Fantasy The MPC Rushes Story, Cont.

[Arkadious]

Paris, 1889: Fitz avoided looking at Gen for a long moment before exhaling a breath he didn't realize he had been holding and looked down at her. "Fine, ok, sorry," he mumbled while fidgeting slightly, right hand subconsciously rubbing his left shoulder and pectoral. "Would you care to attend this Masquerade with me, Red?" Fitz smiled his slightly crooked smile, eyes beaming down softly at Gen, eyes that had watched her from countless Whens and Wheres. He mentally berated himself as he looked at her. He should have known better than to believe any of the smut from Tristan's foul mouth, that he would say anything to drive a wedge between Fitz and Gen. Looking down at her now, seeing the love practically bubbling out of her, Fitz wondered how he every got so lucky as to be a part of her life, loving her through countless lifetimes.


Knowhere: Impatient fingers drummed out an annoyed cadence on a smooth wooden desk top, well worn and plain, though very imposing in it's sheer size and simplicity. The desk top was bare, save for the hand tapping away impatiently. The owner of the hand sat in a similarly plain chair, staring at the massive bookshelf along the wall, filled with numerous tomes, all written and empty and never thought of. He turned back to the desk and pick up the quill and opened the ledger to a fresh page, pausing for just a moment to lick the nib of the quill, tongue blackened from the darkest of inks, then setting it to the page, the ink flowing in scratchy lines as he Wrote...

 

[Genevieve Moulin]

Genevieve beamed at Fitz and swept into a grand curtsy.


"Nothing would give me greater pleasure, Altamonte Fitzgerald," she said with a wink. Several red petals from the dahlia tucked behind her ear fluttered to the ground and landed at her feet. "I'll have to find something to wear. I'm not sure how much longer Lisbeth's handiwork will hold out, and I'm certain Paris society isn't ready for me to arrive at the ball as Lady Godiva, even if it is a masquerade."


She slipped her hand into Fitz's and rested her head on his shoulder as they stood by the water's edge, stealing a few moments of peace in each other's company. More crises would come, Genevieve was sure of that. But in this precise When and Where, that hardly mattered. None of the running or the dangers or the unknowns mattered at all. Regardless of what was happening in all the other worlds, her own was just as she wanted it.


Lost in her reverie, Genevieve didn't immediately notice that several cloaked and hooded figures were watching from across the Seine. At first tucked into the shadows, they had now gathered on the bank just opposite the couple. Genevieve felt rather than saw them, her attention having been caught by a line of ducklings paddling nearby. When a cold shiver shot down her spine, she slowly raised her head. Her mouth went dry and she squeezed Fitz's hand hard at the sight of the faceless gathering.


"Darling," she murmured. "Don't look now, but we're being watched. We need to get the others and get out of the open right this minute."


She swallowed hard. If these alternate worlds worked the way she imagined they did, she knew a place they could go, and it wouldn't be far. But in some ways she would have rather taken her chances with these new foes. She and Fitz strode as casually as possible back to Blott, Daisy and the unconscious Trent.


"We've been found," Genevieve said quietly, cutting her eyes toward the ominous watchers. "So apparently it's high time I gave you a tour of my home," she continued with a tight smile.

 

[UCBooties]

"William? What is it? Are you all right?"


William Black Iron snapped back to the here and now. Lisbeth was looking at him with concern and he felt a flush of embarrassment. Hadn't he been trying to make her feel better?


He cleared his throat and gave an unconvincing smile. "Yes, fine. I apologize. My thoughts ran away for a bit but I'm sure it's nothing."


Don't make assumptions, he told himself sternly, You can't know for sure.





Lisbeth was still looking at him, clearly unconvinced by his reassurance. He tried to be a bit more sincere. "Something occurred to me, a possible explanation for some of our troubles. But it is only a possibility, and not something we ought to concern ourselves with at this time."


He glanced back to see that Genevieve and Altamont had rejoined the rest of their companions. He turned back to Lisbeth, "Perhaps we shouldn't stray too far."

 

[Lisbeth Walpurgis]

Lisbeth followed William's gaze back to their companions. Genevieve had rounded up Fitzgerald, who was looking rather calmer now, and the gypsy was now speaking with Blott and casting a furtive glance across the river. When Lisbeth saw the figures huddled there beneath an awning her heart froze. As soon as her eyes cast upon them an eerie familiarity washed over her, like realizing halfway through the day that one has had a nightmare the evening before but is unable to remember the details. Instinctively she clutched the pocket watch to her chest before stowing it safely into her pouch.


"Yes, you're right," she said to William, trying to keep the tightness out of her voice with some success, "We ought to stay together. If nothing else it's safer."


She took two steps toward their friends before hesitating and turning her head to speak over her shoulder.


"And... thank you. I am feeling a bit better now."


Without waiting for a response from the Monster Hunter (she imagined he'd simply blush and mumble something she couldn't quite hear anyway) she made her way at a brisk pace back to where the others were gathered.


"Well then," she announced, "I suppose we ought to be off. We certainly won't discover anything by loitering about here all day. We ought to find someplace to stay for the evening," she dropped her voice and added, "Away from prying eyes and ears."


She managed to stop herself from glancing at the figures across the river, though she now imagined she could feel their collective gaze like sticky honey on the back of her neck. Why did they seem so familiar, and what ominous portent did they herald in this new world of steam that the Writer and her companions found themselves in?

 

[ArtBlott]

Blott struggled to maintain eye contact, but if she looked across the river, then whoever was supposedly watching them would know something was up. She hadn't honestly noticed anyone there, but she'd take Genevieve at her word.


"We're going to Genevieve's house, it looks like." Blott stretched, reading herself for more walking. Her legs were really starting to hurt, "though if we have time, I'd like to go to the fair too. Get lost in the crowd, as they say." She looked back towards her voice. It sounded funny.


The crow was sitting almost smugly on top of the still comatose Trent, pecking open a wound on his cheek. Well, it bled, so he wasn't dead yet. Still, if he could sleep through that, he was either the heaviest sleeper in the world, or in a coma. Blotts lips twisted in disgust and she waved him back to her shoulder. The puff-bird complied, albeit reluctantly. Maybe no one had noticed? She sighed through her nose and turned back to Genevieve. "Lead the way then."

 

[Lisbeth Walpurgis]

"Lead the way then," said Blott's crow from her shoulder as they all prepared to head off.


"But what about..." Lisbeth began, but she trailed off as she eyed Trent's still form on the ground.


Had he always had a wound on his cheek? She had to admit that there was something terribly unnatural about the way he was sleeping. Had his injuries with the creature in Shanghai been more serious than any of them had suspected? She took a furtive step toward him to check his pulse and breathing, but something stopped her almost immediately. Some instinct she could not name was screaming at her not to get any closer to the comatose man, to instead get as far away from him as she possibly could. She glanced at her companions to see if perhaps they felt the same thing, but she couldn't be sure. She cleared her throat and attempted to compose herself.


"No, we don't have time to be dragging an unconscious man through Paris. If, er, when Trent wakes up, I'm sure that whatever force drew him to us can do so again if he's meant to travel with us. I think Blott is right: it might be a good idea to take a little detour through the Fair to try to lose our tails. We certainly don't want to be going directly to our destination; the more circuitous the route, the better. And if need be," she paused as a mischievous smirk crossed her face, "I'm sure one of us can whip up a suitable distraction."

 

[Genevieve Moulin]

Genevieve turned away for a moment, afraid she might be sick as Blott's bird pecked at Trent's wounds. Despite all she had seen, the gypsy never could get over her weak stomach. She raised a hand to cover her mouth and willed herself not to think about it. The sounds of the crow fluttering back to its owner gave her a great sense of relief.


"The Exposition..." she said hesitantly, "Yes, yes, I suppose we should take the roundabout route."


But in her mind, the World's Fair was inextricably linked with Tristan. Were these hooded strangers connected to him and the Knights? Would he expect her to be drawn to the Fair and to this Masquerade? The specter of her husband hung over everything, it seemed. Though she had soothed Fitz's jealousy for now, she knew neither of them would be at ease while Tristan lived. And while Fitz had vented his anger on Lisbeth for the danger posed by Thanatos, Genevieve feared Tristan presented just as much of a threat to her friends. His outward appearance may have been far from monstrous, but the complete absence of feeling in his dark eyes left her in a cold terror.


She glanced back at Trent, another innocent victim left in their wake. Lisbeth was right--they couldn't exactly take him along. But if he were found by their pursuers in this state he certainly wouldn't survive. Genevieve didn't know him well enough to feel any real connection with the man, but she did feel responsible. The crumpled masquerade flier Fitz had tossed caught her eye. She picked it up and smoothed it out then, trying her best not to touch him or look too closely at his wounds, tucked the paper into Trent's jacket pocket.


"If he comes to, maybe he'll get the hint," she said with a shrug. "Shall we then?"

 

[ArtBlott]

Blott smiled slightly. She was really looking forward to the fair. Despite her natural sedentary inclinations, she really did like casual traveling (which, she stressed to herself, was not exactly what they had been doing) and seeing new things, and this was the first time the opportunity for sightseeing.


As for Tannerite, she got the distinct impression he wasn't long for this world, or any other. She could feel it distantly through the crow. There was something wrong with him. She swallowed down any feelings she had about it. There would be time for distress later, she was sure.


Instead, she forced up the biggest smile she could for the seemingly nervous Genevieve. "The entrance is only a few blocks away, I bet if we hurry we can beat the post lunch crowd!" Her enthusiasm sounded odd to her own ears, but with any luck she could inject a bit of cheer into the others with it.

 

[Arkadious]

Just as Blott shuffled off to join the others as they prepared to make their way towards the Fair, Trent's eyes flew open, but they weren't the flecked golden brown of when they first encountered him. Instead, they were bloodshot and cataractic, the golden flecks now a diseased yellow. The wound on his cheek seem to pus and fester much more rapidly than should have been possible. With a loud bellow, he rose to his feet and lurched after Blott, catching her by the scruff of her neck and her right arm, gripping tightly. Across the river, two of the hooded figures turned and disappeared into the shadows of the shop awning.


Behind Trent, a short girl dressed in a simple flower dress appeared, displeasure at the scene before her etched across her porcelain face, her bright blue eyes, burning like angry embers. She held out her hand and gestured quickly in the air, shouting out in a arcane tongue, "Esaeler Reh won, Ro eruoy annog terger ti, Olegnat!!!"


Trent turned his head to look at the person that addressed him, rage and insanity distorting his face into an unrecognizable mask. He opened his mouth to bellow when suddenly a second figure, tall and muscles rippling like coiled pythons beneath his ruddy skin, appeared next to Trent, arm snapping out and fist connecting with Trent's jaw, a series of snaps and crunches echoing off in rapid succession as his skull caved in on itself in slow-motion before Trent's entire body was sent flying across the river, his hold on Blott going limp as soon as fist made contact with flesh and bone. The tall figure, wearing a hooded sleeveless leather vest, turned and helped Blott to her feet while the young girl whistled and casually strolled up to greet the party, a mischievous smirk dancing on her lips.


"I tried to warn him. Nice to see you again, Artist, miss me?"

 

[ArtBlott]

The crow gave a startled cry, loud enough to make Blott's ears ring as the world seemed to suddenly tumble out from under her, Trent's strong grip lifting her quickly and painfully off the ground. But before she could barely kick in protest, the earth then came rushing back as she landed in a heap. With the help of the second figure, a large, almost comically strong male, she staggered back to her feet.


Blott's arm was already starting to bruise, an ugly puce color blooming in the shape of her attackers' hand. The back of her neck was probably doing the same. Still she offered a grateful thumbs up to the second figure as she collected herself. Or tried to. She was shaking.


Her crow, having shot off like a rocket at the initial attack, slowly circled back down, passing low over the unmoving body of the fallen Trent, to settle almost gingerly on Blott's left shoulder. "I didn't, but I do now. Thanks, that was...what was that?" The crow's interpretation of her voice was steady, for which she was grateful. Blott herself looked ready to cry.

 

[Lisbeth Walpurgis]

Lisbeth turned to head toward the Fair, grateful that a course of action had been decided upon, when a not-quite-human roar erupted from behind her, from where she knew Trent had lain. Damn it. Sometimes she hated being right.


She whirled around as Trent was gaining his feet, her hands reaching for her swords - and coming up empty. The pit of her stomach dropped as she remembered that the swords were Frostine's: she didn't have access to them anymore. The snarl on her face turned to horror as Trent, eyes wild and tainted, skin rapidly turning sickly and rotten, grabbed Blott roughly by the neck and arm and Lisbeth realized that she was powerless to stop him. She would never Write up a solution in time, and unless one of her other companions was fast enough she was about to watch as the thing that had been Trent snapped her friend's neck in front of her eyes.


Something flared within her, a searing heat in her chest that spoke of a boundless rage, as a small figure appeared behind the Trent-thing and called out in a tongue that nagged at the back of Lisbeth's mind, as though she should be able to understand it but could not quite remember. A second figure, much larger and broader than the first, appeared beside Trent and sent a blow snapping into Trent's jaw that stove in his face and sent him cartwheeling clear across the river like a rag-doll.


The tall figure, an impressively muscled man wearing a hooded vest, helped a fallen Blott to her feet as the first figure, a small girl in a flowered dress, came towards them. Her eyes burned like blue embers and Lisbeth's breath caught in her throat. She looked to the tall figure and saw that he, too, had ember eyes that glowed a deep red.


"They're both Aspects," Lisbeth thought, and her mind began to race. They couldn't waste this opportunity to gain two more pieces of Blood Stone and be that much closer to making Arkadious whole again, especially when they didn't know how many there were to find. So far she herself had seen four: the one with orange eyes that they had encountered shortly after leaving the Sitting Room and from whom she had gotten her first Blood Stone, the one that had brought them back from Frostine's world who had eyes of a deep indigo, and now these two, bright blue and red.


"Red, orange, blue, indigo..." she muttered as Blott and the Blue Girl spoke, "That means... Yellow, green, and violet... There's seven..."


"Thanks, that was... what was that?" Blott was asking. Lisbeth herself was curious as to the answer to that question, and as she waited to see what the newcomers said she quietly reached into her pouch for the pocket watch. She had a feeling she was about to need it.

 

[Arkadious]

"That," the blue flower girl quipped, "Is what happens when one who is Touched is pulled from their Home and come in contact with a horror. At least, that's what He says..."


The girl glanced at Lisbeth and flashed a smile, her blue ember eyes darting to Lisbeth's hand where she held the pocket watch in her pouch. As she spoke and everyone collected themselves from the recent abrupt departure of their former comrade, three more figures approached, all similarly dressed and vaguely familiar even though there were two males and one female. Their style of dress was eclectic, a mish-mash of fabrics and textures, but all with deep hoods, from which peered burning ember eyes. One of the gentlemen had bright saffron embers, his three piece suit comprised of mostly browns and greys. His female companion that bounced at his side wore a deep indigo bloomerumi, hood adorned with little horns and sleeves ending in large claws. Their other male companion wore a long dirty duster, tattered and burnt in places, and stained in others what appeared to be emerald...blood? He kept his hood pulled low, but his eyes still glowed and eerie cerulean, almost sickly in it's hue.


Indigo hopped forward and stood in front of Lisbeth, peering into her eyes while a mirth grin danced along her lips. "He thought you might need a hand, so, here we are. Most of us anyways. The others are...waiting up ahead..." She glanced around and saw the Puff-bird perched on Blott's shoulder and she grinned. "Aw, I see you sorted your clothes out....shame, I thought he looked rather dapper wearing your unmentionables.."


"Cut the small talk, Indie, they're waiting for us and we're already running Late. He has stressed how important it is we not waste Time..." the mysterious ember eyed man said from then back, his voice a dry rasp that echoed like dead leaves dancing through a cemetery. He turned and proceed to walk along the river bank, towards the fair in the distance. "Come on, the Masquerade waits for no one..." he called over his shoulder, his voice sending chills down Lisbeth, Blott, Gen, and Fitz's spines. Without a word, the other four strangers turned and followed, Indigo and Flowers exchanging remarks as they skipped off. The saffron eyed gentleman paused and turned to look back at Lisbeth, a familiar ache tugging at her breast as his eyes bore into hers...

 

[Lisbeth Walpurgis]

Lisbeth gripped the pocket watch tight, then abruptly let it go again, withdrawing her empty hand from the pouch. It seemed that all, or at least most, of the Aspects were gathered here, so perhaps for once something was going to be easier than expected. The Aspects were beginning to lead their group away, and a good thing too: the confrontation with Trent was drawing attention that they did not need. One of the Aspects was looking at her, though, the orange-eyed one that she had first encountered just after being separated from the real Arkadious and who had appeared several times to aid them before disappearing just as suddenly. He also resembled the original Arkadious most strongly. His gaze tugged at her, and she found herself walking next to him without thinking.


It felt strangely natural to be at his side, and yet she was all too aware of the silence that stretched between them; a bare handful of seconds that felt eternal. She should say something, but what? There was so much to ask, so much they needed to know, but where to begin?


"You've been with us since the beginning," she finally said, "You gave me the Blood Stone... Why? Why did you choose me? What happened to you? Who is this "He" you all keep talking about? Just what exactly is going on here? Who are you, really? Why do you keep helping us and then vanishing again? What are you after? What-"


She stopped the flow of words; somehow she knew that he would never answer so many questions, and certainly not all at once in a rush like that.


"Sorry," she grumbled, "There's just so much we don't know yet, and if you are the Architect then apparently we need your help to find the Lance of Longinus and defeat Thanatos. And on top of that we need to make you whole again, assuming that what I've been dreaming is true and I'm not just going insane..."


She sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose.


"I'm probably not making any sense," she went on, "and now I'm rambling, so why don't you all lead the way and I'll just stop talking."


She let herself fall out of step with the ember-eyed gentleman and willed herself to somehow fade into the background. Barring that, she could at least see how Blott and her other companions were doing...

 

[UCBooties]

When Trent attacked, William had wanted to intervene. Every fiber of his being had tensed as he prepared to spring into action. Instead he stood still as the mysterious figures dispatched the crazed Traveler.


As the Incarnations of Arkadious gathered before his companions he drifted nearer, but each step came slower and with each moment they seemed further away. He saw them then, his friends and the strange fragments of the man who had pulled them together, as a portrait of sunlight and spring, viewed from a shadowed doorway.


They began to walk away, speaking words that William could no longer hear. He trailed after, but with a mounting sense of unreality he watched them grow further and further distant and ever more indistinct. Finally he stopped, they had disappeared from view and the busy square, so bustling and excited mere moments before was silent and empty. It was a fading impression, an afterimage, rather than a real place.


William turned, and was unsurprised to see that behind him there stretched a gray beach bordered by a sea of steely surf. The water rolled in placid waves, but the breakers made no sound. In all directions there was fog, and at every turn the world seemed to fade away just at the edge of his senses. He turned again, but the last impression of Paris in Spring was gone, and nothing lay behind him but the same endless stretching beach.


A pang of wrenching sadness cut through his breast. However brief their travels had been they had been his true friends. Into his life of endless, thoughtless routine they had brought color and excitement and a sense of human connection that he had not felt in all his uncounted years as the Master of Black Iron House. He had only been an interloper in their affairs, and now it seemed that his story must diverge from theirs. He hoped they would find the things they sought, slay their dragons, gain their treasures, and make something that sufficed for what they really needed: a home.


He thought of them then, as he had last seen them. An exasperated Genevieve pulling along a somewhat befuddled Fitz, Blott and her irascible crow grumpily following along through another timeline that held nothing for her, poor Daisy adrift and doing her best, Lisbeth side by side with one of the Incarnations, looking as close to content as he had seen her since their first meeting. No monsters, no desperate flight, just a warm spring day and the hunt for their next clue. There were worse ways to remember them.


William turned from the memory and began to walk. There was something tantalizingly familiar about this fog. For a moment he had dared hope that if he walked long enough he would find himself on that strange eternal street lined with infinite versions of Black Iron House. Unfortunately he could not sense the House, wherever he was, it was not here. But he could feel the shard of it in his pocket, and feel the delicate tug of it on his senses. Perhaps there was still somewhere he needed to go. Perhaps someday, somewhere, in some stranger When than he had ever traveled he might even see his friends again.


He buried that hope deep in his chest, where it could not sting him too much. With it he buried his last memory of them; Gennevieve, Fitz, Blott, Daisy, Arkadious in all his shattered selves. Lisbeth. He buried them away with the wish that they would find better worlds than this, that their story might end more happily than as just another unwritten volume on the shelves of Black Iron House.


William Blackiron was alone. If he was lonely then at least it was a loneliness he knew. Loneliness was, after all, his oldest friend.


On a silent shore in the gray neverwheres between worlds, William Blackiron walked towards whatever past or future awaited him.