ailceimiceoir // alchemist

“Please, I am getting on in years now,” she giggled, although she was still incredibly young, given who they were, - not even fifty, yet - “but I understand. I do still fine the idea of romance ever so lovely. Though perhaps that is far too naïve of me to say.”  She took another sip of her smoothie, biting on the end of the straw in a grin.

She only knew about Malachite’s past in the most vague of terms - it was perhaps something to inquire to Rowan about, at some point. Amidst other lessons on ‘How to be more of an Unseelie’ and other such things. But for now, she was content with just talking with him. He was someone she did not feel was the sort to be part of the whispers spoken behind her back (or, even, to her face).

“Not especially, no. However, it is also not as though we are the sort to just chill, as I believe is the slang used nowadays.” A glint in her eye showed laughter without her voicing it. “I am also quite glad that you invited me to go on this outing, thank you. I think I needed the fresh air.” A pause. “Which, just a statement as I know we are inside the shop.”

Malachite barely suppressed a snort. “You? Getting on in years? I remember every year of your life, because there have been so few--you are hardly even a teenager by my estimation. Now, I am getting on in years, it’s true, your mother reminds me of it frequently.” In her own way, she did. Thrusting Aster upon him ensured he was reminded of it frequently.

“I worry about you, dear Camellia.” It was true enough. Malachite’s worry was hardly something to desire, however. It usually meant he was about to meddle. Camellia’s parentage, though, gave him little room for that--Lacha would have his head if he interfered at all with the princess’s life path. He would never risk it. “With recent developments, I wouldn’t want others’ decisions to prompt you to speak or act rashly. This is all a very personal matter, and I hope it stays that way.”

Nadia took that as an invitation and pushed open the door, striding inside and letting it close behind her. The room wasn’t exactly what she was expecting. She’d pictured something closer to a mad scientist’s lair than an accountant’s office and was mildly disappointed. Regardless, she had a mission and by god this man was going to explain himself. 

“Sorry for intruding,” she lied, “But I’m looking for Frost’s boss. Is that you? I feel I’ve been more than patient and accommodating, but certain promises were made and I expect them to be kept. Since she is not capable of doing that I thought it better to speak to someone who might actually have control. After all, blaming her is a bit like blaming a waitress for an overcooked steak when they’re not the ones at the grill.” 

Not many humans had the gall to just walk into the Back Room like this. Mixed respect and annoyance colored his emotional palate, though Malachite kept his expression serene. Pretty little upstart--wealthy, fashionable, vaguely familiar. Most of his high-rolling clients were. Fame and fortune and something to hide.

Her own skin was smooth and her hair perfectly in place, but Malachite knew a glamour when he saw one, and they were not an option for the fey these days. He had created the elixir; he knew the subtle signs of its use. This girl was absolutely a #99 user, and if he were to guess, a facial disfigurement was most likely. That guess was less due to physical signs and more due to Malachite knowing his clients well.

He wouldn’t call himself Frost’s boss, given that the structure of the elixir business wasn’t as linear as a traditional corporation. He was at once head and yet completely removed from the selling process. Chief Alchemy Officer wasn’t really an adequate title, was it? Still, the girl was pulling a I want to see the manager something strong today, and Malachite decided to play along. He needed a break, and it never hurt to talk to a human who was brave enough to stride into a restricted area and demand to talk to someone who produced magic potions for a living.

“In a manner of speaking,” he responded slowly, eyeing her. “Who are you?”

Who: @malaicit When: Evening, September 13th, 2018 Where: The Rookery

Her day-to-day life passed her by. She went to class and she went to lab. She spoke with her supervisor, Dr. Ellenburg, and her mother through the medium of Aunt Lucy. Dad, remote at the college in Vermont, sent her his traditional start-of-term quote in Latin, and Yvette suspected he had scheduled this email months ago and had forgotten. She settled financial aid. She apologized to her grandmother for her behavior in February, and was told, with a blunted chilliness, that she had better find alternate arrangements for next year. 

Yvette was a good student, toned and primed for the rigor of academia. She was a master of her own mind, when she chose to be. She could say to herself: I need to do this. She could do it. For the duration, her brain would fill up with the necessary tasks and information. Whatever else that existed–whatever cracks existed in the construction of her life–she could ignore with study and dreams. She slept deeply, and lived, for a time, in other worlds.

Another world could be real. It was her oldest, clearest dream, the one that obliterated all the others. 

Yvette had let the card sit between the platypuses Tiger had made gifts of. She had done that specifically, so that when she reached for Malachite’s name, she had to see Tiger–the invocation of danger and the promise she had made. She understood that her self-dialogue was desperately testing the steel of the vow she had made. She knew every argument intimately well. There was no one here to stop her except herself.

When she had disappeared the first time, it had been some sort of accident. A fluke. She had never evinced further signs of narcolepsy; it was a favorite explanation, but a poor one.

“I …” Yvette drew her hand back from the book case. She had knocked, ludicrously, on the bookcase. “Wrought–”

It opened, revealing someone she had never seen before. “–and rotten,” Yvette finished in a whisper. Her voice fell away. Words almost never failed her–in fact, they did the opposite–so she held out the card. She almost didn’t want to let it go, in case it was taken from her and then she had no proof, no proof at all that any of this existed. But the person stepped aside. She slipped the card back into her purse, and in the absence of speech, Yvette was ushered within.

It had taken her longer than he anticipated.

It was a good thing Malachite was immensely distracted, having plenty on his mind to induce stress-related wrinkles he usually concealed with a glamour. The lack of glamours was grating on him, because it was a responsibility easily placed on his shoulders. The Alchemist was supposed to fix these things. Or at least take everyone’s minds off of the issue.

When he’d handed Yvette his card, he expected her to arrive within a week. A month, at most. September marched along, and he stopped wondering when she would stop by, nerves frayed by his #99 clients and lessons with Aster. The lessons he was supposed to be having with Aster, that was.

Three small vials were placed on the desk before him, testers for this particular Runner who’d offered his services. Practice ones from his latest burst of creativity. Malachite was frazzled enough to have trouble defining the emotions he’d infused them with; he was hoping a fresh set of nerves would have better luck than him.

A muffled knock startled him, and the Runner automatically walked to the door as Malachite muttered something in an unintelligible ancient language that he knew the Runner (barely one hundred-and-thirty-five) would not understand. Half the words, even, were strung in ways that didn’t make sense grammatically: he was out of practice with it, being a dead tongue and all.

Malachite paid little heed to the person entering, assuming it to be Gale or another Runner. “I only have enough for one person, unfortunately for you.”

Where: The Rookery When: Mid/late August Who: @malaicit​

Nadia thought she’d been very polite, controlled when Frost had told her about the price increase for #99. She hadn’t railed against the runner, hadn’t treated her to the diva it’s not fair attitude. Hell, she’d been as accommodating as a woman in her situation could be and it hadn’t made a bit of difference. She was forced to ration, to decline invitations and spend far more time in her apartment than she wanted to and she was frustrated as hell. Promises had been made and were currently being broken. It wasn’t fair, it wasn’t right. How dare they play with her life this way. 

She’d hoped to find Frost at the Rookery but had been informed that she was out. Typical. Well, then she’d just have to speak to Frost’s manager, whoever the hell that was. Rowan had led her around to the back once before so she headed that way again. Her heels clicked decisively on the floor, her chin jutted out stubbornly as she ignored anyone who might have tried to stop her. Before long, she was standing outside a door marked private and rapping her knuckles sharply against it. If no one answered, she’d just walk in, consequences be damned. What else did she have to lose, anyway? 

“Open up.”

Malachite often spent nights out in the Rookery, basking in the clientele. He was always excellent at making friends, rooting out prospective new clients, pointing them at his Runners. Every now and then, he dabbled in some experimentation, though only with the regulars--the fey who knew him well. He was always careful not to tax his friendships or cross the line with his talents. He couldn’t risk another slip or a coma.

Tonight, though, he was trapped in the Back Room. Forced to go over numbers, papers, ideas. Racking his brain for creativity when inspiration wasn’t coming to him. It was difficult to stay in a positive mental space, especially when his work space was being interrupted by Runners. Of course he assumed the person rapping on his door was a fey--who else would bother to interrupt him? “It’s open,” Malachite called irritably from Gale’s chair at the desk.

Hyacinth knew that the end on his cheek was meant to comfort, but he felt anything but comforted. To him, it seemed like Malachite did not know exactly what the rocks were, their purpose, how and why they appeared. And it must mean the alchemist also had no idea how to get the lost memories back.  If Malachite did not know, who else would?  Malachite is the only expert Hyacinth would trust, however, and he knew the older fey would do everything in his power to find out. Hyacinth would just have to wait. He refused to believe his memory loss was permanent.  “I can’t think of any reason why some rocks would like to steal our memories. Could rocks use our own memories against us?” Hyacinth knew he probably wasn’t helping, not having any answers himself. He simply had questions, and he couldn’t help but wonder out loud. “Could the memories be extracted from the rocks again?” He’d wanted to find out, but he wouldn’t dare touch the rocks again, lest he forget about Elise altogether. 

Nothing bothered Malachite more than not knowing. He enjoyed the thrill of curiosity, of discovery, but not knowing something that he desperately wanted to know was the most frustrating form of torture. Hell was a lack of knowledge, not fire.

Musing aloud wasn’t helping Hyacinth, either. While Malachite doubted the memory loss was reversible, he hadn’t thought lost memories were truly possible before tonight, either. “Which rock did you touch?” he asked, glancing toward the pile. “If it is reversible, my friend, I’ll reverse it.”

Yvette felt a hand on her arm, and was drawn away from the pull of the rocks for a moment, led by another string to another kind of snare. 

But she shook her head. Her hand floated by her heart, clasped in a loose fist. “I can tell you right here–it’s not much. Slane is a part of this pagan shop in midtown, a place called Maynooth. I’ve taught a workshop there in the past. But he invited some people–um, based on something else, I think, an event we all went to?–to a cafe and showed us the rocks. They were proof, he said, that magic exists. I don’t think it was meant to be a secret–it seemed like he wanted us all to know, to see the evidence. He let us handle them, experience it for ourselves.”

The corners of Yvette’s mouth tightened, into something that was neither a smile nor a grimace. “But it was only one sign of many,” Yvette said, exhaling. When she looked into his eyes, she tried to put all the weight of her sincerity into hers. “I’m sorry–I don’t want to deceive you into thinking that I know more than I do. I don’t know why the grass or the rocks do what they do. I can only speculate–I mean, I am grateful for your offer, I do … I do have questions. And I can tell that some things are meant to be secret, I just … but I just … it wouldn’t be right to promise you something and have it be so uneven, in the end. I–I mean it’s obvious … ”

Yvette struggled for the right kind of words. She was always searching, reaching, feeling those right words brush against her fingertips, floating just outside her grasp. “It’s obvious, right? That you’re–you’re a part of it. Hardly anyone ever says outright, but … I’m learning how to tell.” 

So sincere. So pure, small, innocent, earnest. Everything that would kill her in the end. It could even be at his hand--or rather, her own, because Malachite’s Hand never killed anyone. What they chose to do after he finished with someone had always been their choice, not his. Even Finéal.

He wanted to touch her. Yvette practically glowed like a blank canvas, begging to be shaped, influence, informed. Malachite felt predatory and protective all at once. Like a cat standing over a mouse that was both dinner and plaything. Yvette was the perfect human for a fey like him. No wonder my friend Tiger enjoys her company so much.

He let her speak without wavering his gaze or his touch on her arm. Fighting the urge, the instinct to flood her with relaxation and contentment and openness. Trust. He could make her trust him. Extract information from her without ever asking a question. But not here. Not tonight. Yvette needed time, to nurture the seed of curiosity and conviction, before she could learn the truth. He touched her, then, but resisted temptation all the same. Malachite shifted his hand to take hers, the fist hovering above her heart, and coaxed her fingers to allow him to press a gentle kiss to the back of her fingers.

“Thank you, Yvette,” he murmured. “Please come visit me soon. For what you’ve given me tonight, I owe you information in return, but in a different setting. I trust you can find it on your own.” With a wink, he dropped her hand, turned, and strode away, leaving pressed in her palm a rather small card that resembled a traditional business card. Malachite. Alchemist. The Rookery.

Gale leaned forward in his chair, fingers tapping on the surface of his desk as he thought. Numbers were a specialty of his after years of practice and a quick calculation in his head allowed him to catch up on the reality of the situation. “Good thinking, we’re tight enough as it is.” A quick flick of his wrist had him pulling out his small notebook that he kept on his person at all times, names and numbers fluttering by as he examined it. “That’ll take another couple days to settle then, if it’s the same as previous batches. A week to prime and hit its peak. With our numbers…” his lips twisted into a grimace at the idea of it all. “Our top buyer goes through that in half as much time. I’ll have to increase the price by nearly triple. We might have a hidden crate on backlog I’ve kept for emergencies but we’re going to have to put something similar out there or we’ll lose business.” 

Malachite groaned, sinking dramatically down, or as far as possible without actually falling out of his chair. He mulled for a second--something new. Something similar. What was similar to #99? No glamours, no #99, it was as simple as that. He was too befuddled by this setback to be creative today.

Abruptly he pushed himself up, the trajectory of his effort to stand taking him halfway around the room as he began to pace. Malachite twisted the rings on his fingers, flailing his hands without much synchrony as he spoke. “Should we increase them all? To create less of a disparity, less of a...scene, bring less attention to the significant increase in the price of just one. I can tell the Runners to spread rumors we’re culling our clientele and ensuring only the best are receiving what we have.” When motivated, he wasn’t half-bad at PR.

Malachite paused beside Gale’s chair, leaning down and drumming his fingers on the desk pointedly and staring at his friend. “How do I make something similar without it seeming like a poor replacement for our top seller?”

Malachite & Aster : a moodboard.

Malachite & Gale : a moodboard.

Sacrificial Bull: For an inner monologue my muse has about yours.

Harvest Reaping: For some headcanons about our muses.

Hyacinth hearing horror stories of Malachite’s transgressions growing up, avoiding him until after Mal calmed down considerably

Hyacinth and Malachite trade advice often. Hyacinth tells him what new plants he’s learned about, properties of herbs, so Malachite can use them in his elixirs; Malachite returns with the gossip he’s heard lately and keeps him updated on the underbelly of Unseelie social circles

Malachite is a tender friend when he deigns to be nice to someone, and after all Hyacinth has gone through, he’s shared a few spare elixirs and talked kindly with him, leaving off his usual snark and sass

Matchmaker: For an honesty post on what my muse likes about yours.

Honey Wine: For my muse to describe yours while ridiculously drunk.

Matchmaker: For an honesty post on what my muse likes about yours.

Harvest Reaping: For some headcanons about our muses.

would you like to see Malachite leave a room very quickly? have Cobalt enter it

Cobalt intimidates him in a way Raven doesn’t: Cobalt is Seelie, and Seelie are cold and terrifying, and Cobalt is large and cold and terrifying

Cobalt wasn’t around in Malachite’s early days, and that makes Mal very grateful, because he definitely stepped into some Seelie territory and gently bent laws and if Cobalt had been there to chase him down Mal would have maybe behaved a little better

Harvest Reaping: For some headcanons about our muses.

how many times has Malachite gotten Nickel drunk off his ass because it was fun? a lot

how many free elixirs has Nickel convinced Malachite to give him by challenging him to imbue an emotion he swears he doesn’t believe Malachite is capable of? a lot

Malachite still doesn’t like him very much, but it’s in a “you’re fun to be around now stay away from everyone I love” way