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A Hint of Vesperan Ethical Intuition: Chapter 7

Chapter Summary:

The journey ends. But does Albaer want it to?

Do any of them?

You can read it here:

https://archiveofourown.org/works/15417432/chapters/37048326

Or you can read it under the cut:

22 Herba 1690 Most definitely the basement of a ganglord’s hideout

Léandre didn't mind the shackles as much when he used them to propel billiard balls at the gangsters' heads. And stomachs. And shins. And crotches. Anywhere that looked vulnerable, really.

He stood back-to-back with Lamont and Mireille, who was speechless at the events that transpired, in between them. Guilt bubbled in his gut when he and Lamont had to trick her into believing that they'd abandon her, but it was worth it in the end. They pulled off their plan perfectly. Okay, it wasn't perfect if they made everything up as they went along and were outnumbered.

Horrendously outnumbered.

Lamont wouldn't last long. He was, what, one twelve-year-old novice Magia with a better knowledge of swords than most? There was no way he could take down twenty or so grown men. And neither could Léandre, obviously.

The shackles were less annoying than he thought, but they still slowed him down when he had to dodge the balls they threw back at him. He could trip them with its chains and break chairs over them and whip billiard sticks at them for as long as he could, but he and Lamont had to get tired at some point. The gangsters didn't even let them get that far. Lamont was halfway through his third gangster while Léandre knocked away anyone who got too close when he noticed Eyepatch holding a broken table leg, sprinting in a curving path behind the henchman that fought Lamont.

The lackey moved out of the way. The path of Eyepatch's table leg was clear to strike down on Lamont's head. Eyepatch's fingers slid underneath the aforementioned eyepatch. He didn’t wait to see what was beneath it. There was no time to come up with a smarter alternative. Léandre scrambled to beat the stick to it.

He shoved Lamont out of the way from the incoming stick. The wood battered not Léandre's head, but grazed the side of his neck. Pain blared from his throat first and his right side next as it hit the brick floor. He couldn't taste blood, but his neck throbbed and felt warm and wet as he coughed. Léandre's eyes met Eyepatch's as he stepped over him, although he couldn't call him that anymore because he wasn't wearing the eyepatch. Beside his solid black eye was a glowing green eye. No whites were visible, just a smooth, glassy green orb.

As soon as he saw it, he couldn't move. Unlike being under the MTF's paralysis spell, his body didn't stiffen, but went limp altogether. He couldn't move his eyeballs, but he could blink. He couldn't cough anymore, despite his body feeling the need to, yet somehow he could still breathe.

The fight raged on around him. Mireille's scream tore through the air from behind him.

"Bellamy!" Lamont yelled from beside him before what sounded like a fist ramming into him cut him off. The clanging of metal and the impacts of various blows followed. The gangsters' shouts and curses mixed with Lamont's battle cries and unique brand of insults. Basically, Léandre had no idea who was winning and was lucky that no one stepped on him yet.

Eventually a beefy man with a big nose, who actually wore his blue scarf around his neck like you were supposed to, grabbed his arms, hoisted him upright and carried him to a corner of the room where everyone else gravitated towards. Past the layer of scruffy gangsters stood Eyepatch, wearing his eyepatch again and waiting patiently for Léandre. In the very corner of the room was Lamont, snarling and sword-less, trembling hands outstretched and blocking Mireille out of everyone's view. Between them and the rest of the people was a transparent, shiny red screen that lined the ceiling, walls and floor, sealing them away completely. Some gangsters threw pieces of the table at it and the debris bounced off of it, making the screen wobble like a bendy pane of glass.

"Took your time, did you?" Eyepatch sniffed.

"Sorry, Boss," Big Nose said from behind Léandre.

Eyepatch turned his attentions to Lamont. "Well, Pepper-head? I think you know what happens from here."

"You already used that line on me, you bastard!" Not that the situation wasn't dire or anything, but they must have pushed Lamont quite a distance if he'd moved on to straight up swearing.

Eyepatch didn't blink. "Doesn't make it any less true. If you intend to waste my time and don't let down your shield now, you won't like what I do to your half-whitey friend over here."

Half-whitey? That was a new one. "I don't like it already! What did your stupid eye do to him? Why isn't he moving?"

"Let me keep some of my secrets, at least," he said, tutting. He turned away from them and the group of gangsters parted, making a path that led him to Lamont's sword that lay near the door. Eyepatch swung the blade twice like a baton. "Fine blade, isn't it?"

"Not with the way you wave it around like a stick, it isn't!"

“You have a point,” Eyepatch drawled, aiming the tip the sword towards Léandre's belly. “Seems more like a blade made for stabbing, doesn't it?”

In that moment, Léandre, contrary to popular belief, blamed neither his habitual misfortune, nor Lamont, nor the gods he didn’t care about, but himself. Either that, or something in the air, because one of those things had to have forced his body to take the blow for Lamont. In normal circumstances, he would've found a better way or cut his losses. Speaking up for Lamont, working his plans around Lamont's obstinate wants and talking him out of situations was much different from physically...protecting him. For one, he could chalk up the former three actions to being beneficial to himself as well as Lamont. The latter, on the other hand, didn't help anyone.

"I'll give you to the count of three. Release your shield either before or on it, or else..." He pushed the blade towards Léandre's midsection, stopping short of a hair's breadth. Lamont's snarl fell into a chalk pale, wide-eyed expression.

He drew the blade back and began to count. "One–"

Wooden planks and dust rained on them. Big Nose reacted with the rest of them, bracing himself for the debris and coughing at the dust, but he hadn't dropped Léandre. Neither the sword nor Eyepatch were anywhere near him. Small mercies. Through the dust, one small and familiar silhouette weaved through confused gangsters. The figure used the dust cover to their advantage, tossing yelping gangsters into walls and the ceiling.

When the dust settled, a stony-faced Ceres leapt towards him. Upon landing behind him, a kick connected with a thump and Big Nose's pained croak. The sensation of falling forward overtook him. Before Big Nose could land on Léandre's face, Ceres caught Léandre in a bridal carry and brought him to Lamont's corner, now free of its red screen. She set him down with his back against the wall and jumped back into the conflict. Or what was left of it, anyway. Between an angry Ceres and a building full of gangsters, he'd put his money on his sister every time.

What was left of the gangsters were heaps of broken men and their leader, still standing, but not for long, and understandably shaken.

Ceres ran at him. He took off his eyepatch.

Ceres shrugged off whatever made Léandre go limp. He backed away.

"Stay back! Please, stay back!"

Ceres gained on him. His back met the wall.

"Your eye did something to my brother." Her tone was not flat, but cold. Colder than it'd been in a long time.

Of all the things Léandre didn't have control over, he never expected to count his body among them. Not again. But that was his fault this time. When would it ever occur to him that he could never be as physically capable as Ceres, that his most effective form of offense and defense was his mind, not his body?

"M-monst–"

Ceres kicked his kneecap. The resounding snap sounded like the bite Léandre took out of the apple he ate earlier. The gang leader tumbled to the ground, screaming and sobbing.

"I'm sorry!" he wailed. "Stop! I surrender!"

Look at what not thinking led him – no, his sister to. Ceres wasn't supposed to do this. Léandre was supposed to stop things like this from happening. That was the point of being an older sibling!

"Fix him." Ceres' foot hovered over his other knee.

Léandre deserved every insult the world threw at him.

"Or else–"

Lamont pulled Ceres away from the former Eyepatch by her elbow. His fiery expression matched the one the MTF provoked out of him after the robbery.

"That's enough! I expected this from scum like him, but you?"

"He's done something to Léandre," she said, her flat tone as final as an execution sentence.

"I know, I was there!" Lamont retorted. "But if I let you crush his other knee, if I let you do everything you want to do to him, do you think he'll be in any condition to help Léandre? Do you think you're making your brother proud?"

Lamont let the silence ring before releasing her arm, and spoke in a calmer tone. "The things we're capable of have consequences."

Ceres nodded and approached the trembling, whimpering former Eyepatch, picked him up from the scruff of his shirt and brought him to Léandre.

"I didn't hurt some of your men as much," she said softly. "They'll help you and everyone else when they wake up. Before then, can you fix my brother, please?"

Whimpering, the former Eyepatch nodded and opened his eyes.

As soon as Léandre felt his body again, he hoarsely said, "Set him down and then we'll go."

They left the basement with Lamont's sword and whatever contents from Léandre’s bag they could salvage, but without another word.

Alleyway 7:38 p.m.

With a bottle of whisky and scraps from the bottom of Ceres' dress, in an atmosphere as taut as a piano wire, she patched up Bellamy's neck wound outside of the gangsters' –Ceres called them the Blue Scarves– building that turned out to be a seedy pub she fought through to rescue them. Albaer tried to introduce Mireille to Ceres, but the former's first impression of the latter and her experiences building up to it convinced Mireille that she didn't want anything to do with Ceres, who accepted her fear like a wall would. Because that was how it felt like talking to her now. To a wall.

In contrast, Mireille warmed up to Bellamy despite his harsh words, as her experiences up to this point also convinced her there was more to fear than a possibly half-Renan boy. But she couldn't talk to him like she wanted because of Ceres' presence. She turned to Albaer for his attention instead and sulked apart from the group on the steps leading to the pub when he apologized and said he needed to talk to Bellamy and Ceres about their next move.

"The shipyards," Ceres stated.

"Why? We don't have money anymore," Albaer said.

"Gareth told me to go there after I rescued you because he can take us the rest of the way to Eudial City."

The name froze him where he stood. She couldn't possibly mean...

"Gareth Ellis?" Gods, Bellamy's voice sounded like a dying cat. The fool. What got into him, pushing Albaer away from an attack like that? But at least he didn't sound like breathing was an issue. "As in the pretty boy cellist? Why would he want to help us? What’s he gonna do, serenade us until we reach Eudial?"

Albaer would've laughed in better circumstances. There were better words to describe Ellis, like insolent and shameful, but Bellamy's incredulous tone summed the bastard up nicely.

"And how do you know him?" Albaer added.

"I met him when I was looking for you. He came up with the escape plan." Right. Of course he did. "He would've helped, but he had to prepare the ship." Another excuse. Also typical. "He said he wants to help us because Albaer was the one he was looking for."

Albaer fought off the urge to punch a wall. Ellis made it perfectly clear in the past that he wanted nothing to do with the Lamonts or their power. So why seek him out now?

"You know him too?" Bellamy asked Albaer.

"I wish I didn't."

Bellamy's eyes narrowed at him. "Can we trust him?"

"No." Albaer almost didn't catch Ceres' twitch at his instant response. "Yes, his plan saved us, but if you want to be friends with him, expect to be severely disappointed. He doesn't harm children, though, and he definitely won't leave me alone if he knows I'm here. Also, we can't afford to go on our own."

"He's our best option, then."

"Best is a strong word."

"Fastest option. I'm amazed you've learned caution, Lamont, but you can't let it make you pass up opportunities."

"Fine." Albaer paused. Mireille sat on a nearby curb, staring at her shoes. "What about Mireille?"

"We find her parents first." Bellamy followed Albaer's gaze to the lone girl. "We owe it to her."

Albaer wouldn't argue with that. Bellamy brushed past him and Ceres to approach Mireille, who walked with him down the street after a brief exchange of words. Albaer and Ceres walked a small distance behind them as they turned a corner to exit the slums and return to the marketplace. Ceres was silent but switched between staring at the back of Bellamy's head to Albaer, like she wanted to say something. Considering her latest actions, he didn't have to take such a wild guess to figure out what she wanted to talk about.

"If it wasn't obvious," Albaer began, "I'm not angry at you, just...unpleasantly surprised. But that's fine, I've only known you two for a week now."

Ceres neither spoke right away nor looked at him, now more focused on Bellamy. "And Léandre?"

Albaer raised his eyebrows. Were they talking about the same boy here? You know, the one that verbally sprung like a venom-laced bear trap at the slightest insult toward his little sister? "Even if he does get angry at you sometimes, I bet he couldn't hold a grudge against you for an hour."

"But I..."

He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "Look, I don't know how often...that happens. Can I at least assume this isn't the first time you lashed out like that?"

Ceres nodded.

"And he's forgiven you for it before?"

She nodded again.

"Well then, there you go."

They lapsed into silence. The sky darkened to a bluish-purple by the time they reached the marketplace again. The stalls and storefronts were almost repaired. People bustled about their own businesses and he almost choked at the sight of Ceres waving to the same floater shark from this morning, now in a tank, dragged by four able-bodied townspeople. She led them to the right side at the end of the marketplace that would take them to the other half of the city. He and Bellamy hadn't had the time to explore that part of Coralie. Right before they arrived at the end of the marketplace, they heard a pair of voices call for Mireille.

With curly black hair like theirs, the couple could only be Mireille's parents. Upon seeing them running towards her with open arms, Mireille bolted straight towards them, bypassing every obstacle like they did earlier, and jumped into her parents' group hug. Once separated, she launched into an explanation of her day, sounding more like the enthusiastic girl they met at the beginning rather than the subdued one that they felt guilty for hurting by the end. It came as an even bigger surprise when she spoke of him and Bellamy with such high regard despite their actions. Despite his best efforts, Albaer's face heated up.

Luckily, he wasn't the only one. The Bellamys –yes, that meant Ceres too– looked flustered with the gratitude the Dubois family showered them with, so much so that Bellamy refused their earnest offer to take him to a doctor. He couldn't, however, reject their offer to give them the money intended to be Mireille's ransom, as Mr. Dubois firmly insisted and Mrs. Dubois aimed a puppy-eyed stare at him that was on par with the one Ceres used on unsuspecting townspeople.

Once the Dubois family was at a fair distance away from them, Albaer deemed it safe enough to ask, "You're not really keeping that, are you?"

"They nearly begged me to take it." Bellamy slung the black suitcase full of money over his shoulder.

"But it's a ransom!" Albaer quickened his pace to keep up with him. "If you take it, it'll be like we were her kidnappers."

"Remember that thing we talked about earlier, Lamont?" They stopped at a crosswalk, waiting for an auto to pass. "About doing things out of necessity? Yeah, it's an awkward thing to accept, but it's a lot more practical than being taken to a doctor. There's not a single doctor in this country who'd want to treat me, so we'd be wasting both the Dubois' time and our time if we accepted. Besides, the sooner we meet up with the pretty boy cellist, the better."

Albaer unwillingly deflated as they crossed the street and allowed Ceres to lead them to the shipyards. Bellamy had a point. Again. Seriously, how did he get so good at doing that?

"And if you really don't want this money, I guess that means I win our bet." Bellamy aimed a smug grin at him.

Albaer fumed. "No it doesn't, you cheat!"

They argued about the money and their bet all the way to the shipyards. The scent of wet wood, smoke and salty fish grew stronger as the street transitioned into a grey cobblestone bridge, accented with black lamp posts that lit the path with warm yellow light. A small steamship puttered by under the bridge, the water it traveled on brown from the fuel the ships used. Autos drove back and forth on the bridge, leaving them to walk on the side. At the end of the bridge, the sidewalk diverged into two paths. One continued on to the road on the other side of the waterway. The other became a set of stairs that led to the shipyards.

They descended the stairs that ended at a pier with multiple docks branching out from it like the teeth of a comb. In between each one, a ship bobbed in murky water. Some were larger, newer, smellier than others, but what all the ships had in common was the throngs of passengers, servants, sailors and such bustling to disembark, bringing in luggage, crates and barrels.

"Why aren't there any ships preparing to leave?" Albaer asked.

"Because tonight marks the beginning of the flying knifefish migration," an annoyingly smooth voice said from a crowd of passengers that cleared to reveal Ellis, who looked as sloppy as ever. "The first night is always the most lethal, so only the sturdiest of ships dare to leave tonight. You wouldn't have been able to buy your way onto those ships, either. You'd need Al's father's salary to board one of them."

Albaer scoffed. "You underestimate the Lamont family's wealth. Father would be able to buy all of those ships!"

Ellis had the nerve to laugh at him. "He's a businessman, Little Brother, not a king."

"You have no right to call me that, you–"

“Hold on,” Bellamy cut in. He pointed his thumb at Ellis. “That’s the cellist guy? I thought he was supposed to have blue hair.”

Albaer waved the inquiry away with a sneer. “He colours his hair blue when he goes on tours because he likes-” pretending he’s not affiliated with the Lamonts, “-posing as a half-Undinan hack.”

“Ouch,” Ellis said with a wide, obviously mocking smile and clutch of his shirt. “I wouldn’t have put it that way, but-”

"How are we getting to Rozen?" Thank Ceres for pulling them back on topic.

"I called in a few favours," Ellis said as they reached the end of the last pier on the right and pointed to the ship next to it. "We'll be flying tonight."

Albaer's eyes widened at the sight of the metallic vessel on the ship's deck between the masts. The pill-shaped metal cage was supported by wood and iron on the bottom half, while the top half was covered in clear glass, revealing the pilot's seat and five leather passenger seats. The end of the vessel resembled a fish tail and the wings on either side of it looked like bat wings.

"What kind of connections does a two-bit cellist have to get a hold of an airship?" he asked in the most composed tone he could muster.

It was a difficult thing, though. Father wasn't like the mainland Vesperans that despised Renans at face value, as he saw merit in their engineering feats, and so allowed Albaer to learn about them. Although Father said the magic required to limit those that could power and operate the airships to strictly those of Renan descent was repugnant, he didn't deny that it was brilliant and too complex to comprehend.

"And what did you have to do to get it within Vesper's borders?" Bellamy breathed, having no need to hide his awe of the machine.

"The answer to both of those questions lies with the pilot," Ellis said, motioning to the opening door to the captain's quarters.

Out stepped a woman that had to be at least half-Renan, as she had the white hair of a Renan, but the tan skin of either a Frossetian or Undinan. She wore her hair in a bun with a metal rod protruding from it. Her attire was most unusual for a Renan woman - well-fitting black trousers and a frilled black vest over a white dress shirt.

"I'm Esen, his business partner." Smirking, she lowered the wooden ramp to the pier. "And you wouldn't believe me if I told you what I did to get this girl here."

Although it was true that Albaer associated with commoners, at least he could say that they weren't as suspicious as the ones Ellis mingled with.

"My eternal gratitude for your efforts is so grand, it should count as payment." Ellis held her hand and brought it close to his mouth.

It didn't get farther than that because the half-Renan woman, in one lightning-fast movement, whipped out the metal stick from her hair with her free hand and hovered it close to Ellis' hand. Albaer could understand why Ellis stopped. Closer inspection indicated that the pilot's metal rod was in fact a large, sharp needle that resembled a vine-covered snake holding an orb in its mouth.

The pilot coolly stared at Ellis' hand. "If it can't pay the bills, it isn't payment." She tapped it with the tip of her needle. "Your hand, though? If I really try, it could pay for the airship’s engine."

"Would this cover the rest?" Ellis held out a small purse.

The woman narrowed her eyes at the offering, but didn't lower her needle. "Is it auxiliary-spaced?"

Ellis snorted. "'Is it auxiliary-spaced,' she asks. As if I'd only give you a designer purse for the favours I asked of you this week."

Right as the last word left his mouth, the pilot dropped Ellis' hand and took the purse.

"Now if only you’d stop giving me ridiculous requests," she drawled at Ellis, who only beamed back at her.

“But then I’d miss your lovely company.”

She aimed a wry grin at him. “All the more reason to stop.”

...Albaer amended his statement. Although Ellis' associates were suspicious, took part in smuggling and dressed unusually, at least not all of them were dazzled by Ellis' antics.

Leaving the two, he approached the airship's door. He turned the heavy copper-coloured door's handle and pulled, opening it just wide enough to squeeze in. Before he could, Bellamy and Ceres entered instead, the former flashing a smirk and a, "Very gentlemanly of you, Lamont," at him as he passed. Albaer followed with a scowl, releasing the door behind him with a slam.

He sat on the pilot's side in the very back behind Bellamy, who sat next to Ceres and stared at the window beside him, his chin resting on his hand that was supported by an armrest. Ceres had her hands on top of the seat in front of her, leaning forward to get a closer look at the various buttons, meters and switches on the dashboard.

"So, Pretty Boy is your brother," Bellamy said after a moment of quiet.

"Stepbrother," Albaer snapped. "He'd be nothing to me, if I could help it."

Bellamy didn't say anything right away, preferring to stare at him using Ceres' on-the-spotlight gaze.

"Can I ask why that is?"

If only he knew the kind of man Ellis was. The peons could sing his praises all they wanted, but Ellis was a secretive, depraved, magic-using bastard who only cared about himself. It was like Ellis couldn't help but defile the Lamont name! Exactly as Father said. Bellamy knew of him through his reputation and Ceres even had some sort of encounter with him, but being a cellist didn't explain half of what he did today. And make no mistake, he did have some hand in bringing in the illegal airship, not just his half-Renan business partner. Why did he even have a business partner? Ellis didn't do business!

Albaer knew better than to ask him by now. He knew what answers he would get – none. That was something about Ellis that never changed.

"He's a mere disgrace to my family, nothing more."

"Why do I get the feeling your problem with him is more than that?"

Albaer didn't have an answer for him.

Bellamy poked his hand through the space between his seat and the window. "Our pilot has taught me that favours will get you more out of life than just using money. Rather than cash in my victory for the bet, you owe me a favour. Deal?"

Albaer didn't hesitate to shake his hand.

"Deal."

The edge of Vesperan airspace 8:24 p.m.

Ceres counted the twenty minutes it took for Gareth and Esen to finish preparations and enter the airship.

In that time, Léandre pretended like her...lashing out never happened, got into another bantering session with Albaer and watched the clouds clear away, revealing a huge span of inky sky, the wide, glowing silver ring that crossed it and the five moons hovering above them. When Gareth came in, he brought a box of chicken hand pies and a clean roll of bandages for Léandre. Esen started up the airship as they buckled themselves into their seats and ate, or in Albaer's case, was force-fed by Léandre, grumbling that he didn't want any of "Ellis' stupid pity food". He quieted down soon after, probably because he was hungrier than he would admit and was more than willing to ignore Gareth than reply to anything he said. Léandre didn't speak much either. He was more interested in the view of Coralie from the air and she was too.

The ocean on her side shimmered as the ship turned inland. The streetlamps in Coralie lit it up like stars, becoming more sparse as they got farther from the port city.

"Passengers, this is your co-pilot speaking," Gareth said. "As I've mentioned before, we won't be seeing much of the ocean tonight. Nobody wants to get stabbed to death by passing schools of knifefish. Instead, stay tuned for a rare glimpse of the Wildwood."

Something niggled in her at the mention of the Wildwood. She'd heard Léandre and others in Baskerville speak of it before, but she didn't understand what it was. The priestesses and other children at the orphanage threatened her and Léandre with it a lot, but that was it. Was it really a place where they sent ‘heathen children’?

"So we get to see the place that all of Vesper is terrified of," Léandre said with one of his unhappy smiles.

"What is it?" Ceres asked.

Albaer, Gareth and Esen stared at her.

"Léandre doesn't tell me about anything that could scare me until we might face it." Neither of them could risk what her fear could bring.

But since they were about to face it now, Gareth gave her an answer. "Basically, it's a giant forest that covers half of the world like the Zentrum Ocean. The trees are as tall as the ocean is deep and the only way to cross it is by airship. Anyone who's tried to cross it on the ground has never made the full journey. If you're lucky, you can turn back. If you aren't..."

Below them, trees carpeted the ground. Some pine trees' tips grazed the bottom of their ship despite being above the few clouds that formed in the sky. A flock of glowing, two-headed, golden birds the size of horses flew by her window. Albaer squeaked upon seeing what looked like the tops of a giant set of antlers peek through the trees before submerging into the forest again. The airship's floor hummed beneath her feet. Her skin tingled. A faint tune hummed with the floor, as if it came from far away in all directions and if Ceres focused hard enough, she could almost recognize it–

"Ceres?" She turned to her left. Léandre laid his hand over hers and stared at her. "Are you okay?"

She nodded.

"She's a Magia, right?" Esen asked.

"In a sense," Léandre said.

"If you don't want to space out, distract yourself," Esen told her. "The Wildwood is a huge well of ancient magic. Most agree it's where magic came from. Those deeply in tune with their magic are the most sensitive to it."

Léandre scoffed. "No wonder they wanted to throw us down there."

Albaer, as if sensing the unhappy quiet Léandre would soon fall into, huffed. "People, it's just a bunch of trees, magic and animals. Can you hurry it up so I can get home faster, please? But not too fast. I want to be able to get some sleep before we get there. It would be an insult to Father to present myself to him looking sleep deprived."

"You look a lot worse than sleep deprived, Lamont," Léandre immediately replied. "Try more along the lines of a total wreck."

"Speak for yourself, mummy neck!"

"Mummy neck?" The start of a laugh appeared in Léandre's tone. "Is that really the best you can come up with, Magic Boy?"

Albaer undid his seatbelt. "I'll show you magic, you a–"

23 Herba 1690 Rozenite airspace 5:48 a.m.

Gareth finished his Mirror Call as the sky near the horizon turned yellow, sighing when the mirror's enchantments wore off. It would no longer be operational, just like every Call Mirror he bought before it. No matter how well he mastered his magic, there would always be a residual leak that made using any magic items a hassle.

He cast a quick glance behind him and smiled at the sight. Ceres' head rested on her brother's shoulder, her hand still in his. Al snored, mouth wide open, the left side of his face squished against the glass beside him. Not only was he a heavy sleeper, Gareth knew all of them had been through an exhausting week and would unlikely be awake at five in the morning.

"So...who was that?" Esen asked.

He raised his eyebrows. "Why do you ask?"

"Your... fans would would pay quite a pretty prata to know the name of the woman who can wipe the smile off your face." Esen had quite the intense stare, but it wasn't up to its usual standard because she'd been up piloting all night.

He spun the edge of the mirror on his index finger. It was time to use the magic words again. "You know I could pay more than them to keep her name out of it."

"You say that, but what have you done to pay me for my services this week?" She lifted a hand off the steering wheel and used it to point at him. "Talking to that scum Poirier, posing as Floater Shark bait and smuggling an airship into Vesper of all places. None of that is included in a Relic Hunter’s repertoire, and yet here I am, with a measly purse to show for it.”

“I'm still here, aren't I? Name it and I’ll return the favour.” Maybe if he was lucky, she would only make him sing in a dress at Mr. Hayashi’s again.

“No more half-assed searches. I want your complete investment in finding Rui." But no, it was another request that made his heart shrivel up at the thought of another person he had to leave behind like the callous bastard Al insisted he was.

"You already have it. He's my friend too, you know," Gareth said, feeling a note of concern slip from his throat.

Esen turned to him with a blank stare. "A man that blew off a meeting to visit a bookstore owner in Baskerville and then left for Zagato to 'borrow' his teacher's grimoire doesn't strike me as an invested friend, Smile.”

"Not an invested friend, but an invested brother? Running around the world is the least I would do for Albaer, Snapdragon."

23 Herba 1690 Lamont Estate 12:12 p.m.

When the curved black roofs of the Lamont Estate scrolled into view, relief flowed into Albaer. The rest of the rectangular house underneath the roofs was its usual white stone. From above, the tall walls surrounded the estate grounds built on top of a cliff. The water of the Southgate Pass crashing up against the walls. Abstract topiaries were contained within the walls, greeting guests in the front yard. Everything was as he left it.

Albaer was home.

But his stomach sank when he made the mistake of looking at Bellamy, whose expression all but shut down in the face of Albaer's house.

Right. This was it.

No one spoke when the pilot landed the airship on the front yard's lawn. She stayed behind and the Bellamys wanted to do the same.

"Nonsense," Ellis said with a wide smile. "Let's see what Vic does when he learns who saved his son from mortal peril!"

"Call my father that again and I'll skewer your head with my blade!" Albaer snarled, his fists tightening on aforementioned rapier.

Before anyone could do anything else, Bellamy pushed him forward. "Okay, okay, we aren't going anywhere if you don't get past the front door."

So they walked on the stone path and steps up to the front door. Albaer wished Ellis was the one to stay behind, but he was the one to knock on the door instead. The footman answered and despite being part of Father's household, welcomed Ellis with a smile.

"Gareth! It's been a long time!" Even if the words came from the footman and were directed to Ellis, Albaer relished in the defined syllables of Rozenite.

"Mornin', Laurent. Look who I brought!" Ellis ended in song like a child, moving to the side for the footman to get a better view of Albaer.

"Young Master! Your family has been worried sick! And...are these your friends?"

Bellamy and Albaer exchanged uneasy looks. Could they be friends when they had to part soon?

"All you need to know is that these two aided me to a great extent," Albaer said in a cool professional tone. "Now take us to my father."

The footman's smile faded. He bowed his head and turned left down the entrance hall, past the staircase hall, through the lobby and reception room. Albaer took in the checkered tiles, white and beige wallpaper, marble staircase, oak doors and the smell of floor polish until they arrived at the Small Parlour's double doors. The footman knocked twice with a gloved hand and cracked open the door, announcing their arrival.

"You may enter," Father's baritone said through the door’s partial opening.

The footman pushed it open and stood aside. Albaer entered first, then the Bellamys and Ellis was last to step into the long ovular room. On the right side stood a fireplace with a rectangular mirror leaning on top of it. Directly across from them stood the double doors that led to the Great Hall. Windows obstructed by white sheer curtains and a beige couch flanked by green armchairs and side tables populated the left side. In the middle of the room was a round black and gold checkered table and three matching black chairs.

Father, long red hair tied in a low ponytail and dressed in a coal black suit stared at him with sharp scrutinizing eyes and a deep frown of disapproval at Albaer's appearance. Mother, clad in a red morning greeting dress, sat on his left. Her long black hair was curled and styled in a low side ponytail. Her makeup, well-practiced expression of calm and steely grey eyes made her smooth face resemble that of a marble statue. Enid, wearing a powder blue morning dress and matching ribbons in her braided black hair bun, smiled in relief at Albaer. The smile froze when her eyes drifted to where Ellis stood. If Father wasn't present, he would've shoved the dopey-faced buffoon towards Enid. Either that, or out the window.

Luckily for Ellis, Father was here, so the most Albaer could do to distract Enid was clear his throat. "I have returned, Father."

Father nodded, but never smiled in Ellis' presence. "Welcome home, Albaer. Now, before we discuss your ordeal and you leave to cleanse yourself of the rancid filth on your person, may I ask why you have brought," he motioned with his eyes to the Bellamys on Albaer's right, "those into the house?"

Albaer wanted to turn his head towards them, but his body couldn't move under Father's gaze. He opened his mouth, but the words, "They're my friends," refused to come out.

"Why, Victor, they're your son's saviours," a smooth voice answered for him. Ellis stepped forward, smiling that irritatingly genial smile, though his eyes were as cold as Mother's. "After his new tutor – pardon me, I meant to say Magia conman, spirited your son away to your old homeland, this wonderful pair of siblings saved him from a trigger-happy police force."

Okay, how much did Ceres tell Ellis about them?

Father scowled. "Then what use were you, Ellis?"

"I served as his passage home by air," he answered. "Certainly more than what your efforts led to."

"If that is all," Father began with a cool tone and a tight fist on the table, "you and the rest of these rats may leave. Unless you wish to speak to your mother before you go."

Enid's stare did not stray from the center checker square on the table. Ellis, on the other hand, didn't look particularly perturbed at Father's suggestion.

"There's no need for that." He put a hand on both Bellamy siblings' shoulders and turned them around to face the door.

The world slowed down.

In a few seconds, the Bellamys would leave and never come back.

He would never have to sleep in another warehouse or box car ever again, but he'd never be able to banter with or challenge Bellamy again. He'd never need to beg for money or be filthy or mugged again, but he'd never be able to hear Ceres' perspectives again either. He'd be alone with nobody to talk to aside from Enid and his tutors. He would be alone with no one to help him with his magic.

He would be alone, knowing what it was like not to be.

"Now kids, how do you feel about–"

"Wait," Albaer said. Ellis stopped.

Albaer's mind was clearer than it had ever felt before. "Father, I have a suggestion."

"Do you?" He crossed his arms. "Go on, then."

"These commoners assisted me in traversing across Vesper. Léandre Bellamy is fluent in Vesperan, Rozenite and Renan. Ceres Bellamy, although she can only speak Vesperan, adapts quickly to any given situation. They've shown a level of competence beyond most commoners. Would it be correct to state that?" With his reluctant nod, Albaer continued. "Aware of their competence, I propose that they work in the Lamont household. They will undoubtedly be able to keep up with the amount of work and acquire the necessary skills."

Shifting in his seat, Father leaned forward and rested his chin on his propped up steepled fingers. "What do I stand to gain from their employment?"

"You gain a paid debt and employees that you were searching for." Albaer stood straight. "You said that the Lamont family must always repay those who come to their aid. Employing them would repay them by giving them work, unlike the other idle rabble I encountered. My proposal saves you the effort and time choosing a valet for me. Prior to my untimely disappearance, you stated that I am old enough to have one now. Not only that, but one of Enid's maids had to leave because she married into a wealthy family, did she not? Ceres Bellamy is her solution."

"You have made an interesting proposal, Albaer." Father stood from his chair that scraped the floor as it moved. He strode past Albaer and stopped in front of a blank-faced Bellamy.

"Boy, you will answer my question with complete honesty. Do not doubt that I will know if you are lying." He stared at Bellamy with narrowed eyes. "Are you or your companion Magias?"

"With all due respect, sir." Bellamy's Vesperan accent dragged out the 'r's' in his calm Rozenite as he met Father's gaze. "Do you think your son would associate with us if we were? And do you think I would still be injured if me or my sister were capable of magic?"

Father turned to the doors that opened soon after. "Impertinent thing, aren't you? Perhaps my son's influence will cure you of that."

He left, Mother and Enid trailing after him.

As soon as the doors closed, Léandre turned to Lamont. But he couldn't look up at him. "That offer...I need time to think on it."

Lamont's feet shifted. "Alright, you can sit down on the couch and–"

"Do you mind if I think outside? Alone?"

"N-no, go ahead."

Nodding his head in thanks, Léandre left the room, only for Ceres to grab onto his hand.

"Ceres, alone means not to bring you with me either," he said.

"Don't you want to hear my decision?" Judging by her resolute expression, he didn't see any need to ask. When he told her that, she held out a thin book the size of two sheets meant for letters from behind her. "Then use this to help you choose. Gareth said that Mr. Lyon gave it to him to pass onto you when he was looking for Albaer."

Léandre could recognize that thin, faded black, leather-bound book from anywhere. It was the sketchbook Mr. Lyon bought for him after his first week of employment. The sketchbook he left behind because he was so sure he would come back. The sketchbook he thought he could never get back when he realized that he couldn’t.

He thanked Ceres with a small smile that she returned before leaving through the front door. After wandering not too far from the airship, Léandre chose the front yard garden as the place to come up with his decision. While the lush hedges in twisted shapes, yellow and pink flowerbeds, small trees and fresh air were surroundings he wasn't accustomed to, it was a better environment to organize his thoughts as opposed to the tense air inside the lavish mansion.

The thing is, he didn't know where to start. Léandre brought up the subject of the end of their journey just once, fully prepared to hear Lamont sigh in relief and brag about rolling in his bed sheets made of money at his first opportunity. He didn't expect Lamont not to have thought about it at all, to have assumed they wouldn't have to leave. Then Lamont requested them jobs from his father, the one whose words he took reverently as if they came from the gods, because he didn't want Léandre and Ceres to leave. That boy, did he have any idea what he meant by that offer?

Did Lamont really want Léandre's company that much?

And did Léandre want his?

Léandre leafed through his sketchbook, curious as to why Ceres thought it would help. A folded piece of paper fluttered out. Upon picking it up and unfolding it, he recognized Mr. Lyon's cramped handwriting.

Léandre folded the letter, placed it in his sketchbook again, closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

Ceres was right. It did help.

He strode back into the house and asked Door Guy whether Lamont was in the same place he left them. Door Guy said yes and led him back to the room. Outside it, Léandre saw girls in frilly black and white maid uniforms hovering by the door, trying not to look like they were eavesdropping. Lamont sat in the middle of the sofa on the left side of the room with his arms crossed. Pretty Boy stood facing Lamont, waving a thin leather-bound book in front of Lamont's scowling face. Ceres stood to the side, watching the spectacle.

"Come on, Little Brother!" Pretty Boy cooed. "This will help you control your you-know-what. Having a basic knowledge is better, safer and faster than figuring everything out through trial and error."

"Not to mention subtler," Léandre interjected. "If you want to hide it from people, do you really think you can do that without having any idea how to go about it?"

"I can try!" Lamont leaned to his right to get the book out of his face.

Léandre sighed. "Take the book, Lamont. If I have to stick around and be your minder, I want an easier job of it for once."

Lamont snatched the book from Pretty Boy's grip, his eyes as big as marbles and a growing smile. "Does that mean you'll do it? You'll be my servant?"

He bowed. "You'll regret it, Master."

The smile turned into a smirk. "Is that a threat or a promise, Léandre?"

If this was how most days were going to turn out, he may as well match that smirk with one of his own.

"I guess we'll have to find out together, Albaer."

#original fiction #original work #AHVI

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aurycula-writes · 6 years

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The one thing he lies about most is his job.

#art #drawing #illustration #oc #Gareth Ellis

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aurycula-writes · 6 years

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A Hint of Vesperan Ethical Intuition: Chapter 6

Chapter Summary:

Ceres doesn't find a boat, but she does encounter a shark. Albaer and Léandre neither go anywhere near the shipyard nor raise enough money to board a ship. They do, however, spend the day with the daughter of a shipping company.

You can read it here:

https://archiveofourown.org/works/15417432/chapters/36842313

Or you can read it under the cut:

22 Herba 1690 Street corner 2:41 p.m.

In Léandre's opinion as a child, of all the people he's had the pleasure of interacting with, he could say he hated children the most.

He hated adults too, especially the ones who used their power against him, but he dealt with children on a more regular basis, and the most rancid ones at the orphanage came in three flavours.

The first were the weaklings, snivelling and born to fail. Those ones tended to adapt quickly or die trying. What they adapted into ended in one of two ways. There were the ones who grew big and crushed others through sheer strength, and the ones who stayed small but got smart enough to withstand the bigger ones. What they all had in common was that they were angry, spiteful, forgotten, and revelled in making others as miserable as they were because that was the only way they knew how to be happy.

Léandre knew he was no different, and Lamont didn't.

That was why, he assured himself, he could say those words to Mireille Dubois, who was slightly more tolerable than the brats Léandre usually dealt with.

They couldn't leave her alone in the middle of what was left of the marketplace, now more than ever since it was obvious she wasn't one of the ones that lived there. She told them she got separated from her father, who brought her with him to Coralie to meet up with her mother. Lamont suggested they helped her search for her parents as well as Ceres. As much as Léandre wanted to protest it would be a waste of their time, Lamont had a point. They, as wanted children on the run from the MTF, couldn't leave her at a police station either.

So they ventured the port city beyond its marketplace after coming to the conclusion that none of the people they were looking for were there.

"They should at least still be nearby, right?" Lamont crossed the street, holding Mireille's hand. "Please tell me we don't have to search the entire city."

"We won't," Léandre said. "If her parents intended to meet at the market, they wouldn't go too far. Neither would Ceres. Trust me, this isn't the first time she's gotten lost before."

They stopped at a street corner, where Lamont contemplated the street around him. "If I were a parent looking for their child near the market, where would I go?"

In Ceres' case, that answer would vary, especially if she decided to help someone. Léandre could simply follow the chaos she attracted to herself. That worked more or less half the time. In the rare occasion that Ceres stormed off on purpose to avoid feeling too upset, she would loiter outside the nearest clothing store, staring at the dresses in the display window. He would wait for her to finish, apologize if he was the one who upset her, take her to the local bakery and haggle for leftover snowflake peach tarts. He almost saved up enough to buy her a new dress, but all of those funds went into buying their train tickets. Léandre still didn't know whether those tickets were a waste or not.

"If it's a city we live in and travel in regularly, I would go to places that my child liked to visit often. Candy stores, and such. If we're just visiting the city, I would look in places that catch their attention." Léandre already spotted three obnoxious stores that fit his latter description.

Lamont looked to Mireille. "So, which is it? Is this your first time in Coralie or are there stores you go to often?"

"We live outside the city," she said. "Mama and Papa always take me to the toy store on weekends."

"Is it nearby?"

Mireille nodded.

"Do you know how to get there from here?" The curly-haired girl looked around, nodded again and ran on the left side of the street corner, dragging Lamont along.

Léandre enjoyed the bewilderment on the redhead's face as he trailed behind them. He took the opportunity of a distracted Lamont to take in his surroundings. Because they weren't in the industrial area of the port city, the smell of factory smoke wasn't as prominent as it was in Baskerville. The fishy, bilge-y smell from the shipyards, on the other hand, took the forefront. The people around him talked to each other when they weren't working. The local brats who had claim of the better pickpocketing spots looked less like homicidal skeletons wrapped in rags and more like children. The ones who wouldn't be out of place in Baskerville – the whores and addicts and beggars and muggers – weren't as prominent, limited to the alleyways and the shadier parts of the city.

They arrived at the toy store named The Morel Emporium. It was stuffed with alphabet blocks, slinkies, rocking animals, ninepins, dolls, miniature soldiers, autos and trains, and a giant brown teddy bear, but no Ceres or Dubois family. At the slightest frown that threatened to break out on Mireille, Lamont always inadvertently wiped it away. Magic Boy, true to his name, couldn't take one step without tripping over a train set, slipping on a runaway auto or jumping at a jack-in-the-box. To put the grumbling Lamont out of his misery, Léandre suggested they go to another store that Mireille frequented. She brought them to the candy store. They had to backtrack to the street corner and take a right this time, ending in the same lack of results. That upset the girl again, so Léandre had Lamont propose they take her to an ice cream vendor.

And it was on the way there where he couldn't help but think of Ceres. If they were separated for too long, there was a possibility her worry would exceed the safe amount and affect her surroundings. While it would make it easier to find her, it would defeat the purpose of laying low. Besides that, wouldn't Léandre have to add 'the absolute scum of the earth' to the many names people called him if he wasn't there to protect his sister from the MTF?

A hand tugged on his sleeve. He hoped it was Ceres, but it was Mireille. As expected, fear still lurked on her face despite what Lamont told her. Her head bobbed up to Lamont, who stood behind her and mouthed, "Go on."

She hadn't said anything yet, so Léandre took the first step. "Did you need something?"

"Your...your sister," she said in a small voice. "What is she like?"

Léandre had to stop himself from showing his surprise. Where should he start? Did he even want to? Mireille was just a little girl, though from the same bracket as Lamont. Too young and sheltered to solidify her beliefs or opinions. Maybe she didn't interact with girls her age often, hence the curiosity about Ceres. What could it hurt?

"What do you want to know?" Léandre made his voice as nonthreatening as possible as they approached the line of customers in front of the ice cream vendor.

"Is she really like me?"

He stepped in line and appraised the girl for another moment. "You certainly share her curious spirit," he began slowly. "But I think Ceres is a little older than you. And much quieter." Léandre frowned at the thought of the circumstances surrounding that aspect of her. "She can get very enthusiastic about some things, like the dresses you see in store displays and the stars, but that enthusiasm can be hard to spot if you don't know what to look for. What flavour do you want?"

Mireille blinked at the question, and smiled. "The blue blossom one!"

Léandre scanned the menu on the side of the cart for her request. The closest thing to it was cerulean blossom. He requested it from the vendor and Lamont offered to split the fee with him, on the condition that Léandre pay enough of it to even their prata score. But to even their score, Léandre made Lamont agree to both of them lowering the amount of money they gained, and the best way to do that was to order ice cream for themselves. But since Léandre had to do most of the paying, he practically paid for Lamont. He suppressed a smile – well played, Magic Boy.

Once the vendor handed Léandre their ice cream, they sat on a nearby sidewalk. Léandre gave the respective cones to each person. The girl thanked him before she dug into the periwinkle-coloured treat. Lamont had the nerve to use Léandre's own smirk on him as he thanked Léandre for his chocolate sauce-coated travesty.

As Léandre tried his small scoop of butterscotch ripple, he took his customary scan of the surrounding area for potential threats and kept an ear on Lamont's conversation with Mireille in case he needed to interject. Other than the line of children waiting in front of the busy ice cream vendor, various men and women bustled back and forth in the streets to a backdrop of passing by autos. Meanwhile, Lamont finally found the fellow AOH fanatic he wished for and Léandre held back a comment or two that would lead them into an argument again. He, unlike Magic Boy, understood tact and so didn't want the girl to get shunted out of the conversation. Instead, he focused more on their surroundings.

Other ice cream vendor customers had the same idea to sit nearby the vendor or the curb to enjoy their ice cream. Beside them, a harried mother and three children sat in a line on the curb and squabbled over who had bigger scoops than the other. They were all dressed too humbly to be from the same bracket as Lamont but not so modest as to be identified as someone like Léandre. Similar groups of families and children sat on the other side of the street. Further down on their side, two men stood at the street corner, deep in conversation. Both wore dirty white shirts, oversized trousers, scruffy jackets, sturdy boots. One had a patchy brown flat cap and greying mustache and the other was bald with bushy dirty blond brows and a scowl directed at no one in particular.

"So, any ideas, Bellamy?" Léandre looked to his left to meet Lamont's expectant expression.

"On our next move?" The redhead nodded at his question, standing up from the curb. "We should double back on places we've been. If all parties are searching for each other, odds are that we've probably missed them by a few moments. Have you asked her about how her parents look like?"

Lamont raised his eyebrows. "I asked her ages ago. You weren't listening?"

"I have other things to worry about, if you hadn't noticed."

The brows on Lamont's face furrowed before settling back to its usual scowl. He walked a little faster now. "If you have time to brood, you clearly aren't looking hard enough."

"Says the boy that's about to walk into a light post," Léandre called from behind him. Lamont stopped in his tracks and glared at him.

"Shut up," he grumbled as he turned and marched back to the curb that neither Léandre nor Mireille stood up from yet.

"Manners, Lamont!" he said with a fake affronted gasp. "You're in the presence of a lady."

"Really?" Lamont led Mireille by the hand in the direction of the toy store. "You sound so offended that I'm starting to think I'm in the presence of more than–"

"Albaer! Albaer!" the girl chirped from beside him. "I just remembered my favourite Age of Heroes song! I told you I would!"

"Really? What is it?" And that was Léandre's cue to tune out.

Amongst the conversation that led to the little girl bursting into song, he heard two heavy sets of footsteps behind them. Judging from the sound, they were close. Closer than he was comfortable with. As they passed a row of tall pale blue houses sandwiched together, Léandre peered at the windows to catch a glimpse of their potential pursuers – the Baldy and Mustache that sat near them on the ice cream vendor's street. Were they MTF? If they were, why would they go undercover to stalk a bunch of kids? They couldn't possibly be that much of a threat.

Léandre quickened his pace to match Albaer's.

"Oi, Magic Boy." He spoke Rozenite in a low voice over Mireille's singing. Before Lamont could reply, Léandre lightly bumped his elbow into Lamont's arm. "Don't reply unless it's necessary. We're being followed."

His eyes widened. Before he could turn his head back, Léandre stopped him with another nudge with his elbow. "Don't do that either. We don't want them to know we're onto them."

At this point, Lamont couldn't restrain himself from asking in a low angry mutter, "Then what are we supposed to do?"

Léandre didn't answer right away. Once they turned the corner, they would be back in the marketplace. It wouldn't be as busy as it was before the floater shark's interference, but the crowd of people involved in the repairs would be enough.

"When we turn the corner, grab the girl's hand –normally– and follow me."

Lamont nodded in agreement with a tense frown. On the aforementioned signal, Lamont walked up to Mireille and offered her his hand just as she finished her song.

"So we don't lose you in the crowd," he said. She took his hand with a beaming smile when he added, "You should definitely find way to sing that to the author, I bet he'd love it!"

Léandre put on a smirk and grabbed Lamont's other wrist. "So you don't get lost either. I'll lead the way from here, if that's alright with you two."

He didn't wait for an answer. Mustache and Baldy were closing the gap to get to them. He sped up his pace and squeezed between a pair of repairmen, around the broken fruit stand and its lamenting owner, behind a baker, under the remains of an awning being lifted by two workers, and past a pile of broken crates. He took a back glance. No sight of either shady stalker. On Lamont's end, his face was sweaty and set in determination as he did his best to keep up with him. Mireille, on the other hand, didn't show any signs of exhaustion and grinned. The smiles and success didn't last long, though. Three-quarters of the way through the marketplace, Mustache waited at the end of the street.

He took this in stride as he scanned the street for any other openings. Soon enough, they were a few steps away from the alleyway that Lamont used to escape the stampede. He threw all pretenses of acting natural out the window, took a sharp right and ran straight for it.

Behind him, Lamont groaned. "Oh no. We are not going in there again!"

"Either we go there or we run up to Mustache and kindly ask him why he's stalking us!" Léandre slid into the narrow space, shuffling in as fast as he could. Carefully, he turned his head. Lamont shuffled beside him, shooting him with an irritated glare. "How's our guest?"

Lamont shifted his head away to Mireille. "Léandre's asking if you're okay."

"I'm better than okay!" Mireille's voice chimed between giggles. "Exploring is fun and Albaer's mumbling and making funny faces!"

True to her description, Lamont faced forward, bumped his nose against the wall and glared murderously at it. And then at him for good measure, because Léandre couldn't quite stop the smile that broke out.

"Are we there yet?" Lamont asked.

"Yeah," he said. They reached the end of the alley and ran down the labyrinth of back alleys it opened up to. "But don't expect me to slow down. If she gets tired, carry her."

"How do I do that?"

Footsteps pounded from behind them. It was Mustache.

"You'll figure it out." Léandre led them through a number of lefts and rights to a wide alley – Coralie's slums, he presumed by the familiar smells and locals. But no matter what path he took to get here, Mustache's impending pursuit hadn't faltered.

"Bellamy!" Lamont finally figured out how to carry Mireille bridal style with his sword underneath her and had his eyes directed on the rooftops on their left. "The bald man is here too! And the one with the mustache is gaining on us!"

Inwardly swearing, he broke out into a sprint. He jumped over a short gambling table and dodged a drunkard. Tall barrels lined up against an upcoming building. Right after they passed the barrels, Léandre whipped around and kicked the closest one over. The kick set off a domino effect that aborted partway and sent the towering stacks tumbling to the ground. It at least sounded that way. Léandre couldn't tell for sure, because as soon as he kicked them, he grabbed Lamont's upper arm and kept running. They hadn't gotten rid of Baldy yet.

At one point, Lamont had given up on carrying the girl and went back to leading her by the hand. Their pace slowed because despite her enthusiasm for the chase, Mireille could never keep up with them. Léandre threw him a dirty look.

"What? She wanted to run with us!"

"We don't have time for this!" Léandre scooped the girl up. She squeaked in fear for a moment before she calmed herself down.

"Why are we still running?" she asked. "You already trapped the mustache man with a bunch of wine barrels."

"Baldy's on the roof," he answered, constantly aware of the figure on the rooftops that matched their pace. As soon as Baldy passed their speed, he jumped off the roof, shooting toward them.

At the same time, Lamont passed Léandre.

Léandre's body seized up, preparing for the impact.

Instead, he heard a ringing clang cut through the air.

Léandre opened his eyes.

Lamont stood in front of him, feet apart and his sword drawn, holding off Baldy's attack. Baldy used his forearm, protected by a metal arm guard, to block the blade. The older man used the force from his jump to leap backwards. Lamont bounded forward to strike again.

Léandre used this moment to put Mireille down and take her aside to a corner that opened up to a street. This was where they would wait for Lamont, because while the fight would've been a useful distraction to find a better hiding place, a better hiding place meant that Lamont would have to search for them. They'd already lost Ceres; losing Lamont on top of that would result in a bigger headache.

So he and Mireille were left to watch the fight. Whether it was in admiration or shock depended on the person. Mireille took the former reaction, gasping at all the right parts of the battle. This was probably the most eventful day of her life, so no surprises there. Léandre felt the latter, because not only could Lamont use a sword, he was winning. Baldy didn't have a chance to do anything but block his flurry of stabs and slashes. The redhead knew his opponent, because he aimed for the legs more often than other parts he couldn't reach. As tall as Lamont was, he only reached up to Baldy’s chest.

Baldy caught on to Lamont's strategy and dodged the sword with a sidestep to the left. Neither Léandre nor Lamont could keep up with Baldy's speed. Baldy knocked Lamont off of his feet with a kick. Before the rest of his body could fall back to the ground, Lamont used his sword-free hand to push up, changing the direction of his fall.

On his way to the ground, his body twisted to his right side. His sword-holding hand extended. As the blade moved, two crescent-shaped lights followed it, glowing bright like sparks.

The blade and the lights cut into Baldy. They both crashed to the floor, but it was just Baldy that bled when he reached it. Lamont stood up and backed away as Baldy curled to his side, writhing and screaming, his dirty white shirt blossoming red at the side of his torso, where there were three gaping slits.

Before Léandre could approach him, Mireille screamed and the back of his head encountered a gun's barrel. He didn't dare turn his head. But from the corner of his right eye, a heavy-built man hoisted a squirming Mireille over his shoulder.

"Hey there, Pepper-head!" A voice called from behind him. Lamont stared at whoever was behind Léandre, and his pale face froze. "I think you know what happens from here."

Damn it, he should've chosen to hide.

Seashell Street 2:18 p.m.

Ceres blinked.

One moment, an old woman gave her five pratas, the next moment, Ceres got caught in the flow of a fleeing crowd, and the moment after that, a big floating sand-coloured fish head-butted into her chest, sending her sailing down the street and to a smooth stop against an unfamiliar building where it nuzzled against her. She'd attracted animals before, but never a floating fish. Should she lead it back to the ocean? Did it even live in the ocean?

Unsure of what to do next, she petted the fish's head that rubbed against her dress until she noticed a man walking towards her. He was a bit older than Léandre and Albaer, and unlike the older boys they'd already met, the man didn't seem like the type to have nothing better to do than pick on children. The tall, smiling man with short styled hair as red as Albaer's wore a pale blue dress shirt with black suspenders, trousers and shoes.

She couldn't be sure it was her he was interested in. He hadn't taken a straight path. If anything, he zigzagged, following the fish's path. He stopped at the dented mailbox in front of the brown buildings to her left. In one hand, he held a white purse covered in small black polka-dots by its thin silver chain, slinging it over his shoulder. The other hand reached deep into the warped mailbox and pulled out a sharp tooth the size of his middle finger. When his gaze fell on her, his smile widened into a grin like he knew her. Maybe she was too quick to identify him as harmless.

The man shoved the tooth into a trouser pocket and took out a paper bag from the other. He placed the purse on the ground next to him, pulled a palm-sized chunk of pinkish-grey meat out of the bag and whistled. The fish twisted its head towards him, its eyes focused on the meat. When the man threw the chunk as far and high as he could, the fish zipped after it.

Wiping his hands on a handkerchief he retrieved from his shirt pocket, he said, "I've never seen a floater shark so tame in the middle of a city before. Are you a shark whisperer or something? Are shark whisperers even a thing?"

If it was just sharks, she would have run into a lot less problems. "No, and I don't know," Ceres answered.

The man's voice was neither high nor low, hovering somewhere in the middle. His accent leaned the same way. The tone, on the other hand, reminded her of wind chimes – light, cheery and gentle. He sighed, bent down and picked up the purse. "Well, now that that problem is being led to the proper authorities, I'd better get back."

Before he could walk away, Ceres remembered something. "Excuse me, sir?"

He turned his head to her. "I'm no sir, but I'm assuming you're talking to me?"

"Yes. Do you know how to get back to the marketplace from here? If not, did you see a boy with red hair in a small ponytail and a boy wearing a hood before you came here?"

"That depends. Do you know anything else about them that would make them easier to spot?"

Ceres thought for a moment. "They would probably be arguing. The one with the red hair would be yelling."

"That redhead must have a lot of feelings if he can be identified by his screaming." The man stroked his bare chin. "In that case, no, I haven't seen or heard them. I'm terribly sorry, Miss."

"Thank you for helping anyway." Ceres gave him a slight bow. She would have to get to a roof. At her size and the size of the town, there was no way she would find them if she kept her search to the ground.

"Do you need any more of it?" the man asked. "My help, that is."

Ceres didn't answer right away. According to Léandre's advice, if you're not near any witnesses, stay away from strangers that approach you. I don't care how harmless they look. If I'm not with you and they persist, kick them and run. She gave the man before her a more careful look, from the bottom of his shined shoes to his sincere blue eyes. He hadn't touched her or approached her in a way that made her skin squirm. And Ceres did need help. She didn't know her way around Coralie and Léandre and Albaer could have wandered anywhere after that stampede. It was rare for other people to offer to help her even though she didn't use her Cute Girl Routine to appeal to them.

Mother's advice rang in her head. Use every power you have to help others in dire need. Maybe he was the same way. If he wasn't, it wasn't like Ceres couldn't defend herself.

"Yes, please." She stepped closer to him, offering him a hand. "I'm Ceres."

He shook her hand, a sliver of warmth hinting in his smile. "Call me Gareth."

From there, Ceres suggested starting the search from the rooftops, and Gareth easily agreed. He kept up with her pace as she leapt from each roof just as easily, for the most part. He kept up a little better than Léandre, maybe because of his longer legs, but he still couldn't jump to buildings across streets like she could. Then again, no one could. They searched each spindly street, even stopping by the shipyards, where Gareth took out a mirror and appeared to have a brief conversation with it like a telephone. What felt like hours later, they arrived at the marketplace. Neither she nor Gareth found them there.

Ceres' stomach squirmed. It wasn't hunger. As soon as she felt it, her thoughts drifted to Léandre. It had been a long time since they were separated from each other for this long. What if something happened to him?

"Let's retrace our steps," Gareth said. Despite his general oddness, his smile and casual tone calmed her. "I bet we're in one of those situations when we're all so busy scrambling around looking for each other that we don't realize that we missed each other by a few minutes."

She nodded and let him take the lead, watching the purse's silver trimmings glimmer in the sunlight. "Gareth, why do you have a purse?"

"Oh, this?" He glanced at it. "I bought it for a friend as payment for looking into the Blue Scarves’ hideout for me, among other things. And it cost me almost all of my paycheque. Guess we're going to have to stay at a two-star again. Oh, she won't like that."

"Blue Scarves?"

Gareth frowned. "A local gang, led by Pascal Poirier. In these parts, they call him the Monster of Coralie."

Ceres' squirming stomach worsened. "Why did you need to look into their hideout?"

"Another friend of mine –not the one who would appreciate an auxiliary-spaced purse– said that the person I was looking for would be there." She raised her eyebrows at him and Gareth grinned back. "Yeah, I'm looking for someone important to me too."

She didn't ask about the person he searched for, if only because he hadn't asked more about hers. Instead, she asked, "What does au- aux–"

"Auxiliary-spaced," Gareth said more slowly, frog-leaping over a chimney stack.

"Thank you. What does auxiliary-spaced mean?"

"It's a fancy way of saying there's a spell on the purse that makes it bigger on the inside. It’s also what makes the purse even more expensive than it already is."

Ceres nodded. "And is the tooth payment too?"

"Yes, actually, but for the friend who told me where I could find the person I was looking for," he said, a hint of surprise in his expression. He didn't ask her how she knew.

She told him anyway. "Why else would you keep a shark tooth, if not as a souvenir for you or someone else?"

They fell silent after that, because Gareth held an arm out to stop her and crouched low behind a chimney. Ceres crouched beside him and followed his gaze to down below at a street corner. Immediately, she saw Albaer and Léandre. Albaer stood frozen with his back facing a man on the ground in a puddle of blood. A short distance away stood Léandre.

Ice flooded her body when she saw a pistol pointed to the back of his head.

The man holding it -her target- wore a dark blue eyepatch, but otherwise looked like an average man with no other physical features that Léandre could use as a nickname. He looked older than Gareth, had short brown hair, wore a worn brown jacket, grey trousers, a deep blue scarf on his upper arm and an equally deep set frown. Another man stood beside him with a matching scarf around his lower thigh, holding a screaming black-haired girl over his shoulder. Moments later, they led Albaer and Léandre around the corner at a slow pace.

Before Ceres could jump or follow them, Gareth firmly held her shoulder and shook his head.

"There will be a better time for that later. If you go now, Pascal will see you coming. But if you follow my advice, your friends will be safe. What do you say?"

A basement? 6:54 p.m.

Albaer eyed the bloodied rapier lying beside Bellamy’s bag on a lone billiards table at the far end of the room and glowered at the metal binds on his wrists.

It wasn't fair that although Ceres wasn't even here, they still ran into trouble.

Soon after they left the street –Albaer could almost forget the slicing sound his rapier made when steel met flesh, the man's screaming and thrashing, the blood leaking everywhere painting everything redredred– a man wearing an eyepatch threw itchy smelly brown sacks over their heads, restrained them with chains and led them somewhere with stairs.

They sat with their wrists shackled and their legs crossed in the middle of a shoddily lit room. Give or take, they waited with bags over their heads for about half an hour and couldn't discuss escape plans. Bellamy pointed out that although they couldn't see, they had someone watching them. Instead, they did their best to comfort Mireille –she was the sole person they knew was in the room with them– to no avail. She was inconsolable and couldn't calm down long enough to tell them whether she was restrained or blinded like they were.

He lost track of time after they removed the bags. The room had stone walls and a wooden ceiling, so he assumed they were in a basement or cellar of sorts. Mireille stood trembling by the table, unharmed for the most part, with a tear-streaked face and burly men standing on either side of her. Twenty or so men wearing dark blue scarves on various parts of their bodies stood nearby, threatening to hurt him and Bellamy should she try to leave.

They weren't kidding. When they thought Mireille cried too loudly, they shoved them to the ground and took their hard-earned pratas straight from their pockets. They snooped into Bellamy’s bag and tossed objects that didn't catch their interest to the floor, mostly their clothes.

It felt like hours of listening to brainless buffoons failing to pronounce any word from the Bellamy-approved novel and mocking the flower language picture book they discovered alongside it. And Bellamy just took it. The only way to tell he wanted to kill their captors was by his fingers digging into the floor. Before the thugs could get the idea to deface the books, they quieted to the thumps of descending footsteps.

The man with the eyepatch entered from a door in the corner, blank-faced.

"You and your friend did quite a number on my men," the man's voice rumbled, his accent rough and jagged. "One is soaked in wine and has a concussion. There's enough bruises and scrapes on him that he looks like a giant grape. And you, Pepper-head, the one you dealt with is going to need a lot of stitches to sew up those big gashes you gave him."

Albaer tried not to react, but a chill showered over him anyway. Besides his tutor and competitions, he practiced alone. He once took pride in the fact that his skills forced his teacher to make an effort to fend him off, but Albaer never hurt him enough to wound him beyond a few light cuts. It was a point of pride - in the six years under his teacher’s tutelage, he’d never struck first blood. His teacher gave him stern warnings about how dangerous swords could be. Long before he gave Albaer a practice sword, he impressed upon him the importance of only wielding it when he could accept that he would hurt his assailant to protect himself. Despite all that preparation, he could've never imagined what all those parries and slashes and stabs translated to in reality. And mixed with his magic?

Exactly what was Albaer capable of?

"What, do we have to apologize for that?" Bellamy piped up.

"Not in the slightest," the man said, walking around them with his hands clasped behind his back. "In fact, I'm impressed. You runts not only have skills, you're also not stupid."

"Have we impressed you enough to let us go?" Albaer asked when he found his voice again.

"Let you go? And here I was hoping you would stay. It’s hard to find an unmarked Magia these days.” Don't flinch, he bit the inside of his cheek, don't flinch, damn it! “If you were thinking little Miss Dubois’ parents would give you cash for returning her to them, imagine how much you’d get working for me. I’ll even let your friend join in too. Could use some runners around these parts. What do you say?”

Disgust burned in his throat. Him, work for them? If Father learned that Albaer earned his way home by working for these lowlives, he would have turned him out and told him he shouldn't have bothered to return.

Albaer snarled. “I say you should've asked before your thugs robbed us blind.”

“Fair enough, I’ll have to remember that. So, what to do with you? Maybe you’ll fetch a good price with the MTF.”

Bellamy scoffed. “You and I both know this is the last place you want to lead those yams to.”

“A very good point,” the man said, pointing at Bellamy. “Guess I’ll let you go. We can afford that. You just have to agree to two things."

Bellamy raised an eyebrow. "Go on."

"I'll let you two young men go if you leave Miss Dubois to us and keep it to yourselves that we have her."

"You're all sick," Albaer spat, "if you think I would leave a little girl alone with your henchmen that have access to shackles!"

"Pepper-head, I don't want to know what kind of people you think we are, but rest assured when I tell you that my men wouldn't bother Miss Dubois when they have much better merchandise to choose from upstairs." Revulsion coiled in Albaer's chest. Despite their situation, Albaer didn't want to know where the eyepatch man brought them anymore.

"What we want from her is her parents' money. The Dubois own quite the growing shipping business and haven't been paying their protection tax. If you let her go, I'll even return your money and add more to it. I'm willing to negotiate prices."

Bellamy paused, his expression pensive once again.

Dread and outrage build up inside Albaer. He couldn't possibly–

"No." Albaer's voice rose. "Not in all five moons, Bellamy! Don't even consider it!"

"Why not?"

He spluttered at Bellamy's words. How could he even consider letting this happen? Mireille shook from the silent sobs that wracked through her. After all they'd done today, the laughs they had, he couldn't let her go. Albaer liked her. She was sweet and fun where his peers were petty and his cousins dull. Bellamy took a liking to her too, Albaer could tell!

But before he could muster a reply, he caught a familiar glint in Bellamy's eye, one that Albaer saw when he told a certain gang of train robbers that he didn't care whether they cut Albaer's throat or not. Relief doused the outrage for a quick moment, just long enough to meet Bellamy's gaze. Then he started it up again with a cooler head.

"You already know exactly how far we can trust these brutes with a girl, look at what they were doing to your belongings for the past hour! We just spent the day with her! You can't tell me you won't feel guilty for letting her go and profiting from it!"

"What good is going out of our way to help people we don't know if it ends in clusterfucks like this?" Bellamy retorted. "Two days and almost forty pratas, all gone to waste because of a little girl we spent one day with. But we can salvage that right now. If they're ransoming the girl, her family has money. Whatever ransom money Eyepatch is demanding is going to be pocket change for them. No one'll lose if we take their deal. We get the money we need to get to Dimande, they get their daughter back, and these guys get their money."

Albaer schooled his scowl into an expression of concentration. If they happened to mistake that for consideration of Bellamy's words, that wasn't his fault.

"You really won't hurt her?" He tightened his fists, remembering the emotions that surged through him back at the train as hard as he could, the ones he used to break free from the restraints and save the train driver, the resolve to use any means to break out of his chains, to rescue Mireille and leave...

"Of course not," the man said. "We have better things to do." The righteous anger at the thugs for attacking them and making Mireille cry...

Albaer snapped, "Then start haggling, Bellamy."

But what he wanted and what his emotions projected could be different - a lot.

His magic translated the idea of protecting Bellamy and Mireille into severely wounding a man. There were no guarantees his magic would free him, and if it did, they might end up doing something else. Would he end up hurting someone he didn't intend to? He nearly burned down a train compartment full of innocent people with his magic. Would he end up killing someone with it now?

"Alright then," Bellamy said. "How about you give us five hundred pratas apiece?" Gods, Bellamy could upgrade ship tickets to second class with that kind of money! How long was he prepared to haggle? He snuck a glance at Bellamy, his expression calm, but his shoulders were stiff.

Unless... that was the point! Bellamy was prepared to stall for as long as it took to get his magic working!

Albaer’s eyes widened, but he crushed the urge to smile. The idea that Bellamy didn't want to accept their offer to leave Mireille–

"You do not need that much to get to Dimande. How about I give you two hundred altogether?" –that he gave Albaer a chance to do what he felt needed to be done–

"What? Give us three hundred and fifty each, you cheapskate. We need funds to eat, travel and find shelter after we get there." –that Bellamy was willing to work with him–

"Where? At a five-star hotel? Three hundred each." –gave Albaer the determination he needed. His lips twitched when heat surged in his wrists, melting the shackles off of him, but not burning him. The heat transformed into a tingling sensation as it moved to his hands and reached his fingertips.

He exchanged a look of affirmation with Bellamy.

"No deal," they said in unison, standing up. Albaer faced his left, arms outstretched towards the table and Mireille. Both she and everything on the billiards table, including the rapier, flew to him, breaking past the circle of men. Billiard balls and sticks scattered and dropped around him. He caught Mireille in his arms, put her down between him and Bellamy, and had his rapier at the ready by the time the ruffians realized what happened and closed in on them from all sides.

Steeling himself, Albaer steadied his stance and met them head on with a roar.

#original work #original fiction #AHVI

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aurycula-writes · 6 years

Photo

She saw the outfit in a display window once.

(Léandre splurged their savings on the dress. Albaer paid for the shoes.)

#art #drawing #oc #Illustration #Ceres Bellamy

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aurycula-writes · 6 years

Text

A Hint of Vesperan Ethical Intuition: Chapter 5

Chapter Summary:

What our intrepid trio learned from their trip to the Rozenite Embassy -

Léandre: Don't let train robberies and stupid boys distract you from making a backup plan.

Albaer: No one will take you seriously if you show up as a wreck with no formal proof of identity.

Ceres: A bag of fried chicken after a long day has the ability to diffuse any level of disagreement and lingering world-bending anxieties.

You can read it here:

https://archiveofourown.org/works/15417432/chapters/36619521

Or you can read it under the cut:

19 Herba 1690 A pub in Baskerville 4:04 p.m.

"I charge extra for long distance requests." The informant's voice took on an exasperated tone the phone couldn't hide.

His informant wasn't the one being bled dry, so he’d have to make due with the exasperation as a downpayment.

"Well aware!" the redhead chirped over the chatter and drunken singing of the pub. He hoped they didn't recognise him from his previous visit, but it would just be his luck if they did and brought it up during his phone call. His informant had a long memory. "I'll pay you back at my next visit."

"I'll hold you to it.” And like all old people, he had a habit of reminding him. “So, tell me what you know so far."

"I went to his room–"

"More like snuck in."

The redhead scoffed, leaning on the booth's wooden frame. "As if I had any other choice at that house, of all places.” He’d played the suck-up host to the thought of encountering the master of the house many times throughout his visit, though. The simulated murders, varied as they were, never quite mollified him. “Anyway, one of my lovely lady's spells tracked him down to Baskerville, but the trail unfortunately ended there."

"You do know she'd kill you if she heard you refer to her as yours, right?" The informant's tone took on its usual amused lilt, like he was a cat trying to walk on its hind legs.

"Did I?" Which he might as well have been, especially if she learned what he called her. The redhead took his head away from the phone, glanced quickly around the lively pub, and spoke into the phone again when he felt he would be safe for the moment. "So we're not going to mention this to her. Moving on, I had to rely on other networks, who reported to me of an unregistered redheaded twelve-year-old Magia with a sharp mouth and a short temper escaping the authorities at the scene of a train robbery. Witnesses say he used various forms of magic to stop the thieves from inflicting any more damage than they already had. And once again, that was where my lead lost steam."

"Would you like to know where he is right now or would you like to stay a step ahead of him?" His informant's tone was akin to one that would ask him whether he wanted a side dish or a dessert with his meal.

"The latter option, please."

"Pascal Poirier," the informant said in a matter-of-factly tone.

"As in the ganglord?" A note of concern played in the redhead's voice. "That's all you can tell me?" That was what a vial of Wildwood serpent could afford? A name? What did he have to do, serve it to him grilled, sliced and arranged on a platter with a spritz of diamond lemon juice? Actually, that sounded good right about now. Did he have enough on him to pay for dinner?

"Are you saying you have thirty thousand ginkas?"

At his informant’s exorbitant prices, he questioned how he could even pay for this phone call. "Well it's been real great talking to youthanksCollectorbye!"

"Anything for a loyal customer, Smile," his informant managed to say before he hung up.

Rozenite Embassy 6:13 p.m.

The trip to the Rozenite Embassy was relatively peaceful. Thankfully, Lamont slept through the entire journey and didn't have the chance to ask Léandre about his...hesitance around the MTF. Upon stopping at Vessalius Grand Terminal, early evening rolled in with them. They weaved themselves back into the crowds and asked for directions to the embassy between the troublingly expected banter with Lamont. Ceres volunteered to stay behind and use their remaining money to buy dinner, leaving him to escort Lamont to the front desk. Everything from the interior to exterior dripped with opulence – silks, velvets, marbles, polished woods with posh names that were often mispronounced. How was Léandre allowed in? Judging by the unbridled disgust on the receptionist's face, he asked himself the same thing.

"Are you boys lost?" he asked in that oh-so delightfully disdainful tone Léandre absolutely adored. A twisted sour look on his face as if they frolicked in garbage. Middle-aged. Thin wire spectacles, fine black suit, greying brown hair –or whatever was left of it, anyway– gelled and combed to the side.

No doubt by the end of this meeting he would comment on Léandre's ambiguously Renan features, but he was more than prepared to deal with it now. With Léandre's eye concealed, at least the man wouldn't shift into a full-blown panic. Either way, Léandre wouldn't speak or do anything unless it was necessary. He didn't deal with people like this often - he avoided them as much as he could, actually. With their wealth and connections, they could make his life more difficult than it already was. He supposed Lamont was an exception. When they first met, he'd assumed that if Lamont showed himself to him in less-than-perfect condition, he didn't have a bodyguard to protect him at the moment. Léandre saw what the thugs saw that day – an easy target.

"No sir," Lamont said in polished Rozenite, his posture perking up despite the stiffness from the train ride. Going by the lavishness of the embassy, he was likely more at ease around familiar surroundings. "My name is Albaer Lamont. I am sure you are aware of the identity of my father, Victor Lamont of Lamont Industries. I have been stranded here in Vesper and require passage back to Eudial City."

"Do you have any proof of identity, sir?" The receptionist fixed his beady eyes on them, studying them from the feet up as the hopeful expression on Lamont's face froze.

"Why would I need any?" A hint of incredulousness tinged his voice. "My identity should be obvious."

Well, if anyone was going to be honest here, Lamont's identity wasn't as obvious as it was yesterday. He'd been through a mugging, a botched scam, a train robbery and a half-day trip to Vessalius by boxcar - it'd be more off putting if he and his clothes weren't beyond a mess. Sure, the bruises on his face and the cut on his neck were gone –a side-effect of his magic, he supposed– but the grime wasn't. It wasn't so easy to tell that he wore a top notch suit anymore. In fact, he could pass off as one of the commoners he turned up his nose at. The receptionist agreed.

"The only thing that is obvious to me is that a common street rat and a half-breed urchin are pitifully attempting to convince me that one of them is an heir to a multi-million prata corporation," the receptionist said, reverting back to Vesperan. "And that should they continue this sad excuse of a ruse, they will be forcibly removed."

Lamont's face fell quickly and rebuilt itself with distress. "No, wait! I have proof! My Lamont family brooch would suffice, wouldn't it?" He rummaged his tattered suit, patting it in every spot and pocket he could reach. "It's got to be around here somewhere..."

After being tossed around in and on the roof of a train? No, it wasn't. Damn it, Léandre should have seen this coming.

"If you find it anytime soon, feel free to try and come back again Mr. Lamont," he said with a faint sneer. "Security, if you would..."

Lamont froze, his mouth wide open as men stationed by the desk and doors closed in to surround them.

Wait, surround them?

Léandre cursed as he grabbed Lamont's arm and forced his way between the two men coming from the door as fast as he could. Fortunately, he'd broken past them out into the street. They reached the end of it, but had to stop and reverse upon catching a glimpse of those garish purple uniforms. Only, the black-suited men from the embassy were close on their tail too.

Blocked exits.

Purple uniforms meant they could use magic. Black suits looked on the burly side and not in the mood to miss catching them again.

Lamont, his source of relatively reliable magic? Catatonic.

Ceres? In the crowds, too far to help.

Fuck.

Fuck, he should have seen this coming! After everything they'd been through, why on earth did Léandre think an embassy would take them seriously? Why didn't he have a backup plan? Léandre was an utter fool not to see the need for one as soon as the Magia Taskforce got involved. And now they were paying for it.

Lamont, still stunned by the embassy's rejection, didn't show any resistance. That is, until they tied him up with conjured ropes. They shoved him in the opposite direction of Léandre. Lamont wildly thrashed in his ropes, shouting and screaming.

"Where are you taking me?! Get off!" Even bound by ropes, Lamont pushed the MTF members away from him. "Why don't any of you know who I am?!"

He bumped away another approaching officer with his shoulder. They shot some sort of spell at him. Lamont was thrown to the ground. The MTF restrained him. Lamont lashed out. "Let me go! Just let me go home, please!"

"The only place you're going to is the Registry!" one of them snarled. He pushed Lamont's head onto the road, uncapped his wand, revealing an inked brush, and drew a coin-sized magic circle on Lamont’s cheek.

"No. No! Don't! Don't put an M on my face, please!" Lamont's cries rattled down the street as Léandre avoided the black suits’ attacks.

It was similar to dodging those card-playing deadbeats. The black suits and the other thugs were of the same species, after all. He supposed he had Lamont and his magic-riddled panic to thank for distracting the MTF.

Lamont’s body stiffened like a board, but it amazingly didn't shut him up like Léandre assumed they intended. They hauled him up towards the open back doors of a nearby auto.

"Bellamy! I don't care how pathetic I sound right now, do something! Don't let them take me!"

And he'd love to, Léandre wanted to say, but he had his own problems to deal with. He slipped under legs, landed a lucky hit or two on the tender spots of anyone who got too close to catching him and never broke past into the crowd of onlookers. Anything otherwise would have enticed Ceres to join the fight.

At the moment, she stood closer to the front of the crowd, straight-faced as ever, hands scrunched around the top of a paper bag. He subtly shook his head, a sign to tell her not to interfere. She was terrified, but she wouldn't disobey him.

Léandre forced a laugh. "The brats at the orphanage were better at catching me than any of you!" He swerved and weaved around two men blocking his way as he skirted away from the ones chasing him.

It didn't last long. No, of course it didn't.

He was a bitter smart aleck eleven year old boy, not a Magia, not Ceres. One unseen blow to the back of his head, strikes to his stomach and back, and he was captured too. Léandre had no doubts that they would drag him back to that orphanage. Black suits dragged him and purple uniforms hauled Lamont toward separate autos. Ceres hadn't moved.

Thank gods. She wouldn't get caught up in this–

"Don't take them from me!"

Everyone on the street heard the resounding scream, as if it was amplified by a spell.

Scratch that, Ceres wouldn't disobey him most of the time unless she strongly disagreed. To be fair, that didn't happen a lot. Well, as often as it used to.

But she had never used that kind of voice before.

Wind blew in and covered the night skies around them with thick clouds. The sounds of thousands of flapping wings and chirps filled the air, and forks of lightning struck the street. The flapping grew louder in his left ear, and Léandre whipped around.

A flock of small tan-coloured lightning birds flew straight toward him like an oncoming wave.

There wasn't enough time to dodge it. He didn't have to. The birds flew around every person in the street, releasing sparks from their open beaks that grew into giant bolts of lightning. And that provided enough of a cover for him to escape from the black-suited men that held him. Back in Lamont's direction, one of the birds' sparks land on his ropes, effectively burning them (and his poor suit) enough for him to break them loose.

They manoeuvred through a hectic crowd of fleeing people and flocks of lightning birds to a shaken Ceres, then bolted as far away from the pandemonium as they could. After ten minutes of nonstop running, they caught their breath in an alleyway. Tears tracked down Lamont's face, but Léandre passed up the opportunity to comment on it in favour of checking on his sister. Ceres didn't look all that tired from running –her expression straightened out and she even had the paper bag full of what he assumed to be dinner in her hands– but her hands still shook.

Léandre approached her, but she was the one that closed the gap with a tight embrace. "Why didn't you let me help?" she whispered.

"Your strength wouldn't have worked in our situation," he murmured, petting her hair. "The MTF would have overpowered you and they would've taken all of us."

"I wouldn't have minded, as long as I–"

"No." He ended the hug and placed his hands on her shoulders. "We left for a reason, Cer. I'd rather die than let them take you away."

"But–"

"Would either of you like to explain what all of that was back there?" Lamont snapped after a vicious swipe of his sleeve across his face. His hands tightened on his scorched trouser-covered knees as he panted. His hair loosened from its small ponytail, as if it had been tossed around in a storm.

Fair enough. They did owe him an explanation.

Léandre used his placating tone. "I trust that before the birds, you were aware that Ceres had some sort of magic."

"The strength was a giveaway, yes," Lamont said bitingly. "But that doesn't explain the–"

"I was getting there. I just wanted to make it clear that Ceres' magic isn't like yours or anyone else's." Ceres appraised them with the intent of intervention at the slightest indication their conversation got out of hand.

"We don't know why, but whenever she expresses a strong emotion, strange things happen. Some brats scared her really badly at the beach once and suddenly a tornado appeared. Another time, I made her laugh too hard and then flowers started growing everywhere. We were indoors at the time. Back outside the embassy, she got scared again, hence the...lightning birds. She can't control her powers because they're tied to her emotions – even more than average Magias, or so the teacher we got once said. Controlling it at will is impossible for her. The only solution is to suppress them, and that leads to her attracting...things."

"Things like what?" The other boy's voice lowered again, his hands curled into tight fists, but Léandre pressed on with the truth anyway. It was better for them to get it out of the way now that there was an opportunity to tell him.

"Incidents, say an earthquake, or a slave trader...or a train robbery."

"So you're telling me that was her fault?!" Lamont stood straight and marched toward Ceres. "She's the reason why I look like...like a peasant?! The reason why I got kicked out from the one chance I had at going home?!"

Léandre stood in front of her and met the fuming brat face to face.

"Maybe, maybe not," he answered heatedly. "But she's also the reason why you got this far at all!"

"She could be the reason why I'm here to begin with!" The brat threw his hands up in the air. "Sure, I got transported here by magic, but was it really mine? Or hers?"

"Don't you dare blame her for what your magic did!" Léandre grabbed him by the collar once again, only to see that Lamont gripped onto his shoulders.

"Okay – you can have that round, but I can blame her for the death of those train crew members!" He pushed Léandre into one of the alley's walls. "And I can blame her for the experiences everyone had on that gods-forsaken train because she was the one that attracted the robbery in the first place, wasn't she?!"

"Ha! As if you actually care about what happened to any of those people!" Using the change of subject to catch him off-guard, he overpowered Lamont and pushed him to the other wall. "You only cared about how scared you were, how much you suffered! Poor little Albaer, helping the poor peasant passengers because you couldn't stand how much their distress made you fear for your own life! But once you didn't like how I dealt with the situation, you thought to yourself, 'Well, screw them! I'll burn everything down so I can save the day my way!'"

"You're wrong!" Lamont forced himself off the wall, snarling. Léandre kept his ground, forcing them in the middle of the alleyway, pushing against each other as equal forces. "Take that back, you stupid commoner!"

"Only if you take back what you said about my sister, you spoiled, prejudiced, self-centered brat!"

A rumble cut off whatever Lamont was going to say or do next.

They stepped back from each other. The growling noise came from both of them, specifically from their stomachs. Ceres tugged at one of Léandre's sleeves and then tugged at Lamont's sleeve. Having caught their attention, she picked up her paper bag from the ground and held it out to them. It smelled fried. His stomach growled louder.

"Dinner?" she suggested in her usual soft tone.

They exchanged a bewildered look. Ceres sat cross-legged on the ground, opening the bag. She pulled them down by the sleeves to sit on either side of her. They complied with the silent demand as they took the fried chicken leg handed to them. They ate in silence.

Léandre inwardly owned up to the fact that what he said was kind of sort of out of line. He didn't think Lamont had it in him to be a hero, no matter how much he wanted to be, until he saved the train driver. Until he saved him. He had to feel grateful to Lamont. He was now one of six people in existence who'd ever cared enough to preserve his life. Leaving out the fire that Lamont nearly broke out, Léandre was impressed with his rescue of the train driver. More so now, when hindsight of Lamont's attitude toward his magic implied he didn't know how to use it at all. It was unfair to accuse him of using it on purpose.

It was just frustrating, you know? To find out the entire journey turned out to be for nothing just because of a scuffed coat or two. It was even more frustrating for him not to realize in time that adults, rich or not, tended not to take anyone under the age of twenty-one seriously.

But Lamont was out of line too. Blaming Ceres, like she intended for any of that to happen.

However, considering Lamont’s world fell before him, and that was probably the first time someone from his social class denied him anything, he was shaken too. Shaken enough to take his emotions out on people in the vicinity? Definitely.

And now, their main plan for bringing Lamont home was shot down, but no less attainable. Their remaining options were limited, and that was something they needed to discuss.

"If the embassy isn't an option, what are you two going to do?" Both siblings looked up at Lamont, surprised. He took that as his cue to continue. "Tomorrow is the third day, and you only agreed to take me to the embassy. You have to go back now if you want to keep your job back at the bookstore."

The bookstore. Mr. Lyon.

Léandre couldn't believe that he forgot.

The boy beside Ceres, this entire journey, made him forget about Mr. Lyon and the bookstore. Léandre had to start going back tomorrow to keep his job. But Ceres would be crestfallen if they turned back now. Not to mention, the MTF was after him and Ceres again, after all those months of successfully evading them. There was a possibility that even if he returned to Mr. Lyon's, they would pry him away from the job anyway. They were after Lamont too – all of them would find legally travelling by public transportation a lot more troublesome with them on their tail. They couldn't leave Lamont in Vessalius. He was still hopeless with getting around on his own.

And...Léandre hated leaving things unfinished. They brought the boy this far, he couldn't stand it if he gave up here.

"Ceres won't rest until she brings you all the way back to your doorstep. Besides that, I wouldn't be able to make it back in time." Now their surprised gazes swerved to him. "There is an organization after us. Hiding from them is going to slow us down a lot."

"What are you going to do?" Lamont asked.

"I'm going to write my boss a letter of resignation and apology," Léandre began, avoiding his curious grey gaze, not thinking about the things he would be leaving behind because of this decision, "and then I'm going to get you across an ocean."

20 Herba 1690 Warehouse 1:34 a.m.

Léandre finally fell asleep. Ceres was glad. He hadn't slept since the Flèche Rouge.

After his latest argument with Albaer, they used the chaos her accidental lightning birds caused to settle for the night in a warehouse at the edge of the city. Their next stop was Coralie. Léandre explained on the way to the warehouses that their last option to bring Albaer home was to take a boat there. Albaer panicked and hid it with a rant about all the things that could go wrong when stowing away on a ship. Léandre batted away his concerns, saying that they only had to get enough money to pay a captain to sneak them into Rozen without the legal passports and permits. Even if he didn't say anything, Ceres could tell by his clenched jaw that Albaer needed all of his willpower to hold back his objections.

Just like how he stopped himself from complaining about the bread she stole on the train, Albaer didn't say much when they chose to sleep on the warehouse floor. He did have something against letting his head touch the floor, so he used a wooden crate as a headrest. He tried to talk to Léandre like they did on the Flèche Rouge –Ceres felt those sparklers in her chest again when she remembered their exchanges of 'am not, am too'– but her brother fell asleep before they could get into an actual topic. Albaer's face closed off when Léandre's eyes drooped mid-sentence.

Ceres, on guard for the night to watch for any intruders, watched Albaer wriggle and shift as he searched for a comfortable position. At one point, he gave up and sat cross-legged across from her. He wouldn't look her in the eye, though. The frown he wore twitched and the air around him all but radiated with the urge to say something.

"You should tell me what you want to say. Maybe then you can sleep."

He flinched, but didn't speak right away. Instead, Albaer took a breath. "Aren't you angry at me? For what I said?"

Ceres blinked. He'd been so upset and afraid. He blamed her for the train and everything that happened to him.

But... "Others have said and done worse."

"Like what?" Albaer's frown reminded her of Léandre's whenever she got hurt, so Ceres answered him as she would to her brother.

"I don't want to talk about it."

Unlike Léandre, he stopped asking about it immediately. "Oh. Well, I still want to apologize for what I said." Ceres' brows raised toward her hairline. "Blaming you for my problems wouldn't be right. For all I know, my...magic really was what brought me here."

The sparklers settled into a gentle warmth. Like a thick soft blanket she and Léandre used to own. Only two people have ever said anything like that to her.

"What were you doing before you were brought here?"

A thoughtful expression crossed his face before it changed into a smile. The smile was small, but even though it was supposed to be something people did when they were happy, Ceres couldn't shake the thought that Albaer wasn't. "I was looking at some new Age of Heroes books someone gave me, wishing I could have friends like the ones Prince Alphonse had."

Ceres watched him in silence as he shifted on the cold dirt floor once again. She didn't ask Albaer if his wish came true. She didn't want to be disappointed with what she might hear.

Instead she said, "Before you met Léandre, he didn't talk often. He wasn't as sad or angry as he used to be, but he wasn't happy either. He was..." She gazed down at her lap, unable to describe everything that happened since they left the orphanage. The quiet. The year of secrets and hiding. Then, every day since Mr. Lyon hired Léandre, nothing...happened. For all her and Mr. Lyon's attempts to make him smile, nothing worked.

She stared hard at Albaer's surprised expression. "Your arguments with him, they've given him something he's never had before. That was what I wished for right before you came to the bookstore. It could've been just as much my fault as it may have been yours."

Albaer stared back at her, his expression flickering between emotions. Soon after, he slumped back and turned to his side. He didn't move from that position for the rest of the night.

Zagato, Undina Jawahir Concert Hall

"Hey, Esen!" the redhead chirped at the phone's speaker and pressed it against his ear with his shoulder. "How's your job been? I wanted to be there, but duty calls."

She was in the same town as he was, but while he was practicing in the music hall, Esen had to have just finished speaking to her client. He was surprised she answered his call at their hotel room. Convincing Renan male clients of her capability as a Relic Hunter was as easy as doing pirouettes on a tightrope, balancing a vase on her head whilst onlookers flung fireballs at her.

Ah, their job at the circus would always be a treasured memory.

"...What do you want?" Why did people always sound so exasperated when he was on the phone?

The pouting redhead opened his case, took out his cello and placed it on his lap. "A couple of things. First, have you ever dealt with Pascal Poirier?"

"That pushover?" He always found the underlying tones of her drawl interesting. This time, it was amusement. "Once or twice, maybe."

"Do you know if he's had any interest in children lately?"

"Yeah, actually." She yawned as he rummaged his case for his bow and endpin. "He's been aiming to kidnap a daughter of a shipping tycoon for the past week."

Pascal Poirier's tastes didn't often deviate from the “waitresses” he "hired", so there was one less thing to worry about. Ransoming was a tool to him and nothing more. "Does he still think his Eye is a Class Four Relic?"

"Don't know why, but he does, the idiot."

He laughed, setting the cello upright. "Oh, Pas. If only I could see his face when he realizes that it's just a regular magic item.” It was better it was Pas that had them in his sight than someone else that wasn't being monitored. As long as Pas hadn't trespassed their parameters and as long as they made sure he wasn't too desperate, they could remove him whenever they wanted. “I can see why Relic dealers enjoy their work."

"I can't believe he bought your Relic dealer act on top of it.” He could believe it, otherwise he’d never hear the end of how he absorbed nothing from his teacher’s lessons. Wait, he got that from his teacher anyway. “Grandfather would give you the Drunken Undinish Clown Treatment for your impression of him."

"Don't be silly, your grandpa loves me," he said over the sounds of his tuning cello. "Why else would he keep giving me the easy jobs?"

"Because you're not a real Relic Hunter." The amusement hiding in her tone poked out like the first windflowers of early spring. His work here was done.

"If he doesn't take it easy on me, should I consider it a compliment?" He’d say so, if the Shinobu Hayashi took him seriously. They were almost there, him and Mr. Hayashi. Soon he might be able to call him Grandpa without losing an eye.

“For you, maybe. The only thing I’d consider a compliment from him is if he finally stops making me pay your tab.”

He laughed, resting the neck on his unoccupied shoulder. How did she keep surprising laughs out of him? "I’ll see what I can do. Until then, do you think you can keep an eye on Pascal? And any other kids he might drag in. Pretty please?"

“No.” He could hear the smile in her voice. It was twitching and wasn’t trying hard to hide how much she wanted to punch him.

Aside from a friendly knock or two, she never did. Esen had plenty of more effective ways to convey displeasure. “Aw, why not?”

“My work schedule does not revolve around yours.” But it could, if he said the magic words.

“Would it revolve around mine if I pay double of what your client is offering?”

"That depends. What's the other thing you want me to do?"

He froze. Oh right. She wouldn't like it, and if she accepted his request, she’d have plenty of time to let him know all the ways he displeased her. But no one else could get it all done in time.

"Well..." he started in his most placating tone. "That one might be a little harder on you. But I'll be there with you on this one and I swear, I'll even owe you another one!"

22 Herba 1690 Coralie’s market district 2:26 p.m.

Albaer didn't have as much luck as the next person, and whatever luck he did have whittled down to next to nothing since he befriended Ceres. Those facts alone weren't worth complaining about, but the current situation was unfortunate enough to make him want to burst into tears. That is, if his pride would let him, and it didn't.

"Now that I think about it," he grumbled, "what kind of imbecile brings a live floater shark mainland with no safety measures whatsoever?"

"We don't know for sure that they didn't," Bellamy replied, tone too calm for hiding from a floater shark-induced stampede.

There were a lot of things Albaer blamed his pride for. Like not letting him earn money for ship tickets to Dimande through any means other than begging. According to Bellamy, if Albaer tried to do a laborious job, he would get himself killed before he could receive his first pay. Albaer himself refused to steal or pickpocket and he had no talents he could use on the streets to impress people.

Then it forced him into a bet with Bellamy that he wouldn't have initiated himself:

"If I earn the forty pratas before you do, with all my dirty tricks and only those tricks, you have to admit those Age of Heroes books are a blight on the historical fiction genre."

"And if I get the forty pratas before you completely through legitimate ways, you have to say the Age of Heroes is the greatest series ever written!"

And thanks to his stupid pride, he spent the past two days and three cities exclusively in the streets –Bellamy outright laughed at him for asking if they could stay in a hotel– making squat because he was... was...absolute shit at the big-eyed-pouting-child-who-needs-help routine he learned from Ceres. The exception to that occurred earlier this morning when a lanky, waxy-looking man smiled with delight and handed him fifteen pratas. His fortunes, however, plummeted right afterwards when the man leered at Albaer like he was a freshly baked mince pie and sniffed his hand. Bellamy took Albaer by the wrist and dragged him away without another word. Albaer was much less bothered by Bellamy's trash talk after that.

He didn't like the idea of it, but his income improved after his first "well-wisher". By the time noon stumbled in and he was hungrier than a Wildwood Strait serpent, Albaer was just sixteen pratas away from his goal (as opposed to Bellamy, who needed ten). They were to meet up with Ceres soon, who'd ended up wandering away from them in Coralie's thirteenth street marketplace, when a floater shark so rudely interrupted!

The great sandy-coloured oaf shot through the air like it would in water and bumped its enormous snout into every stall it could see. It wouldn't have been as problematic if it was just that, but most people didn't take well to a wild animal on the loose, so the market-goer stampede hurtled straight at them like a river breaking past its banks. They had no choice but to fall into the flow, and that wasn't easy! Bellamy would've been trampled to death if Albaer hadn't spotted and squeezed into the smallest alleyway he'd ever seen.

That was where they were now – snugly sandwiched between two sooty walls, waiting for the flood of people to lessen. The walls were better than the fish stall he begged in front of, but his nose rubbed against the smoky bricks, his head throbbed from bumping into the ones behind him, and he was no less tolerant of dirt and scrapes than he was when he started this journey!

"They might as well not have, seeing as we're in this mess!"

"It's not even that bad of a situation, Lamont. All we have to do is find Ceres and earn money somewhere else."

"We could be eating lunch with our forty pratas by now if that floater hadn't butted–" A brick wall interrupted his tirade, bumping into the back of his head. "Ouch! Stupid wall!"

"Try not to damage any remnants of that brain of yours," Bellamy drawled. "Otherwise we won't be getting any more flashes of quick thinking out of it like we did earlier."

"Do you ever give people normal compliments, Bellamy? Or will you die if you don't twist an insult into it?"

"Wait, I think the crowds finally passed through. Let me check." After peeking out of the alley, he said, "Well, we won't get run over, at least."

Bellamy inched out of the alley. Albaer followed suit and stepped into a wreck.

Every stall lined up on the street was reduced to rubble, tattered awnings and wooden planks. Food was scattered everywhere, most of it a squished, trampled mess. The few people in the buildings at the time of the stampede loitered in the streets, perusing through the damage like they were. Albaer stumbled over a wood plank, only to discover a sheath instead. The sword was still in there. He pulled the swirled silver-encaged hilt of a rapier from its matching black scabbard. The long and thin steel blade was plain, but sturdy. And that became more appealing, especially now that he considered every situation he'd been in, wishing for a reliable way to defend himself.

"I suppose I should keep this in case something happens to us again." Which it inevitably will, he mentally added as he slung it over his shoulder.

"Do you know how to use that thing?" Bellamy's tone was dubious, as usual.

"Yes, otherwise I wouldn't have bothered picking it up!"

"But whatever happened to disliking theft?" Bellamy crouched down to pick up two intact apples and wiped one of them with his shirt. "Come to think of it, I haven't heard you complain about stowing away since we left Corona."

Albaer flinched. It was a small one, but it was there. He was too busy to complain about uncomfortable transportation. During the day, he had to use every waking hour doing whatever it took within the bet’s limitations to earn money and unwillingly spent his nights since his conversation with Ceres mulling over what she told him. Add on the fact that he was getting used to riding in the boxcars, and he had a list of things he didn't want to admit aloud to Bellamy.

"I'm only doing illegal things out of necessity!" he said quickly, taking a particular interest in the shambles of a fruit stall. "Legal transportation leads the Magia Taskforce to us and I'm only taking this sword for self-defense!"

"So what makes pickpocketing people who wouldn't miss a prata or two any different?" Bellamy's words were muffled as he chewed on the apple. "It's not like I'm using the money for luxury. I use it for emergencies, like whenever I don't have a job and need to pay for necessities. In this case, I need it to get away from an entire people whose life goal is to make me miserable."

Bellamy cleaned the other apple with his shirt sleeve, and his next words were even more slurred (yet still understandable) because his first apple was gripped in his mouth. "Knowing that, are my methods really that bad?"

He bit off another piece of his apple and stopped in the middle of the street and offered the other apple to Albaer, who glanced at the rapier. Albaer brought his gaze back to Bellamy, who gazed at him intently, and then to the apple sitting on his extended hand.

He took it.

"No," Albaer answered softly as they started walking again. "I suppose not."

The stolen apple tasted better than usual because he was hungry, Albaer inwardly justified to himself as he changed the subject of their conversation.

"So you say that Ceres won't rest until she brings me back to my doorstep," he said to Bellamy as people from the stampede returned to fix the damage.

"Oh good, you do have the mental capacity to recall past events," Bellamy replied blithely.

Resisting the urge to grit his teeth, Albaer pushed the discussion forward. "And what will you do afterwards?"

"We're definitely not coming back here." He hopped over a toppled over barrel. "Ceres and I carry most of our belongings wherever we go, so it's not like we're leaving anything behind."

"Any jobs you're looking for in particular?"

"Anything that doesn't require legal documents, doesn't beat me up too much and gives me enough to keep us alive."

Albaer frowned. Someone like Bellamy deserved better than that. Necessary illegal actions aside, he didn't seem to have high expectations for Rozen. "Come on, Bellamy, aim a little higher than that! Rozen isn't colorblind. They'll give you better options than this country ever did."

Bellamy stopped and arched a brow at him. "What's it matter to you, Lamont? It's not like my decisions will affect your life anymore after this."

Albaer mirrored the other's expression. "Why wouldn't it?"

"Because." The casualness in Bellamy's voice seemed forced. "It's not like we'll ever see each other again, much less interact."

Bellamy sped up his pace and left Albaer two steps behind him, mind reeling from the discussion.

His adventure with the Bellamys had to end eventually. They would part ways. Why didn't it occur to him until now? Albaer's homesickness faded away after the first night on the Flèche Rouge, seeing as he had more urgent matters to deal with. Talking with Ceres and bantering with Bellamy and running away from various people that were after them almost felt natural by now. The idea that he would go back home, back to the way it was before he met them with the possessions, comforts and privileges his Father's name gave him, but without the constant challenges, experiences and belonging beyond what his books and tutors taught him...

He stopped the thought before he could finish it.

By the time they reached the other end of the marketplace, Bellamy suggested they turn back in case Ceres was searching for them as well. Albaer agreed, followed him through the less sparse market, and bumped into someone.

He remained upright because he was taller, but the small girl he bumped into fell to the ground. It wasn't Ceres. She was an inch or two shorter, had black hair curled in ringlets, a pale green frilled dress, shiny black shoes, and white stockings. Albaer bent down a bit and offered his hand for her to pull up. "Are you alright?"

Blue eyes opened, the familiar shade of cornflowers, jumping up at him in surprise.

"Brother!" She jumped at him and hugged his midsection. Albaer fell backward, confused in more than one way.

"Brother?" Albaer exclaimed as she giggled and nuzzled her face into his coat. "I'm nobody's brother! Are you listening? Get off of me!"

The little girl in fact, did not let go of him and clung to him tighter when he stood up. Albaer turned to Bellamy, trying to hide his panic. "You have a little sister, how do I make her let go of me?"

Bellamy's smile twitched as he crossed his arms. "Haven't you realized by now that Ceres isn't like normal girls?"

"She acts close enough to it when it's just between you two! You know a lot more about this than I do!"

The ash blond's smile grew to a grin that he quickly wiped from his face before he crouched down to the same height as the girl. "Miss? Would you please tell us your name?"

When Bellamy drew the girl's attention to him, she squeaked and buried her face in Albaer's jacket again, quivering. "Even if you aren't my brother..." her muffled voice whimpered. "Make the whitehead go away!"

Albaer froze at her words and Bellamy's embittered smile.

Nothing about this situation was fair. Albaer had plans to impress Bellamy with his swordsmanship by testing it out on the next person who called him a whitehead, but clearly that wasn't going to happen anymore. Not that Albaer hadn't gotten the message before, but he could understand why Bellamy wanted to leave this stupid country.

He grit his teeth, took a deep breath and laid his hands on her shoulders. Those blue eyes of hers had tears forming in their corners. He'd best work quick.

"You've probably heard that Renans are scary monsters or something like that, right?" The girl nodded to his attempt at a calm voice.

"Well, Léandre here isn't like that." The name sounded different on his tongue, but not necessarily in a bad way.

On a brighter note, the girl seemed willing to listen to him. "Really?"

"Absolutely!" Albaer glanced at Bellamy, whose expression blanked as he stared at him.

"Sure, he might say mean things a lot of the time, but he's smart and he means well. He's got a little sister who's like you, and she loves him very much. And...he's been helping me get home. I haven't been able to do much, and whenever I do, I mess up." The memory of the fire he released in the middle of Bellamy's negotiations came to mind. Albaer may have had good intentions to use it, but he admitted to himself that he could've hurt a lot of people. "Léandre's been the one who got me out of those messes. He and his sister are the only reasons why I'm alive right now. Does he sound like all those Renans you hear about?"

The little girl turned her head back to Bellamy and then looked back at Albaer. "No."

He smiled in relief as the little girl finally released him and stepped back a bit. "Does that mean he can stay?" The girl nodded.

Albaer held out his hand. "My name is Albaer Lamont. What's yours?"

"Mireille," she said, taking his hand. "Mireille Dubois."

#original fiction #original work #AHVI

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aurycula-writes · 6 years

Photo

If he could get away with it, he’d wear his hood all the time.

On another note, remind me to never try so hard on backgrounds ever again

#art #drawing #illustration #oc #Léandre Bellamy

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aurycula-writes · 6 years

Text

A Hint of Vesperan Ethical Intuition: Chapter 4

Chapter Summary:

Ceres fights a robber, intimidates the other passengers and helps restart a train.

Léandre negotiates with the robbers, conspires with the other passengers and re-aggravates his deep-seated traumas.

Albaer tests his magic on the robbers, argues with the police and learns why Léandre covers his eye with his hair and covers his hair with a hood.

You can read it here:

https://archiveofourown.org/works/15417432/chapters/36443373

Or you can read it under the cut:

19 Herba 1690 The roof of La Flèche Rouge 7:33 a.m.

Ceres dashed forward from the dent she made in the roof. She had a feeling the sharp-eyed man could dodge it. He stood mere feet away from the impact, mouth open.

"What in the Wildwood are you–"

She stomped on his foot, earning a yowl, struck her palm towards his stomach–

The man caught her hand and yanked her toward the edge of the roof. The moment Ceres tipped forward, she dug her remaining foot into the roof and pivoted on the spot, jutting out an elbow. He skirted as far away from the blow as he could before she bolted in his direction and took a shallow leap, aiming the swing of her leg at his face. He blocked the blow with a raised forearm, the force of her kick sending her backwards. Landing on both feet, Ceres charged at him, aiming low to his shin. When the man swung his other leg towards her, she slid forward on one knee, leaned back and raised her other foot. Ignoring the sting of her scraped knee, she glided between his legs and hammered her heel down onto his hooked rope belt buckle.

Before she could slip off the roof, Ceres grabbed the edge, pushed herself back up and pivoted in place with an extended leg. The man caught her kick again and the fight continued. She didn't intend to move him anywhere, so they moved in whichever direction their fight took them until her opponent used the right time to change the flow. Ceres wasn't able to keep her guard up forever, and the unbroken movement strained her energy.

One false move –in this case, a fist aimed at his jaw– was all the sharp-eyed man needed.

He moved to his left, swerved behind her, aimed a solid chop to the back of her neck, and then the world blurred. She wasn't able to see the next attack coming –a kick to her back that sent her off the roof– but was able to grab the edge again. As soon as her mind righted itself, she pushed herself up in the air and landed back on top. The man waited for her to land with a fist. Without pausing to think, Ceres moved her head to the side, grabbed the extended limb with enough force to break it and fell backwards off the train.

She heard him let out a pained shout as he turned on his side in midair and threw his wire from his broken belt. He tried to swing his damaged arm to pry her off of him, to no avail. He moved his head towards hers in what would be a head-butt. But before he could go through with it, their combined weight prompted the rope holding them up to swing back towards the train. Broken glass tinkled, accompanying a series of thumps from the tumble of their impact, the various pains of their landing, and the hurried footsteps, screams and other surprised sounds of unfamiliar people.

Somehow, her opponent had turned around and positioned himself above her on the carpeted floor of wherever they ended up. Judging by the overturned tables and broken dishes, she was in the dining car. Ceres stared at the man in front of her. His smile showed more teeth than the smiles she normally saw. Why did he think he had her trapped just because his legs were on either side of hers? His still functional arm was also planted on her forearm. She heard muffled gasps and shouts from behind her. Looking up as far back as she could, Ceres saw passengers from first and second class peering through the window of a door, staring at her with covered mouths.

He growled, squeezing her arm. "About time I pay you back for my arm, Freak!"

Resisting the urge to wince at the sharp pain, Ceres lifted up her knee to impact his stomach.

More gasps sounded off as she pushed the groaning pained body off of her, lifted him over her head and tossed him at some tables in the far corner of the dining cart. It resulted in broken tables and the crashing and clattering of broken plates. The noise settled and the man still hadn't gotten up. Taking it as a sign of unconsciousness, Ceres approached her opponent. He still hadn't moved when she placed her arms under his legs and back and lifted him like one of those limp long pillows she once saw in a storefront display. She needed to tie this man up.

Stepping around the mess, she reached the door with the window that opened for her. Beyond the door was the first class car where the crowding passengers waited a fair distance away from her. They never stopped watching her as she squeezed the man through the doorway and silence reigned. At least they weren't screaming at her or running away. This was a step up, she reminded herself as she asked them what she needed.

"Excuse me," she began. Léandre always reminded her to be polite. Don't give them any reason to single you out any more than they already do, he'd always say. "Do any of you have rope?"

Unblinking eyes answered her.

"Does anyone know where I can find rope?"

A shift of clothes, then a large man in the back spoke up. "How about you put that fellow down first, little miss? I'd like you to answer some questions of mine. Then we'll see what we can do about getting some rope around here."

Ceres nodded and placed the unconscious man on one of the huge poofy seats. The large man from the back edged closer to her. The crowd's attention turned to him.

"May I ask your name, my dear?"

"Ceres Bellamy, sir. May I ask yours?"

"Rufus Arca, the driver of this old Flèche Rouge. Are you responsible for the dent in the second class car?" She nodded. Ceres made sure not to pierce a hole in the roof. "Would you happen to know a red-haired Magia boy from third class? Says he's not from around here?"

She nodded again. "My brother and I are helping Albaer get back home. He accidentally transported himself here from Rozen."

Satisfied with her answer, Mr. Arca faced the crowd. "These upstanding children have done us a service. Albaer saved my life from a masked madman, and is no doubt trying to stop the train robbers as we speak."

The mention of Albaer resulted in small bright bursts within her, like little sparklers. He was okay and he was helping.

"This young Miss Bellamy," he continued, "as you've seen, has thoroughly disarmed one of them. It is my wish –no, my duty– to repay them by getting this train moving again. And it is yours as well. If these children hadn't risked their lives, we would have been robbed and possibly much worse. We must repay this debt, and the best way to do that is to help me restart the train. Who will volunteer?"

Stillness. Silence. The train driver frowned, his shoulders slumping slightly.

She understood why no one wanted to. Everyone was too busy making sure they and their loved ones survived. Luckily for her, the people she cared for were already doing their part to help. If Léandre didn't have a plan to save the train passengers already, he would. A long time ago, Léandre told her that Mother used to always tell him to "Use every power you have to help others in dire need. Only use your abilities to help yourself when your life is threatened." Léandre might say and do things that suggest he forgot those words, but she didn't. Mr. Arca needed help, like Albaer did. And helping him would help Albaer get home too.

So Ceres stood and raised her hand. "I will volunteer."

This pulled stares back to her.

"Oh no, little miss, I think you've done enough for one day." Mr. Arca placed a hand on her shoulder.

She shook her head, staring at him intently. "Please sir, let me help. I'm not hurt and I can carry heavy things."

He met her gaze, studying her for a moment before giving her a tired smile and ruffling her hair. "Very well, Miss Bellamy. Many could learn a thing or two from you."

"Let me help too!" an unfamiliar voice burst out from the back. A black-haired young man dressed in a suit marched to them, followed by a harried older woman who tried to pull him back. He resisted her grip and glared at her. "Let me go, Mother! Mr. Arca is right! I can't sit down and pretend that nothing is happening while this girl does all the work!"

"But Edmond–"

"But nothing! That man showed no hesitation to the idea of crushing the arm of a child. A little girl, no less! And we stood by. Have we no shame? Have any of you?" No one answered him. None of them would look at her now. The young man named Edmond turned to the train driver who seemed much happier. "Sir, just tell me what to do."

"...And me!" said an older man.

"Me too!" a woman piped up.

"Don't forget me!" another said – another young man this time.

As they beamed with eagerness at Mr. Arca, an almost excited grin spread onto his face. "Volunteers, follow me. Everyone else, please be seated and be ready. This Flèche Rouge will not start slowly."

Mr. Arca led them to what he called the firebox, telling Ceres of how Albaer used magic to throw the robbers against the car's walls and stopped the masked man from "carving me up like a pig!" Edmond also mentioned that he'd caught a glimpse of the masked man escaping through one of the windows while Mr. Arca fended off the other robbers in the doorway leading to second class. All the other volunteers looked at each other and frowned at the news, agreeing that if the masked man left, it was for the best they didn't try to track him down.

Soon after, they came across rope in the mail car, where the original crew were laid out in a row, white tablecloths over their bodies. Mr. Arca asked the woman –Olivier, she called herself– to go back to the first class car and tie up the sharp-eyed man. She reluctantly but solemnly complied.

Mr. Arca explained he didn't have time to heat the boiler properly, and had already lit the flames in the firebox at full power prior to asking the passengers for assistance. When they reached their destination, a cramped, hot room with a large steel box sitting in the back and piles of coal in smaller open boxes on the sides, he handed each of them a shovel and a bandana.

"Now," he said sharply as they tied the bandanas over their noses, "it is your job to put the coal in whenever the box opens, and when I tell you to. Only those times. Don't try to take any initiative. It may sound simple, but the opening of the firebox ensures that this takes timing and it will tire you out easily. Which is why you will take ten minute shifts, no more, no less. When Miss Olivier returns, she will time your shifts. Edmond will go first, then Todd, then Évariste, and finally, Ceres. Keep the bandanas on at all times, and don't panic when the coal gets jammed. I will handle it. Any questions?"

"W-will anything go wrong?" the young brown-haired boy named Todd asked, shaking like a small wet dog. "And what do we do if it does?"

"Mr. Lister," the train driver said with a grim laugh. "We're in a hurry and we've lost all of our skilled firemen – of course something will go wrong. But I was our Chief fireman's partner for years and I do know how to fix most beginner's mistakes by now. Brave men and women, you've chosen to do your part to save the people on this train despite your fears and reservations. Remember that. Have faith in the others for choosing the same. Believe that you can work together to bring everyone home, to safety, to wherever their destination may be. Are you ready?"

Everyone nodded.

"Very well, then. We begin..." Mr. Arca grinned once more as he stood at his station and pushed one of many levers. "Now!"

The firebox opened, Olivier focused on her watch, and Edmond already stood at the ready by the opening mouth with a shovel full of coal. He successfully placed the coal in until the fifth time the firebox opened and closed before he could reach it. He cursed out loud, stopping to cough at the smoke, but Mr. Arca snapped at him to forget it and not to lose face. Edmond continued the pace as best he could for his ten minutes, only missing the opening two more times before his shift ended. Todd missed the opening during the transition that Olivier signalled. It took the brunet three failed openings until he got used to the smoke and got a feel for the speed, and it was at that moment when Mr. Arca burst into raucous laughter.

"Well done, Todd Lister!" The bulky train driver pulled another set of levers. "Keep up the pace and hold your ground, because we're ready to go!"

With those words, the train pushed forward like a rock in a slingshot.

Third Class cars 8:11 a.m.

The moment Léandre finished counting, three things happened at once.

The train restarted with just as abrupt a forward lurch as it did when it stopped, pushing people about in the chaos he would associate all trains with from now on. It seemed the train driver refused to waste time restarting the engines safely, which was fine by him. Anything to leave these cornfields.

Lamont raised his hands and brilliant streams of flames cascaded from them onto Fedora and Beard. Tree Trunk swerved to the side to take Lamont head on, absorbed the flames with his gun and pulled his lackeys away by the backs of their shirts at the last moment. The forward movement of the train pulled Beard and Fedora way back, but didn't meddle enough in Tree Trunk's actions.

And lastly, the tangle of lights, heat and movement from this event positioned Léandre to fall in the direction of the robbers. He twisted his body so he would fall on his back rather than his side. Better that he did, otherwise the bag of valuables and paper he held close to his chest would've fell out of his grip. The moment Léandre's back made contact with the ground, he used his free hand to push himself up onto his feet, dashed into the gaggle of fallen passengers and away from the fight breaking out at the front.

Plan in shambles, Léandre breathed heavily. Of all the people he could have been saddled with, why did it have to be someone so moronic as to set a fire in a third class train carriage? His dimwitted saboteur, to his credit, stopped the flames once he realized that Tree Trunk's gun was absorbing it –seriously, what was that thing even made of?– and Tree Trunk, now having discarded his too-hot-to-hold gun, grabbed Lamont’s wrists. Léandre once again questioned his mental stability, as he was the tiniest bit satisfied that Lamont couldn't quite evade the oncoming attack and was pinned to the ground.

Instead of pursuing Léandre as he predicted, Beard and Fedora helped their leader, understandably livid at what Lamont almost did to them. The train turned right, and he heard a telltale clink. He searched for the source of the sound.

Some of the passengers had the other bags of valuables hidden behind their backs.

Well, he did leave the door to the last car open during his confrontation. Anyone with half a brain would've taken advantage of it. You won't like what'll happen if you take your stuff back now, he hoped to convey to them with his arched eyebrow. Some of them motioned their hands like a rolling wheel while others frantically pointed at the robbers. Very descriptive. He knew exactly what they were trying to get at. Disregarding his apprehension of their shaky charades, he followed their motions towards the train robbers.

Tree Trunk and Beard had Lamont held down while Fedora –now in possession of Mrs. Slicer, somehow– had the weapon positioned on his throat.

Léandre felt his hands stuff the paper into his already bloated bag.

"Hey, boys!" he heard himself say. What in the Wildwood did his body think it was doing?

The robbers turned their attention to him as he held the bag outside of an open window. "That hiding spot where I put all the expensive stuff? It's here, in this bag. The paper is in here too, if you're still interested."

"Oh, we're interested," Fedora said with a forming sneer. "And we've got a nice bargaining chip now, haven't we?" He made a light cut on Lamont's neck.

Léandre considered his options: give them the bag or let them kill Lamont.

Giving them the bag wouldn't guarantee anyone's safety.

Damn it, why couldn't Léandre just let them kill Lamont? Ceres would understand the circumstances if Lamont died here. And he did deserve it for setting off a fire that could've killed everyone.

But Léandre didn't want Lamont to die.

He put wondering why aside for later.

Right now, he needed another option.

This was the third time today that parts of Albaer that weren't his shoes made contact with the train floor, and of those three times, his face in particular connected with the floor so hard that it would bruise in two separate places. Which was to say that he was so far from pleased that he suspected he left it behind at Baskerville Station. It wasn't the main reason why he was beyond furious, but it was certainly a contributing factor.

Most of the anger came from his inability to protect himself and, what was coming to be a trend, Bellamy. Sure, confront the gang of robbers like he did with the card players. It's not like they have weapons or anything! And if that weren't enough, he seriously intended to let those criminals get away with what they wanted! Never mind what they didn't do, Albaer wanted to yell, they should be arrested for killing the train workers! But he knew Bellamy wouldn't listen to him, so he took it into his own hands to do what he thought was right.

Then there was the whole issue about not being able to defend himself. Albaer could sprout fire and other odd magical forces, but that was only if he could put himself in a certain mindset that he hadn't quite figured out yet. All the previous instances involved anger and an unshakable determination to accomplish a goal. He certainly felt that when he decided to stop the robbers in his own way. And what did he get for his efforts? A bruise and a knife at his throat!

Now he lost all of that fiery determination and exchanged it for outrage, an irritating amount of fear at the possibility of his death and the subsequent frustration at not being able to quell it.

Bellamy bounced the bag outside of the window like it contained confetti and not the most valuable items on the train. "He doesn't really qualify as a bargaining chip if we just met yesterday."

The callous phrase unexpectedly stung. Exactly what Albaer needed to add to his already miserable pile of emotions.

"Would everybody stop referring to me as a bargaining chip?!" Snapping didn't make him feel any better, and even angered him more when his jerk of an escort spoke as if he didn't say anything.

"So go ahead, kill him." Bellamy shrugged. "It's his own fault for getting himself into this mess."

"Maybe it wouldn't have been such a mess if you helped from the beginning instead of–"

"Though I will warn you–" Bellamy aimed the slightest nod at someone behind him. "He may be enough of a stranger for me to let you kill him, but when you do, I will get irked enough to flip this bag over and watch as everything, including your freedom ticket, scatters in the wind at high speeds."

Albaer couldn't tell how the robbers holding him down reacted, but their sweaty grip under his chin and on his arms tensed. The hat-wearing robber's expression was stony as sweat dripped along the side of his head. But he still hadn't put the knife down.

As for Bellamy, Albaer had no idea what to think of him. Was he trying to rile him up on purpose, or did he really not care whether or not Albaer died? He searched his face for answers, but instead found a practiced lack of expression. Then it became a smirk and a quick wink in his direction when Bellamy shrugged and said, "What can I say? He made an impression. So where does that leave us?"

"You wouldn't–"

"I don't think you understand how much of a sore loser I am, Tree Trunk." There he went again, wearing that smug cheating-at-cards smile. "See, if you kill my new friend over there, I'll have lost this game and throw a tantrum that ensures if I can't win, no one wins. And the people of this establishment, despite my new friend's display of a talent they fear, will not take his death well either. He was one of the only few to defend them, after all. I'm not saying they'll go to all-out war for him, but they might just make sure you don't get anything you want."

At that, Bellamy nodded in a more pronounced way at something behind him again, and Albaer turned his head back as best as he could from his position. The mother passenger from earlier held a sack out of another window in a fashion similar to Bellamy. And judging by the unmistakable jingle of the other bags, there must have been more passengers standing by windows doing the same.

"So give it up. If you give your document to the authorities, you at least have the chance to be tried as free men."

The men holding him down froze.

The rickety train was the sole thing he heard.

Bellamy and the mother passenger's unwavering expressions tensed, unmoving.

The pressure lifted off of Albaer as his captors lowered the knife and released him from their grip.

He stood up and dusted himself off, despite knowing how futile it was until he had a proper bath, a smile growing at the sight of the mother he saved throwing the masked man's knife out the window and three robbers on their knees near the door to the second class carriages. Bellamy stood nearby as passengers passed his bag around to retrieve their possessions. He gave Albaer an expectant expression when he approached him.

"I can't believe you told them to kill me." Albaer was still unsure of what to think of Bellamy. He did save his life. On top of what he'd already done for him, that just made it more difficult to feel mad about the way he did it.

"I can't believe you nearly set the train on fire." Bellamy accepted his shabby bag from one of the less worn out children and peered into it. "But we'll argue about that later. What I said was the only thing that would've distracted them from the other passengers." He passed a contrite frown to Albaer. Or maybe he was imagining it.

Albaer passed a pointed gaze back to him. "And it was payback for the fire thing."

"...Maybe." He would have called him out on it, especially with the way he avoided making eye contact afterwards, but refrained and asked a question.

"How does telling them to kill me distract them from the other passengers?"

"They saw me as your accomplice, Magic Boy." Bellamy sat on a bench in front of the defeated train robbers. Albaer had no illusions that Bellamy wasn't keeping an eye on them as they talked. "Effectively convincing them otherwise gave everyone else the chance to open the windows without the added risk of having you killed for it. They already used me as a distraction beforehand to get the valuables from the next car anyway."

"But would you have let them do it?" Albaer stared into his mismatched eyes. Bellamy broke eye contact first, turning his head to the window. He opened his mouth to reply but was cut off by yet another one of the train's abrupt stops. Everyone shoved forward again, much like the first time.

Bellamy fell towards the hat-wearing robber sitting directly in front of him.

Said robber already had another knife targeted at Bellamy's midsection.

Albaer didn't want Bellamy to die.

That all-too familiar surge roared in agreement as he fell forward and extended his hand to them.

The same invisible energy from earlier pushed the hat-wearing thief, and inadvertently, the two robbers beside him, into the window next to them.

Albaer and Bellamy's faces smacked into the wall beside the door and the robbers made another pileup by the window, now broken because of the impact. Albaer stood up first, dreading the bruise that would inevitably form on his forehead to add to the big dirty one on the side of his face, and tended to Bellamy, once again pulling him up by the arm. He too rubbed his sore forehead with a wince.

"Did you do that?"

"Yes, I used my magic to stop the train like I wanted, just like every time I've used it," Albaer replied in a deadpan.

"Sarcasm doesn't suit you, Magic Boy." Bellamy moved the gun far away from the robbers.

"One of them was going to stab you, commoner," he retorted. The other boy shot a long, wide-eyed stare at him. "W-what?"

"Thank you, then," Bellamy said weakly, still looking at Albaer with bafflement.

It was so honest a reaction from the other boy that Albaer couldn't help but flush. It didn't help that this was the first time anyone had ever thanked him so earnestly either.

Albaer turned his head away from him. "I was returning the favour."

Before the moment could get any more awkward, the side doors to the car opened with a bang, and in ran a team of purple-uniformed men. The ones that came in from the back side door tended to the other passengers. The ones that came in from the front had solid red M's on their faces and pointed what looked like wands at them.

Albaer refrained from groaning, but he almost didn't.

"Oi! You again, you lyin' piece of whitehead shit!"

Whitehead shit, whitehead scum, whitehead bastard, why is it that every cretin we encounter is a colour blind fool?

Now he understood why no one in third class liked the police – the self-proclaimed Magia Taskforce.

Upon their arrival, the first thing they did was point their wands at them –and that was how Vesperans performed magic? That was so...lacklustre compared to the magic-users from Rozen– and accuse Bellamy of being the train robbers' accomplice. Bellamy, in between his denial of his involvement in the crime, asked them why they bothered blaming him if they could never get an accusation to stick before. Before what, Albaer didn't know. Clearly, they knew each other. Albaer demanded to hear their reasoning for their arrest, and was rudely told that their (clearly incompetent) undercover investigator fed them information via communication mirrors during the robbery.

"Let us see this blockhead, and we'll tell you if we saw him at the third class car or if he was playing Renan Whispers from the first class cars!" Albaer moved in front of an unnaturally pale Bellamy.

"Who'd believe anythin' you say, you stupid little twit?" The stick-like purple uniformed policeman sneered, stretching that gods-awful M on his face. But he refused to be intimidated by it.

"The robbers, Bellamy, everyone here in this car!" he retorted. "What kind of country is this to accuse children of crimes they haven't committed?"

"You can scream at me all you want, but that don't change the fact that Bellamy's half-whitehead scum who joined those freaks to get back at those kids from the orphanage!"

"That doesn't even make any sense, you witless numbskull! You're making baseless accusations!"

"You really are dumb shit, aren't you? He's Renan, or at least half – the white hair and red eye prove it! And our undercover source says he speaks Renan too!"

A flash of fear appeared on Bellamy's face, and it didn't go away even after he brushed his hair over his eye. It was an interesting eye too, Albaer admitted to himself. It was nothing like his brown eye, a ruby red. He'd asked Bellamy before about what was under his bangs, and now he knew.

What he also knew was that Bellamy got quiet fast and his visible eye wildly searched for an escape route.

Bellamy, who smirked at idiotic gangsters and murderous robbers, spat in the face of the wealthy and powerful, and had a quip that got them out of every mess they were pulled into so far, lurked behind him from an increasingly moronic bunch of policemen. For what reason?

Albaer's voice trembled as it grew louder with every word. "Renan or not, he saved these people from those robbers, did your so-called inspector's job and this is how you repay him?! You're even less than dimwits, you're a...a complete bunch of bastards! And you're blind, because in any other part of the world except this miserable hovel will tell you that he's blond, not a whitehead insert-derogative-noun-here! This kid, this idiot who's younger than I am can not only speak Renan. I've heard him speak fluent Rozenite too, and I bet if given the chance, he can recite Undinan tongue twisters in his sleep because that's the kind of frustrating guy he is!"

"That proves he's a spy!" The stick man snatched Albaer's arm. Apparently the Vesperan police force was deaf too. "Willis, book him and this pathetic upstart!"

Albaer cursed as the men closed in on them. He tried to pry the man's grip away from his arm. Another two of them stood on either side of Bellamy and held his arms in a similar fashion, except Bellamy's struggle to escape looked more frantic than he'd ever seen him. And that set off a ping of fear in Albaer. What would happen to them now? Wand-bearing police force or not, the image of those slaves with the M's burned on their faces floated to the surface of his mind. He gritted his teeth, ready to choose death over being like them–

The grip on his arm loosened. Shouts of protest burst all around him. Various objects flew through the air. Albaer turned around. The passengers closed in from either end of the train, both from the third and second class cars, throwing their valuables at the police. None of it was paper money. It was high-heeled shoes and pointy metallic jewelry and heavy paperweights that they threw at them in protest. As the crowd surrounded the purple-clad men, Albaer could make out what the overlapping voices shouted as he manoeuvred through the crowd to find Bellamy.

"–if you lay another hand on those children, so help me gods–"

"–let them go, you big ugly yam heads–"

"–as the scion of the Cartier Family, I will ensure you never get a job again–"

"–Albaer, this way!"

A small hand found itself around his and led him out of the crowd, past the doors of the train and onto the station platform. The other smaller hand belonged to Ceres, who led him into another crowd around the operator's box where a hooded Bellamy waited, looking a little less pale. He stared at him though, and he didn't say anything. It was kind of creepy, so Albaer broke the silence between them.

"I was guessing, but can you actually speak Undinan?"

"I've barely started the grammar books."

He wanted to ask Bellamy more about how he acted back there, but let it slide when he took in their current destination. For a supposed train station of the nation's capital, it seemed kind of small. "So, is this Vessalius?"

Ceres shook her head. "We're in Corona. Vessalius is three stops away from here. Mr. Arca said that we had to stop at the nearest station because we weren't experienced enough or had enough stanima..."

"Stamina," Bellamy piped up.

"Stamina, to keep the engine going for so long and so that the MTF could stop the robbers. I didn't think that stopping like we did would lead to us leaving like that."

A sour expression formed at the thought of the stick-like man and his nasally voice until something Ceres said caught his attention. "Wait, 'we'?" Albaer raised an eyebrow. "So are you saying that you were the one who restarted the train?"

"Yes, along with the driver and some volunteers from first and second class." He shouldn't have put it past her to be able to do something like that. He pressed on regardless as his thoughts led him to a hair-ripping conclusion.

"And if you had to stop the train early, does that mean..." he trailed off, dread colouring his tone.

Bellamy nodded, resigned. "We're down to five pratas, so we really don't have any choice but to stow away. Any objections, Magic Boy?"

Albaer sighed, just as resigned, so long as they didn't have to face another train theft or card game ever again. "No, not this time. Lead the way."

Bellamy patted his hands on his hood as if to check if it was still on his head, looked around at the tense crowd around him with narrowed eyes and gestured for them to stay back. He snuck around the operator's box for a few moments, listening as people hounded the operator for information about the Flèche Rouge robbery. The operator answered any questions concerning directions and ticket purchases, but refused to answer any about the aforementioned train.

Knowing it would take some time before Bellamy came back to them, Albaer turned to Ceres, who asked him what happened while she volunteered to help start the train. He filled her in as best as he could, stopping in the middle of his narrative of how her brother read the robbers' letter when Bellamy came back to where they were waiting and motioned for them to follow him.

They trailed after him as he hid behind posts and in between stands whenever he saw a flash of gaudy purple pass his field of vision. Albaer didn't know how long Bellamy led them around in circles –he suspected Bellamy was making sure no one would follow them– but eventually, they reached one end of the station where there was a set of stairs and a sign hanging over it that read, "Valerius Terminal Railways". They walked at a normal pace on the way up the stairs, but Bellamy reverted back to being coiled and nondescript as he led them into the crowd. The train closest to them, a newer blue one, pulled up beside them.

Like before, they boarded near the rear end, but as people settled into their seats, Albaer and Ceres followed Bellamy to the platform outside the last passenger car and sat low beyond the range a person could see through the door's window. The following car didn't have a door leading to it, only a set of ladder-like footrests built into it. They held onto the platform railings as the train moved forward and didn't let go until they adjusted to the speed. Albaer couldn't help but notice that Bellamy took extra pains to make sure his hood stayed on despite the wind whipping their hair around everywhere. Ten minutes after the train started moving –Ceres said so over the wind, but to him, it felt like hours– Bellamy stood up to peer through the window. He nodded at his sister before he put one foot on the platform railing and balanced himself on it before he extended his other foot to the footrests diagonally across from him.

After he climbed up to the roof, he crouched low and waited for them. Albaer tried not to choke at the sight of Ceres casually leaping up to the next car's roof from her spot beside him, skipping the footrests altogether. He took a deep breath and failed to ignore the seemingly widening distance between this car and the next, trying to imitate Bellamy's movements and pretend it was the Lamont Estate's garden wall he climbed over and not a moving vehicle. It took much more time than either sibling, no thanks to the threat of being blown off by the wind, but he reached the top in the end.

As soon as he got there though, Bellamy skipped the banter that Albaer oddly started expecting from him and walked down the car, occasionally crouching low or crawling to dodge power lines and tunnels as he inched to the other end. His steady pace made it look effortless, like playing around in a park. In reality, Albaer had to fight for every step just to stay on the train and almost didn't duck low in time to avoid a tunnel. Ceres looked back at him every now and then, holding out a hand which he politely but firmly refused, and finally they reached the end of the car.

Bellamy moved again moments later, this time over the side of the car. He climbed halfway down the footrests and used his foot to push the sliding door next to him open part way. The wind did the rest of the job, pushing it the rest of the way to reveal an empty boxcar. Bellamy descended the side of the train, edged to the side closest to the open door and placed one foot at a time onto the floor of the boxcar's interior. Ceres followed suit faster than Bellamy, and as expected, Albaer took the longest time to get inside and finally gave into Ceres' silent offers of help to pull him in. She closed the door behind him and sat across from her brother, who chose to settle in at the end of the boxcar farthest from the doors.

Albaer sat next to her, eyes adjusting to the darkness and the rest of his body getting accustomed to the rattling of the car. His backside would be sore if he stayed seated for too long, and he finally had the chance to ask Bellamy about his behaviour around the police, but he could feel the fatigue from his previous night's uncomfortable sleep creeping back and the next thing he knew...

#original fiction #original work #AHVI

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aurycula-writes · 6 years

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aurycula-writes · 6 years

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A Hint of Vesperan Ethical Intuition: Chapter 3

Chapter Summary:

In the event of a train robbery, the safest thing to do is to call for the authorities, comply with the robbers' demands, and hope for the best.

Albaer doesn't sit back and hope for the best. He tries to protect the passengers.

How about Léandre? Ha, don't be ridiculous. He ensures the robbers won't leave with anything they came for.

And Ceres? She takes the fight to them.

You can read chapter 3 here:

https://archiveofourown.org/works/15417432/chapters/36228786

Or you can read it under the cut:

19 Herba 1690 [REDACTED LOCATION] 3:00 a.m.

The one thing he lied about most was his job.

It was so much easier to describe the quaint sights he came across on his tours, or the quirky fans he encountered in between shows, or the oddest thing happened to me the other day–

That way, no one would think to ask why none of the stories he told mentioned any relatives, where he learned to speak obscure Undinan dialects at the most convenient of times, or of the messages he received, hastily scrawled in green ink. Because people would rather know his thoughts on this celebrity or that composer or those short-lived but always sweet flings, no one ever wondered why these messages reached him no matter where he was.

Even in this vast stretch of grassland, he could still come by messages like this:

Nevermind, not always like this. His usual sender had more subtlety.

He blew the parchment off his hand.

"Oh, Al," he muttered to himself as he strode down the dirt path to the nearby village. "What have you gotten yourself into?"

Behind him, the scrap fluttered in the air, burning in a grassy field of acid green flames.

La Flèche Rouge 5:58 a.m.

Although Léandre would agree that being woken up by bellowed threats was unusual, he couldn't say he was surprised.

He was, however, a bit annoyed he couldn't wake Ceres up as he promised. The men shouted for order, the wheels of the train screeched at an ear-piercing volume and everyone jerked forward as the train made an abrupt stop. Léandre turned in his seat, outstretched his arm and planted his feet on the floor to prevent Ceres from falling forward. The panic of the other travellers worsened. Léandre took a quick glance at the window. A sliver of sunlight peeked out from the horizon and the tracks the train stopped on stood in between two spans of empty, dying fields that looked like they hadn't seen any form of human activity for months. He turned his attentions back to the shouting men and the building commotion among the passengers.

Two men stood on either end of the car. The one at the front of the car was lean and slightly shorter than the one in the back. His pointed face and restless fidgeting reminded him of a rat. The one closer to the back end of the car, a tall man who resembled a thick tree trunk with muscled arms, pointed a silver rifle toward a window and pulled the trigger. A brilliant fork of lightning burst out from the end of it, shattering the window. The train carriage fell silent. Léandre vaguely wondered how they managed to smuggle a Renan weapon into Vesper.

"Move to the next car in an orderly fashion," Tree Trunk coldly ordered. "If I hear another sound come out of your damned mouths again, the next thing I point this gun at is all of you. Follow our orders and no one gets hurt."

Each row of passengers took turns to walk through the open door starting from the front. Léandre exchanged a look with Ceres. They agreed to follow their orders for the moment to survey the situation. When the time came for their row to move, Léandre wasted no time, grabbing Lamont's arm to drag him along with them. Otherwise, he suspected the boy would have shamelessly disobeyed the order, especially if the order came from the same garden-variety gangsters they dealt with lately. Léandre ignored the glower aimed at the back of his head.

Squeezing twice the amount of passengers into one third class car proved to be a tight fit, as people not only filled all the benches, but the spaces between them and almost half of the aisle. Léandre didn't think there was even enough room to sit on the benches. The door leading to the next carriage burst open and three men came down the aisle, pushing people out of their way. Two of the three carried sacks that jingled as they moved.

The three men –Fedora, Beard and Mask, he decided to call them– walked past them to presumably deposit their loot in the car they just left. All five came back to their current compartment. All five were pale-skinned, white-haired, red-eyed – although you couldn't quite tell with Mask, who, as his name aptly suggested, sported a frowning bone white theatre mask – and wore the worn attire of any male worker in Vesper. They were all former Renan slaves, then. They spoke in a code of motions and disjointed Renan numbers before breaking off to do more tasks. Rat Face moved back to the last car. Fedora and Tree Trunk moved to carriages of other classes. And that left Beard and Mask to rob this car.

"Line up in a quiet and orderly fashion as you did before and put all of your valuables in the bag held by the masked man at the front," Beard called from his end of the car in a thick Renan accent, tossing Mask a cloth sack.

Mask stood at the other end of the car, blocking the door that Tree Trunk and Fedora exited through. "We'll start with the rows in front of me," he drawled.

Once again, that meant he, Ceres and Lamont would be near the end of the line.

They had five pratas left over from the ticket purchase that was meant to buy them food once they reached their destination. As for valuables besides the cash in his wallet, the only things in his bag were two books and the few clothes that he and Ceres owned – not exactly what the robbers were interested in.

Mask yawned as he systematically examined and took anything of value. That all changed when Beard shifted in place, sweating as he anxiously called from across the car in Renan to do everything it took to get something out of everyone. If the two bags they entered with were all they got from the mail car, Léandre could see why.

Mask took those words to heart.

Take what he did to the person before Léandre in the lineup, for example. She was a young woman carrying her infant son. She stepped toward the immobile Mask, trembling.

He couldn't blame her, though. Every person who had to face Mask next scavenged their pockets and bags for every scrap that could be considered valuable. Not even the children, some even younger than Ceres, were spared, even though they didn't have much to give. But Léandre handed it to them – they were as silent as they could make themselves despite Mask's antics.

The full sun rested just above the horizon and brushed the edge of the white ring when almost all of third class was subjected to Mask's inquiries. Miraculously, Mask hadn't hurt anyone physically, although that had to do with how everyone cowed to his demands. At least, so far.

"Hello, love," Mask crooned in a well-done imitation of a south Undinan accent. The east Rozenite accent he spoke with beforehand was more impressive. "Would you be a doll and take out all your possessions for me?"

The woman nodded and held out her bag like a sacrifice. He didn't take it.

Mask tilted his head to one side. "I don't think you were listening when I told you to–" His gloved hand gripped her shoulder and the other hand held the knife to the infant's neck. "–TAKE OUT YOUR DAMNED STUFF!"

"I can't!" The woman held the baby as far away from the blade as she could, not even an inch. Shrill wailing cut through the thick silence like a knife slicing into a small child's throat. Mask lowered his blade.

"It would be rather difficult with one hand, wouldn't it?" He used that syrupy voice over the baby's cries. He had one hand holding the blade on a propped up elbow, tapping the tip of it to the chin of his mask in apparent thought.

"Ah!" He smacked the handle-holding fist onto his palm. "You would be able to do it if you put your baby down." The woman shook her head. "No? Better yet, I can hold him while you play show and tell with me! What do you say?"

The woman shook her head again, shakily trying to calm her child down to no effect.

Mask's tone flattened. "Then how will you be able to do what I say?"

The woman didn't answer, tears rolling down her cheeks.

"Maybe you'll show me all your stuff when I draw a smiley face on your baby's tummy with Mrs. Slicer, here." He held up his knife– er, Mrs. Slicer. The baby's cries grew louder at his mother's quiet sobs. Mask's tone flipped back to a croon. "Or would you prefer a heart, love?"

"No," she whispered thickly. "Please..."

"Please? You want me to write 'please' on your little baby boy?"

"No–"

"Enough already!" shouted a furious voice from beside him. A familiar voice. "Can't you see that no one here can take anymore of this?"

Of course it was Lamont, that absolute moron.

The redhead stood with his back as straight as a ruler, almost as if he was trying to make himself look bigger. His hands hung taut at his sides, curled into fists, knuckles chalk white. He bared his teeth like he would break into a growl at any second. His glare was so focused on Mask that Léandre thought Lamont was trying to figure out how to shoot fire from his eyes.

Mask fluidly moved over to him, almost like a slither. Léandre grabbed Lamont's arm and Lamont wrenched his grip away without notice.

"What do we have here?" Mask whispered in a west Rozenite accent. It was more audible now that the mother had a chance to properly calm her baby down. "A hero."

He circled around Lamont. "A young, dashin'..." he trailed his hand over Lamont's dirty grey suit jacket, "wealthy hero." Lamont slapped his lingering hand away. Mask remained immobile.

"Keep your hands off of me, lunatic! And return their belongings!"

"Why should I?" Mask asked with another head tilt. Should Léandre be worried for his mental health if he was thinking the same question?

"It's the least you could do for them, now that you've stolen their peace of mind!" Lamont used an angry, lecturing voice on Mask. "Besides, you won't be able to keep that money – not when the authorities are on their way!"

Mask laughed, long and hard. The sound of it was akin to the sensation of someone dropping snow down the back of his shirt. Lamont faltered a bit.

"How cute!" Mask said after catching his breath. "To think I would encounter your type in this day and age. The police don't even know there's a robbery going on, sugar. Even if they did, we would be long gone by then."

Like with all arguments that left Lamont unable to come up with a comeback, he floundered to have the last word. His recent go-to retort was, "You're lying!"

Mask's Mrs. Slicer snapped forward, targeting Lamont's neck.

Beard stood behind Lamont. His arms came up to lock the other’s in place. Lamont struggled in Beard's vice-like grip. His flyaway kicks had no effect on the stone-like Renan as he dragged Lamont a safe distance away from Mrs. Slicer's path.

"Didn't we agree that you wouldn't interfere?" Mask hissed in Renan.

"Only after you agreed not to kill anyone," Beard retorted in the same language.

The second class carriage door opened to reveal Tree Trunk and Fedora, who each returned with one sack full of valuables. Tree Trunk passed his bag to Fedora, who sauntered to the last car. Beard had a more difficult time restraining a raucous Lamont. Tree Trunk moved to assist him, simultaneously trying to reason with Mask.

Someone tugged at Léandre's sleeve. On his right, Ceres already halfway out an open window.

Soundlessly, he followed her. What she was up to now?

The roof 7:23 a.m.

"Are we leaving?" Léandre asked Ceres. His voice was casual. His expression was calm. But his eye flickered down to where Albaer was.

"No,” she said. “We needed a place to plan without getting caught."

She almost didn't catch the split second of relief on his face.

"I see." The train robbers left their loot unguarded at the far end of the train, didn’t they? "First, we need to gather information about the current situation. Stay here; I'm going to take a quick look at what's going on with Lamont."

He got onto his knees and crawled toward the side of the train. His hands gripped the edge of the roof as he pulled himself forward and dipped his head down as close to the window as he could without falling.

"Well, they've gone and tied Magic Boy up," he said in a deadpan. "And the train driver is there too, in the same situation. Fedora's still tying him up."

"Fedora? You mean Xian, right?"

Without warning, Ceres seized an arm that was about to wrap around her neck. She moved her upper body up and over to flip the body over onto the roof. Her grip on him loosened when he impacted the train. He released himself from her grasp and rolled into a somersault, only to spring up to face her at the last second. She held her fists at the ready. The sharp-eyed man tried to run past her, back in the direction of the last car. Ceres jumped and turned in place as fast as she could, lifting the other leg to cut off the man.

The impact flung him backward a fair distance away as she landed on her feet. He skidded to a standing stop one and a half cars away, his arms held in an 'X' shape to protect himself from her attack. She ran toward her opponent. Her brother was nowhere to be seen. Ceres stepped back from a kick to her shin and blocked a fist aimed at her face. She ducked a kick, jumped away from a leg sweep, sidestepped a punch. Although she hadn't managed to get hit yet, the unnamed man continued moving forward in the direction of where he intended to go.

She crouched down at the edge of the second class car, feigning a leg sweep, and saw a foot aimed at her face. She laid a hand on the floor, leaned to the side, and brought up her folded arm to guard against the kick. The assailant's leg and her arm grazed each other as she moved her arm downward onto the train roof like an arm wrestling move, sending the sharp-eyed man falling to the floor.

As her right arm pinned his leg down, she brought up her left leg and swung it against the rest of the man's body like a club. Her kick sent the man flying off the side of the train. She dashed to the side she sent him off of, watching a metal claw-tipped rope soar over her head and catch itself on something on the other side. Ceres would have kicked him off as he tried to climb back up again, but found that he had climbed so rapidly that by the time she barely considered the thought, he already stood by the side of the train, sweeping imaginary dirt off his trousers.

Alright, then. Ceres bent her legs, pushed herself up into the air as high as she could, and aimed her foot at the man's face.

Third Class cars 7:25 a.m.

Albaer slowly registered the words he heard as he came back to consciousness.

"...but don't they deserve it, dear?" a sickeningly sweet voice chimed. Who deserved what now?

"For what they've done, and for what they haven't done. After all, these upstanding people have all faced similar abuses, but were treated a touch better because each of them decided at least once in their lives that helping your people, banding together, was not worth it." Abuses? On who? And for what?

The voice became more familiar, and something like disgust bubbled in his gut. "They chose to let your people, fellow Renans, suffer every day because they wanted to be treated better. Doesn't that frustrate you, love? Make you want them to experience...that desolation?"

And then it all came back to him. The robbery. That theatre-masked monster. The man in the hat holding rope. A strike to the back of his head.

Albaer kept his eyes closed, limp against the wall he'd been placed on, not wanting those crooks to know he was awake just yet. He'd learned a thing or two from his escorts. Ceres, for instance, had chosen the more intense moments when everyone's attention was on the masked man to inch toward a window and open it. He'd rejected her silent offer to leave at the time, as he was more invested in finding a way to step in and prevent the masked man from doing any more damage. Because poor or not, he couldn't have just left a woman and her child to that masked man – they would've been mutilated! And Prince Alphonse, his all-time favourite Age of Heroes character, would've been ashamed of him if he let that monster win.

Father wasn't here to fix his problems. Albaer had known that ever since the peasants beat him and tried to rob him. He couldn't do anything against those card players either. He did nothing to earn his place on this train – that was all Bellamy and Ceres. He refused to stand for his inability any further! Albaer stepped up and did everything he could short of using his newfound magic to stop him.

Yes, he was very aware of his failure, he didn't need reminding!

Anyway, the point was to get an understanding of what was going on before any further decisions. That was probably what Lamont and his sister were doing now if they weren't present. There was always the possibility that they'd saved their own skins and left him, but he really didn't want to think about that at the moment. He didn't have time to think about it either way.

Instead, Albaer focused more on listening and picked up the ruffling of shifting clothes.

"Understand this, Fovero," the business-like tone of the bulky man that woke them up this morning said. "I know you're only trying to convince me into letting you kill everyone on this train because you're getting bored of waiting for our escape. Nevertheless, although you have no sympathy for our cause, you do have a good understanding of it. So as a bonus for your assistance, I will allow you to kill the driver."

The aforementioned train driver – or so he had to assume – whimpered. That awful beast of a man's high-pitched giggles followed. The titter flared up Albaer's anger again. But he was still tied up. If any of those criminals noticed he was awake, he wouldn't have the slightest chance of saving anyone.

"You owed me from the beginning, Su Wei," the masked sadist simpered. "Ever since you decided to kill the workers in the engine room without me. But thank you, love. That was very kind of you."

"Please don't kill me, I'm begging you! I have a family, two children, one on the way, a wife! Please, spare me!"

Blood rushed through Albaer's ears.

"They have a saying here in Vesper, don't they?" the masked man said over the train operator's pleas, now peppered with the occasional sob. Albaer's jaw tightened as footsteps got closer. And closer. "'Royal violet a Vesperan's blood be, the foulest black a whitehead's.' I've always wanted to see whether that was true."

Albaer grit his teeth. The blood in his ears roared louder.

"Do you ever feel the same way, Mr. Driver? Do you think you have violet blood?" The driver's sobbing pleas turned into screams.

Albaer never thought that he would ever want to know how to use his magic until now. Now, he couldn't imagine wanting anything else this much. To break out of these ropes, to stop that freak in a mask from killing anyone, to bring this gang of thieves to justice – even if he didn't have magic, he would stop at nothing to accomplish those goals.

A surge of energy – as familiar as if he'd felt it all his life – swirled within his bound wrists and hands. Albaer wasted no time. His eyes snapped open, he jumped to his feet, and roughly pulled his wrists apart like they were tied with string. The maniac leaned over the restrained and screaming red uniform-clad driver, who was laid out face down on the bench across from him. The tip of the masked man's knife already dipped into the back of the driver's thick, pasty neck.

Albaer saw nothing else. He sprinted forward. He extended his tingling hand. He would stop the masked man.

An unseen wave of energy answered him.

It shot out from his hand and smacked the masked robber against the side of the train.

The impact rocked the car a little, but didn't tip it over completely. Albaer stopped in front of the train operator. He raised his other hand toward the large-framed leader with the same sensations running through him. Albaer's magic threw him at the door leading to the second class carriage, colliding with the two robbers by the door. Stillness followed. Albaer wasn't sure whether any of them were unconscious, but had no time to consider otherwise.

Instead, he turned his attentions to the operator, who was reasonably still distraught and bleeding. The pocketknife lay on the floor in front of his bench, red at the tip. It wasn't the long rapier he was used to, but it would have to do. Albaer picked it up and approached the bleeding driver. The wound didn't appear to be deeper than most trivial cuts.

"Are you alright to sit up, sir?" He made his tone as low and calm as he could. The beefy driver nodded, rolled in place onto his back and gingerly sat up. Albaer considered it a plus that the man hadn't reacted violently to the hand he laid on his upper back to help him sit up.

"I'm going to cut the ropes away from your wrists," he informed the older man. "Do you have any objections to this?"

The uniformed man shook his head, and Albaer took that as permission to slip the pocketknife in the space under and between the wrists, gently moving the knife forward and back, cutting through the ropes. The driver rubbed his wrists after the ropes fell to the floor.

"Thank you, young man," he whispered. Albaer folded up the knife and stuffed it in his trouser pocket.

"But I have to ask, as I didn't see it happen. How did you stop that masked fellow? Not to mention," he glanced at the pile of men against the car door, "the rest of them."

"Ah, well–" He didn't know how to reply. He didn't like magic, wasn't used to having it. How could he even begin to explain it to a man who most likely feared it as much as he did? Albaer opened his mouth to answer, but could only draw a blank.

"He's a– a Magia!" piped a child's shaking voice. Albaer blinked. He almost forgot in the chaos that there were other passengers present. None of them seemed to have gotten caught up in his mess. Their expressions were wide-eyed, and they all stood together toward the other end of the car – as far away as they could get from him.

"An unregistered Magia?" the driver suggested, bringing Albaer's attention back to him.

"More like a tourist."

The older man laughed. "What a vacation this must have been, eh?"

Albaer couldn't help but smile in relief at the man, who now held a handkerchief to the back of his neck. At least one of them didn't mind his magic that much. Shortly after, a series of taps and bangs clattered above them.

Another passenger groaned. "Now what could that be?"

The driver sobered and stood up from the bench. "It'd be best not to wait and find out."

"Where are you going in your condition?" Albaer asked.

"These men killed my crew. I've to head back and gather volunteers to help me restart the train." He approached the unconscious robbers. "The sooner we get it running again, the sooner we get to taking them to the proper authorities. So, I'll be needing your help to move these felons out of the way, if you don't mind."

"N-not at all!" Albaer followed the operator, who was already halfway through the door, trying to maneuver around the robbers.

A hand grasped Albaer's ankle. The bearded robber stared back at him as he pulled his ankle down like a lever. Albaer fell face forward to the floor. Panic surged as he felt someone pin his arms back and shove his face harder into the ground. With difficulty, he looked up at the bearded one and the hat-wearing one. Ahead of him, the operator was putting up a good struggle against the leader.

"To think there would be a Magia on this train," remarked the hat-wearing robber as he took Mask's pocketknife from Albaer's trouser pocket.

"Why do you oppose us, boy?" the bearded one asked. "Both our kind have been enslaved by this country. You should be helping us, not getting in our way."

"Don't lump me in with the likes of you!" Albaer spat. Why didn't he feel the magic anymore? Where was his anger, the will not to let anything stop him? Why was there only panic?

"Boy–" A thunderous rumble shook their car. The impact knocked his captors down once again. Albaer struggled out from beneath them and moved a far distance away from them. The door to the second class cars was open. The driver sprinted down the aisle as the second class passengers peered out of their compartments to look at the car Albaer stood in. Behind the operator, the metal roof dipped like a widespread blanket that caught a ball.

He didn't have time to think about what or who might have caused it, because the robbers already stood at the ready, the leader pointing his gun at him. He tensed. He wouldn’t fare well against something that could shoot lightning.

Someone cleared their voice behind him, accompanied by the ruffling of paper. The robbers' leader wasn't pointing the gun at him. Or at least, he hoped he wasn't, and took a chance to glimpse over his shoulder to see what they were so focused on.

On a bench, hands positioned on a piece of paper, ready to rip it in two, hair messily swept aside to reveal one brown eye and one red eye, and the smug smile he wore during a memorable card game, sat Léandre Bellamy.

The train tracks 7:24 a.m.

After a considerable amount of information gathering and deliberation, Léandre took the long way to get to the inside of the last car.

He hung by his fingers over the side of the car as Ceres battled it out with Rat Face above. He saw everything that transpired inside – or to be more specific, Lamont's burst of magic. Léandre called him Magic Boy because he mentioned magic transporting him to Vesper. He never asked the specifics of why and how. Lamont always seemed uncomfortable whenever he saw magic being performed, so Léandre didn't actually think he was a Magia up until today. Believe it or not, Lamont saved the train driver with his magic. And by the looks of it, he knew how to use it to some extent.

Hopefully now the driver could get the train moving again soon, because he was not looking forward to his backup plan – dragging Lamont and Ceres away from this disaster and walking the rest of the way back to civilization. He could also tell by the way Lamont fidgeted before approaching the driver that he was unsure whether the thieves were unconscious or not. They were, but Léandre couldn't tell him without revealing himself. And he couldn't be there to tell him they could wake up at any given moment either.

So what were his next steps? If Ceres hadn't used her signature kick on Rat Face yet, she would do it soon...

And then it hit him. He had an idea of what to do. Dropping from his spot onto the train tracks below, he softly landed crouched low on his feet and bolted toward the end of the train, watching his step so as not to trip or get a foot caught in between the tracks. He climbed over the railing of the back door's balcony and turned the handle. Slowly but smoothly pushing the door open, so as not to make a sound, he spotted the bags of loot placed near the door on the far end.

Léandre leafed through the bags, searching for the most valuable items. The timing had to be just right. Picking up a document from one bag, seemingly from the mail car, he frowned. Why would they steal something like this? The envelope it was in had no return address. It was to be sent to a random address in Undina despite the document inside being addressed to the Vesperan Ravisseurs, the organization tasked with hunting down escaped Magia and Renan slaves.

When the reason became clear, his plan finally started coming together as he transferred the most expensive and vital items into his drawstring bag. In the same manner as earlier, he opened the door to the next car and wedged a bag of loot between the door and the doorway, so as to leave it halfway open. It was better to have a precaution in case he needed to go back undetected. Weaving through distressed and distracted passengers, Léandre searched for a good spot to wait and watch for the right moment.

He lurked closer to one side, near the front row of bystanders. Beard and Fedora had Lamont pinned to the ground. He cringed with a twinge of sympathy for the boy. Had he been able to help him earlier, he would have also told him that if the robbers did wake up, they wouldn't have the courtesy to let him know. Soon after though, the moment he anticipated came.

The entire compartment shuddered like an electrocuted body from the aftershocks of two impacts into the train: one when Ceres jumped and one when Ceres landed. It was a wonder the train didn't tip over. While everyone fell to the floor, Léandre gripped a nearby bench to keep low and prevent himself from falling. Everyone reoriented themselves as he strode to the front row benches, rummaged for the paper and sat down as if he was waiting for the train to stop.

He made a show of clearing his throat to grab their attention, which came with a complimentary gun pointed at him.

"Are you sure that's such a good idea? Try and read the situation, Tree Trunk!" Léandre waved the thin sheet for emphasis.

"Little boy, what does it matter to us if you tear up that paper?" Tree Trunk said indifferently, albeit with a telltale drop of sweat at his temple. Léandre's smirk broke into a full mocking grin. He turned the paper over to display the words he'd already memorized.

"'To the Ravisseur Agency.'" The robbers tensed. "'I, Roderick Munroe, hereby give Su Wei Ying, Xian Fan, Fuuta Kanazawa, and Masato Uzune their full, irrevocable release from my services.' Need I continue, boys?"

They didn't answer, but paled rather dramatically. Léandre suspected they didn't even notice Lamont move out of their reach to the other side of the car right across from him. Léandre didn't want to handle his problem client until he guaranteed their safety, so he got their attention again by lightly pulling the ends of the paper with a small snap that seemed to reverberate throughout the entire car.

"You know, I was surprised I came across something so important in an envelope being sent to somewhere in Undina. That was a rather cruel joke, wasn't it? Losing your freedom in the mail on purpose, sending it nowhere near the headquarters of the group that would hunt you down to the depths of the Wildwood when they realize you escaped your master to retrieve this." Léandre stood up and leaned next to a nearby open window, paper still in hand.

"So to answer your question," he said in Renan to dispel any further assumptions that he had no idea what he was doing. "I think it would matter to you a lot if I ripped this up and tossed the pieces out the window."

They stared at each other in dead silence.

Tree Trunk spoke in Vesperan for convenience, not lowering his gun. "Your terms?"

"Su Wei, are you serious?" Fedora objected. "We've got more than enough goods to get away from this gods-forsaken country, freedom or no freedom!"

"I'm with Xian on this one, Boss," Beard said. "They can't catch us if we're outside of the country."

Their leader didn't deem them with a verbal response and held up his other arm in the universal sign of 'stop', still focused on Léandre.

"Hm, where did you get people like this, Tree Trunk? You seem to be the only one completely aware of the situation."

"Why don't you catch everyone else up to speed?" he returned.

Léandre sighed. "I suppose someone ought to." So far, everything ran smoothly, but Lamont still stared intently at him for some reason. He really hoped he hadn't planned something.

"This handy little document came from one of your loot bags." They bristled, wearing blank or furious expressions he would expect of men who had nothing left to lose. "Implying that I've been through all your stuff, and have taken the liberty of...hiding it from you. There, caught up to speed – now can I state my demands?"

"Yes," Tree Trunk said in a deadpan.

"Forget the train robbery – and no more of this hostage nonsense, and I will let you get away with your document and only your document. Deal?"

Nobody answered, not even Lamont, who he expected to object right then and there. Why had Lamont only fumed wordlessly? In their current crucial moment that he couldn't divert any more attention from, Léandre couldn't question that, as long as he didn't ruin his plans. The gang exchanged surprised expressions. The other passengers behind him whispered. No doubt they discussed how terrible a person he was for having no qualms about letting them escape. He sighed again.

"Look, you're all terribly traumatised and want them to pay for making you feel that way, but consider three things: first, Mask takes the most credit for your trauma, and he's–" Léandre looked around the car once, twice, thrice, and saw no sign of him. Bad, bad thing. "...Nowhere to be found, and so must be too long gone now to hear your complaints. Second, this deal ensures the safety of your belongings. Third, nobody here actually likes the police –keep your mouth shut while you're ahead, Lamont– and wants to deal with them any more than they have to.

"So I say we let them keep their souvenir and forget it ever happened. But it's not up to you to accept the deal, it's for them, and I'm giving them five seconds to decide. Four..." The robbers spoke to each other in Renan, trying to come to a decision.

"Three..." He aimed a subtle questioning look at Lamont, whose gaze was fixed on the robbers.

"Two..." Fedora sprinted toward Léandre. It was too late, though.

"One!"

#original fiction #original work #AHVI

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aurycula-writes · 6 years

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don’t call him Al

#art #drawing #illustration #oc #Albaer Lamont

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aurycula-writes · 6 years

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A Hint of Vesperan Ethical Intuition: Chapter 2

Chapter Summary:

Albaer disapproves of Léandre's methods on principal. Léandre looks forward to the look on Albaer's face when he proves that they work. Regardless of what they think of each other, they still get into trouble.

Luckily that's what Ceres is there for.

You can read chapter 2 here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15417432/chapters/36021015

Or you can read it under the cut:

Chapter 2: "You keep talking, Bellamy, but you only make less sense."

18 Herba 1690 Baskerville Station 7:03 p.m.

The station was as crowded as ever, Léandre noted with a slight frown as they stood near the operator's box. He supposed that was one part of this quest finished, but they still had one issue to sort out before they could get on to their next task. Lamont, rich boy extraordinaire, had less money on him than Léandre had! Contrary to what Lamont believed, he did have enough money to pay for two one-way tickets to Vessalius, and even a little left over for a meal – but not enough to pay for an obnoxious brat. That being said, he made a suggestion to Magic Boy that would solve his problem.

"Are you out of your mind?!" Lamont achieved a volume louder than the arriving train. "There is absolutely no way you're ever going to make me 'stow away' !"

Léandre smirked. "Mind saying that louder? I think there are a few porters behind you who didn't catch that."

"I think I will, because 'stowing away', as you so eloquently put it," he sneered, "is beneath me! Not to mention, illegal."

"Oh, gods forbid you do something beneath you! It's just your only shot at going home that's at stake." The false enthusiasm on his face flattened, much like his voice. "Take it or leave it, Magic Boy. Unless you think you can pull off whatever you did to get here again without attracting attention. If that's the case, be my guest."

He grabbed Ceres' hand and made a show of striding out of the station, only to be stopped by his sister's subtle expression that read as, 'Give him a chance.' He didn't know why she bothered, though. Pretending to leave at that point in this fashion guaranteed that Lamont wouldn't run off and do something stupid. Nevertheless, Léandre sighed in resignation, not for the first time today, and waited for Lamont to catch up.

Soon enough, he did, and he had the most peculiar mix of embarrassment, desperation and defiance in his expression. "Are you seriously telling me that it's beyond you to get me on that train some other way that doesn't involve sneaking onboard?"

A flash of indignation flared at Lamont's challenging tone, and he didn't know why. It was simple! They either snuck on board, or left him to get caught by the Magia Taskforce, or miraculously found enough money to pay for another–

"Open!" a loud voice called from the end of the street.

Turning his head to the chorus of groans and exclamations of victory, Léandre saw a group of four men –teenagers, really– playing cards on a street corner. But what caught his attention was the exchange of money that accompanied the end of the round. He motioned to Ceres and Lamont to follow him as he stepped closer to the card players. By the time he reached a distance where he wouldn't be noticed but was close enough to see the kind of game they were playing, they already delved into another round.

The players had no more than four cards facedown. They took turns swapping them with four other facedown cards in the middle and a deck in the very center. When they placed money in the pool, they were allowed to look at one of the cards face up. The process and bets would continue until someone called open. The one who had the highest ranking combination of cards won the money.

They were playing Blind Fours.

A start of a plan formed in his head as he eyed the offensively shiny brooch on the lapel of Lamont's suit.

"Um, Bellamy?" Gods, he didn't think Lamont was capable of talking quietly.

Léandre turned to him, suppressing the smile that came with that thought. "Lend me your jacket."

"Excuse me?!" Ah, he spoke too soon.

"Your jacket, Magic Boy." Okay, Léandre couldn't avoid rolling his eyes at him at the very least. "It's the only thing I can use to bet on, seeing as you have no money and I'm not willing to risk any of mine for your sake."

Léandre didn't think Lamont would do as he said, but there he was, handing him his scuffed grey jacket – albeit not without a puzzled comment. "You keep talking, Bellamy, but you only make less sense."

"Consider your challenge accepted, Lamont." He passed his rucksack to Ceres and mentally prepared himself to approach the group of older boys.

"Do you mind having an extra player?" Bellamy asked the hulking group of card-playing teenagers in a smug tone that would irritate anyone, most of all Albaer. They glanced up at the hooded boy the same way Father would look at a beggar. Gods, what the name of the five moons did that idiot think he was doing?

A brunet with the start of a beard forming on his face sneered. "That depends, kid." Even Albaer could tell the way he spoke to him was the same patronizing tone that some of his tutors used on him whenever he voiced his opinion. "We can make an exception and let you play with us big kids, but only if you got a prize worth givin' when one of us wins."

If Bellamy was as offended as Albaer would be if the jeers were aimed at him, he didn't show it. If anything, Albaer would say the indifference the older Bellamy exuded was probably what the younger Bellamy based her default expression on. He just let those stupid taunts roll over him and held up Albaer's double-breasted Renan cotton jacket for everyone to see. To Albaer's surprise, it was effective in getting their attention. As if sensing this, Bellamy coolly added, "I think all of us can see this jacket, even as dirty as it is, is worth at least a year's salary for any one of us here. I'd say that's a better 'prize' than most, isn't it?"

The older boys' mocking expressions took on much more vicious glints in their eyes than they did before. They made space for Bellamy to settle in and placed four cards in front of him. He sat down between a smirking redhead and a straight-faced, curly-haired brunet. The players eyed the suit on his lap expectantly, to which Bellamy explained, "It wouldn't make any sense to put it in the middle with the rest of the bets. There would be no room to put the cards. If it isn't any trouble for you, I'd like to keep this with me."

"Why's that, kid?" the redhead simpered. "Afwaid of us big boys taking it fwom you?"

"Honestly, yes." Again, he waited for their laughter and heckling to settle down again, and a quiet fell over them once the game began. Each of them, starting with the stubbly boy and ending with Bellamy, drew a facedown card from the deck in the center, but didn't look at it. All of the players stared down Bellamy and the suit on his lap like a Wildwood Strait serpent watched a school of fish.

When Albaer goaded Bellamy into finding another way to get him on a train, this wasn't what he had in mind! Actually, Albaer didn't have any specific alternatives in mind, but still, his point stood! He glanced to the younger Bellamy beside him, unshakeable as ever.

The stubbly brunet took a card from the middle and swapped it out with one of the four cards he was given at the beginning. He didn't look at either of those cards either. The curly-haired brunet sitting on Bellamy's left took a card from the deck and switched the card from his hand with the card he drew, placing it in a pile facing up beside the deck. And no, he didn't look at what was on his card. Bellamy took a card from the middle. The redhead took a card from the deck. The ponytailed player also took a card from the middle. And so on. The exchange of cards continued and no one had any idea of what was on the cards for at least three rounds. How did this card game work? How did anyone win?

Maybe, despite how horrid the journey would have been hiding in the boxcars, they really were better off stowing away.

Oh, so now you admit it? Us commoners might be slow, Magic Boy, but your very existence proves that you richies are even slower, a thought that sounded extraordinarily like Bellamy piped up from the back of his head. Great, now he was going crazy too and this disaster of a card game had barely begun!

Albaer heard the constant rustling of cards until the stubbly brunet spoke up again.

"You sure you wanna keep playin' blind, kid? 'Cos now's your chance to look at your hand." The teen leaned back in a show of practiced casualness. "Course, now'd be the best time for you to back ou–"

"I'm fine as it is, thank you," Bellamy replied, matching his tone with a smile and a hint of that taunting tone he'd used with Albaer from the moment they met. "But if you feel you need to play sharp, you don't need to ask permission from any of us, least of all me. Nobody here will think any worse of you."

The boys around Bellamy stared at him, except in the case of the stubbly brunet, who glared at the hooded boy. Albaer took a deep breath of relief when they looked back at their cards.

The silent ponytailed, black-haired teen beside the brunet, easily the largest of the group, announced he would be playing sharp, tossed a fistful of bills into the pile of money on the other side of the deck and looked at the card he drew from the deck before swapping it with a facedown card from his hand. Albaer noticed the pile of money to be almost the amount of money needed for another train ticket.

The card exchanges continued, the bets rose as every player except Bellamy played sharp for at least one turn, and Albaer's eyes wandered to his hooded escort. Bellamy swiftly changed cards without a glance, his posture relaxed and his legs crossed under his jacket. Halfway down the deck, Albaer noted how he would take a card from the deck or pile, occasionally pass it over his right knee and to his four facedown cards laid out on the ground beside him. Upon closer inspection, Albaer realized that the part of his suit spread over Bellamy's knee was where his small reflective Lamont family brooch rested! Either Albaer was lucky it hadn't been robbed or those oafs that tried to mug him were- hey, hold on a minute.

Bellamy was cheating!

Albaer was ready to call him out on it, but the younger Bellamy grabbed his wrist and shook her head. No one, to his knowledge, noticed her. If they ever got out of this without getting caught, he would have words with that cheat. Wastes, he'd do it even if they did get caught!

Cheating or not, that's your ticket on the line. Oh, shut up, Bellamy thoughts! Why was he doing any of this, anyway? It wasn't out of any obligation to Albaer, nor did he get anything out of it for himself. Was it because he worded his refusal to become a stowaway as a challenge? The possibility that he aggravated Bellamy as much as he irritated him gave him a spark of satisfaction.

–Wait, satisfaction? Where did that come from?

The black-haired teen called, "Open!"

Now wasn't the time to analyse the rare emotion. It was time, however, to see whether Albaer should run or not.

Stubbles, who sat across from Léandre, did the countdown this time. And here he thought they'd drag it out to the end of the deck. Oh well, at least they'd be able to catch up to the last train at this rate.

"Three!" He looked around at the other players, intent on their cards. To be fair, his hands were as at the ready as theirs were.

"Two!" Ceres kept a vigilant eye on the other players. He figured she'd spotted their foul play. Lamont looked like he wanted to yell at him. So he'd caught on to Léandre's. Huh. That was bright of him.

"One!" On cue, all of them flipped over their cards. Stubbles had a Rising Staircase, Ponytail had Quadruple Fours, Curly's hand had no matches at all, Freckles just had Doubles.

And, as Léandre planned, he showed them a Blind Angel.

Much like before, all the players around him gaped and groaned or jumped up and tossed their cards to the ground. He stood up with them, wearing a controlled smile, and looked at the seething ringleader in front of him.

"We all have our lucky days, sir," Léandre managed to say before Stubbles stormed up to him and held him up by his collar.

"You're a stinkin' cheat!" he growled. Léandre glanced down at the hands holding him up and tapped at the part of Stubbles' sleeve-covered wrists where he felt the slippery sensation of cards rubbing on cloth.

"I'm not the one who smells like shit and has cards up my sleeves." Léandre's smile widened into a grin as he kneed his captor's crotch as hard as he could and clapped his hands over Stubbles' ears.

Stubbles dropped him with an ugly screech. Landing crouched on his feet, Léandre jumped to his right to dodge a writhing Stubbles, only to encounter a sturdy-looking Ponytail, who greeted him with open arms to clamp down on him like a bear trap. Around him, bustling crowds gave them more space, but otherwise pretended there wasn't a fight breaking out.

Against his better judgement, Léandre jumped to his left. Evading Ponytail's tree branch-like arms, he bounced off a sneering Freckles like he would a brick wall. Léandre fell backwards, inwardly cursing gravity for pulling his hood down, and glanced behind him to see a blue and brown blur land a devastating blow to Ponytail's midsection. The blur zoomed past him and stood in between Léandre and Freckles.

Ah, there was Ceres.

Léandre moved past her as she lifted Freckles over her head and threw him at a nearby light post. He swiped the innocent stack of bills sitting beside the deck of cards and sprinted back in the direction of Baskerville Station. Mentally counting the furious card players he'd already come across, Léandre heard the telltale tones of Lamont yelling something he couldn't hear.

And that was when it hit him in the head. Curly, that is. Apparently, he ran ahead of his friends to stop them on the way to the station. Once again, Léandre was tightly held up by his neck and treated to the sight of a snarling, pug-like face with curly brown hair.

"I'll be takin' our money back, whitehead!" he sneered as he squeezed Léandre's wrist and throat like a vice. Nevertheless, a breathless Léandre refused to loosen his grip on the scrunched bills in his hand and threw his pounding head forward to collide with the other's with as much force as he could muster. It sounded and felt a lot like he rammed his head into a plank of wood as he experienced the sensation of falling backwards again.

Instead of the expected feeling of his back meeting the ground, he felt another smaller grip around his throbbing wrist pull him up and forward. Once there was air in his lungs, he wasn't coughing like someone tried to drown him again and his head didn't spin as much, Léandre realized that Lamont –wearing his suit jacket and carrying Léandre's bag– was leading him back to the train station.

"Absolutely mad..." Lamont said under his breath, hurrying forward.

"Now do you see why I told you to just sneak onto the train?" he countered dazedly, rubbing his neck.

"You didn't have to provoke that gang!" Lamont dropped his wrist and stopped inside the station. "You could have just pawned my coat, or something–"

"Oh, so now you're an expert at dealing with pawnshops, are you?" Léandre was a bit testier this time, now that his consciousness returned to him, but not without a complimentary headache. "Tell me, how many employees have taken you seriously when you told them you wanted to sell something?"

"I'm just saying that there was a better way to–"

"Get money? Possibly. A better way to get money before the last train comes? Definitely not. Besides, we could have avoided this entire fiasco if you just pulled your head out of your ass for one minute and took my suggesti–"

The sound of Ceres clearing her throat thankfully forced Léandre to cut himself off. He didn't know how far things would have escalated after the encounter they had.

They looked at her ruffled appearance and outstretched hand. There wasn't a scratch on her. Good. And for his own sake, Lamont's gaping had better not have indicated any dislike or fear of Ceres, otherwise this would be as far as they took him.

Recognizing her extended hand as a silent request to let her buy the tickets, he put on a smile, pulled his hood up, elbowed Lamont to return his bag, handed Ceres the gang's money along with the cash from his wallet, and walked her to the operator's box. When it was their turn to line up, Léandre placed his hands underneath Ceres' arms and lifted her up to reach the counter. Peering from behind her head, he could tell by the bemused smile the moustached operator gave them that their little routine to draw attention away from him was working.

"What do we say to the nice ticket operator, Ceres?" he asked in a fake bright tone.

"May we have three tickets for the third class Vessalius Express Line, please?"

In the slight pause that overtook the operator, Léandre stilled. If the operator suspected something was wrong, the only other person who could buy the tickets was Lamont. Please, gods he didn't believe in, don't let it come to that.

The operator crouched down to Ceres' level and matched her gentle tone. "That will be fifteen pratas, Miss."

Léandre inwardly released a breath. Thank you, Ceres, for being a small girl.

He spotted the glint of a plain, worn ring on the operator's finger as he exchanged the tickets with the cash. Married, then. And judging by how he dealt with Ceres, he had, or at least had experience dealing with, children.

They both thanked the operator as they scooted to the maroon train –La Flèche Rouge, or so the formerly bolded words on the side of the car boasted– that glided to a slow stop by the time they arrived. Once again, their unreasonable guest’s face scrunched up like he ate something rotten. Rolling his eyes, Léandre took a stab at what the brat's problem was now.

"After all that fuss you made about hiding out in the boxcars, and you're still upset about the seats we managed to get?" He glanced back at Lamont as they boarded the last car of the train.

"Well, sorry if I'm uncomfortable with riding outside of first class for the first time," he grumbled, warily eyeing the wooden benches on either side of the aisle. They sat near the door they entered from, Lamont sitting by one of the windows. Léandre took the seat across from him, Ceres by his side. She took an interest in the lantern hanging by his side of the window. The benches sat so close to each other that his and Lamont's knees almost touched. No doubt there would be an incoming flood of passengers that would be squeezed into the benches as much as possible.

"Look at it this way, Magic Boy." Léandre reached into his bag to take out a book. "If you don't like it here, you would've hated it in the boxcars." Now that he thought about the potential whining he would've heard from Lamont, maybe it was a good idea they bought tickets. Not that he would tell him.

"But that would mean I was right to take the train to Vessalius legally," Lamont countered with a victorious smirk as he sat back and crossed his arms.

Damn, he caught on quicker than Léandre thought. "You didn't seem to think you were right when I was getting the money that you –not me or Ceres– needed for this legal transportation."

Lamont scowled yet again. "You shouldn't have even tried to get the money like that in the first place, you cheater! There were–"

"No other ways that would have guaranteed we would be sitting here at this very moment." Léandre's grip tightened on his book. Why did this idiot bring up that topic again? "And keep in mind that not all of us can survive through legal and just means."

"If you just work hard enough–"

"I'm a homeless eleven-year-old, you brainless richie! I'm lucky to even have a job!"

A hush fell over the entire car. Stares came at him from all directions. Great. Just spectacular. He turned to where his sister sat, watching the scenery scroll by. He took a deep breath, stood from his seat as calmly as he could and manoeuvred to the aisle and down to the front of the car, stepping through the door that would lead him to the next carriage. He paid little heed to his surroundings, reminding himself of what this entire journey was about.

Why did Ceres agree to bring an ignorant fool home? Léandre still didn't know. All he needed to know was that it made her happy.

Forget Lamont's arrogance. Forget his ungratefulness. Forget that tedious, loathsome, condescending speech that began with 'If you just work hard enough'.

At least until Lamont didn't make Ceres happy anymore.

Léandre walked back to his compartment.

La Flèche Rouge Third Class cars 8:22 p.m.

Albaer opened his mouth to respond to his outburst, but stopped once he realized how much attention they attracted. Even he knew to stop before the argument got them kicked off the train.

Bellamy's exit gave him a chance to think about his outburst. Albaer reversed the way their arguments ended, for once. It would have been a victory if it weren't for the niggling curiosity about why he snapped in the first place.

Bellamy made it indisputably clear that if Albaer tried to find a way home by himself, he wouldn't have lasted a day before getting robbed, beaten, enslaved, killed or some combination of the four. He shuddered at the memory of the M's seared onto the servants' faces. If he tried to do anything the older –not even older, he was a year younger than him!– Bellamy did today, he was sure he would have failed. Wastes, he might as well include the younger Bellamy's actions to that too, because he was certain he couldn't lift someone over his head and throw them at a lamppost, lest someone twice his size. He didn't know how to bluff or get what he wanted from others without using his authority as a Lamont.

But Bellamy... he hadn't mentioned any parents that could have taught or helped him do any of the things he did today. He could deal with and outsmart intimidating people, gain the favour of his employer and look after a younger sibling. And from how uncomfortable he was when he asked his boss for help, it seemed like he was used to doing everything by himself. If that was the case, why was he poor? Why was he 'lucky to even have a job' if he could do so much?

He looked to the seat across from him, now occupied by the younger Bellamy. Her face still hadn't shown any changes – not even when she took down the angry card players. Still, she was Bellamy's sister – she had to know something about him. He cleared his throat to get her attention. Her stare always made him feel like he was under a spotlight.

"You ought to know why is your brother so..." He couldn't find the right word for it. There were too many ways to describe his escort.

"Not like what you thought?" she suggested. Albaer nodded. A good place to start as any. "People like you think we're different, that we're not worth listening to. I think you don't know why that is. But you want to, don't you?"

If he was being honest with himself, yes.

How could someone who made Albaer feel inferior, who spurred him on to be better, who couldn't be anything like Albaer's endless stream of sycophantic, two-faced, backstabbing "playmates" even if he tried, be overlooked by everyone else ninety-nine percent of the time? It made no sense!

But instead of relaying all of that to her, he nodded again. The younger Bellamy took that as her cue to continue.

"If you really want to know, look for what makes us the same before you try to understand what makes us different."

Before Albaer could ask for more clarification, he spotted the older Bellamy squeeze through a line of knees and slump back in his seat, book in hand. His sister passed him without another word, walking in the direction of cars unknown. Bellamy ignored everything around him in favour of reading a book titled Playing Along. Well, good then. That gave Albaer even more time to think about what he'd been told.

What the girl-Bellamy's words implied contradicted everything Father had told him, but the Bellamy siblings were living proof. But then what about the commoners who beat him and the ones the Bellamy's outsmarted? He could argue they were lazy if they used their time to assault him when they could have used it to make a living. He could argue they were stupid too, if they could be fooled by kids and for resorting to violence to get what they wanted. Didn't that make the Bellamy's the exception rather than the norm? Argh, he didn't know!

But, he thought as he studied Bellamy from the top of his head to the bottom of his grungy boots, he could learn, couldn't he? Despite the advice coming from an eight-year-old, he could give it a try.

"So..." He inwardly cringed at the awkwardness that clumsily broke the silence. "What do you have behind all the hair covering half your face?"

Bellamy closed his book and placed it on his lap, wearing a deadpan expression.

"An eye socket," he said, derisively slow. Albaer could all but hear the word 'stupid' tacked at the end of that sentence.

Feeling his eye twitch, he suppressed the urge to yell and said, "You're a liar if you're telling me you're missing an eye."

Albaer felt a flicker of satisfaction when that earned him an arched eyebrow. But that didn't stop Bellamy from smiling that polite smile as he sweetly replied, "Yeah, I am lying. So what does that tell you about what I'm hiding?"

"...That it's none of my business," Albaer muttered. He couldn't learn what they had in common if Bellamy kept dodging his questions! He had to keep the banter going. Luckily, his escort was willing to do that for him.

"And there's that first class education showing!"

"At least I have an education!" Damn it, he hoped that didn't make Bellamy clam up again. It was time to follow it up with, "Wait – if you don't go to school, why aren't you like the brutes we keep meeting? Why are you–"

"Capable of intelligent conversation?" And how did Bellamy keep completing or substituting his sentences like that? "I've been around. I had to pick up literacy eventually if I didn't want to die."

"What do you read, then?"

"Whatever can teach me something or take my mind off things."

Judging by the slight ease in Bellamy's expression, Albaer figured he was at least headed in the right direction with his questions. Emboldened by his progress, he asked, "Then you've probably read and liked some historical fiction, right?"

"Mr. Lyon has a large collection of historical fiction for sale, yes." Bellamy offhandedly passed his ticket to a passingby conductor to be checked.

Albaer leaned forward. "So you've had to have read The Age of Heroes series, haven't you?" Surely they would be able to get along a lot easier if they were both fans of the masterpiece!

"Oh no," Bellamy said, aghast. "I should've known you were one of them."

"One of who, exactly?" Albaer put aside all thoughts of finding commonalities as he took back his ticket from the conductor.

"An AOH fanatic." Bellamy's tone almost mimicked the aversion in his upon realizing he would be riding third class. There went the hope of finding a fellow Age of Heroes fan. "You probably think love and justice will prevail at the end of the day and that Alphonse guy was the greatest concept ever created since the invention of trouser pockets."

"Yes, I do," he said, his voice a mix of pride and offense. "But why don't you? You've read the series, I can tell! Can't you see that The Age of Heroes is a masterpiece? It's one of the greatest stories ever told! It's–"

"Cheesy, obscenely idealistic, and therefore, completely unrealistic."

Albaer got very close to sputtering, but scarcely held back the urge. "But that's the point! It's supposed to teach the world that good always defeats evil!"

Bellamy scoffed. "It's biased towards aristocracy and a blatant form of escapism." Ugh, he was starting to hate that matter-of-fact voice.

"What is fiction but escapism?" Albaer countered hotly.

"I won't deny that, but I like a bit of realism in the books I read. It grounds you in the story more, unlike AOH, which is a cesspool of rabid fanatics who like to pretend they're Alphonse as they're reading."

"And you haven't tried to pretend you were someone else before?"

"Never."

"You're lying – I'm calling on it now."

"Am not."

"Am too."

"Am n–"

"I've brought dinner." And there was the younger Bellamy.

Watching them devolve into an 'am not, am too' argument.

Albaer felt his face burn again as he cleared his throat, looking anywhere but at Bellamy. When he could find it in himself to look at him again, it was a quick glance from the corner of his eye. Bellamy tried not to look at him either, focusing a bit too much on the brown paper bag full of what he presumed to be food. Bellamy moved closer to the window so that his sister could sit down, took out a roll of bread from the bag, and passed it to her, who did the same thing. She offered the bag to Albaer with a long stare, as if it was her way of asking him if her advice worked.

He could say that it did with certainty, because for the first time since his journey started, he felt no difficulty in speaking with relative civility to Bellamy. And it was all because he decided to take a chance and listen to what a peasant g– er, unfortunate girl had to say.

He took the bag with a smile. "Thank you, Ceres."

The words widened both siblings' eyes. Ceres recovered fast, returning the smile with a small tentative one of her own. Bellamy turned away to watch the sky darken. Albaer opened the bag and examined his roll of bread for a moment. It was dry and stale. But as much as he wanted to complain about it, he realized that criticizing their choice of dinner wouldn't make the bread taste any better. It was doubtless the only thing they could find anyway. What was it like for something like this to be the only thing you could afford to eat? he wondered as he bit into the bread.

Bellamy broke the silence this time. "I might regret voicing this, but you seem oddly okay with just eating a piece of bread for dinner."

Albaer didn't quite feel like returning his stare just yet. "I'd rather not fight about it with you again. It's not as if it would turn this bread into a three-course meal."

"And why would you of all people give up the chance to complain to us about what you usually have for dinner?" He chose this moment to meet Bellamy's gaze, noting how cautious but curious his one-eyed stare was. He considered evading the answer with banter like the other did earlier, but he couldn't drum up the mood.

"I'm trying to learn about why ends don't meet for people like you," Albaer muttered. He took another bite of the bread. It tasted the way old books smelled. Silence reigned until Bellamy broke it again to ask his sister where she got the bread from.

"A nice lady with a baby from the next car gave it to me," she stated.

“Nice lady, huh?” Bellamy gave Ceres a slanted smile. “Did you use the sad routine or the cute routine?”

“Cute.”

“Routine?” Albaer frowned. “What you mean, routine?”

"We don't have enough money for food and travel. Objectively speaking, Ceres’ features endear her to most people. Playing on spectators’ emotions is a simple matter of observation and imitation.” Bellamy leaned back in his seat. “You do the math.”

Albaer narrowed his eyes and scowled after he did the math. “You put on an act to make people give you free things? That's lying!”

"It was either that or stealing," Ceres said solemnly, fixing a firm stare at him. “And I won't ever steal.”

Albaer could respect that but shook his head at the idea of playing on people’s emotions to obtain what he wanted. Since Ceres was naturally straightforward, it wasn't a far guess to figure out where she learned to put on acts. "You're a terrible influence on your sister, you know."

"Nonsense." Bellamy took the bag back and peered into it, checking whether there was any food left over. "I'm teaching her important life skills."

"You say that now, but if she gets a habit of lying, you'll only have yourself to blame."

"There's no need to be so worried, Lamont," he said with a note of amusement. "I may have taught her to do the cute and sad routines, but Ceres is an honest person at heart."

"That makes it worse!"

Bellamy shushed at him, a faint smile threatening to appear as he gestured to the people in their car. Passengers turned on the lanterns as early evening scenery rolled by. Others were already asleep on their un-upholstered benches despite the windows rattling as the train moved over the tracks. He turned his attentions back to Bellamy, who leaned back in his seat once more. Ceres yawned beside him.

Bellamy whispered, "You'd better get some rest. You've had a long day."

Ceres shook her head.

"You won't miss anything. We're just talking, and we'll eventually go to sleep too."

"You won't stay up all night again?" She tried to give him that 'on the spotlight'-inducing look, but another yawn interrupted her. She didn't notice Bellamy gently guiding her head to his lap, carding his fingers through her short hair with a smile.

"Nope, it's too dark to read in here, even with the light. Sleep, Cer. I'll wake you up tomorrow."

"Promise?" she mumbled.

"You know I will." Bellamy continued to pet her. Soon after, Ceres' eyes closed. Her expressionless face softened as she fell asleep. Bellamy turned his gaze towards the window again, which flaunted a royal blue sky dotted with white, spread behind an endless stretch of cornfields.

"You might be a terrible influence on her," Albaer began in a whisper, "but you're not that bad of a brother."

Bellamy gave him an almost embarrassed expression. "Don't tell me you haven't had treatment like that before, Lamont. It had to be from a maid, or your mother, or someone."

Albaer smiled at the memory of being sung to, listening to bedtime stories late at night as he answered, "No, actually, it was my–"

His mouth snapped shut as he remembered who did the singing, the storytelling. Hair as red as his and eyes like cornflowers. A daring grin, an infectious laugh.

A turned back leaving the estate grounds.

Albaer suppressed the surging urge to scowl, but couldn't quite stop the frown from forming. He looked up at Bellamy, who raised an eyebrow. Albaer rested his head against the window, attempting to find a comfortable position, and muttered, "It's about time we go to sleep too. Otherwise, your sister might wake up before you and wander off."

Bellamy studied him for a moment and wordlessly copied his position, closing his eyes. Albaer couldn't help feeling grateful that he did as he too tried to settle in for the night.

#original fiction #AHVI #original work

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aurycula-writes · 6 years

Text

A Hint of Vesperan Intuition

Albaer Lamont, heir to Lamont Industries, should not have magic.

Yet here he is, stranded in Vesper with no idea how he got there. To survive a country that enslaves magic users won't be easy without his father's influence to support him. If he doesn't want the Magia Taskforce to capture him before he reaches home, Albaer must figure out how to use his magic quickly, avoid those that would use him for their own gain, and befriend those with the knowledge and abilities that can help him.

Even if that help comes in the form of a pair of the strangest orphans he'll ever encounter.

Introducing the first story of the Eudaimonia series. You can find the first chapter here:

https://archiveofourown.org/works/15417432/chapters/35783445

The next chapter will be posted same day next week. Feedback is welcome!

If you don’t mind reading it here, it’s under the cut:

Chapter 1: "I suggest you go back to wherever you came from soon."

18 Herba 1690 An unfamiliar street corner 5:08 p.m.

Albaer blinked as autos sped by the road in front of him. People bustled all around him, brushing past him without a second thought. Some of the ruder ones snarled at him in rough Vesperan to get out of the way. Too overwhelmed to respond, Albaer moved out of the flow and into the adjacent alley.

Judging by the rude behaviour and unattractive attire of passersby, Albaer assumed that he was in one of the unwanted districts of the city, but he didn't know if there was a part of Eudial where the majority spoke Vesperan. Leaving that line of thought, he still had to deal with the issue of how he got there. He couldn't explain it – a few seconds ago, he was in his room in the Lamont Estate far away from the downtown area. How could he have–

"Look who dropped by our alley, boys!" A rough voice called from behind him.

Albaer whipped around and saw three boys swagger forward. He noted that all of them were bigger than him, both vertically and horizontally.

"Miles, that looks an awful lot like a richie," a rat-faced boy said.

The largest of the boys laughed. “That's right, Barnes. What, you wanna medal for bein’ Captain Obvious?” The rat-faced boy responded with a scowl and a vulgar gesture. He and the other ruffians stepped closer to Albaer.

“Hey, richie!” Albaer backed away. He didn't want their filth to touch him. A quick glance behind him told him his back was on course towards a brick wall. “Give us your money and we promise we won't hurt you!”

Albaer's eye twitched and his hands tightened into fists. He stopped backing away.

“I don't have any money to give to the likes of you!” he snapped in their language. He didn't know what he would do, but he certainly wasn't going to let these – these peasants push him around. “So why don't you and your goons get lost before I make you regret speaking to me?”

The boys burst into roaring laughs. Albaer frowned. Weren't they supposed to do as he said? Father said they would be intimidated by his superiority and run away.

The large-framed boy and the rat-faced boy caught him by his arms and forcibly held him back. Albaer struggled under their tight grip.

"Unhand me, you filth! When my father hears of this, you'll be lucky if you're ever allowed to show your face in this city again!"

The trio did not let him go like he ordered, but laughed harder. Albaer seethed. When he arrived home, he'd ensure they were all punished for their insolence!

The medium-sized boy sneered. “You know what, Flynn? I'm a little scared.”

"Yeah," the assumed leader said with an overacted shudder. "The richie's papa's gonna do somethin' so scary to us that he won't even tell us what it is."

The boys around him sniggered again, drowning out another one of his threats. How were these peasants holding him down so well?

“Hey, boss! If his daddy's gonna punish the guys who hurt junior here, he'll probably have lots of rewards for us for bringin' 'im home," the rat-faced one added.

"I say we take our starting payment.” The large boy stomped hard on Albaer’s foot.

Before the throbbing in his foot could sink in, an elbow collided with his side. Their leader landed his fist into Albaer's face with what felt like the force of a train. He could taste blood after his ears stopped ringing as much. Another blow connected with his midsection. And another. And another. He couldn't even curl up because the other boys' grip on his arms prevented him from moving. He could already feel his arms bruising.

"How much do you think the richie's daddy'll give us for savin' the little tyke from the scary boys who beat him up?" A kick to his shin.

"I dunno, boss. Maybe we should ask the kid." Another kick rammed into his midsection. Now he was kind of glad that he missed breakfast, he noted in between hacking coughs, watching saliva and blood dribble from his lips.

"Though he probably can't answer." Another round of grating guffaws.

If commoners were supposed to be stupider, lazier and weaker than him, then why hadn't they run away from his threats? Why were they capable of beating him without fear of his family's wrath? At least Father wasn't here to see him like this. Albaer didn’t know how well he hid his shame as he tried to glare at them as best he could with a half-swollen face. Judging by the almost painful volume of their amusement, not so much.

"What's your papa gonna do to us if I do this?" A fist impacted the left side of his ribs. Albaer wheezed.

“Okay boys, save the rest for later. Don't wanna break any goods the kid’s hidin’ by roughin’ him up too much, do we?” The boy they called boss grinned and approached Albaer, grubby hands rummaging through his vest and trouser pockets.

To think that these peons brought him down to this pathetic state. As with adding oil to fire, the thought set off Albaer's already burning anger to the point where he mustered the strength to spit on one of his captors' face. The laughter ceased. The leader's grin grew. Wiping his cheek with the swipe of his sleeve, he swung another fist at his face. Albaer met the boy's bloodthirsty sneer with what he hoped was a bold glare of his own.

In that moment, he couldn’t understand the abrupt rush of power that flooded his body. He tried to move his arms out of the boys' hold once again. Albaer's eyes widened as he saw streams of flames shoot from his hands. The boys released their hold on him to back away from the fire.

Albaer fell back to the wall behind him, pushed off from it and shoved past the boys, bolting out of the alleyway and onto the crowded street. He heard a succession of footsteps in pursuit, spurring him on faster until he heard them fade away. Even then he ran, looking for a place to hide as thoughts thrashed in his head.

He had magic.

His throbbing stomach curled in on itself as he took a left to an emptier street. That explained how he was transported downtown, but what would Father think? No one in the Lamont family had magic. The kind of people to have magic were too lazy to do anything productive. If they weren't layabouts, they were walking disasters. Their horrid powers levelled whole continents during the Warring Era. All the books he received from Father's fourth mistress Enid involved magic users being defeated in some way – did that mean he would become one of those villains?

Albaer's pace slowed to a walk as he surveyed the possible shops he could hide in. Where, why, how could he have possibly have magic? The only magic user he knew that was related to his family in some way was–

The images of a flash of red hair, almost luminous blue eyes and the sounds of warm ringing laughter stopped him in his tracks. Shaking the memories out of his head, Albaer looked up to where he stopped when his injuries started hurting again.

The storefront made up a small section of a larger unit. Mottled grey curtains blocked its display window. A freshly painted medium-sized sign made of wood read, 'CAUTION – WATCH WHERE YOU STEP' and covered the top half of the door. A larger wooden sign with the words, 'Lyon's Discount Bookstore', spelled in a faded black font, hung above the window. The black words and the deep green background peeled in some spots, revealing the grainy wood underneath. He knew, or rather hoped, that his pursuers wouldn’t think to find him at a wreck of a store like this.

Albaer pulled the door open, triggering the ring of a bell. The inside of the store was dim, smaller than the front suggested and smelled of dust and old books. Albaer heard the distant ticks of a clock, but nothing else. Books that weren't crammed into rickety shelves were stacked on every available surface, leaving empty narrow pathways between shelves and to the counter (also covered in book stacks). On a whim, he trudged in the direction of the counter at the back that was previously blocked from sight by a tall heap of encyclopedias. There, he saw a boy and a small girl reading books behind the counter. They looked a little young to be working at a bookstore. But they were also the only ones present, so they were at least allowed to be here.

The boy's pale grey-blond hair was short and tousled except for the long bangs that curtained the left side of his face. He wore the store's deep green on an apron that covered a slightly oversized white shirt. Sitting next to him, the slim little girl wore a blank expression and a dull blue dress that barely covered her knees and frayed at the sleeves. Her dark brown hair, straight with roughly cut bangs, ended at her chin, shorter than any respectable girl he'd seen wore theirs.

The sight of the bookstore occupants distracted him, his knee almost knocking down a nearby stack on the floor. He couldn't say the same for his shoulder that toppled the pile of books on the desk – all of which landed on the reading boy's lap with a chorus of thumps and the rustling of paper.

Needless to say, judging by how the blond glared at him with his one visible eye and the mound of books on his lap and at his feet, Albaer had a feeling that he wouldn't stay long.

Lyon’s Discount Bookstore 5:47 p.m.

'…At that very moment, when he heard the melody, information poured into his head – of the world that took his family away, of the being who composed this music, of his intentions for the world, of who these Knights wanted him to be. And why shouldn't he be that person, be the Dusk King they wanted to be led by?

Why not... play along?'

The telltale sounds of a falling horde of books interrupted the prose and a particularly thick tome knocked the novel out of Léandre's hands. Immediately following that were twenty more volumes of that gods-awful Age of Heroes saga right onto his lap.

Despite his past half-year of employment in the cluttered bookstore, Léandre hadn't had many impacts with the books until this moment. Now that the most chilling moment of Playing Along so far was ruined, he had to deal with newly acquired bruises and clean up all the fallen books. Ceres knew better than to interrupt, and she sat near the right side of the cashier counter, far from the fallen books. Instead, he aimed his irritated glare in front of him, where a clumsy, disruptive boy stood with a flushed expression.

The boy looked about his age. He had a black eye, swollen cheek and less than stable stature. The boy's rust red hair was longer than average, enough to be tied into a small ponytail. He was taller than Léandre, all made up of gangly limbs. His black trousers looked a bit worn. But Léandre could tell, despite the wrinkles and slight singes on the boy's white shirt, black vest and slate grey jacket, that they were tailored to his exact height and made of fabrics worth more than five years' salary. No wonder the local oafs took an interest in him.

"Sorry," the boy said gruffly in response to his irritated staring. His pronunciation was stiff, and his accent rang with a hint of another language, just slight enough for Léandre to be unable to identify it. The ponytailed boy made no move to clean the mess he made, thus confirming his status even further.

Léandre stood up from his seat and picked up the fallen books, choosing not to respond to the half-assed apology. Ceres did the same. He watched the boy from the corner of his eye. The redhead hadn't left and his frown deepened. The silence mounted for a few moments until the boy broke it again.

"Well? Aren't you going to say anything back? I apologized!" the boy snapped, hands on his hips.

Léandre re-arranged the books. "Your apology doesn't fix the mess you made."

"So what if you got a little hurt? At least you didn’t get assaulted today."

Léandre slammed the Standard Rozenite Dictionary hard on the counter right in front of the little upstart, but not enough to disturb any of the book stacks.

"Aw, the little rich boy got a taste of the real world today," he simpered. "Does his highness need his silk hanky to clean his face?"

"Why, you–" A fist knocked down another pile of books. "Members of foreign peerage fight for the chance to speak to me. How dare you, a mere commoner, speak to me so rudely?"

"Very easily, genius. Oh, and do all those rich brats a favour and tell them they aren't missing out. I've had more compelling conversations with five year olds." The loud boy growled as he moved to lift his knee on top of the table. "Oh, did I hurt your poor maiden heart, Princess?" Léandre held his hands up in surrender. "My most sincere apologies!"

Before the redhead could force his way over the table, Ceres stepped closer to the boy and laid one of her hands onto his forearm. The boy stopped in his tracks. He opened his mouth, but she beat him to it.

"Tell us why you're here. If you don't, or if you're here because you want to hurt my brother, please go home."

Her words reduced the boy's snarl to a scowl. He stepped away from the desk and her grip, muttering, "Stupid little commoner girls," in Rozenite.

"Answer her or get out, richie! Before I throw you to the group that mauled you!" Léandre barked in the same language. The boy raised his brows, but quickly changed his expression to a blazing stare that he willingly returned. He half-expected him to continue the argument where they left off.

Instead, the boy took a deep breath and said, "I was going to stay here for a while to hide from the buffoons that ambushed me. If I didn’t cause the commotion, I would have asked you for directions back to the Lamont Estate. Barring that, at least the higher end of the city."

"There is no Lamont Estate in Baskerville," Ceres answered with a more believable serenity, crouching down to pick up the books the boy knocked down. Léandre moved to help her, thanking whatever existing deities for the moment of silence. As he reorganized the fallen books, he snuck a glance at the stunned boy who just wouldn't leave. The frozen, gaping surprise stayed on his face long after Ceres' words.

" …Some sort of magic transported me from my room all the way across the ocean to some backwater city in Vesper?" He groaned, running one of his hands through his hair. "Ugh, this is the worst day of my life!"

Léandre felt like groaning too. He didn't want anything to do with the spoiled brat, so he rolled his eyes instead. "My heart goes out to you, Magic Boy."

"Drop dead, scum!" the boy growled. Léandre watched him carefully as the other's hands balled into fists again. "I am not in the mood anymore."

"Oh, no! You're in a bad mood?" Léandre looked at one of many book lists rather than look at him. "Now I'm too intimidated to answer!"

Ceres interrupted the boy’s growl, shoving a book in his hands and turning to place another stack on the counter. The idiot fell silent. She nodded in what Léandre recognized as gratitude, taking away the book. The boy quirked an eyebrow at her and watched her turn around again to place the tome into a nearby shelf. He opened his mouth to say something again, but squawked when she pulled him into her seat.

"I can take you to the nearest train station."

"What good would that do? It's not like it can cross the ocean and take me back to Rozen." His tone, still gruff and confused, was a touch more polite than before.

"The train will take you to Vessalius. My brother told me once that they have a place called an embassy that can help you." The boy avoided her expectant golden-eyed stare. With nowhere else to look to avoid her gaze, the boy gave Léandre a questioning look tinged with more than a little plea for help.

"She's waiting for you to accept her offer." He moved towards Ceres, placing a hand on her shoulder to turn her attention to him. "But she hasn't considered that I may not let my eight-year-old sister escort an older boy to the far end of the country on her own."

"Come with me, then."

Léandre's eyes narrowed. Why did she always have to offer help to random strangers? He supposed the faster they helped him, the faster he would be out of their lives, but that wasn't her motive for doing most things. Whatever her reasons, he knew the one thing that would dissuade her from following through with her offer was if the boy refused it himself.

He gave her a small, resigned nod before aiming his gaze back at their current problem. "So? Do you want her help or not?"

Ceres hadn't heard Léandre speak this much in years. She never expected to hear most of the talking in insults as he sniped back and forth with the boy she wanted to help. The insults stopped with her offer and going by the boy's frown, he would reject it. But before he could answer, Léandre's boss returned from his meeting with the workers who would help renovate the shop.

"Welcome back, Mr. Lyon," Léandre said in a low tone.

Ceres glanced over to the boy, who looked at Léandre's show of respect with wide eyes and a partially open mouth, like he didn't think her brother capable of it. She’d always found it odd, how people assumed they knew everything about a person they’d known for –she glanced over shoulder at the clock between the shelves– not even ten minutes. Léandre was capable of deference, but only to people he knew that could worsen his situation beyond his ability to maneuver out of it if they found reason to dislike him. It was a useful skill that reduced the number of times she had to step in.

She turned to the old bookstore owner to watch his response to Léandre's conversation with the newcomer, and made note of his raised eyebrows. It didn't look like an unhappy kind of surprise, but more like the good kind of surprised.

"Good work as always, Mr. Bellamy," he said softly, his smile growing. "Now, who's your friend over here? Will I be seeing him around here more often?"

"Oh no, this idiot –er, boy isn't a friend. We just met him today," Léandre hastily said. "He isn't even a customer. He hasn't bought anything."

The boy scowled again, which lessened when he spoke to Mr. Lyon. "I'll have you know that I'm no mere boy oridiot. My name is Albaer Lamont, rightful heir to the Lamont Family and its associated industries."

"Ceres insisted that we assist him in something," Léandre cut in a slight note of worry colouring his tone, "so may I please have four days off starting tomorrow? I apologize for asking this of you, sir. I know you need the help for renovations soon and that what I'm asking of you is impossible. But if I don't agree to do this, my sister will try to help him without me, and–"

Mr. Lyon stopped her brother's rambling, placing a hand on his shoulder. Léandre flinched. She dropped her gaze to the floor when she felt her stomach drop. Ceres knew firsthand that Léandre would rather chop his own hand off than lead her to do something she didn't want to do on purpose. That didn't stop her from feeling guilty with every action he’d done for her sake, no matter what it cost him. She didn't realize that travelling to the capital would take two days one way. Léandre couldn't lose his job – his longest held job, and with Mr. Lyon as his boss, of all people! – because of her.

The greying bookstore owner didn't respond to the flinch. Instead, he glanced at the three children before him and gave her a very quick wink.

"I understand, Léandre," he said in the same gentle voice, and she couldn't help but think that he was saying that to her too. "It won't be easy, but I can wait for you for those four days. If you don't make it back within that time, I will have no choice but to give your job to someone else."

Now it was Léandre's turn to wear the good-surprised look.

"Thank you, sir, but why...?" he trailed off.

Ceres wondered how the bookstore owner could look so sad even though he was smiling. "At your age, my children and grandchildren have always had time to enjoy their childhood. And that is why I will do my best to give you that same chance, before the two of you grow up too quickly."

“Thank you, Mr. Lyon,” Léandre said, bowing his head.

Ceres did the same, unsure of whether bringing Albaer Lamont home would be as pleasant a childhood memory as Mr. Lyon made it out to be. She hoped it would, but that wasn't why she needed to do this.

Albaer watched in bewilderment as the two siblings bowed their heads in gratitude, feeling more confused by the minute. The elderly man couldn't possibly pick up the slack on his own. So why was their employer being lenient? Everything he'd allowed with no complaint, from his and Bellamy's argument to giving him four days off, was unheard of! He should have fired Bellamy for his audacity, not let him run off to do something he wouldn't even specify! Not that Albaer didn't appreciate his unbelievable lenience, but he saw no reason why the store owner would let it happen.

Surely Father was aware of his disappearance by now. No doubt that if he did, there was already a reward to bring him home. They all must have agreed to help him because they hoped to gain favour from his father. He was an idiot for giving away his name so easily! It was as Father said – he was with these peasants for barely half an hour and they were already eager to take advantage of him! Albaer had half a mind to storm out then and there.

But he couldn't help but watch the bookstore owner fuss over the two commoners as they discussed final arrangements before they left for the nearest train station. The older Bellamy was stiff and his replies curt as he removed his apron. The younger showed no outward reactions, merely responding to the questions with as much enthusiasm as Albaer imagined a rock would have.

All things considered, he remembered Enid's words – he could dislike the help all he wanted, as long as he accepted it. One way or another, he'd at least learn something from it. Despite the growing possibility of his escorts-to-be being backbiters, they were also different from what Father said peasants would be like in their specific personalities. They weren't snivelling cretins, and they weren't stupid. Bellamy's fluency in Rozenite proved that much. He only spoke two sentences, but it was lightly accented and used expressions, however insulting, that a beginner wouldn't know.

If he was being honest, they weren't like anyone he'd ever met or read about before. In The Age of Heroes, girls wanted to play princess or go flower picking, trailing after the knights who would humour their requests during their rounds in the kingdom. Ceres Bellamy wasn't the type to know what playing or happiness even was. He supposed, in that way, Bellamy's employer's words about them not having a childhood made sense. Maybe all commoner girls were like that. That was what decided it for him.

Albaer resolved to use their greed for a reward to bring him home. It wasn't like Father pandered to the demands of parasites anyway.

"Hey, Magic Boy! You're not going to get home in the back of the shop gaping like you've lost your brain. We'd love to help you find it, but we're on a tight schedule."

Albaer opened his mouth, a retort ready on his lips, only to find them already waiting on the other side of the open doorway. Gnashing his teeth together, he stomped as best he could around the books to catch up to them.

"Ah, young man?" A voice called from behind him. He stopped and turned to face the old shopkeeper, whose stare examined him from head to toe. It was different from the gentle looks he gave to the Bellamy siblings – it made Albaer feel uneasy, so he didn't sound as confident as he intended to.

"W-what is it?"

"Please cherish what is given to you," he said. "From those that have little, appreciation is the most they might ever receive."

Raising an eyebrow in curiosity, Albaer was about to ask him to clarify.

Bellamy, however, was no longer in sight of the doorway when he cut him off, sounding much farther than he was a few moments ago. "Any day now, Lamont!"

"Keep your hair on, Bellamy, I'm coming!" he snapped back before nodding to the bookstore owner and running the rest of the way out of the store.

By the time he caught up to the siblings, they were waiting for him again with varying levels of patience at the end of the street. Miraculously, Bellamy only gave him an aggravated glance and strode forward at a quick and light pace. If Albaer wasn't taller than him, he wouldn't have kept up with him, so it was a wonder how the younger Bellamy managed. The ash blond wore a ratty black coat with a hood over his head and a drawstring rucksack slung over his shoulder. His body language was coiled, yet was as busy and nondescript as the people around them.

Turning his attentions to his surroundings, Albaer surveyed the streets. The first thing he couldn't ignore was how everything and everyone behaved as if the word enthusiasm didn't exist in their language (it did, he checked). The streets were so dusty that he could taste mud in his mouth, the buildings and shops they passed were a dreary grey with grime, display windows were as dirty as the streets around him, and the sky refused to remove its filthy overcast. Albaer didn't even know why the sky looked like that in the first place. It was already mid-Herba, where was the sunny day and fresh breeze?

No really, he needed a breeze right now. Albaer knew what the townspeople did with their garbage –he almost vomited in his mouth when he stepped in something that resembled a spoiled, half-eaten meat pie– because they tossed it onto the streets without a care. They passed a man with a pungent, sour reek puking in an alley. Anything that didn't smell rotten or like it belonged in a toilet gave off the stench of smoke. As for the locals, don't get him started. They all wore baggy clothes that were either varying sizes of too big or too small. Everything they wore either tried to blend in with the dull scenery or were a mash of faded patchy colours that clashed with the residents’ red, black or brown hair.

Those who weren't trying to get somewhere or working in stores either lurked in alleyways and watched passersby or begged in the streets. His face tightened in distaste as he narrowly dodged a woman wearing too much makeup staggering past them. At least Father was right about the rest of the commoners being too lazy to do anything productive. Maybe Albaer had the luck of encountering the few that weren't.

"Magic Boy–" Bellamy began.

"Try and speak louder, will you? I think there are a few people on the other side of town that couldn't hear you," Albaer hissed.

"I trust that you're capable of paying for your own ticket," he said as if Albaer didn't interrupt. Albaer didn't retort right away, his face wiped blank as if the realization that he wasn't carrying any money on him was a crash landing airship. He seldom went into the city, so there was never any need to bring money with him. Besides, the servants or Father would always be the ones to pay for whatever he wanted.

Albaer's cheeks reddened as Bellamy stopped and turned around to face him when he didn't answer. He felt his face heat up even more when Bellamy's face took on a look of exasperation as he sighed. "I don't know what I expected."

Albaer spluttered. "You didn't even hear what I had to say yet!"

"Please." Bellamy rolled his eyes, moving forward once again. "As if it wasn't obvious. I shouldn't have asked a person who got mugged."

"I wasn't mugged."

"Oh?" The dryness packed into the single syllable could have peeled paint. "So you richies are so bored with your lives that you've finally turned to self-inflicted injuries as a form of entertainment? Consider me impressed."

"It's not that! It's more like...they couldn't steal what I... don't have," Albaer muttered, looking anywhere but at the hooded boy in front of him.

"So sorry Magic Boy, but would you mind repeating that again?"

Albaer barely held back a sudden, burning desire to punch Bellamy's face. "What kind of businessman holds his own money when there are servants who do the paying for them?"

"One that can pay for his own train ticket when he's stranded in a foreign country," Bellamy answered, not missing a beat.

Albaer growled. Not that it fazed the other boy. "I suppose you're too poor to pay for your ticket either, peasant. Even worse, you have to pay for your sister on a store clerk's wage. How many years' salary is it going to take to pay for the two of you? Or are you too proud to admit that you scammed the money out of your boss?"

Before Albaer could say anything else, Bellamy pushed him against a brick wall by his collar. His visible brown eye and snarl chilled him all the way down to his toes. The girl-Bellamy stood by his side, her body tense and her expression as blank as ever. If he didn't know any better, Albaer would have suspected that she would step in if they got out of hand.

"We could leave you here, you know," Bellamy hissed. Albaer met his cold fury with a fierce glare. He tried to struggle out of his grip, to no avail. To Bellamy's credit, he didn't seem to have noticed. "I didn't have to risk losing my job and Ceres didn't have to go out of her way to make sure you safely arrive to the Rozenite embassy. We could just leave you out here to fend for yourself."

"I would be fine without your help anyway!" He had a better shot than he thought he did before. Albaer could still remember the sensation of flames bursting from his fingertips and grudgingly wished he knew how to use it now.

The defiance in him faltered when Bellamy's expression twisted into a cold smile. "You don't get it, do you?"

He motioned with his head to the street beside them. Five servants inched by, levitating a first edition Cristo grand piano. Only two servants were Renan, indicated by their white hair and red eyes, but all of them had a bold red M on their left cheeks. Their faces shined with sweat. Trailing behind them was a man who wouldn't have been out of place at one of Father's business meetings. Their presumed master frowned and touched the signet on his ring. Albaer heard sizzling as the marks on their faces glowed red. They shuffled along faster.

Albaer forced himself to look at Bellamy again, whose smile seemed bitterer than it did before. "They don't only do that to Magias, you know. They do it to it to Renans, criminals, illegal immigrants. Imagine what they would do if they caught you." He released his grip on him and held out his hand. "I suggest you go back to wherever you came from soon, and the best way to do that is through our help."

Albaer always thought that Father, a native of Vesper, hated magic for personal reasons, and maybe he did. But Albaer suspected that growing up with sights like what he'd just witnessed had something to do with it too. His newly found magic, he concluded, would unquestionably have to be another secret he had to hide from Father.

Not to mention, the Bellamy siblings chose to help him. Bellamy didn't spare a moment to show him he'd have rather worked at that shabby bookstore than help him in hope of a reward. But then why were they helping him? Maybe it wasn't the right time to ask them. Maybe if he accepted their help, he might learn the answer along the way.

Albaer accepted the outstretched hand. "You'll be having me then, if you really don't mind."

“Don't kid yourself; of course I mind.”

“Well, you aren't the only one, you b–"

#original fiction #industrial fantasy #AHVI #original work

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