A Single Week
A week passed. Alexandra spent an hour fighting the magic that called her back, and for that hour we talked. We talked about memories. The good times. The bad times. I thought… I thought that I had gone through all the stages of grief. I was wrong. Talking to Alexandra was.. what is that word- catharsis- it was a catharsis of the soul.
Elena is in a coma. Without Stella and Kai she would have been dead. Julia Havenius, her mother, spends every waking moment at her side. Pernelle tells me that in a month she will have Philsopher’s Stone ready, and we can bring her back. I… I wonder what she remember. If she remembers… but we can’t know, not yet.
I have, as of this moment, eaten three family-sized pizzas, drunk enough sodas to fill a dam, and I probably average ten-thousand calories each day, and yet I keep on losing weight. I stare into the mirror, and a gaunt refugee from some border-war stares back. Greyscale says that my body will sort it out, but then again he also says he gave a member of the Swedish Royal Family siphilis. Oh, and Verde came back after three days, screaming in my head. Business like usual.
I have dreams. Bad dreams. It’s not just dark outside, this being November and Sweden coupled with the fact that Fallowfell is situated so northerly. I… have something in me.Something dark. I killed an undead. I saw Cordelia Holm being ripped apart. I try to forget. I punch the gym-bag ten-thousand times but I can’t forget. Greyscale says that killing an undead is like closing a door that someone left open, a door that should have been closed. Hermann says nothing, and he has changed. He is neither the accountant nor the legendary Assassin, but the edges of the two seem to blurr.
Kai told me that Merith brought in an Russian archmage and a Greek god to erase the memories of the people who saw the fight. I am not certain I believe him. Gods… believing in magic is easily enough. But gods? I think I’ll believe him when I see one.
They erased the memories of the people who saw the fight, and over the weekend they cleaned up the evidence of the fight. The janitor, the nameless, gruff janitor that gave me the directions to the Athenaeum, were we hold our drama-lessons, is dead. Somehow that hits me. I don’t even knew her name, and now she is dead. Detective Claire is… sniffing around. She can’t find any faults, but that doesn’t mean she won’t try to. The barrowman attacking me, the janitor, who I hear suffered a ‘stroke’, the murders at Ochre, and she seems to have zeroed in on me.
After a week the Council sends a messenger, Yellow Carcosa. I have seen Greyscale take the form of a being that was worshipped as a god once. I have seen witches and werewolves. I am, myself, a berserker and apparently the most junior member of the Flight. At school we have an old alchemist, a former British king, a ancient egyptian magic-user that served the pharaohs and then whatever it is that Gomagog is. I have seen a loa, a werespider and Chiyo Sawamura who has freaking horns like a devil or something. But nobody, nobody unsettled me like Yellow Carcosa.
Imagine a children’s drawing. Picture before you a man with yellow, not blond hair. Teeth whiter than snow. The sleeves of his suit went past his hands. His pants were held around his waist by a red rope. He didn’t wear any shoes, in the middle of November. His skin was luminous, like how a x-rayed cartoon character’s skin might be. He declared to us, me, Greyscale and Hermann that the council would send one of the Seven Swords to examine Fallowfell. It’s official; we’re facing Censure.
It wasn’t until after he left that I called Kai, and that the two of us realized that Yellow Carcosa met each and every supernatural in Fallowfell at the same time…..
Changes come. Changes go. But I will tough them out. I have a family now, of sorts. I have friends. Heck, I got magic on my side. And so whatever happens, I know that can handle it. My name is Rune Fallowfell; and I am not worried anymore.