Cold Light Part 3: Annie (dreams that everyone is dead)
Yes, the all the quasi-incest and other forms of sexual deviancy in this story disturb me, too.
Theron and Silverlock, and a not-conversation that should have happened long ago. Warnings for brief discussion of more wrongness than you can shake a stick at, because Theron is so amazingly screwed up. (Part 2 will be written later, because every time I try to write it, Blogger eats it.)
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"You'll have to wait in a holding cell until I can arrange the proper paperwork to have you moved. My quarters are government issue, but I do have a spare room, and they'll be infinitely more comfortable than anything here." Silverlock nodded to the flock of guards that surrounded them. "Just go along with these men and behave yourself, and I'll come get you as soon as I can."
Theron briefly contemplated the definition of "behave" and how, as a concept, it was a completely subjective thing. Unfortunately, he doubted even Silverlock would consider his turning the guards into turnips or rutabagas or some other appropriately dull root vegetable to fit into any definition of the word.
It was a nice thought, though. He'd done some of his best work with root vegetables and leafy greens. He liked plants- but maybe that was just because Bren had always reminded him of a tree, something steady and tall and easy to lean on. In some other universe, I raised butterflies for a living and never once pulled any of their wings or legs off, and I had a well adjusted home life and a relationship with my family that didn't involve even the vaguest and most socially acceptable form of incest.
In his coat pocket, the kitten rumbled with a purr that belonged to something at least three times its size. He reached into his pocket and scratched its ears, acutely aware of the delicacy of its skull and spine between his fingers.
The holding cell the guards put him in had a small, heavily barred window set high in the wall that let sunlight slant across the floor. For that reason alone, he allowed himself to be locked into it. He sat on the floor in that tiny patch of sunlight, facing the window, and let the kitten chew on his fingers.
The last cell he'd been in had no window, and no door. This one had a door that he could put his back to, and feel the edges of the bars digging into his shoulders while he waited.
The last cell he'd been in hadn't had a slanted patch of sunlight to sit in. Just four cold, gray walls, and the maddening knowledge that everything he'd lived for had amounted to exactly nothing.
In comparison, this place was rather welcoming. He leaned his head against the bars and waited with his eyes closed.
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"With his corpse? Now that's something I've never seen the appeal of." Silverlock narrowed his eyes thoughtfully, cheerfully aware of his student's horrified discomfort. "But then, I prefer touching people who can touch back."
Silverlock's quarters, government issue or not, were palatial, and looked out over the most attractive parts of the Harbor and Temple districts from fifty floors up.
Theron wrapped his arms around himself and leaned against the window, shoulders hunched. He tried to remind himself that Silverlock couldn't actually read his mind, but the other man still knew him too well.
"Yes, my dear, you have always been that transparent," Silverlock said, in response to the question Theron hadn't asked. "But back to your sex life. Tell me, was it any good?"
He covered his face with his hands. He was going to die of shame. Two hundred years of intrigue and magic and backstabbing, and he was going to spontaneously combust as a result of his teacher's nonchalant curiosity. "No. It wasn't. Not that I had any basis for comparison at the time, mind you," he said into his hands.
"No basis for comparison? You wound me, my dear. Truly. Am I so forgettable?" Silverlock laughed, wielding carefully honed cruelty like a knife.
"I hate you," he muttered. "And I'll kill you if you touch me again."
"Is that a promise? You don't make it sound like much of a threat, love."
"Can we not do this?" He hadn't been this tired since his death. "I just want-" He didn't know what he wanted, not really; that had always been the problem. "Never mind." He was shaking, some combination of too many memories and too little sleep and too much fear.
"I won't let them kill you, you know." And suddenly Silverlock was there beside him, leading him away from the window to one of the armchairs without touching him. "You can believe what you will about my motivations, but I refuse to watch you die in the Black Square."
Theron tucked up his feet and wrapped his arms around his legs, curling into a ball with his eyes shut. A moment later, the kitten jumped onto his chair and burrowed its way into his protective cocoon, settling against his chest with a tiny mewl. He stayed that way until the shaking stopped, then unfurled far enough to rest his chin on his knees. "Have you ever wanted something so badly it made you sick? Not- not physically ill, or not just- but- twisted inside."
"Of course not." Silverlock took a nearby chair, jewelry chiming softly as he moved. "When I want something, Theron, I take it."
"I did-"
"No. You wanted something and found it too difficult to take, so you broke it."
Theron slumped a little, knowing that was true. Tiny kitten claws pricked at his arm as the little creature climbed up to his shoulder. "You hurt me."
Silverlock sighed at the change of subject, and shook his head. "You don't want to talk about this, Theron."
His glare could have stripped paint. "I think we've avoided the subject for long enough, D'Alestri."
Silverlock wouldn't meet his eyes. "I don't see that there's a subject to discuss; you weren't even occupying your body at the time. Given the circumstances, I was as kind to you as I could possibly have been."
"Kind?" he hissed. "It was rape, and you treat it like a joke at my expense. I trusted you, I did nothing to provoke you-"
"And it brought you back, didn't it?"
Theron opened his mouth to respond, then shut it with a snap. He was shaking again, more violently than before.
"You're a very curious sort of masochist, you know. You've tied certain forms of pain- emotional trauma, mostly- to the very core of your identity. When you forgot yourself, I chose the one thing I knew you were most afraid of to bring you back." He looked up, expression guarded and slightly sad. "Perhaps, at the time, I could have been more sympathetic, and for that I am sorry. But you're not looking for an apology from me.
"I cannot grant you absolution for what you did to your friend, Theron. What I did to you was monstrous, but it does not excuse your actions- and what you did to him was equally unforgiveable."
"I know that," he whispered, still shaking uncontrollably and trying desperately to stop thinking. "I know, I know but it still hurts-" because he could remember so much blood everywhere and the walls were so white even with all the blood and he was so cold they were all so cold and he'd just wanted to- wanted to-
"Shh, shh. It's all right, I know, I know," Silverlock was next to him again, speaking softly and touching him this time- just one hand around his wrist as he hid his face in his arms, that voice and single point of contact and the warmth of a tiny gray kitten purring in his ear the only things holding him together as he shook himself apart.
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...Meh.
(Five counts of genocide, and he still doesn't actually feel remorse- but the torture, murder, and violation of his best friend is slowly killing him with guilt. Oh, Theron, you screwed up little cookie.)
Theron will never be the same caliber of artist that Brenon is, but he still has a very keen sense of theatricality, shape, and form. He spent his first few weeks after returning to Radrezhaea running a street street show for money. He turned vegetables and rocks and other inanimate things into fantastical birds and mystic creatures. Of course, Lifesmithing was illegal, and it got him Blacklisted, but he was quite good at what he did.
Theron's problem is that he doesn't really enjoy his magic. Being undead means he's limited almost entirely to his magicrafting skills; arcane magic relies on the soul's ability to control aether, and his soul is too compromised to handle that. Theron is still technically an Omnismith, but he's nowhere near as powerful as he was before the implosion of the Voyancy. He can't reweave time and reality anymore, but he has almost absolute control of his physical surroundings.
'Course, he's too busy hovering on the edge of a nervous breakdown most of the time to make use of this power- otherwise he'd have just smithed himself some gold so he and his cadre wouldn't be totally broke. Theron pawned his mother's jewelry (a pendant and three rings that he wore on a chain around his neck as the Voyance) for what little money they do have, and that's almost run out.
Because they are currently broke, the six of them (Theron, Brenon, Stella, Mihonil, Mordant, Solneki) are stuck living in a two-and-a-half bedroom tenement house. The first floor opens onto a small reception area, where Mordant and Solneki usually hang out, manning the front desk. The desk is right next to the stairs, and there's a short hallway leading towards the kitchen behind it. The second floor is a long hallway with a window at the end, and two bedrooms, plus a large storage closet. Brenon and Stella share a room- Stella and Walker share a bed. Bren sleeps either on the floor of their room or on the floor of Mihonil's room. Mih doesn't really need a room, but Bren insisted; she's been in a coma since they arrived in the city, so she chills on a bed in the closet. The last room is Theron's office. He sleeps on a cot that folds up behind the filing cabinets. Mordant and Sol sleep in the kitchen, or they go out trolling bars and sleep with whomever they happen to pick up that night.
It's fortunate that of the six of them, only Mordant and Sol actually need to eat on a regular basis; the zombies can survive by scavenging for extended periods of time. Bren and Stella hate eating rats, though; Theron doesn't actually mind it all that much, but he's kind of weird.
Mordant and Solneki stick around because they're both fond of Stella and they still don't entirely trust Walker with her. They've also still got explosives wired to their spinal columns, so they're keeping this job until they can get rid of the extra hardware. After that, they end up universe hopping- they sort of show up on the fringes of most of my stories, usually hanging out in bars, starting fights.
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