"The soul is icy to the touch. Dispassionate, clinical, removed." The Presiding Deviless, the Carillon Compendium.
The group arrives at Carillon Centre. There's a chill in the air. The primary source of light is a carmine glow from an odd citadel of grey stone uphill from the tranquil, sealess shore. Brassy-eyed figures clad in dark uniform that manages to appear both religious and medical stride purposefully down granite halls with silent footsteps and low conversation. A gentle breeze nips between the face and the mask.
"Man, this Palace is really weird..." The Straightforward Sprinter's fellows can't help but flinch slightly at the sudden disruption.
The Grieving Heiress's voice is quieter. "It's his Palace, after all. There might not be anything normal about him." Her tone remains neutral, but one can't help but wonder if there's a bitterness behind her words.
"The people in uniform are Shadows, but they're not hostile. You might be able to talk to them, but be careful." The Bereaved Navigator informed the others.
The Rebellious Trickster nods with an encouraging "Let's go," from the Ambitious Felinoid and steps forward, urging the others to follow.
Thus, they enter the foyer. They're politely ignored by the busy devils and devilesses in uniform until they try to explore, wherein they're directed to an office of stone and wickerwork, shaped like a beehive, in the center of the courtyard. Expecting a Ruler, the group is surprised to find only a Presiding Deviless, a dark, patient woman with a scrutinizing orange gaze from slitted pupils.
"Are you here for the tour?" She speaks with the measured grace of someone who's done this a thousand times, not a hint of alarm, discomfort, or surprise in her voice.
Puzzled, the Trickster asks about the tour and about the location as a whole.
The Deviless answers almost mechanically. "We do whatever is necessary to reclaim unsatisfactory souls. They come to us with souls that are stained, disused, in every kind of sordid condition, and we make them acceptable again. Most of those who come to us are volunteers. The rest are beyond the position of being able to volunteer, consigned to Carillon by their families or employers. The tour is a historical display, an advancement, our shame, and a cautionary tale. There are some souls so damaged, so stained, and so vile that not even our most robust treatments and dedicated efforts can amend them. An example of every flaw a soul can have, wrapped in one revolting package. Studying it provided a breakthrough in our understanding of how human souls gain flaws and why some are easier to mend than others. Redemption requires penance. Penance requires patience, strength, wisdom, and discernment. Someone so rash, weak, foolish, and blind could never be saved. He assured his own destruction. There are those who, through seeing this, have been so appalled by what they learn can happen to a soul, they pass their own onto us. We operate on that slender profit, and what we can get from donations."
She looks at the Rebellious Trickster with a spark of interest. "Your soul seems to be in excellent condition. We rarely get visitors here with no need for our services."
"The tour's about his soul, isn't it... Is that how he sees himself?" The Diligent Strategist wonders aloud.
"Redemption requires penance. A simple notion that defines many moral codes. Is this the color of his justice?" The Percipient Artist regarded his surroundings with curiosity.
The Trickster informs the Deviless that they'll be taking the tour.
"Excellent," The Presiding Deviless stands from her desk. "Our first stop is the Stunted Grove."
The Stunted Grove lies in the center of Carillon, a patch of black briars that barely stand over the Ambitious Felinoid's head. The thorns are unnaturally long; wooden nails that pierce the air and threaten to tear the clothes and skin of those who pass. Shadows wander the narrow paths through the thorns, mindlessly accumulating nicks and scratches as they do.
They stop at a stand just before the foot-high barrier of stones that divides the grove from the rest of Carillon. The Smiling Escort looks familiar, but not quite. A beautiful young woman, not much older than the visitors, with soft features and dark eyes. She stands next to a set of vials, each with an eyedropper and a tiny portion of viscous, translucent red liquid.
"I didn't know he had a sister!" the Sprinter whispers loudly to the Compassionate Model.
The Model gives him a pitiful look and whispers back, "He doesn't." She is just as loud.
The Straightforward Sprinter stares blankly in silent confusion before his eyes widen. "Oh."
The Escort speaks. "A cold soul is indifferent to love, it is without compassion and refuses kindness, both in giving and receiving. Devoid of empathy and immune to hope. Pitiful and pitiless all at once. Indifference to love can be corrected. But not as easily as it can be induced. The death of love is the death of warmth. Here, we have extracted select memories of the cold in that patient's soul and what caused it. This is optional, as we understand the stigma around red honey, and would never force it upon anyone."
The Trickster nodded, consenting without hesitation.
"Memories encased in crimson honey... From where did the idea come?" The Artist nods. "I accept."
Some accept, others decline. The Smiling Escort places the smallest drop of red honey on each willing tongue.
You're at home. Your mother loves you. She says so every day. Every day she takes care of you, every day she cooks for you. She trusts you to go to the bathhouse by yourself. You don't talk about the people who come over. Your mom is beautiful, gentle, sweet, and kind. Not like your father. Your father left your mother. You've never seen him. He's never seen you. He's never there. She calls him "Yoshi" once. She doesn't like to talk about him. She's the most important person in your life. She's always there for you, no matter what happens, even when she's tired, even when she's hurt. She would never hurt you.
So when she says she's sorry after saying goodnight, you don't understand.
Not until you after find her on the ground. Her face is frozen in a twist of pain. Blood, a knife, one hand around the wound. Part of you already knew you wouldn't find her if you touched her, but you touched her anyways. Cold. Stiff. You're starting to feel cold and stiff yourself. You don't move or make a sound.
They don't notice you at first, when they come in. "Asphyxiation." You don't know what the word means. You don't ask. You just listen. "Note the petechia in the sclera." More words you don't understand. "Puncture wound, left lung. Must have been painful." "Any signs of a struggle?" "Hard to tell." They keep talking.
When they notice you, there's surprise, there's words of comfort. You don't hear them. You don't remember them.
"Did you see anyone come in last night? No? Just you?" Just you.
One more word you don't understand, whispered where they think you don't hear.
"Suicide."
You still don't understand. You just know that she's gone. That she will never hug you again. That she will never say she loves you again. She won't smile at you anymore. She's gone.
The first of the unknown words you learn is suicide. She killed herself. Her life hurt so much that she stabbed herself in the lung with one of the knives she'd use to cook for you. Without her there to protect you from it, you learn how hard her life was. To much work. Never enough money. Never any freedom. Never any choice.
All for you. All her love for you.
Gone.
Maybe love doesn't mean anything anymore. There's no point in loving anymore.
The Rebellious Trickster blinks in the middle of the Presiding Deviless' lecture, taking in the briar patch, the low stone border, and the present once more.
—"A hatred for love. A jealous hatred for all families he saw. Contempt for any notion of happiness and goodness in the world. Nothing anyone did could fix that. He resisted all manner of reform. It's quite possible that even if this were the only flaw in his soul, he would have still been incurable. The others are returning. We'll be able to continue the tour soon."
The Smiling Escort greets those who have tasted the honey, welcoming them back, grounding them back in the present. Her hand is warm. Her smile is gentle. She gives the most wonderful hugs.