to the club--and as far as he thinks Alex knows, that’s the only time he’s ever been--since the night he’d come to apologize, the night when he’d let go of the difficult, stubborn parts of himself he’d clung to for reasons he stopped believing in almost as soon as they occurred. He’d have happily kept it that way, at least for the time being, but Alex had texted about an hour and a half into her shift; a short message about having forgotten a pair of heels she needed for a set at the back of her closet and asking him to bring them by. And, well, saying no to Alex Stern is something he’s never been particularly good at doing anyway.
So he goes, finding the shoes and putting them in some tote bag one of them got for free at a city event, hailing a cab outside the Bramford and once again weathering the smirking, winking look the driver shoots him in the mirror when he rattles off the address. The cab turns onto Paper and pulls to a stop outside the club; Darlington pays, already typing out a message to Alex--Outside now; where should I meet you?--as he gets out of the car and starts towards the front doors.
Entry tags:
hey, it is a job, it pays a lot; is it disservicing someone?
That he waits until the end of the week isn't delaying or reluctance--or, frankly, a resistance to the absurdity of taking romantic advice from a high schooler--merely a desire, after having done so much wrong, to finally get one thing right. He knows he's behaved abominably, said things that he never thought himself capable of, and even after Caleb's assurances, Darlington's not sure forgiveness is a thing that Alex will be able to find where he's concerned.
He holds onto the hope of it, along with his memories of that first week he'd spent in Darrow; their easy intimacy, growing close in a way that they'd only begun to manage back in New Haven, and the surprising and utterly wanted course their night had taken up at Kagura. Thinks, too, of the certainty in Caleb's voice as he'd said You make her feel the butterflies. He wants, more than anything, not to be wrong about this.
He'd agreed to work this month's Final Friday evening program at the museum, and by the time he's finished helping the other front-of-house staff clean up and pack everything away, it's already past ten. If Alex is working tonight, it's more than likely that she's gone already, but after a brief stop at his own apartment, Darlington's on his way to the Bramford. He knocks on her door, using his key when there's no answer, finding the apartment empty and dark.
There's a moment where he thinks about waiting, about being there once more when she gets home just like he had been the night he'd come to work on the wards. It is, he knows, some kind of a coward's choice; the easy way out of a situation that he should have been strong enough to face up to well before now. Breathing out a long sigh, he leaves the bag he'd brought by the side of her couch and heads back into the cold, hailing a cab and giving the driver an address that gains him a winking look in the rearview mirror that he tries to ignore.
Only a week ago, he'd sworn he'd never go back, that there was no place for him here even if Alex was hellbent on making it hers. Even now, he'd rather be anywhere else. But there's no other place Darlington knows he should be tonight if he's going to make some attempt at fixing even a fraction of what he alone had broken.
They pull up outside the club on Paper, and after paying the driver and going through the ritual of cover and ID with the bouncer at the door, Darlington goes inside. The music is just as loud and grinding as before, the crowds around the stage just as vulgar, the drinks from the bar just as watered down; once again, it fills him with displeasure and unease and has him glancing towards the exit. He stays instead, choosing a table that's neither fully lit by the stage nor completely hidden in the shadows and setting down his drink.
This may only break things further between them, bring about an assumption or an argument that will sever the thin threads that still remain of their tie to one another. Darlington can only hope, with the kind of surrendering faith that he's reserved for few other things in his life--and once before for Alex, on a Halloween that turned into nothing he could have anticipated--that it'll be something altogether different.
He holds onto the hope of it, along with his memories of that first week he'd spent in Darrow; their easy intimacy, growing close in a way that they'd only begun to manage back in New Haven, and the surprising and utterly wanted course their night had taken up at Kagura. Thinks, too, of the certainty in Caleb's voice as he'd said You make her feel the butterflies. He wants, more than anything, not to be wrong about this.
He'd agreed to work this month's Final Friday evening program at the museum, and by the time he's finished helping the other front-of-house staff clean up and pack everything away, it's already past ten. If Alex is working tonight, it's more than likely that she's gone already, but after a brief stop at his own apartment, Darlington's on his way to the Bramford. He knocks on her door, using his key when there's no answer, finding the apartment empty and dark.
There's a moment where he thinks about waiting, about being there once more when she gets home just like he had been the night he'd come to work on the wards. It is, he knows, some kind of a coward's choice; the easy way out of a situation that he should have been strong enough to face up to well before now. Breathing out a long sigh, he leaves the bag he'd brought by the side of her couch and heads back into the cold, hailing a cab and giving the driver an address that gains him a winking look in the rearview mirror that he tries to ignore.
Only a week ago, he'd sworn he'd never go back, that there was no place for him here even if Alex was hellbent on making it hers. Even now, he'd rather be anywhere else. But there's no other place Darlington knows he should be tonight if he's going to make some attempt at fixing even a fraction of what he alone had broken.
They pull up outside the club on Paper, and after paying the driver and going through the ritual of cover and ID with the bouncer at the door, Darlington goes inside. The music is just as loud and grinding as before, the crowds around the stage just as vulgar, the drinks from the bar just as watered down; once again, it fills him with displeasure and unease and has him glancing towards the exit. He stays instead, choosing a table that's neither fully lit by the stage nor completely hidden in the shadows and setting down his drink.
This may only break things further between them, bring about an assumption or an argument that will sever the thin threads that still remain of their tie to one another. Darlington can only hope, with the kind of surrendering faith that he's reserved for few other things in his life--and once before for Alex, on a Halloween that turned into nothing he could have anticipated--that it'll be something altogether different.
Entry tags:
could've had a nice life, I can't even fake a smile
Everything Darlington had ever read suggested that January was meant to be a time of new beginnings. Of starting afresh, of stepping through a doorway--the month named, after all, for Janus--and becoming somehow better than one had been in the year just past. There were rites, and rituals, and spells to recite; if he'd been a Roman, he might have given a tribute of figs and honey, or salt and coin, depending on how much one trusted Ovid's account. Regardless, things at the start of a new year were meant to be different.
In looking over the ruin of his January, Darlington wishes he'd been more specific about the kind of new beginning he'd been seeking.
He could ask how, or why, or when things went so spectacularly wrong, but in his heart he knows the answer. Knows, too, the only person there is to blame for it. He'd made a litany of wrong choices, flung himself down a path that he'd built stone by stone out of his own rigidity and judgement and anger. Whether awake or asleep, he's been plagued by flashes of his own regrettable memories: the smear of glitter on Alex's cheek, that full moon night; the tight set of his own jaw as he hid in the squalid shadows of the club and watched her gyrate on stage only a few days ago; the sound of that mug shattering against the wall beside his head; the sneer of his voice as he said one unforgivable thing after another. If he could begin again, walk through the doorway of the new year once more and be wiped clean, he would. He'd give anything to do it. But he can't.
With his one Monday class cancelled, he's agreed to take on an additional shift at work today, coupling his usual morning shift at the museum with another in the afternoon. It felt good to work, to sink into the repetition of selling tickets and directing guests, pointing the way to the restrooms or the temporary exhibit hall and taking down yet another complaint that the touchscreens in the Human Bodies gallery were malfunctioning. It doesn't quite keep him from dwelling--nothing, really, ever could--but it's enough to let him forget for small stretches of time.
The gap between the end of one shift and the start of the next means he's managed to swing a full hour and a half for lunch. After using his staff discount to buy a sandwich and a bottled juice from the cafe in the museum courtyard, he looks around for a place to sit. There's some tour group from one of the high schools here, a chattering tangle of adolescents picking at their own sack lunches and sprawling across the benches, and as he makes his way to a vacant table at the other end of the seating area, Darlington affords them a slightly wide berth.
In looking over the ruin of his January, Darlington wishes he'd been more specific about the kind of new beginning he'd been seeking.
He could ask how, or why, or when things went so spectacularly wrong, but in his heart he knows the answer. Knows, too, the only person there is to blame for it. He'd made a litany of wrong choices, flung himself down a path that he'd built stone by stone out of his own rigidity and judgement and anger. Whether awake or asleep, he's been plagued by flashes of his own regrettable memories: the smear of glitter on Alex's cheek, that full moon night; the tight set of his own jaw as he hid in the squalid shadows of the club and watched her gyrate on stage only a few days ago; the sound of that mug shattering against the wall beside his head; the sneer of his voice as he said one unforgivable thing after another. If he could begin again, walk through the doorway of the new year once more and be wiped clean, he would. He'd give anything to do it. But he can't.
With his one Monday class cancelled, he's agreed to take on an additional shift at work today, coupling his usual morning shift at the museum with another in the afternoon. It felt good to work, to sink into the repetition of selling tickets and directing guests, pointing the way to the restrooms or the temporary exhibit hall and taking down yet another complaint that the touchscreens in the Human Bodies gallery were malfunctioning. It doesn't quite keep him from dwelling--nothing, really, ever could--but it's enough to let him forget for small stretches of time.
The gap between the end of one shift and the start of the next means he's managed to swing a full hour and a half for lunch. After using his staff discount to buy a sandwich and a bottled juice from the cafe in the museum courtyard, he looks around for a place to sit. There's some tour group from one of the high schools here, a chattering tangle of adolescents picking at their own sack lunches and sprawling across the benches, and as he makes his way to a vacant table at the other end of the seating area, Darlington affords them a slightly wide berth.
Entry tags:
you know you shouldn't be there but your money's all spent
He doesn't go looking for it, exactly. There's no carefully crafted search, nothing like the kind of investigation he might have done back home on topics far more different from this, but Darlington knows at the back of his mind that he is in pursuit of something. Answers, or proof, or maybe just an excuse. Something he can use. Anything.
His daily runs stray further and further into the seedier parts of town, past weed-choked lots and corner stores with bars in the window and cashiers behind bulletproof glass. It's an assumption, one he acknowledges is unfair in some distant corner of his thoughts, but he does it anyway. Of course, when he finds the club--all mirrored windows and neon, a bouncer in a leather jacket at the door--it's on some quieter stretch of Paper, not far from the train station. It's not a bad area, all things considered. He can, at least, concede that.
Back when he'd thought Alex was bartending, he'd learned the rhythms of her schedule, the late nights and weekend crowds. Though the job was a lie and had always been, she hadn't obscured the truth of that, at least. And so, when the next Friday rolls around and night falls, when Darlington has no reason to suspect Alex's shift hadn't started already, he goes back down to that quiet stretch of Paper. He could go any other night, he knows, but it feels important not to. He tells himself it's because the evidence, the proof he's seeking, wouldn't be the same if it's not her.
Another story, maybe, for Daniel Arlington to believe in with all his heart.
( cut for references to stripping and simulated violence )
His daily runs stray further and further into the seedier parts of town, past weed-choked lots and corner stores with bars in the window and cashiers behind bulletproof glass. It's an assumption, one he acknowledges is unfair in some distant corner of his thoughts, but he does it anyway. Of course, when he finds the club--all mirrored windows and neon, a bouncer in a leather jacket at the door--it's on some quieter stretch of Paper, not far from the train station. It's not a bad area, all things considered. He can, at least, concede that.
Back when he'd thought Alex was bartending, he'd learned the rhythms of her schedule, the late nights and weekend crowds. Though the job was a lie and had always been, she hadn't obscured the truth of that, at least. And so, when the next Friday rolls around and night falls, when Darlington has no reason to suspect Alex's shift hadn't started already, he goes back down to that quiet stretch of Paper. He could go any other night, he knows, but it feels important not to. He tells himself it's because the evidence, the proof he's seeking, wouldn't be the same if it's not her.
Another story, maybe, for Daniel Arlington to believe in with all his heart.
( cut for references to stripping and simulated violence )
Entry tags:
that's a fine-looking high horse what you've got in the stable
The wards he'd placed on Alex's apartment don't need reinforcing quite yet, but tonight's a full moon, and as Sandow and record after record in the archive at Il Bastone had impressed upon him, magic is always stronger when tied to something meaningful. A date, or a place, or a person. All three, if you can swing it. If they were going to do it, it may as well be tonight.
He'd texted Alex about something else earlier in the day and gotten a terse two words--Can't. Work.--in reply, and while he knows that means she'll be out late slinging drinks and wiping down the counter at whatever bar she's working at, Darlington still resolves to stop by the Bramford anyway. To do it himself, because he knows what he's doing, with or without her assistance...and because Alex deserves to feel safe in the place she calls home.
In a way, it's for the best she's not there. It'll be more effective if he does everything at the apex of the full moon, which isn't until practically the middle of the night; most likely, he'll be there and gone before she's even finished last call. She doesn't even have to know.
Around midnight, Darlington lets himself in with the key she'd given him that first morning, new, stronger magnets and a fresh tub of grave dirt in his bag. He starts by checking everything over, waiting for the start of the apex and fixing a few small things--smudged sigils, a faint crack in the boundary he'd laid on the bathroom window, of all places--in the meantime. When the moon is at its fullest, he begins, going ward by ward and room by room, adding piles of dirt where needed and drawing new, cleaner signs of protection where it feels like his previous ones have grown too thin.
The work itself requires all his focus, especially once he's neared the end of his circuit through the apartment. It's easy for him to miss the sound of a key turning in the front door lock.
He'd texted Alex about something else earlier in the day and gotten a terse two words--Can't. Work.--in reply, and while he knows that means she'll be out late slinging drinks and wiping down the counter at whatever bar she's working at, Darlington still resolves to stop by the Bramford anyway. To do it himself, because he knows what he's doing, with or without her assistance...and because Alex deserves to feel safe in the place she calls home.
In a way, it's for the best she's not there. It'll be more effective if he does everything at the apex of the full moon, which isn't until practically the middle of the night; most likely, he'll be there and gone before she's even finished last call. She doesn't even have to know.
Around midnight, Darlington lets himself in with the key she'd given him that first morning, new, stronger magnets and a fresh tub of grave dirt in his bag. He starts by checking everything over, waiting for the start of the apex and fixing a few small things--smudged sigils, a faint crack in the boundary he'd laid on the bathroom window, of all places--in the meantime. When the moon is at its fullest, he begins, going ward by ward and room by room, adding piles of dirt where needed and drawing new, cleaner signs of protection where it feels like his previous ones have grown too thin.
The work itself requires all his focus, especially once he's neared the end of his circuit through the apartment. It's easy for him to miss the sound of a key turning in the front door lock.
it was all so strange and so surreal
“I just want to know if Jodie Foster is here,” said Alex, and Darlington didn’t bother trying to suppress the flicker of irritation that bubbled up within him. They’d seen wonders tonight; the Arcadian peace of that vast forest, the glories of a Parrish painting come to life, reckless sacreligious hedonism in a flower-filled cathedral. And yet all she wanted was to celebrity-watch. Typical.
The fireflies lighting the room swarmed around them, the green-gold flash of their light almost pulsing with the beat of his heart. “For all you know,” he said, the words coming out thick and sluggish. His head reeled; he blinked hard, once, twice. “For all you know, that was Jodie Foster.” The room shimmered, the air suddenly heavy and cloying. They should keep going, finish their journey down; do the job they’d been set to at the start of the night. Before he could say anything, do anything, chivvy Alex along and out of the suffocation of the fifth level of Manuscript’s tomb, Lan Caihe turned back to face them, that enigmatic smile still on her face and the vast mirror of power churning behind her.
Descend.
He shouldn’t have heard her, not from this distance, but the word was as loud as if she’d been standing by his side.
Descend.
It passed through him like a shudder, and the world gave way along with it. He fell--he descended--landing on his feet in the middle of a cavern, the walls slick with moisture and the scent of tilled soil in the air. Someone was humming, something was humming, the sound reverberating straight to the center of him like it was the only thing that mattered. Darlington looked around for the source, his head taking an age to turn from one side to the other, until--
The mirror, that vault of power. It was here, bolted to the wall of the cave, the magic contained within swirling in eddies and whorls for a moment before slowly parting. Something was wrong here, gravely wrong, and he had to look away. But why would he? He’d wanted these glimpses of the uncanny, chased them and dreamed them and craved them, driven by his need to know everything he could about a world he’d only ever been given small tastes of. He could drink his fill now, granted this glorious opportunity by a goddess in celadon robes, and so he stared as the mist parted and the mirror cleared.
It was the room he’d just left, the banquet table still laden, the guests still crowded around the feast now rotted and spoiled, flies swarming around the goblets and maggots squirming in the cheese; everyone there aged and frail, using the last of their strength to lift a cup to their lips or bite into the desiccated husk of what might once have been a peach. Above them all stood Caihe, still youthful, lit by fire and glowing with power, her face changing with every breath: high priestess, hermit, hierophant, king and empress and fool. Darlington stared, shaking, at the face of his grandfather until the next exhalation whisked the sight away. His upper lip was wet; he lifted fingers to his face and saw them come away bloody.
“Darlington?” Someone was saying his name, a voice he knew, one he’d thought of as a broken woodwind when in fact it was the richest tone he’d ever heard, a symphony contained in the three syllables of his name. No, not his name. Not his name, any more than Alex was hers; they’d both christened themselves something new. He looked away from the crimson smear on his fingertips and back to the mirror. Like Caihe, she was unchanged, that Queen Mab crown still on her head and starlight still spangling her skin, her dress a dark flow of fabric along the lines of her body--but no, now she was Mab, a true Queen of the Night, beautiful and breathtaking, the points of a wheel or a crown seeming to turn behind her. Her mouth was lush and red, constellations he didn’t recognize reflected in the pooling blackness of her eyes, so much power coursing through her that it ought to be terrifying.
“What are you?” he heard himself ask, his voice soft with awe. No answer came, but that didn’t matter; he knelt anyway, putting himself at her feet and in her hands. He could see himself in the mirror, not as he was but as he wished to be: a knight with sword in hand, his fealty pledged to the creature before him if only she would choose to accept it. There was an ache in his chest from the wanting of it, another sword plunged into his back, piercing his heart; he felt the tears spill down his cheeks, mingling with the blood, the taste of copper and salt in his mouth.
“An acolyte at heart,” said Caihe, and Darlington knew she spoke truth. Choose me, he thought, he begged, staring up at Alex. She was not what she had seemed, nothing like what he’d assumed her to be, this girl who’d done nothing to earn the gift she’d been granted. She was his queen, and he would serve her until the end of his days, if only she would…
“Darlington,” she said again, one slim hand reaching for him, fingertips brushing the side of his face, cupping his chin. He closed his eyes, and dared to hope.
The fireflies lighting the room swarmed around them, the green-gold flash of their light almost pulsing with the beat of his heart. “For all you know,” he said, the words coming out thick and sluggish. His head reeled; he blinked hard, once, twice. “For all you know, that was Jodie Foster.” The room shimmered, the air suddenly heavy and cloying. They should keep going, finish their journey down; do the job they’d been set to at the start of the night. Before he could say anything, do anything, chivvy Alex along and out of the suffocation of the fifth level of Manuscript’s tomb, Lan Caihe turned back to face them, that enigmatic smile still on her face and the vast mirror of power churning behind her.
Descend.
He shouldn’t have heard her, not from this distance, but the word was as loud as if she’d been standing by his side.
Descend.
It passed through him like a shudder, and the world gave way along with it. He fell--he descended--landing on his feet in the middle of a cavern, the walls slick with moisture and the scent of tilled soil in the air. Someone was humming, something was humming, the sound reverberating straight to the center of him like it was the only thing that mattered. Darlington looked around for the source, his head taking an age to turn from one side to the other, until--
The mirror, that vault of power. It was here, bolted to the wall of the cave, the magic contained within swirling in eddies and whorls for a moment before slowly parting. Something was wrong here, gravely wrong, and he had to look away. But why would he? He’d wanted these glimpses of the uncanny, chased them and dreamed them and craved them, driven by his need to know everything he could about a world he’d only ever been given small tastes of. He could drink his fill now, granted this glorious opportunity by a goddess in celadon robes, and so he stared as the mist parted and the mirror cleared.
It was the room he’d just left, the banquet table still laden, the guests still crowded around the feast now rotted and spoiled, flies swarming around the goblets and maggots squirming in the cheese; everyone there aged and frail, using the last of their strength to lift a cup to their lips or bite into the desiccated husk of what might once have been a peach. Above them all stood Caihe, still youthful, lit by fire and glowing with power, her face changing with every breath: high priestess, hermit, hierophant, king and empress and fool. Darlington stared, shaking, at the face of his grandfather until the next exhalation whisked the sight away. His upper lip was wet; he lifted fingers to his face and saw them come away bloody.
“Darlington?” Someone was saying his name, a voice he knew, one he’d thought of as a broken woodwind when in fact it was the richest tone he’d ever heard, a symphony contained in the three syllables of his name. No, not his name. Not his name, any more than Alex was hers; they’d both christened themselves something new. He looked away from the crimson smear on his fingertips and back to the mirror. Like Caihe, she was unchanged, that Queen Mab crown still on her head and starlight still spangling her skin, her dress a dark flow of fabric along the lines of her body--but no, now she was Mab, a true Queen of the Night, beautiful and breathtaking, the points of a wheel or a crown seeming to turn behind her. Her mouth was lush and red, constellations he didn’t recognize reflected in the pooling blackness of her eyes, so much power coursing through her that it ought to be terrifying.
“What are you?” he heard himself ask, his voice soft with awe. No answer came, but that didn’t matter; he knelt anyway, putting himself at her feet and in her hands. He could see himself in the mirror, not as he was but as he wished to be: a knight with sword in hand, his fealty pledged to the creature before him if only she would choose to accept it. There was an ache in his chest from the wanting of it, another sword plunged into his back, piercing his heart; he felt the tears spill down his cheeks, mingling with the blood, the taste of copper and salt in his mouth.
“An acolyte at heart,” said Caihe, and Darlington knew she spoke truth. Choose me, he thought, he begged, staring up at Alex. She was not what she had seemed, nothing like what he’d assumed her to be, this girl who’d done nothing to earn the gift she’d been granted. She was his queen, and he would serve her until the end of his days, if only she would…
“Darlington,” she said again, one slim hand reaching for him, fingertips brushing the side of his face, cupping his chin. He closed his eyes, and dared to hope.