Chapter Eighty-Four
Unspoken
The Priority Archive in the past was virtually the same as the one Michael sat in during the present. Everything was orderly and well-managed, only the central table lacked its overflowing scrolls of parchment.
The figure whom he walked within, made their way inside and approached each cabinet, reaching directly for a single scroll from every other shelf, not pausing or hesitating for a moment between each document, as though they’d memorised where everything was beforehand.
Michael yearned to see some edge of their shirt, or the shoes on their feet, or anything that might shout out who he was occupying, but the person kept their eye-line so perfectly dead-ahead that he could scarcely catch any details. All he knew for certain was that their arms were toned and their skin was a tanned white, which narrowed it down to roughly half the men, women, and nobles in Fort Guardian.
They turned to the final bookshelf, grabbed a single scroll and tucked it in a hidden satchel out of sight before stopping and walking sharply back into the centre of the room. There was a long, unblinking beat, and then the figure reached toward the shelf, as calm as an incoming tide, and like a breaking storm, ripped it from the cabinet. They grabbed every available book and scroll and threw them across the room. The swept everything left onto the floors and toppled the cabinets with a violent crash!
Bookshelf by bookshelf, the spy moved through the room, ripping off panels of wood and splintering them against the wall, all the while making virtually no sound at all aside from grunts of effort. They finally smashed the last cabinet to the ground, spilling its contents across the stone floor.
And then they stopped. The unseen figure straightened up and turned sharply back to the open metal door. They strode toward it without hesitation, like a cat when the bird distracting it had flown away.
The Arcancy pain roared through every inch of Michael’s flesh and it begged him to let go. In his real form, blood speckled from his eyes and ears and his entire upright body began to tighten.
The spy stepped toward the door and a hard clang sounded throughout the room, and the figure lurched to a stop. Caught by something unseen on the central table, they twisted their torso and a cold scrape of steel on wood groaned through the room, ending in a hard, metallic tang as something struck the stone tiles below.
The figure paused, and their leg jittered forward, wanting to leave the room, but something held them back. For the first time since Michael had begun his prophecy, they blinked with uncertainty, as though unable to draw themselves away.
What did you drop? Michael yearned to know.
The pale-skinned figure stood there for a long time until finally their uncertain gaze was cast to the floor to see a long sword lying on the ground, gleaming bright and reflecting a face back up toward themselves in the length of polished metal.
Michael blinked and the vision was gone.
He was sat back in the present, blood dripping down as his face. He frowned and felt his weariness flood in like a broken dam, and he almost struggled to stay upright. Michael shook his head and felt a dark, empty pain eating as his heart. He closed his eyes and the tears inched down his face as he remembered the vision, but didn’t have the strength to call it back. It didn’t matter, because he’d never forget it, even if he wanted to.
It was the barest slice of a reflection of his face, but Michael would know it anywhere. His cheekbones, his full lips, a shadow of a smile on his storybook face. Even his eyes, though dimmer than usual, couldn’t be anyone’s but his. In the shadows of that room, they hardly seemed like his but... they were.
Michael felt his hands begin to shake.
Aloud, almost unsure if his voice would work, he gritted his teeth as a dark, feral rage thickened in his mind and he whispered to himself, “Why couldn’t it be Magnus?”
He slowly stood and felt his breaths turn ragged, and a hollow, humourless laughter began to chitter from his mouth. It was a cold and dark laugh. One of truth, and hungry, wounded rage. It burned beneath his skin as he couldn’t unsee the face in the reflection of the blade.
Michael clamped both hands around his head and his skull began to tremble as he tried everything in his power to forget it, to abandon it, to rip the memory from his mind and cast it into the oblivion of his blackening soul. His teeth were clenched so hard he could feel the aching of his gums. His temples ached as blood roared in his ears and all the while, his insane laugh was cackling about the room as tears spilled from his eyes and the laughter turned to weeping. Michael tried to slow his breathing but he couldn’t, until finally he was left realising there was nothing left to do. Nothing but what had to be done. And only he could do it.
Finally, his madness seemed to fall away, and all his energy vanished into a single, dim sadness as Michael stood in the centre of the empty room.
“Well played. Truly.” Michael uttered so softly that only Khasm would’ve been able to hear him. He spoke with a horrid darkness, like the words themselves were poisoned. “Quite the performance... I really bought it all. Didn’t think you had it in you, Oli.”
*****
Sarah let out a breath of relief as Oliver tore off the hood he wore, holding both hands out before him as he whispered, “Woah! Easy, Sweet Rii!”
Sarah grabbed the hood of his cloak and sharply tugged him before snapping, “You scared me! I thought you were Magnus!”
Oliver chuckled and looked over her shoulder, taking a step toward the room only for Sarah to cut him off with a confused look.
“Where are you going?”
Oliver smiled brightly and gestured to the Priority Archives. “In there! You were just in there; don’t tell me you didn’t look!”
Sarah gave a guilty huff and shrugged before a look of puzzlement clouded her face. Oliver tried to step past her again and her frown turned sharp as she placed a hand on his chest.
Sarah blinked and felt her heart tighten. “You can’t. Michael’s on-mission. So am I! You’re not even supposed to know we’re...” her words fell away.
Sarah looked up to the boy, his face still light with the same wide smile. She opened her mouth to ask a question but it wouldn’t surface past her lungs. She fought through.
“Why are you here?” Sarah asked, taking her hand off his chest and placing it carefully on her belt.
Oliver blinked but his smile didn’t fade. “I’m on-mission. Same as you. I’m assembling a team. Needed to know who has which Arcancies for the job!”
Sarah searched his face for the space of a moment, but all she kept coming back to was his smile. Her hand inched off of her belt as she said, “You could find that out in the General Archives, Oliver... How did you even know how to get in here?”
Oliver threw up his hands. “On accident! Isn’t that crazy? There was this old book with our symbol on it, sticking just out of the wall. I took it out and suddenly I’m here!” he yelled, his words echoing down the hall.
Sarah turned in a panic and hissed, “Be quiet! Michael can’t know we’re here!”
Oliver brushed her off with a dismissive snort and once more tried to step around her when Sarah laid her hand on his chest again, but this time, none too gently keeping him in place.
Oliver looked down at the hand and gave a small chuckle. “That hurt a little.”
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Sarah could feel her heart beating in her fingertips. “What are you doing?”
She wanted to step back toward the iron door and seal it for Michael, but she knew if she took one sliver of a step back, he would move passed her. Something about his smile shook her to her core, and the very fact that it was him making her feel that way was eating at her mind.
Oliver looked her deep in the eyes and gently laid a hand on hers. “What are you so worried about?”
Sarah recoiled at his touch. Oliver was many things, but not this. They’d spent so many nights together, coming so close to touching without doing so because they’d never known. “Please tell me you’re not.”
Oliver’s smile faded and warped into a deep frown, as though he was preforming for an audience of people. “Not what?”
Behind them echoed a laughter so wretched that it sent a chill down Sarah’s spine. She wanted to hide in the shadows of the hall so Michael wouldn’t see her, but she knew this was why she was here, and even if everything else in the world was perfect, Oliver would still be the one in front of her.
Michael stepped out from archive room, his face smeared with blood, and his hand clenched hard around his silver bow. An arrow was nocked. He shuffled forward into the fire-light and glanced at Sarah.
Sarah looked at his ghastly face and her horror paled her. “Are you okay?”
“No. What are you doing here?” Michael asked, speaking like his throat had long been decaying from cycles of uselessness.
Sarah shrugged and jostled her sword. “Looking out for you.” She looked back at Oliver and felt her lip begin to shake. “Is he...?”
Michael merely nodded as more tired tears fell from his face and he placed his hand on the string of his bow, looking coldly to the boy. “Put your sword down.”
The mention of his sword gave Oliver pause, and his deep, mocking frown slipped. For a moment, he seemed almost uncertain before his gaze dropped and he shook his head. “I think you know I won’t.”
It was perhaps the most genuine thing they’d ever heard him say.
When he looked back up, his face was a cold tapestry of cruel sneers, and never had he looked so unfamiliar.
Michael’s fingers dug into his bowstring.
Sarah’s hand wrapped around the leather of her handle.
Oliver rolled his palm on the pommel of his sword.
Sarah watched him wrap his fingers around the weapon on his hip.
Oliver’s smug face paused again at the tears in her eyes, and turned his brow into a furrowed state of confusion. He looked up at Sarah one last time.
She gritted her teeth and spoke in a devastated breath, “You’re the spy?” as though it was the only question she’d ever need the answer to.
Oliver’s smile vanished and his mouth slipped closed. His eyes flashed in sudden panic and he let go of his sword, turning and sprinting down the hall.
Sarah dashed after him and leapt onto the ladder as he pulled himself quickly up the rungs, scraping his shoulders and back as he tore up the narrow hatchway.
Oliver ripped down the handle of the bookshelf mechanism, and as Sarah hoisted herself to the top of the trapdoor, he threw himself over the descending cabinet, landing messily in the library on the other side.
Sarah followed him move-for-move and blew passed a bewildered Dolores as Oliver slammed through the front door and jumped from the top of the stair, landing in a tumble on the grass.
Sarah burst through the door, and screamed, “Where do you think you could possibly go? Huh?” Her voice rang out with so much rare emotion that those on guard-duty glanced down in confusion.
Oliver set his hands on his hips but didn’t turn, heaving with breaths and shaking from head to toe.
On-lookers from all around, including many who were studying on the grass outside of the classrooms, began to rise and call out, “What’s wrong?”
Footsteps echoed from a nearby wall-staircase and half a dozen armour Legacies jogged out, led by Flinn with his long-bladed spear strapped to his back and a crossbow in his hands.
“What’s goin’ on here?” the bright-eyed boy shouted, ripping off his helmet. His green and blue eyes squinted at Sarah atop the staircase and shouted, “Everything okay?”
Sarah walked slowly down the steps and her puffy eyes grew harder with every pace she took. When she finally reached the grass, Oliver was only five feet away, still with his back to her and his head bowed. Her eyes were so cold they could’ve been closer to white than blue.
“If he tries to run...” Sarah drew her gilded, curving sabre, and nearly couldn’t physically speak the words. “Shoot him.”
Flinn walked sharply over, his eyes full with concern as he whispered, “What happened?”
Sarah didn’t look away from the back of Oliver’s head. His sandy hair had always looked golden in the sunlight, but now it just looked dark.
“He’s the spy.”
Flinn blinked in absolute disbelief and gave a half a look around, as though waiting for someone to tell him what to do.
Michael hobbled out of the library, wiping his blood-smeared face. Flinn looked up to him with the shock upon his dark brow.
Michael sat down on the top step and nodded before looking into the depths of the stone beneath his feet. “He is. I saw him.”
On the field before Sarah, Flinn wordlessly approached Oliver, raising his crossbow as though he’d never held one before while more guards gathered about them. Before long, irons were brought out and Oliver’s wrists were clamped tight, all the while Flinn was consumed with bewilderment, waiting for someone to explain how it could be true.
Oliver didn’t fight them, but as his sword was unstrapped from his waist, his head fell deeper, like someone had cut his strings. He didn’t speak or even seem to notice as they took him away toward the keep where Amekot was finishing up with his council. He didn’t even so much as drag his feet.
Sarah hadn’t moved since she last spoke, but occasionally she’d twist and turn, as though praying there was somewhere she could go where these things wouldn’t be happening. She watched as her friends dragged Oliver away in chains until she had to close her eyes.
The archer left his bow on the top of the steps and limped down to her and looked at her broken face.
Sarah looked at him and together they stood in complete silence.
The world is a cruel place. And words are the most powerful thing we have. But sometimes, they’re just not even close to being strong enough. Sometimes, they’re no more than wind, and they make the world a vortex of fire and pain, and all words do is sweep it up and stir it through our hearts, refusing to let it end. Because some pains don’t need a bandage. Some pains don’t need an answer, or a wise thought, however well-meant it is.
Sometimes, our worlds just need to boil and char and burn, so that the worst of the pain can burst into flame and finally flicker out.
After about an hour, Amekot’s voice blared magically over Fort Guardian like a rolling wave of thunder, requesting all members of the cavern expedition to report to his office.
Sarah wrapped Michael in a long, tired hug before turning and walking off toward the Arena, not so much as a glance back or a goodbye, nor seemingly with any intention of joining the others.
Michael made his way back toward the keep, hardly able to feel the soil beneath his shoes as he walked. He ambled onto the forum to find Legacies completely filling the breakfast tables, and the moment he hobbled out in front of the keep, the entire fortress went silent for the space of a long heartbeat.
*****
Amekot sat at the head of his office desk, his hands folded before him with a rather flat look on his face, like he was still deciding which emotion to perform. Before him were Michael’s companions from the expedition barring Sarah and Oliver. Despite the clutter that seven people in a single room caused, it felt hollow and fragmented. They were all spread out before the desk, staring blankly to the floor if anywhere at all.
As Michael entered, they glanced up at him, each silently asking the same question with their pained, desperate eyes.
His distantness answered for him.
Aroha and Nichole’s eyes searched each other in confusion. Carter and James both looked like ghosts. Magnus frowned deeply and seemed to want to speak, but he merely closed his mouth and remained silent.
Of them all, Rose stood and helped Michael to his seat, clutching the withdrawn boy’s hand while her own shook.
Amekot watched each of them as they sat in silence and leaned forward, wetting down a rag before he handed it to Michael. “Where’s Miss Robinson, Michael?”
Michael took the cloth and began cleaning the dried blood off his face. “Not coming.”
Amekot awkwardly fumbled his hands before mumbling, “Well, before we can truly call this resolved, I’ll need the appropriate information. Michael, when you’re ready.” Amekot picked up a quill pen and held it over an inkpot.
Michael stared at the bright-eyed aristocrat and felt a hollow darkness still lingering in his stomach. It wasn’t Amekot’s fault, nor was it even particularly directed at him, but regardless, when Michael opened his mouth, he uttered without hesitance, “You really don’t care, do you? About him? About what he did?”
Amekot smiled down at the parchment and looked up, still wearing the bright grin. “If you knew where I’d sent him, you’d know that answer to that.”
Rose looked up into the Fortmaster’s calm, unapologetic eyes. “Where?”
“The only place monsters belong in Fort Guardian. The Murk.”
Michael frowned, only having heard the name in passing but the others all only seemed to shrivel at the mention of the place.
A soft knock came to the door and Amekot grumbled before calling, “Enter!”
The door was pushed open to reveal a young girl, no older than ten, wearing a saddlebag around her shoulder and nervously ringing her hands.
“Miss Kresta said to tell you that she’s unlocked his cabinet,” making air-quotes with her fingers.
Amekot rose to his feet, buttoning his jacket. “Thank you, May.” He then looked down at the dejected Legacies before him and said, “How about some iron-clad proof?