A Meeting

Renewed, I began creating the great city I now look over with omniscience, drawing it from deep within the earth with my own magic ordained unto me by my father.

Ophelia ignited the last of the lamps for the evening, the street now lined entirely with specks of glowing light as the fires within the glass burned. The rain fell in soft, sporadic sheets, cooling the air and making the night harder to walk through. In the shadows lurked the fiends, as always, and it seemed to Ophelia that more had emerged this evening from the depths of the slums to explore the back alleys and darkened streets freely. There were just as many hearthflies as there were fiends, though. Where there was darkness, a hearthfly hovered, as if sentient.

Ophelia kept the flame on her gas stick lit so that it burned brightly, blanketing her with its warm light. The hearthflies pulsed with their brightly burning cauldrons, keeping her safe.

It’s like they understand…

She quickly pushed her musings of the hearthflies aside and tried once more to focus on her task. She was being distracted quite easily today. Ever since the rescue of the man a day earlier, Ophelia had found it difficult to think clearly. She hoped he was safe and well—all things considered. The Blues did not have a very good past with her. Her brother had been a Blue, and had been killed by the people he had called comrades, and ever since then, she had had much trouble in trusting them. What had she done by rescuing one she had called 'enemy'? She had not thought about it at the time, but by helping one from the order that had killed her brother, was she betraying him?

What would he say?

She began her way down the road. The clock tower nearby chimed six o'clock—an early finish this evening. Ophelia smiled. She was so tired she could collapse to the ground and sleep in the rain if she didn't fear for her life in the city's streets.

She turned into Arring Road fifteen minutes later.

*

Arring Road appeared before Faulkner, lined with conjoined houses, streetlamps and candle-lit windows. There were a few hearthflies too, but most of these kept to the roofline, like a ceiling of glittering lights. As he wandered down the quiet street, he noticed a short, thin LampLighter at the other end of the street, making his way home after a long night's work.

His heart leaped hopefully. The only person brave enough to approach the shadows of the canal would be a LampLighter—or at least, that’s what logic told him.

*

Ophelia recognised the tall figure, his Blue Guard uniform covered by a jacket, as the man she had saved the day previous. Even with the heavy rain and the darkness of night, she could recognise the short-cut hair and the slight scar on his cheek. She paused, as she wondered whether to mention anything, or if the man remembered the event at all. For that matter, what was he even doing out of hospital? Did they normally let patients out that quickly?

She then remembered she still had her hood up and her LampLighter's uniform on. Perhaps, for now, at least, it was better to avoid the man. If he wanted to thank her, he would come again soon.

“Excuse me,” the man called out, “excuse me! Young man.”

She sighed, thankful that he could not even recognise her gender beneath her uniform.

*

The LampLighter began his way towards one of the houses, and Faulkner made his way towards him, hoping to intercept him before he escaped. Perhaps he would be able to tell her where he could find Ophelia. He may even be related to the girl, as many people in the city were related to each other.

“Excuse me,” Faulkner called out, conscious of the fact he was standing in the middle of a residential street at night. He called out again, forcing the words, but trying to be softer this time. “Excuse me! Young man.”

The LampLighter's pace seemed to quicken towards what Faulkner suspected was his front door.

“No, please, don't go in,” he said, in a very loud whisper. “You're not in trouble. I just want to talk.”

The LampLighter began to run, his shadow fluttering against the cobbles from the heathflies’ movement above. His face, however, remained hidden, except for a fringe of black hair.

“No, please.” Faulkner leapt lightly on his feet, his boots making very little noise over the sound of the rain, and took the LampLighter's arm. He was surprised at how thin the LampLighter's wrist was beneath his sleeve.

He then looked into the darkness of the hood and noted a stray length of long black hair hanging outside the hood, and a slight hint of a bosom beneath the blue uniform. This LampLighter...was a girl.

“Ophelia?” he asked, hopeful that it was indeed the girl. If he had pieced the facts together correctly in those passing moments—facts being that very few people would risk their lives near a canal to save another—this girl was surely the one who had saved him.

“Hello,” she whispered, keeping her hood up.

“Ophelia!” he exclaimed, though she quickly tried to stifle his excitement.

“I'm sorry,” he said quickly, chiding himself. “I've just been meaning to thank you.”
“Well that's all well and good,” Ophelia replied quickly, her face still covered by the hood, “but I really do have things I must tend to.”

“No, please. I need to talk to you. Something has happened...and I think you may be able to help me.”

It was a long shot, but perhaps the ambiguity in his words would be enough to tempt her into interest.

She appeared to hesitate in the shadows, biting her lips. She glanced over to the clock tower. A quarter past six.

“I suppose I am early,” she said. “I should be able to stop and talk for a short while.”
“Thank you,” Faulkner said. “Thank you so much. Please, this way.” He guided her down the street, standing nearly two heads above her. “Oh, and my name is Faulkner.” The rain did not slow as they walked. In fact, it seemed to grow heavier, pooling in some of the impressions in the cobblestone road. They spoke quietly, so as not to disturb the houses either side of them, but could still hear each other perfectly.
Ophelia kept the fires of her gas stick burning, though a handful of hearthflies had gathering about them, perhaps curious as to what the pair were discussing.

“Firstly,” Faulkner began, “I have to say thank you. I don't know what would have happened had you not saved me.”

“Not at all,” Ophelia replied nonchalantly. “I would say that anyone would have done it...but...well...”

“Very few would,” Faulkner finished for her.

“Exactly,” she replied.

Faulkner shook his head as he spoke. “That’s why I knew it had to be a LampLighter. No one else would be brave enough to do what you did. I cannot believe the superstition around this place. I mean, yes, no one should walk the shadows without a fire going. That's not even superstition, it's just common knowledge. But the fact that no one came to help a man in danger, beside a young girl, is just ridiculous.”

“Well that's not entirely true. I did have help from one stranger.”

“Yes. One stranger.” He emphasised the number as though it were a joke. He quickly decided there was no use skirting the question. He would ask her soon, but he had to lead into it first. “You said in the newspaper that we have to face out fears.”

“Yes...” She said after a pause, expecting more to his statement.

“Well I have a request of you, and you may be the only one I can ask.” Good work trying to leadinto the question. “I fear it is a lot, but I still need to ask.”

He paused as he thought. He needed something more subtle, though subtlety was not his strong point. “Do you like your job?”

“What sort of question is that? It puts food on the table, and it helps my mother.”

“No, that's not what I meant. Do you like your job? Do you think what you do is worth doing and that your compensation, so to speak, is reasonable?”

*

Ophelia's breath caught. She suddenly found her cheeks going hot and her eyes widen in fear. She still had her hood up, thankfully—she just hoped it was enough.

It had only been recently she had begun to ask herself the very same question. Every night she risked her life, and every night could be her last in the city. Was there really any price that anyone could pay her for the risking of her own life.

“Forgive me,” Faulkner said, “I know we have only just met. You see, I was asked of something in my line of work…something unthinkable.”

This had not been the first time Ophelia had heard of Blues being told to do the unthinkable. It was practically a part of their job description.

“I was told to hand my wife over, so that the Vindicators could destroy my unborn child, or face her death as well. And I had to do it myself.”

This is definitely unusual, Ophelia thought. Probably a first for the Blues.

“According to my supervisor, this had been an order from the Architect Castoro himself, and for reasons unexplained, my child had to die. I had questioned the worth of my occupation before, in moments of depression, or when times were rough, but never had I actually considered—and acted upon—leaving my position. And over the last couple of days, my life has continued to spiral until I have become the man you see before you.”

He certainly did look exhausted, as though he had been ravaged by troubles unimagined.

“Needless to say, they found me and my wife and took her away, and now she’s in the Architect’s tower, somewhere. And I want to do the impossible and...”

Ophelia interrupted. “Save her.”

“Yes,” Faulkner said, letting out a rather resigning sigh.

It did not take long for Ophelia to contrive Faulkner's intentions. The glow of the hearthflies seemed to build with the realisation.

“I am supposing then that because the entire tower is crawling with fiends at night, and with night being the only time the Architect's tower's protections are low, you need me, a LampLighter, to help.”

“Well...yes. Initially, I thought perhaps you could help. I did not know you were a LampLighter for certain then. If worst came to worst and you weren’t one, I thought that you might be able to hold a torch to help fend off the monsters, but you being a LampLighter makes things even more perfect! You have experience.”

Ophelia laughed. “You do know what you are talking about, though? You are suggesting we scale the unscalable. If the God King wanted your wife, there can be no doubt he will have put protections. I'm not saying don't go after her; she's bearing your child, of course you will go. But I do not think I can come. My brother was a Blue and was killed by a Blue, and for that reason I do not think I could trust you as far as I could throw you. You might betray me when the time comes to leave, hand me over. You could be lying to me right now. I don’t know why, but I suppose none of us really ever truly understand another’s motivations until we see their actions.” It pained her to be blunt to someone who was quite obviously in agony, but she could not do it. She could not betray her brother. Not again.

She turned away from Faulkner, the skies above rumbling, fortelling of a vicious storm.
“I just cannot do it.”

She began her way home, lighting the gas stick out of comfort more than an actual need for protection. The previous minutes continued to roll through her thoughts, repeated again and again and again into monotony. She felt a great weight in her heart, turning back only momentarily to see Faulkner, a dark, still, solitary figure in the rain, pulling the collar of his coat about him for warmth.

She did not wish any bad luck upon him, but neither did she wish to be involved.

I do hope there is a happy ending, she thought, pulling the hood more closely about her face as she turned the first corner towards Arring Road.

*

Faulkner stood in the sopping rain, alone except for the hearthflies that remained with him. Perhaps they were sympathetic creatures, in the same way some animal can sense another’s emotions. What meagre warmth they provided was enough for now, though. He did feel so very cold though. The girl, the one, almost literally the single glimmer of hope was now turning a corner into the next street along, while he stood in sad silence. She had been a LampLighter, and had revealed her identity to him. Surely that counted for something?

But still she rejected his request.

She must've loved her brother very much, he thought, as he turned to look up at the tower in the west. In one of those backlit windows was Harriet, possibly even staring back at him.

He could not return home—it would not be safe.

He could not give up though. He would give it a day...no, a night. He did not have the luxury of time. He would approach her again, this time less direct and perhaps more understanding to her own feelings. She did not trust him, so he would have to prove to her that he was reliable. Failing that, he would be forced to do it all by himself, but perhaps he could convince her with time. Maybe his predicament would play on her conscience tonight, or she may gain some sense of altruism—surely if they revealed their Architect as ruthless, other lies he had crafted would appear, drawn from the shadows like blood from a wound. Slowly, but surely, his secrets and lies that he had built his city upon would ooze out of the single cut he’d made, and Ophelia would be there, ready to fight with him.

Maybe, he thought.

He turned away from the street and trudged through the rain, two hearthflies hovering above him, watching him.

It would not be the safest place to spend the night, but for one evening, at least, he would have to sleep in the slums. There, everyone had a fire burning somewhere, and the lamps—when lit, that is—were bright and clean. As he began his way there, he kept himself bathed in the light of the lamps along the streets, though the hearthflies were always there by his side. It was not only to keep away the night fiends, though. It was, in many ways, to keep him warm from the cold wind that blew about the city streets, and the ice that coated his heart as he realised he would be spending another night without Harriet.

*

Nataniel had always known that to be Blessed meant to be gifted with an ability of sorts. It was supposed to be something of gift, passed by the waters of the Tyndibar Well, confirming their Blessing. To this day, however, Nataniel had not discovered what ability he held, if any at all. Occasionally, he wondered whether the ability that would eventually awaken would be a physical one—perhaps the ability to levitate like some people had, or to glow in the dark, as some books wrote of. And then, once the ability had appeared, how long would it be before he would become monstrous as the Curse took over his body. And when?

Nataniel's eyes fluttered open, staring out of his window at the overcast sky hanging above him outside his window. The thumping in his head from the day previous was well and truly gone, along with the fever, and the nightmares that had come with it. As he sat up slowly, he saw the blankets and mattress rolled out on the carpeted floor, ruffled, from where Delilah had spent the night. She was gone from his room, though, probably downstairs cleaning or making breakfast or reading. Nataniel, meanwhile, felt in the mood to just lay there in his bed, staring to the ceiling, wondering if his dreams had meant anything. Had he really gone into the Architect's tower, as he had into the world of the faeries? Had he really seen a prison, surrounded by flames and a woman stuck behind bars, or had that been, like the innocent dreams of his youth, nothing more than the imaginings of a tired, over-active mind?

“Elenor,” he said quietly, hearing the croak in his voice from the vomiting the day before, his throat burning. He would get a glass of water in a moment. “I want to see you again,” he continued, licking his lips, feeling the cracked, chapped surface of them. He rose from his bed and stepped to his desk, opening the top drawer and removing the picture he had painted the first morning. He stroked the papery surface with his finger, wishing that it was smooth and soft like her skin, or that the eyes glittered with the life that Elenor's always did. Even just smelling the delicious scent she had been wearing would be enough for him, for now, just to know that some small part of it had happened, that it wasn't all completely his imagination.

Perhaps this is my ability, he mused aloud, running his fingers over the black, bruise-like marks on his face. They felt strange on his skin, as though they were slightly indented into the flesh, as details are made into a carving. Perhaps I can see the world of the faeries. It seemed, for the time, a very unusual gift to bestow, but so long as he continued to see Elenor, he was happy with what the Well had gifted him.

Of course, over the past day, during his moments where he was allowed a semblance of untroubled thought, he had begun to question his gift. Surely if one had been gifted with the ability to dream of the faerie world, and to interact with it, one would be able to visit it at will, or the visits would be regular? Not one here, and then a few a while later.

I will see her again, he assured himself. I will.