Quill woke languidly, savoring the warmth of his bed before stepping out to retrieve the paper in his blue robe. He pondered, as he tied the sash, his near-universally blue attire. Once upon a time, he had been young and full of ideals, and the Virtue of the Student, whose color was blue, had appealed to him. He had made it into a persona, a declaration of allegiance. The focus on the mind only increased when he became an Incarnate, trying to meditate away the distinction between himself and the world around him. Potentially a heretical faith, as so many wits would try to claim, but the Black Queen herself had heard the arguments of the Wholist Incarnate teacher Silent Voice that it was simply an elaboration on existing doctrine. That, of course, was in Fief. The Sevens were significantly more tolerant of religious differences, Spirithome was almost entirely Paxite, and Mind, in the land not returned to the original inhabitants, was purely and simply Incarnate or… he sighed mentally. Drachist. A popular branch of the Incarnate faith that held dragonhood as the final step in a soul’s journey to, depending on whether they were Wholist, either go to Heaven or simply transcend existence and subsume into the whole of reality. Never mind that dragons didn’t hold particularly well to the ideals of Incarnate or Wholist faith… his mind scratched like a pen nib breaking and drawing a line across a page of print, and he abruptly found himself inside preparing breakfast with the paper on the table. The dough was already made, and he was mincing hare, onion, and mushrooms. There would be no necessity of lunch being made, Glue was reasonably well-off and enjoyed treating, and that evening he would be having dinner with his moms Kweeleh and Plotarc. Not that he ever thought of them by those names? He shook his head. Sometimes the workings of his own mind were a mysterious opaqueness.
In the paper, announcement of an investigation was a painfully redundant indicator that they had no idea who had bombed the Earth Guild. Evidently the pleasant young man Quill had met had sustained a concussion among his other injuries, and could remember little of that day. Quill thought to himself that the bomber was fortunate indeed to be forgotten. There was, of course, the schedule of the guildmistress, which Parchment would doubtless remember at least in part, but based on her absence during the bombing she had no appointments just then. Only paperwork, reduced to ash. He did hope the lens of suspicion did not turn towards Parchment herself, though he couldn’t say why it would when she was a dragon loyalist with a direct patron in Tome.
The weather that day, between its two modes of ash and snow, was a rain of hot ash from the volcano from which Coldpass derived its heating. Not relishing getting ash stains out of his coat, he took the direct route to work that day, not wandering up the alley as he did some mornings, and set about wrangling cats. Leather was on time and dutifully attending to her duties, but several of his regulars were entirely missing even an hour into their shifts. Presumably, the ash was aggravating allergies and making travel hazardous for those without attire suited to not catching fire. It was something many newcomers to Coldpass didn’t realize, Denouement included, now that Quill considered it, was that while it was cold, the “rain” was on occasion very hot, and could melt or ignite thinner fabrics. Then again, he hadn’t gotten a good look at Denouement’s jacket; it could well have been branded with runes to render it immune to ashfall as well. He would have to inquire.
But first, he had to reassign tasks to his remaining volunteers, or see to them himself. He was still immersed in the last of these when he realized his normal meeting time with Denouement had passed, and the time Glue preferred was fast approaching. While Quill preferred to meet with a paucity of people around, Glue found anonymity and inconspicuousness in the hubbub of many people. Quill quirked an eyebrow. Curious concerns, for a librarian and a doctor, but then he was a man who carried the city-legal dueling foil and Glue knew more offensive forms of air sorcery than they generally let on. Perhaps, he thought wryly, we are a little too cautious. A voice piped up, the same one that told him to cool his head with Denouement, that one could never be too cautious, one could only be cautious enough. He noted it with amusement, but did check that he had secured his foil to his hip that morning before heading to lunch.
Glue had already ordered for them by the time Quill arrived, and was immersed in discussion with Denouement about the finer points of air sorcery, a subject with which she seemed to be intimately acquainted. Quill noted that today Denouement had a heavy coat folded next to her at the booth. Trying to catch up with the topic at hand, he made the small blood offering his axiom of lore required, so that he might draw upon her expertise and keep up with the conversation. This was not so much because he was going to take part in crafting the equipment Denouement needed as a desire to appear competent in front of her, the better to impress her with his intellect while he had the opportunity. Glue caught his eye and raised an eyebrow at the motes of light sealing the small wound, but returned to their conversation with Denouement without comment. Glue understood Quill’s need both to understand and to impress upon others his understanding. It was a driving urge that got him through even the most arduous of foolish questions, he reminded himself not to call others fools even if they were, was the hope of helping others understand. The free lore the library made available was the great appeal of the occupation to him.
A stew of boar, with carrots, onions, and potatoes accompanied milk curd buns and a small sampler plate of game meat with cranberries. They were doing respectably well eating their way through it when Denouement said something that made Quill’s blood run cold. “I had the most curious encounter this morning. This man with bangs, obviously covering an old scar,” though he had no memory of having considered such a thing, Quill found himself nodding in agreement without an ounce of pretense, “presented me with a bouquet of flowers and said I had best leave off my business with ‘the librarian,’ I assume that to be you, Quill. He asked if he might treat me to lunch, leering as he did so. When I told him that I was already having lunch, ‘with the librarian,’ his demeanor went from a sticky attempt at charm to open hostility. He thrust the flowers against my chest and growled that I would regret continued pigheadedness before stalking off. Given the nature of our business,” again the word skidded off Quill’s mind without contemplation, “I thought you might want to know.”
Glue looked sharply at Quill, who nodded. They asked permission, lit incense with their fire runes, and then placed a few fingers against Denouement’s temple. The smoke bent unnaturally to chimney up Glue’s arms and spiral around their fingers where they touched Denouement’s head. After a few moments, they nodded and affirmed that it was Burner. Despite having only recently made his acquaintance… or had he? In any event, the name filled Quill with immediate dread despite fuzzy memories of his own encounter. They asked when Quill was free, and he replied that he had dinner with his moms that night and a busy half day that Saturday, but he could do a late lunch tomorrow. Glue gnawed at a lip before shaking their head. They would retrieve Parchment and meet with Denouement that night if she would accede.
You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.
Denouement nodded, and then asked Glue, “So this Burner. He needs air sorcery?” Glue cocked their head as though considering something momentous, before shaking their head. “But surely, if he’s dangerous enough that we need to meet this very evening, and you propose that any and all criminal natures can be ‘cured’ through the application of air sorcery, the foundation of Power of Engel’s is that Burner simply needs to be treated.” Quill was impressed. Either Denouement had read some of Glue’s treatises, dense reading to say the least, or he had entirely missed her presence at their lecture at Dragon Tales. Glue hemmed and hawed. “The premise of a Sanatorium for the Criminally Insane is that crime is either survival crime or, by your own statements, curable. At the very least, shouldn’t Burner be in your Sanatorium if he goes about accosting people?” The subject was making Glue uncomfortable, and Quill shared his friend’s discomfort. Something in the unease said to him that it really would be best that Glue and Parchment meet with Denouement as soon as possible, even if he would prefer that he be in attendance. “I would be happy to meet you for lunch tomorrow, Quill. Our business is all but concluded, and I believe I heard you mutter something about business before pleasure?” Glue guffawed, and Quill colored, nodding. “Well, we can discuss business. I’ll need to deliver whatever I find, presumably not to Dragon Tales directly?” Quill nodded, finding the prospect of lunch with Denouement almost as agreeable as his impending evening with his moms.
Back at the library, things were a circus with the short staffed library, but Quill managed well enough. Nearly a positive interaction, if not for the certainty he specifically had been sought out, a patron asking where they kept their books on Incarnism. Quill explained the book organizational system, receiving a blank stare, before sighing and showing them the books on Incarnism on the shelves, just to the left of the books on the Wholist faith. The encounter concluded, he acknowledged that it was, in itself, not a particularly arduous exchange. Dinner with his moms, however, was enough to make him look eagerly towards the end of the day.
Quill took a circuitous route to the residence held by his moms, ducking through more than one alley and stopping in three crowded shops. However, he was not one sandglass late when he finally arrived at the squat, perhaps even ugly stone building, with nonetheless cheerfully candlelit windows. “Mama! Mother!” Quill declared joyously as his moms opened the door to their small, but comfortable, home. It was covered in the detritus of women who enjoyed craftwork; doilies, cross stitch, and quilts adorned nearly every surface. An otherwise generic set of furniture was made personal and warm in a way he acknowledged his own apartment lacked. When they inquired as to the health of their “baby boy” he laughed and told them he was well.
His mother, the one who had not given birth but had by all other measures mothered him, commented as she did every time on the foil he wore at his hip. “I know you don’t approve, Mother, but it’s necessary.” Because being a librarian was such a dangerous business. Quill sighed, and shook his head. He couldn’t explain habitually going around armed, and he suspected that even if he could, the answer would only worry his moms even more. Dropping it with one last reproving glance, they ushered him over to the dinner table. As only mothers could, they had prepared his favorite dishes, perfect through rose-colored glasses they might be, but perfection was perfection. A stew of carrots and fried, breaded fish, pierogi which revealed his own as a pale imitation, and a foam of eggs, honey, and cream for dessert. He didn’t visit his moms as often as he would like, avoiding times of strife in Coldpass and somehow unwilling to make a regular habit of any particular day to visit them.
At his Mama’s prompting, respectfully reserved until he was halfway through his dessert, he told them about business at Dragon Tales, sharing everything from the aggravation of a thousand stinging questions about his faith, “They’re not even asking in bad faith all the time, it’s just… to have the conversation over and over and over is so draining. It’s like… well, I imagine it’s like my own ‘why’ phase when I was a child,” to the concern over Leather’s unreliability when it came to assigning tasks. They listened attentively, and despite himself and his previous certainty, he felt like he was holding something back. After a few moments of silence, he decided it was Denouement, the wounds of his old boyfriend still fresher than he might like. “I met a woman through work. She’s… doing some work for the… library.” The words came out clunky, meeting some internal resistance. He felt like he was lying, but had no idea why. He moved on to less uncomfortable aspects of their interaction. “She’s richer than me, but not ostentatious. I have a great deal of respect for her mind. She’s incisive, and witty. From what little we’ve talked about things outside of business.” His Mother smiled and commented that it was good for him to be showing interest in someone again, after the “unfortunate business” of his previous relationship.
As if sensing his discomfort with the topic, Mama heaped another portion of foam into his bowl and said he clearly needed to eat more. The comment made him smile. Mama always felt he had leaned just a little too far into gaunt with his lean, athletic duelist’s frame. Which, on that subject, he really ought to review his forms more often. Lately all the exercise he had gotten were his brisk walks around the city. He resolved to review them during Saturday’s half day, and make a habit of it. He chuckled, realizing he had done so out loud when his moms prompted him to explain. “Oh, just adding one more habit to my sundry others, wondering how long it will take me to forget why I started it. I’m going to take my half day tomorrow to practice my fencing forms. Which, yes, Mother, I know you don’t approve, but it’s good exercise and it’s not as though I go about fighting people. It’s simply…” he was at loss for a good explanation, ultimately settling on, “simply a habit.” His moms, being moms, did not let the evening end on a down note. Though they knew he would not accept a homey touch for his apartment, they did give him leftovers of both the stew and the dessert, gifts he would both treasure and savor. As he headed home, he felt a pervading sense of peace.
When he got home, he mentally added laundry to the list of tasks to which he would have to apply himself on Saturday. It was stacking up to be a full day, with a half day of work, lunch with Denouement, not that he would cancel that, fencing forms, and laundry, but at least he wouldn’t have to cook with the generous portions of leftover food his moms had given him. He settled down under his wool blanket, and thought again of whether he could trouble his moms for just one quilt to add to his humble apartment, his last conscious thought an unexplained and uncompromising “no.”
