Chapter 18: A Dangerous Friendship (Patreon)

Terry stared at those words in shock. In person? I can’t do that…can I?

[RoseBud]: Where sh—

He paused, realizing what he was agreeing to. Do you remember what happened last time you left the palace? Seven ghouls died, dummy.

He deleted the words and started again.

[RoseBud]: Sorry, I’m grounded—

No, that was stupid.

[RoseBud]: I’m not allowed to leave the palace right now.

Yeah, that sounded better. A bit more dignified. Even if he couldleave the palace, meeting with a stranger he just met on the net was…not something he thought his mother would have approved of. Sure, he had his supersoldier undead bodyguards to back him up, but that was its own problem. How could he possibly convince Crunch to let him out on another adventure, so soon after the last one went so poorly.

IBelieve is typing…

He held his breath, expecting the anonymous user to cut contact, accuse him of pulling some stunt, or simply make fun of him for being on house-arrest. Instead, IBelieve sent him a link.

[IBelieve]: Check this out then

He examined the link before confirming it wasn’t anything shady. When he clicked on it, a new tab opened to a video hosting site. The thumbnail of the video in question was a long ranged still of a field—

Holy Crap!

[RoseBud]: Is that what I think it is!!!

[IBelieve]: You tell me…

He pressed play, his hands shaking as the video started.

From a distance that seemed like hundreds of meters, if not further, he spotted indistinct shapes running about. Above them, five blobs flew through the sky, a bright light narrowing in toward the figures. The camera panned to follow a lone person running away—no, not running, but bounding. The view zoomed in, the graininess increasing as it did so. But what he was seeing was undeniable—that was a small person bouncing on the shoulder of the loping figure.

That’s me over Crunch’s shoulder!

The camera shifted again, following Savage’s arcing jump as he landed in front of them, a mountain of dirt casting into the air from the crater of his fall. The resolution wasn’t great, but he could confirm the broad strokes of the fight between Crunch and the super.

But something new—something he hadn’t noticed in the moment—caught his eye. A figure rode in on a flying spectral beast that fuzzed at the edges, leaping from the mount with his telltale scythe in hand. A thrill went up his spine at the sheer majesty of watching his grandfather swooping in to his rescue. Behind his grandfather, he spotted his dad crossing the field at a sprint, racing toward Terry.

The camera shifted once more, pulling away from the scene to capture the larger view for a moment before suddenly zooming in to the far side of the field. The indistinct figure he had assumed was his mother was nowhere to be seen. But sitting in the dirt was a person in shining gold armor, a limp body pulled into his lap.

Is that…?

The blinding gold light made it difficult to tell, but it seemed to be Siren clutched in Sol’s hands as the man looked to the sky. The expression on his face was impossible to decipher, but the increasing intensity of that light being pulled from the sun spoke to what came next.

A pinprick of light eclipsed Sol, then shot outward. A blink later, the camera went black and the video ended.

Terry sat back in his chair, his thoughts crashing against each other.

Siren dead.

Sol triggered his most powerful ability, aiming to wipe out all the players on the field.

Had my mom killed Siren?

If not, who did?

But if she did…then why wasn’t she in the video near the end? Where was her body? Why wasn’t she melted from Sol’s supernova?

[IBelieve]: say something kid

His fingers hovered over the keys, unsure what to reply. Eventually, he found the words.

[RoseBud]: Where was the White Rose? Where was my mom…

[IBelieve]: And that, my young prince, is the million dollar question. I have more vids, but can’t share them over the net.

[IBelieve]: need to meet in person…

***

He logged off shortly after that, feigning some excuse while he gathered his thoughts. He wasn’t ready to commit to an in-person meet, not with what he’d just seen boiling inside his mind.

Had she faked her death? Had someone else faked her death? How? No, more importantly…why?

His mind went to the darkest places it could imagine, sending a sick feeling through his gut.

The Scourge or Tenebrous kidnapped her before Sol’s supernova. She’s back in Topeka, being tortured even as I sit here. Or what if Tenebrous kidnapped her and left her somewhere to starve and rot while he tried in vain to rescue Sol? Was she still alive right now, slowly dying of thirst and hunger?

And what the hell was that body I’d said goodbye to? Had grandfather staged her corpse? But why? And there was no doubt about it, father considered her dead. His reaction was not faked, that I’m completely sure about.

So what the hell was going on!

The mania of not knowing infected him for the rest of the night and he didn’t sleep a wink. Burgundy and Bloodstain had finally agreed to standing guard outside his door, rather than directly inside his bedroom, so he thankfully didn’t have to deal with them wondering why he was white-knuckling his sheets with a combination of rage and concern.

By the time the morning bells tolled across the city, he was numb, his anger exhausted in the face of an inscrutable question.

What happened to the White Rose? What happened to mom…?

There was nothing for it, he needed to distract himself. He threw his covers off with a bit more force than necessary and stood beside his bed aimlessly. Half-painted figurines stared back at him, a pile of crumpled sketches littered the floor, and his Necrotalk Forums tab bounced tauntingly on his computer.

He didn’t want to do any of that.

A thought occurred to him and he set off with a determined stride, throwing a clean shirt over his head—well, semi-clean—as he left his room.

He felt more than saw Burg and Blood follow behind him. That was happening more often. Sensing people and undead without seeing or hearing them. He imagined their presences like rocks jutting up from the riverbed; in some cases, the rocks were domineering, forcing the current around them like the draugr or the patches. In others, they were bare ripples, only noticeable if he really strained his senses.

It was a far cry from manipulating his own aura, but some progress was better than none.

As he passed servants or the human guards that patrolled the hallways, his sense of their auras was almost nonexistent—the small rocks whose only impact on the current was to form small swirls on the surface. But as he passed two ghouls attending a stairway leading down to the catacombs, their auras noticeably shifted in his mind, moving—no, expressing themselves on that aura river.

Behind him, he felt another shift, as if in response. He whirled around, for some reason surprised to see Burg and Blood standing there. Their eyes scanned the halls, never turning toward their brothers at the stairs. But there was no doubt about it—the four of them were communicating right in front of him and he would have never noticed, even a week ago.

No wonder learning English is such a low priority—they have an entire unspoken language between them.

His thirst to master that skill had never been stronger. Three of his closest friends now were ghouls and he wanted to speak to them on their terms.

But first, he had a serious apology to make.

Walking past the two ghouls with a nod, he entered the servant’s quarters where Mesmer had his office. He definitely didn’t feel a shiver down his back as he passed the hall where Shadow took him. No, definitely not…

And he didn’t stop as he came to Mesmer’s office, continuing past to where the bulk of the servants lived. It was painful to admit, but he had never come this way before—had never had reason to, though that felt like a flimsy excuse. His whole life, he’d respected and admired the undead that served the Fairways, but had given very little thought to the humans who provided a service just as necessary for the palace and the city.

I need to fix that thinking, he realized. Make an effort to get to know the living just as well as the undead.

He made a mental note to ask Mesmer to introduce him around as he approached the servants’ dormitory. Then, all thoughts of making friends slipped from his mind as he remembered why he had made the trek here.

A cold sweat had formed on the back of his neck without him even realizing it and he hesitated at the door for more than a few moments. Though he had never been here, he did know enough to know that he couldn’t just barge in. While those with spouses and families more often than not moved out of the palace and commuted in, many of the younger servants lived here.

And the dorms were separated by gender, meaning that pushing past this door would very likely bring him into the female quarters where, prince or no, his presence would be frowned upon. So he held a fist up, building the courage to knock and—

Thwump!

The door swung outward, crashing into his fist, then his face. He fell to his butt with a yelp that he would have been embarrassed by if his nose didn’t sting so bad. Tears formed in his eyes, his vision bleary.

When he looked up, two red-skinned shapes held another, much smaller, shape by the arms. Terry’s mind was slow to assess the situation—I hope I don’t have another concussion—but when he did, he shot up to his feet, wiping the tears away lest someone think he was crying like a kid.

“Burg, Blood, let her go! It was an accident!”

Clutched tight in the ghouls’ hands was a young woman whose clothes indicated she was a maid. Her face was flushed red and her eyes glistened as if she were on the verge of tears. His bodyguards let her go and she immediately collapsed to her knees. He thought she was weak from fright, but then she started begging and he reared back in horror.

“P-pl-lease, my prince! Fo-forgive me! I di-di—” She cut off as the dam broke, a terrible sob erupting from her.

He watched her for a moment, a feeling of revulsion rising from deep in his chest. Not toward her for breaking down in fear, but toward the entire system of the palace. Was this something the Emperor instilled in his servants? This abject terror? Was this the norm?

It disgusted him to think that there existed others who would punish this poor woman for an obvious accident.

“Hey—” His voice caught and he tried to push past the lump forming. “Hey, don’t cry. Please, don’t cry. I’m okay, really!” He crouched and reached out a hand to get her attention. “Hey, look at me, I’m fine, really.”

She glanced through her bangs, eyeing Terry with an animal fear that pulled at his heart. He smiled, doing his best to affect a charming, devil-may-care attitude. But it must have translated wrong, because the maid gasped with wide eyes.

“Yo-your no-nose,” she stammered, throwing her head back into her hands. “Oh, Emperor protect me, I broke the prince’s nose!”

Broke…? He reached up and delicately fingered the bridge of his nose, wincing as he felt things shift that really shouldn’t shift.

It was only then that the pain flared up, white-hot and blinding. But I won’t cry, he told himself. Crying is for things that actually hurt, like losing mothers. This isn’t pain. This is just receptors in my brain firing. I’ve felt real pain…

He repeated the words in his head like a mantra, not daring to let himself cry. It was a near thing, though. When he looked up, he flinched, realizing that they now had an audience.

The women coming to see the commotion likewise flinched, though for a different reason. He could see the look in each of their eyes—the same look reflected in the door-opener’s eyes.

They were absolutely terrified down to their cores.

Except one.

“Hey, Tania.” His voice came out nasally and he cringed with embarrassment.

She stood at the front of the group of women, her arms crossed and her face a cloud of anger.

“What’d ya do?” she asked, her tone full of accusation. “Get a little handsy and she clocked ya?”

He reared back, looking toward the maid who was still on her knees on the tile, crying softly to herself. The blood dripped down past his lips, splashing lightly against the floor.

She thought I had tried to…touch the maid?

His eyes went wide and he shook his head so hard he thought he might have pinched something in his neck.

“No! What? No!” He looked up toward his bodyguards for help, but they stood there so still, it was like they weren’t even paying attention. “I was coming to see you—to apologize and, she, well, I, the door opened as I—” He struggled to find a way to relay the story without casting blame on the maid. He pantomimed the door hitting his nose, but judging from the confused looks he was receiving, he was doing a poor job. He sighed and turned to the woman on the floor. “Hey, I’m not mad. Are you okay?”

She nodded through her sobs and Terry sat back on his heels, feeling completely at a loss. He looked up to the other women now forming a ring around them.

“Can you help her back to her room, please? And maybe let her take the day off…or something?”

One of the older women shot forward, wrapping her arms around the maid. She slowly pulled her to her feet, shushing her quietly as she escorted her through the crowd.

“I’m really not mad,” he called after them, trailing off when he realized how silly he sounded. He looked around at the crowd of women, suddenly feeling like he wanted to be anywhere else. His eyes locked on Tania, who had a skeptical expression on her face. He opened his mouth to say something, then clamped it shut, realizing just how many people were watching him. The anxiety hit him like the draugr’s aura and he backed away from the group. “I, uh, I’m gonna…” He turned and started quick walking away, the heat rising to the back of his neck.

He felt Burg and Blood at his back as he walked away as fast as he could. Walked…definitely not fled.

“You lot were no help,” he muttered.

A voice that was not a ghoul spoke up at his side.

“What’d you wanna—”

He whirled around with a yelp.

“Ahh! Holy crap, Tania! You scared me.”

She had jumped at his undignified yelp, but was now snort-laughing into her hand.

“You…scream…like…a—”

He crossed his arms and regarded her with the deadliest look he could muster. “Don’t say it.”

“—girl! And that blood…dripping…look…ridiculous!” She was bent over now, laughter stealing her breath.

He tried to maintain his disappointed angry look, but the absurdity of it all was too much. He scoffed and shook his head.

“I’m sure it doesn’t look ridiculous. Tough is more likely. Broken noses are cool.” He pictured Whipvine’s gnarled, smashed-up nose that looked like it had been pounded with a hammer and reconsidered. “Well, usually.”

Her laughing fit died down, only to renew as she glanced up at him.

“Okay, you’re starting to hurt my feelings a bit,” he said with a joking tone. But now he wanted to look in a mirror. It couldn’t be that bad…right?

She waved a hand in breathless apology, then pulled herself back under control.

“Sorry, sorry! It’s been a problem lately. Have you noticed that for you?”

He furrowed his brow at that. “Noticed what?”

“I don’t know, it’s like…things are funny that shouldn’t be. Like my funny bone is broken or something.”

“Okay…why do you think that is?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know, man. Ever since they died, it’s just been off.”

His mood sobered as he finally understood what she was getting at. He looked away so she wouldn’t see the naked hurt that he couldn’t hide.

“Guess it could be worse,” he said, trying not to ruin the mood. “Laughing is better than crying, right?”

Her face softened and it was her turn to look away. “Done plenty a’that. Not what they’d want though, y’know?”

He turned back to her, studying her face. She wasn’t laughing anymore, but there was still that shine in her eyes, like she could laugh or cry at any moment. He enjoyed her openness, he realized. So much easier to just wear what you thought and felt on your sleeve rather than weather it on an island by yourself.

He resolved to try to do that more, even if just around her.

“I’m sorry,” he said. She looked confused, so he continued. “What I said about…you know.”

She tried for a casual shrug, but it looked forced. “The doc told me. Guess I should thank you for trying to spare us. I was still mad after he told me…I don’t know why. Just was.” A smile split her face. “Not anymore, though. Seeing ya get your nose broke kinda helped. Can’t explain it.”

Terry chuckled dryly. “All part of the plan.”

Her eyebrows rose skeptically. “Getting your nose broke was part of the plan?”

He nodded sagely. “It’s sick, but our friendship seems built upon me getting hurt. First, you break my rib—”

“It was already broken!”

“—then I break my nose coming to see you.” He tapped his chin thoughtfully. “Now that I think about it, this friendship is pretty dangerous.”

She shrugged, a wry smile on her face.

“Eh, who wants to live forever anyway?”