Milo - Post Chapter Eight (Patreon)

A/N Post chapter eight and right before we head into chapter nine. This can be a story for a romantic route with Milo or a platonic one.

The lights flickered on above sending the spectral crabs scattering.  The chandelier was made of crustacean bone and tapered flickering candles, the likes of which had glass bulbs instead of wicks.  Milo looked up, nodding as the crabs ran away and the little seahorse he had seen bobbing off to the side, hid beneath an old barnacle encrusted hutch. He had rather liked the little sea friends.  The Deep was a terrible place, but the salon didn’t seem that bad.

Sitting in one of the old velvet lined chairs, Milo spun a bit. The gold framed mirror to his side caught his reflection, cutting it through with bits of scattered wax. He could see a few broken candles shoved off to one corner and wondered if it was standard practice to cut beast's hair by an open flame.  In hindsight, his calm was misplaced.  Or, at least, it was misplaced in what he was trying to present. So when the shriek echoed through the air and he in turn let out a startled wince, he really had no one to blame for himself.

Placing his hands in front of him, palms turned upwards, Milo looked at the woman standing not too far away. She had sea foam green hair that looked as thick as yarn and wore a puffy white sleeve top with embroidered flowers that Milo knew Hazel would love. Her hand was clutched to her chest as she stared at Milo with shocked eyes and the clear indication that she was ready to run.

“I’m not here to hurt you,” Milo said quickly. “I probably should have waited for you to open and came in through the front door like everyone else but I’m not great at thinking my actions through.”

She stared at him, slowly letting her hand fall to her side. He could see she clutched a pair of sheering scissors in her other hand.

“Also, the seahorse was hungry,” Milo said. “I fed it.”

She tilted her head to the side. “What did you feed it?”

“Jerky. I had some in my pocket for the selkies.”

She looked towards the hutch where she knew the little creature hid. “Thank you. I haven’t been able to figure out the poor things preferences yet.”  Setting the scissors aside, clearly understanding that she wasn’t in immediate danger, she stared at him. “You’re Milo, aren’t you.”

“It’s not my birth name but it's what I go by,” he smiled.  “Hazel tell you I’d probably skulk on down here?” The woman nodded. “Yeah. I figured. She knows me pretty well.  It is nice to meet you, Anemone.  I’ve heard good things about you. And not just from Hazel. But I am going to have to chide you a bit for taking advantage of my friends.”

“Taking advantage?” she asked.

“Yeah. With the entire ghost thing.  You weren’t really possessed and I’m gonna need you to admit to that so this charade can just up and stop.”

“Well,” she said slowly, putting down the rest of her things. “I wasn’t possessed. You’re right.” Milo smiled, self-satisfied. “But that doesn’t mean that your friend didn’t show up.”

“That doesn’t–”

“Do you know anything about possession?” Anemone’s voice was soft but it held a command that made Milo’s spine straighten. Damn strong-willed women and their way to his very heart.  “Possession, at least down here, is when something takes hold of your body. Normally, without consent. Your friend did not. He used the image of me through the mirror with my invitation.  I was a tool along with that receptacle,” she nodded towards the wax mirror, “but I was not possessed.”

“Fine,” Milo said tightly. “You weren’t possessed. But it was still a lie.”

Anemone looked confused at the anger and certainty crossing the other man's face. Normally, people rejoiced at hearing news about their loved ones. But Milo looked as if he was going to be sick.  “Do you not believe in an afterlife?”

“Not if I can help it.”

“But surely you know of the spirits in the Night Market.”

“I do. They’re not the same thing.  Spirits wander because they are connected to this world. But when you aren’t connected or you’ve made your peace, you move on to oblivion.”

“Oh,” Anemone breathed. “What a sad thought.” Milo didn’t know what he was expecting her to say but it wasn’t that. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat.  “You don’t think his sister and his friends were worth him clinging to this life?”

“He was one of the most zen fuckers I’ve ever known. It was annoying. So I think he was able to let go of this mortal coil and move on before death even belched in his direction.”

“So you would rather this Malcolm cease to exist?”

“Than share a realm with his dead mother? Yes. Yes I would.” Then, as an afterthought and almost under his breath, “Mal would have fucking hated that.”

When Anemone appeared before him, he startled. Gently, she pushed him back down into his chair and Milo really didn’t know when he had even begun standing.  When she handed him a mug of tea he was almost certain that this woman had the same type of homey witchcraft powers that Hazel had. Which meant she could probably kill him with a scone and an understanding smile.

“May I ask you something?” she said gently, after settling him down with a warm mug and a snack. Milo was almost certain she was going to bring out a blanket next.  “Is the denial of him being alive for a specific reason or is it really because you don’t believe in a realm beyond ours?”

“I don’t believe in a realm beyond ares,” Milo said quickly.  “Bullshit Knowing rhetoric or what have you, is all comfort and nothing more.  Maybe, just maybe, there are some beings that can make it through. That do go elsewhere because it’s their culture or some weird shit like that. But Malcolm Albright was born here. He was born to a horrid woman and a nameless man and for all his life, was considered a fluke. Wrong somehow.  He was ridiculed his entire childhood. He was disowned in his teen years. The shit was beaten out of him time and time again before he learned how to fight back.  And no afterlife or god within it, ever helped him. So, no, I don’t believe there is a place for you when you die. And if there is? I don’t really want a part of this magical utopia that didn’t lift a fucking finger during life.”

A tear slipped down Anemone’s cheek. She looked at Milo with such sorrow, her heart aching.  When she reached out to take his hand, holding out a tissue, Milo realized that his own lips tasted salty.

“I didn’t lie to your friends,” Anemone said softly. “If I could, I would call your Malcolm forward and prove it to you. But whatever happened the other day dislodged something.  I think what was keeping him back finally broke loose. He is on the other side. Connected with what I suspect was a forgotten spirit that had been wandering.  He is up there now, Milo.  He did not walk into oblivion.”

“And if I don’t believe you?” Milo asked.

“Then don’t believe me,” she said gently.  “But don’t alienate the people who do.” Standing, Anemone patted his hand.  “I’m going to make dinner. I would very much like you to stay. I think you could use a good friend right now that knows nothing of your life.”  She didn’t give him a chance to say no as she walked away. Only a moment to gather himself.

Leaning forward, head in hands, Milo let out a deep breath.  The little seahorse from earlier came out, nudging his side.  Without thinking, Milo reached into his pocket for more jerky, flicking it towards the dead animal.  The Night Market was an oddity. It was a being onto itself that never should have existed and Milo felt like the second he stepped into their world, his life had spiraled out of control.

But he supposed it wouldn’t be long now.  Everything was slowly going to fall into place like a twisted little puzzle.  Perhaps, instead of fighting, it was better to acknowledge that and spend the last free moments beneath a stitched sky with the people he cared for. Which equated to three individuals only. Hazel. Ever. And the one shining soul he owed so much more to in this lie and the next.

Sighing, Milo pushed himself out of his chair. Maybe he would take Anemone up on her offer of dinner. Then? Then he was going to drink himself into oblivion.