Show of Strength

The Collector

 

Death was a natural, regretful, yet beautiful part of life.

The teachings had left little room for interpretation. Death was immutable, a fact of life. Why stand in its way, why weep, when we could rather celebrate?

Imil mused about that topic a lot, perhaps more than he ought to. Though what else was he going to think about? When one reached his age, they had to have brushed with death once or twice at least, inevitably. An acquaintance for some, a close friend to others; for him, death was something else. A long lost love with a hidden switchblade and a vengeful streak, or a kindly grand-mother with dark secrets hidden in the attic. Or none of these things, he could not be sure yet. But he was confident he would find out, eventually, and in the meantime there was much to be done. 

Finished with his current musings, Imil kept working on his client while listening with half an ear to Garred, his assistant, babbling about his most recent weal or woe in a cadence so quick the youth’s tongue started to dream up escape plans.

“...and they would not hear any of it! The second man, the one who I told you about before, he'd been drunk for a while and you know how it is...” 

Imil did not know how it was, not by first-hand experience. He seldom went out to indulge in the sort of revelry Garred enjoyed so dearly, though quiet company was most welcome. He used the rare pause in Garred’s speech to interject.

“Garred, hand over the pencil brush, would you?” Imil asked, exhaustion poured into every word. “A reminder that she needs to be ready for the morning service.”

“Oh, yes Mr. Kwandau.” The youth stood up from his stool, bringing a metal cup full of pens and brushes along with him. He presented the adequate tool to Imil who grabbed it, and with but a grateful nod, continued his work with a meticulous hand. Garred stood next to him for some time, observing.

“She must have been very beautiful,” Garred opined awkwardly, demonstrating how little attention he was paying to Imil’s technique. It would not do for the boy to get attached to clients.

“She is beautiful,” Imil rectified. “You will not have to be the one speaking to the family tomorrow, but you need to train this habit out. That sort of blunder is not usually well received.”

The room was quiet and still, enough so that he could hear the wet noise of Garred’s mouth opening and closing several times. The youth, unable to find the words, or thinking better of it, turned instead and reclaimed his stool and desk. Blessedly, he remained silent, and Imil could focus fully on his work once again.

Ania Blum, a thirty-something greenhouse operator, had been laying down on a cold stone slab for the better part of two days. Funerary customs dictated that guests must be in presentable condition for the duration of their ceremony’s proceedings as well as the duration of their service once they were Returned, though that last one ultimately was for the family to take care of, barring urgent or unforeseen damages that would impair the guest’s ability to serve properly. And this one was special. Imil had been expecting this woman, which was somewhat of an oddity. He had been hearing about her long before she had landed on his slab, her story having caused quite the stir throughout Oglios.

Her family were nouveau riche, transformed seemingly overnight from backwater upstarts to moderately wealthy socialites after stumbling on a deep amber deposit further north in some nameless frontier town. According to the broadsheets, the Blum couple had started marrying their children off to forge alliances, the sort of thing you’d expect to read in history books, back when Gonphar still needed to unite a hundred disparate tribes into something resembling a cohesive whole. The late Miss Blum was not one for it however; she eloped with her chosen gentleman all the way down to the Frostbanks and landed in frosty Oglios, of all places to take refuge in. They lived peacefully for a few years, had a child. Life was going well. Until the Blums lost patience, having had enough of their daughter’s refusal to hand over her dignity. They did the natural thing and paid off a merry band of men to kidnap their pride and joy. 

Evidently things did not go exactly as planned. Imil was not privy to the details of the investigation, but the damage was plain to see. Miss Blum was covered in bruises on most of her upper body, and her chest had caved in. A plethora of defensive wounds were present on her hands and arms, and her cranium had bled a large amount, likely from the same wound which had cracked her skull. Blood was caked all over her bright yellow hair, and her left eye was ever so slightly peeking out of its socket, looking like it was about ready to jump out and explore the world. Finally, her skin was starting to lose its color, turning to an ever-decaying pale blue. Of course that was all before Imil got to work, she was looking much better now. 

It was impossible to completely cover what had happened to the woman. Even had it been possible however, he would not have corrected the impurities. Indeed, some things were not meant to be covered or forgotten. Her husband, her child, her friends; they would look at her during the ceremony and be thankful that her figure was not as gut-wrenching to look at as they had perhaps expected, but subtle clues would still be there, and the passing of time would uncover more. Bitterly, these marks would spread the story of Ania Blum, of how she had savagely been beaten to death over some twisted vision of familial pride, common greed, ineptitude, or a sickening cocktail of all three. Imil’s colleagues surely would call him sloppy, but perhaps the truth was worse. Leaving these signs on the guest’s body was a selfish way of anonymously signing his work, to somehow leave a mark and cover away the dread that kept on growing the older he grew. It was the ever expanding fear of dying first, then waiting for the true death once the memory of him would fade in the last person that knew him.  His creaking bones reminded him of how old he really was as he blended a purple bruise into skin color, sending tinges of pain into his wrist as he did so.

Time passed as he worked, though Imil could not be sure how much. The mortuary room was underground and kept cool, with a single exit, preventing unwanted distractions. Deeply focused on his work throughout that time, Imil only barely noticed that Garred was no longer at his desk.

Eerily silent that one, when he wants to be, Imil thought. Something to cultivate.

When the lad came back, it was with a tray full of specialized cutting implements. He set up near another stone slab and waited quietly until Imil was done, which he was sure must have taken a great deal of willpower for Garred, so used to always be in motion. Imil added the finishing touches on Miss Blum, and though he would have to choose a befitting outfit to complete the work, she was mostly ready to be Returned. But that would be tomorrow, and they still had tasks to accomplish before the sun came up.

Imil changed gloves, preferring clean ones for this next operation, and a raised eyebrow towards Garred made his intentions clear.

“I closed shop, sir,” Garred said eagerly. Or was it nervousness?  “Triple locks, like you said.”

“Good, good,” Imil answered. “Fetch the subject, please.”

Garred left his seat and opened one of the many roughly square-shaped metal seals which adorned the walls of the mortuary. Out of the seal came sliding a corpse on a platform bolted to the wall, pristine as could be. It was the Returned Kara and Imil had found a few days earlier. There had been little time to examine it, but a little patience solved most problems.

“Rise,” Imil commanded, sensing the brand on his cheek flaring with heat and reigniting the old burn scar tissue. Invigorating. “Then come to rest on this slab.” The verbal command was not truly necessary, but it helped.

Returned were puppets with the most rigid of strings and had no personality traits to display. Their souls —or whichever other fanciness people liked to conjure up to explain the phenomenon— had entirely left them following their death, leaving behind but an empty shell. The Returning only brought their physicality to the fore once again, but the psyche was out of reach. Resurrection was an illusion, only entertained by political creatures to drum up support for the Scorched Circle, or by religious zealots in search of a flock to misguide. Either way, Returned subjects had little freedom in the way they obeyed commands and had no concept of culture, or emotions. Faking life was beyond their capabilities.

In spite of these established rules, the Returned boy stood up from his resting place with a bright smile on his face, casually bounced off onto the stone ground, and strutted to the designated stone slab with a childish gait before laying down on it and remaining still once more, expression void of any emotions. Garred looked from the Returned to Imil, stupefied.

“What was that?” Garred asked, shaking his head back and forth, utterly confused. Fear wormed its way in his voice too. “Mr. Kwandau?”

It did not make any sense to him either. Theories crowded his mind, each less appealing than the last. He chased them away, picking up a thin blade and looming over the Returned.

“I don’t know, Garred. But we’re going to figure it out. Isn’t that exciting?”

And so they got to work. The initial excitement had deflated somewhat after the preliminary observations were done with, only for it to simply melt into cold frustration as the autopsy simply yielded no useful information.

They could not figure it out.

The boy had few notable features. He was young, not even a teenager, and his build indicated an extended period of malnutrition before his death, kept in stasis for the duration of his Returning. He was an Emberling, which could mean anything. Those were everywhere, their ancestry easily traced back to many distinguished families as well as the poorest of souls, but they were not the most common species in Oglios. Perhaps the boy was brought in from somewhere else, immigrants from the north? Not that the conjecture helped to identify him at all.

“Was this a tattoo, maybe?” Garred offered as he observed a sliced section of the Returned’s face. The skin had been badly damaged around the cheek, but it was possible to spy traces of ink.

“Could be, Garred,” Imil said, resigned. He had not wanted to consider the option so soon, but it did seem obvious.

“But who would tattoo a child? Maybe a gang? Or...” Garred said, following the thread as it spun out in his mind, but his voice trailed off when he understood where it led. His gaze never turned to Imil. “Oh. Right.”

Criminals were a possibility, and not so unlikely. Gangs recruited early, especially family-run ones. A physical reminder made betrayal impossible, an insurance for absolute loyalty, and the disguised slave mark would become a symbol of pride, in time. Young minds were more malleable after all, so it made sense, a sick kind of sense. The second option would be a religious brand. Those were less common, as branding oneself as a worshipper could paint a target on one’s back with certain crowds, not something to burden a child with. Which left the Scorched Circle. They recruited new members early, some would say too early, and the tattoo was part of the learning process; a painful necessity which also served to strengthen the bond between the apprentice, their new coterie, and the Suntower. That it could alienate everybody else in the process was rarely talked about, but it was an obvious advantage to the indoctrination process. Regardless, why would a Circle apprentice, if apprentice it indeed was, end up malnourished, dead, then its tattoo sliced, and finally Returned illegally? And how did it retain its past life’s way of walking or expressing?

Imil sighed deeply before pulling his gloves off. Once again, he found questions multiplying before his eyes while answers ran for the hills. 

“Anything interesting in the cranium?” he asked Garred, fearing the answer as soon as he made the inquiry.

“Yes actually, there is this black goo in there, I’m not su—” Garred stopped as he leveled his gaze. Imil recognized surprise, then fear. Two expressions he had seen many times, and always in that order.

Imil turned towards the entrance which also was the only exit, and spotted the cause for concern. Three orcs, fanning through the room silently. They were all well-dressed, though not by the standards of high society, but by the estimation of a practiced ambush killer. Imil edged slowly towards his largest closet, hoping to get closer to the loaded pistol stored within before his predators were within touching distance. 

“Mr. Kwandau?” Garred asked, alarmed.

“Mr. Kwandau,” said the middle orc at the same time, creating an odd harmony.

All in attendance were still as half-plans sprouted in Imil’s tired mind.

Run for the door. Impossible, die.

Charge in, they wouldn’t expect an old man to fight back. Maybe kill one. Lose anyway, die.

Let one approach, take him hostage. They’re all taller and broader than I am, so I die.

Being the ambushed one felt terribly unfair, and Imil could even relate to all the ones he had gotten the drop on over the years. For a second or so, anyways, they had had it coming. Which begged the question, who had sent these thugs to spook him? Lack of sleep made every thought a trudge in a particularly dense swamp.

“This is he,” Imil eventually answered, trying to sound natural and unphased. Maybe that was a mistake, these types liked to feel in control. 

“I apologize for the surprise,” the middle orc said calmly as he found a seat near the fourth stone slab. The other two had stopped on the sides of the mortuary, faces stoic, eyes focused on Garred and Imil both. “My intent was not to startle, but only to relay a message.”

Imil had stopped a ways away from the closet where his weapon rested. A sideways glance to Garred was enough to notice the boy hiding a lancet behind his back in a poor attempt to arm himself stealthily.

Good instinct, poor execution. That can be fixed.

“Very well, deliver your message.”

The leading orc remained silent for some time, much too long in truth. All three orcs were motionless and impossible to read. Orcish clusters often acted in that eerie way, unnerving most everyone they interacted with. Telepathic bonds certainly were useful in many respects, but they tended to reinforce bad groupthink habits and also alienated people outside of said group. Clustered orcs rarely seemed to care though, and Imil had yet to meet a member of that species going through life without being part of a cluster.

Finally, after the silence had drawn long enough for Garred to release a cracking nervous laugh, the lead orc enunciated his message without even a single stutter.

“Imil Kwandau. You, and all those you call yours, are summoned to my home in a week’s time at sundown in order to partake in a special banquet to commemorate the coming succession proceedings. I expect you will honor your pledge in my hour of need, should it be required. You and I have been friends for decades, and you should know that I have not forgotten your many services rendered. This will be my last request to your coterie, after which you shall be free to do as you will. Note: do bring that specimen you wrote to me about, I would very much enjoy learning of its ways.”

Imil lost patience mid-message, exasperated. “I don’t suppose a good old letter would have done the trick? During daytime, preferably. Tell Pontifili he can dispense with the theatrics next time.”

Again, silence stretched. This time, however, the lead orc turned his head to one of his companions. They exchanged something unknowable, then the lead spoke again, letting emotion through for the first time.

“I very much doubt there will be a next time, Mr. Kwandau. I would honor the pledge, were I in your shoes.”

The danger Pontifili was in had been implied in the message, but Imil was fishing for more information, which the messenger did not seem willing to impart. It was a simple game of teasing a specific answer out of someone without actually asking the expected question. Problem was, Imil had not been playing for quite some years, and most of his company throughout that time had been corpses.

“I will honor my pledge regardless of Pontifili’s games,” Imil said before simply asking what was on his mind. “Should I not come to him as soon as possible rather than wait until the banquet?”

“No. You must arrive on the proper day, and certainly not before the proper time. That is all.”

With those final words, the lead orc stood up, turned around, and made his way out.

“Is that it? Could you have been any more cryptic?” Imil asked loudly.

 The orc was quickly followed by the other two who exited the mortuary walking backwards to keep an eye on Imil and Garred, all the while stepping to the exact same beat. Imil and Garred stood there breathless for a while. The young man dropped the lancet he had been clutching and fell on his stool as the blade hit the ground. He was muttering something under his breath, but Imil went on to check on his hidden pistol instead.

Pontifili was the King. The Boss. The Big Deal. The Father. Beyond the Fourth Ring of Oglios he called the shots, and there was nothing the Scorched Circle or the Crownguard could do about it. Not that they had not tried, oh, how they had tried! Yet corruption was so deeply embedded in the Warmcoats ranks of the outer Rings now that soon they’d made you fill up a form so you could slide them a bribe. 

Pontifili did good by his people, he rewarded loyalty, and people on the outer side of the Ring loved him for it, they protected him. So why call Imil to heel in such a strange way? A simple letter would have been enough, or a daytime visit. Which meant Pontifili must be scared shitless, or growing paranoïd. Though perhaps the oaf was simply being careful, one did not grow old as they did without exercising an unreasonable amount of caution, after all.

“Garred,” Imil spoke curtly to slice through the youth’s quick muttering. “Please go check the door and make sure it is properly sealed.”

How does he do it, Garred thought in anger while trying to control his breathing, how is he always so calm? This isn’t normal, he can’t pretend this is normal!

Garred crouched and picked up the lancet he had dropped a moment ago. The metal was warm and sweaty in his hand, but he kept it within his grasp. Being armed, even with such a pitiful weapon, was maybe all that kept him from looking cowardly in front of Mr. Kwandau. The danger had passed, yet Garred’s heartbeat kept accelerating, threatening to punch a hole through his chest. He turned to the stone slab, using it as support to hold himself steady. The Returned boy was unmoving, like he was supposed to, but what other surprise was going to spring out of the darkness on this night? First the Returned’s odd behavior, then an intrusion only to receive a strange message? These things always came in three, didn’t they? Just like the Saint’s trials. It was only natural to expect something more.

“Garred…,” Mr. Kwandau’s impatient voice carried through the mortuary as he was rummaging through a shelf, displacing boxes brimming with tools or dyes.

So Garred pushed himself to move slowly and deliberately, despite all his senses screaming that he should either run away as fast as his legs could carry him or fold unto himself and remain motionless until the danger had passed. But what danger? The mortuary was silent, as always, save for Mr. Kwandau’s search. The warm outside air drafted gently from upstairs, and as Garred reached the top of said stairs using the light of his redstone bracelet to assure his step, he found that all three steel locks were safely set within their frames, keeping the large basement door sealed exactly as he had left it earlier in the night. The intruders were not here anymore, Garred was sure of that. And yet they had been here, they had been threatening the both of them, no matter what the orc had said to the contrary. And what could he have done? He had tried to be ready to fight, but really he just had been staring death in the face. Down in the mortuary there would have been no escape had these orcs decided to kill them. The oh-so familiar feeling of helplessness crept in, taking over all facets of his conscious thoughts. Garred had to scratch his skin made itchy by trickling sweat, and started to realize he had lost control of his heartbeats once again. For the longest, most blissful moment, he was only just observing himself, somehow disconnected from his own personal reality. The shame, the discomfort, the dread, the fact he had soiled himself, all these things had no weight any longer, not to him. He stood in such stasis until the metal door rang with fury, its length screaming against the locks keeping it shut. 

Forced back into his own skin, it was now obvious something was deeply wrong with him, most notably the pained breathing which had him gasping for air. As the door kept on rattling against its seals and Garred could faintly hear Kara’s voice from the other side, nothing triggered, collapsed, or otherwise moved in Garred’s mind. One moment he was simply there, and the other he was not any longer. 

After five minutes of stomping hard on that frosting door, Kara could finally hear the locks sliding to the sides to let it open. She understood there could be some sensitive things down there, but was all the secrecy really needed? Imil was big on being prepared, cautious, and meticulous, but honestly that was just a recipe to get the excitement out of everything. Only her lami could make going out to kill someone feel like a chore. Not that it hadn’t been exciting, exactly… Only that the whole process leading up to it had taken weeks and been so tedious she had wanted to just kill herself by the end of it.

No, don’t you dare, she admonished herself, don’t even joke about that!

So to define exactly how she had felt when Imil had opened the door, waving her in towards the Garred-shaped body splayed on the floor, was nothing short of a challenge.

“What happened?!” she asked first in a shout. Of course Imil didn’t care to answer except for a matter-of-factly: “Help me lock the door and carry the boy,” punctuated by a stern look.

They carried him silently and could only proceed slowly. Without his cane Imil could only go so fast, and the descent across the stairs proved perilous. He had never been nimble, even in his younger years, in fact in his first coterie he had been the muscle, and had foolishly assumed he would always be, so did not pursue other skills until much later. But what was one more regret in such a long lived life?

Focus.

His mind, sharp though it was, was wandering again, more and more often. His sister would reprimand him harshly, how could he daydream of his youth while his charge was unconscious in his arms? It was fine. Garred was fine, wasn’t he?

They installed Red on an empty stone slab, though he was still breathing unlike most other corpses in the mortuary. Kara had noticed the stench of urine earlier but only located the stain on Red’s pants at that point. She shot a glance at Imil and she saw that he had noticed her observation. He took a long hard look at Red, checked his breathing and performed a couple of measured gestures on his body which probably did something, the problem was that Kara often had found herself daydreaming about the how-to-break-things lessons during the putting-things-back-together lessons.

Imil nodded to himself silently, assured that Garred was in no immediate danger. He took a seat on a nearby stool and exhaled a long, tired sigh. Kara was looking at him expectantly and though she could not know it, the resemblance with her grandmother— his own sister— was striking. He was thankful, at last, to be the older one in the present relationship. 

Kara stood near Red, observing her lami. Imil was preparing to say something, and he looked much older and tired than the last time Kara had seen him, which had only been the day before. He seemed… lost? Was that possible? No way. His tousled brown hair streaked with grey fell on the sides of his face, and though his deep yellow eyes were downcast there was still a fire in them, there always was. The Scorched Circle brand on his cheek was dormant, but the burn marks around it deformed his visage somewhat, proof of regular usage. Imil had not been called handsome for decades, that was true. Nowadays, his cane could make him look frail, but that was only a physical limitation. Not likely to stop her lami. 

So what had shaken him so?

“What’s wrong with Garred?” Kara began. She feared the worst, but showing it would be a mistake. Imil did not care to answer, but she was used to that. He liked to direct the flow of conversation however it suited him best.

“Kara, I’m afraid this place is not safe anymore,” he simply said.

“Do you mean that it isn’t safe, or that you’re scared that it’s not?”

“The former. I was careful, had precautions in place, but…” Imil looked dejected, resigned. “Simply put, we cannot consider the mortuary as a safe room. We will have to find somewhere else to operate from. It is possible we are being listened to right now.” 

“What? How is that possible?” Kara said, gesturing at the windowless room with only a single exit.

“Some Infusers can pass through walls, Kara.” Imil said, hoping Kara remembered her lessons. He had tried imparting her with as much knowledge as he could, hoping to do good for his nephew by raising his daughter.

Kara remembered that, of course. Infusers were a great threat and knowing how to counteract their abilities was half the battle. However, she’d also been told Whitereachers were exceedingly rare, and structural changes to buildings to prevent them from phasing through walls were incredibly expensive. She didn’t think she would ever have to worry about those, frankly.

“Ok, so what do we do? And will Garred be ok?” Kara asked, trying to divert the topic.

Imil’s gaze stopped on Garred for a long time. The boy’s chest rose and fell in a steady cadence, and Imil’s earlier appraisal had unearthed nothing critical. The lad likely panicked after that first contact with Pontifili’s agents and could not quite deal with it, nothing problematic long-term. He did knock his head after fainting however, and that was… hard to judge until he woke up.

“Garred will be fine,” Imil finally said. “Though I urge you to be gentle with him once he starts waking up. Let me handle him.”

“Ok, but what happened? Did someone hurt him? You?”

“No, no,” Imil said while waving dismissively and chuckling lightly. “We were taken by surprise down here by three orcs, but they only wanted to relay a message. Pontifili is calling his dogs to heel, and we will have to be there. No way to avoid it, not this time.”

Kara’s eyes lit up like stars in the night sky at the mention of Pontifili. She’d been waiting years for an opportunity to join a gathering of the families, and yet something else was bothering her.

“What happened to Garred then if they did not harm you?”

Imil’s jaw rested at a peculiar angle before answering Kara’s query.

“I do not know, Kara,” he said and almost continued into a lie. He did not want her to think less of Garred, but lying would be worse. She was a bright one, but she also was quick to judge others based on how they handled direct confrontations. Garred was many things, but he was not a fighter, better she understands that now than in the middle of a fight. “I suspect Garred has little taste for combat, and being trapped here did not sit well with him. Something akin to battle shock, perhaps. Hard to say.”

“Battle shock?” Kara asked. Of course Kara wouldn’t know about battle shock. She had been in scuffles, yes, but had never actually fought for her life. Neither did Garred, to be fair. “I thought there had not been a fight?”

“You are correct, there was not. And yet... ” Imil shook his head, this was for Garred to speak, not for him. Kara seemed confused as to what exactly happened, and looked at Garred with a perplexed expression, hard to read. “Let us get back on the topic at hand. The gathering.”

That was enough to refocus Kara’s attention. “Right, so can I go? You have to let me go!” Kara said a bit more forcefully than she would have liked, in retrospect.

“Kara, you have to go. All eight of us will need to be there… This is slated to be a succession, all families and coteries are expected to be there in full to cast their pledge. Which means the Frussards will be there too. You must behave yourself, is that understood?”

“Yes, of course,” Kara said in that tone that meant she couldn’t promise anything, coupled with a victorious smile plastered across her face. Kara would be hard to contain.

“We will talk about this again, later. We only have a short few days to prepare.”

“Prepare? Prepare what? Isn’t it just a nice reception?”

“Yes it is, but we will have to cast a pledge, and…,” Imil sighed again, much deeper than the last time. “I will explain in more detail once everyone is gathered. Tomorrow, you will have to find Madrinar.”

“Uuuh, I have no idea where they are! They could be anywhere!” Kara complained. As far as she knew, Madrinar had been bouncing for some dive on the edge of the Ring but they moved about all the time. Last time she had seen them, they had told her “The icy winds cannot be seen, cannot be caught. And neither can we, kid!” before scampering off into the night.

“Indeed,” said Imil. “Precisely the reason we must find them first.”

Garred felt a dull pain on the back of his head and could only hear faintly, lost in a muted daze, a world of quiet hurt. He heard two familiar voices conversing close-by, and feeling no need to add his voice to theirs, permitted himself to eavesdrop. From this place where everything was softer, he could only hear fragments of conversations.

“Wrong… Garred… scared… handle him… behave yourself… pledge…”

The conversation went on for some time, but the spied words often only served to weaken his resolve. They thought him weak. And why wouldn’t they? He was. The simple thought of having to fight had made him faint. When he was younger, he had joined other kids in mocking the frail ones, but what had been the point? This was out of their control, out of his control. This was just the latest in a long list of events that confirmed his inaptitude as a man, as a person.

The voices had gone silent for time unmeasured when something warm grabbed his hand and held it. It was Kara’s hand, rough, used to working, used to fighting. He didn’t dare move a muscle other than to breathe.

“Don’t worry, Red, I’ll protect you.” Kara whispered to him.

She stayed around and held him for so long. It was nice and also impossibly hard as he did his best to contain his tears. He couldn’t let them go, couldn’t let her see. He needed to be strong, and crying wasn’t a part of that.