Chapter 36:
The Food of Love
> The Uppers have the coin, the keys, the rod,
>
> They walk above, beneath a full sky.
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> But we have the music, borne in their shadow,
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> One day, our song will rise, and they will fall.
>
> — Old Lower City Poem
His legs would collapse at any moment, and Godfrey could say he didn’t quit. That was the only thought keeping him moving, the one lifeline in the hellish fog of pain that had settled over him. His muscles screamed for mercy, but mercy wasn’t coming. The armor weighed on him like a second skin made of lead, every movement a battle against gravity itself.
His vision narrowed to the dirt beneath his boots. Nothing else mattered—not the trees blurring past him, not the darkening sky, not the sweat stinging his eyes. Only the rhythm. Left. Right. Left. Right. One foot in front of the other. Just one more step. And then another.
Quitting wasn’t an option. Quitting meant weakness. Quitting meant failure.
Godfrey’s body begged to collapse, to crumble into the dust and let the sweet relief of unconsciousness take him. But if he collapsed, it would be because his legs had given out, not because he chose to stop. He’d run himself into the ground before he surrendered.
This was the brilliant armored training that Rhys had been so excited for him to attend. Running a lap around the city, fully armed and armored. What a fool he’d been to think it would be something grand, something worthy of the anticipation. Instead, it was this: torture disguised as discipline.
He had not felt pain like this in his life, at least not since walking through the Gauntlet. He hated running. Always had.
…And, there. His left leg buckled under his next step, and he collapsed in a heap of steel and cloak onto the ground. The world tilted, spinning as the weight of his armor pulled him down, his breath catching in a sharp gasp as he hit the dirt. The hard edge of his pauldron dug into his side, the impact rattling through his bones. He didn’t even try to get up.
Rhys had not expected him back today. He knew the run would take most of the afternoon, and well into the night. That’s what he had said, almost casually, as if the task itself wasn’t a forced march through hell.
XXX
Godfrey returned to Antonia’s, slipping into the shadows cast by the back wing, careful not to disturb the low murmurs and laughter drifting from the backyard. His muscles ached with each step, each one a reminder of the brutal run. The heavy scent of lavender candles hung in the air, clinging to him as he quietly entered his room. The cold, scented air followed him inside, seeping into his skin as if to soothe the rawness of his exhaustion.
He removed his helm, the cool air rushing against his face, and shook his damp hair free from where it had stuck to his forehead. His hair had grown too long, hanging in his eyes—far from practical, not at all suited for combat readiness. He grimaced at the thought, running his fingers through it in a vain attempt to tame the unruly strands. It slicked back for the moment, but he knew it wouldn’t hold for long. Sighing, he opted to put the helmet back on. If nothing else, it made him look intimidating, and right now, that seemed more important than feeling comfortable.
The limp he’d tried to hide grew more pronounced as he made his way into the parlor, the strain in his legs now unbearable. He spotted Brutus’s corner—a familiar haven—and collapsed into it with a heavy sigh. The relief that flooded his limbs as he sank into the chair made his head swim. For but an instant, he let himself sink into the numbness, the ache ebbing away as he rested in the stillness.
Everything around him seemed distant, muted by the scent of lavender and the quiet crackle of a nearby hearth. His mind, too, quieted, his thoughts softening into a dull hum. For now, the run was behind him. For now, he could rest.
Almost comically soon, he heard raised voices outside. Godfrey slumped further into the chair, gritting his teeth. “Fuck,” he muttered to himself.
Just then, the door flew open, slamming against the wall with a thud. Scarlet burst into the room, her face flushed and eyes wide with panic. She whirled around, locking onto Godfrey like a hawk spotting its prey.
"Godfrey!" she exclaimed, her voice high and urgent. "Come quick, it’s bad!"
For a split second, Godfrey just stared at her, his mind slow to catch up with the situation. The exhaustion from the run still gripped him, but the urgency in Scarlet’s voice couldn’t be ignored.
Godfrey followed Scarlet outside, his fatigue momentarily forgotten as he took in the scene. A large man stood in the alley, his meaty hand wrapped around Acanthe’s arm, the other tugging roughly at the fabric of her dress. His voice was a low, drunken growl.
"I paid enough. You’ll just have to give me a discount, lass."
Acanthe shrunk back, her face a mask of fear, but Godfrey saw the subtle shift in her stance. In one swift movement, her knee shot up, driving into the man’s groin with brutal precision. The man let out a strangled gasp, his face contorting in pain. For a heartbeat, Godfrey thought it was over. Acanthe twisted in his grasp, nearly slipping free.
But somehow, despite the pain, the man’s grip held firm. His hand tightened, his knuckles turning white as he squeezed her arm. Acanthe’s scream cut through the alley, sharp and raw, echoing off the stone walls.
Godfrey felt nothing but exhaustion as he moved, his body operating on instinct rather than fury or righteousness. There was no flash of rage, no surge of adrenaline that heroes were supposed to feel. Just bone-deep weariness. Maybe that made Godfrey a villain. Or at least a shit hero. He wasn’t sure anymore. All he could think about, really, was sitting back down, letting the weight of his armor sink into the chair again.
The man didn’t even see him coming before it was too late. With a single, fluid motion, Godfrey’s blade slid from its sheath, and the tendons in the man’s hand which gripped the poor girl were severed. Blood sprayed the cobblestones as the man’s wrist opened, and the man let out a howl of pain, staggering back, clutching it with his other hand.
Acantha stared at Godfrey’s helmed visage, her eyes wide with shock—and just beneath that, an ounce of horror. She didn’t say a word, but her silence was louder than any accusation. Godfrey stood there for a moment, what he’d done settling over him like another layer of armor, one that pressed down on his chest, making it hard to breathe.
This could have been handled a different way, he thought, guilt creeping in with a slow, suffocating grip. He couldn’t think clearly. Maybe if he hadn’t been so tired, if he hadn’t let exhaustion cloud his judgment, there might’ve been a better solution.
No matter.
The man stumbled away into the dark, clutching his severed wrist, his cries fading as he disappeared into the shadows. Godfrey watched him go, his mind a sluggish mess of conflicting thoughts. Was this justice? Or just brutality? He wasn’t sure anymore.
Without a word to Acantha, he turned and staggered back into the house, his legs heavy, his body drained. The moment he re-entered the parlor, he collapsed into the same corner he’d been trying to find peace in earlier. The chair groaned under his weight, but this time, there was no relief. The exhaustion returned, but now it was tainted with the lingering guilt, making his head swim even more than before.
He sat there, staring at nothing, the scent of lavender once again filling the air. But it couldn’t cover the iron tang of blood still clinging to him.
XXX
Days passed in this pattern, blurring into a monotonous cycle of pain, discipline, and exhaustion. Godfrey would wake before the sun, the house still wrapped in shadows, and drag himself to bathe in the icy water that jolted him awake. The girls at Antonia’s would help him don his armor, a task he couldn’t manage alone even when fully rested. Then, fully armed and armored, he’d set off for the Institute, the weight of the steel on his body now a familiar, unwelcome burden.
The mornings began with drills—endless drills. Sparring when he wasn’t too bruised from the day before, or team exercises when they bothered to pair him with the others. Whatever the regimen, it was always a test of endurance more than skill. By the time the morning was over, his body was screaming for rest, but rest wasn’t part of the routine.
The only break came during the Institute-provided meal, where he would sit stiffly with the others, though he barely registered their chatter. The discussions of strategy and tactics washed over him, an endless stream of words and plans. He ate the meager meal in silence, knowing it was the only thing that would keep him on his feet through the rest of the day.
After that brief respite, it was on to the real trial—armored training. Rhys was creative in the worst ways, devising new and inventive forms of torture that passed for training. Whatever the day's ordeal, it was always brutal, and Godfrey could never predict what he’d face. He was the only one mad enough—or perhaps stubborn enough—to endure it alone. The others had given up long ago.
By the time Rhys finally let him go, hours later, Godfrey’s body felt more like a collection of broken parts than a functional whole. He’d stagger back to Antonia’s, barely able to lift his legs, and collapse into a chair, falling asleep upright, still clad in armor. The cycle would start again as soon as he woke.
But the nights were never peaceful. Antonia’s home, while usually quiet, was often disturbed by the occasional drunkard or fool who mistook the place for a free-for-all. It never took long for trouble to find its way to the doorstep. And when it did, Godfrey would handle it—usually by standing over the offender, letting them stare down the faceplate of a man who looked ready to cleave them in two. The longsword at his side rarely needed to leave its sheath. The sight alone was enough to end most confrontations.
His nights were dreamless. There was no respite, no escape from the endless cycle of exhaustion. He barely slept, falling into a deep, black void of nothingness the moment he closed his eyes. Even in sleep, he did not seek solace or distraction. He didn’t practice his swordplay against Dream Corvin, as he had so many times before. Godfrey feared that if he kept facing Corvin in his dreams, the memory of him would degrade, losing its sharp edges, its vitality.
And so the days went, each one a near-identical blur of exhaustion, duty, and quiet violence.
XXX
Godfrey and Adrian strolled through the winding streets of the Lower City on what was, for once, a rare day of rest. Godfrey couldn’t imagine anything he needed more than a full day of sleep, the kind that would let his muscles unknot and his mind drift into a deep, dreamless state. But Adrian, ever the extrovert, had insisted on "painting the town," as he put it.
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Now, they were seated at a small, weathered table in an establishment known for its live music. The air was filled with the gentle strumming of a lute and the soft hum of voices, creating an atmosphere that was, temporarily, peaceful. Godfrey could almost feel his exhaustion lift—until his eyes caught sight of familiar faces entering the room.
Riella and Thyra, along with several other Scribes and Squires, had made their way inside, chatting amongst themselves as they took seats at a far table. Godfrey leaned slightly toward Adrian, keeping his voice low. "Riella and Thyra just walked in," he murmured.
Adrian glanced up, his eyes scanning the room briefly before a wide grin broke across his face. Without a second thought—and certainly without any attempt at subtlety—he bellowed, “Riella! Thyra! How are you?” His voice carried across the room, cutting through the gentle music and low conversations like a knife.
Several patrons turned in their seats, glaring at him in open annoyance, while a few others—mostly women—did double or even triple takes, their eyes lingering on Adrian for a moment longer than necessary. Godfrey sighed internally, re-thinking this entire night out.
Adrian, completely unfazed by the reactions, waved Riella and Thyra over, clearly unbothered by the glares or the attention.
Thyra spotted Adrian and Godfrey almost immediately, her face lighting up with a mischievous smile. Without hesitation, she made her way toward them, her movements smooth and confident, clearly unbothered by Adrian’s loud greeting. Behind her, Riella followed, though with far less enthusiasm. She moved with the kind of grace that only someone born to it could manage, but there was a flicker of discomfort in her eyes.
As awkward as a perfectly crafted specimen of humanity could look, Godfrey thought. Even when she was clearly out of her element, Riella seemed to prowl rather than walk.
"Thyra! Riella!" Adrian greeted them again as they drew near, his voice still several decibels too high for the room. "Come, join us!"
Thyra slid into the seat beside Adrian with a grin, her energy so removed from what Godfrey had seen of her that she must be drunk.
Adrian leaned forward, locking eyes with Thyra, a playful glint in his gaze. “You’re looking particularly lovely this evening,” he said, his tone dipping into that smooth, easy charm he could summon at will. Thyra’s grin widened, her cheeks flushed—not entirely from the drink.
Godfrey, slouched slightly in his chair, rolled his eyes. He’d seen Adrian pull this act a hundred times, and it always worked. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Riella doing the same, her subtle eye roll a mirror of his own. Their shared exasperation brought the tiniest flicker of amusement to him, though he kept his expression neutral.
Riella, as if realizing their unspoken moment, quickly glanced away, her awkwardness slipping back into place. Just then, the Scribes and Squires they’d come in with filtered past in ones and twos, drinks in hand, laughing and chatting as they gathered near the table. Soon enough, Adrian was holding court, his voice booming as he launched into one of his fantastical stories, full of half-truths and exaggerated bravado.
Godfrey let the words wash over him, tuning out most of Adrian’s performance. He caught only snippets—something about a narrow escape in a foreign city, a duel on the docks—but he knew better than to take it all seriously.
It was then that he felt Riella’s gaze on him again, a quiet, lingering stare that he could sense more than see. He turned toward her, catching her just as she quickly averted her eyes.
“What?” Godfrey asked, his voice low, though there was a hint of curiosity in the question.
“I wanted to apologize,” Riella said quietly, her voice barely cutting through the noise of the gathering. Godfrey blinked, surprised at the sudden shift in tone.
“I thought that… Compelling you would have been a clever joke,” she continued, her eyes flicking up to meet his for a brief second before darting away again. “But I get that it was fucked. Halen really chewed me out.”
Godfrey sighed, his initial irritation fading slightly. “Yeah,” he muttered. “It wasn’t exactly funny. But really, it’s fine. I have a particular…sensitivity to that kind of thing, perhaps. We’ll be undergoing that sort of training constantly, soon. Rhys is right, I need to get over it..”
Riella glanced at the group gathered around them, her gaze lingering on Adrian’s animated storytelling for a moment before shifting back to Godfrey. Her voice dropped lower, almost conspiratorial. “I saw your eyes, after… and how you threw off that attendant who tried to help you up.”
She hesitated, clearly weighing her words. Then, with a hint of awe, she asked, “Is it true? You can Focus, assert Control?”
Godfrey shrugged, glancing away as if the question didn’t weigh on him. “Well, you can already Compel someone you just met,” he said, his tone flat but carrying a subtle edge. “So I’d say we’re about even on dark, powerful secrets.”
She looked at him for half a moment, her expression unreadable—then suddenly burst out laughing. It was sharp, unexpected, and loud enough to make Godfrey blink in surprise. His frown deepened as he stared at her, but as her laughter continued, a corner of his mouth twitched upward despite himself.
"What?" he asked, almost chuckling in exasperation. "What is so hilarious?"
“Your face…” she managed between gasps of laughter. “You’re so fucking serious, Godfrey. You need to listen to yourself sometimes.”
Her laughter grew even louder, unabashed and right in his face, and Godfrey couldn't help it anymore. His own smile broke through, and before he knew it, he was laughing too—at first quietly, then harder, until his sides ached.
“Oh… shit, I am, aren’t I?” Godfrey admitted, his laughter fading as the realization hit him. He wiped at his eyes, still catching his breath. “I don’t know when it happened, when I became such an ass.”
But even as he said the words, his thoughts darkened, the brief lightness of the moment slipping away. His face fell, the weight of something much heavier settling back into place. He looked away, unable to meet her gaze anymore.
He knew exactly when it had happened.
Riella saw the change in his face, her own smile faltering as she opened her mouth to say something—but before she could, Adrian returned from a successful sortie to the bar, balancing a tray laden with mugs and glasses filled with a colorful array of liquids.
“Look what I’ve got!” Adrian boomed, his grin wide and infectious, as if the weight of the world had never touched him. The sight of his exuberance pierced through the clouds in Godfrey’s mind, pulling him back from the edge of his darker thoughts.
He couldn’t help it—he smiled again, if only a little, as Adrian set the tray down with a flourish. Drinks were passed around, and soon enough, the lively atmosphere enveloped them all. The low hum of music from the bar became a melody they couldn’t resist, and before long, the group found themselves singing along with the tunes, their voices mingling with the crowd’s, rising and falling in drunken harmony.
Godfrey felt the warmth of the drink, the company, and the music soothe him. For a few precious moments, the weight of everything else faded, and he allowed himself to be swept up in the merriment.
As the cups flowed and the evening wore on, Godfrey found himself standing alone near the bar, tasked with bringing back another round of drinks on Adrian's ever-generous tab. He didn’t mind the break, the chance to breathe away from the revelry. The music swayed through the air, and as Godfrey slowly made his way toward the stage front, he found himself drawn to the rhythm, pulled in like a leaf on a slow-moving current.
The band was entrancing. There were four of them: a lutist plucking delicate, melodic notes, a flutist weaving sharp, haunting harmonies, a heavily tattooed man pounding out a primal beat on three drums of different sizes, and a woman wielding a large, stringed instrument. Her bow slid across the strings, producing a chest-deep resonance that seemed to shake the very air around him, creating a low, undercurrent of sound that anchored the entire performance.
The music didn't just surround him—it drifted over him, through him. The melody found its way into his heart and hummed there, as if awakening something long buried. Godfrey's steps slowed, his breathing deepened. His mind softened, and out of the depths of his consciousness, a memory—older than he could even understand—rose up.
He was no longer in the tavern. He was standing on a shore, his feet sinking into wet sand as the waves lapped at the edge. Before him stretched the horizon, and across it came ships, countless ships, their sails blotting out the sun. His brothers and sisters stood beside him, their faces solemn, yet filled with a strange, resolute hope. Together, they raised their voices in unison—a song of peace. The sound had been as steady and unwavering as the tide, filled with the belief that they could reason with the invaders, that peace could be won with words, not blood.
In that half-place, suspended between memory and reality, Godfrey’s lips parted, and he gave voice to the ancient song. The melody was haunting, slow, and deep, the words of a language not spoken in a thousand years spilling from him.
The tavern around him blurred. The music of the band continued, but Godfrey’s voice, so soft at first, rose in tenor and timbre, merging with their tune until it became something entirely different. It was no longer just a song—it was a plea, an echo of a time when his people had still believed peace was possible.
The Song of Peace, forgotten by all but the oldest of histories, was given voice once more.
Over and around those near him, the song twisted and flowed, an unseen current weaving its way through the air. Godfrey could feel the tendrils of his voice reaching out, like delicate fingers brushing against the souls of the people around him. It was subtle at first, a faint tickle, but wherever the melody touched, it left something behind—a whisper of peace, a hint of comfort, a fleeting sense of contentment.
This wasn’t like Compulsion. No, it was nothing so forceful or invasive. Compulsion was a blunt weapon, a battering ram that shattered wills and left nothing but obedience in its wake. This… this was different. It was gentle, a reasoned argument instead of a command. It was an invitation to open the door, rather than a demand to tear it down. The Song didn’t impose itself; it asked for trust, for acceptance, and slowly, those who heard it found themselves easing into the melody, their burdens lightened without even realizing why.
Godfrey could sense it, the subtle shift in the room. The patrons who had been laughing and shouting grew quiet, their voices softening as they listened, their bodies relaxing into the sound. Even the band, still playing, seemed to be carried along by the melody, their music harmonizing with the ancient song as if they’d always known it. The connection was invisible, but undeniable, like a shared breath between everyone in the room. The Song was on a different range, a natural range of tones, and could not possibly mix with the scientific craft of composition which the musicians strummed or tooted, but mix it did.
The Song wrapped around them, tender and warm, promising something they all longed for—a moment of peace in a world that seldom offered it.
Godfrey couldn’t tell how much time had passed when the final note hummed into the air, drifting outside and leaving the room in a profound silence. Time had lost all meaning during the Song, melting away into something soft and endless. There was no need for it, no utility in measuring minutes or hours when they had all been wrapped in the cocoon of sound, held in that fragile space where nothing else mattered.
For a brief, shining moment, each soul in the room was at peace. A deep contentment settled over them like a warm blanket, comforting and complete. It was as if they had stepped outside the world and into some other place, where worries and burdens had no weight. Faces were still, bodies relaxed, and even the air seemed to hold its breath, reluctant to disturb the serenity that had fallen like a gentle rain.
But slowly, as the last echoes of the Song faded, reality crept back in. The stresses and fears of tomorrow, of what lay beyond this perfect moment, resurfacing. One by one, the patrons stirred, their eyes blinking as if waking from a dream. Those who had given themselves to the peace were now being convinced, by the relentless pull of the world, to return to their everyday lives.
A murmur broke the silence, then another. The room, once suspended in the magic of the Song, animated once more. Conversations resumed in hushed tones, shoulders tensed, and the familiar weight of the world settled back on each person. But something lingered, even if only faintly—the memory of peace, of what could be, if only for a moment.
The woman with the large stringed instrument was weeping as she left the stage, her sobs soft but unmistakable, as if the Song had stirred something in her too deep to contain. She clutched her instrument like it was the only thing anchoring her to this world, her back to the crowd as she disappeared into the shadows beyond the curtain.
Godfrey turned slowly, his eyes scanning the crowd. What he saw made his throat tighten. Where there had been private conversations and half-drunken grins, there were now wide, searching eyes. Faces that had once been absorbed in their own small worlds were now all looking to him, as if he held the answers to questions they hadn’t even known to ask.
Godfrey simply stepped away from the stage, the weight of the room’s attention heavy on his back. He walked past the table he and Adrian had claimed earlier, not pausing as he glanced at his friend.
“Adrian, I need to go. Have a good night, brother. Thyra. Riella,” he said quietly, his voice barely breaking the strange hush that had settled over their corner.
Adrian, usually so full of life and laughter, was staring at him with tears in his eyes. All the pretense, all the mirth he’d carried through the night, had been erased, leaving only raw emotion in its place. Thyra, too, was discreetly drying her eyes, trying to maintain some semblance of composure as she dabbed at her cheeks. Riella, however, hadn’t moved, her eyes locked on the table in front of her. She clenched and unclenched her hands repeatedly, as though they were searching for something to grab onto, something solid to hold in the wake of whatever had passed between them all during the Song.
None of them responded to him. No words, no nods, nothing. Godfrey didn’t expect them to.
Without another glance, he left them, walking through the quiet, heavy air of the room. He pushed through the door and into the cold night outside, the sounds of the tavern fading behind him, leaving only the echo of the Song humming faintly in his mind.