"Pleasure to meet you."
"I wish I could say the same."
An unfamiliar voice. “… she’s coming around?”
“… what?” I groggily rasped, sandpaper lodged halfway in my throat.
Another voice, similarly unfamiliar, muffled and oddly cheery, muttering some rough approximation of my name.
An explosion of senses blankets my slumbering nerves: twitching, waking fingers numbly grasping at warm metal— jingling and echoing like iron bells; my tail bone ached; my spine winced over top as I shifted; moist heat crawled down my back, my legs, my arms. My heart beats— and I swear it stutters— as my skin feels like it shifts, ever so slightly. The concrete beneath me did no favors for my back. An acrid, earthy scent hit my nose, mixing with metallic machinery and burning ozone. The air tasted sharp and dry, like my nose would begin bleeding from breathing alone. The low din of machinery and distant worries echoing in my ear: roaring, clicking, hissing pipes— humming underneath more present worries. I swallow, and my saliva traces a line of silt across the back of my throat, lodging halfway— I cough— and rippled glass chunks march up my throat, hacking at the back of my mouth. The taste of metal joins the dry desert that is my mouth. My eyes open to see nothing, my mind reels, caught between sleepy static undertone and the whining, keening, sloshing electrified acidity of lucidity.
For short, unending moments, I am aware of too much, yet far too little at the same time.
The second voice is back, exclaiming, shouting far too loudly than it has any right to. “… Elle! Elle!” it repeats, and my mind drags itself from it’s dazed stupor, sheds the thin veil of blissful static, and fully into that barbed pool of jagged reality.
Arthur, Arthur, it supplies, It’s just Arthur. Among my confusion, relief joins it, entangling everything further.
I mumble something— some jumbled amalgamation of groaning, wincing, half-whine and complain stuck together, and Arthur falls silent. Despite the fact I’m already blind, I scrunch my eyes, dig my nails into my numbing hand, and do my best to untangle everything.
My body hurts— more than usual— in that my lower back is beginning to turn numb, my spine groans, cracking as I come to sit up— ow, my neck— my throat feels like lightning-shot sand, and I fail to suppress the wince with each breath. Faintly, my heart beats far too fast, and through shrinking, slow breaths does it seem to slow. My hair sticks to my neck; slimy, earthy heat crawling, trailing sweat down the small of my back and my neck. My hands are numb— there’s metal digging into my wrist, and I pull, readjust— and find they don’t give as easily as I desperately want them too.
The ground is hard, smooth and digging into my tail bone. The world is black— in part due to my closed eyes, and the fact that a bag’s been placed over my head. But the world is not silent— stifled, muffled and faint machinery whirs in the far distance, overridden by the perpetual, low rumble of ventilation. I smell dry cloth and drier, stale air, among sharp, tangy metal. I’m pretty sure I was bleeding, just not where.
I slowly sighed, biting down the painful urge to cough.
“Elle?” Arthur murmurs again, tentative.
“… yes?” I responded, and I stilled at how my voice sounded; hoarse, uneven and so soft I couldn’t hear it. I doubted Arthur could hear that. I tried again, wincing when the burn in my throat intensified.
“Elle— are— are you okay?”
“Fine,” I hoarsely choked out, ignoring the cinders in my throat. “Perfectly fine.”
“You— you don’t—“
“Now is really not the time,” the first unfamiliar voice cut in, terse and impatient. “Can she get us out, Arthur?”
Who? Who? The question leaps to my mind, but I’m too tired to voice it.
“I— I don’t—” Arthur stammered among rattling chains— “Elle—“ his voice became soft, “Elle can you get out your cuffs?”
“… you can’t just break them…?” I croaked.
“They uh— They put us in really thick ones.” Chains rattled again, and they sounded far heavier than mine, which jangled like keys.
I’m not quite sure whether to be insulted or not, a tiny, unhelpful voice mused.
At least it won’t be as bad trying manage ether in another’s dream. Usually— manipulating ether in a dream came easily— as easy as it would be in the waking world— given that a person took the proper preparations. Notably, I hadn’t.
I bit back my sigh, bracing my resolve for what was about to amount to shoving my body in boiling water. With a head-splitting wince and a lance of cold, stinging pressure behind my eyes that settled into a dull headache, the cuff on my left hand fell away, swinging before jingling to the ground, hanging from my other wrist.
Roughly, I pulled the bag from my head and spent precious seconds wincing and adjusting to the downpour of light that flooded my vision. Briefly, I felt a pang of mourning regret for my glasses, as the room came through in bright, splotchy, blurry shapes that melted into one another. The walls seemed to swim— which seemed more indicative of how I felt rather than an actual characteristic of the room.
“Elle?” Arthur asked again.
I coughed, mumbled something even I couldn’t hear, and shakily stood, fighting the sudden, spinning jumbling blur that my vision became. I did my best not to stumble as I made my way to the shifting red shape that I assumed to be Arthur. Dimly, I realized it didn’t particularly matter whether I hid my stumbling or not— Arthur also had a bag on his head, after all.
Taking care to gingerly settle behind him, I laid a hand on his manacle, bracing myself again. Biting down a pained whine— a part of me maintained any shred of dignity I could— Arthur’s manacle fell away in a spark of ether and ice-white pain.
I mumbled something else, and before I could fall over, I strode across the room and did the same thing to the woman that I reasoned was Clara— the vague shape of a rich, red-wine furred cloak being my only indicator. I bit my lip when I removed her chains as well.
Arthur muttered something I couldn’t register. I shakily stood, found myself roughly stumbling into a wall, and then slowly sinking to the floor. My head came to rest against the cold, wonderful concrete. It felt like I had a particularly spiteful fever lighting a fire beneath my body.
I’m— I’m going to sleep for a week after this. Faintly, I heard Arthur muttering something. I couldn’t comprehend it, an odd sense like I was floating underwater. Hells— my head… I— I need to stop.
I mumbled something back, probably some garbled affirmation, and my vision went from spotty to black.
[][][]
The waking world rips me from the blissful ignorance of sleep.
I’m coming in and out of consciousness a lot these days, some absent part of me mourned.
I felt much the same, though the sweeping vertigo and fatigue that had initially floored me had subsided somewhat, becoming less a torrential downpour and more just normal rain— I still got soaked, by the standards of this somewhat tortured metaphor, but at least I wasn’t literally falling over anymore. After all, I was already on the ground, resting against some wall I’d later regret and doing my best to blink the stars out of my spotty vision.
At least, the world was far less spotty and blurry, and now looked less like an ever-rotating kaleidoscope and more like a foggy window. I could see normally— well, as normal as I could get without my glasses, but I’d take what I could get.
It seemed to look similar to the world ‘Dumah’ had shown me— fuzzy shapes that looked like tables, long, gray objects hanging from the walls, pale concrete and uniform, bronze pipes that made up the walls and ceiling.
I wasn’t sure how long I’d been out, but it hadn’t seemed like much had happened.
Arthur was pacing, and the woman with us had begun a slow vigil around the room, picking things up, moving things, doing... something. I couldn’t really see her, but I could make out the chestnut hair, the wine-red cloak and it’s puffy furred collar. Presumably, this was the Clara we’d been following.
Arthur shot a worried glance my way, and then quickly came over, kneeling. “Elle,” he said, clearly trying to keep his voice level, “you collapsed, are you okay?”
“Fine,” I groaned back, “though I’ll keep sitting on the floor, thank you.”
“You barely transmuted three lengths of chain and you’re on the verge of collapsing already?” the woman muttered from across the room, tone somehow both disbelieving and disparaging. “Aren’t you supposed to be a prodigy?”
“Clara!” Arthur was quick to whip around, but his voice softened, and lost the edge it should’ve had. “That isn’t necessary.”
Clara had looked up, staring down at me from across the room. Despite the fact that I couldn’t really see her, I stared back, pushing past my raw throat. “Any mage would’ve collapsed long before I did—“
“— I’ve seen amateur mages transmute more material than you have.”
“Were they up for the last three days actively casting and burning ether?”
Arthur chose then to chime in, tone belaying a little panic. “Elle— Clara— please, please don’t fight.”
“We’re not,” I said, “we’re just talking.”
Clara agreed with a haughty huff. Arthur didn’t look like he believed us, but perked up, as if remembering something.
“Oh! Oh, I forgot, I should introduce the two of you—“
“— that really won’t be—“
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“—there’s no reason—“
He stood from my side, motioning to Clara. “Elle— meet Clara Eigenlicht, my friend— she’s super good at stuff.”
Clara smugly sighed. “I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s already heard of me, Arthur.”
“Actually, I haven’t,” I dryly replied. ”I’ve never even heard your name before today.” Her expression narrowed, and she muttered something under her breath I’m certain was petty.
Arthur’s expression became strained, but he continued, “Clara— meet Estelle Lauren—“
“I know her,” Clara cut in, then smiled at me, tone sweet as honey. “It’s a great pleasure to meet you, Lady Laurent.”
Okay, wow, I dislike her already. I silently resolved myself to speak as little to her as possible. I kept my voice pleasant— as falsely sweet as I could with what felt like a desert in my lungs— “The pleasure is all mine— after all, it’s not every day I get to meet someone I’ve never even heard of before.”
That last part wasn’t necessary! A part of me internally shouted.
“Y’know,” Clara idly muttered, “I don’t hear any professors talking about you.”
“What—“ the snort came easily, albeit painfully, and I could see Arthur’s wince— “you think I want crotchety old men speaking about me?”
Deescalate. Deescalate right this instant— but it was drowned under the muddy sense that I had to defend myself. I’d allow physical vulnerability— but not an attack devalidating my genuine ability.
She sounded scandalized. “Our professors are esteemed scholars! They were soldiers and war heroes! Our professors are not… ‘crotchety old men’,” she spat.
A better part of me knew better than the escalate, but annoyance and exhaustion had a way of fraying rationale. I spoke, tone mocking. “Aren’t they? Cornelius seemed rather close to los—”
“—Elle— please—“
“Professor Cornelius is a brilliant man. He helped invent the Fireflos Ritual! He called me a prodigy—“
“Ah, yes,” I drawled. This time, the vitriol in my voice wasn’t fake. “I, too, would be proud of being called a prodigy by the man who assisted in the murder of nations.”
Clara’s voice adopted a hard edge. “If we hadn’t used Fireflos—“
I continued, speaking over her. “We would’ve lost— yes. I’m aware of the justifications our historians teach us, Eigenlicht.”
“Whatever—“ Clara muttered something under her breath, something about nobles— “that doesn’t change the fact that—“
“It’s all well and fine— until that very-same weapon were turned on us.”
Clara fell silent, and I let out a huff. Arthur was looking at me, and though I couldn’t see his expression, I could feel the stern gaze he’d silently chided me with. I averted my gaze.
“… it doesn’t change the fact that he recognized you, though,” I relented, to Clara’s preening satisfaction. “Though, Professor Cornelius is widely regarded as insane.”
Arthur shot me another stern look that I pretended to ignore. After a heartbeat, silence fell, and I let out a sigh, letting the short burst of caustic anger drain away with it. I kept resting, and leaned towards Arthur. I still couldn’t see his expression, but I could see the disappointment in his body— the way his shoulders drooped, the brief silence before he walked over. A part of me wanted to sigh and curl up. Everything was too much to handle.
“Elle—“ his voice was a strained whisper as he kneeled beside me— “was that really necessary?”
“I— no,” I quietly admitted. “I— I don’t— sorry.”
“Its… fine,” he muttered, sounding very much like it wasn’t fine. “Elle?”
“… Yeah?”
“Are you okay?”
“We’re going to leave, right? We’re finding a way to get out of here?”
“I— Yeah— yeah we are— why would we stay?”
Because you dragged us into this mess for whatever reason. A reason I couldn’t contemplate at the moment, nor sit still to pick apart. I refused to blindly accuse Arthur. He deserved more than that.
“I—“ I held my head— “sorry. I don’t know. I just wanted to make sure— are— are you hurt?”
“I’m okay.”
“After that guy hit you over the head?”
“I—“ he rubbed at his temple— “yeah. I’ll be fine.”
“That’s— that’s good.”
Arthur gave me a concerned look and a reassuring smile. I’m not sure how I felt, other than the obvious pain in my body, but I smiled back and he got back up to resume examining the rest of the room.
But he’d raised a good question; logically, why wouldn’t we leave? We’d found Clara, the person who Arthur had been concerned about, but in the process got abducted. Now, the natural topic shifted to that of escape. Sure, Arthur had been concerned about Clara, but I’d been mostly trying to sate my curiosity. I still wasn’t exactly sure why Clara had been here, and while one part of me wanted to write it off as something terribly mundane, I wanted to know.
“Eigenlicht,” I said, cowing my dislike into a detached apathy. Even if I didn’t like her, I could veil my distaste and at least work with her to get out of a mutually-assured fate.
“… yeah?” She sounded cautious.
“I— I want to get the story clear.”
“… regarding?”
“This.” I gestured around at the room.
“What about it? It’s a room, we’re stuck inside—“
“— I meant—“
“— By the way, what are you capable of?” She didn’t look up from where she was crouched, her back faced me, so I couldn’t see her expression. I frowned.
“… Pardon?”
“Well— you know— you’re a mage— right?”
I raised a brow. “Not a very good one, according to you.”
“Well— whatever— say we let you rest—“
“Who’s ‘we’ in this context?”
“Us. The three of us stuck in this room together.”
I motioned for her to continue.
“The door’s locked—“
“As it would be.”
“Okay,” she strained, “I was wondering if you were capable of getting us through it?”
Clara’s gone from denouncing your ability to reliance.
“You can’t?”
“No?”
“Have you tried picking it?”
“I don’t have my lock picks on me.”
Arthur cut in, surprised. “You can pick locks?”
“You can’t?” Clara and I both responded. She glanced back at me, but I couldn’t make out her expression. I tilted my head like I could. I could— in theory— it was taught by a guest lecturer when I was younger— but I’d let the skill rot in the coming years. There wasn’t any need to practice picking locks when anything worth the trouble was locked behind arcane locks alongside mundane ones.
“I—“ Arthur stuttered, perplexed.
I turned back to Clara. “Think you’d be able to pick the door?”
“… Of course,” she responded, pensive. “Do you have lock picks on you— wait, are you capable of an unlocking spell?”
“… no,” I slowly mumbled, already anticipating the response.
“Isn’t— isn’t it an elementary spell?”
“It’s not in my purview of specialties.”
“Which are…?”
“Conjuration, Transmutation, basic Abjuration and Divination,” I muttered,” and the required Evocation courses.”
“… and you… don’t have lock picks on you?” I could hear the judgment in her tone.
“Give me me thirty minutes and I’ll take care of it.”
“I—“ Clara sounded strained, and I didn’t glance up to verify it. “Sure.”
Truthfully, I didn’t need thirty minutes. I could’ve transmuted a set of lock picks right then and there— I wouldn’t have to manipulate much material, it was vastly preferable to transmuting a hole into a door or wall, and it wouldn’t require bending a significant chunk of metal in varying directions like the chains had. The only reason I hadn’t, was because my head was still faintly spinning, and I would’ve liked to gather my thoughts a little more. That, and I was concerned about what came after the door opening. I didn’t exactly trust myself to run around if it became needed.
And I wanted to time continue questioning Clara, even if she thought she’d diverted the topic.
“Eigenlicht,” I said again, keeping my voice carefully level.
She hummed, sitting against the wall across from me.
“You never answered the question.”
“Which one?”
“What’s this all about? Why were you being chased? Why did you fight them? How did us following your trail lead us to being abducted?”
Clara fell silent, mulling a response, or another diversion. Arthur had sat down too, come to some conclusion that he didn’t voice. I couldn’t make out his expression— a mixture of dim dingy lighting and my flawed vision made it nigh-impossible.
How are you going to handle that— your vision— if you get out of here? Rationally, I had another pair back home, but considering that feeble assumption, that I even got home in the first place. But I knew that wasn’t what my paranoia had wondered— between this time and getting home, what would I do if I needed them?
Frustratingly, the only answer I could come up with was pray that the situation never arose in the first place. Though, I was well versed in how prayer worked— in so that it didn’t.
“Why I was being chased… why I had to fight them… It…” Clara finally answered, detached and toneless. “It doesn’t concern you two.”
"Doesn’t it?”
Clara didn’t answer. Arthur perked up, and I continued. “We followed you— got kidnapped— I don’t believe that it’s asking too much that the two of us to be made aware of what exactly we’re involved in.”
Arthur didn’t speak, but he was leaning towards us, turned towards Clara— agreement, probably.
Clara flickered a gaze towards me, then at Arthur, obviously hesitant.
Then, she relented, dropping her shoulders.
“… that much is fair,” she admitted, then met my eyes again. “What do you want to know first?”
“What are the names of the people we’re dealing with? How much of a danger are they capable of posing?” I clarified, keeping my voice level, “What, exactly, are we dealing with?”
Clara probably fixed me with a dry look, because her tone was unamused. “I’m not a genie. I’m not going to intentionally dance around an answer.”
I motioned for her to get on with it.
She sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. “I don’t know the names of the people we’re dealing with— only that they belong to a group dubbed, Virgulta. They’re a smuggling group— but they never kill people.”
That’s comforting, I suppose. I shoved away the discomforting idea of Patches.
“Virgulta—“ Arthur piped up, perking up. “As in undergrowth?”
“Plant— bush— thicket. It’s because they mainly smuggle flower-based drugs and other illicits.”
“Do they kidnap people usually?” I asked.
“Not that I know of. I haven’t seen any of the usual members around while I was snooping, but…”
“Could it be a different group, then?”
“Maybe— probably. Best not to come to an assumption too fast.”
I nodded. “And why were you involved with them?”
Clara seemed to hesitate at that question. “… I was out on assignment, a special one, from Professor Talon.”
Arthur asked: “Professor Talon? You’re working on real assignments before graduation?”
“I— yeah. I’ll still have to participate in the graduation exams— but it’s tradition.”
I sighed, rubbing at my ebbing— but still sharp— headache, and slowly stood. My vision no longer swam and my body didn’t feel like it’d been dragged through a blender any longer— just ambient soreness I could work through. That cold stinging ache behind my eyes still throbbed with my heartbeat, but I was okay. I could make it work. I’d live.
Not like I have any other choice, an absent part of me mused.
Before I could get to the door, the sound of a sliding lock shattered the collective silence.