A few more days had passed, and once Vincent felt comfortable leaving the two alone without risking Sheeva slipping into a worse condition or the both of them at each other’s throats, Vincent set out to fulfill the promises he’d made in helping ease the other’s worries about their loved ones.
Or, in Sheeva’s insistent phrasing, “the ones we care about.”
Vincent stared at the run-down, abandoned house off Dekkir Street that Sheeva had directed him to. He held a sack of potatoes, jerky, and carrots tucked under one arm as his medical supply kit hung over his shoulders and cradled a bundle of books under his other arm. Sheeva offered up all her money for him to tend to the poor things upon hearing about an outbreak of springtime flu, worried for their wellbeing. He refused to accept the payment for his services and instead used the coin to buy food, clothes, a cookbook, and some beginner’s reading books at her behest.
He pushed his glasses back up on his nose with his shoulder and stepped forward, tapping on the door with his foot, waiting under the sagging porch, frowning as he felt rainwater dripping down on the top of his head and down his back. He looked down as a young teenage girl with curly brown hair and amber eyes opened the door, eyeing him cautiously.
“Um, Sheeva said I could find you all here. You must be Sophia.” He smiled kindly. Sophia beamed at him, opened the door wide enough to let him in, and stepped aside.
However, before he could step in, he stopped when he heard a “Sophia, no!” Vincent watched as a child about Sophia’s age hurried out from a room, pulled her back behind him, and stuck a knife in Vincent’s face. Vincent blinked, eyebrows lifted in worry, and raised his hands in surrender as well as he could with his hands full. He noted similarities in their faces between the two and figured this was the pair of siblings Sheeva had told him about.
“I take it you are Arc. Sheeva sends her regards–well, I suppose you only know her as ‘miss." He corrected himself.
He shook his head and tried again.
"May I enter? This roof is leaking, and I’d very much like to stay dry.” He asked. Arc eyed him cautiously, and Vincent fought a roll of his eyes as another drop of rainwater trickled down his back.
“If she really sent you, then you know where the Tinker Owls roost.” He leered. Vincent peered in thought for a brief moment, then smiled; the odd statement Sheeva had called out after him suddenly made sense.
“Oh. Hah. The belfry of the clock tower.” He answered, impressed with the level of precaution Sheeva took with these kids. She must have genuinely cared about them, a pleasant surprise from the consistently stoic and aloof front she put up.
Arc softened, skeptically lowered the knife, and allowed Vincent access. As he stepped in, Sophia reached and took the bag of potatoes, jerky, and carrots from him. She carried the sacks that were almost as big as she was into a nearby kitchen.
“Thank you, Sophia.” He called after her.
Vincent looked down and stepped over the hole in the floor that Sheeva had warned him about, then rounded the corner into the living room. A fire crackled in the fireplace, where a young man lay, covered in blankets. He appeared ill, evident by the violent shivering and sweating on the poor man’s–now that he got an even better look, kid’s brow. Two others sat next to him that Vincent assumed to be Nook and Yelena by their brief description from Sheeva.
Instead of being flighty as Sheeva told him he was, green-eyed Nook went on the defensive, standing sharply and coming between Vincent and the young man on the floor. His thick, curly black hair bounced and bobbed, and even though the young teen put on a fierce front, Vincent could see the kid’s hands tremble as a sharp knife waved in his face.
“Don’t come any closer, or I’ll stab you!” Nook threatened, blue eyes piercing and fierce. If the young man were taller, older, and bulkier, it would have frightened Vincent more than it currently did.
“Nook, wait, it’s ok! Sheeva sent him.” Arc assured, stepping between the two and pulling the knife out of Nook’s hands.
At the mention of Sheeva’s name, the youngest child’s face lit, and Yelena looked at Vincent expectantly.
“Is she here? Where is she?” Yelena asked.
“Ah, no. Not yet. Sheeva’s, um, ill. You must be Yelena. Sheeva told me you like to read. Here, these are for you–a gift from Sheeva.” He stated, holding out the tiny bundle. She took it, excited, and skipped away. Nook followed after noticing her struggle to untie the knot, and Vincent watched him cut the twine that held it together.
After urging for privacy from the remaining two, Sophia and Arc left them and curled up by the window as Yelena sounded out the book’s title on the top of the stack with decent pronunciation.
Turning his attention to the sick teen, Vincent shrugged his medic kit off his back and unrolled it, looping the stethoscope around his neck.
Vincent retrieved his thermometer from its leather casing, dribbled an alcohol solution on it, then stuck it in the poor patient’s mouth. He watched the temperature skyrocket and clicked his tongue.
“What else is going on with you besides fever and chills, Josef?” He asked, slipping on a pair of bladder-skin gloves. He wriggled his fingers into it to get a better fit.
“Headache. Sore throat. Tired.” Josef’s voice cracked and sounded incredibly dry, typical of a strain of flu that swept across the continent in the springtime, but considering the child's homelessness, Vincent wondered if Josef had drunk from a contaminated water source and now hosted a vile parasite.
Vincent gently pressed his fingers against Josef’s neck, noting the swollen glands. Upon further inspection, he saw the fading coloration of a hickey hidden by the man’s collarbone. Vincent’s brow furrowed in contemplation. He reached under Josef’s shirt, finding the area around the teen’s armpits were swollen as well. Perhaps he wasn't sick with the flu.
“Got yourself a girlfriend, have you?” He smiled, though when Josef didn’t answer and dropped his head in shame, Vincent arched an eyebrow, then shrugged his shoulders. He wondered if Sheeva knew or even if Josef trusted her enough to tell her.
“Boyfriend, then? That is no matter.” Vincent pressed. Josef muttered something Vincent was sure was something along the lines of “not exactly.” At this, Vincent sat back and gave him a stern look, thin lips pressed together to form a disapproving line that spanned his face.
“You’re not...working the sinner’s corridor, are you?” Vincent asked, prying open Josef’s mouth to peer towards the back of his throat. It was red, puffy, and swollen.
It was slight, but Josef nodded. Vincent took a clearing breath as he felt his skin flare, unable to fight the disapproving frown on his face. In this case, he would judge slightly. Definitely not the flu. He hoped whatever plagued the child wasn’t the result of a sexual disease.
“How many people?” He asked, helping Josef to sit up.
“Depends on the night,” Josef mumbled.
“I see.” Vincent continued as evenly as he could, not eager to shatter what little rapport he'd gained. He warmed the stethoscope’s metal cup in his palm before snaking it beneath Josef's shirt, and as the fabric lifted, Vincent saw the unmistakable bruise of a handprint near Josef’s waist. Sheeva would be furious. It made him mad.
“Money or food?” He sighed.
“Whatever they need,” Josef answered, tilting his head towards the others.
Vincent pursed his lips, feeling a spot of rage on Sheeva’s behalf. Though the child’s intentions were good, it made him scowl with unease.
“I hope to the gods you only have Mono. Sheeva wants an update, and I’m going to have to tell her.” He cleared his throat and glanced at the group of kids behind them. He silenced himself, unwilling to worry them.
“The potatoes, jerky, and carrots I brought should get you a couple of day’s meals. You need to sleep and drink plenty of water. In the meantime, avoid contact with others, especially those children. You’ll risk getting them sick. When you are able, come to the clinic in Southgate. I’ll check to make sure there’s...nothing else wrong with you.” He ordered, grabbing a scalpel and shaving off a chunk of a medicine block.
“Sophia?” Vincent called, forcing a smile to his face. He closed the shavings in a tin container and handed them to her.
“Give him a pinch of this at every meal and make sure he drinks plenty of water. Unfortunately, you’ll have to make sure the others stay away from him as well as they can for a little while; he could make you all sick, too. Can you do that for me?” He asked. Sophia nodded and took it.
He shed his gloves, returned them to their slot, splashed some more alcohol on the thermometer, and slipped it back into its leather casing. He rolled it up, stood, and slung it over his shoulder, thinking. As Vincent stepped away to leave, Josef caught his pant leg in a weak grasp.
“Tell Sheeva I’m sorry.”
“Yeah. Don’t worry. Sheeva will...understand, I think. If not, I’ll at least talk her down.” Vincent assured him, fearing Sheeva’s fury.
He hopped across the hole in the floor and headed out into the rain. His stomach twisted at him as he contemplated what to do. Who could he possibly go to that would foster them and wouldn’t ask any questions? He supposed Tyler could, but the man had enough on his plate, still in mourning, and he hadn’t yet told him Tazaro was still alive, wanting to wait until Tazaro was ready to face his stepfather to say anything at all. The orphanage was still underway, and there was no way in hell he was about to direct them to Northside.
He looked up as the streetlamp flicked on and stared at it for a moment, still pondering.
If he took them to the clinic, Maya and Fritz would take care of them for the first couple of days, but they would not be able to care for them in the long term. Not to mention, he had already requested a lot of them recently with the agreement that they would not ask questions, and if he were to dump a lot of children on them, they would definitely start to ask questions.
He looked in the direction of the recruitment barracks near the western gate, a crazy thought occurring to him. There were beds. There was food. Most of all, there was safety, and Micah was there more often than not, and he could likely keep a close eye on the group.
But what would he even begin to say? Hey, our friends are back from the dead, and we’ve been lying to you this whole time–Oh, and by the way, could you be a dear and take care of a few kids? Vincent snorted to himself and shook his head, then sighed heavily and shoved his hands in his pockets. The thought of allowing Josef to slip even further than he had into the high-risk lifestyle of prostitution made Vincent sick. The kid would end up tortured or dead, and then where would the poor kids be? No...Micah would be their best shot at getting out of the slums.
Vincent’s mind was made up; he bolted for the recruitment barracks on Roussell’s western side, walking so briskly he panted. His leg muscles felt rubbery by the time he reached the training grounds. The grounds were old, bearing almost no grass between the endless paths of mud streaming across the lawn from constant drills. He stepped toward the buildings covered with canopies to keep the rain out of the passageways from door to door.
The hallways were still lit by torches; the recent, modernized, oil-lamp lighting hadn't reached this area yet. Some walls were worn out and uncared for, crumbling as the frequent springtime rains beat them down. Regardless, the base served its purpose as well as it could: straw or wooden mannequins littered the training grounds, and a line of bulls-eye posts lined the far wall.
Only one young man with what looked like red hair was practicing archery in this horrid rain, and as Vincent paused to watch for a moment, he found the man was a pretty decent shot. He muttered an impressed “neat” and continued toward Micah’s office. Pausing at the door, Vincent read a sign that said “emergency medical bay” and squinted his eyes at it. He opened the door and peered inside.
Dozens of cots were strewn out along the floor, occupied by sweating, vomiting, and shivering soldiers, and Vincent arched an eyebrow. He flagged down one of the medics, who held up a finger as they stooped to drape a cool towel over a patient’s forehead.
“I was looking for Micah Yates? This, uh, used to be his office.”
“You’re right; it was. It got moved to the tool shed on the opposite side of the grounds. We needed this extra space. Springtime flu outbreak.”
Vincent clicked his tongue in mild distaste, nodded his thanks, stepped out, and promptly closed the door. He looked out at the mentioned tool shed, upset that it was all the way across the muddy field.
“Course, it would be a mess.” He muttered, trying to ignore the squelch of his boots as they suctioned to the mud on his way to the old stone building. A temporary sign denoting Micah’s office rested on the door, illuminated by a glass lantern that Micah must have hung there himself.
A grumpy voice barked out permission for entry as Vincent knocked on the creaky wooden door. When he stepped inside, he felt the welcoming heat of the space immediately, warmed by a fire in a washbasin rigged to a window to direct the smoke outside. Vincent kicked off and scraped the mud from his boots before stepping further in.
“Micah, I need your help with something.”
Micah looked up from a logbook, dressed in his field uniform, a surprised look on his face as Vincent spoke up. Vincent did not come to visit at work often, but it was generally work-related if he did.
“Help? With what?” Micah asked cautiously; the last time Vincent had needed his help, he'd had to intimidate someone into seeking medical help "by any means necessary" and had almost been demerited because of it.
Vincent eyed the other man in the room, who was busy filing something. He couldn’t speak freely and squinted his eyes as he chose his words carefully.
“Running errands. Do you have any openings? There’s someone I want you to take in. Ah, well, a group of ‘em, really. Consider it a personal favor. For their protection.” Vincent insisted. Micah blinked, closed his open mouth, and raised his eyebrows.
Vincent sighed and slouched. “Look, I…I don’t know what else to do.”
Micah let go of a small sigh, previously wondering if perhaps Vincent was going to ask him to check the records for any mention of Tazaro, Mildred, or Sheeva. He often wondered if either of the other two had been having as difficult a time as he had in accepting the firemen's theory that, by some stroke of terrible luck, the three had simply perished in a fire so destructive it erased their bodies from the face of Sferra. He had been hoping for some reason to keep looking other than the blind, dumb faith he'd sheltered for the last couple of weeks, and it didn't seem like the two were connected.
"I can try to work something out, I suppose." He agreed, packing away his thoughts for another time. He stared miserably at the jumbled stack of papers in his hands.
So much for burying myself in work, he thought before lifting his head to look Vincent in the eye.
"I can’t make any guarantees, though. Who’re we, uh, hiring?” He questioned, absent-mindedly shuffling the stack before putting it down.
He didn't miss the hesitant nature of his childhood friend's demeanor.
“A...teenager and his...younger siblings.”
Micah's brow furrowed, and he pursed his lips, stunned.
“A teenager? And younger? Uh, that’s a little young to be teaching them to swing around swords, don’t you think?” He countered, wondering what was so significant about this request to warrant bringing in children to be trained as soldiers.
Vincent huffed and directed his sheepish look at the furnace in the corner of the room.
How insane he must have looked just now!
“No, of course, it is." Vincent agreed. "You know, I didn't mean as a soldier, but as a janitor, or a cook, or something. Anything other than what the older one has been doing to provide for them.” Vincent murmured, allowing his personal disappointment in Josef's decisions to finally shine through.
Micah’s face fell, and his brow showed his concern.
“And...what has he been doing? Stealing? Pandering? I would have a difficult time trying to convince–
–Prostitution.” Vincent muttered, keeping his voice down.
Micah’s eyebrows raised to the roof, and his face fell into a frown as his gut twisted. He tapped the edge of his pencil on the stack of papers.
“Oh. I see,” He muttered, then winced, having raided and seen some of the horrible situations young adults found themselves in in the Sinner’s Corridor.
“Poor kid,” He mumbled, straightening himself in hopes of deterring darkening thoughts. “Patient of yours?” He asked, wishing to veer the topic.
"Soon, likely," Vincent answered.
“I’ll…I will see what I can do–Chef Nelson in the Mess Hall might need a couple extra hands,” he mused, trying to think of where else to put a group of kids. “Dunno how she’ll feel about kids in the kitchen, but, uh…” He trailed off, unable to think of the woman’s reaction.
Vincent glanced at the other man sitting at the desk, wondering if he was paying attention. As he continued shuffling papers with a frustrated, tired look on his face, Vincent decided he wasn’t. That aside, Vincent feared Sheeva was likely to find some way to hurt him despite her weakened state. Vincent pinched the bridge of his nose. He had no choice.
“Look, this favor, it’s–He began, louder than he should have, and stopped as he glanced at Wedge again.
Micah leaned back as Vincent mysteriously leaned forward, a guilty look on his face.
“It’s for Her Highness, and by default, our favorite nerd.” Vincent murmured, propping himself over the desk.
Micah almost lost his control, having teetered his chair on the back legs to give himself the most distance he could manage. He held fast to the edge of the desk and steadied himself as he almost tipped over backwards, then slapped his feet back to the floor. They ignored the glance of the other person in the room.
“Are you shitting me?” Micah barked, eyes wide. Vincent winced at Micah’s booming voice.
"What's wrong, Captain?" Sergeant Wedge asked, an eyebrow curved in question at Micah's outburst as he tried to smooth over the page he’d nearly torn as he jumped from Micah’s outburst.
"Don't worry about it–Tazaro related, apparently." Micah grunted, giving Vincent a stern stare. “Care to fucking explain?”
Vincent took a deep breath to ready himself, wondering if he was going to go through with this. He shook his head at his apprehension; for the sake of the right thing to do, this had to be done. Hopefully, that would be enough to soothe Sheeva before she gave him an earful.
“I, I really can't say. Look, just…come by the house when you’re off work.”
“Off work? Hell no, I’m coming with you right now!” Micah insisted, getting to his feet so quickly that the chair skidded across the floor. He turned around and grabbed his jacket to throw it over his shoulders. The black and green contrast with his dark blonde hair, and the Captain’s bars gleamed with the light from the lantern. He strapped a blade across his chest and grabbed his cap off the hook on the wall.
“Cover for me, Wedge–I'll owe you one!” Micah ordered over his shoulder as he hustled through the door, jerking Vincent along with him. They briefly heard Sergeant Wedge acknowledge the order with an amused: "Yup, sure thing, boss."
“How long has she been back? Did they find Tazaro? Was he with her? Please tell me Mom and Tazaro were with her.” Micah began in a hushed, hoarse whisper as they briskly made their way across the field. Vincent ineffectively slapped the burly man’s shoulder.
“Shut up, Micah!” He hissed, looking around at other people that happened to be passing by, hoping they hadn’t overheard. Mere glances were thrown, but everyone else seemed uninterested in the two.
“Just wait. Seriously. I can’t tell you,” He urged. They hustled through the streets while Micah shoved past people and ignored the “hey, asshole, what gives?” comments directed his way.
They carried on through the main street sandwiched between the Southgate and Westside districts, Micah tripping over his feet somewhat as he tried to match Vincent’s vehement pace. He could tell his friend was nervous by the way he kept constant watch over his collar. Micah followed as Vincent deliberately avoided a group of guards chatting among themselves around an open newspaper. Micah took a second to peek at the front cover as he passed; apparently, the press had moved on from the “Westside Death Scandal” and onto the next fresh misfortune, though he didn't catch what the new gossip was.
“Hey! Vincent! Why are you moving so fast? This isn’t like you!” He called, breaking into a brief jog to catch up to Vincent, who had amazingly hustled down the street in his split-second distraction.
Annoyed at Vincent’s silence, Micah snatched Vincent’s coat, pulled him into a nearby alleyway, and slammed his back against the wall. Vincent hit it with a surprised “oof!” and stared at Micah in shock.
“Damn it, Vincent, you answer me, right now!” Micah ordered, huffing.
Vincent remained stubbornly silent.
“Can you at least tell me something? Anything? Come on, man, it’s been weeks!” Micah pleaded. Vincent opened his mouth, then snapped it shut, looking around, and then to Micah’s confusion, up. Vincent scanned the skies for a moment, panting somewhat from fear, somewhat from physical exertion, not noticing that Micah was looking, too. A ripple of terror flew through Micah as his mind dredged up something terrifying.
“Hey! What the hell are you looking for?” Micah questioned. Vincent snapped his head back and shook it.
“Don’t worry about it. As for what’s going on: I swore on the dead man’s grave that I wouldn’t tell anyone, so I’ll just have to show you when we get there..” He insisted once more, leaving Micah standing there with a perplexed look on his face.
“Oh,” Micah blurted as it dawned on him, then ran to catch up with Vincent.
The walk took less time than Vincent thought it would, and as he paused at his apartment door, he stopped and turned, still panting. He swallowed back spit to wet his dry throat.
“You have to keep this a secret, alright?” Vincent ordered with a nervous look on his face.
“What, are you being watched?” Micah asked, looking over his shoulder, then rolled his eyes at himself. If Vincent was, he wouldn’t have been able to say so out in the open.
As Vincent fished for his keys, Micah waited, wondering what could possibly be behind the door. Maybe, Vincent had somehow found their bodies in the burned rubble, pulled some whackjob experiment on them, and reanimated their friend from the dead. It was a disturbing thought, and it made him cringe with worry.
If they were zombies, would they hunger for brains?
Vincent knocked a particular pattern before sliding his keys into the lock. Vincent opened the door, shuffled Micah inside, and swiftly shut and locked the door behind him. Micah turned to look at Vincent, fearful as he heard the tumble of the deadbolt.
“Hey, what the–
He stopped when he heard something rustling in the dark bolt down the hallway. Micah whipped around, feeling the hairs on his arms flare and stick up as adrenaline pierced its way up his spine. He cried out in shock as Vincent’s hand gripped his shoulder to move him aside as he stepped further into the room.
“Guys, it’s alright. It’s just Micah.” Vincent called out, flicking the light on. Choking silence lingered for a moment as whatever had dashed out of the living room hesitantly made their mind to step forth.
Micah watched, stunned, as Tazaro walked out from the hallway with confusion in his eyes and shame on his face.
“H-hey, Micah, what’s up?” Tazaro said, giving a nervous, guilty wave.
When his brain caught up with him, Micah strode up to him in a few steps, reared back a fist, and punched Tazaro square on the nose. Tazaro cried out and stumbled back, but Micah reached out and snatched Tazaro’s t-shirt to hold him upright. The fact that he was tangible aided in his understanding that Tazaro was alive.
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How, it mattered not at the current moment.
“You’ve been alive this whole fucking time? You’ve been alive, and you didn’t say anything?”
“Argh! I was going to, but–
–I’ve been mourning your death, you fuckin’ bastard!” He barked, shaking the poor man with a tight, painful grip on Tazaro’s arms.
“Dude, stop!” Tazaro barked.
He attempted to steady himself when Micah obliged, wincing as Micah released the grip that pinched his shirt against his skin. Immediately, he took a step back in case Micah were to grapple him again.
“We couldn’t.” Tazaro finished, managing to steady himself on the firepit. Micah stared at him as though Tazaro had slapped him.
“Whaddaya mean, you couldn’t?” Micah yelled in anger, grasping at Tazaro again and shaking him as though answers would fall from his pockets like loosened coins.
He stilled and froze as the cold steel of a knife pressed where his kidney rested just beneath. A strained voice demanded he let Tazaro go, and Micah immediately obliged. Wide, nervous, stone-blue eyes darted around the room to examine surroundings in an effort to determine whether or not Tazaro had been held captive, somehow, and he tried not to move his body for fear of piercing his kidney with the sharp blade. As he felt the grab of his shoulder by a hand in a brace, he realized that, if he moved quickly enough, he might be able to disarm the attacker.
“Sheeva, stop,” Tazaro called, worried. “It’s Micah. He’s not a threat.”
“Then why–She growled, grasping tighter on his shoulder and pressing the blade even more against his back. “...is he here?”
Micah swallowed past a dry throat, even more confused.
“Because, I needed to see–
–Just because he looks like Micah doesn’t mean it is Micah. You forget what Llyud could do. Maybe Zakaraia can do the same,” She interrupted.
While Micah could understand her point of needing to ensure that it was him, he couldn’t understand what she meant by “what Llyud could do.”
“But I am Micah! Micah Yates! Captain of Roussell’s 23rd Battalion! I, I could give you my birthday, and my social, and my address if you–
–Any asshole can memorize that information,” She grunted.
“Sheeva, I brought him here!” Vincent barked, catching her attention.
The blade at Micah’s back shifted in surprise, and Micah stood up even more straightly and sucked in a nervous breath.
Fingers shifted against the shirt held her grasp as she paused in surprise.
“What do you mean, ‘you brought him here? What happened to not bringing people here?” She asked, and, by the sounds of it, she had been betrayed somehow. Micah caught a glance at Vincent, finally understanding his hesitance.
Vincent’s lips were pursed, and he propped himself up on the back of the couch with his arms, sighing heavily as he thought of what to say.
Slowly, what Vincent had been trying to do dawned on Micah.
“I didn’t give him a choice. I-I threatened him. I knew he was, uh, hiding something–I’ve known him for years, and he always has a stick up his ass when he’s trying to hide something,”
Vincent looked up, offended.
“I do not!” He barked, then sighed and dropped his head.
“Look, let him go. It’s really Micah,” He urged, pushing himself off the couch and walking around to step close to them.
Micah let out a sigh of relief as the steel, now warm, left his backside. He took a wobbly couple of steps forward, breathing out his nerves, then chuckled.
“Xelha, warrior-princess, indeed!” He laughed, straightening himself out.
Behind him, the hushed whispers of an argument could be heard. After glancing over his shoulder at Vincent, Micah crossed his arms and kept his back to them, pretending not to be interested, though eavesdropped anyway.
–Don’t you dare speak to me. You have betrayed my trust!” Sheeva hissed, pointing a threatening finger in his face. “On the dead man’s grave, my ass!” She barked. Tazaro felt a spot of pride at the use of his “colorful expressions,” but held back his laughter. Micah’s eyebrows raised into the ceiling.
Vincent recoiled sharply at the digit in his face, then, unnatural for the kind doctor, frowned sternly and stood tall.
“Uh, you know, I’m sure there was a good–Tazaro began, his protests unheard over Vincent’s raised voice.
“You should know that I wouldn’t bring him here if it wasn’t absolutely necessary, Sheeva!” Vincent uncharacteristically barked, causing Micah to glance at him in surprise.
The terseness of his furrowed brow ached, and the narrowness of his squinted eyes hurt, not used to harboring such an expression on his face. It wasn’t often that a patient drove him to anger, much less accused him so easily of betraying their trust.
“I’ve never broken that promise until now, but I had no other choice–so don’t think I break the oath so lightly!” He insisted.
Shocked at his boldness, Sheeva gaped at him with her mouth hung open, blinking a couple of times as she gathered his demeanor. The humility reddened and warmed her cheeks as she considered his convictions. She softened, sighed, and meekly mumbled an apology as she believed Vincent–everything that he had done thus far and the lengths he had gone to was great proof that he was undoubtedly on their side.
“My apologies. It was wrong to assume. I…I thought…” She trailed off, unwilling to admit that she had lumped him in with less-honorable folk.
“It’s…” He drew in a breath through his nose, then sighed. “I understand. You don’t have to give me an explanation.” Vincent shrugged off his medical bag and sat down in his chair. He drew in another deep breath, weaved his fingers together, propped his chin upon them, and sighed again.
“If anything, Micah, you are owed an explanation, and I recommend you be sitting down for this,” Vincent suggested, catching Tazaro’s eye and tipping his head towards the couch.
Tazaro caught the obvious command, and urged Micah to sit on the couch, then sat himself down to lean on the arm of the couch, head propped in a hand as he tapped his foot in nerves.
Micah finally looked at Sheeva, and his mouth dropped in shock
The arm sealed in a cast and resting in a sling was unfortunate, but an arm in a cast was nothing he hadn’t seen before. What was more shocking was the apparent wing she had strapped down against her back, complete with feathers that brushed against the ground.
“Is–Is that a wing?” Micah blurted in surprise.
“Yes, it’s a wing, and it’s not that outlandish; you’re the one who assumed I was joking when I said my father was a Ta’hal.”
“Actually, that was me,” Vincent pointed out with a chuckle, finally understanding why Tazaro had seemed so shocked at the time. Sheeva responded to that with a simple “hm,” of understanding.
“Wait, wait,” Micah asked, raising a hand and shaking his head to clear his brain of the impossible jargon filtering in through his ears. “Ta’hal? As in ‘The Mad God’s Army,’ Ta’hal?”
Sheeva sighed, irritated about having to belabor this secret once more.
“Yes, the very same, and yes, they exist, but there are more important things to worry about.” She dismissed, pausing as she thought of the easiest way to summarize. “There’s a man who was pulling the strings behind Llyud’s manipulations. I led Tazaro to an abandoned fortress in the western woods where Mildred was held captive. Llyud and I fought, but the other man intervened and caused Llyud’s head to explode. In my anger, I struck him down, and took him for dead. He…he was dead, though I suppose it was a fake–a decoy.”
“After a short recovery, an ally of ours pointed out that the man I thought I had killed was ‘not so easily killed.’ Now that I think of it, perhaps he’s…right.” She muttered, feeling a chill sweep over her. She shuddered from it, and shook her head.
“No. If he can bleed, then surely, he can die.” She insisted, scoffing at his presumed immortality.
“Considering he can just heal himself even with the wounds you gave him, would that work?” Tazaro asked in skepticism, crossing his arms to cover up the anger budding in his chest.
“If he comes back, I’ll hack him to pieces if I have to.”
The air was stagnant for a moment before Sheeva spoke up again, uncomfortable with the heavy pressure.
“Anyway, I fought Zakaraia so that Tazaro and Mildred could escape to Roussel. I failed to stop him.” She sighed again and glanced across the way at Tazaro, though he didn’t look back, staring at the floor with his face scrunched in agony at the mention of his mother’s name.
“He threatened to kill Mildred and Tazaro after he was done. I charged with everything I had to stop him. He broke my arm, broke my wing, and left me to die while he took off to carry through with his threat. Yes, it was reckless, and yes, it was a losing battle, but I, too, wish it had been worth it,” Sheeva stated.
As frustration from feeling held responsible for things that were out of her hands or for things that happened despite her near-death efforts arose, Sheeva felt the flash of fire crawl up her neck and scowled in distaste.
“Hate me all you want, but you cannot continue to hold me responsible, Tazaro. I did not break your mother’s neck–Zakaraia is responsible for that, and I did not drag your mother out into those woods to begin with; Llyud is responsible for that.”
Tazaro’s face scrunched even more, and he dropped his head into his hands.
“Fuck you,” He hissed in a bare whisper, face burning from embarrassment.
“No, fuck you, Tazaro Chorea!” Sheeva snapped, striding over to him. She grabbed at the collar of his shirt and jerked him forward to shove her face in his. “I’m tired of being held responsible for other people’s crimes, and I won’t accept anymore from you! I’m not responsible for your mother’s death, especially considering I did everything I could to stop it!”
Stunned, he stared at her, unable to speak.
Disgusted with his lack of a response, Sheeva shoved him back into the couch and stepped away from him and towards the fireplace for distance. Unwilling to hear the hushed whispers behind her as Micah began to demand details of Mildred’s death, she traced a sigil into the stone with her finger and cast a muffling spell. Exhausted, she held onto the mantle above the hearthstone for support, and pressed her warm forehead against the cool layer of bricks shielding the walls from fire’s heat.
The frown ached in her cheeks, and as hot tears pooled in her eyes, she squeezed them shut, though they were somehow cooler than her face as they trailed down her cheeks to plop onto the cotton-fabric of the sling.
Sheeva wondered what she was doing–what she was surely foolish for considering–planning to train with Tazaro to eventually pursue Zakaraia when he wasn’t even willing to forgive and see that no blame should be placed on her shoulders. Sure, he had a point in stating that perhaps Mildred wouldn’t have been in harm’s way and that none of the events that had come to pass would have happened in the first place if she hadn’t been in Roussel, but to say that she deserved to bear the cross of shame didn’t feel right, nor fair…and the longer it dwelled in her aching, spiteful heart, the easier it became to assume the responsibility.
It was an easy, slippery slope back into the dangerous niche she’d placed herself in before meeting the Chorea family, and to let herself fall so far from progression would only be a slap in the face towards the deceased woman’s memory…but as the nagging voice lingered, Sheeva felt her desperate resolve begin to crumble.
The rationale that no further troubles would have graced the family had Sheeva not been around was a sheer drop into the assumption that she ought not to have existed at all, and that filled her with more fear and dread than facing her own near-death.
As conversation tickled in her ears, Sheeva vaguely understood that her muffling spell had faltered.
“Sheeva?” Vincent called, bringing her to some semblance of reality.
She grunted disinterestedly, pushing herself away from the wall to face Vincent. Like Rose would when Sheeva was being temperamental, so too, would Vincent, Sheeva assumed.
“What?” She asked glumly, though didn’t look him in the eye, all too familiar with awaiting a scolding as her skin began to crawl.
“As promised, I checked on those kids you wanted me to.” He began.
Sheeva blinked, surprised. That wasn’t what she had been expecting of the confrontational man who’d been helping to care for her over the last couple of weeks. His fulfillment of her request and the eagerness to hear that they were faring well in the hopes that there had been something positive had come of her abandoned vigilance served as a tether, and she took a deep, clearing breath.
Sheeva nodded to show she was following the conversation once more.
“Thank you, Vincent. How…How are they?” She asked, clinging to the hope that they were well.
“I want Micah to take Josef into the barracks. Give him honest work. Help take care of him so that Josef can properly take care of the others.” Vincent insisted, glancing back at Micah to ensure he was paying attention, too.
Micah looked up and over at Vincent, muttering an “oh” of sad realization. He gave Sheeva a nervous glance, wondering how she’d react. No doubt, Vincent was about to give her the ugly, but with the expression on his face, Vincent seemed reluctant to. It was an out-of-character thing for the matter-of-fact doctor, but he supposed it was because Sheeva wasn’t just a patient, apparently fast on the way to becoming a friend.
“I see.” Sheeva muttered and sat down on the footrest upon hearing the offer, hissing at a twinge of pain. She grimaced and attempted to move into a comfortable position, settling with an exhausted “pshew”
At the least, she was relieved that they were still alive, and hadn’t been tortured or killed in her absence. Perhaps, unlike Llyud, Zakaraia drew a line at putting children in harm’s way. She frowned as she reminded herself that Llyud himself had been a pawn, and put the wishful thought out of her mind.
“Under what pretense? Has Josef…taken to picking pockets again?” She asked, worried that her stern instructions had been ignored once again, though gave an inch of forgiveness. Without her there to guide and teach them, maybe Josef was simply a frightened child trying his best to provide.
Vincent’s frown deepened, and he pursed his lips together in frustration before raising his head to look her in the eye.
“No. To provide support for that band of children, Josef has taken to prostitution. He is lucky to have only contracted Mono, but if he continues, he could end up getting something worse.”
They watched a pained, shocked, furious expression mix on Sheeva’s face.
“That FOOLISH child!” Sheeva bellowed as she stood sharply and began to pace, breathing heavily. She teetered, and as she grew dizzy, she took a knee, wincing from more pain and panting slightly, eyes closed to cope. She shifted to sit on the floor and leaned against the footrest, attempting to breathe through her pain and fury. Micah averted his gaze, still amazed by all of their circumstance.
The room was silent for a few moments as they absorbed their various mind-blowing bits of information.
Sheeva shifted to sit back on her feet once she caught her breath. Tazaro looked and wondered if she was alright as she stared at the floor in contemplation of something, a saddened look on her face.
“Micah.” She called to him, bringing him out of his thoughts. A shadow of determination and humility careened over her face. Red eyes burned with admonition and longing.
“Please, take Josef in. Teach him. Watch over him. He-he means well; he’s just misguided. He may be sixteen, but he’s still a child. They all are. They've–they don't deserve to grow up like that.” She defended, a soft, sad glow in her eyes.
Micah watched as she strained to do what he assumed was a type of bow-down, then looked at Tazaro and Vincent. They were just as perplexed as he was.
“I-I beg you this favor. Please. They're only children.” She pleaded.
“Could you-could you get up? This is really kind of weird.” He asked, unnerved. Slowly she looked up from her bow, wincing again from the pain.
“It is weird?”
“Uh, yeah. Very.”
She pushed herself up to sit on the ottoman again.
"My apologies. I am–ach, damn!" She snapped at a wrong movement and grasped at the wound on the side of her chest. "I am quite serious.”
She avoided his gaze again, a thoughtful look on her face as she contemplated the bizarre cultural differences between the temple and the “outside world.”
“Um, as for the kid...sure. I can, uh, do that. ‘Deserving’ has nothing to do with it. The kid should be treated better.” Micah agreed. Sheeva nodded in appreciation.
“Thank you.” She whispered.
“I am going to rest. I got too riled up.” Sheeva muttered, struggling to stand.
Tazaro stood and offered help with a humbled look on his face, surprised when she hesitantly took it. Micah followed the two with a watchful eye as they made their way to the hallway and disappeared into it.
“That guy really messed her up, didn’t he?” Micah muttered, more to himself than Vincent. Vincent sighed and lay his head on the corner of the arm and the back of his chair.
“He practically tortured her. I believe he choked her out, but she refuses to talk about that. He damn near killed her.” Vincent muttered softly so that Tazaro couldn’t hear him. He still had not disclosed these facts, encouraging that Sheeva would tell Tazaro about it. It would do her well to face her brush with death.
“Vilg sa,” Micah muttered, feeling his stomach churn.
“Josef and the other kids can be found in an old, abandoned fixer-upper off Dekkir Street. I’ll give you the actual address later, when you’re ready. The kid's pretty sick right now and probably will be for a few days, but I suggest you get that done as soon as possible. Sheeva can give you more information. Oh, and they have a passphrase system set up. If they ask you where Tinker Owls roost, they roost in the belfry of the clock tower.”
Micah blinked and looked over at him, half-listening, still reeling as he realized that his friends were keeping such a big secret from him.
“I need a minute. I’m still, uh…” He paused, trying to gather his thoughts. “You guys were really gonna not tell me…” He paused, then scoffed as he told himself that he might have done the same if he had been one of the two–a warrior-girl with wings would have been quite a shocking reveal and not something he might have known how to handle.
“How long have those two been, uh, back here?” He asked, nodding his head in their assumed direction.
Vincent thought for a moment, relieved that Micah wasn’t about to open the “no secrets between childhood friends” bombshell. They would address it later if need be, he told himself.
“About two weeks now. They coincidentally disappeared on the same day that there was an attack on civilians in the western quarter with ‘unidentified weapons.’ It wasn’t her, and Tazaro can verify. Sheeva posits that Zakaraia or Llyud used a doppelganger that looked like her to pin the blame.”
Micah stared in disbelief, wondering how whoever framed Sheeva found a Cruinian woman matching Sheeva’s general description and who also knew how to wield a sword. It seemed as rare as a golden cluckatrice.
“Right.” He agreed sarcastically, then frowned. “I remember hearing about that from one of the guards. Kagure told me it was a ‘black-haired woman with wings,’ and I kept telling myself it wasn’t her–Tazaro wouldn’t have associated with her if so. At least…I think so.”
Vincent sighed, thankful that Micah could still keep his mouth shut.
“The fewer people that know about this, the better. They’re in hiding until Sheeva is better, then they’ll be leaving. Sheeva intends to train him. You should see it; it’s pretty intense and kind of inspiring. At least she knows how to channel hate and anger towards progress.”
Micah looked up, surprised.
“What? Tazaro’s in hiding too?”
“I’m technically dead, so, yes.” They jumped and looked over as Tazaro walked back into the living room, arms crossed with a sheepish look on his face.
“So, uh…” He cracked a smile and chuckled. “How ya been, Micah?”
Micah huffed and stood, grabbed Tazaro, and pulled him into a hug, shaking him.
“Vilg, terrible, ya bastard. I, I’m sorry I punched you.” He laughed, releasing him and sitting back down on the couch. Tazaro gave an apologetic look and sat down on the footrest.
“Yeah. For what it’s worth, I am sorry, too.” He voiced, then poked at his nose experimentally. It was still tender, though it had stopped bleeding long ago. “You really got me; that hurt like a bitch!"
Micah smiled, then hummed as he readied himself to ask about Mildred’s death.
“I’m sorry, about Mildred. How…did it happen?” He asked hesitantly.
As expected, he watched Tazaro’s demeanor crumble and the wince span his face as he shuddered.
“Llyud tricked Sheeva and kidnapped Mom. We gave chase. Found them in that abandoned fortress in the western forest. Zakaraia...” Tazaro grimaced at the visual. “Killed Llyud right in front of her. Made his head explode. She’s still pissed about not getting closure. Probably will be for a long time...” He trailed off, then shook his head, intending to get back on track.
“As she said, Sheeva fought him so Mom and I could get away.” Tazaro huffed as his cheeks burned and the pools of tears began. “He, he caught up to us, and-and–Tazaro stopped and leaned forward to hold his head in his hands, unable to look at either of his friends.
“I’m sorry, I can’t.” He stopped, voice cracking.
“That’s ok,” Micah assured him, doing his best to ignore the restrained weeps and sniffles.
Sheeva had already bluntly stated how Mildred had died, Micah realized, when she’d confronted Tazaro about whatever accusations Tazaro had made.
Still, Micah swallowed in fear as his stomach plummeted into his feet. He’d seen his fair share of battle, and no matter how often he witnessed it, the snapping of someone’s neck always disheveled him. In an effort to self-soothe, he told himself that at least it had been quick and that Mildred had not suffered.
After a respectful silence, Micah cleared his throat and changed the subject.
“So Sheeva’s training you, huh? Gonna be able to shatter legs with a kick someday or stab someone’s hand to a table?” Micah asked, hoping to lighten the gloom.
Tazaro chuckled and wiped at his eyes.
“I, I don’t know about that, but yeah. It’s pretty rigorous, even with the limited space we have. Sheeva says we’ll get to the basics of fighting when we get to the temple she was raised in.” He sat up and stretched, popping his back and groaning. He’d been hunched over for too long.
“Ah, I didn’t want to say it earlier, but they kind of have their own strange way of doing things, hence the way she bowed to you. I think.” Tazaro explained on Sheeva’s behalf, hoping he was right.
Micah chuckled, then began to laugh.
“So Warrior-girl is way cooler than we thought. And, uh...” He paused, not wanting to be disrespectful. “Different. Yeah.” He nodded, satisfied with the word choice about her wings, not about to bring that up, considering he could barely wrap his mind around everything else they had thrown at him in the last hour.
“What happened between you two? I thought you were sweet on her.”
Tazaro’s mood soured even more, and he kicked at the carpet in guilt.
“I’m an asshole,” He answered, heart heavy. “I said some…pretty awful things that I–well, I shouldn’t have said in the first place,” He reminded himself. There wouldn’t be a need to take anything back, had it not been said at all, and working towards holding his tongue before speaking in anger was a daunting, difficult task.
As for being sweet on her, that’s another…incredibly confusing thing.
“Honestly, being romantically involved with anyone is the last thing on my mind right now,” He denied…mostly. “I mean, think about it: I’m-I’m ‘dead.’ My mom is dead. I can’t go back to work. I'm broke. I’m also about to leave, train, and pursue a psychopath.” He rambled, listing off the things he had on his plate with his fingers.
“That last bit is fucking insane.” Tazaro mumbled. He ‘tsked’ at himself and shook his head, rubbing his temples as his frown deepened into a scowl, because–after his life had been completely upturned with his mother killed, his remaining family destroyed, not able to return to work and doing something he’d still been able to enjoy, and being proclaimed dead–what else could possibly happen to top all of that?
As Tazaro moped with circumstance, he sighed again.
“Besides, things are really…estranged right now–part of which is my fault because of what I said, but…Sheeva is convinced that she ‘failed’ even though she was unconscious. And, and she’s right–she didn’t snap mom’s neck; Zakaraia did.”
They watched his eyes dart back and forth as he thought about something, becoming increasingly worked up and angry. He scoffed and shook his head in confusion.
“I mean, even if she wasn’t unconscious, she had broken bones! Seriously, how far would she have to have pushed herself–to death? It’s-it’s depressing.”
“You know, I hate to say this, but maybe she intended to fight to the death. She wouldn’t be forced to live with the aftermath. Or, maybe, same as you, she thinks it should have been her. Considering what you two have just been through, I would not be surprised.”
Tazaro blinked sluggishly. His eyes were puffy and swollen. He couldn’t imagine broaching the grim subject to Sheeva, but perhaps it would be in their best interests to attempt to talk about it. At the very least, it might give way to her allowing him to finally apologize for his harsh, unfair criticism.
“You think so?”
Micah crossed his arms as he thought about it more and nodded to himself.
“Yeah.” He reinforced.
“It’ll take time, but you’ll be fine. You have us. You and Sheeva have this, uh, ‘shared trauma,’ so to speak.” Vincent added. “I think you guys need to sit and talk. Figure some things out, particularly the 'who's' and 'what's' to blame.”
Tazaro accepted Micah's words with a nod, a small, tired expression on his face. He still found himself doubtful that Sheeva would be willing to open up about everything that had transpired, but thanks to Vincent and Micah, he felt encouraged to try. It was a spark of hope he hadn’t felt in far too long.
A deep-chested yawn broke him out of thought, and Tazaro rubbed at his eyes.
“I think I should try to sleep. Micah, you’re in my spot.” He muttered.
Micah stood, surprised.
“You got kicked out of your own room?” He blurted. Tazaro shook his head as he lay down with his back to them.
“She needs the space for her wing.”
Tazaro murmured a “goodnight,” grabbed the blanket thrown around the back of the couch, and pulled it over himself. The room spun slightly, and their voices warbled in his brain as Tazaro let go and slipped into sleep.
Vincent stood and meandered into the kitchen to pour himself the rare glass of wine, offering one to Micah when he pulled around the corner. After stepping onto the balcony, Vincent ensured the sliding glass door was secure before turning out to face the street with a long sigh.
The dead-of-night silence lingered between the two for a moment as Micah collected his thoughts.
“So–you were just gonna leave me out of the loop, huh? Make me believe that Tazaro was dead? That everyone was dead?” Micah blurted, finally allowing himself to ask after a sip of the strong wine. The furtive look that flashed on Vincent’s face before he gave a guilty sigh made Micah feel slightly worse.
“We didn’t know what was right to do. We might have said something eventually, but neither Sheeva nor Tazaro can handle all the extra attention right now. Also, the man they’re planning to pursue is extremely dangerous, and the ‘fewer people that knew, the better,’ we figured.” Vincent explained. "We are trying our best to keep everyone else safe."
Micah, stunned, sat back against the folding chair he’d sat down in and stared, wide-eyed, at the apartment building across from them.
“According to Sheeva, he read her mind and threatened people from the temple she grew up in. He manipulated Llyud into using Mildred as bait. He told her he was off to find Tazaro and his mother with the intent of killing them before leaving her behind, broken and unable to move. He’s sadistic. He’s…he’s textbook psychopath, and I don’t think we can accurately predict what he’ll do next.” Vincent continued. He shivered from an eerie chill tingling up his spine as he recalled how paranoid they had been the first week after their arrival. Tazaro had only begun opening the window outside his bedroom to bring fresh air into the musty room, and it had taken days of persuasion.
Micah’s eyes widened, and he looked towards the inside of the apartment.
“He really could have just killed all of them, huh?” He muttered slowly, feeling a sudden chill of the night air. He crossed his arms to warm them. “I, I’m glad he didn’t.”
"Hopefully, he believes them to be dead, but considering how he left them behind to suffer, I'm doubtful, and so is Sheeva," Vincent muttered. He watched the red liquid swirl around in his glass as he swiveled it carefully, then sipped again. "She's right to be, I think. I've heard of massacres with the caliber of a small army on the way to Cruinia, but just because he is heading there doesn't necessarily mean he won't double-back."
Micah clicked his tongue, finally understanding what had gotten their armies riled up and anxious. It made him even more terrified, knowing that entire towns seemingly ripped from the ground or demolished by black fire was at the hands of one man rather than a mysterious army that Vivroa's military had never seen before.
"I see," He muttered, conflicted. While the information Vincent just told him would be extremely helpful to their plight, he couldn't disclose the information to the board without sounding either insane or being booted from his post, and considering all that he'd just agreed to do, he couldn't afford the demotion. Micah downed the glass in three hefty gulps, then sighed noisily.
"So about those kids: you can bet your ass I'll take them in. Consider it the least I can do. If someone comes knocking for 'em, I'll give whoever it is a bowl full of hell."
Vincent smiled.
“I believe it, man. But, uh…” He paused, wondering if he should remind Micah who he might be dealing with. He decided against it, considering that Micah probably already knew what Tazaro and Sheeva would be going against. "Just to be sure: you're really gonna take some strangers in?"
"Please. I've trained thirty-year-old soldiers who seemed less determined than that sixteen-year-old! How hard could that be?"
Vincent chuckled, recalling some of the stories that Micah had regaled them with over the occasional dinner, then tipped his glass.
“Good luck, Micah. I’ll help you as best I can.”