#sanwolfe

Despite being surrounded by his friends—his family—all Jess Brightwell can think about is how it won't be much longer before he gives them all up to certain death.

"Now, Thomas says the press should be ready for presentation to Callum by tomorrow, which means we all need to be prepared." Khalila holds court in the center of a round room Santi found off a mostly unused hallway. Jess, Dario, and Scholar Wolfe are spread across various positions around the room, perched on the arms of chairs or poring over maps and diagrams. Morgan paces the outer edge of the room, examining books on the shelves for anything that could prove useful. Their odd little band is only missing Glain and Santi, who're in the courtyard running drills—to have any chance of escaping, as many of them need to be in top physical condition as possible. The air in the room is grim with concentration. Jess knows better than anyone: they can't afford to linger in this prison of a castle much longer. All of their lives are at stake. 

He zones back in from his fretting just in time to hear Morgan's question. "Good. And the Ray of Apollo?" 

"Almost finished," Jess assures her, and he can't help but take her hand at the flash of relief in her gaze at those words. Are the tags ready? she asks with her eyes, and he nods almost imperceptibly. It wouldn't do for the others to see.

Dario claps his hands. "Excellent. Keep us all updated, and let's get the fuck out of this falsely extravagant shithole." Jess and Morgan both give a hearty chuckle at that, and begin the surprisingly tedious work of packing up their supplies.

He's just finished gathering the Blanks and scrolls from the table, moving to follow Morgan out the door, when a voice from behind him stops him in his tracks. "Brightwell." He turns to see the cold, sharp eyes of Christopher Wolfe boring into him. "A word."

Sending a pleading look to Morgan, who only shrugs helplessly, he passes the books to her and follows Wolfe up the stairs, into the room he knows the Scholar shares with Captain Santi. Wolfe's lover is absent at the moment, but Jess can still see traces of him around the room—the crisply folded jacket on the dresser, the prints of boots by the door, the sharp scent of gunpowder. He notices that the window is still cracked open.

"Sit." Wolfe gestures to a chair—notably the hard-backed wooden one pulled away from the desk, not any of the overstuffed armchairs lining the room—and Jess finds himself obeying before his brain even fully processes the order. Between that and the unblinking gaze the Scholar fixes him with, he can't help but feel like he's back at Ptolemy House, just trying to make it through each day without ruining the only chance he's got. The only thing more chilling than that stare is the quiet, dangerous sound of his voice when he breaks the silence. "Now, out with it."

"What?" Jess asks, and he's not sure how much of his confusion is feigned and how much is actually genuine. "I don't know what you mean, sir."

Wolfe leans back in his chair almost lazily, but there's still a foreboding tension to his posture—like that of a cat stalking its prey. Poised to pounce. "I know that look of yours. You're plotting something, you and Hault and Santiago. Let's hear it."

"I- I don't-"

The other man continues to meet his eyes, completely unyielding, but his voice takes on a softer tone. "I presume the plan involves some sort of risk on my part? And the reason you haven't disclosed it to me has to do with Niccolo's protectiveness?"

Jess gulps. "Something like that."

"I'd presumed as much. It wasn't an accident that I waited until he was out with Glain to pull you aside. We're having this conversation now, without him here, because I want you to be completely honest with me, and I expect nothing to be held back. So. What is it that you want me to do?" He folds his arms and waits.

Taking a deep breath, Jess tells himself just to start talking. "I found us a way into Alexandria."

This piques Wolfe's attention. "Go on."

"My father intends to double cross us-"

"Shocking," the other man mutters bitterly.

"He wants to sell you, Morgan, and ten thousand original volumes to the Archivist." Lifting his eyes from his folded hands in his lap, Jess finds Wolfe's gaze still steadily meeting his. He looks down again. "Morgan will be returned to the Iron Tower. And you…you'll be imprisoned again. The Library wants you to die a slow, painful death there."

Whatever emotion flashes across Wolfe's face at that is gone before Jess can manage to identify it. He grits his teeth almost imperceptibly. "I see," he says slowly, "No, Nic wouldn't like that at all. So, the plan is to allow Morgan and I to be taken, but in a way that would allow us to gain the upper hand?"

"Or get to Alexandria, at the very least. We can't keep running and hiding, but we can't take the fight to them with this blockade. We go in as prisoners or not at all." Jess feels the confidence in his voice falter, however, as he remembers the fatal flaw of his plan. "But Santi would never agree to you risking yourself like that."

"No, he wouldn't." Wolfe takes a deep breath. "Which is why he must not know until I am already gone." And this time, when Jess looks up, he sees the steel in those eyes. "Listen to me, Brightwell. Don't share any more details of your plan—if I- if I were to break, I mustn't give you away. Just tell me, do you sincerely believe that this will be worth it?" The silent question hangs in the air: Worth Morgan's life? Worth mine?

"Yes," Jess says simply. He prays that he is right.

Wolfe nods, just once. "Very well. I'll handle Nic; I'm trusting you to take care of everything else." He rises, then, from his seat and walks to the window. To someone standing farther away, he would cut an almost peaceful figure in his billowing black robe as he gazes down at the courtyard below. But from this distance Jess can see the white-knuckled grip he has on the sill.

As Jess gets up to leave, he finds himself hesitating. "Sir?"

"Yes?" Wolfe responds without turning.

"Are you- are you sure?" How do you know this won't shatter you all over again, but this time beyond repair?

He sees Wolfe's shoulders tense. He no longer looks like the predator about to make the catch of a lifetime, but a caged animal facing down the barrel of a gun. But when he speaks, his voice is surprisingly steady. "Nic's fretting has rubbed off on you, I see. I've survived it once before. I don't see why I can't again."

"But-"

Wolfe sighs. "Jess. Breaking into a gibbering husk is not an option. I will be fine." One of Wolfe's first lessons with his postulants had been lie identification, but somehow Jess doesn't think he'll be winning any favor with his teacher if he points this one out now.

He changes the subject. "And you're confident you can hide this from Santi?" Because their entire plan depended on Santi not finding out, but…this could damage his relationship with Wolfe irreparably. 

There's a note of genuine regret—the strongest hint of emotion the man's displayed during the entire conversation—to Wolfe's voice when he answers, "It will be hard. I will hurt Nic when I do this to him, and again when he learns the truth. But yes, I can keep it from him. I can go through with it." Silence hangs in the air like the suffocating musk of Greek fire before he clears his throat. "The others will grow suspicious if you're here much longer."

Jess takes the unspoken dismissal for what it is. Reaching for the doorknob, his heart leaps into his throat when it turns under his fingers and none other than Captain Niccolo Santi himself enters the room. True to form, he's still clad in uniform, though his shirt is mud-stained and soaked with sweat. The soldier raises an eyebrow at them both. 

"I was asking about Thomas," Jess rushes out, before either Wolfe or Santi can say anything. It's a well-chosen lie—the mix of embarrassment and nervousness he can't help but let bleed through is not inconsistent with this particular cover story. "How to help him through…the memories."

"Schreiber is struggling," Wolfe adds softly. That part isn't a lie. There's a moment where the two lock eyes, before the Scholar huffs in frustration. "Oh, don't give me that look, Nic." He moves closer, tracing his hands up Santi's jacket to his face and resting their foreheads together as his voice takes on a more honeyed tone. "Besides, I believe we had much more enjoyable plans for how to spend our evening than that particular conversation."

"Mmm," Santi murmurs appreciatively, all concerns forgotten, and leans down to press his lips to the other man's. Jess mumbles his apologies and makes a hasty retreat before he's forced to witness the kiss deepen any further.

EPHEMERA

Text of a note sent via Codex to Captain Niccolo Santi from Scholar Christopher Wolfe: 

I have been assigned a class of postulants to instruct. Apparently, my well-known patience with idiocy, as well as my extensive and famous publications, have made me suitable for this task. (Ha.) The assignment comes from the Archivist himself. 

They mean to punish me with this, but they punish these students far more. 

~

“These postulants,” Christopher Wolfe complained, seating himself at their dinner table, “will be the absolute death of me.”

“They can’t be that bad,” Santi said consolingly. “What — thirty-two teenagers? What’s the worst they can do?”

“I have met them precisely once and they are all, without exception, arrogant children who believe they know best.” Chris rolled his eyes. “I am not made to be a teacher, Nic.”

“I’m sure they’re already terrified of you.” Santi grinned at him. “Some of them must have promise; didn’t one get a perfect score on the tests?”

“Tests aren’t everything,” Chris returned with a dismissive sniff. “I do not see why the Archivist insists on having me teach them. Surely there is some other penance I might do.”

Santi himself was somewhat surprised the Archivist had assigned Chris this role — wouldn’t he fear corruption among the young recruits? — but as far as penance went, this was a mild enough punishment. Especially compared to — well, compared to what they’d already done to Chris, in cells and torture chambers. 

Unfortunately, Chris noted the direction of Santi’s thoughts before he could stifle any expression of them on his face. “Yes, yes, I suppose I should not desire a worse punishment. All the same, I do not appreciate playing nursemaid to a posse of self-complacent children.”

~

“Wathen and Brightwell show promise,” Santi observed in an undertone. “She’s got a soldier’s mind, and he recognised the greek fire quicker than I’d expected.”

“Of course you like Wathen,” Chris said dryly. “She’s nearly a younger version of you. Brightwell’s got spunk, but he might not be trustworthy. Santiago’s smart enough but arrogant; Seif’s brilliant, of course, but it remains to be seen if she’ll do well.”

Santi shrugged, accustomed to his partner’s exacting severity. “I’m rather enjoying watching you terrorise them.”

Chris glared.

Santi kissed him. 

~

“That Brightwell boy,” Chris said slowly, seating himself on the counter of their kitchen while Santi busied himself making breakfast, “is one to watch. He Translated five books yesterday without breaking a sweat.”

Santi looked up in surprise. “With no prior training?”

“None. He was far too hesitant at first about how to do it” — there was Chris’s usual asperity — “but sent off five with barely a flinch.”

“At least he’s interesting,” Santi offered. 

“As a group, they hardly suffer from paucity of interest,” Chris retorted. “A possible smuggler with an affinity for Translating, a likely Burner, a girl with a perfect score, a hot-headed irritating boy who believes he’s entitled to the world because of his royal Spanish blood — and now this new girl.” He hesitated for a moment, uncertainty on his face. 

Santi realised abruptly that there was a secret here, one dangerous enough that Chris hesitated to speak of it — not because he didn’t trust Santi, but because he feared what might happen to Santi if he knew. After all, the only reason Santi had been spared (or mostly spared) the Archivist’s dungeons was because he had genuinely known nothing of the reasons for Chris’s imprisonment. 

Now, however, Chris apparently decided that trusting Santi with this would not result in calamity, and so he said, with perfect calmness, “The new girl is an Obscurist.”

“An—” Santi cut himself off, blinking. It was fairly rare that anything took him so much by surprise, but an Obscurist? And one who was hiding from the Library, too; she’d normally be in the Iron Tower, which meant she’d so far concealed her abilities fairly successfully, but— “What’s she doing here?”

“Trying to remove traces of her tampering in Oxford,” Chris replied. “I’m helping her.”

For a few more moments, Santi was silent, still in shock, mind spinning with the implications. “Chris, be careful. If the Archivist learns of this—”

“He won’t,” Chris said with confidence. 

Santi was momentarily tempted to argue, to try to convince Chris to turn the girl in or at least to turn her away, but common sense won out; there was no way he’d be able to change Chris’s mind, not about this, not about keeping an Obscurist safely out of the Iron Tower. All he could do was help them as much as he could, and hope. 

There was one determination he could make, however: if it came down to it, he’d gladly sacrifice her for Chris. Perhaps that made him a bad person; perhaps he’d go to hell for it. But he would do anything — anything — to keep Chris safe. 

~

On their way back to Ptolemy house from the confiscation mission, Chris looked like he was mentally debating something. 

“What is it?” Santi asked. 

“Brightwell,” Chris said, apparently decided. “He’s been trained as a smuggler — a book-runner.” 

“Ah.” Several things made a good deal more sense. “A spy, then.”

Chris nodded sharply. “Likely intended as one.”

Santi tilted his head to the side, catching on to the wording there. “‘Intended’ — you don’t think he’ll act as a spy?”

“Oh, he already has.” A ghost of a smile on Chris’s face. “But I won’t turn him in; he’s got no Burner tendencies, and I believe he could be an asset to the Library. He just Translated twenty books at once.”

How— “Twenty?” 

A nod. “He nearly fainted immediately after, but he succeeded. I’m going to test him with some other Library tools.”

Which meant, of course, that the two of them were soon escorting Brightwell into the room of the Library where the postulants’ first test, the one with the greek fire, had been. Brightwell hesitated at the top of the hallway, understandably wary of following Chris in, so Santi spoke up. “Go on. He doesn’t bite.” Ahead of them, Chris’s shoulders trembled almost imperceptibly — Brightwell noticed nothing, but Santi knew he was suppressing a laugh. “I do, though. It’s a benefit of the job.” Chris’s shoulders shook again. 

Brightwell trotted down the hallway easily enough after that. When Santi pulled out the handcuffs, the boy almost flinched — yes, a lot of things made sense, knowing Brightwell was a smuggler — but relaxed when Santi slid them onto his own wrists. 

“Use your Library identification band,” Chris told him. “Touch it to the restraints.”

“And do what?” Brightwell returned. 

“Let’s see what happens.” Chris knew, as Santi did, that most required a good deal of training before they could easily activate the restraints; were this anyone but the boy who’d Translated twenty books at once, Santi would be certain that nothing would happen. 

This was Brightwell, however, and when his band touched the gold loops around Santi’s wrists, they tightened sharply, to the point of pain. Santi winced. 

Chris apologised with a silent glance, while Brightwell looked more alarmed. “Sorry. Did that hurt?”

“Did it hurt you?” Chris asked the boy. 

Brightwell shook his head. “No.”

“Did you feel it at all?”

“A little.” He swayed slightly, but straightened; “a little” was probably as close to the truth as they’d get. 

“Interesting,” Chris said. That meant this is fascinating and I want to study Brightwell more, but Santi didn’t need to acknowledge that. 

“Not the word I’d use for it,” he said dryly. “This isn’t how I’d planned to spend my day, Christopher.”

Brightwell blinked, as though he’d been unaware that Chris had a first name. Chris raised an eyebrow, voice tinged with a hint of irony. “I appreciate your help, Captain. Time for a run.” 

“One day,” Santi sighed, “we’ll have to trade spots. You could do with a run.” He was not exactly eager to spend the next few hours running around in the Alexandrian heat while Brightwell fumbled around and failed to keep up with him, or failed to use the map in his Codex. 

“Not today,” Chris replied, and shooed him off. There was a gleam of laughter in his eyes, though, and Santi considered it a victory; that laugh had been far too rare, ever since Rome. 

He left, heading for the pyramid, glancing perfunctorily to either side. There was no way Brightwell would be able to track him with the map, not on his first try like this; with practice, his skills would certainly be valuable, but as yet he’d struggle—

Somebody slammed into him from his left side, sending him sprawling to the ground, and he recognised Brightwell just as the boy collapsed. 

Well. Perhaps he’d underestimated this postulant. 

~

“Tomorrow,” Chris said, severe as he always was with the postulants, “every member of this class will draw a tile.” 

Protests broke out immediately, but Chris didn’t pause to answer them; he swept out of the room in his dark Scholar’s robes, and Santi closed the door behind him. He caught several iterations of “it’s not fair” and Dario’s complaint that he’d thought he’d done well that day. 

Unlike the postulants, Santi knew Chris well enough to catch on to small changes in his wording, to little bits that he left out: Chris had never said that anyone would be sent home tomorrow. If anything, he’d implied that anyone who did not draw a tile would no longer be a member of the class and would hence be sent away. 

The postulants, however, were unaware of that, and Santi knew teenagers well enough to guess that many would not draw tiles, the one thing that would certainly get them kicked out. This was a lesson for all of them, and a twofold one; on the surface, it was a reminder to be careful of biases such as the one that’d led them all to assume Chris would kick out those who drew unlucky tiles; deeper down, Chris was likely trying to warn them to obey, even when they doubted. To, hopefully, avoid having them jailed in the cells where Chris had spent far too long. If he could stop them from coming up with the brilliant but disobedient ideas that would get them punished, he could protect them. 

Santi wouldn’t say anything about that, though. He raised an eyebrow at Chris as they continued down the corridor. “How many of them do you think will actually draw tiles?”

Chris hummed. “Something like half, most likely. I’m fairly certain that Seif, Wathen, and Schreiber will; they’re the likeliest candidates, so if they don’t, I’ll need to change my lesson plan.” 

Lesson plan. Santi snorted. “You sound like a teacher.”

“Shut up, Nic,” Chris told him with a glare. 

Santi raised an eyebrow. “Make me.”

Chris obliged. 

~

When Santi followed Chris into the room where the postulants were gathered, the room was divided in two: nine postulants, including Brightwell, Seif, Wathen, Schriber, Santiago, and Danton were holding tiles; the rest, led by Postulant Hallem who appeared to have taken some drug or other, held none. 

All of them looked more or less terrified that they’d be kicked out; Santi found himself suppressing amusement. They were, after all, worried about their futures. Reasonably, especially for those on Hallem’s side of the divide. 

He pulled out an apple and began peeling it, if only for something to do. Brightwell looked uncertain and on the verge of returning his tile to the pot, so Santi fixed him with a look and he subsided. 

Chris tossed the dice into the air, and they landed near Santi. A three and a six. “Two and four,” Santi lied, taking a bite of his apple. 

Six of the nine tile-holders looked down at their hands and blanched, including Brightwell, Seif, and Schriber. That was what Santi had been hoping for; Chris wanted maximum shock factor for this, and so Santi had swapped out half the tiles for extra twos and fours so that the maximum number of postulants would believe they’d have to leave. 

Hallem, eyes dilated with the drug, grinned triumphantly. “You’re finished, Wolfe. If you dismiss those of us who didn’t draw and those who hold the wrong numbers, you’ll be down to only three students. So this lottery can’t possibly count.” 

“Solidly reasoned, Mr. Hallem,” Chris observed cooly. Santi was perhaps the only one to notice that it was Mr. Hallem, not Postulant; as of the moment Hallem had refused a tile, he was no longer part of this class. Chris went on. “But I still expect all who refused to draw a tile to be at Misr Station within the hour. Leave your trunks. We will have them shipped home to you. I want you gone.”

It was Hallem’s turn to blanch, mouth opening with dismay. “You can’t! You just said—”

“Your mistake, former postulant,” Chris interposed smoothly, “is assuming that I was ever going to dismiss anyone. I said you would all draw tiles this morning; I never said it meant anyone would be dismissed. It wouldn’t have mattered what number you drew, as long as you drew a tile. I knew some of you would let your outrage override your good sense, because yesterday, every one of you was a complete success. A pity you didn’t trust me. But then, I haven’t given you much reason, have I?” 

Silence fell. Santi used all his training to keep his face blank; perhaps he shouldn’t so much enjoy watching Chris take Hallem and the other no-longer-postulants down to size, but it was rather amusing. 

Chris swept out of the room, and Santi followed, suppressing a snigger until they were out of earshot. 

Turning to him, Chris arched an eyebrow. He didn’t need anything else to make his meaning clear, not to Santi. 

“Shut up, you,” Santi told him. “You have to admit it was a little entertaining to watch you terrorise them.”

“I admit nothing of the sort,” Chris said dryly, but he was smiling. 

~

Santi stared down at the boxes of torn-out pages of books. 

The place was a mess. Once wind had reached Santi of the Burner nest in Alexandria itself, he’d wasted no time in infiltrating the place; he disliked dragging himself out of bed so early in the morning, but today there had been no other choice. The building was covered in traps, which Santi and his team had disabled easily enough. What they’d found inside was far worse. 

Crates of loose pages, torn from original books. It hadn’t taken long to figure out why: the covers of the books were being used to hide greek fire. Presumably, they’d hoped to allow the Library to discover the books, Translate them by tag into the Archives, and then ignite the greek fire to destroy all that they could. 

The plan hadn’t succeeded — not nearly — but it was worrying that they’d been so daring in the heart of Alexandria. The Burners were becoming steadily more audacious. Next time, would he be able to stop them? 

“Nic.” Chris’ voice pulled him from his thoughts. “Can you do me a favour?”

“Always,” Santi replied, looking up with a smile. “But what are you doing here?”

“Related to the favour.” Chris hesitated for a moment. “I want to show my postulants what this is. They need to know what we’re facing.” 

Santi nodded. “I’ll set up the traps again with smaller doses of greek fire. Enough to maim, not to kill.”

“Thank you.” Chris smiled, and Santi knew that whatever came next, whoever they’d need to fight, there would always be this spot of light in the dark. 

~

“They can’t do this,” Chris said quietly, hopelessly. “They — they can’t.” 

“What have they done?” Santi asked, raising his head at the despairing tone in his partner’s voice. 

Chris swallowed. “They’re sending us to Oxford. You, me, and the postulants.” 

And the postulants. Horror rose in Santi’s throat. “They’re sending children?”

The expression on Chris’ face was pained. “They’ve explained why. Brightwell’s good with tags, Hault knows Oxford, and Wathen might have some currency with the Welsh. But they wouldn’t send children, no matter their abilities, if it weren’t for — if I weren’t—” 

“The Archivist’s punishing you,” Santi said. “It’s his fault, not yours.”

Chris huffed out a bitter laugh. “Perhaps, but the fact remains that it’s because of their connections to me that nine children are being sent into a warzone. That you’re being sent there.” 

“I’ve been in warzones before,” Santi told him. “I might have been sent to Oxford anyway. And I can protect myself.”

“I know you can, but we are both well aware that anything could happen. Even good soldiers are killed.” Chris shook his head. “I trust you to take care of yourself, Nic, but I cannot trust these children to do the same, none of whom — except, perhaps, Hault — have ever been in a warzone.” He was silent for a moment, and Santi didn’t speak. “Something tells me that not all of them will make it out alive.”

The words, and the tone behind them, were an admission of more than fear. Chris would never say it in as many words, but Santi could hear the love he held for his postulants in his voice. He had held them at bay as best he could, had never dreamed he’d grow to care for them, but they’d grown on him. Grown on Santi, too, and now they were being sent to their deaths. 

Reassurance was impossible; Chris would know it for the lie it was. They might all die in Oxford, especially if the Archivist wanted them to — despite Chris’ familial connections, a death in a warzone would be a handy little tidying-up of loose ends. The postulants and Santi were nothing more than tools to be used against him. 

But at least they were together, and as Santi wrapped his love in his arms and held him close, he knew that this, them, was the best thing that had ever happened to him. Nothing else mattered, so long as he had Christopher with him.