The worst part about all the beggars loitering in the streets is all the eyes. Taking the sidepath off Garagan Street, Morello hunches forward, his tall frame stooping. It doesn’t help much; the destitution throughout Danfalla has reached the point that the sorry souls languishing in the gutter would consider even his threadbare coat and worn boots a luxury. No one cares about these people, least of all him, but just walking down the street might create threads leading back to him sticks in his craw.
A man, drunk by the stink of him, lies in his path. His blank face stares up at the sky, lungs struggling in his thin chest. Morello stops, looking down at him, knowing the state of the man to be pitiful, and trying to remember what pity feels like. After a few seconds of failing, he leaves his introspection behind, grabbing the beggar by the tan cloth that might generously be called a shirt and hurling him from the alley. Weak and starving the beggar might be, but there is still enough life left in the man to scamper away when he looks back into the dark and sees Morello leering at him.
There is never quite a hush in Danfalla, but a stillness overtakes the alleyway after a few beats. Morello waits a while longer, watching people pass the mouth of the alley. A few curious glances are thrown inside, the bright sun shining down on the street blinds passersby from finding him in the dark.
He loiters until the bell in the tower at Saint Cresslius’ Chapel begins to ring, the tinkling noise discordant to his taste, but it draws the attention of those on the street. Quick as a whip, the window at his feet is unlatched, and he slides inside like a boneless eel.
The cellar is a brown dark, just a sliver of light cast inside by the alleyway window. Morella moves by feel, not bothering to make his eyes better, all of his focus on his muttering. His body acts almost like a separate entity, something subordinate to his mind, something meant to carry out his instructions without requiring his attention.
“Gods damned errands,” Morello murmurs, his boot confidently swinging out to catch the first of the unseen steps. Inside the house, he no longer bothers to make himself inconspicuous, letting his annoyance bleed out into the sound of his boots clomping against the aged wood. “I shouldn’t have to do this shit. I wasn’t promised a world of hiding in cellars and skulking. I’m supposed to be a fucking king. Wasn’t that what he said? You will be a king…”
He stops for a moment, that old name just on the tip of his tongue, his boot brushing the final step. “Fuck it.”
The cellar door leads into a small kitchen on the first floor of the house. The basin stands at the far wall, the porcelain still clean and white beneath a planter set into a window. Three pink flowers wilt there, straining to take in what light falls in after a wooden board has been laid against the exterior of the house. Morello takes a moment to pause, contemplating the flowers, tempted for a moment to go outside and throw off whatever vagrants are camping against the house. It would be a bad idea, but it is a tempting one. Instead, he pulls a tin pail from a cupboard set against one wall. Crystal water, warm now but still clean, sloshes inside as he makes a circuit about the room. Methodically, Morello takes his time, pulling a sponge from the pail and cleaning every speck of dust and grime that has accumulated in the room since his last visit just a few days ago.
His trip around the house with the pail takes little time. It’s an annoyance, but Tsaava kept her home austere, not much furniture other than what was necessary to get by with. Morello can admire that; he’d never been one for decoration himself. No, that had been his father’s bent, a collector of bullshit, each new knicknack or salvaged rocking chair more worth to him than his son. The wrenching sound of metal pulls him out of the memory. He looks down to see one side of the pail bent, an imprint of his fingers left in the metal.
Strange that Sigrid should say he already had the hardest part under control. He couldn’t bring himself to believe her on that, claiming that the most difficult aspect of conquering the change had been accepting her new body. That had never been an obstacle for him; how could it be? His body was now more under his control than a pen was in the hand. It even carried out the orders he knew would be best left alone.
He tsks, tossing the bent pail onto Tsaava’s bed after emptying the dirty water into the planter. Tsaava’s bedroom was the most decorated part of the home: a nice bed left made and covered with velvet sheets, a full-length mirror standing against the eastern wall, three wardrobes, the left one full of well-pressed uniforms, and a large chest left locked at the foot of the bed. Morello made the last of his usual round, changing the flowers in the vase sitting on the chest. They did very little for the smell, but there wasn’t much that could be done about that.
His reflection in the mirror sneers back at him when he finally addresses it. He was a handsome man, no one could deny that. Every feature of his face was perfectly sculpted to look both strong and inviting; noble, yet weathered by the world. He always saw the lie in it, the hate hiding inside the eyes. It was a wonder no one else ever saw it. Maybe they were all lying.
Raising a hand, his fingers play with the air, shifting shape and color, a multitude in seconds. Sigrid had to be lying. He already knew she was a lying bitch, so why not be lying about this as well. She promised to share the secrets of claiming the full power of the change with him. That was the only reason he stayed with her, let her do with him what she wanted, but even after so many months, he is still no closer to claiming that last piece.
He had the body conquered, and he was convinced that most of the others did as well, though they hid it from each other. It was the realization of the soul that held him back, kept him one step below Sigrid. She liked it that way; he knew that well. Everyone else saw a fearless leader, a schemer who liked to stand back, but he knew the true woman. She just liked control. There was no chance she would ever help him with that last step. He’d have to find it in secret, and the moment he did, he would have to kill her. But those are thoughts for a different time.
His blue eyes stare back at him from the mirror. The color changes, slowly shifting to a brilliant green as the irises grow subtly larger. It was a detail most missed, yet all he ever heard was fawning over how beautiful elves were. The remembrance made him want to spit. People don’t understand what it is they blindly admire; they just follow the pull of their groins, making idols out of races they placed above themselves. Morello saw it all, the slight emphasis of the eyes, the way they tended to canter forward, how their hair was either utterly straight or curled, never anything in between. They were creatures of precision, beautiful to people only because they never encountered too many of them. Once those ignorant wrenches who toiled in swampy mud all day to rake in grains of rice met more than a dozen of the “fairer” race, they would see the sameness, and they would lose interest.
The eyes took him the longest, maybe an entire second to get right. They were a vibrant green, somehow brighter than anything in the weak light of the room and carrying an almost imperceptible sparkle that might make you think there were real flecks of copper in the irises from certain angles. The rest followed immediately after, a loss of six and a half inches in height, more than a hundred pounds vanishing into thin air, his tight-cut brown hair growing long and flaxen, just a touch of platinum to hint at some lost noble lineage.
Then, it was Tsaava standing in the mirror, wearing an old coat far too large for her, once-fitting pants pooling around her ankles. She kicks the clothes away, tossing them into a corner before fetching more water from the basin to clean herself with. The filth of the outside world sticks to her, making her skin crawl now where it had been just another accessory moments before.
An alien mind moves behind shining green eyes, watching the water form droplets on the tips of her fingers, pooling on the underside of her nails before finally running off. There was something about hands, something the mind was missing. Then, her eyes narrow on her nails, watching as they begin to shift in color, red, pink, green, black, and finally settling on a lavender with a glossy finish. The satisfaction she feels in the choice stabs a discordant note in her mind. Tsaava hates having her nails painted; it is Morello who likes the look on women.
She would need to readjust before leaving.
The only thing that Tsaava ever splurged on was her cosmetics. The mind behind the body found interest in developing the skill of applying powders in precise layers, of drawing lines on the face with pencils designed for the purpose. The mind had the skill, had stolen it away weeks ago, but there was still something to refining it with the hands of the body. Tsaava only realized the order was wrong when she stepped away from the mirror of her vanity, finding the cosmetics perfectly in place but the body naked besides. She needs a readjustment.
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The uniforms in the closet sit snugly, the lieutenant’s insignia on her collar gleaming and polished. She admires herself one last time before moving to leave the room, stopping at the chest just before the bed, painted fingers scratching lightly on the wood. A wisp of a soul long departed reached up toward her, seeping through the heavy lid as easily as the stench does. Tsaava shivers, breathing in the lingering energies, the memories held within helping to bring her back in focus, aligning the mind behind her eyes with the persona.
Sigrid said that taking in this way from the long dead was a dangerous choice, but Tsaava never felt any misgivings about it. She raps her knuckles on the lid of the chest. “We will get you nice and buried soon enough. Just hold out a bit longer. I promise that I’ll even make you look pretty for the occasion.”
The light striking her eyes as she exits her home causes real pain, the sudden transition too much to take all at once. It was something humans didn’t know elves had to deal with. Everyone has their little problems. The stab of pain is drowned out by the sense of oneness that runs like a river through the streets of Danfalla, the thrum of magical congregation the city itself is built upon. After all, Tsaava is an elf, and it was the elves who found these places to build so that they might recline in their homes, soaking in the power of the world without needing to lift a finger. The rush was intoxicating, but the mind behind the eyes knew that Tsaava should never show it. A true elf of Danfalla would have long grown accustomed to the magic seeping up from the cobblestones; they would have grown bored with it by now.
She focused on that, the most powerful and useful tool to keep a facade in place, boredom at mundanity. A flash of her badge waved the fee for carriage transport to the northern district. Anyone else might have caught attention entering the compound there. The guards would ask questions, there would be checks, but not for her. She had a special position with the duke’s son, and every man at the barracks knew it.
Fas Cla’Mari is in conference with Prince Sagistan when she makes her quiet entrance. The room is beautiful; all of the rooms in Fas’ private estate, the place he has turned into his personal compound to coordinate the defense of the city, are. Never does the man even need to leave his bedchamber to reorganize the defense of the city.
The western dining hall of the manor has been converted into the “war room,” the heads of slain monsters roaring from their mounts on the wall meant to lend an air of legitimacy. Scrolls, mostly bound maps as unused as the day they were purchased, lay in neat stacks on the table while Fal Cla’Mari, the leader of the 5th army, speaks into a pool of liquid metal set out in a bowl before him.
Neither Tsaava nor the mind behind the eyes understands the cost of the device. Certainly, it is the most plainly magical object she has ever seen, able to allow communication with another paired bowl across vast distances. She imagines the expense of it might equal the house alone. As far as she is aware, only the prince and Fas have one. No, that isn’t right. Ferro sniffed out the other two in the city in his strange manner. They are important, as is what she is doing now. She focuses on the conversation in front of her.
“If you think you can make a better appropriation of resources, I would be interested to see your proposal,” Prince Sagistan’s reflection says, looking up from the mirror of liquid metal in the bowl.
“I can create one, though I think the choice is rather obvious. The 4th has seen tough fighting and deserves a respite, but if those men are allowed to sag, it will be a nightmare trying to dislodge them from comfort again. Pressing the attack is the most important step. With a hole in the surround of the beast tide, we can finally create a true front,” Fas Cla’Mari says. His eyes flick up, noting her standing in the doorway, a hint of a smile on his face.
“Normally, I would agree. However, Illigar has sent me copious reports about his engagement around Maidenlake. There is significant evidence that this tide is not so simple as we imagined.”
“Are you certain that the man isn’t trying to cover for his own mistakes? The plan that we all agreed upon was that the armies would move in concert, stabbing at the strong points of this tide simultaneously. Illigar moved weeks ahead of schedule, he was meant to still be clearing the lands around Maidenlake. As a result, the city itself was struck, and the lands around it ruined as beasts rampaged through settlements.”
“I don’t disagree,” the prince says. “I find the action rash. He has promised to enlighten me on his reasoning when next we meet, though I suspect it has something to do with the city’s difficulty in setting up a proper defensive array.”
“Again, his responsibility.”
“I do not need the reminder,” the prince says. “Still, it is my inclination to reassess. Losses have been far greater than projected, though this should still be classified as a mid-tier tide. Information has become rather spotty; our scouts have suffered the greatest losses. There is no push to plow ahead blind.”
“Every day that we do not progress this operation, more of my subjects are slaughtered.” There is no emotion in Fas’ voice as he airs the complaint. Tsaava does not know whether that stems from disinterest or restraint, but she knows it is likely the best move.
“The 5th is more than welcome to wade into the fray. Surely, with the powerful wards up around Danfalla already, you do not require the full might of your house forces there.”
Fas Cla’Mari does well in not balking at the jibe. “The house forces of Cla’Mari are not adventurers,” he says. “We are scholars and duelists. Most of our power is invested in the summoning of demons. We are a defensive force, put here to make sure the seat of the duchy does not fall. Travelling into the wilderness and slaying monsters is the purview of adventurers.”
“Then, perhaps you should leave the fielding of our forces to me,” the prince says. He waits a moment, allowing rebuttal, but receiving none. “What you do with your forces is your business. The house forces of Cla’Mari do not fall into my writ of command, but if you wish to continue operating as an adjunct, you will not go against me.”
“I would never dream of doing so, my prince.”
“You have my full confidence.” The prince nods his head from his side of the mirror. “I will reach out again soon.” With a wave, his image disappears from the mirror, the connection to the other side cut.
“Did it go how you wished?” Tsaava asks, walking with a very conscious gate into the room, taking a seat next to Fas at the once-dining table.
“Hardly,” he says. “Every day that this operation drags on is another mountain of gold that my family loses, another town that is claimed by rampaging beasts, and another day that the branch families try to claw their way into a better position.”
“I agree with you, of course,” Tsaava says, putting the folder of documents she brought all this way on the table before him. “There is good news. Surveying the countryside nearby, we found that monster populations have seemed to thin. Maidenlake is not all that far away, perhaps the victory there helped dissuade the stupid beasts from approaching our larger settlements.”
“Is that the opinion of my scout captain?” Fas asks, taking the folder and leafing through the reports.
“It is. I wouldn’t tell you if I hadn’t seen it myself.” She leans forward, running her fingers along his thigh. The reaction she receives is a slight smirk, a glance of the eyes, but it is enough to know she has his attention. “I fear that they are moving toward the other cities. Perhaps the Prince’s recommendation to move some of the 5th out of the city to support them would be a good idea.”
Fas’ hand falls atop hers, stilling the scratching of her fingers. “No. Not all under my house banners are itching to meet death as much as you are.”
“I have heard that death can have a pretty face, in a certain light.”
He shakes his head. “The last thing we can do is leave this city even lightly defended. Learn from what happened at Maidenlake, and do not mistake it for a victory. The commander there pressed his forces forward, separating them from the populace, leaving them undefended. I will not do that here.”
Tsaava tsks, though the disappointment is feigned. The mind behind her eyes found it difficult to believe what Sigrid had said would happen was, in fact, happening. Tsaava moved on with the script. “You are wise, of course. I just hate being cooped up here.”
“Didn’t you just return from the field?”
“Bah, the field. We only range out so far as Ladisva. Allow my scouts to follow the enemy, to find where they are going. It isn’t as if they can leave the Duchy, we should be able to uncover their movements easily enough. Then, when I can hand you more information, use the 4th to crush them.”
“It isn’t as if I can just wave my hand and command an army under someone else’s banner to march,” Fas laughs.
“I thought you were the Duke’s son.”
“Which means I should be entitled to a much easier life than being in command. I should have a man for that.”
“The position seems to be treating you well. You can have breakfast and field reports all at the comfort of your table.”
He smiles at that, not taking offense. “You really want to leave again, just when I got you back for a time?”
“I can make a short time feel sweet,” Tsaava says.
“Oh, I know you can.” Fas moves his chair around, coming nearer her.
“Will Carmella be joining us today?” Tsaava asks.
“She is out on the town with the children today. It is just us alone here in this drafty house.”
Tsaava smiles, the mind behind the eyes disentangling its attention from the body. The body performs well the commands given to it, no matter how degrading the mind finds them. The manipulation is subtle, but the mind finds it to be effective. Just one more stop today, a trip to one of those branch families mentioned, and then the mind could finally bring itself back, bring Morello back. He would need to purge emotion tonight. Perhaps he would kill two birds with one stone, clear the vagrant out from in front of Tsaava’s house, and allow a bit more light to come in through the window. It was such a sad thing to watch those flowers wilt day after day.
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