Chapter 27 I Can’t Change

Two weeks later.

Somewhere in New London, Solomon sat at a market stall with five skewers in front of him. The street was busy, with people bargaining and mismatched melodies being played by buskers around every corner. The sun was beaming down with the Three Moons adjacent - the Black Moon shining brightly as ever. He wasn’t wearing his leather morning coat, nor the flat cap pulled over his eyes with a scraggly beard underneath. Instead, he wore a tidy shirt that hugged his new physique, sensible boots and blacked-out sunglasses that suited his rigid face.

As he dug into the processed meat skewers, he glanced at his phone.

‘From Elora at 9:32 am July 6th: Hey. Did they manage to get you out alright?’

‘From Elora at 8:12 am July 7th: I dropped by to see May and she said you went on holiday??’

‘From Elora at 10:41 pm July 30th: Hey, it’s Elora, not sure if you have my number saved. Are you free this evening if you’re in New London?’

Solomon cleared his throat after gulping down the food. The screen stayed open—he continued to stare at it. His finger was hovering over the keyboard but nothing was being typed.

His meal was interrupted when a half-goblin was thrown into the street by a gang of rough-looking men in the building opposite. They proceeded to beat him on the ground as a di-human watched with pleasure in the doorway, puffing away at a thing cigarette. She wore an open purple robe that stopped at her knees, revealing a portion of a similar colour lingerie. Dotted tattoos were easy to see and by the look in her eye, she wanted them to be. Despite this, none of the men around her dared to look.

Solomon turned away but kept watch out of the corner of his eye as the beating turned into an attempted murder. Of course, this was a regular sight in New London; people passed by with their eyes glued to the ground.

Once the beating had finished, leaving the half-goblin unconscious, people began to rifle through his pockets. Roach, unbothered as always, turned around to finish his meal.

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1 Week Ago

Solomon sat on a large branch in the sky with his feet dangling off the edge. He was staring into oblivion with no thought behind his eyes. How could he? He hadn’t felt anything for the past ten years, only minute expressions of anger and worry. What was he supposed to do? It wasn’t a switch he could turn on.

A set of bare feet joined him, leading up to a white gown by their shins.

“I know you don’t wish to speak to me,” she said with a longing sigh. “I wanted to apologise for deceiving you.”

“You wouldn’t do it if you were sorry in the first place,” Solomon replied, his gaze fixed on nothing. “And why did you wait for Yelia’s entrance? I’ve seen you wave your hand and dismiss thousands to the Land Beyond.”

Sephora didn’t reply.

“You should have done it,” Solomon muttered, swivelling his head to her after. “Did you want to fucking savour it? See my soul for the last time—finally feel the warmth of my hand?”

“Solomon I—”

“Save it,” he dismissed, turning his head away.

Sephora looked out into oblivion with him. The two sat in silence for a moment until she spoke up. “There was a flower in the forest, Solomon.”

“What?”

“There was a red flower.”

“What the fuck does that mean?”

“It’s love—”

“Don’t give me that shit—”

“Not love, Solomon, but the start of it. I can see it in your soul now. A birth of red amidst a jungle of grey. Whatever person could make you feel something— not all hope was lost for as I saw it. It is better to experience something than nothing at all.”

“So no love for my sisters?” Solomon questioned abruptly.

“Duty blinds love. In your words, you’re the only one who can look after them. There’s no love, Solomon, only worry with them. Besides, you were going to leave them in a world where thousands die horrific deaths every day—slavers and rapists—you know the First Land just as well as I do. You’re a coward for not asking for a second chance.”

Solomon ground his teeth as he reached in for a cigarette from his trouser pocket. He placed it in his mouth and lit it with a thought. “It’s not your decision whether I live or die.”

“Solomon … I wanted you to pass, I truly did. Seeing the hope in your eyes—I don’t see it often for death. But that flower means something, more than you realise; that forest has been nothing but noir since you first came here. ”

Solomon took a drag of the cigarette. “So what now?”

“Well, you have received a blessing from a First Age Deviant and a True God. I believe the Terrans say: the world is your oyster. You can rule it. You can travel it—fish—drink to your heart’s content and live your life as it should have been.”

“You know I can’t change,” he concluded.

Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

“Then that is your choice—but it is yours now.”

Roach turned his head, looking at her drooping hair. He was torn. The wonders that awaited him in the Land Beyond were experienced in the First Land, but Solomon didn’t want to return. For ten years it was his plan, but now he didn’t know what he wanted. Should he at least try?

Out of pocket, he questioned a curiosity of his. “Why does your hair cover your face?”

Sephora let off a small chuckle but slumped her shoulders. “I too struck a deal.”

“Worse than mine?”

“It was a deal that I understood and wanted,” she sighed, looking into oblivion. “You may learn later about me. When you do, you shall understand why.”

“Since I’m not dying anytime soon, I wanted to ask you something else. Before my list was complete, I ran into someone at my lockup. It was this tall woman with a language tattooed on her that I’d never seen before.”

“What was her name?” Sephora questioned, snapping her head toward him in a heartbeat.

“She didn’t say,” Solomon said, taking a puff of his cigarette, “but she called me her young brother.”

“Oh by the Black Moon,” Sephora cursed, knuckling her chin.

“It can’t be that bad,” Roach figured. “You’re up here. It’s more my problem. I don’t know how she found me either.”

“It means the Stone of Discordia—” Sephora paused. “Her name is Tsyaru’Agrat.”

“Bit of a mouthful,” Solomon commented, exhaling.

“She’s a Deviant,” Sephora muttered.

Roach paused mid-puff, turning to face her, “I thought they were all dead?”

“They’re supposed to be,” Sephora replied. “She is the Whisperer of the Dead, my sister.”

“Distant I hope.”

“Not by blood you moronic fool,” Sephora insulted, shaking her head. “We were the first turned from mortals. While I guided the masses to the Land Between and Beyond, she committed genocide. Power given to mortals with desires is a recipe for disaster.

“So it ain’t good,” Solomon concluded.

Sephora opened her palms into her lap but didn’t respond. “I’m not sure. Last I heard she had changed—she felt remorse. But, it’s not my place to meddle with the First Land, even if a Deviant is still alive.”

“You’re full of shit,” Solomon remarked, feeling a smile creep on his face.

Underneath her hair, she noticed it and an overwhelming sense of warmth washed over her. Perhaps she did the right thing, perhaps she didn’t. Not everyone deserves a second chance. But from her perspective, Solomon was the most deserving of one.

Another minute passed before Solomon, again out of pocket, said, “I might take up sudoku.”

“Perhaps not,” she uttered, turning to look at him.

“Yeah, maybe not,” he figured, taking a long, contemplative drag.

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Present Day

Solomon turned back to the meat skewers and tucked into the last one. Halfway through it, he bit into something which wasn’t bone or the skewer and tasted metallic. He threw a weary glance at the cook who shrugged carelessly. “I’m runnin’ a business here, mate.”

“I’ll take ten of those - whatever they are,” a large, deep and rough voice ordered. The man sat beside him, the stool screaming for mercy under their weight. “How was your holiday, Roach?” Goliath asked him, his voice muffled by the ambient noise of the market.

“I went fishing … and played sudoku,” Roach replied. Nervously, he asked, “How was your weekend?”

“Spike dragged me out to this club down on the West Side and I drank myself into a fucking stupor. How can he out-drink me when I’m three times the size of him?” Goliath complained. Oh, how nothing ever changes.

Roach looked across the busy market, eyeing the eccentric bard strumming his guitar against a wall with a hat on the floor for donations. Fortunately for Spike, a few coins were dropped into his hat. He stopped playing immediately and peered inside to fawn at his earnings. “Two coppers! I ain’t fucking worth two coppers you cunt!”

“Who let him busk?” Roach asked Goliath, ignoring his question.

Inside Roach’s ear, a posh voice came through, “That may have been my mistake,” Pointy owned up. “At least he’s close to the target without drawing attention. He is just another failed artist who works as a part-time barista.”

“You know I can fucking hear you,” Spike cursed through the channel.

“He’s not wrong, Spike,” Roach commented.

“Alright mister fuckin’ moody, why don’t you get a therapist instead of offin’ yourself?”

Goliath sighed after inhaling a skewer. “Ok. This conversation has spiralled. Exit points … please.”

“None on the rooftop, a fire exit out the back into the junkyard and a side door down the alleyway,” Pointy replied.

“Mute, watch the two exits. Pointy, eyes on backup.”

“Yes, sir.”

“What did this bitch do again?” Spike questioned.

“Wait a moment,” Pointy said, tapping away at a laptop. “Says here she emasculated the son of someone in the Lords’ House after one of her women was raped by him, then got her men to rape him and carve ‘Nonce’ across his forehead. It’s a simple hunt. She also dabbles in the loanshark business.”

“Do we have to do this? I love a crazy bitch,” Spike complained. “That’s half a fucking copper ya cunt and I weren’t even playin'!”

“Do you want to get paid?” Pointy asked him.

Goliath switched his earpiece off for a moment and turned to Roach. “I’m glad you’re back.”

Roach nodded slowly. “Goliath, what else am I gonna do?”

Goliath shrugged, finishing off the last of his skewers. “Maybe take the lead on this?”

“Nothing ever changes, does it?” Roach tutted, smirking after.

“Not if you don’t want it to.”

Roach held his reply as he glanced at his phone. Then he began typing. Once he had finished, he uttered, “I can't change.”

Hopping off his stool and tidying his suit, Roach walked across the foot traffic over to the doors of the building. All of a sudden, people began looking at their phones; their screens became distorted. The smart few had already begun running away. In addition, the strum from Spike’s guitar was increasing in tempo. Roach knocked aggressively on the door three times.

A second later, with the music getting louder, an angry kobold answered the door. “What do you want?” they asked with a disgruntled tone.

“I’ve come to pay my debts,” Roach answered, his face and voice void of emotion.

“Wait here,” they replied, slamming the door shut.

Spike got up, strumming his guitar as he weaved through the foot traffic. He didn’t garner many eyes. That was until mist began pooling off his face. Panic spread like a virus through the people; the now-public organisation still struck fear into the residents of New London.

When the kobold opened the door, he was only met with a veil of mist and the blurry image of a barrel.