About how Elo was a Shield and would protect everyone who she thought needed - even those that maybe didn't need it.
About how 'Grut decided that he was going become her Dog and protect her, but also trusted her enough to hold his lead.³
Particularly I'm thinking of an event¹ where Elo & some of the others had let themselves be captured by drow², and how, when it came time for Snotgrut to pull off the rescue, they both waited until everyone was out then proceeded to have an argument about who would be last.
I think they finally ran out of time and 'Grut just shoved Elo ahead of him.
Oh and there was the time there was a bard who was making her uncomfortable with innuendos directed at her and he had a quiet word with said bard to make sure he left Elo the hell alone.
I'm also thinking about how 'Grut spent a few days with the group and basically went "this woman has the whole world on her shoulders and no one is doing anything about that. in fact they're expecting it of her and aren't helping with the weight. This won't do" and proceeded to help, usually in the most ass-backwards way he could manage.
--
¹ which is somewhere in the recordings but never made it to the transcript, so I'm paraphrasing as best I can
² I think we had to gather intel on them or find someone who was missing?
³ he knew about Elo's preference to offer leniency and arrest over justified homicide, and before combat would ask if this was a 'gloves on or off' situation, then respected her choice if outright killing beyond self-defence was an allowable option.
Universe: Fighting Fantasy World of Titan
CW: Character near-death
Or read on AO3
"Lieutenants, an honour guard is hardly necessary in the first place," Elowyn says, as she's fiddling with the cuffs of her new dress-uniform. "Which makes the sniper setup overkill. No criminal is going to try something in front of the whole damned Watch."
Snotgrut gives a tight smile. Using their titles means she's pissed, but fiddling with the strangeness of the uniform means she's uncomfortable. As usual, she's masking anxiety with anger. His new Captain – provided the ceremony goes off without a hitch – is just as readable as ever.
Elowyn's grousing is aimed at Breakwood, though, who to be fair is fretting. But it also saves Snotgrut from having to defend their position.
"They're both necessary, Bug," Breakwood says. "We all know this place would go to the Pit in a handbasket without you to steer it."
Elowyn raises her eyebrows. "You're mixing your metaphors, Brek. And we both know it wouldn't."
"They might shut us down though," Snotgrut has to put in, because it's a worry that has been keeping him up at night. He doesn't know what either of them would do without their work.
Elowyn frowns at him, as if she's confused by the suggestion. "They can't."
"They could try–"
"You misunderstand. They can't." Elowyn does this squirmy thing with her face; it means she's done something where the ends have justified the means. She says carefully, "I... petitioned to have the Special Recondite Unit enshrined in the City's constitution. Some of the council were... less... easy to... persuade than others. But it means they can't shut the Unit down without thorough due process. So all of your plotting is overkill, and I need neither honour guard nor snipers."
Snotgrut and Breakwood look at each other. From Breakwood's cocked eyebrow he didn't know about what Elowyn had done either. Another smile escapes Snotgrut – he does enjoy it when their Captain is the sneaky one. Breakwood's eyebrows and mouth are both tilted.
Snotgrut nods and turns back to Elowyn. With an easy shrug, he says, "Everything is in place now. Might as well go forward with it."
When she narrows her eyes, rather than scowls, Snotgrut knows she's going to cave.
Elowyn sighs, rubbing at the spot between her eyes. "You're really that worried, huh?"
Snotgrut opens his mouth, but finds a pithy response lacking.
Breakwood snorts. "Always. I have never met someone so diligent at finding trouble as you."
"Besides yourself, you mean?" Elowyn grins.
For the moment, they're ignoring him, which is good because Snotgrut can't figure out why he felt so blindsided by the question.
"Fine," Elowyn's saying. "We'll do it your way. But I reserve the right to tell you I told you so when nothing happens."
"And when it all goes Pete Tong, we'll do the same," Breakwood retorts.
And then there's no more time for introspection because a runner from the Courts is knocking on the door, telling them it's time, and they need to gear up.
––
Elowyn gives a good speech. She always has done, ever since Snotgrut has known her. The speech she's giving now is excellent, aided by the faint glow of her Mark. He's willing to admit, too, that her perception is second only to his own. But her focus is on delivering her speech, so he can forgive that she doesn't pick up the flicker of movement from the roof of one of the nearby buildings.
He's moved before he can think about it, reappearing in the air above the building in question. But he's misjudged the teleport; he's too high. And, of course, he didn't bring any Slowfall items...
Just when Snotgrut thinks he's going to end up as a small green stain, a shadow falls over him. The back of his armour is snagged by a claw, and his decent is slowed considerably.
But when he lands, the rooftop's empty. Whatever he saw has vanished. Possibly spooked by the presence of the large golden dragon who's assisted him.
He wonders if he saw anything at all... then spots an open skylight.
Before he takes off, Snotgrut pauses and looks back at the dragon.
"Auriana. Is she–?"
Auriana snorts. "If she wasn't, I'd not be here."
"Right." He gives a sharp nod and takes off towards the skylight, wondering what's gotten him off his game.
In the plaza below, he can still hear Elowyn giving her speech of acceptance in front of the Cathedral of St Cuthbert. She'll notice him missing, of course, but by now she trusts him to get things done out of her view. She wouldn't have made him an LT if she didn't.
There's moss on the bed below the skylight. He's on the right trail, at least. Snotgrut lowers himself down and, on the lightest feet, makes his way out of the room and along the sparse corridor beyond. A narrow, servant's stairway is traversed, bringing him out to a dark hallway beyond.
From outside comes a smattering of applause. Elowyn must have finished speaking.
Snotgrut shoves himself into a shadowed corner and asks Ardyss for his vision. The little pseudodragon complies in time for Snotgrut to see his Captain, with her shiny new pauldron, accept the applause with an uncomfortable grace. Then she's leaving the stage, preceded by a blond elf from Watchhouse Eight and Breakwood behind.
There are dozens of people swarming to congratulate her, and he spots a flicker of a grimace. Then she looks back at Breakwood – eyebrow raised, three fingers tapping on her shoulder – passing a message in a language Snotgrut has not yet learned.
But she's fine, which was all he wanted to see.
Snotgrut relinquishes his familiar's vision.
Keep an eye on her? he asks Ardyss.
Ardyss mentally rolls his eyes, as if to say 'yes, obviously', and cuts the connection.
Snotgrut can't help but smile. Elowyn always thinks he's lying when Snotgrut tells her that Ardyss likes her more, and assumes he has ulterior motives for his familiar hanging around her. He can't deny those motives do exist... but it's not only at his bidding that Ardyss prefers her shoulder to his.
Faint light filters in from narrow window slots, highlighting the dust in the air, as Snotgrut makes his way through the empty house. It's on the second story that he spots a figure ahead. He increases his pace, drawing a wand.
"Watch. Stop where you are!"
The figure freezes and spins. They're an elf-gnome cross, dressed in a cloak to heavy for the season and carrying a large, flapping bag.
"Who are you?" Snotgrut asks.
"Please, sir. I'm just a humble caretaker. The family are away and asked me to look over the place while they're gone."
"Is it your policy to drop moss on your employers' beds? I want to see in the bag."
"Of course, sir..."
Really, he should have seen it coming. Stepped to the side. Fired first. He's so off his game...
There's a flare of pain in his gut. It grows and grows like a fungus of lighting, consuming his consciousness. Snotgrut just about has the wherewithal to pull out a healing potion, but it's plucked easily from his fingers before it can be consumed.
"Tsk," says the Bad Guy. "Can't have the little dog being well enough to run barking to his master."
In short order, Snotgrut is relieved of all his obvious potions, wands and trinkets. There is nothing he can do, pinned to the ground by pain. The only thought in his mind, as it swirls towards darkness, is – how can they call him 'little' when they're both the same height?
His stint in the blissful void is short-lived. He's called out of it by something near his shoulder, thrumming with power and yelling his name. It feels like it takes aeons, but he manages to knock the speaking stone from under his lieutenant's pauldron.
"Snotgrut!" Breakwood sounds annoyed. Hmm. "I swear to Libre, if you–"
He hits the stone to activate it, a stabbing pain radiating like Flame Strike. "Situ– Ugh. Help."
The next thing he knows, there's a gentle radiance enveloping him; gold like honey wine, warm like a cosy fire. He swims through it, towards the light... and surfaces to hear someone turning the air black and blue in several languages.
"–Backup, you idiot. You know better! I know you know better, I was there! Don't you dare make my first official act having to appoint an new LT, I will never forgive you. Come on, you pain in my arse. Why can't you just wake up!" This last is suffused with anger, fear, and a wet sort of plea.
He halts out with a croaky voice, "Did the speech go alright, your Ladyship?"
The warmth never flickers. She releases a relieved sigh. "Snotgrut, I'm going to throttle you."
"Did you get them?"
"I don't know. Farren hasn't checked in yet, and Auri's too pissed off for me to tell."
Snotgrut starts to rise, but Elowyn pushes him back to the floor.
"Sit your ass back down, I'm not finished."
"I feel much better–"
"You're still bleeding."
There's a tightness around her mouth, only partly masked by the furrowed, concentrated brow. It means she's struggling to keep from voicing a vehement opinion, because now is not the time. For once, he appreciates the discretion.
The warmth of her healing gradually fades away, and Elowyn steps away looking exhausted.
Sarcastically, Snotgrut says, "May I stand up now?"
A smile creeps over her face. "You may."
The smile shrinks again as she watches him clamber to his feet, feeling like he got trampled by a pack of wargs. He tries to keep the ache off his face.
"We need to talk about this," she says.
"Yes." Snotgrut keeps his gaze pinned on the floor, remembering a time not long ago when their roles were reversed. She had the decently to look abashed, and so shall he.
"But later. Right now, you're going home."
She steps past him, unfurling a handkerchief.
"I feel fine. I can prestidigitate my clothes–"
"Don't you dare," Elowyn snaps, in the midst of tugging something from the wall. "No magic for the rest of the day. You lost too much blood. You're going home, you're going to eat something solid, then you're going to rest until at least nine bells tomorrow." She grunts as she finally pulls whatever-it-is from the wall. "Am I understood?"
"I can continue with my duties, LT. I really am–"
"Snotgrut." The hard tone stops him dead. Elowyn turns and, oh – there's an expression she hasn't worn for a while. The last time, he thinks, was in fact that same night, but it was aimed at her aunt. It means she's been scared shitless and is furious about the fact.
It takes him a moment to repress his instinct to bicker the point; he doesn't fancy testing that wrath.
"May teleport myself home?"
"No. Don't think I missed the fumble you made with your last 'port. I don't want to get in and find you melded yourself with a table. We'll ask the Guard if they have horses we can borrow."
Outside, she approaches where the elf from the Eighth is waiting in front of the building entrance.
"Captain." The elf greets Elowyn with an inclined head. He eyes snap over her head. "Lieutenant Snotgrut."
"Lieutenant Aveskamp," Snotgrut greets back.
"Aves," Elowyn huffs. "Not an hour into my new job, and I already have a jurisdictional nightmare on my hands. D'you know who's on point for this attack?"
"You're in luck – it's Second precinct. Cap. Willoughby's sent Lieutenant Poulner over to deal with it."
Elowyn blows out her cheeks. "Good. Can you ensure this gets to him, please? I'll report in with him later." She holds out a bloodied crossbow bolt. As Aveskamp calls an officer over with a glass jar, Snotgrut realises that was what went through him. No wonder he aches still...
Elowyn leads him to a chair, tells him to 'sit' and 'stay' in a way that makes him think of the gnome/elf's insult – a little dog, barking to his master – before vanishing to secure them transport home.
––
She's always always taking charge, Snotgrut thinks. Always busy, always moving. Si non me, quis ergo indeed. Even here at home, when she should be free to relax, Elowyn is filling in Mrs Higgins on what's happened and directing her to feed him leftover pie and asking the aubolds to keep an eye on him.
And, and, always and.
The only time she stops moving is when she sits down to take his statement in the chicken-scratch she calls writing. He makes a mental note to redo it later in his more legible hand.
Then she's standing, pulling on a cloak, ready to whisk away again.
"Cap?"
"Hmm?"
"You should stop."
A frown.
"Stay, I mean."
A raised eyebrow.
"Have a cup of tea."
Elowyn huffs out a laugh and gives him a gentle smile. "I'd love to, but I've got to get this over to the Second. The description you gave will help us figure out who did this. We'll get them, I promise. Now, remember–"
"No magic, plenty of tea, rest in between," Snotgrut intones. "Yes, yes."
"Good." She squeezes his shoulder. "Be safe."
His eyebrows shoot up. "You're the one going outside."
"What, are you worrying about me again?" She grins and sweeps towards the door. "I'll be fine. Don't wait up!"
Snotgrut stares after her. "Yes," he says in the quiet aftermath. "Yes, I do. All the time."
CW: None
AO3 ; Chapters: 01. 10. 20. 30. 40. 41. 42. 43. 44. 45. 46. 47. 48
Tag list (ask for +/-): @aquadestinyswriting, @hannah-heartstrings, @jacqueswriteblrlibrary, @babyblueetbaemonster @mr-orion
Elo dozes in the car, tucked against Farren's side. When they arrive at his place, he carries her up the stairs to his condo. Elo doesn't have it in her to argue.
She sleeps some on his couch, surrounded by scents and noises that mean home and safety. Monday wakes her up to slurp down some water that tastes weirdly of bread and sugar, and gently helps her with a bowl of beef broth. She goes back to dozing to the low babble of conversation from her colleagues.
Maybe an hour after they arrived, the doorbell goes. Yates places a placating hand on her shoulder when she starts awake.
Farren allows entrance to a woman in a smart, starched white dress carrying a doctor's bag. She kneels in front of Elo, honey-brown hair pinned back and an easy smile on her pretty rosebud lips.
"Hello, Detective. I'm Nurse Rowlands. Detective Breakwood asked me to stop by and check how you're doing. Would you lift your shirt please, so I can listen to your breathing?"
"Anything for a pretty face," she says.
The nurse rolls her eyes and proceeds to check Elo's vitals.
When she's done, Farren, with arms crossed tight over his chest, asks, "So what's the prognosis?"
"Her heart rate is a little higher than I'd like, but it's strong." Rowlands pulls out a clipboard and writes on it then passes it over to Monday, hovering next to Farren. "Check it again in two hours, and if it's still high, take her to the emergency room. Aside from that, just keep up her fluids, and with some rest, she'll be perfectly fine."
"Fine enough to take you for a drink?" Elo asks.
Rowlands laughs and pats her knee. "That's sweet, but no thank you."
"You sure? I'm only here for another week."
Rowlands laughs again and stands, collecting her bag. She gives Farren a meaningful glance. "No alcohol."
He walks Rowlands to the door and gives her a peck on the cheek. "Thanks."
"Take care," Rowlands says and is gone.
Elo feels noticeably perkier after the nurse's visit, so is less dozy when the telephone rings half an hour later.
Cobbleskater gets to it first. "Hello?… Yes… Understood… She's recovering well… Of course… About 40 minutes, depending on traffic… A beige Buick Centurion, plate number RA7 5PY… Understood… Roger that."
He hangs up. "That was the General's security team. They want us to take Elo over now."
Elo uncurls herself for the corner of the sofa, her face drawn. Farren glances over but his empty eyes don't quite meet hers.
"Alright, lads," says Monday, "Let's roll out."
–––
They nose through the throng of people outside Strucker's house and the driveway gates are shut behind them.
Elo stares at the big house. Most of the windows are dark. She thinks again about Strucker rattling around in there on his own. How the house will be filled with serious martial murmuring, instead of buoyant laughter.
The door opens, letting in a rush of cold air. Before she can protest, Farren has scooped her up, carrying her towards the door.
"My legs do work, you know."
"Yeah, I know."
"You can put me down anytime now."
"Mmhm."
Elo sighs and stops protesting. Besides, Farren is warm and the night is not.
Inside the house, Strucker is waiting for them. Farren lets her down, and Elo clasps Stucker in a rough hug.
"Not gone to the noose," she whispers.
"But still… A year gone…"
"Is nothing. Not nearly as bad as it could have been."
They break apart, and Johan gruffly clears his throat.
"The bed's made up. There's cold cuts, if you're hungry."
Elo shakes her head. "The lads fed me. Besides, I've only got two strong needs right now. One is a tipple, the other is more sleep, and I'd prefer them in that order."
"Nurse Rowlands said no booze," Farren says, frowning.
"C'mon," Elo weedles. "Don't you think I deserve a little something after the day I've had."
Strucker is already headed towards the den.
Farren throws up his hands. "Fine. Just one."
The three of them enter the den; Monday is liaising with Strucker's security, and Yates and Cobbleskater are already bivouacking somewhere in the house, ready to take their turn at watching her door – an absolute necessity, apparently, despite the phalanx of other security measures in place.
Strucker, taking up station behind the wet bar, pours them all a drink, and they clink glasses.
"Here's to not going to the noose."
"Here, here," the others echo.
The liquor is sipped in a contemplative silence.
Elo finishes her drink and puts a hand over her mouth to hide a yawn.
Stucker's eyes twinkle. "Bedtime for you, I think."
She makes an affirmative murmur. "All the other bollocks can wait until tomorrow."
Strucker grins. "Eloquently said."
Farren plucks the glass out of her hand and places it down. "Right, I'm cutting you off. Come on."
"Yeah, yeah." Elo slides off the wet bar stool with some degree of grace, albeit in the lower numerals.
Farren helps her up the stairs and into her room.
She flops down on the bed, slumping over on her side.
"You gonna be okay?" he asks.
Elo groans into the mattress. "I don't know. Doesn't matter. 'Feelings' come under the heading of 'other bollocks' and can wait until tomorrow. Brek, I love you, but bugger off would you? I need sleep."
Farren snorts and starts helping her take her boots off. "Well, now I've seen everything. First, you let yourself be coddled and now you openly admit even you need rest. Next, the sky'll be filled with fire and ash, and the end times will be upon us."
"Fuck off," she says with a tired laugh.
"Fucking off, ma'am," Farren says, closing the door behind him.
–––
She isn't sure how long she's slept before she's woken by the feeling of being watched.
Elo lies still, staring into the dark. Could be her imagination. Could be Farren or one of the others checking on her. It doesn't feel like that though. She huffs a sigh and twists so she can look around the room. In the deep darkness of the corner at the foot of the bed are a pair of eyes, glowing like twin coals.
She sits up. "Snotgrut?"
"Kasskekadmas," he amends evenly.
Elo groans and flops backwards, pulling the covers over her head. "Come back tomorrow," she says, voice muffled by the blankets. "I'm not in the mood for a fight."
There is a noise, like cracking ice, that could be laughter. "Youse kin relax, Atnešė, I ain't here for a fight."
Elo pulls the covers back down and squints at the figure.
"I came to keep me watch, as promised. Didn't mean to wake youse."
"Snotgrut–"
"Kasskekadmas."
"Kasskekadmas, what happened to your voice?"
There is that crackling laugh again. "Finally noticed, did ya?" he says. "May as well ask what happened to the rest of me too."
Snotgrut, who is apparently no longer just Snotgrut, stands and paces to the centre of the room. Against the haze of the wall, he looks taller. He makes a gesture towards the window. Clouds pull back from Aukštasvilkas' silver eye so Elo can see him in the moon-blue slice through her curtains.
Elo sits up, arms wrapped around her knees as she regards him.
He's definitely taller. His build is the same, still narrow and pointy. There's less of a potbelly, his ears have lost their point and his skin is smooth. It's hard to tell in the moonlight, but she thinks he's no longer green – maybe tan or olive. He's still wearing the scraps Cobbleskater found for him, a trilby and trench coat draped over the arm of the clothes chair in the corner.
"What happened to you?"
"Funny thing, eh?" From someplace, he pulls a cigarillo of all things – bent and crushed – and puts it in his mouth. "I was trottin' along, on me way to the liddle meet you called, when I got this pain in my chest. Right sharp, like I'd been stabbed or somesuch. So I'm there, near to keeling over cuz it hurts like buggery, when I sees that I'm in a puddle of moonlight. And that's not so strange, mebby, 'cept I think my eyes is playing tricks, cuz the damn thing's getting bigger… Here, doll, youse mind lighting me up?" He waves the cigarillo at her.
"Sure," she says, although she's not sure she believes that she actually can. She lifts a finger, holding it towards the end of the cigarillo, and thinks about the baking sun, angled through a lens at a patch of punk. A flame, weak and stuttering, appears, enough for Snotgrut to get a draw. He takes a deep lungful, leaning back and letting the cloud out towards the ceiling. Elo pinches her flame out.
"You were saying?" she prompts as he wanders back to the chair.
"Yuh… So that puddle, it swallowed me up, see? And I got explained to me a thing or two about how the old Dvasia boss weren't no good and how I was gonna be the next, and… Well." He takes another long draw on the cigarillo. "Youse remember tellin' me how you burnt? And you asked if I ever felt anything like it, but with ice? Yeah, well, now I have, 'xactly like how you said." He takes another suck on the cigarillo. "So… Looks like I'm the boss now, eh?"
He looks lost, she thinks. Shell-shocked and confused. She wonders if this is something he ever wanted, ever even thought about. She wonders if he's had anyone to talk it over with, if he reached out for help from anyone. From the look on his face, they couldn't have been too helpful if he did. She thinks she should've looked for him, instead of waiting for the new Kasskekadmas to come to her. But until the trial, she'd relegated all this back to the land of make-believe.
"Youse gonna say anything?"
"Hmm."
"More'n that I meant."
"What do you want me to say – congratulations, commiserations?" Elo sighs tiredly. "Someone has to bear the light. If not us, then who?" She shakes her head. "We've got a lot of work to do, sure. A lot of things to set straight, a workaround for Drakemar's monkey wrench–"
"Youse mean what the Dragon said?"
"Yeah. The dragon." For a moment Elo feels pleased that she wasn't imagining it when she looked at the man and saw instead the echo of a giant, fire-breathing wyrm.
"I've been thinking about that. And, well, youse know how to write Eshen. And that oldster, Aster – afore you came along they used to talk to Bonerot, so they kin translate anything you say into Dvasia for me."
Elo's eyebrows raise. "You'd willingly go to an Eshen for help?"
"Came to youse, didn't I?" Snotgrut crosses his arms and pouts.
"We both know you didn't come to me for help." Elo grins. "You just accepted the coffee in the spirit it was given."
He grumbles something.
Elo gives another tired sigh. "A lot to figure out, for sure. But it can wait until I've had a full night's sleep, okay?"
He squints as if only now realising she's dead tired. "Sure thing, doll. Don't let me keep ya."
Snotgrut – because she cannot get used to calling him by a title made ugly by another – melts back into the shadows of the chair and starts to hum a soulful little tune that eases Elo back into the land of sleep.
CW: Eye Dialect, Fantasy religion/ mythology, Non-graphic description of murder
AO3 ; Chapters: 01. 10. 20. 21. 22.
Tag list (ask for +/-): @aquadestinyswriting, @hannah-heartstrings, @jacqueswriteblrlibrary, @babyblueetbaemonster @mr-orion
«Hallo?» comes a green-skin's voice. «Is youse presentable yet? Can I come out?»
"Snotgrut?" Elo asks in disbelief.
She's not a hundred per cent sure that she's not hallucinating, given the painkillers from Mrs Higgins, the sudden surge of adrenalin and tiredness all combined.
«Yeh,» the Dvasia replies.
A hundred different questions flit through her brain. She instead chooses to move her pillows to prop herself up in bed.
"I'm decent," she says. "You can come out."
The closet door creaks open, and a green shadow slips out.
«Fanks,» Snotgrut says. Those red eyes find her like torchlight beams. «Wus starting to get stuffy in there. Bit pongy, too.»
He has the audacity to wink at her for farting in her closet. On her clothes. Elo makes a mental note to buy air fresheners as she drops back against the headboard.
In the sodium-orange light that slices through the blinds, she sees Snotgrut tilt his head.
«Youse don't look so great,» he says.
She can hear a smattering of worry in his voice and has to fight down a giggle at the idea of a fairy tale villain being concerned over her health. «Youse want us to do this later?»
Elo is exhausted, short of patience and still in pain despite the drugs, but she knows she doesn't have long with this strange little creature, and he's the best chance of getting her questions answered.
"No," she says. "I need my questions answered."
«Sure thing, boss,» Snotgrut says and moves to sit on the floor, still keeping his distance.
Elo realises she's still gripping the knife and forces her hand to relax around the handle. She rests it on the bedside table, within easy reach. The Dvasia still seems tense, still doesn't come any closer. Maybe that's just what they're like; it's not like she has a frame of reference to read its body language.
"Honestly, I'm surprised to even see you at all. Your buddy, Legnok, said you were 'tied up' in a manner that makes me think he wasn't being metaphorical," Elo says, relaxing back against the headboard.
«Yeh, well. I hit a few snags. But us gobbos is a bendy sort, and I found a way to wriggle out of me issues.»
Elo frowns, but he doesn't seem inclined to expand any further so she returns to the point at hand.
"First question: how the hell did you get in my 4th-floor, locked room?"
«Vent shaft.»
She blinks, thinking the creature should be too big – but then, half of this is some twisted magic bullcrap, and he has just said green-skins are all sorts of bendy, so she suspends her disbelief and plays along.
"I assume you're aware of the attack yesterday?"
«Yeh.»
"Second question: what the hell was that that attacked me?"
«Kasskekadmas.»
She just stares, so he repeats it slower, «Kaz-kek-a-dam-ass.»
"That doesn't answer my question. What is it?"
Snortgut frowns. "Well… is like… You know how lotsa folks got this idea of a big skelly dude with a farm implement?"
"The Grim Reaper?"
«Yeah, that's the one. Well, Kasskekadmas is him.»
"You're trying to tell me the personification of Death has a personal grudge against me?"
«No. Well. I mean, yes. But, he ain't…» the Davsia groans and puts his hands to his head. «I ain't good with this phillysophical shit.»
"Just… do your best. Please. I don't have any idea what's going on, and you're the only one who's even trying to explain."
«Oh, I got it. You know the story of the little girl wot finds an old crone who asks her to stir her big cauldron and the girl gets the liquid on her and licks it away and then the crone turns out to be the guardian of the underworld and the girl's gotta come stay with her for 6 months of a year, yeah?»
Elo frowns. It sounds a bit like the story of Hades and Persephone, but mythology was never something she focused on. She makes an encouraging murmur all the same.
«Well, the girl, right? She's a metaphor for summer, and the old crone's a metaphor for winter. And Kasskekadmas, he's more like the crone.»
Elo lets this percolate, then understands with a flash. "Oh! So the personification of the inevitability of time and the decay that comes with it has a personal grudge against me?"
«There, see. I knew youse was as smart as y'are pretty.»
"But why is it attacking me?"
«Cuz youse the Atnešė.» Again, he says it slowly for her: Atn-esh-ey.
"And what is that?"
«It's… It's a bit like the girl from the story, right?"
"So I'm… life?"
"Ehh." Snotgrut screws up one side of his face. "'S a bit more complicated than that. Anyway, that's not Dvasia stuff, so I dunno if I should be saying it."
"But you could find someone who can?"
«Prob'ly? Yeah, yeah, I reckon so.»
"Good. Right." Elo lets her eyes close as she thinks of her next question. The desire to keep them closed is strong, but not stronger than her need to understand. "How come I can understand you and the tree creature who was with Legnok, but there are still words you say that don't get translated, like Kasskekadmas?"
Snotgrut's face scrumples into his constipated, thinking expression.
«As I understand it,» he says slowly, «there's a lot of different words for things in this world, but in some places the word is always the same, cuz it's not so much of a word for a thing as it is the thing itself and what it is.»
"What?"
Snotgrut sighs. He wiggles a bit as if he's trying to get comfy for a long-winded explanation.
«In the beginning,» Snotgrut says, his tone patient and measured, as though what he's saying is something that he has learnt by rote, «was Aukštasvilkas.
«Its pelt wus the night, and Its teeth wus the stars, an' It's one bright eye wus the moon. An' one day, It laid down to sleep, and the place It chose to lay happened to have some moss-covered pebbles. Long did Aukštasvilkas sleep, and the heat of Its breath woke the moss, and the caress of Its fur woke the stone.
«And when It awoke, Aukštasvilkas was so surprised by what had been unintentionally made that the other eye opened, and the sun bathed the moss in its rich light while the stone bathed in the gentle moon's glow. And so wus born them we call Dvasia and them as we call Eshen. Aukštasvilkas wus pleased with the little things that'd been born, and It took care to keep the eye of fire on the one and the eye of ice on the other, watching each grow under their chosen light.
«But then one day, Aukštasvilkas fell sick, though there was none as could say how a thing might be possible, nor where the sickness came from. But it was so, and It's children gathered around him. But they became distressed and started to fight, each blaming the other for Aukštasvilkas' fall.
«They fought so that none witnessed the passing of Aukštasvilkas – or It would have, 'sept Aukštasvilkas' was the first death, and rather than pass easy into the other world, the fighting corrupted what It was. So when they did finally look so they could attend the body, instead of a corpse wus two new beings, Kasskekadmas and Atnešė. Both wus angry – at the other and their people – and in their anger, they banished the Eshen and the Dvasia to the mortal realms.»
Elo stared at the Dvasia, pulling her vision back to the here-and-now, instead of the strange palace that had been replaced in front of her eyes as Snotgrut spoke.
"That's… great," she said. "But it doesn't really answer my questions."
«Pah,» Snotgrut spits. «I told youse, I ain't good at the wordage. I's trying to tell youse – there's another place out there. A world beyond the worlds. 'S why there're names of things that ain't just their names, and that's hows you can understand me, and the moss-ears, but not them, cuz they's untranslatable."
Elo frowns, her head beginning to hurt. Maybe she should have sent him away, maybe now isn't the best time. But still. She has to know the answers.
"So you think I'm some kind of… Reincarnated god?"
Snotgrut shrugs. «Youse opened the Nerishklis. Ain't just anyone can do that.»
"I don't know how I did that."
Snotgrut shrugs again. «'S Eshen stuff, innit.»
Elo passes a wearied hand over her face. "Alright. Talking of the Nerishklis – the blond girl who was murdered had it. Do you know why? Do you know why she was down on the docks that night?"
«I dunno why that dafty moss-ears had it,» Snotgrut says and shakes his head. «But she went asking the wrong sorta folks the wrong sorta questions about it. And cuz she was making a fuss and hoo-ra about it, Kasskekadmas got wind, and he thought mebby she'd unlocked it.
«But she weren't s'posed to be down there at all!» He shrinks into himself, arms crossed, hands tucked under his armpits. «I guess someone gave the game away. Tipped her off, that's where her answers was.»
"That's why she was killed? For sticking her nose in where it wasn't wanted?"
"I dunno, I guess?" the Davsia pulls his legs up, scrunching down as if to disappear, and doesn't he sound the most pathetic right now…?
A creeping chill of intuition sneaks up her spine.
"Snotgrut, what aren't you telling me?" she asks, a hardness in her voice. "Did you lie to me when you said you didn't kill her?"
«No! I– Well, that is… Y'see…» he mumbles, making himself as small as possible.
Elo forces herself to keep breathing in even measures, to not stand up and act on the fury that's building in her chest.
She grips the edge of the bed and in a voice that has a hardness and a quality she does not recognise as her own, says, "Tell me."
Snotgrut yelps, flings his arms over his head. «I swung the tool!» he cries. «But I never killed her! I swears it!»
Elo feels oddly displaced then, as if it's not actually her doing the talking and acting, but that she has taken a step to the side while another – dispassionate, cold and hard – borrows her body.
This other version of her says, "Who stabbed Evelyn Stucker?"
«Youse don't wanna know.»
"Tell me who did it!"
«Boss– Ex-Boss took care of it himself. He fought she was you, I guess, cuz she was carrying the Nerishklis wiv no pain, an' he thought he'd jus' kill 'er and take it, only she weren't you, wus she? And it weren't unbound yet and so he couldn't touch it, and so he killed 'er cuz she almost found the tome!»
"Did he know I would come? Was he counting on me finding the Nerishklis and unbinding it, and coming back to the docks?"
«I don't fink so?» Snotgrut has stopped cowering, now she hasn't lashed out as he has expected, but he still crouches there, snivelling and grovelling instead. «He had us hole the boat so it would all sink. But we's didn't know about the ropes what still tied it.»
"What weapon did he use?" Elo asks softly. The fury and the pain are still there, but they are dimmed for the moment.
«You… Youse really don't wanna know»
"I really think I do." She will have her answers, even through the pain of knowing.
Snotgrut slumps, a dejected little pile of flesh and stone, sad red eyes turned upwards. «He, uh… he kinda… He took a splinter from that icy sword he's got and used that. Um, and then the blade, it drank all what she could be, and all that she had still to give the world, and all the time she had left.»
Elo absorbs this and feels like she is fainting without fainting, like she is fracturing into a hundred versions of herself, like light passed through a prism, scattering what she is into a hundred shards of differences, none of which know what to do with this information or themselves and
What the hell is she going to tell Strucker? Elo thinks, and the force of the thought pulls her back together.
Elo drags in a stuttering breath, knuckles as white as the bed linen clutched within, and she sways on her feet, though when she stood she can't tell, and she thinks she might be sick.
Snotgrut is on his feet, dithering as he wants to support her, but there is that unspoken distance he cannot seem to break. Panic and worry chase each other over his face.
«Mebby youse should siddown?»
She drops onto the edge of the bed, shivering, marshalling her thoughts.
"You said something about a tome?"
Snotgut nods.
"It's important, right? Must be, if he didn't want the vic to get it."
«Guess so?"»
"Is it still on the barge?"
Another nod.
"Bring it to me?"
Snotgrut cowers back, but only for a moment. «Yes, Boss,» he says with some reluctance.
Elo adjusts her pillow and settles back. "You said there was some stuff you couldn't answer because it was Eshen, right?"
«Yeah?»
"I need someone to explain it then. What about that little moss-ears from last night, Willow-something – can you find them?"
«What?» he squawks. «Youse want me to willingly seek out a moss-ears?»
"I would do it myself, but I've got no clue what I'm even looking for." She gives him a pleading look. "Please?"
«Alright, fine,» he grumbles. «But not now. I'll move through the shadows and the sewers come sun-up. Right now, youse need to sleep, and you won't sleep if you've half an ear open to grab that liddle knife o'yours. For now, I stays. I'll keep watch over youse.»
Snotgrut finally approaches the bed, pulling the coverlets up over her shoulders and pats her on the shoulder.
«I'll guard the night. You sleep,» he says gently.
She quickly falls into a dreamless slumber, lulled by Snotgrut's roughly hummed melody that is both familiar and not.
CW: None
AO3 ; Chapters: 01. 10. 20. 30. 31. 32. 33.
Tag list (ask for +/-): @aquadestinyswriting, @hannah-heartstrings, @jacqueswriteblrlibrary, @babyblueetbaemonster @mr-orion
Night passes, and morning comes, and when Elo wakes she once again finds a small green shape at the foot of the bed.
"Snotgrut?" she asks, blearily. "…Do I want to know how you got in here? Or what you're even doing here?"
«Took us a while, but I found youse. I told youse, y'never needs to worry about yer rest cuz I'll be there,» the drowsy goblin responds.
"What about the night I apparently spent up a tree?" Elo asks, snippily.
«That wus… That wus different. You wus up a tree.»
"I thought you said green-skins could get any place they wanted?"
«An' we can!» he snaps back, and there is a light growl in his voice as he says, «Like I says, that were different. Youse don't know what youse're askin'.»
"You're right, I don't know. I don't understand why it's different," Elo says, struggling to keep her voice down. She doesn't want to wake Strucker or call attention to the fact there is a mythical beast in her room, having an argument with her. "I still don't know anything."
«We's got you the book,» Snotgrut says, acerbic. «It shoulda explained everything.»
"One, I can't read it. I don't understand the language it's written in. Two, it's evidence in an ongoing murder investigation. I got a cursory examination in, but that's it. It's not like I can take it home and make it my bedtime reading. The moss-ears were useless. All I have is you, Snotgrut. So tell me why it's different. Tell me why you let me spend a full day up a tree in the company of two strangers while my family went spare with worry."
«Dvasia don't climb trees,» Snotgrut says, petulantly, crossing his arms and setting his jaw.
"You'll climb everything but trees?" Elo shakes her head and gives a confused half-shrug.
«It ain't done,» Snotgrut says. «It's… It's nebaigta.»
Elo frowns because an interesting thing has just happened. She does not understand what he just said, in the sense that it is a foreign, untranslatable word. It has not become a word that she has heard as English – like it's been with the Dvasia and Eshen. It's stayed as that ancient tongue from a time before time. Yet, she had understood it perfectly fine.
While it remains untranslatable, that's because it's more of a concept than a term. He's telling her it's a taboo, more so than that – it's closer to an anathema. It's something that the Eshen and the Dvasia know instinctively, at their very cores: that they do not trespass in the other's domain. Eshen will not go beneath the earth, and Dvasia will not climb trees. They simply do not. There isn't even a question of one doing the other, it's not even a thing that could be considered breaking or disobeyed. It's just a fact.
Outside the bedroom window, a bird trills.
"I apologise," Elo says. "I didn't understand, but now I do. And now that I do, I'm sorry for having even suggested it."
«'S okay,» Snotgrut says. «I wus sat at the bottom of it anyhow. And…» He shuffles his feet. «It's still a bit more complicated than all that. You wasn't in the tree for all the time. Not exactly.»
"And what does that mean?" Elo asks with a sigh.
There's a knock at the door. "Elowyn, time to get up! I'm making pancakes," Johan calls.
"Alright, I'll be right there," she calls back, then aims a glare at Snotgrut. "Turn around, close your eyes and get to talking."
As Elo rises to dress, Snotgrut dutifully turns around, covering his eyes with his hands.
«You blossomed right?» says Snotgrut. «At least, I think that's what the moss-ears call it. When youse get accepted by the eye youse was born under?»
Elo selects an outfit from the neatly folded items on a nearby chair. "Yeah, so?"
«So while that happens, you sorta… go… someplace. Someplace what ain't here. But I never heard of anyone being gone a full day afore.»
"Is that why the girl looked at me like I'd just been offered something very precious and was too dumb to know what it was?" Elo asks as she buttons up her shirt.
«Prob'ly, yeah.»
As Elo pulls on her socks, she tries to think if there was anything special that would indicate why she was there so long – aside maybe, from the fact it took her a long time to open up and she had to fight herself tooth and nail to get to the point where she burned with light.
"What was it like for you?" she asks.
«'S a bit personal, innit?» Snotgrut says.
"Is it?"
«Yuh.» He sounds offended, then sighs. «But for you, seen as how you don't know nuffin'… It was a bit nippy. Like getting dunked in a canal in late Autumn, just before the water starts to freeze over on the regular.»
Elo gives a slow nod because she knows – oh gods, how she knows – what that is like. Her familiarity with the canals and their contents throughout every season and mood of the city is way past what would be considered proper for childish hi-jinks and a bargeman combined.
She stops in the middle of tying her shoelaces. "So it wasn't like, ah, being turned into a block of ice, feeling every part of you crystallising as the moisture inside you freezes and thinking that your heart will disintegrate into shards with every beat?"
There's stunned silence from the other end of the room.
"You can open your eyes now," Elo says.
Snotgrut spins, those red orbs looking like brake lights on a traffic-heavy day. «Aukštasvilkas looked on youse with Its silver eye?»
"Well, no." Elo rubs the back of her neck. "I wanted to equate what I did feel to something you might have experienced."
He is still staring at her, but now his brow ridges have risen. «Oh. No, I had nothing that… much. Was it… that much for you?»
Elo suddenly feels somewhat shy telling him, but she still speaks.
"I burnt," she says. "Its golden eye was turned to me, and I burnt. It blistered my flesh, and charred my bones and my soul, and boiled my blood away to nothing."
Snotgrut is gaping at her now, but she continues doggedly on.
"I was filled with light, and I felt what they said I should – I felt myself swelling with the sun's light and bursting into flower, only I wasn't like a minuscule daisy, I was like… I don't know what I was like. I don't know many flowers. But a big one, a complicated one, with lots of petals and layers."
«Yuh, uh hu,» Snotgrut says, in a tone that reminds her of the plumber that one time telling Mrs Higgins her boiler was well and truly kaput. «That moss-ears girly had every right to be lookin' at you, all jealousy in her eyes. Only green-skin I ever heard of what that happened to wus Boss Dvasia.»
Elo stops in the act of shrugging on her suit jacket. "Was he like me – did he start off as a human, with the heart of a Dvasia?"
«Yuh,» Snotgrut says. «He's still like that, an' all. When he ain't using his powers.»
"Wait, what? Who-?"
"Elowyn!" Johan calls from the ground floor. "Pancakes are ready! At least, I think they are…"
"Coming!" Elo looks away to shout at the door.
She knows she can't lollygag anymore, but the desire to know the identity of her opponent is more pressing. Except, when she looks back, Snotgrut has vanished. The shadow where he stood seems longer, as if he's used it to slip away. Which, now that she thinks about it, wouldn't surprise her in the least if that were true.
With a resigned sigh, she leaves the room and goes downstairs to breakfast.
Johan is waiting for her in the kitchen.
There is a steaming mug of percolated coffee beside a plate of… Well. Elo decides that calling it pancakes is a charity. The batter is cooked, at least, but it's rubbery in places, burnt in others, and mostly in bits. She reaches for the syrup regardless, coats the mess in a sticky stream of pale gold, and decides that whatever it's appearance, its going in her stomach. You never turn down free food, after all; that's just rude.
"You really didn't have to make pancakes," Elo tells him, after she has stuffed her face sufficiently – apparently she's more hungry than she thought – and takes a slurp of coffee. That, at least, is good.
"I know. But I wanted to," Johan tells her, and at the moment she's having trouble seeing a fearsome warrior under the floral pinny, oven mitts and spatula, wielded as though it were a sword.
"Well, thank you," Elo says, smiling. She takes another slurp of the coffee as she looks at the clock. "Oh. I hate to eat and run, but I've got to go. Thank you again for breakfast." She glugs down the remainder of the coffee, places her crockery by the sink and turns to go – only to find the spatula blocking her path.
"And where exactly do you think you're going?" Strucker asks.
Elo frowns down at the spatula, and then up at Strucker. "To the station. Yates and Monday are going to have updates for me on the case, and I told Cobbleskater I'd help him translate Ev– ah. The notes."
She thinks that the frown Strucker is aiming at her has nothing to do with the stumble in her words, but she presses on. "Then I will be going to City Hall to take His Nibs out for lunch, and… I'm not sure where this afternoon's jaunt will take us."
"No. You will be doing none of that," he says. "Today, you're off duty. We decided it was best if you had some time off."
Elo feels her features settle into a glower. "And who, exactly, is 'we'?"
"The Triumvirate Council, in consultation with Captain Fugit and Constable Breakwood." Johan's expression softens. "You need rest, Elowyn. Clearly, the past week has been too stressful for you–"
"Stressful for me?" Elo gapes. "What about you? Need I remind you, sir, you were placed on compassionate leave. If I need rest, then you need to be in a coma."
Strucker has the good grace to look doubtful.
"And what about the negotiations? The rest of the council is already nervous because I dropped off the grid for a day. Taking time off now will only make that worse."
Johan sighs and lowers the spatula. "That is a fair point. Thazar said there were a lot of worrying comments from certain factions."
"I want these negotiations to succeed, Johan. Don't put me on the bench yet."
Johan is still frowning at her. "Breakwood is not going to be happy about this."
"You leave him to me."
"Very well. Give me ten, and then we'll head over to the 88th."
"You don't need to drive me," Elo says, with a quirk of her lips.
Johan shrugs. "We're going the same way eventually. I'm sure I can doss around for a few hours at the station. Maybe put the fear of St Cuthbert into some of your colleagues."
Elo grins. "Fine."
And the pair of them go about preparing for their days.
CW: None
AO3 ; Chapters: 01. 10. 20. 30. 31. 32.
Tag list (ask for +/-): @aquadestinyswriting, @hannah-heartstrings, @jacqueswriteblrlibrary, @babyblueetbaemonster @mr-orion
It is Yoruk who finds her, as she is coming up to the car park. He is coming the other way, and his face goes from a look of thunderous determination to one of anxious concern when he spots her.
"My Lady Toreguarde?" he asks, and his voice is tremulous and low, the sort of tone one might use on a frightened child.
"Agent Forhoksson," she returns in the most normal tone she can, for all that she is standing there with no shoes and probably twigs in her hair.
"Are you… well?" he asks in that same cautious tone, as he takes a tentative pace toward her.
Elo tilts her head in consideration, then with a brief fortifying breath, says, "I am… well enough, thank you."
A dubious look skates over his features, highlighted in the pinching of his lips and the curving of his brow.
Elo realises Yoruk doesn't know if he should believe her. For all that he is Merri's paramour and Elo her best friend, they do not know each other well. They've only met a handful of times; and one of those, Elo was threatening his life on her friend's behalf.
"Agent Forhoksson… Yoruk, I'm sorry for causing such trouble." Elo tries to put weight into her words because she is sorry. "I should have said something, I should have tried, before taking off. I didn't mean to frighten anyone. But…" Elo purses her lips and looks away into the darkly verdant distance. "Have you ever…" She doesn't know how to name it. Elo has never been in a war – not like Aunt Alexis has, with bombs falling all around – so she can't call it shell shock. "Do you ever get…"
He's frowning now, head ducked and hands at the ready – a gesture of imminent action should she do anything untoward.
Elo presses at the spot between her eyebrows and flicks out a hand. "I don't have the words."
"Take your time, my Lady."
Elo swallows, lets her eyes close. Lies are difficult for her to spin on a good day, but she absolutely cannot tell him the truth. And anyway, it's not a lie, not really. She might not have shell shock in the same manner as her Aunt, but Elo has seen her fair share of battle, has lost colleagues to the elements and weapons of man alike; and knows, she has not come away unscarred.
Another breath.
Lorcian once told her that acting is about stepping into the truth of another's shoes. So she takes a step into the shoes of the past.
"I didn't mean to run off with no explanation. But I had a sudden, unassailable fear… Our perimeter, you see, it… it wasn't…" She swallows. "It was drilled into me by my Aunt that complacency kills people. I get… nervous when things are too quiet or too easy. So I needed… I had to go…" In a last-ditch attempt to make him understand, she says, "We had civilians. Children."
"Easy, Elowyn." He reaches out, as if to steady her shoulders, but refrains from actually touching her.
Elo takes another fortifying breath. "Thank you. I'm okay."
Yoruk lowers his hands, nodding. "I think I understand. We use the German word, Kriegszilterer, for when the effects of combat follow you home."
Elo stares. "Have you…?"
"Yes. When an engine misfires, I instinctively take counter-measures." He gives her a half-smile. "A side effect of guarding our Regent – people like to shoot at him, and he must be protected."
In the distance, the racing wind of traffic can be heard. Around them, the trees shift restlessly and a bird twitters a goodnight.
"Father Goodwin gave us the use of the old groundskeeping hut while we searched for you," Yoruk says, his posture now relaxed. He gestures behind her, up the lawn towards the Church. "If you can manage, there is a house full of people who would benefit from seeing you. It's perfectly okay if you're not – I can radio in that I've found you and take you home."
Now Elo looks at him properly – despite the low light – she can see the strain around his eyes, the rumples in his suit, the paleness of his complexion.
"How bad is it?" she asks.
Yoruk lets out a shuddering sigh. His gaze flicks away for the merest of moments. "They'll be better for seeing you."
He locks his gaze back on hers, and she hears the unspoken: 'It's bad.'
"I think I can manage."
He gives her a lopsided smile, and they start walking to the groundskeeper's hut.
"I am surprised," Yoruk says as they walk along the moonlit lawn, "that you managed to evade the search parties for so long. I realise you're a highly trained special forces agent, but General Strucker says he called in the best Rangers he had available."
Elo raises an eyebrow. "I've been gone a couple of hours, and the Triumvirate felt they needed to pull in SpecOps to find me? I know everything's on tenterhooks between our nations, but that's a little overkill, don't you think?"
Yoruk's steps falter and Elo senses his change in stance – the tension is back in his shoulders, the cautious, watchful air about him returns. And oh, isn't she glad it was he who found her, and not, say, Merri.
"Elowyn," he says carefully, "it's been a day. Merri said you ran into the woods and vanished. She followed your trail, found your boots, but you were just gone. No trace at all."
"I hope she's kept my boots safe," Elo says, unthinking. "They're a nice stout pair, I'd hate to have lost them."
Yoruk stares and gives an exasperated, consternated huff. "Yes," he says flatly, "Meredith has your boots." He rubs at his chest. "How did you evade the search parties? It wasn't just Strucker's Rangers combing the park, but Kóngurinn minn called in a unit of our Special Forces to help."
"Oh. I, uh, climbed a tree," Elo says.
Yoruk goes quiet beside her, and she can feel his consternation building.
"I climbed it quite far," she offers, as he goes still.
"You climbed a tree. Quite far."
"To the top, in fact. And I swear to you, I thought I was only gone a few hours."
He swears in Icelandic – and Elo knows that curse; it's the one Merri used when one of their team had done something particularly reckless.
"Is that everyone in the Groundskeeper's hut – Strucker and some SpecOps units?" Elo asks to change the subject as they start walking again.
Yoruk huffs. "Would that were the case. Kóngurinn minn is a stubborn beast and declined to leave the park until you were found. Of course, this means that Meredith, I, and the rest of his security had to stay. Your General used his executive powers to coordinate the search himself instead of delegating, so is accompanied by a small staff.
"Your Magister is a far more sensible man. He assisted your Mother in returning her brood home and has stayed away to smooth things over with your council. I understand there is some nervousness about what your sudden departure could have meant."
He looks away, but Elo senses words unsaid.
"What is it?"
Yoruk purses his lips. "Someone leaked that you were sat next to Kóngurinn minn, just the two of you, at the edge of the party, before you fled." He looks back, face blank. "I have to ask–"
"His behaviour has been above reproach at all times." The words are hard, caustic.
Tension leaves Yourk's face. "Thank you."
"Fucking optics," Elo says, pressing a hand against her head. "How did this happen? How the hell did I become the fulcrum of this deal?"
"Do you want the supportive answer or the honest answer?"
Elo shakes her head. "This is all the Exchequer's doing. I just don't understand why." She rubs her forehead again. "I hate politics."
Yoruk reaches out slowly to pat her arm, and they resume walking.
The Groundskeeper's hut, a basic brick building more shed than home, comes into view.
"Ah, I forgot to mention," Yoruk says. "Your Mother returned this evening in the company of Officer Breakwood and one of her children for an update."
"She brought one of the kids?"
"Apparently, the little girl with mousy hair–"
"Dimple?"
"–Insisted on coming along."
Elo finds her steps slow. "Let me get this right: That tiny hut up there is housing a King, a General, two dozen various armed SpecOps and associated admin, a copper, a retired architect, and a little girl; none of whom will have slept well, all of whom are tense because of falsely engineered politics, and who probably want to wring my neck?"
"Yes, I believe that covers it."
Elo stops outright now. "Cuthbert brace me, I'm going to get mobbed."
Yoruk halts and says gently, "Not if you don't want to be. I know what it's like to be deluged by concerned family who may not understand the delicate state you're in. I must report to Kóngurinn minn and your General, but I will do so discreetly. Wait out here."
Elo realises she has been holding her breath, eases it out in a low hiss. She will have to explain herself to everyone eventually, but to do so one at a time instead of all at once – that would be a gift.
"Thank you, Yoruk."
The tension lightens around his eyes as he inclines his head – as much of a smile as he can manage in the circumstances, Elo supposes.
"You're welcome."
He slips into the hut, leaving Elo to loiter outside. Light from a window above pools around her like a spotlight, and she reflects again she's glad it was Yoruk who found her – Farren would have worked too – but not her Mother or Merri. She loves them both dearly, of course, but Yoruk and Farren understand, and she is so, so grateful that Yoruk has not made a fuss.
«So. They made you a full moss-licker then,» says a quiet voice from a small bush off to her left. He sounds faintly jealous, for all his snarky words – like he was hoping that maybe it would turn out she wasn't a moss-ears after all, but a green-skin like him.
"No, Snotgrut," Elo says. "I don't know what they made me, but I am just me. I am not a moss-ears or a green-skin. I am both and neither."
He harrumphs at that pronouncement.
"Listen," Elo says, suddenly urgent; she has recalled the promise made. "I said I'd meet you and them on the tow-path at Silver Hooks at dawn tomorrow, so they could explain their side of things. But I have a feeling I won't be be able to get away. Can you tell them the time's changed – I'll meet you all at dusk instead."
«Youse want me to willingly find out the moss-ears?»
"Yes. I know you can do it."
«Youse want me to be your… messenger boy?» he spits the words. «To a bunch of no-good, namby-pamby, bloody–»
"Please, Snotgrut," she says quietly.
There is a waiting silence then, and she can picture him shuffling, indignant, and trying to figure out if she's worth it.
"What do you need to be convinced, Snotgrut? More clothes, more coffee? I can get you both."
«Bah. Already bought me, dincha?» He makes a disgruntled noise. «We'll see you tomorrow then.»
Then there is a subtle silence that tells her the Dvasia has gone.
Elo leans back against the wall, a wave of weariness overcoming her.
The sound of the door opening alters her to another's presence. She lets her head loll in that direction, to see Strucker leaning a shoulder against the wall. He keeps his distance, hands tucked into his pockets.
"You good?" he asks.
"Yeah," she says with a sigh. "Mostly."
Strucker nods, fixes his gaze on his shoes. "Storri's lad said it was an effect of battle trauma. I know I'm not the best for it, but if you want to talk any time…"
"I know. Thank you."
"Though I want a promise in return."
"Oh?"
"Quit trashing your bike. Spark plugs are cheap; bodywork isn't."
Elo startles, pulling away from the wall. "You didn't have to–"
"Like hell, I didn't." He sounds cross, but it's not just anger Elo hears there – there is a rough edge of affection too, and she is surprised by it. "I lost one of my little girls this week; I told you before, I don't intend to lose another, especially not through faulty machinery. If that means I have to fix your fool-ass back up with a ride, then so be it." He huffs. "That Atillia of yours is a rare beast. You need to take better care of her."
Beneath his words, she hears the hidden meaning. But the implication he considers her family is unexpected. Perhaps it is by association with her aunts, or just that they have grown closer through tragedy.
"General– Sir, thank you. I am deeply indebted–"
"No. You aren't. My wife had a saying: 'Family is who you make of it'." He pauses. "Actually, she had a few sayings on that account, but another favourite was 'family looks after family'. You may not be my kin, but you're sure as hell my kith, so I shall pay for the bodywork of your dragon to be fixed, under the promise you don't wreck her again."
He swings away from the wall, eyebrows raised.
"I promise, I'll take better care. Thank you, Johan."
She gets a curt nod in response and then he leaves.
Strucker is replaced with King Storri, who tilts his head, and says in a gentle tone, "How are you, sá litli?"
"Better than I was, Your Majesty," she says.
"I am glad to hear that. I was concerned I'd done something, but Agent Forhoksson said it was the effect of battle trauma."
He leaves the comment hanging; if she wants to expand, she can. Elo thinks she owes him that.
"Yes, Your Majesty. A type of… paranoia, that requires me to ensure my position is secure. It's worse when I'm with civilians. I left to climb a tree – the better to survey the landscape. I'm told I managed to stay up there for a whole day. I apologise for any inconvenience or worry caused." She doesn't intend it, but it comes out a touch acerbic.
"I did not mean to pry," King Storri says, gentle but not condescending. "For all I may not have seen such things as you, I understand. My father was prone to bouts as well, though his were more… violent than yours."
Elo makes a noise of sympathy, hearing what has gone unspoken. Her fingers seek out his as he leans against the wall next to her, giving a quick squeeze. The King lets out a surprised murmur of his own, squeezing back before allowing their hands to drop back.
He takes a breath, continuing, "Yes, I was concerned for you – as I said, I feared I'd offended you or that you had taken ill… But you are now here before me, as whole and hale as I could wish, so any inconvenience or worry you may have caused me is rendered moot, I feel."
King Storri pulls away from the wall, and with a warm smile, clasps her shoulder.
"I am very glad you are well," he says and returns inside.
Farren's visit is short and sweet. He has a cigarette hanging from his lips as he looks her up and down, and he reeks of cheap tobacco.
"Farren, I owe you–"
He holds up a hand and removes the cigarette long enough to say, "Damn right you owe me. I need a new pouch of baccy after all this."
"Brek–"
"No. We'll talk about this later."
"Why not just have it out now?" She was going to ask his forgiveness, but his attitude has struck a nerve.
"Because you're exhausted."
"I'm–"
"It's written all over your face. And," he takes a puff, "I don't wanna say something I'll regret."
Elo's mouth works. In the end, she can only say, "Alright."
Finally, Elo's Mother comes out, Dimple tagging along. Elo graces the girl with a faint smile before Oakrose is hugging her eldest daughter. Elo feels the older woman's shoulders shaking silently, knows she is trying not to cry – with relief or further concern, Elo doesn't know. But she holds her Mother regardless and strokes her back, offering assurances: Elo is just fine now, and she's very sorry for making people worry but it's all okay.
A night bird calls, as they stand there. From inside the hut comes the thud of something being dropped.
With one last quick squeeze, Oakrose releases Elo, offering a watery smile, and returns inside.
Dimple lingers, and Elo crouches to be level with the little girl.
"Why did you come back with Mom?" Elo asks.
Dimple turns her wide brown eyes and serious expression on Elo. "Because one of us had to look after her for you, while you weren't okay."
"You drew the short straw, huh?"
"No. I volunteered."
Elo is taken aback. "Why?"
"Oakrose talks about you a lot," Dimple says in her quiet, serious voice, her gaze locked unerringly with Elo. "She keeps a folder filled with newspaper cuttings about you."
"I didn't know…"
"Oakrose says that you risk yourself all the time so we can be happy and safe.
"I know the other children aren't like me. Their Mamas didn't try to hurt them. Their Mamas couldn't look after them or just didn't want them. Which is sad, and I'm sorry that happened to them. But for this, Oakrose didn't need them. So I volunteered and the other children were happy to let me, because they know she needs someone like us, not like them."
"I–"
Dimple blinks at her, and Elo finds she has no idea what to say to this child whose life has been filled with strife and pain and yet stands, quietly strong, above it. What would she want someone to say to her, if their roles were reversed?
So Elo says, "Thank you. You did a good job. I'm proud of you."
Dimple blinks rapidly, rocking her weight onto her back foot.
"You– You are proud of me?" Dimple's eyes widen.
"Yes," Elo confirms, and then she feels a wildness take her. "Dimple, I need to let you in on a secret. Do you think you can help me some more?"
The girl's eyes narrow shrewdly. "Depends."
Elo takes a breath. "I'm working a case right now, one that's very personal to me. And because it's personal, I think things are going to get worse for me, before they get better. And it's going to cause a lot of upset, and Mom's going to worry. So if you can, I need you to help her, okay? I need you to be there for her, because I won't be able to. Do you think you can do that?"
Dimple's gaze fixes on the darkness behind Elo. She blinks carefully, as the sounds of industry filter from the hut.
"If it's too much, just say no," Elo says, fidgeting with her hands.
Something rustles a bush.
"I can do this for you," Dimple says, switching her gaze back to Elo. Then, with the tiniest of tremors in her voice, asks, "Are you coming back?"
Elo swallows. "I don't know," she says – there is no point in lying to the child, after all.
She hasn't let herself think about that possibility yet, but it's almost inevitable that she will not. This creature she is to fight is older, stronger, and more knowledgeable than she. It is not a conventional person she can deal with by simply using a gun or a knife. She's really hoping the Eshen oldster has some trick up their sleeve.
But Dimple is still staring at her, so Elo says, "Expect the worst, but hope for the best."
Dimple nods once, her long hair swinging in a curtain around her face. "Are you going now?"
"No, not yet. I have things to take care of first."
Because she needs information. She needs to know what Monday and Yates found at the docks, she needs to know how to fight the shadowling. She needs to get her will in order – because from what the Eshen said, this fight can only end with someone's death.
Dimple gives her a slow, serious nod, and Elo feels herself relax. Talking to the girl has calmed her, and makes her think she can deal with the crowd within.
Elo stands and reflexively holds out a hand. "Shall we go back inside?"
Dimple looks at Elo's hand, then her, and back to her hand.
"You're supposed to take it, dashur."
"I knew that," Dimple mutters, petulantly.
Cautiously the girl slips her small warm hand into Elo's larger cool one, and Elo curls her fingers carefully around it. Elo leads them around the corner of the hut, straight into a flame-haired shield maiden.
Elo's eyes fly wide with alarm, and she drops Dimple's hand.
"Merri!"
Her old friend is standing there, arms crossed and silently scowling.
"How much did you hear?"
"I heard enough," Meredith says, her tone bitter.
"And?" Elo asks, her heartbeat speeding up.
"And I know it's pointless to argue with you. You'll do what you will," Merri tells her, grim in both expression and tone, some combination of disappointment and dissatisfaction comes from her in waves. "I won't tell on you, and I won't try and stop you. Whatever you're into, I'd only like to help if I can, but," Merri purses her lips and pulls in a breath, "I suspect you won't even allow that, will you?"
Merri's eyebrow twitches, her lips never moving from their grim line. Elo feels the movement shoot through her heart with the same damning velocity as a bullet. She swallows, reflecting that they know each other far too well.
"Don't think this sits well with me, mind," Merri says.
Elo barks out a laugh, startling them all. "I should hope not. I would think the world broken beyond repair if there was even a chance you would be happy with my poor life choices." Elo gives a wry smile. "Thank you for the offer, but this is a Toreguard affair – you can't be involved." Elo offers a hand. "Your silence is enough."
No further words pass between them, but they don't need it.
Merri eyes the proffered hand with annoyed resignation before clasping Elo's forearm as her sister-in-arms. Then Merri pulls Elo in closer, putting a hand on her shoulder to emphasise the message being sent with that tight-lipped glare, the thunderous frown and the eyes sparkling with something between anger, worry and resentment.
Elo nearly laughs again. Because yes, her shield-maiden is worried about her, but that's not what the face is for. Merri is pissed off that Elo is going to go and have a bloody good fight without her; as if Elo's going to the coolest, most hyped party in town without her best friend, because Merri is not permitted to go.
Elo raises her chin, offers her friend a tight smile to go with her serious eyes, and knows that Merri will see that while Elo is not sorry to be running off to this fight, she intends to come back. Elo knows Meredith will never be the swooning maiden to her shining knight. But it's still important for Merri to know that Elo will be better than the ravening darkness, and she will win, and she will come back to be with her friend again.
By the slow blink, and sigh Merri releases, Elo knows the message has been received. Merri's expression softens, giving Elo an allowing smile and inclines her head.
Merri leads the way back into the hall, Dimple's hand slipping into Elo's as they follow.
In between tool racks and gardening supplies, the inside of the hut is littered with signs of military occupation – sleeping bags fill the long-empty bedroom, the kitchen is home to a hot water urn and empty pizza boxes, the bench in the workshop is covered with maps, radios, and a miscellany of other equipment. Under the too-bright striplights, a mob of people in fatigues talk and gesture, all falling silent as they catch sight of their quarry waltzing in without a by-your-leave.
"Pack it up, boys," Merri says. "Case solved, time to go."
There is immediate babble. Some of it is aimed at Elo, some at Merri and Strucker. Orders are barked, activity flurries. Some of the Toreguard Rangers and Storri's Ubiquitous Black Suits approach to shake her hand, clap her on the shoulder, and share a few words. The volume is intense, Elo doesn't hear them, doesn't hear herself, lets her mouth take the lead. She's probably repeating herself, but no one seems bothered.
As suspected, Elo is not allowed out of eyesight. Farren and Oakrose stick to her like glue all through the general hubbub and walk to the cars, then she is being hugged again by her tearful Mother before Oakrose and Dimple are escorted home by one of Stucker's Rangers. Storri, after some brief words, is whisked away by an aggrieved Merri, and Farren allows Stucker to pull rank on him; Elo is to stay with the General overnight.
––––
After a diversion to Elo's place to pick up some necessities, they arrive at the Strucker household.
Elo is struck – as she usually is – by just how damn big it is. Unnecessarily so, perhaps.
But once upon a time, it held three people and the promise of a fair few more, and all those required to attend those people. Once upon a time, it might have been a good size for the lives that should have lived here. But that was once upon a time.
Now, as they come into the magazine-perfect foyer, it just feels cavernous and empty. Cold light from an over-counter spot spills from the kitchen. Strucker throws his keys into a bowl on the telephone table and runs a hand over his face, as though weary beyond belief. Elo stands awkwardly by the door. He called her kith, sure, but it's been a long time since she slept here; a guest, and yet not a guest.
"The housekeeper's left a plate in the ice box we can reheat," Strucker says, holding a note in his hand. "If you're hungry, that is. Or you can retire, if you like. I don't have a bed made up, but it'll be short work–"
"I'm fine with just a hot drink and sleep," Elo says, feeling as weary as he looks. "Don't worry about making a bed up, I'm fine with just a blanket."
"You may be, but I am not. Allow me to fuss, just a little?" Strucker asks, his expression going from a frown to something faintly pleading.
"Alright. I shall make the cocoa while you make the bed, deal?"
"Deal," Johan smiles at her, a soft thing that makes the corners of his eyes crinkle.
So off they go, in that huge, too-quiet house – him upstairs and her to the kitchen. And she makes their cocoa sweet and milky, because it seems like the thing to do after such a day. Days. Whatever. Then she takes the drinks through to the den, because it was always cosier than the sitting room, and fishes out a record from his collection by a band she has been told is good, and puts it on, letting the coffee-sweet sounds of trumpet and piano and the soft voice of the singer fill the air.
As Strucker comes in, she sees his face pinch a little.
"That's a good song," he says, but his voice is pained.
"I can turn it off, if you prefer," Elo says, and then cringes because she has just recalled who it was that told her this band was good. "I'll turn it off," she amends, moving to do just that.
"No. Let it play. Just for a bit," he says and sits down, reaching for his cocoa.
She joins him and they sit in silence. It is comfortable and companionable – and if it is a bit mournful, and a few tears leak out here and there, and the tissue box has to be fetched… Well, there's only them there and no one else has to know.
Millicent, seeing Elowyn babying Aurianna: What happened??
Elowyn, putting a plaster on Aurianna’s finger: Auri got a paper cut.
Millicent, rolling her eyes: Seriously? Yesterday Farren was screaming "I've been stabbed!" and all you did was yell "shut up!"
Elowyn, after kissing Aurianna’s boo-boo: That's because he was screaming "I think I've been stabbed!" Bitch, you're either stabbed or you aren't!
Millicent:
Elowyn:
Millicent:
Snotgrut, sitting next to them while casually eating cereal: She's right.
CW: Small amount of blood, Eye dialect
AO3 ; Chapters: 01. 10. 11. 12. 13.
Tag list (ask for +/-): @aquadestinyswriting, @hannahcbrown, @jacqueswriteblrlibrary, @babyblueetbaemonster
The roads are quiet as she rides home. The streetlights catch the gold on Auri's faring, sliding off like a lover's caress. Somewhere a dog barks, and an indistinct voice calls out to quiet it.
Some people think the city streets are more like a rabbit's warren, but Elo grew up during the rebuilding, the roads forming like pathways in her brain. So she's on autopilot as she guides the bike along the roads, and it's only when she stops, she is surprised to find she is over the canal at Spit Bridge.
No one is working this late. The tape is the only barrier stopping people from tramping on the crime scene. From here, Elo can see it sectioning off the alley where the victim was assaulted. The scene is like a loadstone, drawing her to park up the bike and descend onto the towpath.
She's tired. By all rights, she should go home and sleep. But she has pushed herself like this before and no harm has come from it. Besides, she tells herself, it's not like she has to engage her brain tomorrow/ later today. She just has to waffle about the city, something that's as natural as breathing. If worst comes to worst, she can always steal Joahn's on-call room.
The night is clear and still, almost eerily so. The smallest zephyr, a breath of wind, brushes against her cheek and skims through her hair. Her footsteps sound loud against the paving slabs, amplified in the way all quiet noises are in the dark of night. Beside her, the slick water of the canal is still, and she can smell the fumes of it mingling with the night's mist – there is the heavy metallic smell of engine grease, the pungent green scent of water weeds, and a cold, ice-like scent.
Elo ducks under the barrier tape, scanning the alley in the sodium-orange glare of the warehouse floods. It's exactly as she saw in the vision.
She steps carefully along the alley's length, picking out where her/ Evelyn's foot dragged, where their hand scraped along the rough brick wall. The déjà vue of familiarity is disconcerting.
She stops and looks back towards where the canal shimmers darkly. Leaving her car, passing through the alley… The victim had to be on her way somewhere. The killer followed her? Elo looks towards the landward end of the alley, at the bins and the service exit from the warehouse. No – the victim surprised the killer.
A surety grows in her bones then – this was an ambush. But maybe not an intended one… The wrench was a weapon of opportunity, of panic. She knows the type – a cumbersome thing used on the barge engines, too heavy to flee with. It would have been lying around, forgotten by some careless deckhand, ready to be grasped in panic, and swung to… To what? Hide a crime in progress, or to stop the vic from being someplace she shouldn't?
Elo turns and walks back towards the canal. It's difficult to figure out exactly where Evelyn/ she was stabbed, but close to the end of the alley floor, barely visible in the darkness, is the iron stain of blood. Elo looks back along the alleyway, head cocked in thought, and notes where the victim was struck in the head. Alleys, by their nature, are long and narrow. There's no way the same person would have been able to get in front to stab her through the chest.
Then Elo thinks of the vision, of the thing with red eyes between her and the tree. Realisation thrums in her veins – there were two killers. There had to have been. There's no other way around it. The one, further back, panicking. The one on the tow-path, calmly sealing the deal. Two would more easily move the body. One to hide it, the other to scuttle the barge. Two to murder her friend.
There was a payphone up the street, tucked between the tow-path steps and the wall of a warehouse.
She turns and sprints.
Maybe Farren has already worked it out – if he has, then great – but maybe he hasn't, and she can't take that chance.
There is the scuff of pebbles behind her, but she ignores it. It's probably a stray cat, she thinks and ignores the advice of her gut – nine times in ten, it's nothing, but you check anyway because that tenth time it's something – and runs to the payphone.
She dials for an operator.
"Hello, how can I help?"
"I'd like to place a collect call to Precinct 88, to the line of the electronic secretary. Charges will be borne by TPD, authorization code 1-1, 5-0, 4-2."
There is a pause while the operator notes down the authorization code, and looks up the number for the dedicated answer-machine line.
"One moment please," she says, "Connecting your call now."
There is a click, and a whirr, and Elo fancies she can hear the operator moving the plugs to transfer the call across.
"You've reached the electronic secretary for Precinct 88," comes the tinny recording of DIspatch-Sally's voice, calm and soft. "This number is for official, non-emergency use only. Please keep your message succinct. Messages will be recovered by the officer on duty every three hours starting at 0800 hours. Please clearly state your name, rank, and number; the recipient of your message; and the message itself. Proceed."
"Elowyn O'Toreguarde," she says, rushing through the procedure requirements. "Detective Sergeant in Special Cases, ID 0-7, 1-1, 4-9. Message is for Constable Farren Breakwood, regarding case number 1-2,1-1, 2-0, 1-7. There are two killers. Maybe you already figured it out, maybe you didn't, too bad, I'm telling you anyhow. Time is–" she glances at her watch "–0330 hours, I'm at the crime scene. There's a scuff mark from where the vic was struck in the head, and there's no way that same attacker could–"
That scuff comes again. Only, this time it doesn't sound like pebbles. She is tired, she must be imagining things, but it sounds like the scrape of claws on stone. But it doesn't come again, so she dismisses it once more and continues her message.
"The first strike," Elo says, having lost her train of thought, "was done in panic. The second was deliberate, cleaning up his fellow's mess, though it could be–"
The scratch of claw on stone sounds again, and it is different from the scrabble of a dog. It sounds sharper. She looks out of the booth, and there is something standing there, in the shadows.
"–Premeditated. Gotta go," she finishes quickly and hangs up the receiver.
Elo took a slow step outside the phone booth, not taking her eyes from the thing that hid in the shadow. Her gun is locked in the topbox, back on the dragon.
"What are you?" she called out.
«Youse was told to beat it, kid,» said the thing. «Youse was warned not to get into our business.»
Its voice scratches at her ears, all harsh consonants and short vowels, that sends a chill through her body.
"I don't believe I was," she responded, and a distant part of her wonders how she is understanding it, and, for all that her voice sounds like English in her ears, what she is speaking back. "I don't recall any of your kind, whatever you are, knocking on my door and telling me so."
«Stupid moss-ear. What're you, blind as well as dumb? The signs was clear as night.»
"The hell does that mean?" Elo snapped, almost certain that she has fallen asleep in the phone booth and this is all a twisted nightmare. "I don't even know what you are, let alone read whatever signs you think you've posted."
«Not posted,» it sneered. There was a flash of twin red glows, vanishing as quickly as it came. «Actions delt. We didn't think a moss-ear like you would know how to swim.»
And then she realised that incident the other night – the one where she thought she dreamt the skittering thing in the shadows as she got dunked in the canal – that was real.
"A green-skin," she said, and saying out loud what she has called them in her head for all these years sounds peculiar.
It snorted. «'Green skin',» it muttered, offended, and finally moves out of the shadow. «She calls us 'green-skins'. Pah! We's Dvasia, dumb-ass.»
Elo can only stare at the thing. In her defence, she decides, it does have green skin. It also has narrow pointed ears, and a narrow pointed nose and needle-like teeth. Well-corded muscles wind around thin limbs and sharp joints. Those hands and those legs terminate in knife-pointed claws, and she thinks that must be what she heard before. The thing is not much shorter than she is, and skinny as it is, she absolutely does not want to try it in a fight. For all that it called itself Dvasia, it bears a striking resemblance to a fairytale goblin.
It's not wearing a whole lot either, she notices. Ragged shorts that look like they're made of potato sacks, a red cloth cap, and crude shoes that are akin to sandals.
"Aren't you cold?" she asked, mouth bypassing brain.
It blinked. «What?»
"Um." She blinked back.
The thing frowned. «S'pose it is a bit nippy.»
Elo considers this for a long moment.
"D'you want a coffee?" she asks, even as her mind is screaming that there is a fairytale standing in front of her, a fairytale villain at that, and for the love of all the gods, why is she offering it coffee? Because it's cold and alone and wearing sweet Fanny Adams, argues a different part of her, and she was raised to be polite and considerate of the needs of others.
«Uh,» it said, clearly as confused as she was, but carefully considering the offer. «Yeh?»
So she loaded it onto the back of her bike, and drove them to the corner of Penfold and Welch, not far from where the clubs are, and pulled up by a kebab van. She buys them both a coffee, and then she walks them down a block to a park. They sat on a bench under a tree, sheltered from the mizzle, watching empty swings sway in the breeze, and drank their coffee.
Eventually, though, Elo finds she must say something; she can't just sit here, in silence, drinking coffee with a fairy story.
"You know the blond girl?" she asked. "She came down to the canal two nights back."
«Say I do. What of it?» it rejoined.
"Did you kill her?"
It paused. «What you gonna do if I say no?»
"Keep looking for the ones that did."
«What you gonna do if I say yes?»
Elo stared at the swings, the way the rain collected along the cracks in the slabs. She hadn't thought that far ahead.
"I guess I'll shoot you," she said finally. "Then go looking for the second killer."
«Ain't you an officer of the law?» it asked. «Ain't youse supposed to arrest me or something, send me down the river, and take me to the Big House?»
"If you were human, yes."
«That's racist.»
"No, it's practical. I'm struggling to believe that your kind are real, and yet here you are, sitting drinking coffee and holding a conversation with me. I can't find any way to pretend you are just some hideously deformed human speaking some foreign language. You are real and existent, and I still don't quite believe it. Now, if I feel like this, and I've been exposed to more oddity than most, how am I to expect anyone else to react to your presence?" Elo pauses, takes a sip of coffee. "There's no way I can simply arrest you, put you on trial, and 'send you down the river'. Much as I would like to, it's not feasible. So. I would shoot you."
«Huh. Fair enough.»
"Did you kill her?"
«No. Blood as my bond, I did not.»
Elo looks down at it then. It's staring at her with a strange intensity, those red orbs steady in their gaze. She knows, without a shadow of a doubt, it is telling her the truth.
"What were you doing down there?" she asked.
It chuckled lightly. «Waiting for you, moss-ears,» it said. «The one what did the murder sent me down there. He knows you've unsealed the Nerishklis, and he wants it back.»
"You were sent to take it from me?"
«Yeh.»
"Why are you telling me this?"
The creature sniffs but doesn't even pause. «Bought me coffee, dintcha.»
"Your loyalties are so easily swayed?"
«Nah. I'm on your side now.»
Elo looked down at it again and it sniffed, yet again. Its gaze has that same, unwavering intensity as before, but this time it raised the paper cup in salute.
"Let me guess. Your blood is your bond?"
«S'right. You're getting the hang of things, eh?»
I'm really not, Elo thought. "But why?"
«Because,» it said slower, «Y'bought me coffee.»
"I find it hard to believe that I bought your unwavering loyalty for a fifty-cent cup of joe."
The creature – the Dvasia – sighed. «S'not about the amount, or what was purchased. Only that the transaction was done. Youse paid for something from your own stash o'gold for me. Which means, I'm duty bound to you for the rest of my probably short and miserable life.» It sniffs at her continuing look of confusion. «Had youse stolen, or otherwise provided said beverage from another's stash, it wouldn't have counted.»
"So if I'd taken you back to the station, and given you a cup from the communal supplies, you wouldn't be beholden to me?"
«Nope,» it said. «But, had youse done that, I could have lied through my teeth about whatever I fancied, then happily stabbed you in the back, got the Nerishklis, and gone on me merry way.»
"So why'd you accept the coffee then?"
«Why wouldn't I? Anyone who can unseal the Nerishklis is someone to be reckoned with. I figure I'm better off with you than I am with my old boss.»
"Ah."
Elo swirled her coffee in its polystyrene cup. It makes sense, in an odd way. Not that she'd done anything to the artefact on purpose.
"What's your name?" she asked.
«'S Snotgrut,»
"Pleased to meet you, Snotgrut," she said. "I'm Elowyn."
«Charmed, I'm sure»
Elo gives a little snort of amusement as she looks up at the sky, to see dawn starting to tint the air. Beside her, Snotgrut makes a little strangled noise.
«Uh, moss-ears. You think maybe you can give me leave to bugger off? Only, I ain't too fond of the sunlight.»
"Ah hell," she muttered, rubbing a hand over her face. "Yeah, of course. I need to get to bed myself. How do I get in contact with you?" she asks, as Snotgrut downs the rest of his coffee and starts away.
«I'll have my people call your people,» he calls back, slipping behind a bush, and is gone.
Elo shakes her head. She's trying to solve a murder via proxy, babysit a king, look after her grieving surrogate father… And now this creature, this Dvasia, is speaking in riddles about things she's only just grasping the edges of. Elo drains her coffee and gets herself ready to ride on. What the hell else could happen? she wonders, pumping the kickstart before giving it a swift downward thrust.
Auri fails to start.
