"Are you angry at me?"

"Of course not, never. Perish the very thought, Arthur."

 

The city passed by in a slow blur of melting chalk and endless mortar and stone. The buildings grew closer together, stacked atop one another like bricks crumbling in a wall. The remnants of the blizzard days ago could still be seen; frost and ice spider webbing across the streets and up the buildings, as if choking the life from the city, watering everything to a muddy gray.

Distantly, hints of the noises outside leaked through the carriage walls; the crunching of snow beneath the coach’s wheels, the faint clip-clop of Stephen’s horses as they transitioned from snow to cobble and then to snow again; the burble and plink of pebbles and water dancing down gutters and drains; ice snapping and cracking as small icebreakers cleared the waterways beside us; people shouting and calling, their haggling voices swirling into an incoherent, droning murmur. 

Usually, I enjoyed the ride down to Arthur’s home— the district he lived in was far livelier than mine, whose equivalence to ambiance was silence and snow and more silence. I would’ve enjoyed the sights and sounds, but every jolt brought my wincing attention back to the present— back to me, bruised and injured, still reeling from my injuries, and mulling over the letter I’d gotten.

I have an appointment with Larissa Fleming. 

Larissa Fleming, also known by her monikers, the Gilded Cage, or the Golden Binder, was the foremost and most recent Warden to have joined their hallowed ranks. She, alongside five others, had risen to their illustrious ranks by way of combat and peril, or through innovation and ingenuity. Though, I wasn’t actually sure where or how Larissa had made her name.

My gaze drifted across from me— to Arthur, who silently sat, fidgeting with something in his hands, looking out the window. Occasionally, I’d catch him sneaking a glance at me, only for him to look sheepish I’d caught him, before turning away again.

Innocently phrasing the question to Arthur, who sat across from me, I said, “So… how did Larissa become a Warden?”

Out of the corner of my eye, Arthur stiffened in surprise, as if he’d been shaken awake. “I— huh?”

“Larissa— you like her, right? Tell me about her?”

He blinked in disbelief, before a wide grin broke across his face. “Oh— oh! Sure! How much do you already know?”

I didn’t blame him for the surprise. For the last ten minutes or so, I’d handed him the cold shoulder on what we’d discuss. Anytime he’d asked, I responded with something vague, before proceeding to stare out the window. In the meantime, he had frowned, slouched over and began to look more like a dejected, bandaged puppy than the usual bubbly Arthur I knew. For all he knew, I might’ve wanted to speak on something more serious.

A little mean, I silently acknowledged, a trickle of guilt worming its way into my chest, but I’m about ninety percent sure the letter is his fault, so it’s deserved. 

I gave him an uncertain smile, unable to shove away the silent delight in my chest from his smile. “Not much, I’m afraid— just start from the beginning?”

“Yeah— yeah okay! So— her achievement— the one that earned her the title of Warden— she got that title like, six years back— which makes her the newest Warden to be appointed!” 

“How’d she get the title?”

“You know how Litio Fortress got overran— like, eight years back?”

“I don’t recall, but go on.”

“Well— anyway— Litio Fortress— major force garrisoned to cordon off a monster den that’d broken the surface after it collapsed— we’re talking like, two— three thousand at any given time— with everything— catapults— ritual siege rooms— everything.”

I nodded along, not truly understanding but getting the general idea. 

Arthur continued, gesturing. “So— the fortress gets overran in the spring, and the village nearby is concerned that the monsters will reach them— but they don’t, because the Gilded Cage— just a Keeper, then, was out on assignment around that area when she caught wind of it.”

I frowned. “Okay…”

“So she and a small mercenary band set out to seal it— and she does!”

I frowned, scrunching my brow. “Just like that? Is it really that impressive? ”

Arthur nodded vigorously, earlier sheepishness discarded. “Of course she is, Elle! Not only did she close it off after years of it running rampant— she returned a year later to fully exterminate them!”

“What monsters were they? Nothing like Husks or Strays, I imagine.”

“No.“ Arthur’s eyes glimmered, his smile infectious. It made me want to smile too, but I held back. I had an appointment with Larissa Fleming. “— Dragon Knights— Dragon Knights, Elle— can you believe it?! A whole nest of them! And she swept through them like a hurricane!” 

Dragon Knights, as their names implied, were a combination between knights, and dragons. They boasted the statures of dragons— large, four-legged, jagged scaled, and winged— as well as the physiology of a traditional armored knight— metal armor running their lengths like swarms of angry bees, making the monster appear less like a noble fusion between arcane metallurgy and draconic grace, and more a profane amalgamation of rotting, melting flesh and jagged, rusty metal. I’d seen an illustration of them once, while reading over Arthur’s shoulder— some horrific remnant of the Echo ritual that got far too feisty to properly contain. 

Husks, and Strays, too, by contrast, were an unconsidered consequence of the Echo ritual. While not as dangerous as a Dragon Knight— they were, unfortunately, significantly more common. 

In conclusion, my thoughts succinctly finished, my head swiveling as Arthur fell into background noise, Larissa Fleming isn’t someone I can simply ignore. 

Outside, past the window of the carriage and on the frost-kissed streets, people broken by war scraped by in too-thin jackets and beggared rags. Deposed soldiers solicited, grasping peoples hands and motioning to their missing leg or arm or hand. Refugees hunkered down on the sides away from the waterway, under awnings or make-shift lean-to’s, gazes downcast and dejected, signs or bowls or pots or caps at their side. Occasionally, I’d see someone toss a copper coin their way. I could imagine the things they’d say— whispers of, how could they betray us? and, don’t you see my missing arm? I lost this in the war— fighting for the life you now live. 

Occasionally, drifts of holy men would flitter past, dressed in their plain wool finery, bearing moral sermons and solemn prayers alongside old bread and warm clothes. Others, too— those not of the holy cloth, but instead plentiful and bearing the Empress’s charity crest, would drift from their storefronts and stalls, freely offering food and shelter, if not for just a while. If not just to turn away the holy men the next time. If not to support the Empress, rather than the High Cardinal.

I turned away, distaste and relief dredging up a faint sigh. A reminder, prudence whispered, to not fight for the wrong cause— lest you end up like them. To not bite off more than you can chew— though it’s a bit late for that, isn’t it? 

“Uhm—“ Arthur stuttered to a stop, his expression falling “— Elle?”

“Hm?”

“I— I don’t know— are you, uh, upset at something?”

Yes, I nearly said, at you, at the Empire— everything’s so very tiring. Instead, I swallowed, reined in my annoyance the best I could, and said, “What makes you think that?”

“I— I dunno— it just feels like you’re kinda annoyed at something right now…” His hands clenched in his lap. “Is it something I did? I’m really sorry if it is— can you tell me what it was so I don’t do it again?”

His earnestness made my frown falter. That’s blatantly unfair. How am I supposed to stay angry at you if you’re being perfectly reasonable? 

Instead of properly answering, I changed the subject, looking back out the window, watching him from the corner of my eye. Mousy brown hair, messy button-ups and half-laced boots, bandages like stars on a night sky on his warm skin. Again, that trickle of slimy guilt opened a little further— the bandages adorning his face were numerous, and I knew there were probably more beneath his clothes that I couldn’t see. “How are your injuries?”

“… Oh!” he struggled to catch up. “Uhm, they’re good! They’re fine, I feel good.”

I gave him an appraising glance, and he smiled wider, clenching and unclenching his hand for me. Somehow, I doubted it.

“It’s nothing more than a couple of scratches and bruises— Here— here, look!” He moved, raising his hand towards the bandage that sat on his cheek, intent on pulling it back. My hand acted by instinct, darting out to catch his hand before it could reach his cheek

“Stop— stop,” I hissed, swallowing and reining in the panic in my throat. “Stop that. You don’t need to show me. I believe you.”

He paused, gave me a reassuring smile, and let his hand drop back down. After a heartbeat, I frowned, shoving mine back into my lap, and tore my gaze back out the window. I sighed again. 

Outside, small groups of people filtered by, dressed down in large, brown and gray coats and hats slick with melting snow. Some stood around, lazing in the pale sunlight of the clear sky. Others bustled, laden with baskets as they made their way through their days. Every so often, a group of people stood by, whether on a corner or sidewalk, holding up boards I couldn’t read. They shouted things that fell on deaf ears, and continued shaking their signs as if it’d change anything. I could imagine what they’d say too— shouts of indignation about the recent policy changes, complaints of an empire ruled by a single person, that the nobles were little better than dolls filled with straw meant to give an illusion of a united government.

I turned my thoughts away. The carriage never stayed still long enough for me to see Keepers inevitably breaking up the protests. 

Across from me, Arthur still sat, hands in his lap, a reassuring smile on his face whenever I glanced over, as if still asking me what bothered me.

He deserves better, a part of me hissed, swirling shameful barbs in my throat. Better than what you can offer. 

I frowned, looking away. I was never great at lying. “Truth be told… I’m a little annoyed.”

Arthur’s head tilted, concern glittering in his eyes. A heartbeat passed, and he kept silent, waiting, like he always did whenever I had something to say. My heart pounded, and dizziness played at the edge of my senses. I swallowed again, clenching my hands. Arthur Bell, infinitely considerate, infinitely kind— he’s going to get hurt from the truth— but the truth is all I can offer. 

I continued wading through the words, feeling guilt well up with each sentence. “I received a letter this morning— one I suspect you may be the cause of.”

“What?”

”Here—“ I fished the letter from my pocket, nearly tossing it to him “— just read it.”

Sharply, I turned my gaze back towards the window. I did my best to regain my fraying composure; forcefully dropping my shoulders; relaxing my hands; releasing a small breath I hoped didn’t sound too much like a sigh. After a minute, I took off my glasses, rubbing at them. The carriage jolted, and I swallowed a wince.

When I finally decided to look up, Arthur had a complicated expression on his face— brows furrowed like he was thinking, his gaze trained on the letter, but not quite attentive enough to truly be reading it, and his lips pressed into a thin line. 

“Well?” I asked, unable to keep the anxiety from my voice.

“Uhm— what?”

“Do you know why I got that letter?”

“I— uh. Yeah. When you were in the hospital, I asked Clara if we could help.”

I bit my lip, letting the ‘why’ die on my tongue, tasting like acid. I already knew his answer: ‘Why not? We can help people— so we should.’ I wasn’t actually sure what I had expected— a part of me knew— probably, intrinsically, logically, that Arthur would be the reason I’d gotten a letter from Clara. It was the easiest, simplest conclusion. A part of me did know, probably, given the earlier suspicion I already bore. 

I knew— and I should’ve expected it— but somehow, it still felt like betrayal— caustic and tasting of ash. Admittance was somehow worse. I was right, but in the way I really wish I hadn’t been. 

He tried at a reassuring smile, but it only served to put me further on edge. He flipped through the letter again. “This is cool, though— we have an appointment with the Gilded Cage!”

Silently, I did my best to rein in my expression. Wordlessly, I did my best to cram the toxic little bud of hurt back into a corner of my mind I didn’t have to think about at the moment. My best wasn’t enough, and I was losing the struggle on both fronts.

Arthur glanced up. “Elle? Elle? What’s wrong? You look stressed.”

Still a chance to turn around— say something completely different— back out before you hurt him by telling him you want no part in his hero business. 

“I— “ guilty conflict turned my voice into a choke, and I winced “— Why did you ask Clara…”

“Elle… I know you’re not on good terms with her, but she has her own reasons too.”

That’s not what I was asking— did you even consider how I’d feel about all of this? I choked the scornful words down— drowned them under affirmations and proper logic, before my quickly growing panic could spit them out. Of course he did, justifications and rationale spoke, stern and brooking no argument, Arthur always considers how you would feel. Don’t you remember that time you scraped your knee playing? Or the time he completely dropped everything to entertain your petty whim to go to that festival? You didn’t even enjoy it— but he still did his best. Even recently— when he asked if you wanted to go home when you went shopping at that merchant boy’s stall— endlessly considerate of him. You should be ashamed of doubting him after all these years he’s spent besides you. 

“Elle— “ Arthur began, and this time, his face had truly fallen into concern “— does Clara bother you that much?”

“I— no— it’s just,” I tumbled over my words, struggling to rip the barbs from them. “Why did you ask her to let us help?”

Even though I knew how he’d respond, it felt no better to hear them spoken aloud— I liked the truth, but to hear it from him directly still felt like a punch to the gut. Arthur’s expression morphed into one of narrowed-eyed, soft confusion, as if trying very hard to understand where I came from. It felt as if barbed wire had crawled into my throat, choking it. 

“Virgulta hurts people— we should do what we can to help people— and we’re already involved, right?”

Sane judgment whispered, he’s right— you blew up an Isthmus, and damaged a workshop— not to mention harmed dozens, if not many more people. You dragged him into this as much as he did. The only difference is that you’re wildly incapable of what you’re getting into. At least he knows what he wants to do. You’ll probably just file this away under your growing checklist of tasks, to be handled at a later date. 

The slow realization stung at my eyes, and I couldn’t hold his gaze. A shaky breath clawed its way past the thorns tightening my throat, and I squeezed my hands, as if to choke the shaking out of them. It wasn’t working. 

Arthur haltingly spoke up, “Uhm… Elle.”

I opened my mouth to respond, and nothing came out. Then, before I could stop him, Arthur embraced me. 

“Uh— I don’t know what’s wrong— but I’m here for you,” Arthur murmured, holding me tighter. 

The embrace did very little to calm my nerves. If anything— it had only thrown more fuel onto the fire. At this very moment, I did not enjoy the luxury of touch— Arthur’s hug felt less like a cradle, and more like a cage. His arms wrapped around me dredged up hazy, snowy memories of my desperate scramble not to be strangled. Our clothes shifted like sandpaper, my vision blurred and shook. Bile climbed my throat, rising panic choked out a breath I was unable to take, and before I could stop myself— I jerked away, pushing at his chest as a hissing whine tore itself from my throat, inspiring a fresh wave of private horror and shame.

Arthur jerked back, as if stung, and despite the fact I couldn’t see his expression, I could tell he was pained. He said something I couldn’t hear. Just as quickly, my hands darted back into my lap, contrite and trying to hide in the nonexistent folds of my skirt. 

My vision blurred and fell, shameful acknowledgment and awareness of what I’d just done burning worse than a fever. I’m losing control in quite possibly the worst way. 

“Elle—I— are you willing to trust me?”

Always— Of course, I silently responded, unable to find my voice. As much as you trust me. 

A heartbeat passed before he slowly— oh, so slowly— took my hands in his. I let him, gritting my teeth as he drew my hands out of my lap. Gently, his fingers pried, peeling my hands out of the white-knuckled death grip they’d adopted. Gradually, bit by bit, my hands settled, relaxed and open in his. I forced my shoulders to relax. I huffed and scoffed, gulping down large gasps of air as I struggled and choked down my reaction. I focused on Arthur, his hands gentle around mine. My heart slowly steadied. My breathing regain some semblance of composure, petering out from dry heaves to smaller pants. 

I swallowed, and slowly pulled my hands back.

Guilt roiled and gnawed in my gut. Arthur didn’t deserve the way I treated him. He’d done his best, and I was simply disappointing— too incompetent to keep him from getting injured. The Vitrine crystals in my bag pulsed, faint, like a distant reminder that I wasn’t good enough. My hands clenched in my lap, tight.

When Arthur spoke, I peaked from the corner of my eye. His brow was furrowed, his lips pressed into a thin line, staring directly at me. I swallowed, and my guilt spoke for me before I could stop it.

“I’m— mhm— Sorry,” my voice stumbled out, raw. I turned away as shame flushed my cheeks. “I— I shouldn’t have yelled at you— It’s just… It’s just…”

Why are you apologizing? A part of me hissed. Don’t you have a right to be angry? He roped you into something you never wanted— Shut up shut up, I silently repeated, I made the choice to go with him— don’t fuck this up. Don’t you dare fuck this up. It’s not his fault you’re a disappointment. Don’t take it out on him. 

I continued, “I just wish you had let me know earlier— instead of letting me find out through that letter, is all.”

My gaze trailed up, to find that Arthur’s expression had morphed into one of conflict— his eyes were scrunched, not staring directly at me, but not exactly past me, either. He was biting at his lip, before he caught my eye and attempted at a reassuring smile. He spoke, nodding, “Okay. Yeah. I’m sorry that I didn’t tell you earlier.”

I did my best to return his smile, but it came out fragile and hollow. “I as well. I’ll strive to communicate more clearly.”

Will you? You just rattled off  a bunch of thinly-veiled half-truths to cover up your bigger lie. Silently, still smiling, I bundled up all my shame, my guilt, my panic, and that little voice that peddled truth, and shoved it into a very far corner of my mind. There was little need to think on it now.

I breathed, exhaustion rippling underneath my skin. “Okay.”

Arthur properly met my gaze, his smile slowly growing more genuine by the second. “Okay?”

“It’s behind us now.”

His smile became genuine. “It’s behind us now,” he agreed.

Fortunately, tactfully, he changed the subject. “So,” he started. “The Gilded Cage.”

“Larissa Fleming.”

“Do you think we’ll be able to get an autograph?”

I snorted, spinning my gaze back to the window. “If you go dressed how you usually look— we’ll be turned away at the door.”

“Hey!” he protested, “You take that back, I can dress formally if I wanted to!”

“Arthur.” I turned a mournful look on him. “Your version of formal is, frankly, an affront to anyone who looks upon you.”

He sputtered. “Wh— what? That’s not true.”

“Ah, you’re right. I forgot that those women of the night complimented you, once.”

“Can we— can we please not talk about that?”

“Why not?” My grin grew. “You were so excited— ‘how mysterious!’ and ‘They sound very exciting’— I recall you saying. I even distantly recall you begging me if we could visit them together— ignoring everything I was trying—”

“Okay— okay whatever! Who cares?” He chewed out, red growing in his cheeks. “You were so mean to me that evening— you told me to ask mom what it meant!”

I shrugged, raising my eyebrows. “And she gave you a better answer than I could’ve. I don’t see the problem.”

He muttered something under his breath. “At least I don’t go to formal events in the same dress every single time.”

“When you’ve been to as many formal dinner parties as I’ve been, you quickly get tired of them.”

‘You haven’t been to a formal event in years, Elle.”

“Because I got tired of them.”

“Not because they stopped inviting you?”

“Because I stopped showing up.”

“Isn’t that like— insulting in noble terms or something?”

“I don’t really care,” I smugly declared, “I’m not like those other stuffy nobles.”

“You’re right, Elle.” Arthur made a mock-fainting gesture. “You buy hundreds of rugs instead of hiring people to carpet your home— and then you wear the same style for years.”

“Watch your tongue,” I playfully warned, “lest I decide to have you tried on the grounds of staining my honor. And in my defense— it’s called being consistent!”

He sighed, a mournful imitation of a gesture I’d do. Sometimes, I forgot how much we rubbed off on one another over the years. When I’d first met Arthur, I could’ve never imagined him quipping with me. A giggle bubbled up, and I made no effort to suppress it. After a moment, his mock-frown became a smile, and he laughed alongside me. 

As he laughed, I found myself quietly watching the way his shoulders shook, his eyes shut as he laughed, pale light somehow looking warm across his brown hair and warm skin. The picture of happiness. Again, I was reminded of the oddity of our relationship, of whether I wanted more or less. I shelved the thought when his laughter petered out, and he tilted his head. 

“What’s up?”

“Nothing,” I remarked, still softly smiling. “Just thinking what I’ll wear to that dinner appointment.”

“You could wear that dress you always wear.”

“The blue one?”

“You have ones that aren’t blue?”

I huffed. “Come over early tomorrow, I’ll show you my other dresses.”

Before Arthur could respond, the carriage juddered over a crack as it stopped, sending a particularly vicious jolt through my bruised bones. I winced, as after a moment, the carriage door opened.

Stephen greeted the two of us, “We ‘ave arrived.” 

Arthur and I clambered out of the warmth of the carriage, and onto the snow-filled street in front of Arthur’s home— I slowed down, slowly and shakily climbing down much to Stephen and Arthur’s simultaneous worry. In front of us was Arthur’s residence; a large complex of aging pink brick and sagging wooden beams and bundled chimneys. Slit windows were set like black and white dominoes. I looked for Arthur’s window, spotting it about three floors up— brightly lit and shut. 

I thanked Stephen and dismissed him with a gesture, and he ambled back onto the carriage, raised his reins and set off again. Arthur went for the door, fishing a set of keys from his pocket. The door clicked, before swinging open.

“Oh, Elle— one more thing,” Arthur said, genuinely beaming as I followed him in. “Thank you for being by my side.”

I smiled back, like I always did. “Always, Arthur.”

My Shade’s question echoed again: What will you do? How are you going to solve this?