CARD CASTLE

Episode 2: THE LAWS OF THE UNIVERSE

There is love in your body but you can't hold it in
It pours from your eyes and spills from your skin
Tenderest touch leaves the darkest of marks
And the kindest of kisses break the hardest of hearts

The hardest of hearts
The hardest of hearts
The hardest of hearts

There is love in your body but you can't get it out
It gets stuck in your head, won't come out of your mouth
Sticks to your tongue and shows on your face
That the sweetest of words have the bitterest taste

Darling heart, I loved you from the start
But you'll never know what a fool I've been
Darling heart, I loved you from the start
But that's no excuse for the state I'm in

The hardest of hearts
The hardest of hearts
The hardest of hearts

-Hardest of Hearts by Florence + the Machine

Dimentio steps inside of the castle, kicking the mud off of his soggy boots and glancing up. The entrance hall is colossal in size, constructed of dark stone and stained glass windows. The atmosphere of the room is eerie; it's like the mood has followed him inside.

"Ah! Welcome! You must be the count's new servant?"

A girl is rushing in his direction, green pigtails bobbing with the motion. She is short and curvy; Dimentio takes note of her pretty face and excellent figure. He knows he's being obvious and he also knows that she adores the attention, so he doesn't do anything to hide it.

"The count is just down the hall," the girl continues without so much as a blush. "My name is Miriam, by the way, but most everyone calls me Mimi. It's a term of endearment."

Dimentio trails after her and two servants materialize to help remove his heavy blue cloak. They whisk it off of his shoulders and his full body is revealed: slim and lean, with pale, mostly concealed skin. He wears black undergarments and tight black pants and gloves; the boots are leather and sturdily made, and the undershirt is laced up tightly around his neck.

His appearance itself is out of the ordinary- a firm, stiff jaw, and a long, straight nose. His mouth is set in a straight line, the lips turned in a perpetual half-smirk. His hair is black and neatly combed, his brow unmoving, his eyes pale yellow, cold, and drawn in a way that makes him seem foreign.

All in all, he has the aura of a man who has seen too much and indulged in too little; Mimi can tell by just looking at him that he is not the approachable type. He's the loner type; he probably likes to sit and brood, or pace and brood- brood anywhere, for that matter. He's bizarre in a quiet way, and the withdrawn expression on his countenance confuses her; five minutes she's known him, and she is already entranced.

(Although, she adds internally, he is quite handsome. Maybe that's what makes him so special.)

"Dimentio! My good man!" the count cries, and Mimi and Dimentio glance up to see Count Blumiere descending the staircase, his arms spreading wide in welcome. "Tell me! How was the journey?"

Mimi sneaks a glance at Dimentio's rain-drenched boots, then at his velvet-lined cloak dripping in the arms of the two servants.

"Fine," Dimentio answers, and Mimi snickers to herself, as the journey was clearly anything but fine.

"Excellent!" cries the count, oblivious as always. Mimi folds her hands behind her back and bites her lip, fluttering her eyelashes in a way that she hopes is both flirtatious and welcoming.

The count adjusts his manacle, then his top-hat, and leans against his cane with a grin. Dimentio returns it with a weak smile.

"You're quite the reserved fellow," the count now remarks. "I hope you'll feel at home here in the castle!"

"I am a mercenary, not your guest," Dimentio says quietly. "Forgive me if I seem standoffish. I'm a professional; I don't abuse the luxury of my own position."

The count is silent for a moment before cracking a sudden grin. "Of course not!" he remarks. "And I would be a fool to forget it! You shall be treated as a professional, of course! But in the meanwhile... Miriam!"

Mimi perks up. "Mhm?"

"Dinner is in less than an hour and Lady Timpani will soon be waiting for you in her dressing room. I recommend you head up and give me a moment with our mercenary."

"Yes, my Lord!" She curtsies, flashes one last wink in Dimentio's direction, and scurries off.

Dimentio watches her go, and the count smirks.

"She bewilders you."

"I'd imagine she bewilders everyone," the mercenary answers, and the count steps back and scrutinizes him.

"You know why you are here, correct?"

Dimentio catches his eye. "To protect you, of course," he answers. Blumiere shakes his head.

"Not my protection, no; the lady's!" He pauses for a second. "Tell me, what exactly do you know of our situation?"

"I know only what you divulged in writing," the mercenary replies. "I know that you are being hunted by a dark tribe after deciding to elope; I know that you're in possession of a large fortune, that you've used the funds to construct this fortress; I know that the lady will likely be killed if you are discovered here, and that is why you've hired an elite team for your own safety. I am your magical mercenary; Charles O'Chunks, the infamous, er, brute, is the other soldier."

The count smirks. "Well, then. It appears that you're better informed than I initially suspected! Come now, Master Dimentio, and I shall show you to your chambers. I think you shall like them!"


The count certainly seeks to be impressive, Dimentio thinks when he enters his chamber. The count smiles, gesturing around the room in grandiose execution.

The vaulted ceiling shelters a massive room with black stone walls. Arched windows let in the crimson afternoon light, and the gothic mahogany furniture is certainly magnificent.

Hanging on the front of the wardrobe is an interesting garment; Dimentio recognizes it instantly. A violet and yellow cloak with a blue clasp, accompanied by a court jester's hat. A mask, half black, half white, smiles hauntingly at him from where it is hanging on the doorknob.

Dimentio approaches the clothing and runs his fingers along the beautiful fabric. Then he turns to face the count. For the first time, there is emotion on his face- shock.

"How did you come across this?" he asks. The count merely chuckles.

"O'Chunks found the merchant who was holding onto it. Black market. A token of Flopside."

Dimentio can only stare in awe. "It was my father's uniform. But it was confiscated from him after he..." He clasps his gloved hands quickly. "What time is supper?"

"Mimi will fetch you when it's time to eat," the count explains, leaning on his polished ivory cane. He gives Dimentio a curious look. "You are a quiet fellow," he observes.

Dimentio merely frowns. He is holding the mask, his father's mask, up at eye level.

"I suppose," he says quietly, "that I just haven't got much to say."

The count observes the new mercenary for a minute or so. Then he gives a grunt and stands up straight. With a nod, he exits the room.

The door shuts, and Dimentio is finally alone. He drops the mask almost immediately, as if it has seared his skin through the leather of his gloves. He doesn't react at the clattering of the vinyl against the floorboards, and falls almost immediately back into the comfort of the four-poster bed. He draws the curtains shut and clutches a throw pillow almost possessively, running his fingers along the satin. His finger snags on a loose stitch and he plucks at it almost possessively, though he is hardly paying attention.

His mind is spinning. Images of the entrance hall and Mimi's legs and the jester's uniform swirl around in what is a total blur to him, and he runs through each image with precision, memorizing it exactly, trying to find a place to store all of the information so that he'll be able to withdraw it again. Meditation such as this is an important practice for him; he does it effortlessly. It is a way of forcing himself to examine and remember and analyze information, of pushing the limits of his mind, of expanding the walls there, plastering new memories over the old ones and boarding up the dark ones that have long since drawn into the recesses of his brain...

His thoughts fall gradually into place, shuffling to and fro as they organize themselves. They brush past each other, forming links and connecting circuits that light up as the mercenary becomes more in-tune with them. He clears the way for logic, trimming the overgrown thoughts, dusting off the orderly ones, cooling and calming and collecting himself as he places the world in a mathematical light instead of a romantic one. Life is a flowchart, a yes-or-no, this-or-that flowchart, with percentages and probability. Emotions become chemical reactions and thought patterns become no more than electric paths. Humans are wired to feel because math and science, the laws of the universe, say so. Magic is no more than an advanced form of science- Dimentio knows this from years of studying- which is why he's spent toO much time at his desk, mulling over chemist's theories and geometric theorems, fervently studying physics and astronomy, falling asleep at a desk only to be slapped awake by his father-

No.

Somewhere along the line his thoughts have meandered back to his father, and now his eyes shoot open. His mind has cleared substantially, but still the tread of his father is audible along that weathered path. His father festered there long ago and has refused to leave; by now, Dimentio has accepted his father's presence there with dull resignation. Now he regards him almost casually from time to time, but it still stings. And yet he has faced pain many times without cringing. It is the hatred that scalds him more than anything else...

A knock on the door hauls him from the depths of his mind, and he gets to his feet almost shakily, his breathing hollow. He steadies it and unbolts the door; a valet stands attentively before him, and Dimentio merely raises an eyebrow.

"I can dress myself," he says coolly before the valet has even a moment to speak.

"But sir-"

"My decision is final," Dimentio presses, and he shuts the door nonchalantly in the shocked valet's face. When he turns away from the door, his own face is impassive, and he locks the door with a snap of the fingers and crosses the room once more.

The jester's uniform hangs ominously from the wardrobe, and Dimentio stares it down with disgust. The count had no doubt mistaken Dimentio's shock for awe, when in reality, it was a twisted sense of horror that had unhinged the mercenary's jaw. He has no desire to don this garb; as a matter of fact, he would rather toss it into the fire, but considering that the dormant fireplace holds nothing more than old, dead ashes, that's not a possibility. Besides, it's more worth his time to humor the count.

After all, Dimentio isn't the only fool in the castle.

He chortles inwardly at his own jest and then withdraws the robes from the closet door with an air of finality. The thick fabric rustles as it slides over his head, blotting out all light for a split second before his head emerges and the cloak spreads across his shoulders. The hat follows quickly, but it sags sullenly about his head, and instead of appearing jovial he appears only slightly worn. He glances in the mirror and his breath hitches in his throat, for in that moment, he swears it is his father he sees in the glass.

He swallows heavily and then reaches for the mask at his feet. He holds it up to eye level, staring it down. The mask stares back, its terrible face split into a perpetual grin of sheer elation. Its expression is mad, and Dimentio's mind swirls in response to the terrible sight. His heart throbs wildly in his chest, pounding in his ears like a drum, and all he can hear is laughter, laughter, awful, choking, gargling laughter-

Knock, knock, knock.

His wide eyes snap shut and he breathes. The pounding ceases; his blood cools; in a flash, he draws the closet door open and throws the mask into its depths, slamming the door shut and eclipsing it in darkness.

He is cool-mannered when he opens the bedroom door. Mimi is standing expectantly on the other side.

"Yes?" Dimentio says, and he is surprised at the steadiness of his voice. His heart is still hammering; why did the count have that mask? The question plagues him. Blumiere's explanation about a merchant had seemed too vague to be true; Dimentio has decided that there must be something that the count is keeping from him, and he is determined to find out.

"His lordship requests that you join us for supper," Mimi explains, and the mercenary cringes at the formality of her statement. He already feels foreign enough; must she really magnify it so heavily?

"Of course," he chokes out, and steps out into the drafty corridor. He lets the massive oak door slam shut behind him; the coats of arms and tapestries shake at the impact, but neither Dimentio nor Mimi pay any mind to it. They proceed in relative silence for a moment, and Dimentio, not caring enough about aesthetics to focus on the decorations, withdraws into his mind one last time before supper. He runs through the usual movements, reminding himself of the importance of mathematical theorems; he considers geometry and trigonometry, ponders angle measurements and the law of sines in the architecture around him, considering the slanted ceilings and the angles there, the distances between the rafters, considering sine and cosine and how that relates to the tension in the beams...

In the end, it will not matter to him whether he can analyze the mathematical buildup of the castle, but by doing so he has cleared his mind once more of emotion. He has resorted to the serenity offered by such processes, and when the dining room doors swing open, all thoughts of romance, of fear, and of passions yet unknown have subsided. For the first time that evening, his mind is truly clear, and he proceeds delicately to the table. He is offered a seat adjacent to the count's chair; he accepts it without really thinking, folding his hands in his lap and watching as Mimi and another man- this one bearded and kilted- take their seats. Dimentio recognizes the brute almost immediately. This must be Charles O'Chunks, he theorizes. He observes the man thoroughly, takes note of his appearance, his manner, his smell- and then files the information away in his mind.

They all glance up as the dining room doors open yet again. Emerging from the hallway is the count, who looks just as splendid as he did an hour ago, and yet slightly more formal. He has polished his monocle since Dimentio saw him last.

To his left, her arm wrapped loosely around his, is a woman that Dimentio can only assume is Count Blumiere's mistress. The mercenary drinks in the sight of her; she is decent looking enough; tall and thin, and while she isn't beautiful, she is buzzing with youthful joy, energy, and optimism. Her satin dress, a vibrant shade of scarlet, pools at her feet, but the sight is in no way serene. If anything, she looks like a flame.

She must burn everything in her path, Dimentio theorizes, and takes a snapshot of the image with his eyes, tucking it away, storing the details. It is robotic, it is therapeutic. But the system stalls temporarily when quite by mistake he and the lady lock eyes.

Her eyes are green- very green- and when she sees him, they narrow slightly. The joyfulness vanishes from her face and is replaced with a vague, almost thoughtful expression.

And then he realizes.

The lady is calculating. She is analyzing him just as he is doing to her; it soon becomes a silent battle of deduction, both parties staring relentlessly, brains whirring inside their heads as they try to understand who and why and how.

"Hello," she finally says coolly. "You must be the count's new victim." And then the tense moment is terminated by her smile.

Dimentio clears his throat. "Such wit," he answers slowly. "I assume you welcome all newcomers in such a fashion?" He creates a mental scale on which to weigh the intensity of such mannerisms. It seems that she finds value in sarcasm, a measure of which she has herself. But to what measure?

The lady raises an eyebrow and draws out her chair. "Do you fancy yourself clever, sir?"

"Quite so, my lady," Dimentio answers, and she cracks another smile in response.

"Well, then," she muses, sitting down and smoothing out her skirt, "you and I will get along swimmingly." She offers a gloved hand. "I am Lady Timpani."

He cocks his head. "Dimentio," he answers, "mercenary to Count Blumiere." He takes her hand and kisses it over the table. "The pleasure is mine," he adds once they have broken apart.

Dimentio realizes suddenly that all eyes in the room are focused on them. He clears his throat and reclines, folding his hands in his lap. Dinner proceeds as normal thenceforth; he is introduced to a myriad of servants and tries his best to analyze them as he has analyzed the others; however, he soon becomes frustrated. Timpani's gaze is incumbent upon him; understandably, he doesn't appreciate her avid curiosity. He feels that he has at least some right to privacy; and for god's sake, why doesn't she drag her gaze away from him and spare at least a sliver of attention for the count? It's the least she can do.

Logic is taking a back seat, and Dimentio groans inwardly. He finds himself wracked early on with irritation. It is unfair that this woman should be able to dismantle his thought process this way; her gaze is keen yet tranquil, so why does it feel so excruciating to him? He is stumbling over his own thoughts, stalling in a meditative process that is usually so smooth. His thoughts are nebulous, now, confusing even to himself, and the arithmetic of it all is making less and less sense by the second.

His blood has soon run hot, his face red. His fists are clenched, palms sweating, and he knows that anger and embarrassment are all just chemical reactions, and yet he can't suppress them. Chemistry is one of the many laws of the universe. Damn those laws of the universe. Finally, his patience having worn thin, he glares up keenly and locks eyes with Timpani once more.

"Have I got something unsightly on my face?!" he questions, repressing the urge to spit out the words. His vehemence escapes unhindered, and he can feel the entire room fall quiet at his confrontation of her.

"At first I thought you might," she answers coolly, "but then I realized that you were simply born that way."

He bites down on his tongue to as to repress his attitude. He knows that he's already entered dangerous waters.

"Forgive me," he says after a moment, having taken a deep breath. "My accusation- it was crass. I am rather embarrassed..."

She pauses. "I must admit, I am surprised. I expected a repartee- I am disappointed. I do love a good argument."

He searches desperately for words; having settled on none, he clamps his jaw shut and thinks. "Do you often win?" he finally questions.

"Win?"

"Arguments."

"Yes. I always win, don't I, Blumiere?"

The count's composure breaks, and he smirks. "I'm afraid so. You are far too adamantine for your own good, my dear."

"Ad-adam-wha'?" questions O'Chunks from the other end of the table.

"It means that she's stubborn in a lustrous way," Mimi explains quickly. Timpani grins with pride, but Dimentio merely raises an eyebrow.

"Obstinance was not a virtue last I heard," he advises.

Timpani grows still and gapes at him. "Are you a pious man, then, Master Dimentio?"

He smiles crookedly. "That's simply not fair, my lady."

"Why not?"

"I'm afraid," he answers, "that I've drawn far too much attention to myself already."

"Ah, but you're the newcomer! No problem with being the cynosure of our company, wouldn't you agree, Master Dimentio?" the count interrupts.

"On the contrary," the mercenary counters, "I prefer to remain subtile when I can. I find the limelight to be rather nocent- all of those uncomfortable gazes-" his sentence unfinished, he turns an accusing glare on Timpani. She stars back unabashedly.

"Surely," she theorizes with a smirk, "a jester shouldn't suffer from stage fright."

Dimentio doesn't waste time in his reply. "I'm afraid you misunderstand, my lady. I'm hardly droll. You'll find I'm rather saturnine in disposition." Her smug smile falters, and Dimentio's crooked one returns. "Does that disappoint you, my lady? Good." He avoids further eye contact with the lady and turns instead to face the count. "I hope you will forgive me, but I've grown rather weary and am afraid I must retire to bed. Traveling has worn me thin."

Most of the faces in the room are staring at him with a sort of shocked silence, especially the count, who doesn't seem to know how to react to Dimentio's jagged wit.

"Y-yes- very well-" the count says. His charming demeanor has sputtered to a stop, and once he realizes this, he shakes his head and forces a smile. Stands. Dimentio stands as well, and the count clasps his hand heartily. "What I mean to say is, of course you may retire to bed. I can understand completely. I will have a servant rouse you in the morning, as I will be holding a council before breakfast- Miriam, you will show Master Dimentio back to his chambers..."

Dimentio's mind is whirring for the entire trek back to his room. He can tell that his performance at dinner has made Mimi slightly uncomfortable, and yet he doesn't care. His anger at Timpani has exhausted him. "I always win arguments-" but that is a bluff all on its own! The same could easily be said for Dimentio. Why, he hasn't lost an argument in a long time. That's not to say he's involved himself in many, but still...

They reach his chambers and he stands ramrod-straight in the doorway. Mimi observes his composure and decides to comment on it.

"You're very staunch, you know," she says hesitantly. "I've never seen somebody seem so stiff, never seen somebody with actions so heavily calculated..."

He raises another eyebrow. "Does that bother you?"

"No," she answers slowly. "It doesn't."

"But it bothers the others."

"It may irk them. I wouldn't know."

"What of the lady?" he presses. Mimi shrugs.

"Why, she likes you. I can tell she likes you."

Something about Mimi's hypothesis causes Dimentio to stall. "Is that true?"

"Of course it's true," Mimi replies. "If she didn't like you, she'd be polite to you. She's always polite to people she dislikes."

The hint of a smile crosses the mercenary's countenance. "I must say, Lady Timpani is by far the oddest intellectual I've ever met."

"I'm quite sure she thinks the same of you."

"You say she likes me," Dimentio reiterates.

"At the very least, she doesn't find you boring."

"But she finds all the rest of you boring?"

"She finds us quite dull, sir."

He is quiet for a moment. Finally, he says, "I would like for you to call me 'Dimentio.' In fact, tell the count that I would like for all of you to call me 'Dimentio.' I can't keep up with all of these formalities."

Mimi seems inquisitive. "Were there no such formalities where you came from?"

Dimentio smiles again, but this smile is almost cruel. "You don't want to know about where I came from," he insists. Mimi gulps; his tone is sinister, and it alarms her. He takes a step back into his chambers as a sign that he soon plans to bid her good night. "Mimi," he says, "I have appreciated your help immensely, but I really must go. Good-night."

"Good-night, Dimentio."

And without a second to spare, he slams the door in her face and turns away from the door smiling. He undresses methodically, hanging up the jester's uniform and changing into a musty old nightshirt. But instead of going to bed he finds a nice open spot in the middle of the room and closes his eyes. Concentrates. He considers the light spectrum, considers the hidden wavelengths that only magicians can access, and as he focuses, he taps into that wavelength. He takes off his leather gloves for the first time that night, and his hyper-sensitive skin runs across the fibers in the air. His fingertips snag on a loose stitch in the universe just like the one in the pillow, and with a precise and relaxed grip, he pulls. The threads of the universe unravel, wavelengths that only he can manipulate shifting at his touch, and there, in the middle of his room, a window to another dimension opens.

A green light bursts forth from the fissure, smothering Dimentio in its haunting glow. He is rather quiet, and after a moment, he hears it.

Screaming.

"LET ME OUT! LET ME OUT! FOR THE SAKE OF SANITY, LET ME OUT! LET ME OUT...!"

He smiles and closes his eyes, the wretched sobbing like a lullaby to him. He peers in once more, and whatever distorted sight meets his eyes seems to soothe him. But after awhile, he must close the bridge between universes. He runs his fingers along the edge of the window and it vanishes, the cries of let me out fading until they are no more than an echo in his own mind.

He crawls into bed after that, nestling his head into the pillow and appreciating the darkness as it closes in around him. His thoughts return to Lady Timpani, and he feels anger rising within him. Anger is no more than a chemical reaction, he reminds himself. Human emotion is just a side effect of science, and science, as he has stated many times, is one of the laws of the universe. By that extended logic, the irritation he feels regarding Timpani is one of the laws of the universe, therefore causing its source, Timpani herself, to be an agent of the universe.

Yes, the logic of emotion is all there.

But it is not reassuring.

It is not reassuring because he hasn't had to apply logic to any sort of emotion in a long time. And that is because Timpani is the first creature, let alone the first human, to have made him feel anything in months.

That, simply put, is anything but reassuring. If anything, it's alarming.

And the most frightening part?

He almost likes it.

Ack! Sorry for the long style of prose is quite difficult to get used to, not to mention the attention to math and science- ugh, by the way. Math.

Please spare a moment to review this chapter! I would appreciate that immensely. Thanks :)