YOU ARE SEARCHING FOR A GOD IN THESE HOLLOW HALLS, BITTER BLOOD BEHIND YOUR TEETH. HEAVEN HELP US, SAYS YOUR UNHOLY MOUTH, YOUR HANDS ON MY HANDS. I DON'T KNOW WHERE DARKNESS ENDS AND YOU BEGIN. PROPHETS SANG OF YOU, MOLDED IN YOUR FATHER'S IMAGE. I AM NOT SURE WHEN THEY STOPPED.
Anywhere can be my home, stranger.
The novelty of it.
This is where he ought to let the amusement of it—bitter though it may be—shine through him as if genuine. This is where he ought to smile.
So he smiles, and it is real, and pleasant, and gold.
“Charming,” he says. And it is. A charming idea. One that has never possessed him, one that he never thought possible. What is a life without discipline? Without belonging? Without identity—
Is he not learning? Is that not now his life?
She mentions a price and the smile fades into something simultaneously sharper and more worn. A blade, blunted by combat. He does not believe her wink to be anything aside a business deal in that moment, but Vercingtorix does not mind. “What makes you think I am from a world that is not here?” he says it in a way that is full of darkness; perforated with incense and closed bedroom doors, the sound of ruffled silk sheets. But he is first and foremost a gentleman and he withdraws just enough to assess her properly; she is exotic; petite; elegant. His people do not believe in whimsy; but she is nothing except whimsy.
“If I were to tell you of a world that is not this world, I would tell you of a place with black cliffs terrorised by monster horses.” He is not a storyteller; Vercingtorix cannot help but sound as if he is recounting hard facts, unemotional and clipped. “It is a place ruled by the sea and Old Gods; and horses come from the ocean to reap the living; and the living fight them with gold and silver and copper, because metals are too heavy for the monster’s Souls, and it binds them to one shape instead of many.” He winks then and it is the same calculating gesture, as if to say, is that enough. “Does that world satisfy you, dancer?”
Vercingtorix steps almost to the side of her, so their shoulders are level. He turns his head to keep her in his sights and asks, “And are you from many worlds?”
It is a dream. He is certain of it; it is too fanciful a conversation to be real. They are discussing worlds as if they exist! The fire flickers beyond her shoulder, and for a moment, he almost believes the possibility. There is something about her briefly, transiently, he finds familiar… but familiar in the way the wild is familiar to all wild things, familiar in the way that dreams are always recognisable as such. "My name is Torix, by the way. I apologise for not introducing myself sooner."
HEAVEN HELP US, BUT NO ONE IS ANSWERING. YOU PROMISED ME AN EMPIRE ONCE, OR HAVE YOU FORGOTTEN THAT TOO? BUILD ME ONE NOW, WITH YOUR HEART AS THE CITADEL, MINE AS THE CATHEDRAL. YOUR HANDS THE CITY WALLS, MINE THE CANNON. EVEN HEAVEN CANNOT HELP US NOW.
