They passed through the checkpoints to enter Yost Proper much the same way they addressed the customs post outside the Dorark—with a single flash of Brandon’s badge and a polite wave. Each guard or clerk gave him an annoyed face that then immediately melted into distressed professionalism. He explained that his movements, as with all Unmade, were recorded by the given country and submitted to the Securitas—a bureau of nations committed to tracking, cataloguing and, in rare cases, policing the Unmade population. Timbrelle was on that list. While it was true that her parentage couldn’t be determined, Brandon assured her that she’d been registered the moment she confessed to the judge following her hearing.
They arrived at the Temple of Nerrus as the sun was setting. The three of them wouldn’t stay, of course, this visit was just to check in and grab some of her things. Timbrelle squinted at the meager building, its featureless door and tiled roof stared back. She’d miss this place. Morto would cook another grindlow nut stew and Dorsus would sit at the table reading the newspaper, occasionally making prophetic remarks. Davian and Loren would continue to use the temple as a way to avoid each other while Fede would slave away in his office. Tuna’s promise to make Adna a cat flap in the door would go unfulfilled. They would continue on, as if she’d been but a guest in their lives. Timbrelle had thought she was joining the congregation’s makeshift family... her hand hovered over the door. The longer it hung there, the more it developed an anxious tremor. She clamped a bracing hand onto her own wrist as though it were a venomous snake.
Adna placed an arm around her shoulder and a hand over the back of Timbrelle’s, holding it flush to the wood. “They lost their minds when you were taken. I don’t think they’ll give up on you so easily. Expect more from them, Timbo. They deserve that much.”
Her gentle expression belied the silent follow-up thought that popped into the chat.
Adna: And so help me, if they botch this, I will destroy their ugly-ass little temple to that jewel encrusted Shit.
Timbrelle’s laughter was cut off as the two stumbled through the door. The flash of a purple seal blinded the women, making it all the more disorienting when they were gathered into an embrace.
“Is that them?” Tuna’s voice shouted.
“Yes.” Dorsus called from the other room, prescient as ever.
The one holding them was Fede himself. The two-hundred-and-something man held them at such an angle that Timbrelle felt her head might pop right off. He pushed the girls back to get a better look at them.
“You’re safe? You’re whole?” He demanded, emotion straining the timbre. “I turned that estate upside down all day looking for you two. Don’t ever do that to me again. My heart can’t take it.”
Adna seemed like she meant to say something but was cut short by Tuna gathering them both into a literal bear hug. The two furry secondary arms that popped out of her bodice shimmied around their waists and squeezed them all the tighter.
“We found the room you’d been held in.” Tuna whispered, holding her close. When Timbrelle went rigid, the Duchess kissed her hairline. “If you had let him live, I would have killed the butcher myself and fed his remains to his widow through a straw. That man was never going to see the sun rise again.” She kissed Adna as well and stepped back to hold Fede’s hand while Adna held the other and Timbrelle awkwardly stood with her hand engulfed in a bear paw.
Fede wasted no time. “Come, let us gather Loren and Davian. We have much to discuss as a congregation.”
Timbrelle looked around, “Where’s Morto?”
“He’ll meet us at the Rigel manor when he’s finished his business.” Fede assured.
***
Brandon sat atop the only three-story building for a four block radius. It was ideal for watching the temple while staying far, far away from Federick Rigel.
Below, the door flashed and swung open. Duke Rigel pulled the women inside and his wife could be heard in the background.
Brandon smiled. Good. The girls deserved a warm reunion.
He leaned back on the tiles, the hardened clay letting out tiny screeches from the unfamiliar friction. All he needed to do was wait for them to fini—
“Oh hell no.” He whispered at the tall, lean figure slipping out of the building during the commotion—the man he and every Unmade knew by the bloody legacy he’d fashioned for himself. Few people in all of history were so widely reviled by the Unmade.
Though he moved imperceptibly slowly, the tiles beneath Brandon’s weight continued to strain. Not ideal. No where near it, in fact. If there was one thing he knew about his opponent, it was that the man had a sensitive ear.
Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.
The cloaked figure disappeared in a blur.
The menu indicator for a throwing knife whizzed past him, rotating through the air as the blade hurtled end over end. He dodged to the right, only to take a second knife to the hip. Its ruby blade had been on an anticipatory trajectory that Brandon walked directly into. The razor sharp aurora gem pierced his skin as if he were a regular mortal again. It was quickly followed by a spray of ruby-tipped darts that bit into the muscle of his back. Brandon lost only a single step but it cost him his footing on the roof. He slid slowly at first, gaining speed as the tiles began shattering at his momentum. Their detritus came raining down around him when he landed in the alley. Burning an ability slot, Brandon established a membranous barrier over his body like a skin suit. It would absorb the kinetic energy of any more projectiles Mortominsla—
Brandon was hit by a colossal force. It shattered his barrier and slammed him into the white brick of the alley wall. Stunned, Brandon tried to run only to find himself anchored to the spot by a javelin buried in his gut and the wall behind him. Footsteps tapped leisurely down the alley in his direction.
“Shit.” He spat.
Hold steady. Siphon the pain away before it starts to slow the mind. Remove the weapon. Cast a healing barrier. The training from his mentor over seventy year ago played in his mind as it did every time he sustained such considerable injuries.
Brandon poured the pain into his spectral energy well and felt his senses sharpen. Using pain in this way was nothing short of a drug with a high of the utmost lucidity.
The haft snapped easily in Brandon’s hands and he slid free. As he extricated himself, he composed a message.
Brandon: Heeeey, I know I said I’d wait outside but I’ve gotta run! So how about I meet you guys at the gate tomorrow morning? Crack of dawn! Don’t be late!
He received a response just as another ruby knife hit his calf.
Timbrelle: No problem. We’re headed up to the Rigel estate for a bit. I’ll let you know when we get back.
Brandon whirled to face the ruby auror. “Would you stop for like a second?” He growled.
Hostility radiated off the cloaked man, though his face was hidden in his hood. He paused his assault. “Why are you here?” Mortominsla asked simply. The man was famously taciturn but one could probably afford to be when they wielded such power.
“Waiting for my kids.” He spat, then gestured at the knives and darts bristling from his body. “What was all this for? A javelin? Really? Was I being too polite and patient? Gods, what would you have done if I was asleep? Dismembered me?”
“You know why you’re not welcome.” Mortominsla stated plainly.
“I guessed as much. And that’s why I kept a respectful distance. I distinctly remember congratulating myself on how tactful I was being…” Brandon said.
Though his face was hidden in shadow, the man’s disbelief was apparent—a familiar distrust to an Unmade. It made him… tired.
“You must know as well as any Unmade what this endless life feels like. People growing old and dying around you, alienating regular people as you grow in strength, feeling yourself detach from nature as you outlive your time. It isn’t right. No one should live this long with this much power. Infinite life and a finite mind… this is hell.” Brandon stabbed a finger in the direction of the temple. “I’ve been living the last eighty years in preparation for them. Every single decision was made with them in mind. And then… when I thought the interface skipped me… I made the worst mistake of my very long life and sold myself to Tellushra.”
The following silence hung like a sword above Brandon’s head. Why had he been so honest? What was he even trying to accomplish? Was he hoping the man would absolve him? Empathize? Not even Gods could pardon his Unmade soul.
“Doesn’t change what you’ve done.” The tall man said, clearly never having needed time to ponder the Unmade’s tragic backstory.
Brandon’s shoulder’s slumped. “Yeah… I’m aware. It’s only been a few months in her service and I’ve lost so much of myself already. She’s trying to turn me into something horrendous, Mort. I know it. I won’t last the three years to freedom. Not at this rate.” He offered a bloodied dart on an outstretched palm. “So just let me train Timbrelle first. I promise that it won’t take too long—I don’t have enough time for the traditional route. Then… then I will happily submit myself to you.”
The night air stood still in the alley. If Mortominsla refused his offer, Brandon would die in the gutter as he should. He was not delusional—yet. The assassinations he carried out had blackened his soul and shriveled his morals. Death was a deserved punishment. Karma, even.
“Would you sign a contract?” Mortominsla asked, plainly. There was no doubt that the auror knew how binding they were for an Unmade. He’d been hunting Unmade for centuries, it was possible that he knew Brandon’s kind better than Brandon did.
“I can’t sign away my life as three of those years have technically been promised to my contractor. But I can sign a contract to be in a certain place at a certain time…” ‘Mortominsla’ was the name of the boogeyman—a shadow that lived and killed in silence. If an Unmade on his list saw the man, it was already too late. He was a vigilante and the only justice many Unmade would ever see. Had he… always been this lenient?
“Fine.” The auror made to walk away.
“Wait! What?” Brandon squawked. “What about the contract?”
“Keep your word.” Mortominsla said as though it were that simple.
Brandon blinked at the auror gliding in long strides back to the temple. Perhaps it was that simple for him. The man wasn’t a murderer driven by emotions, simply an executioner.
“I’ll be waiting for you in the Tarsus ruins on Founder’s Day, Mortominsla.” He swore. “Just… please don’t tell my kids. They’re very fond of you. You and I can settle this quietly.”
“…keep your word.” The ancient auror repeated, not sparing a glance over his shoulder.
Brandon fell to his knees in the alley, jostling a couple darts loose that skittered away from him in the darkness. He held his hands up before him. They shook with terror, the veneer of adrenaline that had given him such confidence was gone. Now, he was just Brandon. A weak-hearted, spineless little wretch who dug his own grave by murdering so many people.
“Well, now.” He smiled faintly to himself. “That’s not entirely true… you’re a spineless, weak-hearted father. Thats a title you can proudly die with, Brandon.”
He counted his remaining months on tremorous fingers before giving up and burying them in his hair. They didn’t shake so much when he clenched fistfuls of the stuff. “God dammit…” his words sat with him in the dark like a vulture, patiently awaiting the inevitable. “What can I even teach her in four months?”