HOME | DD

Description
“You cannot do this,” he says, visor lifted, “she is searching for her mother. You cannot do this.”

“And d’you suppose we decided taking a walk through hell would be fun?” The stupidity of some men. “I told you,” Adilah gasps, stops when the spasm brings her flesh closer to the wire, “not to move, sir knight.” Cadmus turns his head, arms still shaking at his side, and looks at him—face covered in blood, eyes drooping shut—and he finds himself moving forward, the last box still in his hands, lid half-open. “Alexander!”

“Harmonia?” He drops to his knees beside Cadmus, looks up at her. Stay out of this.

I could’ve told you not to bring him along, she breathes, and he feels artificial calm settle his nerves as she turns her full attention again on Sir Elias, still standing over him and Cadmus, being completely ignored by both. And the knight stops dead in his tracks and folds gracefully down, bending at knees, waist, shoulders, till he’s a crumpled case of metal, head bowed, hands on his knees, helpless, raging. The girl in Harmonia’s arms whimpers—a mockery of embrace, Harmonia’s arms enveloping her body, garrotte twisted twice to leave her room to breath and hold her close— draws a shuddery breath and falls quiet. Harmonia smiles, whispers into Adilah’s ear, smiles. Smiles and smiles and smiles. Why so serious?

He turns away, turns his back on them, turns to Cadmus. Pulls at him, tilting the head, running careful fingers through the blood. His head, his blood, spilled for a cause not his, a man he has never met, never known, never loved. The hero at the gates, fighting to keep safe a town he will never enter, a father he will never meet, a son he will never know. Heroes die. That is why we sing their songs and speak their stories. If they lived, we would call them other names, or call them nothing at all.

“Alexander.” Cadmus’ eyes are gentle, even through all that blood, and he digs for a handkerchief that’s unstained with chocolate and ink. Gives up and pulls out one that’s marginally clean, scrubs at Cadmus with it. “Alexander, stop.” Cadmus’ hand is tight round his wrist, pulling it away, stopping his gentle, insistent efforts at cleaning up. “Alexander.”

Sweet Someone, Alexander, pull yourself together, he’s alive, he’s fine, scalp wounds always bleed a lot, it’s nothing serious.

“What is it?” Yeah? I see you very carefully looking anywhere but at him.

Touché, Little Brother. What should we do with the little tart?

Kill her, maim her, knock her out, lock her up. What do I care? He looks up, smiles at Adilah, takes in her pale, drawn face, her frightened wide eyes, the threads of fear-worry-defiance tangling in her mind. Do you think she understands us?

Look for yourself, Little Brother. And she lifts her control on Adilah, and he no longer wonders at the lines suddenly on Harmonia’s face, the thread of exhaustion tinting, tainting her thoughts.

“Alexander.”

He dabs at Cadmus with his free hand, eyes on Harmonia. What did you to her knight in shining armour?

Put him to sleep. They could as easily speak—speech would be easier, for Harmonia, and they have spoken since the others entered this chamber, for thoughts are easier understood than unfamiliar speech. But thoughts are better understood than unfamiliar speech, and he thinks only knowing how easily they would hurt her is keeping Adilah from trying to throw Harmonia off, even with weight and strength and ease of movement against her, even with a garrotte encircling her throat.

Isn’t she trouble? Of course she is, the real question is whether, and for how long, Harmonia will deem her worth it. Not too long. Harmonia never is interested too long in anyone or anything.

Just knock her out, he throws at her, and then ow, what the fuck?, because Cadmus has just rapped his knuckles against his forehead. “What?”

And Cadmus smiles up at him, happy-happy-happy. “This, Sikander Shah.” And he unfolds his fist, and shows him a great iron key.

He looks, down at the wooden box loosely cradled between his hand and Cadmus’, up at the key in Cadmus’ hand, further up at Cadmus’ smiling face, and finally at Harmonia. “Knock her out.”

Adilah goes still and slumps forward as Harmonia frees her from the garrotte and catches her suddenly limp form. And Elias groans, shakes like castanets rattling and begins to pull himself up.

“Fuck. Fuck. Just fucking well GO TO SLEEP.” And Elias stumbles again, and he finds his eyes closing as well, mind swirling with wisps of dreams and a half-finished thought that ceases to be.

And then there is swirling darkness and a creeping dread and an insistent flame glowing in his mind. And then consciousness, accompanied by a stinging cheek. “Ow?”

“Yes, well.” Harmonia swims into view, red hair and irate face, and rubs a gentle hand over the skin she just slapped. “Cadmus woke on his own.” She pulls him to his feet, hands gone rough again, and impersonal. Harmonia has trouble being affectionate and asexual at the same time, she so rarely has needed to be.

“You overdid it.” By quite a bit—the knight resembles an effigy— Templar knight resting atop his own tomb, arms crossed on his breast, hands still clasped ’round the hilt of his sword—and Adilah a tiny shrouded corpse. “They are still breathing?”

“You care?” She hefts her own pack, hands him his. Exhilaration-determination-smugness radiate through her, and a careless out of my mind, Little Brother is thrown at him. He nods and withdraws.

“I do,” Cadmus says, hand on Adilah’s throat. “She’s alive. Better dead than alive, in hell, but she’s alive.”

“How nice for her,” Harmonia drawls. “I take that didn’t stop you from stripping her gear?” She toes Elias. “He had nothing on him save the sword.”

“Cooking gear,’ Cadmus says, straightening. “Not much use.”

“But you stole it,” he grins, stepping around Elias, pulling his pack on.

“Down to the last knife and fork,” Cadmus smiles back, and then they are standing before the twin doors and the great chained locks.

“Can we move, now?”

“Scared of the mind-reader, Harmonia?” The room rings again with clashing steel, and Cadmus’ fear-determination-waning strength.

Cadmus ducks his head, face darkening, and pushes the key home. And the tumblers turn in the great lock and the chains slip slowly from their places and whirr into their holds in the middle of the doors. And then the bars drop and lift and the doors creak back.

“How considerate,” Cadmus says, as they stand looking through the doors—firestorm and blizzard, hot and cold deserts behind the doors, melting heat and freezing cold. “A choice of hells.”

“I thought,” Harmonia says, coming up beside him, “that Hell was supposed to be fire.”

“Common misconception,” Cadmus returns, “initially, it was supposed to be…” He stops abruptly, and glares at Harmonia.

“You’re babbling. Pick a door.”

“It seems unwise to brave fire.”

“Better hypothermia than burning?”

“Something of the sort. Alexander?”

“Little Brother?”

He looks up, pulls his hand away from the steel he has been resting it on, from the wheels and cogs and intricate markings on the door—the demons on the hinges, the ogre on the knocker—and turns to smile at them. “I pick frostbite.”

And they walk through the blue door, into the arctic waste, on the path lined with icicles, Alexander held between them, no breath spared for words, no glances for the knight and his damsel in the factory façade, both awakening.

Orpheus walks and must not look back, must never look back. Orpheus walks on.

Description
“You cannot do this,” he says, visor lifted, “she is searching for her mother. You cannot do this.”

“And d’you suppose we decided taking a walk through hell would be fun?” The stupidity of some men. “I told you,” Adilah gasps, stops when the spasm brings her flesh closer to the wire, “not to move, sir knight.” Cadmus turns his head, arms still shaking at his side, and looks at him—face covered in blood, eyes drooping shut—and he finds himself moving forward, the last box still in his hands, lid half-open. “Alexander!”

“Harmonia?” He drops to his knees beside Cadmus, looks up at her. Stay out of this.

I could’ve told you not to bring him along, she breathes, and he feels artificial calm settle his nerves as she turns her full attention again on Sir Elias, still standing over him and Cadmus, being completely ignored by both. And the knight stops dead in his tracks and folds gracefully down, bending at knees, waist, shoulders, till he’s a crumpled case of metal, head bowed, hands on his knees, helpless, raging. The girl in Harmonia’s arms whimpers—a mockery of embrace, Harmonia’s arms enveloping her body, garrotte twisted twice to leave her room to breath and hold her close— draws a shuddery breath and falls quiet. Harmonia smiles, whispers into Adilah’s ear, smiles. Smiles and smiles and smiles. Why so serious?

He turns away, turns his back on them, turns to Cadmus. Pulls at him, tilting the head, running careful fingers through the blood. His head, his blood, spilled for a cause not his, a man he has never met, never known, never loved. The hero at the gates, fighting to keep safe a town he will never enter, a father he will never meet, a son he will never know. Heroes die. That is why we sing their songs and speak their stories. If they lived, we would call them other names, or call them nothing at all.

“Alexander.” Cadmus’ eyes are gentle, even through all that blood, and he digs for a handkerchief that’s unstained with chocolate and ink. Gives up and pulls out one that’s marginally clean, scrubs at Cadmus with it. “Alexander, stop.” Cadmus’ hand is tight round his wrist, pulling it away, stopping his gentle, insistent efforts at cleaning up. “Alexander.”

Sweet Someone, Alexander, pull yourself together, he’s alive, he’s fine, scalp wounds always bleed a lot, it’s nothing serious.

“What is it?” Yeah? I see you very carefully looking anywhere but at him.

Touché, Little Brother. What should we do with the little tart?

Kill her, maim her, knock her out, lock her up. What do I care? He looks up, smiles at Adilah, takes in her pale, drawn face, her frightened wide eyes, the threads of fear-worry-defiance tangling in her mind. Do you think she understands us?

Look for yourself, Little Brother. And she lifts her control on Adilah, and he no longer wonders at the lines suddenly on Harmonia’s face, the thread of exhaustion tinting, tainting her thoughts.

“Alexander.”

He dabs at Cadmus with his free hand, eyes on Harmonia. What did you to her knight in shining armour?

Put him to sleep. They could as easily speak—speech would be easier, for Harmonia, and they have spoken since the others entered this chamber, for thoughts are easier understood than unfamiliar speech. But thoughts are better understood than unfamiliar speech, and he thinks only knowing how easily they would hurt her is keeping Adilah from trying to throw Harmonia off, even with weight and strength and ease of movement against her, even with a garrotte encircling her throat.

Isn’t she trouble? Of course she is, the real question is whether, and for how long, Harmonia will deem her worth it. Not too long. Harmonia never is interested too long in anyone or anything.

Just knock her out, he throws at her, and then ow, what the fuck?, because Cadmus has just rapped his knuckles against his forehead. “What?”

And Cadmus smiles up at him, happy-happy-happy. “This, Sikander Shah.” And he unfolds his fist, and shows him a great iron key.

He looks, down at the wooden box loosely cradled between his hand and Cadmus’, up at the key in Cadmus’ hand, further up at Cadmus’ smiling face, and finally at Harmonia. “Knock her out.”

Adilah goes still and slumps forward as Harmonia frees her from the garrotte and catches her suddenly limp form. And Elias groans, shakes like castanets rattling and begins to pull himself up.

“Fuck. Fuck. Just fucking well GO TO SLEEP.” And Elias stumbles again, and he finds his eyes closing as well, mind swirling with wisps of dreams and a half-finished thought that ceases to be.

And then there is swirling darkness and a creeping dread and an insistent flame glowing in his mind. And then consciousness, accompanied by a stinging cheek. “Ow?”

“Yes, well.” Harmonia swims into view, red hair and irate face, and rubs a gentle hand over the skin she just slapped. “Cadmus woke on his own.” She pulls him to his feet, hands gone rough again, and impersonal. Harmonia has trouble being affectionate and asexual at the same time, she so rarely has needed to be.

“You overdid it.” By quite a bit—the knight resembles an effigy— Templar knight resting atop his own tomb, arms crossed on his breast, hands still clasped ’round the hilt of his sword—and Adilah a tiny shrouded corpse. “They are still breathing?”

“You care?” She hefts her own pack, hands him his. Exhilaration-determination-smugness radiate through her, and a careless out of my mind, Little Brother is thrown at him. He nods and withdraws.

“I do,” Cadmus says, hand on Adilah’s throat. “She’s alive. Better dead than alive, in hell, but she’s alive.”

“How nice for her,” Harmonia drawls. “I take that didn’t stop you from stripping her gear?” She toes Elias. “He had nothing on him save the sword.”

“Cooking gear,’ Cadmus says, straightening. “Not much use.”

“But you stole it,” he grins, stepping around Elias, pulling his pack on.

“Down to the last knife and fork,” Cadmus smiles back, and then they are standing before the twin doors and the great chained locks.

“Can we move, now?”

“Scared of the mind-reader, Harmonia?” The room rings again with clashing steel, and Cadmus’ fear-determination-waning strength.

Cadmus ducks his head, face darkening, and pushes the key home. And the tumblers turn in the great lock and the chains slip slowly from their places and whirr into their holds in the middle of the doors. And then the bars drop and lift and the doors creak back.

“How considerate,” Cadmus says, as they stand looking through the doors—firestorm and blizzard, hot and cold deserts behind the doors, melting heat and freezing cold. “A choice of hells.”

“I thought,” Harmonia says, coming up beside him, “that Hell was supposed to be fire.”

“Common misconception,” Cadmus returns, “initially, it was supposed to be…” He stops abruptly, and glares at Harmonia.

“You’re babbling. Pick a door.”

“It seems unwise to brave fire.”

“Better hypothermia than burning?”

“Something of the sort. Alexander?”

“Little Brother?”

He looks up, pulls his hand away from the steel he has been resting it on, from the wheels and cogs and intricate markings on the door—the demons on the hinges, the ogre on the knocker—and turns to smile at them. “I pick frostbite.”

And they walk through the blue door, into the arctic waste, on the path lined with icicles, Alexander held between them, no breath spared for words, no glances for the knight and his damsel in the factory façade, both awakening.

Orpheus walks and must not look back, must never look back. Orpheus walks on.