Brief note - this chapter is a bit different from others, for several reasons. Those who read my writing regularly have probably noticed one already. The rest I'm sure you'll find out. Have fun, and enjoy!
When Rhea Maclaren was young, her father always read her poems before bed.
He had always loved poetry, of all lengths and genres. "Call me basic," he had said to her one evening in his gruff Scottish accent, back when she was maybe nine or ten. "But my favourite poet has always been Robert Frost. There's just something about the way his pieces progress in complexity as the poet gets older, yet retain their direct simplicity that manages to connect with the readers without confusion of interpretation. He manages to keep the vein of melancholy and the theme of grief and things passing away, and a dissatisfaction with modernity yet without a yearning for the past." He had caught the look on her face and softened. "His poems were sad, yet simple and beautiful."
Rhea had never liked poetry. She didn't like reading at all, really. She was more of what her parents called "a messy child" - meaning she hung out with older boys and stole clothes off washing lines and jumped off binsheds and ran through the mud. She was too outdoorsy for sitting inside and reading. Unfortunately, this affected her actual schoolwork as well. The teachers at school had to tell her parents she was falling behind, and her father was the one to put his foot down. "No more running around outside with Mark and Joshua," he had said firmly, arms crossed and glaring. Rhea had been furious.
Her father was a stern man. Tall, stocky, with a angular face and salt and pepper hair. Frameless glasses sat in front of golden eyes. He made a picture of someone powerful, and he was; as the Stiùiriche (or "director" in Scottish Gaelic) of the organization he ran, he held great power even in a single stare. And now, that stare was being directed towards her. "You are going to stay inside and do your schoolwork," he told her.
Rhea had stomped her foot, blond pigtails bouncing with the force of her indigence. "You can't do that!" she cried, clenching her fists angrily. "I'm an outdoorsy person, Mother says so! I have to be outside!"
Her father had only sighed. "You listen to your mother far too much," he murmured, shaking his head sadly. "Darling, I want you to do well in school and grow up to become a powerful magician. You could do well under your brother when he is Stiùiriche."
This felt like adding insult to injury. "Why does Blake get to be Stiùiriche?" she moaned, letting her head fall against her father's chest. "I don't want to work in a stupid position. I want to be an Stiùiriche."
Fingers ran across her hair, and she could practically hear her father's mind racing. "Because Blake is older," he eventually said. "He gets the position by default."
She spoke to Blake about it once, when they were sitting at the stream not far from their home, wading in the freezing, inches deep water in their school uniforms. "Blake, do you even want to be Stiùiriche?"
She knew he didn't. Blake was a coward boy. He cried at night, scared of every shadow, and no matter how hard her parents and many other magical specialists tried, they couldn't seem to get his magic to manifest. To be fair, neither had Rhea's, but she was a few years younger. Blake, according to said specialists, had no excuse. Rhea secretly believed he was a Nomag, exchanged at birth. That the real Blake was in a Nomag community somewhere.
"Eh," was his sharp response to her question. He rolled his grey trousers up further, wiping black hair out of black eyes. He needed a trim. "Being Stiùiriche sounds like a lot of work. Do you wanna do it, Rhea Bird? I wouldn't mind."
She laughed in delight, splashing him with water and making him shriek. "Tell Father that! He may agree. We can swap our places, wouldn't that be nice? I can be older sister, you can be little brother."
"I feel like little brother sometimes anyway," he sighed, half jokingly, and cackled as he soaked her with a single kick.
Of course, their father didn't like the idea of Rhea and Blake switching. "Darlings," he said, in the most condescending tone as he ruffled both their hair. "Darlings, I'm sorry. But this is tradition. Oldest gets the position. I'm sorry."
Rhea's mother never agreed. "I believe you ought to get a chance," she often told her in a light, airy voice, never looking right at her so that Rhea often had to strain to hear her words. "Blake is only two years older, and you could be just as powerful. Your father is being ridiculous."
Her mother was a strange person, her father said. Head in the clouds, too ditzy for her own good. Rhea had never seen it. She loved how her mother would sometimes go quiet and watch the sky or stare at the wall, and how she sang softly in Gaelic under her breath, and how she hugged Rhea so, so gently, as though he was afraid she'd fall apart. Their mother loved Rhea. Their father loved Blake. that was just the way it went.
Blake had always had a great appreciation for the art of poetry. He made their father proud for flawlessly reciting To A Mouse by Robert Burns in front of the school at a Scottish Day assembly. He had then won a copy of A Collection of Robert Burns Poems and gotten on the front page of the local paper. Their family had gone out to McDonald's to celebrate. Rhea remembered that day well; she remembered feeling angry, feeling sorry for herself. It was frustrating, seeing her father coo over Blake for, what, reading a poem? Rhea could read poems. She'd show them.
That day had sparked something in her. She'd gone home that night and found one of the big books her father often read to them - The Poetry of Robert Frost, by the man himself. She'd tucked it under her armpit and skipped through the halls, past various magicians whose waists she barely came up to, to find her special place.
Rhea had always known her family was unusual. She had lived in a secret building her whole life, a huge building with many white halls and passages and rooms. There were tens of people round at all times; all magicians. Magicians, all led by their Stiùiriche, who was Rhea's father. A position passed down through generations. Living in a magical organization instead of a flat or a house like her friends at school was strange, but it had always been that way. Besides, she had a few secret places that no one else knew about. Not her mother, not her father, not any magicians, not even Blake. The main one was a closet in one of the halls, with a door of glass and a small, dark interior. Right away, it didn't seem secret, but there was something funny about it. Rhea had discovered not long ago that there was a crack at the very back of the room, a crack that, when she slipped her fingers through, opened a tiny portal, just big enough for her to go into and appear in what looked like a small, barren forest, somewhere just off of one of the entrances to Restitutio. It was next to a crumbling waterworks, seemingly abandoned and empty. Rhea had been extremely excited when she'd found it. She had a secret entrance and exit to and from Restitutio, and no one else knew!
So from the day she'd found it onwards, she would often go and hang out in the waterworks, sitting on the front steps or dangling her legs over the enormous holes in the floors, or climbing up to the top floor and leaning out the empty windows at the dead grass and concrete below. There were days when she thought about jumping, but never too seriously. She wasn't suicidal. She just wanted to know what would happen. Morbid curiosity, perhaps.
On this particular day, she went up to the second floor to sit on the concrete brick that was placed precariously on the edge of the broken floor, hanging over a void that led to the bottom floor. She liked it there. With her father's poetry book open on her lap and her school cardigan laid across the brick so it wouldn't get dirty, she began to read. It didn't take long for her to choose a favourite poem, which surprised her. Rhea had previously been under the belief that poetry was not a true form of art or writing, but this felt… different, somehow. Why? It was so basic sounding. But Rhea felt near transfixed by it, reading it over and over again, marveling at how its perfect simplicity could make her feel so much all at once.
She went home that night, dazed, and told her father that she had begun reading.
He looked pleasantly surprised, looking up from the chicken stir fry he'd been making and flashing her a real, genuine smile that made her heart lift. "Really? Reading what?"
She hesitated. "Robert Frost," she said, almost shyly, holding up the heavy book in front of her face so as not to see his expression. "Your book. Sorry I took it."
For a tense moment, he was silent. Then he laughed, reaching out to lower the book from her face. "Oh, no, never apologize for reading, dear! Which one is your favourite and why? Tell me all the details, if you wish. Don't feel obligated to just because your silly father's a big old poetry nerd, of course."
Rhea laughed. She couldn't help it. "You are silly, father. I… rather like Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening. It was intriguing." She stared at the popping vegetables and meat on the overtop, breathing sharply through her nose. "Father, what does it mean?"
Her father moved the pan and, most surprisingly, sat down on the floor in front of the oven door. "Sit," said the Stiùiriche, her ever professional father, most powerful dark magician of the age, from his position on the scuffed kitchen tiles. "Sit and let me talk."
Slowly, Rhea sat down beside him, significantly smaller and less neat than he was. Self consciously, she organized her pleated skirt over her knees and waited for her father to begin to explain. It took him a moment. "Rhea, baby girl," he murmured, voice low like he was telling a secret. "What would you say if I told you that you could disappear off the face of the Earth forever?"
This surprised her, once again. "I wouldn't want to," she said certainly. "I have friends at school, and you, and Mother. And Blake, I do suppose. Why? What does that have to do with the poem?"
Her father smiled. "What if I sweetened the deal?" he said, without acknowledging her question. "What if you had no responsibilities waiting for you? Nothing to complete, no goals left unchecked? Would you go then?"
"No," she said, stronger now. "Father, stop being ridiculous. Come on, you need to finish the stir fry."
A long sigh escaped him. "The poem cannot be interpreted in too many ways, really. It is very literal in its meaning. The woods represent the pull of the unknown. No one knows what they are. Does something good wait there? Something wicked, something evil? It could be anything. We do know these woods are not wild; they belong to someone, someone who the speaker knows. Still… On the darkest night of the year, anything can be anything."
Rhea listened, fascinated and confused, waiting for her father to continue. It took him a moment, as he had to briefly stand and stir the dinner before slumping back down and waving his hands through the air. "The area outside the woods - the village, where the woods-owner lives - represents responsibility. There is a border here between the sensibility of civilization and the irrationality of the darkened, unknown woods. There is safe, calm, and duty. Then there is unknown and dark and endless. The protagonist makes the choice to continue with the lines "but I have promises to keep/and miles to go before I sleep." He continues, and bypasses the unknown, albeit hesitantly. The woods are something dark. He chose the light."
Rhea didn't understand, but she loved her father, and she nodded to make him happy.
He looked at her with tired sadness in his eyes, like he knew. "Keep the book," he said softly. Rhea began to protest, but her father simply pressed it further into his chest, firmly. "No. Keep it. Read the other poems, and let them make you feel. After all…" He smiles. ""Poetry is when an emotion has found its thought and the thought has found words.""
Her father died three weeks later. A freak accident, said the other magicians. No one really believed it. It took four numbing, grief stricken months for Rhea to discover the truth; there had been a fight, an attack from the other magical organization her father had always warned them to stay away from. Hecate. She had lost her father to a Hecate magician.
Blake and Rhea barely spoke after that.
It broke Rhea's heart. She was hurting, missing, aching for something that just wasn't there anymore. It felt like the moment when you walk down the stairs in the dark, but you miss a step, and you plunge downwards, clinging to the unknown darkness around you in the hopes that someone will grab you and lift you back up to where you're supposed to be. It felt like the moment when you enter a room that has something missing, a poster or a table or a certain decoration, and you feel a whirling sense of vertigo before realizing what it is and taking in that it is really gone. It felt like the dramatic photo burning scene in a movie, where you watch the flames lick the glossy scene that was captured in one quick, oblivious moment, taken away forever. And Rhea felt so alone. So, so fucking alone.
She went to Blake's room one day and knocked on his door three times.
"If that's not the bloody herald of death, I don't want any," she heard him say, deadpan and cold. That wasn't the Blake she knew. That wasn't the cheery, optimistic brother she loved. She opened the door regardless to find him splayed across the bed, black hair mussed and wearing red pajamas that she could instantly see he hadn't changed in days. She couldn't blame him. If it weren't for her stubborn insistence to always look nice and smile like she wasn't shattering mirrors with her bare hands to all the magicians of Restitutio, she might have even joined him.
"Don't tell me you're suicidal now," she said, voice too quiet. Blake's room had always been safe - dark blue walls with painted stars, done by their whole family one rainy afternoon, and walls of books and DVD's and a wardrobe of identical black outfits - but now it felt empty and dark despite looking no different. In fact, Blake himself felt the same. He looked up at her with hollow black eyes, and Rhea felt herself shrinking. "I can't lose you too."
"What do you want?" he whispered. His eyes were closed now, like he was afraid of showing the tunnels of hurt behind them. It was too late. Rhea had already seen.
"To talk, silly," she laughed, trying to inject warmth into her voice. "Like we do. Like always."
"Father's dead," he said blankly. "I have nothing more to say."
Rhea couldn't help but bristle at that, fists clenching and shoulders rising in indigence. "I fucking know Father is dead, Blake. That - shouldn't change us. Who we are."
He rolled over to face away from her. "But grief does change people," he mumbled. "Hurts like… getting punched. In my gut."
She quietly stepped across the dark wood floor, the boards creaking the same way they always had, and sat on the end of his bed.
"The world should stop and mourn for him," she said, staring at the drawn blinds. "There shouldn't be any warmth left. I don't understand how the Earth is still revolving."
They spent a moment in heavy silence.
"You didn't love him the same way I did," Blake hissed. "You're a mother's girl, are you not? Go cry to her. I don't want to see your fucking face."
She looked down at him, astonished. "Blake - I'm your sister. I want to be here for you now -"
He sat bolt upright, his nose suddenly inches away from hers. His eyes were dark and red rimmed, and he was furious, shaking with grief. "I want," he said, clearly, angrily. "you out of my room."
So she left.
Blake's ceremony for his beginning as Stiùiriche was the following day. He looked wonderful in his suit and cape, both rippling with a galaxy that didn't shift with the folds of the outfit but instead stayed still, like a greenscreen picture. His hair was slicked back with gel, the splotchy red of his face hidden with makeup concealer. He looked the picture of their Director even at only seventeen years old. Even at only seventeen years old.
Her mother passed a year later under unknown circumstances.
Rhea and Blake were now the last of the living Maclaren line.
At least Rhea had something to distract herself with. Her magic had begun to properly manifest, and some of the magic tutors that had been hired by her father before his death were assigned to teach her. "First you will learn control," said Tidsear Gallagher, who had thin blonde hair and a beer belly and a voice that made her cringe and cover her ears. "Control over yourself, control over forces you -"
"I do go to therapy, you know," Rhea deadpanned. "Dead parents? Anger management? Ringing any bells, Tidsear?"
Gallagher spluttered briefly before regaining control. "I am aware, Rhea, and I am very sorry about the loss of your mother and father. They were wonderful people, and wonderful leaders. Now -"
"My mother rarely left the house," Rhea interrupted once again. Why was she angry? Because she was losing everything? Because Blake was Stiùiriche? Because she was one of the last of the Maclaren line? Because she and Blake hadn't spoken in weeks, because he was too busy with his newfound responsibilities that he'd settled himself into too easily? "Don't act like you knew her, and don't try to comfort me. I don't want it. Now teach me magic."
Gallagher raised his wrinkled hands, slowly lowering them, remaining too still and calm. "Rhe-a," he breathed, and she cringed in disgust. "You need to ca-alm, ok? Deep breaths, and harness your control, harness your -"
Rhea hadn't meant to lash out, but she did, and she swore to everyone who would listen afterwards that it had been an accident, she had just been struggling to control her power. But eventually, she had ended up in front of the Stiùiriche anyway, Blake Maclaren, her brother, who was almost unrecognizable to her now. He still wore the galaxy suit from his initiation ceremony. Only eighteen, and there were streaks of grey in his hair like an old man.
"Sister," he said, sitting on his egg shaped chair like the pretentious fuck he was, in a dimly lit room somewhere deep in his quarters. Rhea had to admit she was jealous. One perk of being Stiùiriche was receiving your own quarters, and she had wanted that. "Lovely to hear from you."
"Not like I haven't tried to speak to you," she snarled, hating how small she felt standing below him. "Because I did. I've been fucking alone, Blake, thanks for asking how I'm doing."
He raised an eyebrow. "You look alive to me. Tidsear Gallagher, however…"
Rhea's heart plummeted. "I killed him?"
A bark of laughter escaped Blake's lips, and Rhea could almost see the frost clouds leaving him. "No. But he certainly is badly hurt. You don't seem to know how to control your magic at all, Rhea Bird. And at sixteen years old as well." He sighs, slumping over dramatically. "The irony that he was supposed to be teaching you control."
Rhea felt her face grow hot, and a sound like an animalistic growl leaves her. "I'll show you control, you pathetic son of a bitch -"
Two other magicians stepped forward and assumed a protective fighting stance, burning hands outstretched, alight with blue and red. Rhea stood back and let out a small scream, staring up at her brother with rage pounding through her veins. "How are you doing this to your own fucking sister?" she spat, ignoring how her fists shook. "We used to be so close, how - Are you really still petty about - Why are you so angry at me?" Desperation is creeping into her voice, tears pricking the back of her eyes. "Is this about Father? You know he wouldn't want us to fight, Blake -"
"You may address me as Stiùiriche, thank you."
And that was when Rhea knew her brother was really gone.
Rhea didn't know where to go after that. She'd spent years in Restitutio, and she'd kill herself before going to Hecate, but she couldn't stand to stick around and watch her brother lose himself. It was hard enough to watch her father's library disassembled, to watch security be tightened, to watch stricter curfews for entering and leaving to be set in place. She didn't want to be there.
So not long after, immediately after her seventeenth birthday, she left. Left Restitutio, and went looking for answers. She traveled the country, then went to Scotland and Ireland, spending little over a year in each place. There were, as she'd already known, Restitutio branches all around Britain, each with their own Director, although sometimes under different names. She visited a few of them. Collected magic. What she was collecting it for, she didn't know - maybe there was no reason. Maybe there was and she didn't even know it.
The only possession she took with her from Restitutio was her father's The Poetry Of Robert Frost, which she found herself rereading almost every night in whatever hotel or trailer or house she slept in. There were certain poems she was drawn too, certain pages whose corners were more crumpled with touch than others. One of those pages was number 122, where Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening was. Reading it made her remember her father. Remember that one of the last times they'd properly spoken was when her father was telling her about it. And fuck if sometimes she didn't feel like choosing to go into those false woods sometimes, that unknown darkness that could represent carelessness or freedom or death or whatever it was in the many analyses she'd frantically pored through evening after evening. Fuck if she didn't sometimes wish she were the speaker, that she had that simple choice laid out in front of her. Sometimes she missed home. Sometimes she wanted to throw herself from a window just to see what would happen.
""Whose woods these are I think I know,"" she would quote to herself, staring up at clouds or ceilings or stars or car roofs or treetops. ""His house in in the village though; he will not see me stopping here, to watch his woods fill up with snow.""
She knew the poem off by heart, but read it over and over anyway, mouthing the words and dragging her thumb down the page as her father had once done.
When she was twenty years old, in late 2016, she met a boy in Ireland who changed her life.
His name was Patrick, and the second Rhea saw him, she could feel his power. He had a certain draw, like a warm magnet. He gave off certain aspect of trustworthiness in waves. He lived in the west of Limerick, in a run down old house in a boring street by himself, and he was immediately intriguing to the girl. Waves of orange hair, porcelain skin, dark, shadowed eyes that looked so wrong in a face that should seem so soft. Rhea wanted to know more about him as soon as she saw him.
It took until their third meeting, in a park next to a patch of trees, that he told her properly. "My mother was a fae," he said, out of the blue like it was nothing. "Have you ever heard of something called the Veil, Rhea?"
That had been so sudden that she didn't know what to say. "I - No, I haven't," he stammered, trying to keep up. "Your mother was a fae?"
Patrick nodded, walking along the top of a bench. "Taught me t'have a good eye, she did. And good sleight -" he reached behind Rhea's ear, making her shriek. "of hand." He pulled away, revealing a penny in his hands. Rhea clapped her hand to her ear, but felt nothing. She stared at the boy, confusion in her eyes.
He winked, taking her silence for shock. "I learned a lot from my mam, Rhea. Including some things about this lovely little piece of magic called the Veil. Very powerful stuff, you see, very powerful stuff. If you like, I can tell you what I know. I trust you."
It turned out that the Veil was basically a magic border that covered all unknown magic from Nomag eyes. "It was discovered a few years ago," Patrick told her. "And not only does it hide magic, it can hide just about anything."
Rhea raised an eyebrow. "Anything?"
"Anything," Patrick grinned. His eyes sparkled, and it was then that Rhea saw the inhumanness of him. "If you know how to manipulate it."
Patrick then taught Rhea the first piece of magic that properly stuck with her; how to bend the Veil to her own will. It was strange at first, trying to control something she couldn't see, but after a few months of this, she began to understand it better. The Veil was almost like a living thing. It breathed, and when it did, the world rippled with movement. It moved like a fish cutting through water; it was the water, and it was air, and it was everything. It seemed to be the lifeblood of magic itself.
And knowing how to control it made Rhea very, very powerful.
A few months passed, and Rhea and Patrick began to live together, moving from being acquaintances to friends to lovers. As their relationship grew stronger, so did Rhea's magic, and Patrick did nothing but encourage her. "Look at that!" he praised loudly one day, watching her transform herself into a dog, a cat, a bird, twisting magic round herself like a cloak. "You're doing absolutely fantastic, look at you go!"
Patrick was sweet. He was extremely kind and patient, he was funny, he was generous and clever. But Rhea was never sure she liked him in the same way he liked her. She pretended she did, because Patrick was also powerful, and he knew things that he was willing to teach. But her heart wasn't in it. Did that make her manipulative, if she was only leading him on to learn his secrets? Maybe. She was surprised to find she didn't actually care.
There was an alternate timeline out there, somewhere, where Rhea stayed in Ireland with Patrick and lived a happy life. This was not that timeline. Rhea left in the wee hours one morning without a word to Patrick and left to finally go not back to Brighton, but to Los Angeles, USA.
While Rhea had been on her adventures, she had heard rumors of a person who knew things. Someone who knew things about the future, about the past, about you as a person. A Seer. This had intrigued her greatly, especially when Patrick had mentioned it himself. She'd been told that they lived in LA, and decided that before she went back to Brighton to confront Blake after her years of missing, she would visit the Seer to see how it would go. Not that Rhea usually believed in such things, but the stories she'd heard… There was no way that everyone who'd met them had been lying.
After she'd traveled to Los Angeles, she began to search for the Seer. From what Patrick had told her, she knew the place where they lived was large and hidden by the Veil, which made it easier to find. It took only two days to find it. A mansion, a proper mansion, hidden away deep in the hills. Just like Rhea had been told. What the hell kind of place is this? she thought to herself in mild awe. It was like something out of a magic storybook or something. Was it a trap? Rhea hadn't considered that. But she did know strong magic now. Anyone or anything that wanted to hurt her was going to be in for a surprise.
She wandered around for a little while, looking for a way in. Eventually she found the front door - yes, the mansion was big enough that it was a task in itself to find the front door - and knocked loudly. There was an immediate ruckus from inside. Rhes tried to look through one of the large windows, but the curtains had been drawn over them. Despite that, she saw a face peek through, a man who immediately darted away when he saw her.
Rhea huffed, knocking again, but louder. "Excuse me!" she shouted, pressing her lips together. She did not have the patience to deal with this. "Excuse me, I'm looking for the Seer, so if they could come out, please, that would be wonderful!"
She waited. Something crashed inside. "Mx Dark!" she heard someone cry, a male voice with a stiff, robotic voice. "There is a client at the door!"
A few more minutes passed. Rhea was beginning to suspect this was definitely some kind of prank, some kind of trap. But eventually, the door swung open without warning, and Rhea was met with the face of a person. They had a wavy bob of black hair and tan skin, a smooth face and dark rimmed eyes that shone blue and red. Dripping in jewelry, they were wearing a fully black suit, leaning on a black and silver cane and looking at her expectantly. Rhea immediately shrank back in their presence. "Excuse me," she said softly, timidly. "Are you the Seer?"
That was a slightly ridiculous question. "I am," said the Seer, in a low, smooth tone. "What may I do for you, Rhea?"
Rhea blinked in shock, stammering as she tried to speak. "I - didn't give you my name."
The Seer looked genuinely surprised. "You did not? Greatest apologies, my memory is not the best. Time gets jumbled." They reach out a ring covered, fingerless gloved hand for Rhea to shake. "Did I already ask what I can do for you?"
Rhea was maybe beginning to regret this. But she'd left Patrick and come all the way to LA for this person, and she wasn't about to just leave. "You did. My name is Rhea Maclaren, but you knew that already, I suspect. What can I call you?"
The Seer retracted their hand without a shake and smiled warmly, unperturbed. "I have a great many names. Some call me the Darkness, or Mörker, or Dunkelheit. Others call me simply Dark, or Foncé, or Oscuro, or Tenebris. I suppose you may like to call me Dorchas, or Dorchadas."
She blinked, taking that in. "You can tell I'm Scottish?"
Once again, she immediately realized that was a slightly ridiculous question. Dorchas raised an eyebrow, their smile slipping into a smirk. "I can. Future and present get tangled sometimes, so I know more about you than I even know that I know. Anyway, we are getting off track. What may I do for you?"
Rhea straightened, trying to sort herself out. "I want to know some things about my future. What do you charge?"
"Favours," they said without missing a beat. "I charge favours. Anything specific you have to offer me, Rhea?"
She considered. "Magic," she said. "Have you ever heard of the Veil?"
-
Dorchas invited Rhea inside, limping slightly on their right leg. The inside of the mansion was even more spectacular than the outside: black and white, accented with pale blues and reds, with frosted windows and strings of flowers and polished dark wood borders around the unbroken walls. Unbroken, mostly, except for one large hole that had puzzlingly been framed, the words "Bing was here >:D" scrawled above it. Dorchas walked by it, showing a glossy black spiral staircase, beige carpet on the stairs that had a long, red stain that dragged all the way to the top. "Pardon the blood," Dorchas said lightly, wincing in pain as they walked. "My dear partner has a tendency for murder. He is not currently present, however, so you will be alright. Also - Argentum, what are you doing?"
A man had rounded the corner, looking barely fazed at the sight of Rhea, who was still processing the "tendency for murder" comment. He was, however, very sweaty and out of breath, red in the face. He actually looked quite similar to Dorchas, just slightly different in a few ways, with curlier hair and a scruffy beard, wearing a plaid blue shirt. "Afternoon, Mx Dark," he said, saluting awkwardly. "You want me to move?"
"That would be ideal," the Seer clipped, and the man stepped aside. He watched Rhea curiously, head tilted.
"Are you a client of Mx Dark's, then?" he asked her, slowly walking alongside them. "They tend to have a lot of them, but I must say, you have a very different aura than all the rest."
"Argentum, do stop flirting with my clients," Dorchas sighed.
But Rhea found herself slowing her pace. "And what do you mean," she said, raising her chin. "By "different aura?""
She expected some bullshit response. She wasn't expecting the man to flush and step back, looking at the floor. "Power," he said certainly. "You have an aura of power."
She and Dorchas moved on after that, setting into a small, dark red room that was draped in curtains, but Rhea was incredibly intrigued by the man she'd seen. "Who was that?" she asked Dorchas, shifting in the stiff black chair they'd offered her.
Dorchas sat opposite her, across an empty glass table. "An acquaintance."
"Not a brother?" Rhea enquired, pushing her blonde locks from her face. "You look so alike. What's his name?"
"Not a brother, no," Dorchas sighed deeply, looking rather bored. "He's simply someone who lives here. There are many. His name is Caleb, also known as Silver or Argentum. Now, did you have something you came here for?"
Rhea shook herself out her thoughts, nodding. "Yes. I want to know about my brother, Blake Maclaren, and about my future."
Dorchas raised their eyebrows, but not in a way that made them look surprised. More as a courtesy gesture. "Mhm. Alright, I suppose I can give you the information, with the trust that you shall do a favour for me." Their face was completely unreadable. It was very unnerving. "You mentioned the Veil. So you believe you have control over it somehow?"
She nodded. The strong, fragrant smell of the room was making her dizzy. "I can show you -"
"No need," they said, waving her off. "I am already getting a lot of strange energy from you."
Rhea frowned. "You're just… picking up vibes? Do you not need, like, a crystal ball or something?"
They laughed. "Not anymore."
A soft glow began to rise from their eyes, drifting to the ceiling and gathering in red and blue clouds like smoke. "Tell me exactly what you want to know," they said, but their voice was different; instead of the smooth, androgynous tone from before, there could instead be heard two different voices. A male and a female, overlapping in perfect unison. Rhea caught her breath, staring at the sight before remembering to speak.
"I want to know if I will ever become An Stiùiriche of the magical organization known as Restitutio," she said clearly. "And if so, how to do it."
Dorchas tilted their head, like they were listening to something. "It is possible," they said, still in that overlapping voice. "Very possible. You will need to return to Brighton to face your brother again. After that is done, you shall begin to find people who will help you in your mission to replace your brother. Magicians. Some may seem unlikely at the time, but they are necessary should you want to overthrow him. Is that what you wanted to hear?"
She frowned. "I was hoping for a definite yes and an easy three step plan, but this works too. How will I find these people that will help me?"
A chuckle left Dorchas, and the room darkened around them. "I cannot tell you just anything."
"What do you want?" she asked immediately. "Name your price. I'll bring you it."
They don't even blink. "A soul."
A soul. Rhea nearly laughed. "Not magic? Not the Veil? How the fuck do I get a soul?"
"You will manage." The light in their eyes grew stronger. "You shall find a pair of silent twins. One will bring you fortune. One you will kill. You will bring the second one to me after you and two others find an artifact that gives you the power to do so. Is there anything else you would like to know?"
Rhea leaned back in her seat, trying to think. "I can't help but feel I'm being swindled here, Dorchas."
This only made the Seer laugh louder.
Later, after Dorchas had finished telling her what she wanted to hear, she agreed to bring them what they wanted in exchange for the information. They seemed pleased with the deal. "Good luck with that soul," they said, far too cheerfully. "I will hopefully see you soon."
And so, Rhea went back to Brighton. Really, she felt very much like she hadn't received much information for an entire soul, but she was intrigued regardless. Confronting Blake… she did like the sound of that. And Brighton hadn't changed a bit since she'd left. She wasn't sure she'd expected it to, actually. But she'd maybe wanted the energy to be different. Restitutio was also still the same. Even her old hidden entrance hadn't moved, which she was grateful for. She needed a way to get in and see her big brother again.
And she did.
Upon entering Restitutio, she immediately encountered a magician in the halls. A short man with wiry orange hair, whose eyes widened when they caught sight of her, lingering in the hall with burning gold eyes and clenched fists. He was seeing something else, too - Rhea was projecting the image of lions padding along beside her, large and impressive, growling and taking up the empty space with their rumbling sound. She smirked at the fear on his face. "Tell Blake Maclaren," she said, voice clear and low. "that his sister has come to visit."
She found her way to Blake's quarters almost immediately. Her last memory of the place was tainted with the humiliation of defeat, of anger, and just stepping foot in there reminded her of why she'd done all this in the first place. She deserved to be the one to run Restitutio. Nothing else apart from that mattered. Nothing else. Not even Blake, waiting in the room in front of her.
His bedroom was gone. It had been replaced with what looked like a literal void, black and empty, no visible walls or ceiling. It was unnerving enough that Rhea felt her heart race, her blood pumping faster under her skin. "I like what you've done with the place, brother," she said casually, like she wasn't suddenly afraid, suddenly regretting, suddenly wondering. "You always did have a good eye for home decor -"
"What do you want, Rhea Bird?"
Oh. Blake's voice, resounding from everywhere, seemingly, echoing throughout the room. Rhea whirls round, looking for him and seeing no one. "Been a while since I've seen you. How's the organization been holding up?"
An echoing laugh. "Just fine without you, piuthar. Why have you returned?"
Despite everything, she found herself frowning. "You're not glad to see my return, no? That stings, Blake, it does. Have you done around here anything other than attempt to tighten security in the few years I've been gone?"
Something shimmered in the air in front of her. A galaxy, rippling in the black space, shaped like a man. She wasn't surprised to see it was her brother who then stepped out, dark hair slicked back, black eyes hollow in his face. He looked nothing like the boy she'd known years ago. She supposed she must look very different as well. The two siblings stared at each other.
"Why have you returned?" he echoed, and his voice was flat and dry. Rhea winced at how uncaring he sounded.
She straightened her back. "I simply wanted to see if you'd managed to get Restitutio out of the pathetic state you had left it in," she said lightly. Across the void of the room, she could see dancing movement, although she couldn't tell for sure what it was. "It appears that you have not. In fact, the place looks far worse. Father would be fucking ashamed to see how small we have become."
Blake scoffed, and it was then that Rhea noticed how exhausted he looked. Black bags sagged under his eyes, making them seem even darker. She wondered how long he had been like this. "I am protecting us," he said softly. His fists trembled at his side. "Father would have wanted us to be safe."
"Bullshit," Rhea shouted. Fire sparked in her chest, hot and heavy on her lungs. "Bullshit you're doing it for Father. You just don't want to run Restitutio, and you're scared you'll fuck up." She softened. "Let me help you. Let me -"
"No." The interruption was smooth and harsh, so sudden that Rhea could only blink and fall silent as her brother glared down at her. "You left. This organization is mine to run."
"I left because you were shit at running it," Rhea hissed softly. Blake's cool expression only fueled her anger. "This place is a fucking shadow of what Father made it to be."
"Get out," Blake said calmly.
"I won't leave when this organization needs me," Rhea spat.
"You did once before," Blake pointed out. "Get out."
"And I came back more powerful than you have ever seen me." She was shaking, palms hot. "Now I am going to -"
"You're going to get out."
A wave of something warm and heavy passed over Rhea, like a thick tidal wave of sticky heat that dragged her to her knees and filled her mind with static. Her mind was trapped in an instant. Through the sparkling fog, she saw Blake laugh. "Rhea Bird," he purred, and his voice was like honey falling through a fork. "Did you hear me? You're going to get out."
Hypnotism, hypnotism, her mind screamed, but even through the panic, some part of her seemed to soften. Maybe she should leave and never return. Maybe she should leave Blake alone, like he wanted. Maybe she could go back to Patrick and beg for his forgiveness…
""My - my little horse must think it queer,"" she found herself saying through gritted teeth, the words stabbing through her lips almost without her consent. ""To stop without a farmhouse near. B-between the woods and - and fr-frozen lake -""
"Oh, sister," Blake said, rolling his eyes. A raised hand surrounded by darkness twirled through the air, like it had been dipped in the void behind him. "Poetry? I didn't take you for a daddy's girl. What is this supposed to do, impress me?"
""The darkest - evening…"" she continued, and a flicker of fear crossed Blake's face as the realization hit him, too late. ""Of… the… year.""
The room shook as Rhea's magic lashed out, streaks of colour shattering the blackness and slamming into her brother without warning. He shrieked, barely managing to raise a fist and deflect, the sticky void following his movements. And it was then that Rhea realized - the void was Blake's magic. He was controlling it with his own hands.
"It seems we've both learned a powerful aspect of dark magic," Rhea laughed as she spun and shot another bolt towards her brother. Shadows danced behind him, transparent negatives of human silhouettes following the man's movements. Where had he learned such magic - Blake, the boy she'd long ago suspected to be a Nomag? "You cannot fight me with silly shadows and honeyed words."
"Ha - watch me!" Blake cried, and the shadows began to grow. Black ink poured from his blank eyes. "You think a few illusions and some trickery will -"
She balled up her fists and closed them in on her chest and forced the image of her father over herself.
The effect was instantaneous. Blake startled and cried out, stumbling back in fear as she projected their father's image into the air, controlling the illusions movements with her own hand. "Blake," it said in its gruff Scottish accent, warming slightly at the sight of Blake's horrified face. "My boy, what have you done to my organization?"
"Trickery," Blake hissed, gathering darkness into his arms like a blanket. "Falsity, lies - Where did you learn such illusions?"
Rhes almost laughed, and brought the puppeted version of her father closer. "Illusions? Don't be silly, Blake - you know I'm more of a fighting mage. Although I do hope to one day master the art of -"
A blow slammed into Rhea and sent her flying back into the floor.
She groaned, struggling to sit up. The world swam in front of her, spinning dizzily, and a high pitched whine rang in her ears. He'd gotten her, somehow - Fuck, the floor felt like wax under her fingers.
"Get out," she heard her brother growl through the ringing, and she saw him stand again. He looked a picture, a tired, tired picture. He was crying. Blake scowled with thunderous fury, tears cutting through his face and hitting the ground with resounding crashes. "Get out and don't you dare come back, Rhea Maclaren. Never again."
So she did.
-
Rhea was alone.
She hadn't expected much else, to be fair. Well, maybe she had; maybe she had expected Blake to step down, maybe she had expected him to be just as small and powerless as he had been when they were kids. But it seemed he'd discovered his talent. And it seemed that maybe, Rhea was outmatched.
She couldn't help but think about what Dorchas had said. She needed to find a pair of… silent twins, whatever the fuck that meant, and she would then find others who would help her to become an Stiùiriche. How she was to do that, she didn't know, and she definitely didn't have a way of contacting the seer again. Maybe she should go back to LA. She wasn't sure of anything anymore.
After all that, there was a small, maybe childish part of her that missed the abandoned waterworks that she had spent so much time in during childhood, and she decided to visit it again. Luckily, it hadn't been boarded or fenced up; in fact, it had barely changed at all. The only things that she immediately noticed were different was the amount of graffiti on the walls - there was a lot more, which was to be expected - and the large, dark stain near the entrance that looked almost exactly like blood. She stepped over it anyway, barely noticing. All she cared about was the fact that oh, this was the place she'd spent time reading and messing about as a child. So much time spent here. It was strange, being back in this place.
""He gives his harness bells a shake,"" she recited to herself under breath, tapping the scratched wooden railings with chipped nails. ""To ask if there is some mistake. The only other sound's the sweep… of easy wind… and downy flake.""
She slowly made her way up to the second floor. This time, it was impossible not to notice the bloodstains on the floor. She frowned and bent down to touch the stairs. The blood was dry. The trail seemed to lead all the way up to the third floor, and Rhea's heart began to pound. Yet she followed it. Maybe it was silly, maybe she was just bored - but she wanted to know what this was.
Then she heard something crash, and a voice echoed into the stairwell from the hall.
"Who the fuck's there?" came a strong Irish accent. Rhea yelped softly and immediately threw up her hand, raising the Veil to cover her against the wall. "Swear to fuck, if someone's here I will take your guts out and bloody eat them."
Rhea scrunched up her face in confusion, but wasn't given time to question, because a man suddenly appeared in the stairwell doorway. He was pale and freckled, with a mop of wildly curly dark hair and a stubbly beard, wearing a grey jumper that said the word BERLIN in printed white letters along with a pair of torn black jeans. In one bandaged hand, he clutched a long, glinting kitchen knife. Bright orange eyes dart back and forth, skimming right over Rhea's head, and the man scowled at the empty nothingness.
"I know I fucking heard someone," he muttered to himself, turning and glancing down a hall that Rhea couldn't see. "I'm not completely stupid, I'm not just paranoid! Or maybe I bloody am at this point - I'm literally talking to myself, Christ on a..."
He walked off. Rhea, too curious to just let it go, began to follow him. The man was limping slightly on his left leg, and dragged his knife along the walls as he went, still talking aloud. "If someone is here, there's no point hiding. Don't you know? The third floor to this place -" he stopped, and stabbed his knife into the concrete wall with a sharp grating sound that nearly made Rhea scream - "is mine. Got that, bastard?"
She didn't dare respond. Honestly, she was just in awe. Who the fuck was this strange man, this dirty looking stranger with his knife and threatening words who claimed this place as his own? And… was he possibly one of the people that Dorchas had claimed would be able to help her?
The man limped back into the room he'd emerged from, and Rhea followed. He seemed to have quite the set up; a navy sleeping bag, a banged up silver laptop, and what looked like a white wireless wifi router. A dark duffel bag was opened next to him, and Rhea could see clothes hanging out of it. A small ashtray and a few pocket knives were scattered around as well, under a long yellow scarf that was hanging from the open window. So he definitely was living here. Interesting.
The man sighed, leaning out the window to gather up the scarf into a bundle in his arms and plopping down on his sleeping bag. Well, Rhea supposed this wasn't exactly her business. She was about to turn and leave when something caught her eye and she felt herself freeze.
The man was… There was really no way to describe it as anything other than "glitching." Pieces of his body tore away from himself in sparks of pixels, as though he himself were code that was falling apart, and a scratch of static pierced the air, making Rhea wince. Her eyes widened in horror as she took in the man, who barely seemed to notice what was happening to him. Was this normal? What was he? A magician, a monster?
There was no way this was a coincidence. He had to be one of those that Dorchas had said would help her overthrow Blake, he had to be. Rhea knew fate when it fell right in front of her.
So from that point on, her mission was to find out as much about the man as she possibly could. Which was… not a lot. He was extremely off the radar, and it was very annoying to Rhea. She didn't even know his real name. The man didn't go out a lot, but when he did, he always gave a different name. August, Anthony, Adam - lots of A names. She'd started calling the man "A" in her head.
From what she'd gathered, A was completely homeless, and was also some kind of magician who dealt in electricity, teleportation, and apparently a bit of hypnotism. She'd started following him when he went out, to bars and stores and parks, watching him steal and get into fights and occasionally hook up with random men before disappearing the next day. The strangest part was that, the more she watched him, the less she suspected he was a Hecate magician, and the less she was sure he even knew what Restitutio was. Anyway, the man seemed to be too preoccupied with whatever it was he was doing with his time - which, apparently, was looking for someone. She realized this one day when she found him outside a bar, holding a knife to some man's throat.
"I'm looking for a man named Jameson Jackson," A told him. He wasn't smirking or joking like he so often did; in fact, he looked quite serious, angry, even. "I have reason to believe you may know where he is."
The other man - short, skinny and blonde, looking no older than twenty - looked terrified. "Look, man, I don't know what to tell you," he said, shaking his head. "I haven't seen your brother. I - I know I said I could get you those files from Hecate -"
Rhea's blood ran cold.
"- But I got stuck, ok, I'm in a situation!" He gasped for breath, and Rhea stumbled back as A glitched wildly in his fury. The man looked to be near tears, pressing himself harder against the wall. "My girlfriend was in hospital this weekend, I didn't have time, and also, do you know how hard it is to steal files on magicians? Especially since you don't even fucking know if your brother is even with Hecate, what the fuck am I supposed to do with that information -"
A slit the man's throat and he dropped to the ground dead.
Rhea couldn't say she was too surprised.
A week later - on Christmas Day - A snapped and killed another man he'd previously been flirting with in an alleyway. And he didn't stop there. Ten others followed immediately after. Eleven goddamn people. Rhea didn't even intervene. Because - because fuck, this man was powerful. Maybe he was one of the people who would help her overthrow Blake. Maybe she should stop stalking him and actually speak to him normally. Maybe she could recruit him somehow.
Then again, he was a murderer. That probably should have been obvious from the start, but hey, Rhea wasn't one to judge. It wasn't like she'd never considered it herself.
However, everything changed about three weeks after Rhea had started following A, when the other man came into the picture.
Rhea wasn't sure who she was. It started off as a sneaking suspicion that she wasn't alone on the days when she was going through the city, covered by the Veil, and began to realize that someone else was there too. The same man each time, whose eye she caught on the train when A was window shopping, and in the store aisles when A was quietly slipping food into his pockets. The other man never fully showed his face; he always wore a black mask that covered the lower part of his face and a pair of thick glasses with a maroon hoodie that he always kept up. Rhea wondered who he was. She knew why she was following A - so who the hell was this guy? Hecate, Restitutio? Maybe not a magician at all? A police officer? A friend, an enemy?
A didn't seem to notice either of them, somehow. At least, not until the beginning of January, when the man in maroon revealed himself.
It was early afternoon when it happened. Rhea had been tailing A all night while he was out, and was considering giving up. She has gotten almost nowhere in all the time she'd been with him, and was no closer to discovering anything of importance about him. However, on this particular day, the man in maroon had been more evident with his following. Rhea was sure even A had noticed him, and it showed. She was surprised when he went back to the waterworks anyway, despite realizing he'd been followed. Should she warn him? Should she see how this would go down instead?
Rhea wasn't one to involve herself in other people's fights. She chose the latter.
As soon as A got into the waterworks, he dropped his bags and spoke, to her surprise, with a smile.
"Red," he sang softly, not even turning round. "Are you here for an ass kicking?"
Red? Was that the maroon hoodied man's name? Rhea didn't know. In any case, the man finally stepped into view. He was wearing that same hoodie, facemask and glasses, but despite all that, Rhea could feel him smirking.
"Anti," said the man. Anti was another name A had used for himself, but only when he thought he was alone - he talked to himself out loud a lot. Maybe his real name? "You must have read my mind. I am here for an ass kicking, just not my own."
Well, this was certainly getting interesting.
Rhea didn't intervene. She could have. But she didn't. She didn't, because Red had put on a necklace on, one that was chunky and a solid black, with a shining piece of what looked like obsidian in the centre. Rhea recognized it. Recognized it from long ago, when her father had shown her the dark artifacts of Restitutio.
"These are soul artifacts," she could almost hear her father saying. She could see his face swimming in front of her, pale and harsh looking yet soft, just out of reach. "Made by an ancestor of ours many years ago. They're extremely powerful, extremely valuable, and there's only three left. These will have to be guarded by Blake when he's older, you know. When he's Stiùiriche."
It sure seemed like he hadn't done a very good job of actually guarding them.
A - Anti? - looked at Red with a glint of amusement in his eyes. "You're sure? If you just need someone to fuck you up, I can do that. You don't need to pass it off as wanting to actually hurt me, I get it -"
Red threw a bolt of white light and Rhea was blinded.
Photokinesis. That was all Rhea could think of in the painful few seconds that she couldn't see for. That confirmed his status as a magician, at the very least. But Rhea had gotten so distracted that she'd forgotten to keep her shield of magic up and was now completely exposed. She panicked for a moment, before instantly remembering that it didn't even matter. The two men in front of her were dissolving into a full scale fight, magic and everything. They hadn't seen a thing.
"This is already pretty pathetic," Anti giggled, sparks of electricity racing up his arms. He assumed a fighting stance again, dodging Red's fists and yelping at the burn of magic flying past his face. "Make this fun for me, Red, it's no fun to beat you if you don't fight back. Come on!"
Red growled, swinging back and then feinting, swooping out one of Anti's legs out from under him. The other man stumbled and nearly fell, but suddenly teleported to the other side of Red and slammed a fist into his windpipe. "Pathetic, still!" he cackled again. They were getting close to Rhea. She found she couldn't move. "Try harder, Hero, try a little harder and maybe today I'll -"
Even months later, Rhea wouldn't be able to explain what had happened next. It was almost the opposite of what Red had done before with the light - the room had blackened, all the sunlight that had been streaming through the windows and open door extinguished, and a piercing wail cut through the air - a cry of pain, from who, Rhea didn't know for sure. She couldn't see. Couldn't feel her own skin. This was magic, pure, black magic, and she saw memories that weren't her own -
A pair of twins. Matching bright green hair and clean shaven faces, one wearing a blue top, one wearing white. Leaning against each other in a room lit with sun. One of them was the man named Anti, she knew that for sure. She didn't know who the other man was.
Dialogue. Words passing overhead. Words like game, seizure, colour, coffee, Jack, cold, tattoo.
Another person - face freckled and split with a grin, with fluffy black hair and warm hands.
A kiss. A snap, blood, burning tears and laughter, laughter -
The memories were gone before she knew it, like they'd been blown away by wind.
She knew what must have happened. When the darkness cleared, or dissipated enough to see, she found herself staring at a body on the floor. Anti's. The other man, Red, had used the magic in Restitutio's necklace, the soul magic - Shit, he had used the soul magic.
That wasn't supposed to be able to happen.
But… but. Anti wasn't dead. He was bleeding from his nose and ears, and even slightly from his eyes, but he was trembling too, twitching slightly and breathing still. How that was possible, Rhea once again didn't know. But he was definitely alive.
And she had never seen magic as powerful as what Red had just used in her life. Not from Blake, not from Anti, not from her father. Not from anyone. Fuck, the man was strong and while she didn't know where or how he had gotten that artifact, she didn't even care. She knew, in that moment, that this man was one of the people she'd need to acquire the help of.
That fact solidified itself in her mind when the man lowered his hood and finally took down his mask. Because - he looked almost identical to the other man. Same thin white face, same hooded eyes, same slightly crooked nose and scruffy beard. "I did it," she heard him say, his voice low with awe. He stepped over the Anti's twitching body, crouching low and letting out a shuddering sigh. "I really fucking did it, I… I did it."
It was then that Rhea thought about the poem again. The one that had stuck with her for so long, the one her father had taken so much delight in explaining in great detail. She thought about those woods, and that village, and that horse and that frozen lake and those shook harness bells and the sweep of the snowfall and the simple choice that the poem's protagonist had. The untamed unknown of the woods, or the simple safety of the village?
It was time Rhea made a choice, and she knew it. Or maybe she'd made her choice already. The dark or the light? The deep unknown or the calm that she already knew?
The woods are lovely, dark and deep. But she has promises to keep, and miles to go before she sleeps.
and on to projected apathy. are you just going through things, checking what works and what doesn't? good luck with that, jackie. i doubt there's much you could say to get rid of me.
unfortunately, i don't feel like doing that. this is the first time i've messed you up that much, after all! i'm having fun! who knows how much more upset you could get?
and now you're snapping at me as a distraction. fair, honestly, i did just make you cry and that's not an easy thing to do. it was a challenge, i'll give you that.
God, I fucking hate you. I fucking h͜a̸te̶ you, I fu̧ckįn̢g hàt̵e you, I fucking -
so you're just pretending nothing happened, then, got it. how's that working for you, jackie? have you stopped crying yet?
You people are fucking assholes. Stop fucking talking to me. I mean it. Wow, I bet you're so pleased with yourself, you made the bitch cry, well fucking done. I hope you choke.
you have one person who loves you, jackie. and i find it interesting that you kept saying that he's no better than you. see, i never said anything about that. all i said was that he would end up leaving. i wonder why that's what you chose to defend with, jackie. sounds like that's a thing you have to tell yourself over and over. why don't you ask him, jackie? why don't you go ask your boyfriend how he feels about you, and see what he says? after all, if you're so certain, why not prove it to me?
he's shaking too badly to respond. he scrubs at his eyes, something wet glinting on his cheek.
you need no one, hm? jackie, as much of a monster as you are, you're still human. and people need other people. what are you going to do when you've finally driven aaron away too, and you're alone in the world? and it is a when. how long has it been since you talked to him? too long, i would assume? he's stuck around here because he loves you, jackie, but how long until he realizes you're not fucking worth loving?
he blinks rapidly, his mouth still open as he gasps sharply, broken noises escaping his parted lips. "i - you - you, you - i don't - you don't -"
he covers his face, scratching his skin with his nails like a cat. he stands so suddenly that his chair flies back and hits the floor with a loud bang. he's panting, desperately trying to say something, but his eyes are flashing the more torn he feels. "s͡h̨út ̴u̕p!́"͢ he howls, voice breaking. "shut - shut up, don't fucking - aaron loves me, you're all just - he helped me! he's no b-better, he is no fucking be-bet- he's no - he - shut up shut up shut up shut up! you don't know - you don't understand and i'm -"
the screen crackles with static and bars of colour tear through the black and white flecks of glowing monochrome, and something crashes, and jackie is attempting to calm himself again. breathe in, breathe out, breathe - but he's worked himself up and he can't breathe right, chest rising and falling with the gulps of air he's taking. ""not fucking worth loving,"" he quotes, laughing harshly. "not worth loving - not - well, i have people who love me and i am - i am - i am -"
he doesn't finish. he just turns away from the camera to collect himself.
was it worth it then, jackie? worth it to lose your brothers, worth it to have them hurt when they hear your name, worth it to cause then so much pain and stress? and just to get revenge on one man. you definitely broke him, yes, but did he not drag you down with him? what a wonderful life you must lead now that you've beaten him, one person in the whole world who still loves you, others who did before hurt for it, nearly alone in an attempt to make him hurt more. was it worth all that, jackie?
he's properly shaking now, opening and closing his mouth like a fish as he struggles to form words. it takes him a few moments to gather himself, and even then he is visibly upset. "you don't fucking understand!" he cries desperately, voice hoarse and cracking. "you - i - i d-did it to - i just wanted to hurt him but i liked it and it k-kept going, ok? ok? what more do you want from me?" he throws up his hands, nearly falling off his chair. you can see the blackness spreading down his face like spider legs, clicking under his skin and pooling through it, watery. "i don't need a-anyo-one else in my life! i have aar-aar-aar-"
he's suddenly stammering so badly that he can't even say the name. a frustrated cry escapes him, and he digs his nails into his palms before pausing. breathe in, breathe out. breathe in, breathe out. he's trying to calm himself, despite how he trembles and bites his lip hard enough that it bleeds.
"he," jackie spits in a quick breath, head jolting as he says it. "he did not drag me down anywhere. i. broke. him. you fucking h-hear me?" he slams the table again. "i made that b-bastard beg for mercy, cry out for his jack and his jamie and sometimes even his rhudy, made him scream and shake and - and f- and flinch away from me in fear. i broke him in like a fucking dog. i was the one who was in control. not him. so to answer your question - yes, it was worth it. yes, it was so, so worth it. i need no one. all i need is the s-satisfaction of knowing he's fucking shattered and i hold the br-brick that br-br-broke him."
if it was just to stop him from hurting anyone else, jackie, you could have killed him. easily, in fact. probably would've caused you less stress over it, too. and yet, you chose to torture him horribly for nearly half a year. bet it hurts to lose the main reason you insist on as a defense, jackie. or maybe you'll just hide it, pretend that doesn't do anything at all. you and anti are the same that way.
he huffs, suddenly slamming his fist into the table. "god, i didn't - i didn't want to fucking kill him straight away! i wanted him to bloody suffer, it's what he f-fucking deserves! every - every bit of pain, every scream, every - he deserved it, he deserved it, he ruined my fucking life!"
he growls, trying to collect himself and gripping at his hair as he does so. it takes a moment for his breathing to slow and even out, steadying enough for him to speak. "anti is a pathetic, whinging coward. anti is a fool and an oblivious, brainless idiot. anti is a fucking asshole and a sick fucking bitch who gets his kicks in by torturing innocents just because they took his precious jack away from him by simply being a nicer person, and who can blame jack, anti was pathetic and moody and stubborn and a cunt and no wonder no one wanted to be fucking around him even before he started murdering people!"
he breathes in. he breathes out. his eyes are wild and glittering black like tunnels, and parts of his skin have darkened to an ashen grey, some to a coal black. he shakes. he grits his teeth and he shakes.
"revenge can be sweet, but it can also be very bitter," he mutters, gripping the table with black fingers. "it isn't always what you expect. sometimes... it manages to taste that much sweeter."
marvin doesn't understand what, exactly? jackie, i don't think you do. this was never marvin turning against you, it was you turning into a monster. or simply showing that's what you were all along, if you prefer; either way, it's on you for becoming worse than the person you were trying to protect them from. you may have broken anti, yes, but was it really for anything at all if you just took his place?
he scowls, his face twitching slightly as he reads and rereads the message. you can now see the bags under his eyes on his extremely pale skin. he looks sick, nearly grey with exhaustion. "you don't have a clue what you're talking about," he snaps, picking up his wrap again and then immediately throwing it back down in mild disgust. "i am not turning into a monster, i just always was one. showing what my true colours, like you said. it's hard to keep up a mask, you know, as easy as i'm sure i make it look."
he shakes his head, messy hair falling into his face. "i am not worse than him. all i'm doing is bringing a villain to justice, even if i have to hurt a few others to do it. ha, remember the days when i was a vigilante?" he grins wickedly. "guess i never really stopped. who cares if i hurt a few others on the way?"
he picks up his wrap again, regaining his confidence after his brief spell of uncertainty and winking at the screen. "damn right it was worth it. everything i did was worth it for that one moment of hearing him literally manipulate the electricity i was throwing at not to insult me, not to provoke me, not to even try and escape, but to beg me not to hurt him. god, it was such a good moment."
he leans his head back and closes his eyes as though he's remembering.
yeah, you like to put it like that, don't you, jackie? saying that this was always you, that it's who you really are. now, yes, it is. but jackie? you remember how marvin reacted. you really think any of them would care about someone who was already like that? no, i think it was a choice to act like this. you had the potential to hurt anti, yes, but it was most certainly a choice to act on it. they loved you, and now it hurts them to say your name. well done, protector. exactly what they needed.
his confident grin wavers further, and a flicker of annoyance crosses his face. "marvin is a fucking idiot. he doesn't understand. none of them do. and, really, i don't think you understand the extent that a mask can hide how someone feels. i did it for years. even... even long before anti." he blinks, trailing off. "believe it or not, i'm not just making excuses. what the fuck do you think happened to rhudy?"
he laughs again at the name, immediately brightening. "oh my god, rhudy! i can bring him out to play, if you like. have you spoken to anti recently? maybe we can persuade him to come play. actually - maybe i'll send him a copy of those videos, huh? i'm sure he'd love to watch himself break and beg me not to hurt him all over again." he smirks and leans back in his chair, balancing precariously on the back legs. "oh fuck, that'd be fun. what do you lot think? there's gotta be at least one of you that likes to have fun."
i doubt you'll care by then. you've already lost yourself in every way that matters; i doubt you'll care that you hurt the last person that trusted you. oh, by the way, jackie. did you know that the very mention of your name is enough to upset them, now? congratulations. you're officially worse than the person you've claimed to be protecting them from.
he reads this all the way through, smirking, but flinches slightly at the last line. he tries to cover it up by laughing, drumming his fingers on the table. "ha, wow, good to know i have that much of an impact. go on, keep telling me stuff i already know. you're definitely scaring me." another eye roll, but his finger tapping is slightly more agitated, and you hear his leg bouncing under the table. "besides, i never lost myself. i was here this entire time. it just took me a while to remember where i was."
yes, but didn't you say that about your brothers, too? you just wanted to protect them... until marvin had enough of what you had done. you just wanted to protect henrik and chase, then... until you didn't. and now you sent them something designed to fuck with them. one might wonder where that pattern continues, jackie. there's only one more person left to hurt, isn't there? you say you won't hurt him, but you already hypnotized him, and isn't that practically halfway there already?
Wow, you guys are really fucking persistent, aren't you?
the camera screen flickers with bright static, emitting a high pitched whine -
and you can now see, actually see, jackie. he's sitting at a table in what looks like a messy, red kitchen, stacks of dishes visible in the background next to a clothes covered ironing board. he's wearing a baggy yellow hoodie, dark brown hair falling in his black eyes over cracked round glasses. he has a plate in front of him with half a wrap on it that is indeed oozing chocolate, but he's no longer paying attention; when he sees the image is working, he shouts with joy.
"holy shit!" he cries, a grin breaking his face. "look at that, you can see me! hello, hello! i knew the cameras on these things worked. wonder if i could somehow see the others?"
then he reads your message again and frowns, making an exaggerated pouty face. "oh, dear. well, the day i hurt aaron, i guess you'll be there to tell me you told me so. boo, hoo."
oh, that's not what i said, jackie. you care about aaron, don't you? but i don't recall if you ever actually talked to him after you hypnotized him. he was the last person that got close to you to get hurt, wasn't he?
I do care about him. And it's really no concern of yours whether I talked to him or not. What he doesn't know won't hurt him, and ignorance makes the world go round. Besides, I didn't hurt him. He was fine. I'm not a complete bastard, what do you take me for? I'd never hurt my own boyfriend.
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