[ His mood has been poor lately, but there’s a foolproof way to lift his spirits every time -- a way that doesn’t involve nursing a hangover the following morning -- and that is spending the evening volunteering at the orphanage.
It hasn’t changed much from when he was a child there. The decor remains unnecessary dismal and the headmother overly strict, but the children are the same: lively despite the circumstances that have landed them there, mischievous despite the headmother’s sour gaze. She looks just the same as when Casimir first laid eyes upon her -- around two-hundred years old, hair streaked with gray, her brown eyes sharp and alert. In lieu of a greeting, she tugs at his ear and demands to know why he has so many piercings. In return he asks why she isn’t dead yet.
He takes the children outside and they lose themselves in a game of hide and seek, then he shows them how to make their own crowns of twigs and flowers while they gorge themselves on the array of desserts he’d brought with him. He brings the headmother a tart made with fresh fruit, an indulgence she doesn’t often allow herself, and she brews him a cup of her spiced tea that he used to steal sips of so many years ago because it had reminded him of home. ]
You’re too thin. [ Her voice has the sound of a rusted knife, and he pillows his chin atop his arms, resting on the table. ]
I’m not. I like my figure.
[ Her lined mouth turns to a frown. ] This is how you sit at the table now?
[ A grumble sounds in his throat, but he sits up, now resting his chin in one hand. She doesn’t comment further, seemingly giving up the fight for his posture, and he looks past her at the cracked tile above the stove. ] Why’ve you stayed here all these years?
[ She pushes the half-eaten tart toward him, but he shakes his head, meeting her severe expression, and she doesn’t speak again until there are only crumbs on the plate. ] It passes the time.
[ He lifts a brow, scoffing. ] That’s not a good reason.
Everyone knows what you do. Everyone knows your reasons. Maybe the target on your back wouldn’t be so big if you learned to keep your mouth shut about some things like I do. [ She picks up the plate and his empty teacup, glaring down at him before going to the sink, and he listens to the water running, putting his head back down and letting his eyes slide shut. After a moment he feels her dry hand nestle in his hair. ] I must die before you do. It’s the natural order. Can you at least do that for me?
[ His eyes squeeze more tightly closed before he opens them again, tilting his head to gaze through the window. Some of the children are still working on their crowns while the others have abandoned the task to climb the heavy trees instead. ]
I don’t fear death. [ The words have barely left his mouth before she’s smacking the back of his head sharply. ]
Death fears no man. It cares not what you think, you arrogant, prideful fool. Grant an old woman her one wish or get out of my kitchen.
[ He smiles then, turning so he can plant a kiss to the back of her wrinkled hand. ] May the gods will it, then.
[ The walk back to Rosehedge helps to clear his mind, and he turns his thoughts toward the many things yet to be done, nearly to the street when he stops suddenly, turning his head sharply to the left toward the shadows beside the small boutique next to the brothel. ]
Radha. Come out. [ He can sense the small girl’s presence, and she slinks out carefully, hugging the side of the rough brick. A quick look, and her gift is apparent to him — she’s a psychometrist, able to read the information contained in the energy of physical objects. She never liked to come and play at the orphanage, instead lurking in corners like she’s doing just now. She inches forward, regarding him warily, and he kneels to level their eyes. ] Why did you follow me here? Tell me the truth. I’ll know if you’re lying.
[ She hesitates, but eventually speaks, the streetlights catching glints of gold in her thick brown hair. ] I saw you when I touched the mirror in the headmother’s room. The heavy one with the silver carvings. I saw you in my head.
[ His lips curve, tilting his head. ] That’s because I bought her that mirror and you have a very special gift. You can see things when you touch them. Why were you in the headmother’s room?
[ Her eyes drop, looking abashed, and a chuckle rises in his throat. ] You’re sneaky. I won’t tell. [ He casts a quick hand before her face, closing his eyes briefly, and then he has the full story — parents from far outside the city, dead from some sickness. She’d wandered across miles of land for weeks before finding the harbor, boarding a transport ship unnoticed, struggling to block out the history of the floors, the beds, the wooden walls. Once in the District, she’d very nearly been snatched up by the Sea Snakes before someone had caught her stealing food and deposited her at the orphanage. The headmother had punished her immediately with chores, and then given her a place to stay.
Casimir beckons her up as he rises, heading toward his shop. ] I have to bring you back, Radha. You can’t go disappearing and wandering across the city — you’ll worry the headmother.
Can I stay here? [ She gazes around the street with wide eyes, lights reflecting in the dark pools. ]
It’s too dangerous for you to stay here. But I’ll come visit again, and I’ll bring you a special present and show you the city next time. We can practice your gifts. [ He smiles down at her, tucking his hair behind one ear. ] How does that sound?
[ She thinks it over, then nods, apparently satisfied, and Casimir is struck by how much he wants to help her so that she’ll never have to cower in fear of the magnitude of what she sees in her mind again. He has many purposes, but showing the way to the young and forsaken might be the most important.
He turns his face to the sky, dirty clouds hanging above like it might rain, and he wonders where Larus is, if he’s tucked away in a safe house that could never be found or if he’s prowling somewhere, waiting and watching. He wonders if he’ll get stuck in the rain, and if he’ll be responsible enough to change his bandages after. He pulls out his phone and his keys, handing the latter to Radha. ]
Go inside and climb all the way up the stairs. Look in the cabinet left of the sink and bring me the little jeweled box. Don’t open it. [ He brushes her hair from her shoulder, looking into her eyes. This is as much of a test as anything — he wants to know how much she can see when she touches an object and how much control she has. ] I’ll be waiting right here.
[ She disappears into the shop and he lifts his phone, calling Larus and half listening to the ringing while keeping Radha’s thoughts in the back of his mind. He can see what she’s seeing; there’s a struggle as she passes through the powerful energies of the shop, and she pauses when she reaches the stairs, more personal memories of him drifting through her mind. His phone stops ringing, and he doesn’t know if Larus picked up or if he’s talking to a machine. ] Have you ever been curious about where I grew up? Come with me to the orphanage. I think the headmother would be happy to meet you. [ Only because he’s always alone, and he knows she wonders if he has anyone. He’s still not sure what he has with Larus, but it’s been rekindled and he plans to go forward with whatever it is.
He opens his mouth to speak again, but he turns sharply toward the shop instead, Radha’s thoughts suddenly flooding his mind as she stands before his door with the key in the lock, a man that Casimir has never seen before flickering through her head when she touches it, and he doesn’t have time to utter a sound or move an inch before the world explodes into an inferno of light.
For a moment, he’s weightless, heated air rushing over his skin, the ground gone beneath his feet, and then there’s a burst of pain as he hits the street and rolls. He grasps for threads of Radha’s mind, but he can’t think, can’t open his eyes, and can’t move, and then he reaches the edges of consciousness, a shower of debris falling from the sky, only able to shield his head before he slips away.
It seems only an instant later that he opens his eyes, a groan pulled from his lips at the piercing throb in his head. Smoke fills his lungs, and the pain intensifies when he falls into a fit of coughing, unable to breathe or focus enough to seek Radha’s mind. There’s an unbearable heat in the air, and when he finally looks up, through hopelessly blurred vision he sees his shop amidst flames, the walls caving before his eyes. The upper floor is gone, his entire home, and — Radha. His throat burns so much that he can’t call her name, and when he pushes his hair from his eyes he finds it wet with blood, streaming down his face. He forces himself to unfurl a thread to find Radha, but there’s nothing but pain, so much that it nearly topples him again.
He clenches his teeth and drags himself toward the flames. The brick wall of the brothel next door is singed from the explosion, and the opposite building has cracked windows from the debris. His whole body aches, hands scraped raw, and his vision only worsens, but he doesn’t stop, moving towards the heat until he isn’t sure if it’s sweat or blood on his skin, and then he feels it, feels her. He throws blackened, splintered wood out of his way, digging up bricks and shards of glass, and then he finds her, his hands touching something soft, and for a moment he can’t move.
Her body is still warm, but he can’t make a connection, her mind unresponsive to his probing, and still he persists despite the pressure building behind his eyes. There’s nothing but emptiness, even when he reaches out and lifts her broken body into his arms, her head rolling back, her clothes burned into the charred skin on her legs. The smoke is worse here, his eyes watering and throat like sandpaper, and he buries his face into the small place between her neck and shoulder, shaking with sorrow and rage, and he lets loose a guttural cry, his fingers digging into the dirty fabric of her dress, and something unspools inside of him, spreading wide and unseen. When the angry tears begin, his body shaking with its force, his pain seems to spread all around him — if anyone approaches they’ll feel it, the full intensity of crippling grief and blazing anger, and he doesn’t care who gets caught in it, letting it run off in powerful waves as he sobs into her lifeless body, a child taken too soon in a war she hadn’t even known herself to be a part of. His guilt mixes into the fury of emotions tornadoing through and around him, and soon there’s nothing in his mind but darkness, losing himself to it, his tears cutting through the blood on his face, drowned out in the raging fire where his home used to be. ]
no subject
It hasn’t changed much from when he was a child there. The decor remains unnecessary dismal and the headmother overly strict, but the children are the same: lively despite the circumstances that have landed them there, mischievous despite the headmother’s sour gaze. She looks just the same as when Casimir first laid eyes upon her -- around two-hundred years old, hair streaked with gray, her brown eyes sharp and alert. In lieu of a greeting, she tugs at his ear and demands to know why he has so many piercings. In return he asks why she isn’t dead yet.
He takes the children outside and they lose themselves in a game of hide and seek, then he shows them how to make their own crowns of twigs and flowers while they gorge themselves on the array of desserts he’d brought with him. He brings the headmother a tart made with fresh fruit, an indulgence she doesn’t often allow herself, and she brews him a cup of her spiced tea that he used to steal sips of so many years ago because it had reminded him of home. ]
You’re too thin. [ Her voice has the sound of a rusted knife, and he pillows his chin atop his arms, resting on the table. ]
I’m not. I like my figure.
[ Her lined mouth turns to a frown. ] This is how you sit at the table now?
[ A grumble sounds in his throat, but he sits up, now resting his chin in one hand. She doesn’t comment further, seemingly giving up the fight for his posture, and he looks past her at the cracked tile above the stove. ] Why’ve you stayed here all these years?
[ She pushes the half-eaten tart toward him, but he shakes his head, meeting her severe expression, and she doesn’t speak again until there are only crumbs on the plate. ] It passes the time.
[ He lifts a brow, scoffing. ] That’s not a good reason.
Everyone knows what you do. Everyone knows your reasons. Maybe the target on your back wouldn’t be so big if you learned to keep your mouth shut about some things like I do. [ She picks up the plate and his empty teacup, glaring down at him before going to the sink, and he listens to the water running, putting his head back down and letting his eyes slide shut. After a moment he feels her dry hand nestle in his hair. ] I must die before you do. It’s the natural order. Can you at least do that for me?
[ His eyes squeeze more tightly closed before he opens them again, tilting his head to gaze through the window. Some of the children are still working on their crowns while the others have abandoned the task to climb the heavy trees instead. ]
I don’t fear death. [ The words have barely left his mouth before she’s smacking the back of his head sharply. ]
Death fears no man. It cares not what you think, you arrogant, prideful fool. Grant an old woman her one wish or get out of my kitchen.
[ He smiles then, turning so he can plant a kiss to the back of her wrinkled hand. ] May the gods will it, then.
[ The walk back to Rosehedge helps to clear his mind, and he turns his thoughts toward the many things yet to be done, nearly to the street when he stops suddenly, turning his head sharply to the left toward the shadows beside the small boutique next to the brothel. ]
Radha. Come out. [ He can sense the small girl’s presence, and she slinks out carefully, hugging the side of the rough brick. A quick look, and her gift is apparent to him — she’s a psychometrist, able to read the information contained in the energy of physical objects. She never liked to come and play at the orphanage, instead lurking in corners like she’s doing just now. She inches forward, regarding him warily, and he kneels to level their eyes. ] Why did you follow me here? Tell me the truth. I’ll know if you’re lying.
[ She hesitates, but eventually speaks, the streetlights catching glints of gold in her thick brown hair. ] I saw you when I touched the mirror in the headmother’s room. The heavy one with the silver carvings. I saw you in my head.
[ His lips curve, tilting his head. ] That’s because I bought her that mirror and you have a very special gift. You can see things when you touch them. Why were you in the headmother’s room?
[ Her eyes drop, looking abashed, and a chuckle rises in his throat. ] You’re sneaky. I won’t tell. [ He casts a quick hand before her face, closing his eyes briefly, and then he has the full story — parents from far outside the city, dead from some sickness. She’d wandered across miles of land for weeks before finding the harbor, boarding a transport ship unnoticed, struggling to block out the history of the floors, the beds, the wooden walls. Once in the District, she’d very nearly been snatched up by the Sea Snakes before someone had caught her stealing food and deposited her at the orphanage. The headmother had punished her immediately with chores, and then given her a place to stay.
Casimir beckons her up as he rises, heading toward his shop. ] I have to bring you back, Radha. You can’t go disappearing and wandering across the city — you’ll worry the headmother.
Can I stay here? [ She gazes around the street with wide eyes, lights reflecting in the dark pools. ]
It’s too dangerous for you to stay here. But I’ll come visit again, and I’ll bring you a special present and show you the city next time. We can practice your gifts. [ He smiles down at her, tucking his hair behind one ear. ] How does that sound?
[ She thinks it over, then nods, apparently satisfied, and Casimir is struck by how much he wants to help her so that she’ll never have to cower in fear of the magnitude of what she sees in her mind again. He has many purposes, but showing the way to the young and forsaken might be the most important.
He turns his face to the sky, dirty clouds hanging above like it might rain, and he wonders where Larus is, if he’s tucked away in a safe house that could never be found or if he’s prowling somewhere, waiting and watching. He wonders if he’ll get stuck in the rain, and if he’ll be responsible enough to change his bandages after. He pulls out his phone and his keys, handing the latter to Radha. ]
Go inside and climb all the way up the stairs. Look in the cabinet left of the sink and bring me the little jeweled box. Don’t open it. [ He brushes her hair from her shoulder, looking into her eyes. This is as much of a test as anything — he wants to know how much she can see when she touches an object and how much control she has. ] I’ll be waiting right here.
[ She disappears into the shop and he lifts his phone, calling Larus and half listening to the ringing while keeping Radha’s thoughts in the back of his mind. He can see what she’s seeing; there’s a struggle as she passes through the powerful energies of the shop, and she pauses when she reaches the stairs, more personal memories of him drifting through her mind. His phone stops ringing, and he doesn’t know if Larus picked up or if he’s talking to a machine. ] Have you ever been curious about where I grew up? Come with me to the orphanage. I think the headmother would be happy to meet you. [ Only because he’s always alone, and he knows she wonders if he has anyone. He’s still not sure what he has with Larus, but it’s been rekindled and he plans to go forward with whatever it is.
He opens his mouth to speak again, but he turns sharply toward the shop instead, Radha’s thoughts suddenly flooding his mind as she stands before his door with the key in the lock, a man that Casimir has never seen before flickering through her head when she touches it, and he doesn’t have time to utter a sound or move an inch before the world explodes into an inferno of light.
For a moment, he’s weightless, heated air rushing over his skin, the ground gone beneath his feet, and then there’s a burst of pain as he hits the street and rolls. He grasps for threads of Radha’s mind, but he can’t think, can’t open his eyes, and can’t move, and then he reaches the edges of consciousness, a shower of debris falling from the sky, only able to shield his head before he slips away.
It seems only an instant later that he opens his eyes, a groan pulled from his lips at the piercing throb in his head. Smoke fills his lungs, and the pain intensifies when he falls into a fit of coughing, unable to breathe or focus enough to seek Radha’s mind. There’s an unbearable heat in the air, and when he finally looks up, through hopelessly blurred vision he sees his shop amidst flames, the walls caving before his eyes. The upper floor is gone, his entire home, and — Radha. His throat burns so much that he can’t call her name, and when he pushes his hair from his eyes he finds it wet with blood, streaming down his face. He forces himself to unfurl a thread to find Radha, but there’s nothing but pain, so much that it nearly topples him again.
He clenches his teeth and drags himself toward the flames. The brick wall of the brothel next door is singed from the explosion, and the opposite building has cracked windows from the debris. His whole body aches, hands scraped raw, and his vision only worsens, but he doesn’t stop, moving towards the heat until he isn’t sure if it’s sweat or blood on his skin, and then he feels it, feels her. He throws blackened, splintered wood out of his way, digging up bricks and shards of glass, and then he finds her, his hands touching something soft, and for a moment he can’t move.
Her body is still warm, but he can’t make a connection, her mind unresponsive to his probing, and still he persists despite the pressure building behind his eyes. There’s nothing but emptiness, even when he reaches out and lifts her broken body into his arms, her head rolling back, her clothes burned into the charred skin on her legs. The smoke is worse here, his eyes watering and throat like sandpaper, and he buries his face into the small place between her neck and shoulder, shaking with sorrow and rage, and he lets loose a guttural cry, his fingers digging into the dirty fabric of her dress, and something unspools inside of him, spreading wide and unseen. When the angry tears begin, his body shaking with its force, his pain seems to spread all around him — if anyone approaches they’ll feel it, the full intensity of crippling grief and blazing anger, and he doesn’t care who gets caught in it, letting it run off in powerful waves as he sobs into her lifeless body, a child taken too soon in a war she hadn’t even known herself to be a part of. His guilt mixes into the fury of emotions tornadoing through and around him, and soon there’s nothing in his mind but darkness, losing himself to it, his tears cutting through the blood on his face, drowned out in the raging fire where his home used to be. ]