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Shalem can easily discern the subtle change in rhythm when night descends upon the landship. While the fast-sinking sun behind the horizon draws another day on Terra to a close, the operations within Rhodes Island have yet to cease. Like the twin moons in the sky dutifully orbiting one another in counterpoint, the veil of night gave rise to a familiar dance beneath the stars.
Though a typical day at Rhodes Island could never boast anything but the facsimile of peace given its curious assortment of personnel, the later hours tended to be quieter and less hectic. A good deal of the landship staff retired to their dorms and visitors retreated to their temporary accommodations, or departed well before sundown. Only those who sported unorthodox sleep cycles due to their race or learned proclivities roamed about the landship at this hour. The most activity was confined to the medical wing, where monitoring and receiving patients was of utmost importance, regardless of the time.
Stillness preludes catastrophe, but the gentle, predictable hum of Rhodes Island’s breathing soothes and stays. All performers on the stage of Terra were beholden to their own routine. The lumbering beast of Rhodes Island was no different.
In the distance, muted voices make themselves known as they float down the hall. They lack the urgency of a medical emergency, or the boisterous joviality of a returned squadron. It was more likely the custodians, or simply a group of operators who craved a midnight snack from the mess hall. The indistinct chatter settles Shalem’s nerves and reminds him he is yet awake.
He takes refuge in this liminal space betwixt dusk and dawn. Not of blackest night itself, for the guise of dark encourages the melodious voices of phantoms to wax with rancor - but in the relative solitude and calm.
Shalem takes to a corner of one of the empty dormitories, his willowy form primly perched on a couch cushion. He diminishes his presence even here; Shalem keeps his glossy tail curled about his thigh lest one of the operators working a late shift stops in for a brief respite. Sheafs of paperwork rest on the coffee table before him and the tea that he brewed himself has long cooled, the faint scent of Yanese herbs emanating from the cup.
Things finally began to settle into a cautious sense of routine once more - tenuously, like the relatively uneventful months prior to Lucian’s reappearance. He is vigilant not to drift into complacency, for he could never consider this true solace. Instead, he fulfills his role as best he can and takes meager comfort in its predictability. Securing necessary preparations became second nature and the screen of his terminal remained blessedly clear of any damning missions. On occasion, he was asked to take to the field as an operator, but for the better part of his duties, Shalem stayed comfortably behind the curtain.
He is… content, he thinks. No, quieted. Even in moments like this, when sleep was not cruel enough to take him, he can spend the sparse hours of the morning reading or working without the instinct of survival eclipsing all else. He does not mind the rare bout of insomnia if that meant he was not gripped by nightmares and looming specters; there was no need for empty platitudes to sew their lips tenderly shut.
Shalem’s long fingers flip through the remaining forms to complete. He knows each operator by code name and ID number, by scrawled notes on their official file in the database, and by his own personal observations. He takes care not to meddle in their affairs unless it is to pull them from the crooked path, the one that veers into the hellish set of jaws from which he fled. They are the actors on this stage, and he aids them so they may breathe life into each performance. He knows no more than what is necessary to continue this mundane life.
His request for provisions had been approved for an upcoming mission, earning a small hum of acknowledgement from the back of his throat. Then, there were accommodations for certain operators who had yet to become entirely accustomed to the helidrop process. And further still was a request for surplus repair equipment, specifically for those who were prone to breaking their infection monitoring devices in the midst of battle, or recklessly channeling their Arts through their specially altered arms despite the engineering department’s robust testing phase.
These were merely standard preparatory measures when accounting for a squad. Those handpicked by the Doctor tended to be the more troublesome, as he cannot quite fathom what compels them to favor specific compositions. Nevertheless, Shalem combed through their files and took note of their needs. So long as nothing untoward transpired on their mission, it should be a relatively routine endeavor…
Suddenly, a permeating chill courses up the notches of Shalem’s spine, biting sharply into his nape and sending his thoughts awry. He nearly drops the pen in his grasp, instead clutching it with a renewed fervor until his knuckles turn bloodless.
The air becomes too thin. There is no warning of the Doctor’s measured footsteps or the hurried pattering of a medic from the other end of the wing. Shalem musters all of his strength to stifle a visible flinch at the sight of melting shadow, all too reminiscent of seeping lifeblood. The writhing shapes coalesce along the walls in death throes before dissolving into a fine mist.
From this reaper’s obfuscation, the warm lamplight of the dorm reveals the shape of-
“...Lucian?” Shalem inelegantly rasps, slightly bewildered from beneath his pale bangs.
Lucian rises to full height soundlessly, dark delicately wreathed about his edges. Shalem cannot help but stare; he was always enraptured by Lucian’s beauty during his days with the Troupe. They all were. Yet what surprises Shalem most is the simple fact that Lucian is here.
Their pasts were entwined, but that did not mean their futures needed to be. Shalem was certain they had gone their separate ways after returning from Calais-Blason; he had the faceless role of a Rhodes Island employee to carry out while Lucian was afforded a second opportunity to seize his own life. There was little reason for them to seek one another out… or so Shalem believed, until this moment.
The reappearance of the elusive keeper of the night was nothing short of a bad omen. The other’s severe expression causes dread to coalesce thickly in the pit of Shalem’s stomach like gooey tar. He hoped to wash his hands of matters pertaining to the Crimson Troupe after braving their den of iniquity to retrieve Lucian. Had they sought to reclaim him - both of them? A myriad of contingency measures flit through Shalem's periphery, conjuring ways to make an escape once more.
He stays his hand for the moment, peering over the papers in his grasp.
“Is something amiss?” Shalem keeps his voice low and his face turned away from the surveillance camera poised just outside the room. He attempts to parse the look in Lucian’s eye. Not glassy and unfocused, but not rife with urgency, either. Not ensnared by the abyss, nor heavy with ghosts plucked from their shallow graves.
Lucian’s hearing was always keener than his own. Understanding makes itself known on Lucian’s stoic mien at Shalem’s hushed question. He quickly shakes his head with his lips pressed into a firm line, much to the Pythia’s immediate relief.
Oh, thank goodness. Shalem does not know what he would have done if the vestiges of the Crimson Troupe resurfaced so soon. They had effortlessly spirited Lucian away the first time; Shalem spent his waking hours nursing a burgeoning anxiety, waiting for them to bear down upon the sanctuary of Rhodes Island in retaliation. The tension incrementally uncoils from Shalem’s form, steadying his frantic heartbeat.
With the worst of his fears assuaged, he slips easily into his persona of a pleasant, palatable colleague. Shalem gently clears his throat and brushes a stray strand of hair out of his eyes. “Mister Phantom - if I may ask, what brings you here? Did you require accommodations for the upcoming mission?”
Though, he can't quite imagine that being the source of this visit. Historically, Lucian had little issue with the way Rhodes Island prepared his supplies for missions. Shalem cannot recall a time when Operator Phantom voiced any complaint with the logistics staff, save for requesting they keep Miss Christine’s bowl filled while he was absent on extended operations. Whether it was due to his natural reticence or his uncanny adaptability, Shalem did not know.
A trace of discomfort crosses his expression before he finally speaks. “Nothing of the sort. I did not mean to impose. I merely…” Phantom sighs, a near-soundless wisp of resignation leaving him as his gaze flicks aside. “I could not sleep on this night, yet I did not wish to wake Miss Christine. I thought a walk about the dormitories might quell my fitful mind.”
A fragile moment passes where Lucian looks like he might say more, but decides against it. Shalem understands implicitly. It was why Lucian’s supposed walk had taken him directly to Shalem’s side instead of meandering about the landship without the use of his Arts.
The nightmares would always be a part of their lives no matter how often they were banished. Shalem is used to weathering them alone, yet he hadn't been mired as deeply as Lucian to begin with. To Shalem, the memories and fantasies were dogged teeth sinking into his heels. To Lucian, they were nothing less than a suffocating vise on his very soul.
At least, he thinks this is what Lucian means to say. He dares not imagine what it would mean if those calls were the voices of living phantoms. Shalem quickly gathers himself and lets a cordial smile play on the curve of his mouth. Trepidation lingers beneath his skin, though he tries to appear welcoming to the best of his ability.
He shall not lie: he is ever tempted to turn Lucian away in his hour of need. But how could he? He would be plagued by the same cresting guilt if he did not embark on the mission to rescue Lucian from the castle.
“I wasn't doing anything important. You are welcome to pass the time here, if you would like.” Shalem uses his free hand to gesture at the remaining seats of the couch in an airy flourish.
It was an offer usually reserved for the Doctor when they requested an assistant at odd hours, or the occasional child who followed him from the pediatric wing with the insatiable hunger for another story. For the former, he would read the discreet movements of their form hunched in concentration, offering files and books as needed. For the latter, Shalem would try his best to indulge before escorting them back to their room. He made sure to impress upon them that Mister Enforcer was better suited to entertaining these whims; Ezell Pastore and his young charge were never short of little ones vying for their attention since they arrived from Laterano.
Lucian wordlessly takes a seat on the other side of the couch, resting his full weight against it with a drawn out exhale of relief. Shalem glances at him curiously out of the corner of his eye. Lucian did not appear to be injured; no scent of blood, nor ruddy stains on the cushions. He hadn't noticed any dark circles beneath Lucian's eyes or gauntness to his frame, like the day Shalem retrieved him from the castle. But it was clear he had been tense until this moment, sinking into the plush seat as if returned from a prolonged mission.
Shalem shouldn't pry - he knows he shouldn't, and he returns to leafing through the forms in his grasp. He quickly finds he is unable to focus, flitting over the same line of printed text annotated with his own neat script until he's reread it thricefold to no avail. He simply cannot be at ease when he knows Lucian is but a hair’s breadth away. Not that Lucian would ever lash out at him or anything similarly uncouth - but it is still… difficult to be reminded of all that transpired between them. The ingrained fear was what kept him alive thus far. He cannot afford to discard it when there were demons lurking about.
In his periphery, he methodically catalogs the small movements that Lucian allows himself. These days, Lucian put more care into visibly appearing around the landship instead of habitually retreating to the shadows. Operator Phantom still remained one of Rhodes Island’s myths, but more were inclined to its veracity. Shalem searches for anything that would mark him as erringly human rather than an inkblot wavering under the lights, a shadow made manifest.
When Lucian goes still, too still for Shalem’s liking, a budding panic sets at the base of his skull, threatening acrid bile at the back of his throat. He finally sets his clipboard aside in defeat, making one of Lucian's tufted ears twitch.
“Have you been well?” A paltry question, a weak attempt to cut through the deafening silence.
Lucian fixes on him with his usual intensity, molten gold boring through Shalem as if he might prise apart the mask welded to his face. “Yes. The missions since my return have been completed without difficulty. Rhodes Island is free to use me how they see fit.”
Shalem was aware of that much; no sordid reports of casualties found their way to his desk. “And your infection?”
“I’ve… accepted treatment,” Lucian slowly confesses, each syllable thin on his tongue. “They cannot guarantee a full remission with the extent of its spread. But anything to prevent this vessel from being used as an instrument for far greater evils…”
Shalem’s carefully mild expression decays into pity. Lucian was resistant towards receiving treatment when he first arrived. It must have been a difficult decision to finally relinquish his true voice. Though it was used as a tool to invite calamity, to forfeit it so readily would be casting the last of his prior life away.
Shalem wasn't a particularly outstanding member of the Crimson Troupe, and as such, felt no lingering attachment to the persona he crafted for himself. Roles and masks could be swapped in the blink of an eye. He learned as much in order to survive. Lucian, in contrast, was the honed jewel of the master. No doubt the essence of song was ingrained into his very being.
“I see. Rhodes Island will do everything within its power to stabilize your condition. Rest assured you will be afforded the utmost care that our physicians can offer,” Shalem dutifully recites. “You have naught to be concerned about.”
It does little to lift Lucian’s spirits. Much seems to weigh on his mind still, his expression distant, hovering on the brink of a faraway dream. Contemplative, but not yet lost. “Do you frequently find yourself kept awake?”
“What makes you say that?”
“We have not met as of late, but I am aware your footsteps have joined the cacophony of those who take to the halls at night,” Lucian states plainly.
Shalem gives him a bemused blink, turning the words over in his mind. He recalls the tenacity with which Lucian harried him after their first meeting away from the Crimson Troupe. Shalem thought it a curse, another punishment meted out for his cowardice by those who exiled him. He ended up retreating to the confines of his dorm - at least, within those plain four walls Lucian could not linger in his periphery like a specter.
Now, Lucian no longer had a reason to cling to his shadow. There was no need for him to concern himself with Shalem’s pitifully unremarkable existence.
“I'm no longer purposefully avoiding you, if that is what you mean to ask,” Shalem’s violet eyes are drawn to the way Lucian’s posture relaxes the barest amount. “As you're aware, I still function as logistics personnel. Operations have picked up and there has been little time to rest.”
A meager excuse, though not entirely an untruth. The numerous reports and preparatory requests neatly piled before him were proof of it. Lucian hums shortly in acknowledgement. Silence falls upon them like the rapid coming of dusk.
Before Lucian can make another damning observation, Shalem speaks again. “What of you? I hardly see you linger in the dormitories.”
Though, Shalem can't imagine why he would. Operators who did not pursue fulltime employment had a greater degree of freedom than those involved in daily upkeep of the landship. Some already had lives outside of lending their aid to Rhodes Island. Others had circumstances that prevented them from offering much else. The average Infected would be indebted to Rhodes Island, much like Shalem, but Lucian was a special case. Miss Closure allowed him to undergo the onboarding process despite his elusive nature and the Doctor utilized his unique set of skills when necessary.
Moreover, it was a fruitless task to keep him under strict surveillance. Shalem wonders why he skulked about the landship at all if he was capable of slipping away at a moment’s notice.
“Don't tell me you lack for hobbies?” Shalem adds half in jest when Lucian does not answer immediately. The other’s hesitation stretches palpably between them, and Shalem fights from looking visibly aghast when he realizes that might be the truth.
“I can find plenty to keep myself occupied between missions,” Lucian quietly refutes him.
“Such as…?” Shalem prompts, morbidly curious.
The Feline takes a moment to recount, long fingers lacing together in his lap. “I enjoy sampling cafés when the landship docks in foreign cities. Miss Whisperain has taken to accompanying when she is allowed a moment of respite.” Lucian’s expression softens as he draws upon memories untainted by blood and madness. “I also assist other operators when the occasion demands. That Lupo girl - Red - was interested in learning from me about stealth techniques. I do not mind having a young pupil, and she is a quick study.”
A person who scarcely had memories to cling to, and another who was feared by others for her very existence. Rhodes Island was home to all sorts of people; if Lucian could find camaraderie among their ranks, then perhaps he could carve a place for himself here as well.
Shalem allows his lips to quirk upwards. “That's good. It’s heartening to know you're doing well for yourself.” And he means it. Shalem might not foster hope that they would ever be free of this, but it was enough to know that his efforts had not entirely gone to waste.
Still, he seemed to be somewhat evasive. Shalem notices immediately; Lucian had never been a skilled liar outside of his roles if Doctor Folinic’s scoldings were any indication.
He levels Lucian with an even look, intent on striking swiftly and precisely. “Do you no longer partake in the arts?”
Part of Shalem knows the answer and merely sought to confirm his suspicions. He thought it strange in the moons following their departure from Calais-Blason: Lucian vanished from the medical wing once his bout of forced bed rest had been completed, but there was no further mention of mournful verses haunting the top deck of the landship on moonless nights.
“I have resolved to not sing unless necessary,” Lucian says without betraying any emotion. “I do not see a reason to…”
“...Indulge in something that reminds you of what you now lack?” Shalem finishes.
Lucian averts his gaze, the pad of his index finger absently tracing over the protruding ridge of his infection monitoring device. The small lights glow softly, illuminating Lucian’s pale flesh in an artificial blue. Shalem’s gaze is drawn to the delicate shards embedded beneath his skin - there was a fowlbeast carved from black crystal within Lucian’s throat yearning to be free, now caged and smothered out of necessity.
Shalem could understand his reluctance. It was why he was loath to wield daggers as his choice of arms. He instead insisted on taking up a heavy shield to defend himself while under the instruction of Miss Dobermann. His request, though unorthodox, posed no issue so long as he could pass his combat assessment. And after that, he sparsely used his Arts if he could help it, and kept his involvement in combat operations to a minimum. Anything to keep the reminder of his sin out of sight.
But they are children weaned on the arts - though they wished to leave this past behind, this nightmare bred a starved beast of them, one unable to be sated unless the proper offerings were made.
For Lucian to deny himself any involvement in performance was akin to cruelty. “If not song, then what about dance?” he presses, searching Lucian’s face for anything other than stiff apathy.
If Lucian was averse to singing, then he could offer his body, contort his form into art itself. Shalem knew that was still within his repertoire - when the troupe performed, the supporting cast was choreographed to showcase Lucian’s song. Their routines were arduous and intricate, a shifting web to ensnare prey before Lucian devoured their minds. The Blood Diamond did not engage in showy movements that would detract from the mesmerizing quality of his voice, yet his dance was striking and refined all the same.
At times, he even possessed a partner, an ephemeral lover on the stage, entwined with each other as they waltzed in dizzying, fervent circles. Many an envious performer vied for that place - either as the lead who was beloved by all, or the one held in Lucian’s arms, drinking in the haunting tones spilled from his lips.
The former Blood Diamond casts his gaze downward, meek and nothing at all like the commanding presence he held while draped in finery under the glowing spotlight. “Truthfully, I fear to partake once more. The voices still beckon to me. They wish for my song and seek to lay claim to this vessel. I dare not give them an answer, lest it become a thread to lead them back from the land of the dead.”
Lucian brimmed with guilt in the aftermath, as if he would sink into viscous shadow never to return. Though the wounds he sustained upon his body during his imprisonment had healed, it seemed his heart had yet to follow suit. Shalem is emboldened to close the distance, if only for a moment. He tentatively places a hand over Lucian’s, feeling him stiffen in surprise before going still under Shalem’s light touch.
“You are returned to us. And I promised you, did I not? That if you lost yourself, I would…” Drive a blade through your beating heart, carve crystal from your bared throat.
Yes, should the worst come to pass, Shalem would take up the mantle of reaper to deliver Lucian unto a merciful end. A duty foisted upon him the moment he did not raise his blade against Lucian in the wake of his bloody performance at Calais-Blason. The failed mission that led to Shalem’s exile marked him as ill-suited for such a role, but it was he who let this phantom roam free among the living. Distantly, Shalem curses his own foolishness.
He steadies himself with the mantra that dictated his every action. Gentle and modest. It was what drove him to soothe Lucian’s sorrow despite his better judgment. “In any case, there should be no danger. I've… something you might appreciate, if you'll allow me to fetch it for you.”
Shalem draws back when Lucian offers a mute nod, rising from his seat. He strides across the room and begins sifting through one of the cupboards in the dormitory. The search does not take him long; he is the only person who regularly used such an item and he finds it remained untouched since he last removed it.
Within his grasp, Shalem reveals a record sleeve with strikingly ornate decoration. The main illustration depicted a joyful scene of man and beast alike, using older techniques to mimic paintings from the Gaulish renaissance. The title was carved at the top of the sleeve in gilded calligraphy: Deux lunes, spring blessings of the heavens through the veil of the false sky.
Shalem holds up the record, allowing Lucian a good look. “Have you ever heard of this suite?”
Lucian shakes his head. Good.
“It was a series of pieces commissioned by a vicomte some decades ago, to celebrate the wedding of his daughter to the future duke of their territory. This record contains the first, second, and third movements. It is a reproduction by a Victorian opera house, so one may argue its authenticity, but I found it relatively faithful to the techniques used by Gaulish musicians.”
“How did you come across such a record?” Lucian’s interest appears hesitantly piqued, shedding a fraction of his earlier melancholy.
“Miss Mint has developed a vested interest in Gaulish history. We found this by chance during one of her excursions,” Shalem answers vaguely.
Shalem kept a close eye on what texts she borrowed from the archives of Rhodes Island, still wary after he deterred her from delving too deeply into the existence of Calais-Blason. His presence alone made calamity a possibility; should she skirt too close to secrets that none should know… Well, he could not guarantee her safety. Many scholars sought to learn of the empire prior to its disgraceful fall and subsequent annexation; that in itself was not a concern. Shalem could only pray that her morbid interest transformed into more harmless pursuits than uncovering the origin of his nightmares.
His hopes were answered, in part; what began as a glimpse into the abyss swiftly became a prosaic dive into geology. Gaul had been thoroughly stamped out. The rich history of its land held many mysteries lost to time. Miss Mint added capturing that lost landscape to her endless pile of projects and Shalem assisted her when she approached him once more. Anything from weathered paintings to folk tales could help recreate its majestic visage before it became a ravaged shadow of its former self, she explained.
It was a way to revive the dead, when their voices could no longer regale her with words. Some time ago, he accompanied her to a Victorian flea market in search of such artifacts. What they found were cheap toys meant to be storied antiques, hackneyed counterfeits that were no better than scrap metal. It was an exemplary instance of how something could become a perverse parody of itself with time.
Music was no exception; there were many attempts that were but a pale imitation of the height of Gaul’s renaissance. But this one reminded him of the lullabies played by the Crimson Troupe when he was a child, their winding melodies and orchestration comforting without being stifling. Shalem moves to set it on the record player and is keenly aware of Lucian’s gaze on him the entire time.
The opening track is a lively waltz with Gallic verses layered over the music in a deep baritone. Strings happily plucked a tune while the woodwinds daintily danced atop the lower voices. The lyrics and composition were adapted from a farmer’s folk song, then spun into a piece that would suit the frippery of minor nobility. Nothing at all like the frenzied, harrowing pieces that the troupe arranged. The ghost of longing passes over Lucian’s features near immediately.
“I take it you have no qualms with it?” Shalem watches Lucian’s face carefully as he returns to his side.
“It’s pleasant,” Lucian curtly offers, but his ears are noticeably pricked with each phrase that carries through the air.
Encouraged, Shalem continues. “The opening movement depicts the merriment of those gathered in the duke’s lavish garden. Feasting, drinking, dancing…” Shalem briefly lets the music wash over him and stay his residual nerves. “It was first played at their wedding for the guests to enjoy. These kinds of shameless festivities were usually reserved for commonfolk with more pastoral lifestyles. But with the first whispers of war on the horizon, perhaps they felt compelled to let go of such restraint.”
Hedonism in the face of despair, primal emotions that Shalem bore witness to time and time again. He is far removed from such things now, but human desperation was a constant throughout the tapestry of history.
“What do you think of it?” Lucian asks, clearly disinterested in an impromptu history lesson.
“Well… it's good to practice old routines with.”
When he had time, Shalem kept limber in the training rooms by going through the elegant forms impressed upon his young body. Desk work and the like afforded him little opportunity to stretch and maintain his flexibility. Engrossing himself in music and dance soothed the part of him that yearned to perform once more.
“Though we don't have a stage, it could prove to be nostalgic to practice together,” Shalem adds.
Perhaps Lucian could seek the same solace in these melodies, however defanged and devoid of madness. It was the only way to endure this fragmented existence.
At the proposition, Lucian’s eyes glint with sudden interest, bearing down upon him. “Would you? Indulge in a dance with me, I mean.”
Shalem quickly smothers his bewilderment, caught off guard. He’d been coaxing Lucian like a wounded animal thus far, intent on chasing away a modicum of his pervasive sorrow. It now seems he had been mistaken; Lucian is akin to a beast unrepentantly latched onto its prey. Gleaming gold lances through him, rendering him immobile with their expectant edge.
What sort of misfortune would this dance bring? Shalem had been convinced there was no danger in it, yet now, presented with Lucian’s fervor, there was nothing to keep the hungering ghosts at bay. His fate had been sealed from the first. There was nowhere to flee this time; Shalem had no choice but to meet it.
“If that is what you wish. I don't believe there should be others returning to the dormitories for a while yet.” The operators working the overnight shift would not be relieved until the first light of dawn.
Shalem exhales a long breath through his nose to abate his growing misgivings. He removes the hair clip from his bangs, then sweeps them aside before fastening them in place once more against his temple. He did not want to make the mistake of treading upon Lucian’s feet.
“Now, then… May I have this dance, Mister Phantom?” He bows at the waist, offering his hand. Inviting death yet again.
Lucian rises to his feet and takes his hand.
His long fingers nimbly wrap around Shalem's own while his other palm rests against Shalem’s spine to steady him. Lucian’s touch is surprisingly warm; it seemed he had forgone his usual set of gloves in his haste to outrun his nightmares, revealing a myriad of thin scars carved into his pale flesh. Some distant instinct of Shalem’s Pythia blood drives him to seek more of Lucian’s body heat before being quashed by the strict decorum he carried himself with.
Shalem rests his hand on Lucian’s shoulder. Lucian's figure is not imposing, per se, but he is taller than Shalem, gracefully lithe. Shalem tilts his chin upwards slightly to meet his gaze, reading the flicker of guilt and shame that passes through his luminous irises.
They spend a long moment like this, on the precipice of a fathomless abyss. Shalem patiently waits for him to take the lead. The music from the record player hangs in the air like a fragile bauble. He silently prays that when he next opens his eyes, he will not be suffocated by ruby drapery and the scent of death.
With the first movement of Lucian’s guidance, they take to the stage once more. The audience’s gaze falls upon them with bated breath.
Shalem, in turn, falls into the role with ease. He recalls many a part like this: bodies transforming themselves into art as they spun about the edges of the stage, in a perpetual state of metamorphosis as they navigated the sprawling tapestries and passed between partners in perfect time. Even when they were placed in cramped amphitheateres and shoddy stages, the troupe flawlessly delivered their mesmerizing performances across hidden pockets of Victoria. A sterile dormitory aboard Rhodes Island was merely another change of scenery.
Other times, they were free to spread their wings to their hearts’ content; there were expansive ballrooms in the castle, when the master decided to host performances with their full arsenal of props and traps at their disposal. They held grand feasts for generous benefactors with a taste for the macabre, allowed them to sup on delicacies until they were fattened and drink wine until they were thoroughly intoxicated. Within those rooms was a rich gathering of unwary prey that turned into a magnificent slaughter. The glorious cycle of bloody banquets repeated endlessly. The joyous laughter after each one rang in his ears for days afterwards.
Shalem passed by one of the ballrooms as he led their squad through the troupe’s lair. Beneath a lacquered table was the malformed illusion of Lucian, cowering and frail, swaddled by moth-eaten tablecloth. One might say it was a bastardization of his current self - either as the deadly Operator Phantom, or the resplendent Blood Diamond - but Shalem knows well that the castle existed on the boundary of dream and memory. There was a grain of truth to each falsity yet; the sight left a bitter taste in Shalem’s mouth.
They are far from the castle now, yet Shalem cannot help but think of that harrowed youth as they share this dance. He steals a glance at Lucian out of the corner of his eye when the room spins on its axis. His stoic mien fixed in concentration, each curve and plane of his face worthy of an artisan's sculpture. Lingering beneath this veneer of calm was a potent madness, their minds irrevocably stained by darkness. In the very depths of his soul, could there truly be a boy that resembled the sniveling wretch Shalem found in that nadir?
He puts it out of mind; nothing of their current lives or sanguine pasts held weight in this moment. They chose to offer dance, and they are performers meant to see this through. Music fills the room, resounding through their bones and guiding their steps. The ghosts cede their voices to Lucian in eerie calm, as if his mere presence drives them to the grave.
Shalem mentally counts in six, then in three, then eventually slips into one. The Gallic syllables linger achingly on his tongue. He dares not speak nor sing. Restraint, Shalem has learned, is necessary for a mundane life. The most he allows himself is unwinding his tail from where it had been conservatively curled around his own ankle. It lightly sways behind him in time, helping him maintain his balance.
Many Terrans do not trust Pythia on principle. Shalem was reminded of this fact once he sought employment after fleeing the troupe. Though Rhodes Island did not regard him with the same prejudice, he still remained distant out of necessity. Within Lucian’s embrace, he realizes he cannot recall the last time he was this close to another human without the pretense of work or medical examinations.
It should feel unnatural. A scalding brand upon his skin, the beginnings of rot on tender flesh. Lucian holds him reverently, an unspoken communion in the synchronous movements of their bodies.
Perhaps nothing has changed at all in the time he was away - in spite of his creeping fear, Shalem remains captivated at the sight of the Blood Diamond. Like biting into overripe fruit with adoration gushing from between his lips, dripping wetly down his jowls. To indulge in such a way, to be beholden to this damnable greed and insatiable gluttony, is wanton. Yet he cannot turn away. Such was the covenant binding him to this role.
The track descends into a slower aria, a variant on the previous piece. Lucian’s pace changes to match the new tempo; like this, Shalem can feel Lucian’s every sigh and each elegant curve of his form.
It’s strikingly intimate; Shalem tempers himself and thinks of Lucian in faceless parts as they cling to one another. A hand to grasp, to gesture, to wield a blade. A neck to house a thrumming pulse, an artery to cleanly sever. Eyes like jewels to be plucked out by fowlbeasts. Lips to drink in wine so dark it could be ichor-
“Is this not painful for you?” Lucian suddenly asks, just barely above a whisper. For a moment, Shalem wonders if he’s misheard, but no - Lucian is fixed on his face, quietly expectant.
Shalem pulls himself out of his idle musings. “No, it isn't. Are you getting stiff already?”
Lucian shakes his head, feathery locks coming loose from where they were tucked behind his ear. “I meant… does being close to me hurt you?”
He had not disguised his discomfort well enough during each impromptu rendezvous, or did Lucian finally choose to acknowledge it? Shalem does not falter despite the unexpected question, his footsteps smooth as they sway across the floor.
Of course not, is what he would say if his sole wish was to placate Lucian. But the words remain lodged in his throat; they would both know it to be a lie.
Gallic lyrics fill the space between them; the current verse had been adapted from a poet’s musings, detailing an idyllic scene of lush plains and thick forests in the countryside. Shalem translated the lines for Mint when they first listened to the record together. Now, it only calls to mind the shelter of towering trees that hid the castle from the outside world.
Lucian’s expression becomes rueful, his lashes lowering. “You know better than I the sins upon my hands. I am but a blade forged to cut, a twisted song cultivated to madden. I have little memory of my time in the troupe before leaving. I can only fathom the bloodshed this vessel has caused.”
Disgust seeps into Lucian’s soft voice. And still, his grip does not waver.
For once, Shalem lacks a proper answer. What was there to say? What could he say?
“It’s true that I fled at the very mention of your name, but…” He now knows better than to attribute the atrocities of the troupe to Lucian alone. He is but a mortal man, wreathed in this same struggle. “You vowed to atone for your actions. I can only afford you the chance to make your words ring true.”
It was not a matter of what he wanted. This was the role that fate bequeathed unto him. Shalem will not welcome the past with open arms, but he will not be deaf and blind to it, either. He can only hope it would be enough in the coming moons, or however long this fleeting, foreboding calm would last.
Lucian is silent for a long moment. “Can you tell me what you remember?” His voice is hesitant, betraying a sliver of desperation sitting shallowly beneath the surface.
“Lucian, I warned you…” Shalem’s tone threatens to fray. Not here, not now.
“I do not wish to exhume the dead,” Lucian amends. “I simply wish to know if… if there was anything of me before this.”
Their very existence was dedicated to performance, and it was too late to extricate any sense of true self from the parts assigned to them. Shalem was fast to give up seeking such answers - he exhausted all effort to simply survive, regardless of how many falsehoods he must drape himself in. But it seemed Lucian’s desire for the truth could not be sated despite seeking refuge far from their past.
Shalem spends a moment to think as he is carried through the lulling tide of Lucian’s movements. His memories are muddled as though inebriated. Time did not offer any further clarity to the scattered names and faces that existed within his orbit. The only thing Shalem remembers with certainty is freezing water, the bone-deep chill of rain soaking him through until his thin frame shivered without reprieve. He remembers scrabbling amongst the shingles of a sun-beaten roof, his nails bloody from clinging to them lest he succumb to the ravenous deluge below. Fowlbeasts with oily feathers skimmed the surface once the rains ceased, picking at bloated corpses with their sharp beaks.
It is fitting, in a sense. His first recollection is that of death.
Death left a trail in his scattershot memories, too. The wave of oripathy that swept through their home happened in melting splotches of sound and color: one moment, Shalem had been practicing routines for their upcoming play, and the next - he was on his knees, retching from the foul dust that entered his lungs. He learned to wield the Arts that sprung from his fingertips in obsidian flame, serpentine as they wrapped around his quarry to singe flesh from bone. He took his first life with nothing more than a dagger. Then another, and another… until that fateful encounter woke him from this dream.
Shalem answers at length. “They told me my parents perished in a flood. I nearly met the same fate until the troupe found me, clinging to life as my entire hometown was submerged.”
Shalem cannot recall the faces of his parents. He has no memory of a gentle touch to seek comfort in, nor a firm hand to recoil from. He only remembers being cold.
Perhaps that wasn’t the most apt place to start. Lucian wanted answers pertaining to himself. He tries again. “After that, I was taken into the troupe with other survivors. They kept the children together to gift us with new roles. A purpose, when everything else had been washed away.”
The first person to cut through the fog was the elderly butler who gave them warm bread and a place to rest their heads after shepherding them from the brink of death. His hands were dry and calloused, with branching veins burgeoning beneath the weathered skin like overgrown roots. He was the one who taught Shalem and the other children to find solace in song and dance, who soothed their fears and misgivings with a saintly patience. He showed them the first stirrings of beauty in the world when they had only known that desolate sight of murky water stretching for miles.
Training began in earnest soon after. The troupe spared no quarter to integrate them into their affairs despite their young age. Hawk-eyed teachers corrected their posture and etiquette until they were without flaw, carving intricate routines into their growing frames. The lessons were long and arduous, but there was simple joy to be had in it. When they watched the troupe proper perform from the wings, all of the day’s exhaustion would dissipate, replaced with overflowing admiration. They would one day claim a place for themselves on that very stage, far from the tragedy that led them here.
When he was eventually privy to the troupe’s darker designs, Shalem’s sentiments did not change. His fellow performers could not sustain themselves on the stage, their bodies shattering under the demanding physical burden, or their fragile egos lost to a self-cannibalizing spiral when they fell too deeply into a role. They wished for the master to reward them with effusive praise, or valuable trinkets from their benefactors. They envisaged a glittering dream while drunk on applause, a farce no better than the nobility they lured into their jaws. This was why they would not last. This was why their names were cast into devouring flame.
To Shalem, their purpose was clear from the first if they wanted to survive. They were to partake of the most exquisite fruits that man could offer, for there was no greater honor than to create art - to become art. To revel in savagery! To delight in the frailty of mortal men! To seize the rarest, ephemeral flickers in the moments between life and death! To learn why tragedy refused to be eroded from the pages to history, to learn of the potent darkness humanity kept woefully obscured… and to freely indulge, to succumb to base instinct. Shalem would sup upon this despair - let the beauty fill the empty chalice of his heart to the brim, then let it spill over again and again, until he no longer knew flood or famine.
He had been sure in his course, unrepentantly ruthless in his pursuit for perfection. It was simple to devote himself so single-mindedly. His hands did not quaver with hesitation, and his thoughts did not swim with doubt. This preordained script was carved indelibly upon the blank canvas of his soul.
A sense of nostalgia sours his thoughts. Older troupe members would entertain the children between rehearsals, regaling them with stories of their travels and all of the majestic sights across Terra. He found the prospect terribly romantic, his young heart ensnared by lands outside of the forested castle they called home.
When Shalem finally ran - from the castle, and from Calais-Blason - he could only think of what crevices to hide in, where he would not be recognized, and how far he could flee from Victoria. No longer did grand cities appeal to his sense of wonder; each one was comprised of daunting shadows and phantoms out of the corner of his eye. No place would ever truly feel safe again. At times, he wished he carried the deed through so he would not have to remain ever vigilant in both his waking hours and dreamless sleep.
He has no one to blame but himself for suffering this grand irony, to be homesick for the very place he ran from. Shalem presses onward, hoping any of it would give Lucian the answer he is seeking.
“You always kept to yourself. Most performers in the troupe were rarely allowed to fraternize with the master’s favorites outside of rehearsals.” Shalem gives him a wan half-smile. “Even so, I remember being awed by you each time you deigned to grace us with your presence on the stage. You served as an inspiration for the rest of us, who could only strive to become your understudies.”
Lucian’s voice was already melodious and sweet as a young boy, and he took to complex roles with ease, as if he had been born to bear each guise. Lucian was allowed to formally accompany the troupe while the rest of the children were subjected to tedious hours of practice before setting foot on the stage. Such a disparity might have sown discord between budding performers were it not for Lucian's natural brilliance. Simply gazing upon him in the throes of a role was enough to make them understand the gulf between their abilities.
Catastrophe did little to curb his repute as a prodigy. The crystals embedded in his throat coupled with the onset of his adolescence transformed his voice into something miraculous. From then on, his mantle of Blood Diamond was firmly cemented in the troupe. Though Lucian’s song has been sealed away, Shalem hears the haunting tones in his dreams when they meld seamlessly with the past - as a lullaby, a death knell, a plea for help.
“So even then, I remained intangible.” A forlorn look settles across Lucian’s face, some long-held resignation brought to fruition. The two of them have long stilled without Shalem realizing.
Shalem quickly conjures something, anything to abate the sorrow overtaking Lucian’s features. “Not always. There was an occasion, once, where we conspired to draw you into our group of youths. We thought we could win you over with sweets.”
The memory coalesces slowly but surely as Shalem recounts the story. It was the consequence of an attempt to recreate Gaulish macarons to serve guests. They were imperfect from their inception; any authentic recipe had been lost to time and the pâtissière relied on her experiences with Lateran confections to fill in the gaps. She ended up concocting a variation that was overwhelmingly sweet to a mature palate. They were given to the children instead, who would doubtless appreciate the surplus of sugar.
One of their group suggested gifting the leftovers to Lucian once he finished rehearsal. Shalem offered to join them in braving his quarters, sequestered in an obscure corner of the castle. Perhaps this would convince him to join their fold, or at least away the stoic, doll-like expression that resumed its place upon his delicate features…
Though he could emulate an impossible depth of human emotion when on the stage, Lucian endured the entire ordeal with a stony face, as if tasting nothing.
Shalem remained demure as he always had, but he was still young, and his mild temperament was affixed imperfectly. Beneath the humble facade he bore he was viciously envious, hot coals of agitation searing the pit of his stomach the longer Lucian lingered without acknowledging them. They were all given masks. Shalem assumed Lucian’s had been forged out of cold reticence and haughtiness, and a gloomy air besides.
What Shalem hadn't known then was that the way Lucian absently scratched at his neck and regarded them with distant apathy was due to his oripathy, which made him eager to sooth his overworked throat. He could hardly speak, hardly swallow. Yet he was gracious enough to not turn them away. The signs were there, the thin tendrils of puppet strings holding his gangly frame upright. Shalem simply could not see them yet.
“We thought you were plenty spoiled by the master, but it seemed like it was the first time you’d had one,” Shalem finishes. “Does any of it strike you as familiar?”
Recognition does not part the somber haze in Lucian’s eyes. His brow knits together in muted frustration. “I cannot recall much of anything before the whispers of your exile circulated through the troupe. Until the truth came to light, I had been under the impression that I was kept in a haven of dear friends. I felt as though I awoke from a long dream.”
Shalem had expected as much. The further the memories were buried in the past, the harder they were to wrest from the twisted threads that bound them in the first place. “I see. Then we are the same in that regard.”
Upon their first meeting outside of Calais-Blason, Shalem remained convinced that Lucian harbored malicious intent, either on behalf of the troupe or some personal vengeance. Shalem spent weeks hounded by fear, his mind conjuring portents where he was unwittingly lured back to the troupe with Lucian’s enchanting voice, or where its maddening hold would break him altogether.
It becomes clear, now, that Shalem is the sole witness to what lies beneath the mask, to what Lucian’s soul might have looked like unclaimed by dark. Those who would have otherwise known were slain by Lucian’s hand. How strange it was, to know more of a person than themself.
The record fades into nothingness, leaving them in stillness and silence. Shalem could easily part from Lucian’s grasp, but he simply lets Lucian’s palm weigh in his own. At times, Shalem finds himself reluctant to leave Lucian alone after each meeting, as though he would be suddenly lost to creeping shadow, all trace of existence smudged away.
Shalem casts his gaze about, landing on the soft glow of a clock hanging from the wall. “It’s gotten quite late. You should return to your dorm soon.”
Though they were accustomed to consecutive days without sleep due to their former profession, it wouldn’t do for Lucian’s concentration to give when he was needed on the battlefield. If nothing else, he could spend a few moments’ respite in the hangar before boarding, or rest on the flight to their destination.
“Shalem…” It is rare that his name falls from Lucian’s lips in those sonorous, raspy tones. A shiver slowly slithers up the notches of Shalem’s spine. “Will you not stay longer? I wish to preserve this moment ere it, too, is lost to the abyss.”
This is an old story. One that has become trite, even, through each reenactment. Lovers part, comrades find themselves on opposing sides. Tragedy is all they have known, and all they can foster. Shalem has come to accept the futility of raging against it.
Yet he cannot extinguish the desperate burn coursing beneath his pallid skin at Lucian’s words. It’s not quite the same as summoning the blackened sparks of his Arts, their squirming flames licking at him from the inside and making the crystals within his blood sing. This is something more insidious, unfolding within his breast and unable to be tamed by a strict control over magicks. Shalem takes care not to dig his nails into Lucian’s shoulder when he sharply meets the other.
“Weren't you the one making grand declarations of snuffing out the Crimson Troupe’s activity?” Shalem's words are clipped from behind his fangs. “Don't plead for me to stay when you intend to leave, Lucian. It's cruel of you.”
Lucian offers no denial. His hand falls from Shalem’s waist and the warmth upon his lower back slowly bleeds away. The more they dance around one another, the more Shalem becomes aware of their inevitable end. They rarely speak this into existence; there are always prying eyes and keen ears on the landship, benign or otherwise. Or, perhaps, there was no need to speak of it at all. They are all too familiar with the stories penned by the playwright’s hand.
Shalem briefly averts his gaze to regain his composure, relaxing the tense crease of his brow. His hand falls from Lucian’s shoulder and he releases the hand in his own. “You told me you would atone by working for Rhodes Island. Do you not intend to repay this debt?”
“I will do all that I can.” Lucian bows his head. “But this play will not end until they have all been cast down. They cannot be suffered to live, and this is the only way to truly atone. And… you've told me before, haven’t you? I am an unbearably selfish person.”
Indeed, Lucian was selfish and foolish to seek out the troupe after escaping twice. More foolish still was to speak of his inevitable descent into the lightless abyss where even Shalem could not hope to reach. Lucian is a seasoned actor, and his words do not waver. Even so, he does not disentangle himself from Shalem.
Shalem has become terribly strange since he turned craven. He should consider it poetic that the lead actor would meet his demise in a fit of self-destruction. He should drink deeply of Lucian’s despair, the maelstrom of turmoil threatening to rend his willowy frame, let the envious viper coiled within his breast sink its fangs into the pale flesh and obsidian crystals of Lucian’s throat.
To fully live this tragedy without the veil of performance… there is no beauty in it. It was the same as his fatal mission for the troupe - he could no longer find a sumptuous feast in the despair they laid out before him. The taste of rot permeated every decadent offering thereafter - a curse, one that damned him to starve. He had been thoroughly weaned on depravity and could devour naught else.
Once, Shalem would have been captivated by Lucian on this stage, fully embracing his role. But Lucian was awake for the first time in his life, and he deserved to-
-to what, exactly? Commit to this coward’s path? Be doomed to an eternity of flight? Wouldn't it be equally as cruel to Lucian to subject him to the same farce that Shalem lived each day?
He knows intimately how fragmented an existence this can become. Lucian might lose the few pieces of himself if he became as mercurial as Shalem’s repertoire of deceit. Shalem could only run from his sins. It was not salvation or absolution of any kind.
“Is that truly what you wish for?” he murmurs quietly.
“It matters not what I wish for.” Lucian lets out a soundless sigh. “When I cut down my masters, I thought them villains for their transgressions. That their sins were unforgivable. Now, I have come to realize that I am no better.”
That’s not true, Shalem wants to say. How could that be true when Lucian sought to break this wicked cycle instead of turning away from it? “What about those you helped during your missions? Those who consider you a comrade?”
That, at least, gives Lucian pause. Uncertainty tinges his features for a fraction of a second. “What memories exist here should be cherished in the scarce time I have left. It is the least I can do to honor the kindness shown to me.”
Shalem’s stories are always banal imitations spun from the fragments of true art. He woefully lacks a playwright’s creativity after being bound to the part of actor for his entire life. Lucian’s words carried the truth despite their grimness: he cannot fathom what other fate awaited Lucian other than a grandiose reprise.
He bitterly swallows down a hasty retort. Would it change anything if Lucian forged his resolve anew, to seek the dawn when they lived in deepest shadow?
Shalem is a child of dusk, plucked from the fringes of a waning sun, always holding fast to the scattered flecks of light in the castle courtyard no matter how deeply he plunged into darkness. In the end, he could not commit himself fully and was only fit to be exiled.
Lucian, in turn, is a blood moon hung high in the sky, bewitching all who gazed upon him. Regardless if he descended to enact this self-fulfilling finale, or to seek freedom from the long night that caged him, calamity would follow in his wake. Shalem had been seized by fear when he made his decision to leave. It propelled him far across the land, adrenaline surging through his veins. And still, the visage of Lucian amidst slaughter remained burned into his memory, frighteningly beautiful.
“...Have you told anyone else?”
“Only you.”
“Not even the Doctor?” Shalem arches a thin brow. “And if they come to me for help again?”
“I was carelessly lured away the first time. This would be of my own volition.” Lucian strays from Shalem’s face towards some empty corner of the room. “Actors come and go upon the stage of Rhodes Island. If I expressed a desire to terminate my contract…”
“So is this your farewell, then.”
“Perhaps it’s part of it.”
Lucian claimed to be a phantom that had no place in the light of day. A flash of shadow on the battlefield unworthy of a face, a name. If that was the case, then he should have forsaken this charade and refused Shalem from the start. Not bare to him this thinly-veiled plea for someone to shoulder the burden of remembering him once he was gone, for Shalem to immortalize the memory of him like this - as Lucian, and nothing more. Is it not grossly unfair of him to constantly entrust these secrets to Shalem knowing he would keep them?
Then again, who else could understand?
The festering malaise within his chest coagulates until it becomes solid enough to grasp, slipping between his ribs as easily as the honed edge of a blade. This long-banished hunger lacks a sudden violence; it is one that manifests as a blooming ache, tenderly decaying him from the inside. The cavity of his chest feels fit to burst, like murky, stagnant water slowly flooding his lungs.
Greed was natural; any who laid eyes upon Lucian’s performance would desire to covet the alluring Blood Diamond. But to want for Lucian, who had remained under the yoke of the troupe until finally surfacing from the smothering mire of this nightmare? It was unthinkable. Shalem’s part was to accept this life of passivity and ignorance and want for nothing more. It frightened him deeply to stray from his assigned role.
Shalem must have not controlled his features well enough, because Lucian’s ear flicks inquisitively. It seemed he was always the one who could draw out these flaws that Shalem continued to acquire.
“What are you thinking of?” This villain, this blade, this fathomless shadow - he meets Shalem with muted concern.
How could Shalem tell him? When he fetched Lucian from the clutches of the troupe, supporting his pale, battered body as they limped through the decaying foliage of Calais-Blason, Shalem hushed each broken apology with the assurance they were returning home. Perhaps he was the fool to think Rhodes Island could ever be a place for Lucian to consider a home.
Moreover, he lacks the right to persuade Lucian to stay. It would make no difference if he raged or begged. He was never cast as the lead, merely another faceless figure in the tragedy of Lucian's life. There was naught for it save to keep this confession confined behind the rungs of his ribs, never to let it breach his lips. Let it suffocate him if it must - he would adhere to this role to the last.
Shalem’s glossy tail curls about his ankle once more, wound tighter than is comfortable. “...Nothing of import. Come - let us speak of this no more and give ourselves to dance.”
He extends his hand once more and Lucian follows. They are actors and all have their part to play. Let this be their last contribution to the arts, an offering without witness.
Deux lunes remains silent on the record player. Lucian does not sing, but he hums a strangled thing to keep time, shadows distorted along the walls as if wavering by candlelight. Shalem recognizes the gravelly melody as a piece composed by the troupe and lets it guide them through each step drawn from the well of shared memory. He sinks into each note, wading further into the darkened waters. His breathing evens as he counts in six, three, one…
They were meant to go their separate ways. Shalem knows this. This immutable truth should have made itself known and cradled him with the same unforgiving cold that arrested his entire being as a child. It would be simpler if Lucian was another storm to weather, another reaper clad in sanguine hues to haunt Shalem in the realm of sleep. Something to fear and scorn without truly knowing.
But he is far too warm and solid for a lingering ghost. Lucian holds his frame close as if he is something sacred in spite of the blood on his hands. He regards Shalem with an unwavering trust in the soft glow of his irises, even knowing the amount of deceit he maintained to live this mundane life. The steady tempo of Lucian’s heartbeat dully thrums between them like a metronome; the lack of distance is a fatal folly, one of the first lessons imparted unto them as assassins. Lucian clings to him all the same.
No matter what depraved beast or incarnation of misfortune he thought Lucian to be prior to this moment, the person before him is unmistakably human.
Had Shalem not run, would he find himself here, still, within Lucian’s gentle grasp? If he had enacted the tragedy given to him, Shalem would have rightfully claimed a place on the stage bedside Lucian. They would have danced feverishly until his own madness burned his bones down to the marrow, stoking his own funeral pyre in blackened flame. When he finally dug his claws into the brightly glimmering facets of the Blood Diamond, would he have found the give of flesh, or a hand phasing through the vestiges of hazy shadow?
Shalem does not know.
The two of them take to the night, mirroring the perpetual orbit of the twin moons overhead. At dawn, the curtain lifts, revealing scatterings of light. Shalem pulls away from Lucian when the first operator stumbles into the dormitory and offers them a pleasant greeting despite the early hour.
In that same moment, Lucian dissipates into nothingness in his periphery, leaving Shalem momentarily uncertain if he had retrieved a phantom from the castle all along.