#goatcio

He knew he’d hurt her by brushing away her first few attempts at kindness and generosity, he knew he had to learn to accept her gifts without finding something else to ask for, without saying something stupid like “I’m not used to this,” or “this makes me guilty,” or something even stupider, like “I don’t know how the hell to walk in heels.”

She’d been so happy when he’d started to accept gifts without reluctance, and now, he couldn’t go back to asking her to change the things she did for him.

The city was their responsibility, but his problems weren’t ever meant to be hers, and now, again, he was being such a-

“What the fuck-“

The shriek, accompanied by a rush of freezing wind, made Zurkhi jolt upright, shivering.

“Who-“

“You brat-“

From the gloom, a shadow rippled through the walls, and all at once, Zurkhi found himself plastered against the backrest, faced with a pair of crimson eyes and tall horns, sharp teeth bared before him in indignant rage.

He narrowed his reddened eyes in return. “What business do you have here, tyrant?”

The goat-like spectre growled in response, inching closer to him in another gust of ice. “You-“ Count Lucio jabbed at his chest with a sharp claw. “You come to my house, to my room, you cry all over my nice couch, and you’re asking me, what fucking-“

He let out a cry of rage, and stepped back, stomping immaterial hooves angrily across the floor. “The nerve of you, kid- “ he snarled, then sneered. “Where was all this spunk when you were wailing on my furniture, huh?”

“It’s not your-“

“Like hell it is!” Count Lucio roared, the sound rattling like storm against the windows. He pointed a claw at the ash covered walls. “My drapes!” At the dusty floor “My room!” At the couch, “My cushions!”

Realizing just then his exact whereabouts, Zurkhi scowled, gritting his teeth and squaring his shoulders. “The people’s work.” He corrected. “Their resources- that you looted and plundered and wasted your entire fucking regime.”

“Why you little-“ Readying himself for a full throated shriek, Count Lucio cut himself off, red eyes falling on the discarded stilettos lying next to Zurkhi. He gasped, claws against his furry chest, scandalized.

“Are those yours?” He asked, narrowing his eyes.

Zurkhi reached for them at once, clutching them protectively to his chest. “Yes.”

“And you’re leaving nice shoes in the ash?” The spectral Count’s voice kicked up a few pitches, flinching as though mortally offended.

“Uh-“

“You can’t just-“ He gestured wildly at them. “Look at them- they’re custom made! And-“ Suddenly, he was in Zurkhi’s face again, eyes flashing jealously. “Noddy made those for you, didn’t she?”

He ran a claw over one silver heel. “That’s her style.” He lowered his eyes for a moment, the tone dipping away into something a touch softer. “That’s her-“ And then the venom was back, a sneer on his face as he gazed at Zurkhi.

“It couldn’t be you, anyway. I’ve seen you around. You dress like a hobo.”

Ignoring the jab, Zurkhi frowned suspiciously. “Have you been spying on-“

Count Lucio rolled his eyes. “Uh huh, and you’re boring.” He leaned back, clicking his tongue. “All you do is bitch and whine about stupid shit at Court, and cry on my cushions. Rude. Noddy could do a lot better.”

“Shut up.” Zurkhi snapped. Even so, he felt his shoulders fall, his frame curl inwards a little.

“Touched a nerve?” The Count grinned. “That why you were crying?”

“No.”

“Then what is it? Shoes don’t fit?”

Zurkhi swallowed.

The Count’s grin widened. “Or-oh- you don’t know how to walk in them, do you?”

“I- go away!”

Count Lucio laughed, throwing his horned head back and leaned against a tall shelf beside the couch. “If you know how to walk in ‘em, show me.” He taunted. “C’mon. Give me a walk. And I’ll leave you alone.”

To his utter mortification, Zurkhi felt his eyes water all over again. His lip trembled, and overcome with another fit of sobs, he pressed his head into the cushion behind him.

The ghost gasped. “Fuck, no!” He attempted to bat the cushion away from Zurkhi, but his incorporeal form could only pass through the fabric. “Don’t cry-ugh- you wimp.” He groaned. Drawing his clawed hand over his face, the Count let out a long-suffering sigh.

“Ugh. You know what? Today’s your lucky day.”

Lifting his head from the cushion, Zurkhi raised an eyebrow.

“Put them on.” The Count demanded.

“What?”

“I said. Put them on. I’ll teach you to walk in those shoes.”

Zurkhi blinked, utterly at a loss.

Count Lucio snapped his fingers. “It’s nearly sunset outside. D’you wanna wear those heels to the Masquerade or not?”

Dropping his face to his hands, Zurkhi tugged at the roots of his hair in despair.

“Don’t dawdle.” The Count clicked his tongue impatiently. “Go on.”

The absurdity of the situation rapidly being overtaken by his own desperation, Zurkhi slowly set the shoes down before his feet.

“Oh wow,” The Count surveyed him with amusement, walking a ghostly circle around him. “You’re tiny.” He snickered. “Think those shoes are gonna get you level with her?”

Zurkhi rolled his eyes. “They will. And even if they don’t, I’m not in the business of caring about those things.”

“Right. That’s why you were sniveling out here for me to save you. You’re welcome, by the way.” Count Lucio looked pointedly from the shoes to Zurkhi’s face.

“I was not, and I’ll save the thanks for when you do your job right.” He retorted.

To his surprise, the Count only gave him a smug, toothy smile. “You don’t know who you’re dealing with. Now, the shoes.”

Zurkhi carefully slid his feet out of his own sandals, and gingerly slid them into the stilettos, their silk lining and smooth finish already strange against his cracked, scarred skin.

“Hook them up, for fucks sake.” The ghost snapped. “What sort of hick are you?”

Biting back a retort, Zurkhi hooked the straps into the clasps.

“Alright. You know how to put on shoes. Wouldn’t have guessed. Congratulations.” The Count made a mock sweeping gesture. “Now, get up.”

Steadying himself on the armrest, Zurkhi rose, wobbling dangerously all the way up to his feet, before letting go.

And losing his balance, stumbling face-first into the ashy carpet.

The former Count howled with laughter, cackling as Zurkhi yelped miserably and wiped ash from his mouth.

He only laughed louder when Zurkhi winced and gingerly poked at his nose. “Is this ash lethal?” He asked, feeling around for vestiges of dark magic.

“Lethal?” Count Lucio exclaimed. “My carpet’s the nicest thing you’ll ever break your face on.” He turned up his snout. “You should be grateful you got the chance.”

Turquoise eyes narrowed scornfully, Zurkhi got to his feet, awkwardly bracing both arms on the couch.

The Count snorted. “Look at you. Which dirt-pool did you spring out of?” He fixed him with a searching look. “You’re not Prakran, for sure.”

Zurkhi sniffed, letting go of the couch to lean against the dusty shelf. “Firent.” He grumbled.

Count Lucio let out another bark of laughter. “Really? Awful place.Alright, straighten up,.”

Though in agreement for once, Zurkhi rolled his eyes, pressing his spine against the shelf to straighten.

The ghost swooped forward, eyeing him critically. “You’re putting too much weight on your toes, idiot. No wonder you keep falling over. Who does that? Do Priestlords walk on their tippy toes?” He snickered.

“Don’t call me that.” Zurkhi snapped. He gingerly settled back to his heels, worried for a moment that the stilettos would snap under his weight.

They didn’t. He released his grip on the shelf, standing uncertainly with his hands raised awkwardly by his side.

"What sort of color is that?.” Count Lucio cackled. “Don't tell me that's your real hair.”

Grabbing a handful of his wispy, blood-red hair, Zurkhi huffed. “Yes, it is.”

“…Looks fake to me. But okay.” The former Count squinted suspiciously. “Okay, you can stand. Now, balance. Take a step.”

Zurkhi wrapped his arms defensively around himself, glowering at the ground.

“Oh, gods,” The Count laughed. “You’re scared, aren’t you, you wimp?”

“I don’t want to fall.” Zurkhi mumbled.

“You’re not gonna die of high heels when I’m around.” Count Lucio assured him. “And besides,” he came closer, glowing eyes trailing the jagged scar running across Zurkhi’s face. “You look like you’ve taken worse beatings.”

“I-“ Zurkhi shrugged, embarrassed. “Yes, I suppose I have.”

“Say, who’d you piss off to get that?”

Zurkhi looked up into apparition’s glowing eyes. “A tyrant.” He said indignantly. “Like you.”

The ghost seemed to take no offence. “Oh yeah?” He asked, his own claws absently moving over the scar running through the stump of his left arm. “And did you kill them?”

Zurkhi looked away, swallowing through the memory of flashing, fiery red. “No.” He admitted.

“Figured.” The Count cackled. “You’re too much of a wimp. I would’ve gutted them if they did that to my face.”

Zurkhi opened his mouth to respond, but the Count held up a hand. “Alright. Focus on a spot on the wall there. Find your balance.”

Shaking his head to clear it, Zurkhi zeroed in on a spot of grime beneath an empty picture frame. He breathed deeply, settling back on to his heels, and feeling the ground steadying beneath his feet.

“Right,” said the Count. “Now, walk.”

Zurkhi took one tentative step forward, and another, trying to find his center of gravity at every one.

Just when he thought he could muster a couple of paces, the ghost was in his ear again.

“No, don’t slouch like that. You’re gonna ruin your outfit. C’mon. Shoulders up.”

Zurkhi straightened his back, nearly twisting his ankle in the process.

“And back. Chin up. Why’re you hiding? Even with that.” He gestured disdainfully at the hair falling over Zurkhi’s face. “Where’d Noddy even see you behind all of that?”

“She sees me just fine.” He grumbled, folding his arms.

“One of those bangs at a time? Is that how Priestlords flirt?”

Zurkhi glowered at him, taking another uncertain step. “I said don’t call me that. I no longer belong to that place.”

“They drove you out?” The Count teased.

“Exile.” Zurkhi sighed, reaching out reflexively to steady himself, but finding that he no longer needed it.

“You’re not special.” The Count retorted, though his eyes were strangely distant. “I did way better for myself.”

Hands on his hips, Zurkhi paused, regarding him curiously. Beyond a reputation for unspeakable violence and unforgivable tyranny, he’d only ever heard gossip about the Count’s past in hushes and whispers.

“Exile” was among those whispers. “Curse,” as well.

His stomach turned a little. The last thing he wanted was common ground with the likes of Count Lucio.

He glanced pointedly at the Count’s ghostly form, arching a red eyebrow. “About that, are you certain?”

“Fuck off.” The ghost fumed. “I’ll be back and better than you before you know it.”

Slyly, Zurkhi smiled. “So you admit that I’m better than you now.”

“I never said that!” Count Lucio exclaimed. “You watch your mouth before I pull that rug from under your feet, you twig.”

Zurkhi snorted. And took another step.

And another. A few more, and he’d scaled the length of the room.

Pleased with himself, Zurkhi held on to the windowsill, dusting ash off his palms.

The Count, however, looked unimpressed. “Again.” He commanded.

“Pardon?”

“Do it again.” The Count said coolly. “You look like a rookie.”

“Well, I am in these-“

“Doesn’t matter.” The ghost snapped, baring his teeth. “Doesn’t mean you have to look like one. Again. Can’t have you looking like a rookie and ruining my reputation.”

“Your-“ Zurkhi stared at him incredulously. “This is the last thing they say when they speak of you on the streets.”

Count Lucio only cradled his face in his palm, self-satisfied. “They’re talking about me. Of course they are.”

Shaking his head, Zurkhi began to walk back down.

At the other end, the Count snapped his claws, and asked him to go again.

And again.

And again.

With Count Lucio critiquing his form, barking out directions, and ordering him to turn this way and that, change his pace from quick to slow to quick again, and laughing raucously every time he lost his balance.

And again.

Until his knees stopped wobbling, and he stopped feeling the need to reach out to any surface for a grip.

His feet were sore by now, a dull ache starting to creep up his back.

At the end of a particularly triumphant turn, Zurkhi sighed in relief, bending down to slip out of the shoes.

“No, no!” The Count rushed to stop him. “Don’t you dare. I just figured out what’s wrong with you.”

“What the-“

“You don’t mean it.” Count Lucio declared. “This.” He snapped. “You don’t get the point of it, you don’t want it as much as you should, and you’re not happy with it.”

Nearly losing his balance again, Zurkhi shifted uncomfortably. “I am.” He said coolly. “I’m only unaccustomed to-“

“Don’t give me that bullshit.” The Count shook his head in frustration. “You-“ Jealousy seared through his eyes again. “You don’t know what it’s like- I’d give anything to have feet again. To wear shoes, to-“

He tore his gaze away from Zurkhi, in favour of pacing another slow circle around him. “Even chicken feet like yours.” He added, ignoring Zurkhi’s indignant protest.

“I know you’re nothing like me. I’m richer, smarter, and when I have my body back, I’m a lot hotter.” He ticked them off, claw by claw. “But for the sake of those goddamned shoes, celebrate them. Show them off to everyone. Rub it in their faces.”

“I don’t want to-“

“Don’t you?” The Count sneered, looking down to meet his eyes again, his face inches from Zurkhi’s, ghostly teeth flashing in the gloom. “Just last week, you were some hick jackass on the run from the law. Tonight, you’ve got silver-cast stilettos to wear to the second-best party in the world. I think you do.”

Zurkhi threw the Count a questioning glance.  

“The best is my Masquerade, of course.” The smug grin sharpened, before he inched a little closer. “What d’you say?  Don’t  you want them to be jealous?”

Black claws outlined Zurkhi’s shoulders as they straightened instinctively.

“Don’t you want to rub it in their faces?”

Crimson locked into turquoise, the flash in them reminding Zurkhi of another pair of ruby-red eyes.

His mother. “Hermes,” her voice like a sheet of ice. “And where would you go? What are you without us?”

And years later, a pair of rough, calloused palms pulling him into a caravan. “What shall I call you?”

His old name catching in his throat.

Hermes, what are you without us?

“Zurkhi.” He looked into the magician’s wizened golden eyes. “I am Zurkhi.”

Something rolled up his spine, lifting a weight off his shoulders. Zurkhi swept his hair back from his face, untying and retying his bright red ponytail so it swayed over the nape of his neck. Then, hands deep in his pockets, chest puffed out and chin lifted, he walked up and down the room as though in view a fawning, jealous audience.

What are you without us?

Petty, angry things, too small and prickling to have been swept up before to his notice, exploded in the pit of his stomach. In the grimy mirror at the end of the room, Zurkhi caught the faint smile on his own face.

All at once, he felt like someone else, and more himself than he’d felt since he’d set eyes on the shoes for the first time.

Floating past a blackened dresser, Count Lucio tried, and failed, to suppress a triumphant smile.

“That’s more like it.” He declared. “Knew I could straighten out a lost case like you.”

Zurkhi scoffed. “Go to hell.”

“You’re welcome.”  The Count reminded him, jeering.

As he walked out of the room, the buzz in his head not yet having given away to the sheer impossibility of what had just transpired, he felt Count Lucio shift around him with an unsettling chill.

“You can tell Noddy who to thank for that, by the way.” He called out, the smugness in his voice faltering. “She can come here in person too, I won’t bite.”

Zurkhi paused at the doorway.

The Count cleared his throat. “She’s got to get someone to clean this place up, too. It’s getting ridiculous. But tell her I’ll let it go if she comes over.” The ghost slinked back into the shadows, now only a pair of red eyes in the dark.

For a moment, Zurkhi was briefly reminded of the earful that he’d sworn to give the Count’s spectre should he come across him again.

We’ll erase you from history, Nadi and I.

I hope you rot in here, thinking of everything you’ve done.

I’d have burnt you down myself, for all those people.

But all he could muster was to toss a knowing look over his shoulder, settling back on to his heels. “I’ll let her know you miss her.”