Peculiar Soul

I have delayed setting these words to the page for too long already, though my posterity has seemed a faraway thing in these first days of my tenure - even now my mind rebels, though I force my hand to write what it must:

So begin the Annals of the Sixteenth Star, in this six-hundred and forty-fourth year of the Mendiko peace. Ironic that it should be called that still, when to our south the War rages on, but we were never talking about anyone but ourselves when we erected that proud moniker over the smoldering ruins of Old Ghar. A peace for Mendian, bought dearly - and now mine to keep.

There is a woman that all see, one who wields the Star of Mendian as a guiding light and baleful ward both. There must also be a path between me and that woman, but in the confines of this crystalline prison I cannot see it. I never believed it would pass to me, not truly, even as I spent all of those hours talking with old Saviero from the other side of these walls.

Of the previous holders of this soul, ten have kept written records. In my studies I read them all; they speak of meetings and battles, deliberations over policy - the stuff of government. What they do not mention is the space between those moments.

I shall never again stand amid company or walk freely through the countryside. Companionship and touch are lost to me. It is not as though such things were a regular indulgence for me; nevertheless, I find myself dwelling on the absence of opportunity. We are all the sum of our experiences. I wonder what time and this confined existence will make of me - if I will look back on the woman writing these first words and think her foolish or prescient.

It is a question that only time may answer, so: now, to business.

- Leire Gabarain, Annals of the Sixteenth Star, 644.

Michael had not planned on a lengthy meal, but found himself idling in Vernon’s company longer than his food warranted. They talked occasionally, remarking on noises from outside or other diners that passed by, but for the most part shared a companionable silence.

The thought occurred to Michael that it was likely not very silent for Vernon, but the calm was a welcome tonic after the wearying day he had endured. At length, he stood from the table and excused himself.

He walked past his bunk, his restless mind in no mood for sleep; instead, he kept pacing forward until he found himself at the entrance to Leire’s small suite of rooms. He knocked once, this time with deference to the strength of the door.

A few moments later Unai pulled the door wide, his eyes crinkling in a smile as he saw Michael there. “Young master Baumgart,” he said. “Welcome, please come inside.” Leire’s valet stepped aside to permit Michael passage, closing the door behind him. “I assume you wish to speak with one of my patients; regretfully, they are both resting.”

Michael pursed his lips. “That may be for the best,” he said. “I don’t know that either of them are particularly eager to speak with me at the moment.”

Unai’s smile faded, and some of his poise slipped away; he looked suddenly very old. “Moments pass,” he replied. “Some more quickly than others. I would not presume to speak for Her Radiance, but I would venture that Luc would be glad of a friendly face, when he’s had some time to recover.”

“Antolin wasn’t able to tell me how badly he was injured,” Michael said. “Is he all right?”

The old anatomens pursed his lips, then shook his head. “His body is fine,” he said. “He was able to take shelter from the gas, as I understand it, so his exposure was mild. But-” Unai paused, looking towards the closed door to his quarters. “Anatomentes are talented in different ways, derived from the manifestation of their gifts.”

He inclined his head towards Michael. “Your soul is one that focuses on change. If you wish to pursue your studies with me further, I believe you could achieve great feats of healing that elude even the most-gifted anatomentes. Luc, however - his soul is quieter in its scope. Powerful, yes, but with a fine focus and insight into the state of living beings around him. He has a natural talent for seeing the harm where it lies, and an extreme sensitivity to pain - and death.”

“I’ve noticed,” Michael replied. “I saw him diagnose Emil’s leg without touching him once, and that was before he trained with you.” He frowned. “What does this have to do with his condition?”

Unai’s face was grim. “The shelter he found protected him from the gas; it could not shield him from what was happening outside. He watched the others die as only an anatomens can.” He looked again towards the door to his quarters. “Gas is horrific, young master Baumgart. The lungs are attacked from within, converting healthy tissue to a mass of blood and edema. The airway swells shut. People struggle long after their fate has been sealed. A slow, agonizing way to die.”

Michael paled, following Unai’s gaze. All day he had uncovered faces contorted in agony, swollen purple flesh scored with fingernail marks as the dying clawed mindlessly at their throats. He had felt their death, yes, but not their pain - he had succumbed to the flood, retreating to the sanctuary of his mind. Luc, however-

“Ghar’s ashes,” Michael muttered. “Will he be all right?”

“He is a resilient sort of man, and I believe he will find his way to recovery,” Unai sighed. “But he was already so reticent to use his soul. After such a trauma…” He looked at Michael. “I know that you have had experience with injuries of the mind before. Perhaps tomorrow morning he will have recovered enough to speak with you. I will not say that you will be able to help him, but if you could attempt-”

“Of course,” Michael said immediately. Unai’s voice had never wavered, but the old man bled concern and care, turning to profound relief as Michael spoke.

“Thank you, young master,” Unai said, smiling and clasping Michael’s hand. “Truly. And when I speak to Her Radiance next I will - well.” His smile turned sheepish, and a bit wistful. “I will try to ensure that your paths cross in a helpful manner.”

Michael nodded his own thanks before turning away. The talk with Unai had relieved some of the buzzing tension within him, and he felt fatigue grip him more firmly with every step forward; he was barely awake when he fell into his bunk.

He woke slowly. His mind was fogged, one foot still mired in dreams that eluded his memory save for an intangible dread that set his heart pounding and soaked the sheets with sweat. Michael made to rub the sleep from his eyes but paused as his hand felt resistance; he looked to find that Sobriquet had arrived during the night, and was lying partially atop his left arm.

Michael’s heart beat faster still as a flurry of nightmare images flashed through his mind, visions of blood dripping slowly down from the bunk, Sobriquet’s body lying broken from a casual movement of his hand-

But it had not happened. With an effort, his breathing slowed. Michael set aside his fear, for there was no more danger. He set aside his anger at Sobriquet, for sleeping recklessly close; they could talk before sleep came again, and find a safer arrangement. There had been no disaster - today.

He let his breath out slowly and withdrew his arm, leaning over to kiss her gently on the forehead. She grumbled, her brow furrowing, but did not wake. Michael stood and contemplated his rumpled, slept-in clothing.

It was passable. He yawned and eased his way out into the hall, stumbling towards the mess and, he hoped, an adequate amount of coffee.

When he dragged himself from the mess line, food and a steaming cup of fulfilled expectations in hand, he was only mildly-surprised to find Vernon already in a seat. Michael chuckled and walked over to sit beside the auditor.

“Do you ever leave the mess?” Michael asked.

Vernon gave him a sly smile in return. “Why should I?” he asked. “The food is here, and it’s one of the better places on the ship to eavesdrop.”

“You do know that we’re supposed to be allies with the Mendiko,” Michael said around a mouthful of tepid eggs. “It’s poor form to spy on them.”

“Spying is such a loaded term.” Vernon sipped his own coffee. “I can hardly be blamed for overhearing something while I enjoy my breakfast.”

Michael shook his head, finding a smile despite the hour. “And have you?” he asked. “Overheard anything, that is.”

The auditor shrugged. “We’re on track to leave the city today,” he said. “Ground forces are packing up, they’ve designated a few detachments to stay and continue relief work until the navy arrives in force tomorrow. The rest of us are to head inland, north-west, towards the new Safid front.”

“Won’t that be fun.” Michael looked into his mug, seeing his own face peering back. “It feels wrong to leave so soon after the attack. The city is still devastated.”

Vernon shrugged. “That’s why the navy is coming. We can’t spare any medical staff for Imes; the anatomentes were largely out in the field when the gas hit.” He paused, cradling his mug. “But you know that.”

Michael nodded absently, his thoughts straying to what would likely be an awkward conversation later - a pair of them, hopefully. “Heard anything about Leire?” he asked. “I talked with her yesterday, she’s still as - intractable as ever.”

“Nothing concrete,” Vernon said, waggling his fingers noncommittally. “She doesn’t leave her quarters save for meetings with Antolin. What she did was controversial among the rank and file, but not as much as you might expect.” The auditor raised his eyebrow. “There are a fair number of people who blame you, rather than her, for the five men who died.”

“Me?” Michael asked, setting his fork down upon the table. “How did they reach that conclusion?”

“You forced Leire’s hand with your habit of showing mercy to enemies. She had determined that Galen needed to die, you resisted the idea, she was forced to improvise and things - got out of hand.” Another sip. “Is what they’re saying. Not everyone, obviously, but a few of the more bloody-minded soldiers prefer her brand of pragmatism to your more-forgiving stance.”

Michael made a face, looking down at his tray. “I suppose they’d prefer that I sweep in and - what, engage in a spot of indiscriminate slaughter?”

“Precisely that,” Vernon replied. “This is a war, after all, and in such scenarios you’re going to find a fair amount of support for the idea of killing the enemy.” He shrugged. “A fair amount of support for what you’ve been doing, of course, but there are arguments on both sides. The faction that favored restraint was in the majority before the attack on Imes.”

Michael felt a chill along his spine, radiating out to his limbs; he flexed his left hand restlessly against the tingling in his fingers. “And now?” he asked.

“Too early to say for sure.” Vernon turned his head to the side for a moment, frowning, then sat back in his chair. “People are angry. Justifiably so. The Mendiko hadn’t taken any significant losses prior to Imes. It’s different when it’s your own people dying.”

There was a pause; Michael gave Vernon an evaluating look. “I sense an unspoken comment about the count of Daressan dead far exceeding the Mendiko tally.”

Vernon shrugged. “I’m angry,” he said. “As angry as I was after Leik, or my own hometown, or a hundred other villages you’ve never heard of. Been angry for years. Today isn’t much different.” He slumped back in his chair, then frowned again, cocking his head.

Michael leaned forward. “Something up?” he asked. “That’s the second time you’ve done that.”

“You mentioned that you wanted to see Luc?” Vernon asked.

“I did mention it to Unai,” Michael said, giving the auditor a flat look. “When did your range get so good?”

“Metal ship,” Vernon chuckled. “Conducts sound like you wouldn’t believe. Bad when we’re in the air, but - ah, anyway. Luc is awake. I can hear him talking with Unai.” He raised an eyebrow. “Want to know what they’re talking about?”

“It’s presumably a private conversation-”

“They’re talking about you,” Vernon said, cutting Michael off.

Michael held eye contact for a few moments before sighing and waving Vernon on. “You’re just going to keep taunting me with it if I say no, so go ahead.”

Vernon snorted, but did not smile. “He’s asking Unai if you were the one who ordered him brought back to the ship. Unai said no, that he did it - and Luc has some thoughts for him about that. Not a happy man.”

The words robbed Michael of any remaining levity, leaving him feeling weary once more despite the early hour. “I expected as much,” Michael sighed. “He was looking forward to a fresh start. To have it end like it did…”

“Unhappy is an understatement,” Vernon frowned. “He said some unkind things about Leire, too, and Unai took exception to that. Raised voices on both sides.” He paused, the lines on his face deepening, before looking up at Michael. “I was content to eavesdrop, but we may want to head over there.”

Michael blinked, rising from his chair a moment after Vernon. “You’re serious?” he asked. “You think - what, that Luc’s going to come to blows with Unai? He loves the man.”

Vernon led the way down the airship’s twisting corridors, his mouth pressed into a line. “I don’t hear much love in his voice.”

“Sera?” Michael said, listening expectantly as he walked. “Sera?” A few footsteps later, he scowled and turned to Vernon. “She was still sleeping when I left. Go to my quarters and wake her? Let her know what’s going on.”

“Right.” Vernon gave him a sharp nod and peeled off down a side corridor; Michael redoubled his pace. The airship was labyrinthine, and the mess was far aft of Leire’s suite, but the early hour saw few people obstructing his path - and those that spotted him quickly stepped aside.

He felt the flare of fear and anger from far down the hall. It pulsed once, peaked - and then subsided to nothing as he rounded the final bend, leaving him staring at the silent, closed door to the suite. He did not knock, opening it and striding into the room. The lock gave a scream of rending metal as it broke; afterwards there was quiet, save for Michael’s pulse thundering in his ears.

“Luc?” he called out, taking a tentative step into the deserted stateroom. Michael sent his sight questing outward, towards the door to Unai’s quarters-

Something impacted the side of his head; he felt a cool solidity spreading across his face. His hand came up by instinct but felt only a hard, smooth surface. It was all he had time to register before the liquid pressure slithered across his cheek, darting into Michael’s mouth.

His eyes flew wide as the substance flooded across his tongue, blocking his throat. Visions of Galen struggling for air flitted through his mind, sparking with panic, he made to claw at his obstructed lips but found his hand immobile. All thought of restraint left him; he strained and felt his arm come free with a great cracking sound.

Shards of crystal glass scattered across the floor as his fingers slid over the smooth shell now encasing his head. He punched at it, managing only to daze himself. Polyps of the glass stretched out to grab at his hand, miring it in a thick sheath that prevented all movement.

Michael found himself totally immobile - but able to breathe, as the glass had stopped short of obstructing his airway. He heaved shallow, panicked breaths through his nose as he freed his sight to dart around the room.

He did not have to search long. Luc stepped out from behind a curtain, trailing strands of crystal connecting his bare right hand to the glass divider that had enmeshed Michael within itself. His eyes were reddened, his cheeks drawn and pale; despite his recent long sleep, he looked exhausted. Over his clothes he wore Unai’s heavy leaden apron.

“We can’t seem to stay away from each other, yes?” Luc rasped. “I tried. It shouldn’t be this hard. It shouldn’t take this much struggle to find peace.” He took a step forward, letting the crystal threads drop from his fingers. “But you are what you are.”

Michael tried to speak around the mass of crystal filling his mouth but found that he couldn’t; the impossibility of the moment slid by unremarked in his mind, his nerves thrilled with the panic of immobility. He tried to flex, to bite the crystal, but he could muster no leverage against it.

“You try so hard,” Luc continued, touching another pane of crystal; it flowed over the door to the hall, sealing it. “And you’re right. I want to see the world you’re striving for, Michael. But it’s too much, too quickly - yes?”

Luc met Michael’s eyes for a moment; the spike of pain and raw, gibbering fear was almost incapacitating. “Change means death; and what you seek to change pushes back,” Luc murmured. “It can’t hope to win, because again: you are what you are. But it will try. The world fights you at every turn, and in the middle are - people.” He balled his fists. “Quiet, innocent people, not the monsters you’re trying to root out. And I can’t help them, I can’t make a difference because every time I try, every time I work to put some good back into the world, it all gets washed away in the storm of your passing.”

Michael’s attention was only half on Luc’s bitter words; his focus turned to Stanza. Words formed in his mind and buzzed half-said in his throat, but the glass remained intractable, impenetrable as rock to the attentions of his soul. He gave a grunt of frustration, straining with his muscles fruitlessly before sagging back into the crystal around him.

“But I realized something when I was hiding,” Luc said, paying no heed to Michael’s struggles. “Watching all of my patients die, my friends at the camp. I can’t change anything with small, quiet acts of service. They can’t exist in such a violent time.” He paced out of the room, through the space where the divider used to be, and disappeared around a corner.

“It should have been a balanced change,” his voice came, muffled by the distance. “To let the world find peace with its new shape. To focus the violence where it must fall, and spare the rest. But you’re surrounded by people telling you the opposite. Do more, push faster. Shatter the current order no matter the cost. And in the end, with her soul secured-”

Luc returned to view, crystal once again trailing from his hands; it linked back to a large mass that slid along the ground. It was thick enough that Michael did not recognize Leire’s form inside until Luc brought her close. He could only see a small patch of her face still visible, a bruise darkening the papery skin around one eye. She did not wake.

“You would become,” Luc said softly, his lip trembling, “a cataclysm. One the world is too fragile to bear.”

Panic thrilled through Michael as he saw her, spidering through his nerves and rending whatever focus he had summoned to guide his soul. He strained again against the glass, then in desperation relaxed his grip on Vincent’s soul.

It grew utterly dark in the room; at the same time Michael felt heat begin to collect in the glass around him.

Luc paused, then shook his head. Michael watched in the golden sketch of mirrorlight as he knelt beside Leire, then looked up. Even absent light, his eyes seemed empty, boundless, the fear within him flooding through Michael with numb abandon.

“I don’t blame either of you,” Luc murmured. “None of us can help but be who we are.” He reached up with his right hand and drew the glove off his left. Michael saw his own wayward fingers tremble as they were bared.

“It’s why I could never find that balance I sought,” Luc whispered. “Because I was afraid. I was afraid to admit - after Claude, even after Gerard’s soul came to me, I still thought I could be quiet. Peaceful, even as I denied the world what only I could give. An outlet, a rod for the storm.” He smiled, tears rolling down his face. “False hope.”

The crystal was burning Michael’s clothing now. He smelled smoke and burnt hair, the pain of it beginning to seep through even the protection of Galen’s soul; he felt the saliva on his tongue boil. He flexed his arm and thought he felt some give, but the immobilizing mass of crystal held fast.

Intrusive, slithering, the thought of attacking Luc stepped into his head. Michael’s mind rebelled against it almost as quickly; he could not accept it. Immobile, mute, an unrefined, uncontrolled use of Spark was the only option left - and the mere thought of what that would entail sent a wave of shuddering revulsion through him.

He pushed the thought aside angrily and strained - then froze as Luc reached down to touch his bare fingers to Leire’s cheek. She made a soft, strangled noise; Michael saw the golden lines of her form shiver, twist - and dim, the light from her body’s filigree flooding upward to collect in Luc’s mismatched hand.

Dawn broke amid the darkness.

It was irresistible; Michael found himself staring as a gentle glow emanated from Luc’s form, overwhelming what Vincent’s soul could absorb; at the same time he felt the heat surge within him. He poured it into the glass, feeling it sag against him even as the glowing crystal scorched his skin.

Luc looked down at his hands, his lambent eyes torn between disbelief and the exhilaration of panic; his voice was thready with adrenaline. “You were right, in the end,” he whispered, his tears refracting light across the room. “None of us can stand aside.”

Michael strained against the glass and felt it give, red-hot shards of it tumbling forward as his arm came free, the scraps of his clothing and hair alight; he stumbled forward in little more than his smoking boots.

When the light returned to the room, Luc was not there. Michael burst through into Leire’s room to find the windows cast wide, a tapering strand of crystal bending down out of sight. He vaulted the railing, falling into open air for an uncomfortable span of time before the ground rushed up with thundering force.

He met it upright, his feet slamming to the packed soil amid a cloud of dust. A nearby soldier stared at him; it occurred to Michael that he was effectively nude, his body scorched, smoke curling up from the smoldering ruin of his boots. He put the thought from his mind, scanning frantically for Luc.

“Sera!” he shouted.

“Vernon just barged in, what-” Sobriquet’s voice came irritably from beside him, dull with fatigue before it cut off suddenly. “Oh,” she said. There was another pause. “Oh, fuck.”

Michael spat blood and char into the dirt. “Where is he?” he rasped. “He can’t have gotten far.”

“Everything is muddled,” she replied. “The pieces moving are too big, too heavy. He’s - going towards the coast, I think, but I couldn’t tell you much more than that.”

Michael turned to look towards the city harbor in the distance, the dark and glittering spread of ocean. “Fine. Tell Antolin. I’ll see-” He stumbled, his boot sloughing off one foot; Michael found himself sprawled in the dirt. His head was light, flickering with sound and color.

“Michael, listen to me,” Sobriquet’s voice came. “I need you to stay where you are until the medics arrive. They’re on their way.”

He clenched his jaw, feeling glass shards grind between his teeth; his attempt to stand left him half-crouched and staggering. “We need to find him, Sera,” he said. “What he could do-”

“I know.” Sobriquet’s voice was calm, deadly. “But you need to listen to what I’m telling you, Michael. Sit down and wait for the medics.”

“I-” Michael fell back to the dirt, slouching to the side; for a moment he could not tell which way was up. He dimly registered that his remaining boot was on fire. “I’ll stay.”

“Thank you,” Sobriquet said. “Just hold on-”

Her words blurred into indistinct roaring in Michael’s ears. He looked instead out towards the port, to the distant sea. It shimmered with a thousand points of reflected light; in his blurring vision, each tiny star bore Luc’s face.