Milod’s steady hand moved the tweezers into the mechanism, ready to release the tiny cog into the heart of the clock. He didn’t need glasses to see, and some would say he didn’t even need to see the interior of a clock to repair it. Milod laughed every time he heard that, for he knew that, without his eyes, his hands were clumsy things.
His was a humble abode. The love for clockwork had never left him, even when, by virtue of his good judgement, he became a sage of Felsia. Every shelf and table of the main room of his home, the one that served as lounge and workshop and dining room all the same, was littered with tools, cogs, hands, and miscellaneous pieces of machinery. Not untidy, no: it all was carefully organized, and that was obvious to the discerning eye.
He caressed his red and black beard, staring at the completed piece in front of him. The clock, shaped like a rhombus, would stop once there were no more Felsians to bleed for it. All the brass so carefully placed in its heart would be forever stilled once the vials that fed the runework ran dry with no one to replenish them. That was the tragedy, he thought. Felsia , taciturn bloodsucking mass of white, would starve without its sons and daughters to spit or bleed onto its runes.
His ruminations concluded with a rapping on the main door. That anxious knocking pattern, he knew it as Mirn’s. “Step in, Mirn. And it better be worth my time.”
Mine opened the door wide, as if entering his own house, and hung his pet gecko on the nearest pendulum clock. The animal would stay there, maybe walk abit about the walls and ceiling. Mirn didn’t mind. “If it’s time we are talking about, nobody has it better measured than you.”
“Cut the small talk and pleasantries. State your business,” Milod barked, his white fingernails taping over his thigh.
Mirn sauntered over to Milod’s workbench, and didn’t find a place to sit, so he stood with fidgeting hands in front of the leader of the Felsian sages. “You see, darling, we have had a serendipitous disgrace while studying the misshapen Gleur got for us.”
Milod’s expression soured, his fingers now drumming on his upper arm. There was a concerning term in that statement. It wasn’t “disgrace”, or the oxymoron it brought to life when paired with “serendipitous”. It was “darling”. Of all the words Mirn’s lips uttered, “darling” fell amongst the most damning ones. Epidemic, toxin, disaster, extinction; any of them was preferable to “darling”. Mirn’s fatalism was a familiar ghost. Expected, even. But for him to call someone darling…
“Go ahead and try to ruin my day, there is nothing worth enshrining in the current ones, anyway. Spit it out.”
“While we studied one of the subjects, it stung a student of mine, and he sadly passed away.”
Milod nodded. Gestured for Mirn to continue. A dead pupil was not justification enough for that word.
You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.
“You should have seen her, Milod. She parted draped in the most blissful delirium. She laughed softly, moaned and kissed the air. She even tried to get stung again: we had to drag her away from the misshapen. She died smiling, Milod: this girl that many would call allergic to cheer died with a soft and loving smile on her face. Her name was Gadila. Gadila died happier than she ever was in life,” Mirn’s expression was the closest thing to neutral: he wasn’t relating a sad tale, he was conveying mere facts.
Milod grunted. “I don’t like where this is going, darling.”
Mrin started pacing around the house, staring at the collection of clocks hung from the walls, inspecting them closely. Pendulum, blood, drool, or windup. He inspected them all with tired eyes, giggling. “How long would they run for without someone taking care of them. The most…efficient one, so to speak.?” he finally asked.
“Forty-three days.” Milod answered, standing from his chair just to be able to head to nearby forgewooden wall and rapt it with the outer part of his fist. “Get to the point, Mirn. What is the importance of this venom? Anything to do with the Ratchet?”
“No. The Ratchet is, as I told Gleur, a thing of our essence, not of our flesh. I have another idea for the substance. We found out how to milk that misshapen, like snakes, you see. You know, when we make antivenom serums using blooded misshapen—”
“Blooded?” Milod asked, staring at Mirn right in the eyes. “Did you forgot a word in that statement?”
“Not all misshapen have blood. Anyway. We harvest venom form snakes, and use a few test subjects provided by the army to envenomate their blood while they live. Then we can inject that blood to brothers and sisters bit by vipers, and it aids in counteracting the venom. Details, irrelevant ones.” Mirn dismissed the subject with a disgusted gesture of his hand. “What matters is that we can harvest lots and lots of this toxin, and by the effect it had on a couple other misshapen, it seems the lethal dose for Felsians is rather… low.”
“So you discovered a dangerous substance that could be used as a drug? Is that what you are saying? Because I see no point in making an antidote for the toxins of a single misshapen. Not for one that is almost-safely contained,” Milod said, dedicating a judging stare to Mirn.
“Well, it seems you figured it out. That was all, Milod,” he headed for the door and extended his hand towards the ceiling so his pet gecko would climb on it, as it was trained to do. “It was a pleasure having a word with you. I just wanted to share my little discovery with other sages. You first, of course.”
Milod strode to his brother’s side, and watched him from a head above. Despite being smaller than Gleur, Milod’s stature was still impressive, and enhanced his authority. “You called me ‘darling’. Did you care about this student of you so much, Mirn? Or are you trying to scuttle away to distribute this new psychedelic among our population? Or any othe rile you prefer, because neither of those options are like you.”
“Fine: the drug thing is technically not wrong, but I don’t intend to use it with recreational purpose.”
Milod closed his harms behind his back. “Medicinal, and you need test subjects?”
“Medicinal, but there is no need for test subjects. I think it could aid to ease the pain of this falling civilization…” Mirn put on a toothless smile, a servile smile, even.
Milod opened his eyes wide and shook his head slowly, slightly at the realization.
“So, darling, what do you say: is it our call to offer relief for the people of Felsia?”
“Mirn Selidcaught, step out of my sight before you dare speak out that vile idea of yours! Reconsider, moron!” Milod stuttered, caught Mirn by the shoulders.
The naturalist smiled with fangs showing and said in a honeyed tone:
“I believe it is our duty to provide this little option… a mirthful euthanasia.”