Chapter Text
Once upon a time, the world was larger than it is now. There were five continents, and everyone knew that. And there were five highly intelligent species native to each continent, which everyone also knew.
But the world grew sick, and as its inhabitants died off, those remaining forgot. The inhabitants of the world had never lived in harmony, per se, but there was a noticeable difference between how they treated one another when the world was big and young, and how they treated one another after the land folded in on itself, and the oceans closed in, and entire species, including the highly intelligent ones, started to succumb to extinction.
You've probably been wondering about whatever happened to human culture, that they have a few very old plays and little else to speak for, and where the Felt came from, if they're not carapaces fouled by magic, and why it is that the world within these pages is so, so very small. No one ever talks about any countries other than Derse or Prospit aside from Alternia, and that empire seems to have been snuffed out. Evacuated, after being ravaged by famine and a mysterious disease.
Well, my friend, I am sorry to tell you this, but these frightening omens portend exactly what you'd expect:
Something rotten.
Ω
As a kid, looking at a map of the continent, he'd looked at Derse and thought it was so small, smaller than some of Prospit's counties. How could it be its own country, he wondered. The disconnect between paper and reality won't occur to him until he journeys the vast majority of Derse on foot, forced to perform on a larger scale the equivalent of finding a needle in a haystack.
Everything here is so starkly different from his home country. The air is thicker, harder to breathe. The sky is darker, even during the day. It's astonishing, how even the texture of the soil here is so different from that of Prospit. Rocky, light – useless! No wonder Derse had seized Lolar. This barren stretch of land is so different from the voluptuous forests just miles away at the Dersite-Prospitian borders. It's as if the deeper one gets into Derse, the more hopelessly dead the land becomes.
And it certainly is the world of destruction it's renowned to be. He's having an easier time avoiding the chaos of the Revolution than he had expected to, what with most of the conflict concentrated in the capital city. But even out here, in these fishing towns, he finds the violence has spread, in smaller, more insidious ways.
He stops outside the door of a rather shabby-looking inn. The sea air tends to ravage paint, and if one cannot afford to replace it every year it gets so...
He shakes his head. He isn't here to criticize these people. They can't help their position in life. That was something his mother had taught him – never to open his mouth in harm against those he barely knew, and for such trivial reasons as the lack of signifiers of wealth.
He pushes the door open and enters a space that is filled with heat and noise and the bodies making them. He wades through the crowd, making his way to the bar. He doesn't like to drink, but he orders something anyway because it's hard to get on a proprietor’s good side when you won't buy their wares, and as he has discovered over the last few weeks, people, men, especially, are quicker to trust those willing to imbibe. And so Jake English imbibes.
“Did you hear?” The bartender asks, voice light and conversational. “That prince guy, the one leading all that ruckus in the capital. He's dead.”
Jake stiffens. “The last I heard, he had disappeared, not died.”
The barkeep shrugs. “Same difference, in Derse.” A man sitting a little away, slumped over his drink, gives a low snort of laughter.
There is a difference, Jake thinks, especially to those loved ones clinging to hope, but he doesn't push the issue. Even in a grimy, lower class establishment like this, there are seadwellers out the wazoo. And as fickle as they are in their allegiances, you can never talk anti-Condesce politics in front of sea dwellers unless they invite you to. They'll report you to the authorities otherwise, regardless of their own political leanings. One thing Jake has learned in his time wandering Derse, which Dirk had never told him (perhaps thinking it a given), was that there is not just a fat bounty out for the heads of conspirators in the revolution, but for anyone who talks openly against the state. Everyone is suspect, and it seems no one is held innocent until proven a danger. Even disagreeing with the state is a threat to it.
“What's the troll population like, around here?” Jake asks a carapace to his left.
The carapace looks at him, talks to him as if he's terribly stupid. “They're the majority, next to us.” Us meaning carapaces. “Just like everywhere else on the continent.”
Jake sighs. “No, I mean. Blood caste concentrations. Who is most common here?”
“We're in a sea town,” the carapace sighs. “So sea-dwellers, of course. Are you not from around here?”
“No. Hence the questions.”
He jabs a thumb at Jake and gives a weary look to the bartender. “Prospitian, definitely. You can tell by that accent. Snobby as hell.”
The bartender gives a serene nod, like a kindergarten teacher dealing with a child. “I'm cutting you off.”
The carapace is instantly scandalized. “What? No!!”
They argue for a little bit before the carapace storms off, nearly falling off his stool and tripping on his own two feet on his way out. The bartender, the only other human in the inn, apologizes to Jake. “The war with you guys was, what, eight years ago? But it feels like yesterday – you're bound to meet some people still bitter about it.”
“I don't really see why,” Jake mutters, slumping in his chair. “You're the ones who won.”
The man shrugs. “War didn't affect me much, personally. I've always made a happy living here. Bought the place as a young man, kept it running with my own sweat and tears. Nothing holds a fort down quite like plain hard work.”
Jake studies him. Tall, pink-skinned, with arms like tree trunks and a hair coating his face like fur. A white human with an inn in a sea-dweller's town. No, a cynical part of Jake thinks, a part that speaks in tones eerily similar to Dirk's voice – this man certainly wasn't benefitted by the war. He's probably lived comfortably his entire life. Humans are a dying race, but they are not a disenfranchised one.... not as a whole, anyway .
Jake makes light conversation with the innkeeper. He thinks he's being subtle, but about half-way through the conversation, the man asks him, “What's you angle?”
“A-angle?” Jake's hand wanders to his collar. “I don't know...”
“You're asking an awful lot about the demographics of the area. You looking to move here?” The barkeep squints. “Or are you working for somebody?”
Jake hesitates. To say he's moving would be less dubious, but now that he knows he's not terribly good at lying, he goes for partial truth. “I'm answering to someone else,” Jake admits. He hesitates. “A census-taker.”
The barkeep looks like he doesn't believe that. “Yeah? Where your forms?”
“I-I'm, I'm not the census-taker himself, per se, I work for him. I'm the pre-census. Person.” Dammit, he's sweating. He should stop lying now; there's no way he can make himself sound convincing, with this man looking at him so intently. But what is he supposed to say? How is he supposed to explain his situation without sounding like he's absolutely mad?
His sucks down a large mouthful of his drink and avoids eye contact while the barkeep continues to scrutinize him. Jake wants to drain the glass, but he can't breathe and his head hurts so he sets the drink down, mumbles, “I have... an appointment,” and slips away from the bar, through the crowd, and out the door.
The air outside is so dense, so humid despite the cold winds whipping from the nearby sea. It's his first port town, and he's already found that he hates staying in inns this close to the sea because the beds are always damp and no surface ever feels entirely clean. He wonders how many of these towns he'll have to make his way through. He wonders if he's giving up too early in the day, before he resolves to look around here more tomorrow. Maybe he'll find the market and hone in on the gossipy types – old women love him. Yes, he's sure he'll find a lead tomorrow.
Ω
Dirk's eyes had burned like a sunset. Yeah – yeah, that was a romantic enough thought. And he hadn't forced it, either. But then those twin sunsets were coming close, and their lips were touching, and – dammit. Dammit, dammit, Jake thought, even as he pressed back. The spark was gone.
Dirk pulled away. “I'm sorry,” he said, as he always said when they were together.
“Don't be,” Jake replied, just as usual. “That was. Good.”
Dirk gave him a troubled look before slipping his fingers through Jake's. Jake squeezed back on reflex.
“I mean it,” he repeated, giving Dirk a severe look. “You're my friend. My best friend.” That, at least, was not a lie. “I love you. It's just, there's an awful lot going on right now. I suppose I'm distracted.”
And that could be true, really. Jake didn't know that it wasn't the upheaval of a continent that was to blame for his... problem.
Dirk smiled – an awkward thing, a sad thing, forced there by politeness and the need to reassure. “It's all right. I like just being with you.”
He liked just being away from his responsibilities, Jake reckoned. Not sourly, of course. It was understandable for Dirk to want to get away from being a messiah, sometimes.
Jake cleared his throat. “So when is. When is the next big thing? When do you. Fight.” Or whatever it is you revolutionaries do, Jake thought. He felt terribly out of touch, but the papers in Propsit were vague, no – they were downright ignoring the civil war in Derse. Or, whatever kind of war it was. Jake supposed it was silly to call any war civil.
Dirk sighed. “I can't tell you that.” His eyes flitted from the trees, where Jake imagined he was tracing the form of his turbulent thoughts, and back to Jake's face. “I can't tell you anything.”
“Oh.” It sounded, oddly, like an apology. “Well, silly of me to ask.” He just wanted to fill this awful quiet that always seemed to settle over them when they were together these days. He and Dirk had grown up together, had dated... for years, now, which Jake still couldn't believe, that they'd actually held on... But their lives trajectories' were rapidly diverging. Had been slated to diverge from the start. And it was getting harder and harder to understand one another, with them becoming wholly different people.
Jake's biggest worry, when he parted ways with Dirk? Finishing school. Finding low-skilled work until he could figure out how to break it to his mother that he didn't feel cut out for university. Hardly the sort of thing his boyfriend would deign to concern himself with, not with the weight of a country on his shoulders, a monstrous burden in comparison to Jake's petty concerns.
“We can just be quiet,” Dirk said, and Jake almost laughed, yes, because I'm just that painful to talk to, “When you know someone well, you don't always have to talk.”
“Yes,” Jake managed to grind out before pressing the heel of his hand to his mouth, hard, to stop the laughter. We don't know each other, we don't know each other at all.
Dirk's hand slipped out of his (too sweaty, Jake noted), then, gently, lighted on top of his. So they were no longer tangled together, but. Cupped. The weight of Dirk's hand keeping his from slipping away without any guilt.
Ω
All he has to go off is her blood color, but the demon had sworn that would be enough. Jake grumbles to himself now, in the present, “Probably the only information that tosser even had.”
At home, he'd be reluctant to get out of bed, wanting to snooze a little longer, curl up in the quilt and be quiet for a little while, even if he couldn't necessarily fall back asleep. But here, in this seaside town, in this damp, salty-smelling mattress with lumps galore, he just about hops out of the bed as if it bit him on the ass.
He gets dressed and, after counting the money in his pocket, decides against staying another night here, gathers his things, and slips out the back. He paid up front, and he isn't interested in any checking-out fee that might be sprung on him by the desperate-looking old crone who owns this place. She was a green-blood who'd kept holding out her hand expectantly and asking him to “jog her old memory a bit” when he'd pressed her for how many in and around her caste were living in this town.
With one leg out the window and his pack slung over his back, ready to jump into the bush one story beneath his room, Jake suddenly wonders if he isn't the first to come through this town with such questions. Or if the people of Derse really are just always hiding something. Suspicious characters, the lot of them, all shifty eyes and wringing hands. How he was meant to pry this girl's whereabouts out of a country of paranoids was beyond him.
He lands on his feet with barely a wobble, although he winces at the crash of the leaves scratching him through his pants and the force of the landing as it reverberates through his legs. This barren, treeless place has him out of practice. He vows that he'll work some gymnastic exercises into his exercise routine, although... he's not sure how he'll accomplish that in the dingy hotel rooms he'll likely be inhabiting for the next few months.
Months – no, no, not months. He physically shakes his head at that thought. This won't take months. He won't let it take months. It simply shouldn't, he thinks, wading his way through leaves and bramble, but. How would he know? He's not Dirk. He's never done reconnaissance before. As a kid he was terrible at just plain old hide-and-seek at his uncle's – albeit, it was a mansion, a massive place for his wily friends and cousin to steer clear of his stumbling gait, but a country is much larger than a mansion. And people come to Derse specifically to disappear, he thinks, remembering what little his mother told him of Dirk's parents.
The thought of her gives him pause. Even more so than the thought of Dirk. He pauses in picking leaves out of his clothes to remember: when this is all over, he can be permitted to go home. And – and perhaps... if he can convince him, perhaps if he plays the hero card... he won't be going home empty-handed.
Jake picks up his pace, turning the corner to the front of the inn, looking left, right, before walking out onto the street and heading back towards the only pub he's left unsearched. He's going to march in there, order a pint, and wheedle his way into these people's hearts. He's gonna seduce this town! And when he asks what he wants to know, they'll sing like birds!
The door creaks when he opens it and when he steps inside, barely anyone throws him a glance. The noise level is dismally low for a bar, and most of the patrons are slumped over their respective tables, their eyes dead, faces obscured by shadow. Jake wonders if the lighting is poor because these people don't want to have to own up to the fact they're drinking so early in the morning, and are hiding their faces as best they can. One man seems to be taking it too far, with his face smushed against the table – oh, no, Jake realizes, he's not hiding, he's passed out.
Trying not to look as uncomfortable as he feels, Jake marches over to a table, pointing finger pistols at a scantily clad troll girl as he goes. “A pint of brew for me, my good woman!” he crows, trying not to feel like an idiot when she rolls her eyes at him before heading back behind the bar. She's the only troll here. Whipping his head around, Jake notices that the crowd is a few humans and a lot of carapaces. Hmm. Actually, now that he thinks about it, this place doesn't seem to have a restaurant attached, doesn't seem to be much more than a mere pub. He wonders if that has anything to do with...
And then it hits him. Gah! Stupid! He's hanging around a bar looking for trolls when they can't even get drunk! Their species doesn't experience intoxication like that – oh, dammit, Jake!
With a groan, he buries his face in his hands. He'd thought he was so clever, coming here first thing in the morning – people gossip in bars, they flock there... Well. People meaning those who have use for alcohol. Who the hell drinks this shit for its taste, he thinks sourly, as the bar maid returns with a pint of yellow, frothy muck. Ugh. What a waste of money. God knows how dry his purse is wont to get if he keeps this idiocy up...
Well. He's already here, he's already made this woman drag this crap out, so he might as well make the most of it. Tossing her a coin (which misses her outstretched hand completely), Jake gets up, pitcher in hand, and bravely marches up to the first person he sees who's running low on beer. Sliding into a booth across from a rather big carapace fellow, Jake says, “Hello, chap – I'll give you this pint if you can tell me how many suspicious trolls live in this town.”
The carapace eyes the pint, and then him. “...Define suspicious,” he says. “Suspicious, like, offers strangers beer and asks invasive questions about townsfolk?”
Jake forces a laugh. “Funny, I wouldn't think a carapace defensive of trolls. Didn't they steal your government, isn't that what the big hullabaloo in the capital is all about?”
“Hey, hey, watch it,” the carapace snaps. Jake notes with triumph that he takes the pitcher's handle and tops off his glass. “You're a fucking Prospy, aren't you? You people are so fucking insensitive. Yeah, trolls fucking took the capital, they also slaughter anybody who questions their Witch Queen.”
He didn't actually say witch, but Jake filters that out, as he doesn't like that sort of language. “I thought only the sea-dwellers did that kind of slaughtering.”
“This is a sea town, buddy. Sea-dwellers're all we've got.”
“There's a green-blood running the inn just across the way,” Jake points out. “You know her?” The carapace doesn't even pause before nodding, lip curled over sharp teeth in an unintentionally menacing wince. “Good,” Jake says. “She wasn't very forthcoming with information. I was wondering if you could tell me, since they seem so rare, how many other mid-castes are in town. Greens, specifically. I don't care about them once they get into the teal hues.”
The carapace narrows his white, pupiless eyes. “The hell you asking that for?”
Jake shrugs. “Looking for somebody, if you must know. It's important I find her soon, you see, people are very... worried about her.”
The carapace slides the pint away from himself. “What game are you playing?”
What is it with Dersites getting so defensive so quickly? “Game? There's no game. I'm looking for a girl and I'm tired of getting nowhere, and I thought, since you've got no reason to feel protective of trolls-”
“How do you know that?” the carapace snapped. “You think I'm a loyalist to the Black Queen just 'cause I'm a carapace? I am devoted to Her Imperious Condescension, and I do not question her authority,” he shouts, gaze on Jake but voice projected to the rest of the bar. A couple of people look up at them.
Jake starts to sweat. Hands up in defense, he says, “I'm sorry, mate. Didn't mean to ruffle your feathers. It's just important I find this girl.”
“You want me to betray my country? You want me to point you in the direction of some dissident – you think I'd befriend dissidents?!” If carapaces had thinner skin, Jake thinks there'd be a vein throbbing on this man's forehead. He stands up abruptly, drawing the entire bar's attention with the scrape, crash of his chair falling back and his voice booming out. “You take your revolutionary bullshit and you GET OUT OF MY TOWN!”
“Revolutionary?!” Jake chokes. “No! No, I'm not a revolutionary, I-”
“Out!” the carapace snarls, straightening his posture and making himself bigger. “OUT!”
Jake's hand seizes his pocket, feeling the bulge where the pure white, flintlock pistol is hidden in his coat. A security reflex. He's not going to jostle it willy nilly when the thing's got no safety setting; he's not an idiot. He's been handling guns since he was very young. This one – the demon gave it to him. It's slick and it's more advanced than any firearm he's ever seen, even for just a little thing, and he stops himself from pulling it out because he doesn't need blood on his hands, no, he's never going to go that far.
The carapace is taller than Jake realized and he has to really fight the urge to pull the pistol out of his pocket when the massive man lunges at him. There is a tangle of limbs and Jake, because he's no pushover, lands a few good punches before he's thrown out of the bar on his ass. Before the door swings shut, Jake sees another carapace man come out from behind the counter to scream abuses at Jake's angry companion.
Jake gets up, groaning. His glasses have been knocked askew and he adjusts them. Well. At least they aren't broken. No idea where I'd get them repaired, if they were. He trudges along a few steps, until he reaches the mouth of the alleyway next to the pub. He sees a trashcan and, an unusual rage shooting up through his chest, he lands a savage kick to the can, doubling over and hissing pseudo-curses through his teeth when this proves to be a less than wonderful decision. As he's rubbing his foot, he's aware of the pub doors swinging open again, and a tall, dark figure approaching...
Ignoring the pain, he whips around, ready to defend himself, only to find a total stranger standing there. The stranger is lean, with dark, smooth skin, black, wiry hair, nose and face and lips and everything about him mercifully human. He gives Jake a wary look, yanking a cigarette out of his coat pocket. “You want one?”
Jake shakes his head. “I don't smoke.” He tries to get out of his kneeling position but winces, hands going back to his foot.
The man nods at Jake's foot. “You get that in the brawl in there?”
“This? No, no. I just...” Jake gestures vaguely. “Kicked the trash can. I was angry, and... Stupid.” Why did he admit that just now? Why didn't he just lie to this man, let him think he'd gotten this injury by sympathy-worthy, not self-inflicted methods?
The stranger snorts as he brings his cigarette to his lips. “You got that guy real riled up in there. Thankfully the owner's chewing him out for making a mess in his bar, or he might come out here after you.”
Jake can feel the blood rush to his face. “Yeah, I-I suppose I could've been more tactful with my questions, though...”
He falls quiet. There's no noise except the puff of the man's exhale. A woman on the opposite street calls out to him and he waves wordlessly back.
“We got a small town, here,” the stranger says to Jake. As if his act of politeness owes explanation. “Everybody knows everybody, and, save for the snootier sea-dwellers, we're all familiar with each other. We like each other, even. Nobody's gonna sell nobody else out. Not to any outsider, regardless of what side they claim to work for.” He gives Jake a rather severe dose of direct eye contact. “You got me?”
So. This man's an eavesdropper. “I got you.”
The man takes another drag on his cigarette. “Who're you looking for, exactly?”
Jake shakes his head. “Does it matter? You basically just told me I'm not getting anything out of this town.”
The man smirks. “Call it curiosity. If I know her, I'll have a good laugh with her, later.”
Or warn her, Jake thinks. Then, “You even heard she's a girl? How much of my conversation did you listen in on?”
The stranger shrugs. “I hate to break it to you, but you're not all that subtle. I guarantee the whole bar could hear you two even before the shouting started.”
Jake groaned. “Great. So if there is a limeblood girl in your town, there could be dozens of people running off to tell her some strange man's after her.”
The other man's eyebrows shoot up. His cigarette stops dead in its journey to his mouth. “A limeblood? You're looking for a limeblood?”
Jake nods.
“Like... the extinct type limeblood? No shit?”
Jake nods again, certain before the stranger even says it. His shock is too genuine.
“We've got a lot of strange types here, but... I've never heard of a living limeblood. That's the shit of folk tales, like. Gryphons and bobcats, you know? Only crazies dying for attention claim to see limebloods.” The man pauses, thinking. “Well. Those stupid enough to want to bring the crown to their doorstep. They take mutant and limeblood claims really seriously.”
“Oh, bollocks.” Jake slumps, face in his hands. “Thanks for reminding me of how impossible this all is. You know I haven't even been able to dredge up rumors? I've got nothing to go on...”
The man considers him for a few moments. “You don't seem the type to work for the crown. Your hands are too dirty. And you don't seem like a revolutionary, either. Hands aren't dirty enough.”
Jake pulls his hands away from his face and, puzzled, studies them. The stranger goes on.
“What do you know about lime trolls? Anything?”
Jake hesitates. “I... I know that they're all dead.”
The stranger takes a deep drag on his cigarette, looking at Jake carefully. “They're known for being magical – incredibly powerful, too powerful. It's why the empress wiped them out.” Another drag. “So? Follow that trail. Ask who the resident witches, the most powerful seers in the town are, claim you need healing or your fortune told or some bullshit.” When Jake looks at him incredulously, he scowls. “You don't believe me? Visit a fucking library, educate yourself, fact check me. I swear-”
Jake shakes his head rapidly. “No, I believe you, I just – why are you helping me?”
The man shrugs. “Call it being a good neighbor.” He drops his cigarette and grinds it into the stone street with his boot. “I don't like suspicious strangers wandering around my town any more than the next guy. So I'm helping you find your way out.”
Ω
Jake had stumbled through the forest for three days, the blood on his head congealing, flaking rank and matting his hair, his lover's name dead on his tongue. He tossed it out between his teeth until his head throbbed too heavily and he collapsed in the grass, creatures on all levels of the food chain leaving him benevolently to his own devices. He passed in and out of consciousness, the days a blur of pain and green when finally the demon revealed himself.
He appeared not in a cloud of black smoke, but a burst of bright white, and Jake stumbled back in awe of him. His jaws parted and for one moment Jake was terrified he would be devoured. But the monster spoke instead.
“You are dedicated,” the green beast said. “Even on the verge of death. You search for your beloved. You have proven yourself worthy.”
Jake's jaw flapped. No sound came out. The demon went on.
“If you will complete a task for me,” the demon explained, “you will get your lover back. Alive.”
Jake spoke blearily, through the fog of shock from the demon's sudden and grandiose appearance and the blood loss. “I thought you said I was worthy.”
“I don't understand,” the demon replied.
“You said I was worthy. If I'm worthy, can't I just have him back?”
He was afraid of the demon's face, a skull with wild, spinning eyes. A sound rumbled through his chest and Jake realized the demon was laughing. “You are worthy of a chance,” the demon clarified. “Completing the task is how you will prove worthy of the regaining the man.”
Jake was upset. He tried to push himself up onto his elbows, tried to get his body out of its prostrate position, but he didn't have the strength. The demon leaned down and Jake bowed his head to escape the horrid flashing of his eyes, which set the sparks of pain in his own skull ablaze.
Jake felt he should protest. He wanted Dirk back so badly, but. “You're evil,” he said, and it was all he could get out, because the demon laughed. And laughed. And laughed.
“Let's make a deal,” the demon said. “You know that demonkind can never go back on its word.”
Jake didn't trust the demon. He said so. With the most delicate of strokes, the demon ran one claw along Jake's head. God, it hurt.
“At this rate,” the demon said, “you are the one who will not live. To see your beloved again.”
Jake always thought he'd sign his soul away for the people he loved. But it still didn't come easy.
The demon said, “I want you to find somebody for me.”