#northland excursion

Glenice arrived unannounced. Alanna trailed behind. Dusky looked up from the autopsy chart he had been compiling. He stripped his gloves and smock, and dropped them into the bin at his feet:

“My dears, I cannot recall the last time either of you visited me in autopsy.”

“Claire,” the two women said at the same time. Alanna shook her head, bemusedly; Glenice just kept going forward.

“…right then,” he said.

Dusky walked toward the sink. He swashed his hands up to the elbow.

Glenice looked down at the body of the teenage boy. She ran her fingers through her hair. “Intentional?”

“Oh, no, old sport. Well…” – he started to dry his hands – “…not on behalf of your people.”

“Our people.”

“Whomever,” he said. Dusky raised a finger and crossed the room. “No, no. This was accidental where that chemist is concerned. I was here when she made the mixture, anyhow. It was all by the book.”

Alanna leaned against the door frame. “So it was a competent attempt at resuscitation?”

“Oh, of course. Even administered in one of the blood vessels of lesser volume to help ameliorate the shock to the circulatory system, and –”

“Common, please?” Said Glenice.

“The shot was given in a smaller vein, as opposed to the jugular or the femoral artery. To help guard the heart.” Dusky chuckled to himself. “Glenice, darling, you simply must come over at some point. Perhaps we could set you up with one of my daughter’s friends…”

Glenice brushed the comment aside. “So what do I tell the drug dealer?”

“Honestly, Shadowgrove, getting out might do you a bit of good,” said Alanna. Alanna of all people.  “You know, to feel something other than this job.”

Dusky nodded along.

“Ugh, what is with you people and your fucking relationships? You’re all as bad as that willful Gilnean piece –”

“We only want what’s best for you, dear.”

Glenice pointed at the autopsied body of the boy. “Not seeing shit like this happen in the future is what is best for me. Work stays at work. Home is a place away from work,” she said. “Respect the mission and the rest follows.”

“Glenice, we’re not in a war zone,” said Dusky. He finished drying his hands and dropped the cloth into the same bucket with the bloodied smock and gloves. She glared at him. He shook his head. “…but to the boy. He had a congenital heart defect, a weak spot on the right ventricle. I imagine he would have died within the next two years, anyhow. No hemorrhaging in the brain, nor the sclera. He just… died.”

“That’s what I came down here for,” said Glenice. She did not catch the worried look her partner and the forensic examiner exchanged. “Alright, finalize the report, Dusk, and get in touch with the manufacturer. I’ll reach out to the family.”

“Shadowgrove,” said Alanna. Glenice turned. “You can take a break you know – Dusky’s right, this isn’t a war zone.”

Glenice pointed to the body. “You sure about that?”

Silence hung in autopsy. Glenice frowned. She looked at her feet. She dropped her arm. “Alanna, let’s do the house call together. Ok?” She banged the door open and stormed through.

Alanna nodded. It was all she could do.

traitor of shadow

void’s harbinger

exiled

lord and lady

last sister of

the sisterhood

we gather here

on age-beaten shores

(my homeland:

places

remembered yet

inaccessible)

the air’s scent has remained

unchanged over one

hundred years and from

war and energies sucked

from crumbling stone

and broken ash

let it stitch the shattered

hearts of Friends

bring them solace

lead them to tranquility

Wellson did not understand why he had taken the items from Quai’s family vault. He had no rational explanation – why steal something from your partner’s family? No. He had been impelled to do so by something else entirely. At least this was what he told himself, sitting inside in his tent near the lakeshore.

Even still, the ghostly image of Quai’s great-great-grandfather, sitting atop an ornate chair as they wired the vault for demolition, stuck with him. He had seemed a kind man, and was the only member of Quai’s family he had ever met. Wellson was grateful for the exchange, it made him feel legitimate. 

Perhaps he would realize this upon reflection, that it was the feeling of legitimacy which had made him take up the tiara and the ring, the cigarette case and the tiny – yet quite thick – notebook. For some reason, those objects, out of everything in the vault, called out to him, beseeching him to extricate them from what was soon-to-be rubble. The rest, he thought in the moment, would take care of itself. And it had. A new set of armor, one to replace the two uniforms given to him by the Kirin Tor Offensive, was securely tucked away in a pack slung over Selene’s burro.  

And yet…

Watching the phantasmic old man stand and wave to them as they bolted out of the room had resonated with him. Hell, he had even dreamt about it. That final wave, it was as though he knew Wellson’s intentions, could see the love he felt for Quai. 

In his tent, Wellson arched his back. Vertebræ snapped into place. He coughed into his black kerchief before rousing himself off his bedroll. He followed the scent of kafa out into the camp, offering a good morning to the void elf, the only one in camp who could – he believed – relate to what he was going through, the battle between shadow and life raging throughout his body. 

He summoned Ephriza over toward the fire and poured them both a cup. “I have seen it come from within you, the blackness. I have seen it, because I experience it, too,” he said. Ephriza stared into the fire. Wellson sipped from his cup, the image of Quai’s ghostly ancestor once again floating through his mind. He furrowed his brow. “Would you like to help me put an end to it?”

“I don’t like this idea,” said Quai.

The two were sitting side-by-side along the shore of Lake Lordamere, watching the dawn-tinged waves lap at their feet. The water was cold, cold though clear, filled with winter’s run-off from the Arathi Mountains. Wellson dipped his swollen foot into it. It was dark black and blue, though he was able to hobble on it well enough. He shook his head:

“This thing oozes Shadow, Quai. You can feel it a hundred yards out. From what Bailey —”

“Fuck Bailey,” she said.

“— from what Bailey said, the bomb isn’t complete. There is no shielding, nothing to hold the energy from irradiating everything in its radius. This includes includes Juniper, this includes Selene. That weird elf guy we just picked up. I will not allow them to become ill because we all have to stick together. I will not.”

“What about you? What about you being ill?”

Wellson pulled up his shirt. What had once been a necrotic wound with dead veins splayed out as a dying octopus was... different. The wound had not healed, though the veins seem to have retracted. Quai stared, wide eyed, as he lowered his shirt, an action punctuated by an all-too-familiar wet cough. “It’s not a cure,” he said, wiping his lip. “You can’t cure death. Not without Her.”

“...but you can slow its advance,” she breathed.

Wellson nodded. He dried his blackened foot. Quai watched him, a concerned frown on her face:

“And what of Stealth, of capture?”

Wellson clicked his tongue. “Have you not noticed how much more... powerful, more in command of your abilities you are around it?” He shook his head. “I’ll be fine.”

“You can’t let this fall—”

“I won’t,” he said.

“—it’s just too powerful. Swear to me you’ll detonate it if...”

“I will, Friend Quai,” he said, imitating Selene.

“Swear,” she iterated.

Wellson looked over his shoulder toward her, toes wedged into his worn boot.

“I swear. Mission first,” he said, voice soft. He pulled his boot over his swollen foot. “Give me a 12 to 14 hour head start to keep yourself out of the blast radius — just in case.”

Quai nodded. Wellson took up her hand. He kissed her fingertips, lips lingering on her ring finger. “Regroup at Refuge Point, as per the plan.”

“Sunday,” she said, eyes closed.

“Sunday,” he agreed.