I suppose I should offer some explanations for this madness. There really are none, but here goes: Floating around in the big empty hole that passes for my head are a lot of good ideas for "Judecca" scenes. These scenes, however, are very rarely crucial to the main plot of the story. I wanted them to have a home anyway, so I created this anthology. (The name, by the way, refers to the street where Raistlin's group lives: 616 Antenora Avenue, which in turn is named after the "Traitors to Country" section of Dante's Inferno). I will be posting scenes as they come to me, or if I feel like writing something in 3rd person (I actually plan on switching, depending on the best method for whatever short story I'm writing.) Technically, "Interview with an Assassin" should be in here too, as it's mentioned in Canto II of "Judecca," but should people go looking for it (why? I can't fathom) I don't want them to think I've taken it down.
As for explaining this story in particular: the tone changes drastically ON PURPOSE. I was trying to do several very different things with this; let me know what you think. And keep your eyes peeled for the Ptolomea Inn, coming soon to a main story near you. Also, if you haven't seen "Escaflowne," you will a) be exposed to spoilers and b) miss quite a bit of dramatic irony...(insert all-too-familiar maniacal giggling)
So, without further ado (well maybe a little more: this isn't mine. There. End of ado), here is The Story Fetchie Promised Herself She Would Never, Ever, Ever Write...takes place shortly after the events of Canto IX.
Small World: A Tale Beyond Antenora
Like so many other establishments in the isolated yet flourishing town of Judecca, the Ptolomea Inn boasted the best of several worlds—albeit not necessarily well-blended or integrated. In exterior, the Inn resembled a small triangular castle with a tall tower at each point and a cloistered courtyard in the middle. Torches blazed on either side of the heavy wooden front doors, and when he was not working his other job a helmeted dragoon guarded against beggars, thieves, murderers, marauders, and the occasional encyclopedia salesman. The dragoon was also in charge of replacing the lightbulbs illuminating the curved orange-and-green sign over the door, which on this particular day read "Ptol me In" (he was not adept at this aspect of the job, as he found it exceedingly embarrassing and quite possibly beneath his dignity). To the left of the Inn a weapons vendor had erected a shop specializing in blowguns and heavy artillery; to the right a slightly more pacifistic enterpreneur ran a rather less successful coin-operated laundromat.
A small sign on the front door of the Inn read "Demon Kings Yuuri Shibuya and Orsted, Proprietors." Another read "NOW HIRING: DEMON KING FOR THIRD TOWER" in much larger letters, but everybody ignored it, much to the chagrin of the pair named on the first sign. These two eminent personages personally operated the front desk, which also served as a bar; but they hired a barmaid for busy days and customers they couldn't stand. The barmaid lived in the Inn as well, and when her job got to be too much (which was often) she would slink off to the courtyard and read. It was a pity, she often thought, that the otherwise picturesque area should have the swimming pool smack-dab in the middle of it.
As for luxuries, the Inn sported the finest—televisions in every room receiving several thousand cable channels (with the disclaimer that if there was nothing good on anyway, it wasn't the proprietors' fault), working indoor plumbing, and beds roughly the size of small countries. And rooms came cheap.
Two wings of the building were rooms and one was reserved for recreation. Available activities in the recreation hall included billiards, ping-pong, pinball machines, air hockey, dueling arenas, a single bowling lane, and several supposedly secret labs, as well as the tavern in the entrance/common area. All recreation rooms had vending machines kept well-stocked with everything from chips to chicken legs to ramune (Demon King Yuuri Shibuya, Proprietor, had insisted on the beverage, citing the entertainment value garnished from watching an ignorant patron attempting to drink out of the bottle without the marble getting in the way as being well worth the high price of shipping).
All in all, a stay at the Inn was nearly guaranteed to be comfortable if a bit eclectic, and thus it was recommended to the small troupe of soldiers who suddenly materialized in the Black Sheep Apothecary as an excellent place to get affordable lodgings, quality food, and—if they were lucky—their bearings.
The dragoon saw them coming a block or so away and snapped immediately to attention. Though the six young men were too impeccably attired in their matching blue armor to be beggars, thieves, murderers, or marauders, there was still a chance that the encyclopedia salesmen were trying a new tactic in an effort to breach the outer defenses of the Inn. They looked too young to truly be a group of trained warmongers; the bowlcut-haired boy in front, carrying their flag, was having difficulty holding it up. The dragoon did not anticipate much of a struggle.
"Is this the Ptolomea Inn?" asked the boy in front; the dragoon supposed he was the leader, as he walked a pace ahead of his companions and flag.
The dragoon nodded. He avoided speaking whenever possible. Some patrons, when spoken to, would not cease conversing.
"May we pass, then?" The boy gestured with his eyes, staring beyond the dragoon's head with one hand on the hilt of his sword. Behind him, his flagbearer rested the tip of the pole on the ground with a tiny sigh of relief.
The dragoon glowered at them within his helmet. "Names?" he asked.
"DragonSlayers, Red Copper Army, Zaibach Empire," the leader promptly replied, standing at attention. "Gatty commanding in the absence of Lord Dilandau."
The dragoon had never heard of any of the organizations listed, but figured that if this group were indeed solicitors, they deserved some leniency for creativity, at least. Dropping his head and lowering his lance, he stood aside and allowed them to march inside, then shut the heavy wooden door behind them. Now they were the Demon Kings' problem, not his, and five minutes later he had forgotten about the soldiers entirely, being too lost in the thoughts of his own unfortunate past in the service of others.
o0o0o0o
"Holy crap!" cried Demon King Yuuri Shibuya, Proprietor, his new patrons' attire and martial demeanor taking him by surprise. "I mean—welcome to the Ptolomea Inn. Sign in here, please. Any question, comments, random stories you'd love to share, just see me. I'm Yuuri."
"And I'm Orsted," said the blonde in orange armor next to him. "The girl at the bar is Yuka. We hope you enjoy your stay." Yuka nodded but said nothing, her short brown hair brushing her cheeks as she straightened her head.
"None of you would happen to be Demon Kings, would you?" Yuuri asked as the clipboard he'd given the leader was passed from soldier to soldier. "I mean, I know you look young, but I can hope, right? I'm just in high school myself, so you don't have to be embarrassed about it."
The leader shook his head as he reviewed the signatures before handing back the clipboard. "We do not allow demons in the ranks of the Empire's army. We discourage all nonhuman involvement."
"But there are exceptions," the flagbearer, who had rolled up the difficult item upon entering the building, interjected nervously. "I heard of a beast-man once, a hound from what I hear--"
"That's speculation only," objected another, who wore his brown hair parted to the side. "I won't believe it until I've seen him."
"Hey, don't argue on my account," Yuuri protested. "Sorry. Please, take a seat. Can Yuka get you anything?"
"Vino for me," replied the leader. "What about the rest of you?"
A murmur of assent assured the barmaid that "vino" would be just fine, and she stalked off to see if anything with that label could be found in the kitchen cabinets. "You'll have to make do with wine," she reported back, handing them the bottle and six glasses. "Are you sure you're old enough?" she added after seeing Yuuri and Orsted's shocked expressions as the boys took the glasses and alcohol.
"Don't worry about us," replied the leader, who had signed the name "Gatty" on the registration papers. "Our Lord has trained us well in a variety of endeavors. We shall cause no harm to ourselves nor your establishment."
"Listen to Gatty play at being a general," a long-haired soldier whispered to his green-eyed partner. Gatty glared but said nothing, and the whole troupe migrated to a table, sat, and poured themselves drinks.
"None for you, Shesta," Gatty told his flagbearer when the bottle reached him.
Shesta blushed. "But sir--"
"You can't handle it." Gatty took the wine bottle from his subordinate. "Being third in command only highlights your battle prowess, not maturity in other matters."
Bowing his head, Shesta accepted the pitcher of water Yuka brought over in the wine bottle's stead. "Lord Dilandau would have let me have some," he muttered to himself in near-silent defiance.
The others, however, heard and scoffed. "Are you serious?" the brown-haired one asked. "He would have taken it all for himself. Such is his right," he added sincerely but perhaps a bit tardily as the other five glared at him. "It is an honor to serve."
"Says Miguel, the captive killed by his own side's agent," laughed Gatty.
"Curse all doppelgangers," chorused the others except Shesta, who rather forlornly looked around the room. He had been having a streak of unusually foul fortune lately, or so it seemed to him. He tried his hardest to do his duty, yet every enemy he selected overpowered him. It had almost been a relief when the dragon snuffed him out at last, but here he was being belittled again. Yet maybe, if he could find something of interest--
"Permission to explore, sir?" he asked Gatty, who was already on his second glass of wine.
"Granted," Gatty said without even so much as a glance at his subordinate, so Shesta stood, stored the flag under the table, and walked through the door leading into the recreation hall. Almost immediately he was baffled by the signs greeting him, so he picked a door at random and entered.
O0o0o0o
The girl had been staring out the window for fifteen minutes. It was so interesting, really, the colorful sights one could see out a window. First a boy on a motorcycle had sped past, flanked by a man carrying a long white ribbon and a man with black wings. Then a red-haired woman had walked along the way, conversing with someone or something stashed in her tote bag; a long white horn protruded from the opening. Finally the boys in blue uniforms had gone marching by, and her breath had caught in her throat. The girl did not know why she was so happy to see the six young men, but suddenly she felt like singing. She didn't know any songs, so she began to hum to herself whatever floated through her head.
"That's really pretty," said a voice at the door. She turned around and smiled: there was one of the strange boys! How wonderful. What would he say next?
He gasped, inclining his blond head in a bashful gesture. "I didn't mean to disturb you, though..I'll be going..."
"Don't!" she cried, suddenly panicking. If the boy left, she would be alone again. She did not want to be alone. "Stay."
"Oh? Uh, okay." He came in, examined the table between them. "What's an air hockey?" he asked. "Does it fly?"
She shook her head. She didn't know. Watching in fascination, she breathed in sharply as he flicked a switch on a wire attached to the table and the surface began to hum.
"Oh, I see. It's a game. Want to play?" he asked, pulling off his gloves.
"Yes." She took the handled disk he offered her and watched as he used one of his own to knock a flat disk into a slot at her end of the table.
"I think that's what we're supposed to do," he told her. "Try to do that to mine, and block me when I knock it your way."
Simple rules. She liked games with simple rules. She liked this boy, too. More than she could say. Picking the disk up from where it had fallen into a slot at her side, she pushed it back towards him. "Like this?"
"Exactly." Play began in earnest.
O0o0o0o0
Shesta was having trouble concentrating on the game. He forced himself to keep his eyes down, to watch nothing but the flying red disk. If he looked up, he would see her face, and if that happened he might have trouble breathing again.
She was beautiful. She was so incredibly beautiful, in a childish way; her wavy blond hair was kept short, and her large blue eyes, though strangely empty, still sparkled with life. He felt like they'd met before, like he'd known and trusted her for a long time though they'd only just become acquainted. He didn't even need to know her name. He didn't want to either. Knowing her name would make her real, and half of her charm lay in her illusory nature. Yet he wanted to know more about her too...
"How long are you staying here?" he asked, flicking the disk towards her goal.
"I don't know," she replied. "Until my brother finds me."
So she had a brother! A whole family of these wonderful creatures existed? Shesta felt his chest grow tight. Gatty and the others with their stupid false vino! He had found something infinitely more intoxicating, and he planned on keeping it all to himself. "We're staying for quite some time," he said, though he couldn't tell how long Gatty planned on lodging the company at the Inn. For his own part, he was going to try and make sure they didn't leave for a week at least. "So I guess we'll be seeing you around."
"We?" The disk clattered into his goal.
"My companions and I. We're soldiers of the Zaibach Empire," Shesta added proudly with the self-importance of a child who received the proper patriotic brainwashing while attending school. "An elite task force. I'm third in command." That had never mattered to him before, but he desperately wanted to impress the fey goddess before him he forgot for a moment that being third in command really only meant getting to hold a flag too large for him and getting blamed when a mission went wrong. Noticing she'd scored a goal, he picked up the disk and tried to shoot it in her direction but flicked it back into his own side instead. "Oops."
She laughed. What a pretty laugh! "Where are you from?" he asked, hoping it wasn't one of the countries his "elite task force" had razed to the ground. It would be so hard to fight an enemy this captivating.
"I don't know," she said matter-of-factly in that lilting voice of hers. "Somewhere with grass and flowers. I remember grass and flowers."
Oh, the poor thing! To not know her place, where she belonged, what she should do! He studied her clothing, trying not to let his eyes linger on the places his mind most hungered for them to. The shirt she wore seemed familiar, as did the cut of her pants. Really, they were remarkably similar to his, if he compared them in his mind. Could she—dared he hope—be from his homeland? Yet did any greenery remain in the country? He had been born and raised in the capital. The first time he'd seen a field or a forest, he was burning it to ashes.
He could not tell her that, though. She was so gentle. The thought of destruction had probably never flitted across that ethereal spotless mind. Instead he shot the disk at her goal with unusual force and replied, "What about your brother? If you have a brother, you must have a homeland."
"I left Brother for a long time. I don't know what I did then." She parried his shot with such verocity that the disk flew off the table, hit the open door behind them.
Someone yelled in surprise. Panicking, Shesta whirled around, scrabbling for an excuse to give to Gatty, but it was only the barmaid, who had with her a tall man with broad shoulders and a meticulously trimmed brown beard. "This gentleman's here to see you," she reported emotionlessly, then walked away.
"Oh?" The girl seemed perplexed, dreamy.
"No, we've never met." The man smiled, a glittering spectacle that illuminated his sapphire eyes. Shesta frowned at the girl's sudden smile. What did this man want? "An acquaintance of mine just happened to see your face at the window as he rode by with his escorts earlier today and has been dwelling on your image ever since. I've come to take you back with me to meet him. He's a man of great influence in this town. Coming would be most...beneficial."
She wavered. "I haven't finished my game with..." She stared at Shesta blankly, and he realized what she was searching for.
"Sh—Shesta," he replied, stuttering over his own name in nervousness. The man before him reminded him of nothing so much as a leopard, all gaudy pelt and hidden ferocity. It was a good thing the leopards and cat-men were being hunted. They were dangerous. He didn't trust men who hid their malice. The men he trusted—the men he would follow anywhere—lay all their emotions in the open. For such a man he had given his life. And he had been rewarded for that sacrifice so far, in his opinion. Was it now to be taken from him?
"Indeed." The man frowned wryly, sizing Shesta up and apparently not finding much to feel threatened by. That smirk, Shesta vowed, would be split wide open should he lay a finger on the girl. "Yet I come bearing presents, you see. Look! It's just for you!" Opening a pouch at his belt, he pulled out a jet-black bracelet, which sparkled in the dull artificial lights overhead. "Isn't it pretty? Try it on, at least."
One delicate hand reached out for the gift; the other clasped over her bosom and quivered. She was frightened too, though she knew not of what. Shesta drew his sword. "Don't touch her!" he warned.
"Or what, boy? I saw the rest of your company in the common area. I have never seen a more sodden bunch. You're going to be tending an avalanche of headaches tomorrow, my friend. And you're alone right now."
The girl shrank back. "Alone?"
"No, you're not. I'm here. And I'll protect you," Shesta promised her, hoping the tip of his sword wasn't shaking too much. The last time he'd drawn steel on an enemy, he'd ended up captive and forced to aid in the escape of a prisoner. Had his luck changed? Secretly, shamefully, he hoped he wouldn't have to find out.
The man laughed aloud. "I cower, I assure you. Now, seriously, move aside."
"I will not!" Pushing off the floor with his boots, Shesta charged the intruder, who blocked with a sword of his own—where had that come from?--while tossing the bracelet at the girl with the other hand. She caught it, and Shesta turned in panic. A voice in the back of his head reminded him never to turn his back to the enemy, but concern won out over common sense and he swiped the object out of her hands. "It's a trap!" he cried, scrabbling for an excuse for his behavior as he threw the bracelet to the ground and crushed it beneath his heel. "Don't listen to--" He stopped, horrified: in his fear, he'd forgotten he had the sword out, and she had failed to back away from him as he swung around. Blood dripped from a shallow cut on her right cheek; dazed, she lifted a hand to touch it. Her eyebrows knotted, as if trying to make sense of the substance oozing from her body.
The sword clattered to the ground as Shesta tore his sleeve to create a makeshift cloth to wipe away the blood. "I'm so sorry," he stammered, shame and self-revulsion making his hands shake as he pressed the black fabric against her cheek. He had marred that face, that beautiful face. Soon it would start to throb, that lovely face. It would sting...sting...sting...He remembered another fight, another facial wound. Would she be left with a scar like that? Intolerable! And it was his fault!
Yet he was so close to her now, leaning near to wipe away the blood on that pale cheek. Close enough to feel her frantic yet gentle breath as she pondered what had happened, seemingly still in shock. Almost close enough for her thick lashes to flutter against his cheek as she stared past him at...
At nothing. The man had vanished. What had that been about? How he had overreacted! Half-expecting her to cuff him hard across the cheek—such was his usual punishment from those he had wronged—Shesta pulled her into his other arm as he continued to blot away at the wound. "I'm sorry," he said again, feeling how soft she was against him, trying not to notice the suppleness of her body brushing his. "So sorry...I didn't mean to..."
She screamed without warning, and he held her close. "Don't be scared," he pleaded, not wanting a drunken Gatty to barge in searching for the screamer. "Please don't yell. I'm here. Don't..."
Writhing in his arms, she clutched her face, clawed at the cut and knocked away his attempts to help. He felt her body convulsing, stiffening, shaking. "What's wrong? Stop!" he cried, terrified. "Don't do that! Listen to me! Hold on! I'm here! Listen to my voice! It's me. It's me. Don't be scared. Can you hear me? The pain will go away. I promise."
She stared at him, wide-eyed, and for a brief moment he thought he saw scarlet flames licking within the blue. Then the spasm had passed, and she sagged in his arms, silently crying and wincing as the salt from her tears slipped over the open wound. "She-shesta..." she gasped, and he fancied her voice was not her own. "She...sta...don't...leave...me...alone..."
"I won't," he told her, pressing her against his armored body and becoming painfully aware of the fact that she was taller than him. How was he supposed to be strong and comforting if she couldn't even lean on him?
She grabbed him back, wrapping her arms around his body and crushing herself against him with a force he hadn't thought so frail a frame could possess. "Shesta..." she moaned. He tasted her tears in his mouth. How had this gotten so out of hand? All he'd wanted was to get to know her...and he'd hurt her instead. Terribly.
"Where's your room?" he asked her. "You should go lie down." I'll stay with you until you sleep, then I'll find a doctor. He'll look at the cut for you, and I...I'll keep my distance. I don't want to hurt you again. I don't want to know how much I...like it when you hold me...and we've only just met...I promised not to leave, and I don't want to...but do I have a choice? It's like I'm cursed. I can't do anything right. I fail everyone I care about.
She sagged in his arms, and he dragged her out of the room, lay her in the first open bedroom he came to. "Sleep now," he told her. "It'll be better when you wake up. I'll find someone..."
But she was already asleep. He watched her for a moment, captivated by the rise and fall of her breath and the fluttering of her lashes, then caught himself and hastily left. He was scared of her now; scared of what she might do and what he might not be able to keep himself from doing. Yet how could he abandon such a woman?
"I won't leave you alone for long," he promised, and shut the door.
O0o0o0o
"She-staaa! Shaww you wiff...somefing interestin. Shome plashe, huh?" Gatty tried to whistle and failed.
"Wooo-hoo! Today wittle Sheshta ish a man! Show us around nexsht, Sheshta," pleaded his friend Dalet. "Show ush where you found...that thing."
"They're disgraceful. Sorry, Shesta." Miguel had refrained from overindulgence. "But seriously, what were you doing to that woman?"
"She hurt herself. I was helping her lie down." Shesta blushed.
"Sure you were." Miguel frowned as he looked Shesta up and down. "Where's your sword?"
"Left it witsh the gurl, I bet."
"Oh!" He'd forgotten the sword entirely, but decided not to go back for it. The doctor was more important. "Excuse me, barmaid? Is there a doctor in the area?"
"There's a drugstore down the street," she offered impassionately. "No doctor."
"I know about the apothecary," Shesta began, "but I need a--"
A piercing shriek from the adjacent wing cut him off. His companions raised their sodden heads and listened as someone—and Shesta had a pretty good idea who—began to wail and scream at the top of their lungs. The sound began to dwindle and choke, like the screamer was having a hard time breathing, hiccoughing and gasping and heaving even as they howled. Shesta made a run for the door but was stopped by Gatty, who grabbed his arm and grinned. "Shoundsh like you hurt her feelinsh. Are you going to shay you're shorry?"
"Bring her out! We'll cheer her up!" Guimel, another of Shesta's company, offered, raising his glass. There was more than one wine bottle on the table, Shesta noticed abstractedly, but was too worried to be disgusted at his fellow soldiers' excessiveness. Twisting and squirming, he broke free of Gatty's supposedly playful grip and dashed back down the hall, wanting to call her name but of course not knowing what to say.
When he reached the room, it was too late. The bedcovers were rumpled and tossed about. A shredded pillow spilled down all over the floor. And the window was broken, with shards outside tinted red where skin had ripped when a body broke through. She was gone. Vanished into the streets.
She'd taken his sleeve, though: he couldn't find the ripped fabric anywhere. Had she gone searching for him? She was wandering the town in pain and wild distress and it was his fault! He had to find her! Yet where could he start?
"Somebody made a mess," said Miguel, coming up behind Shesta and making him jump. "What did you do?"
"Nothing! She got hurt b-by accident, so I lay her down to rest, and I went to get a doctor once she fell asleep..." He ransacked the already near-destroyed room but could find no hints as to where she had gone, other than simply "away."
"Looks like she's either a very light sleeper or is having one hell of a nightmare."
"This isn't funny, Miguel!" Shesta turned on his friend. "She's hurt and it's my fault!"
"You're a soldier," Miguel said bluntly. "You've killed before."
"Never someone who wasn't an enemy! That's different!" He was sweating. "What do I do? I have to find her..."
Miguel, however, was more interested in something he'd found lying on the floor. Handing the object to Shesta, he remarked, "Look familiar?"
At first he didn't understand what he held in his hands, then slowly it came to him. A complementary wine bottle—was every patron of this inn a raging alcoholic?--had been placed on the table next to a small glass (to make up for the presence of the bottle, Shesta couldn't help wondering). Beside the drink had been a stationary set complete with letter opener. The opener pierced the neck of the bottle, which had been tossed to the floor. A strange action to take...yet not one Shesta had never seen before.
He turned to Miguel. "What are you saying?"
The Dragonslayer shrugged. "I just find it interesting. It sounded like him screaming, too."
"She mentioned a brother..." Was coincidence really that strong? Shesta shivered. Had he held in his arms the sister of the man he had died protecting? Dear grace, what if he'd asked her out...or kissed her? What would have happened then? "But he never mentioned anyone!"
"Would he have?" Miguel asked pointedly. "Look, forget I mentioned it. Sorry about your girl. I'm going to go clean those sops up and drag them to our rooms. I'll need help once you're done here." Pivoting on his heel in a distinctly military matter, he left Shesta alone in the room. Alone...
"I'm so sorry," he whispered, placing the bottle—still full—gently on the bed. "Sorry I left you alone. Sorry I couldn't help."
"She'll get help," said a voice from the corner. "That's what the Group is for."
Immediately Shesta regretted not retrieving his sword. "Who's there?" he challenged. "What do you want?"
"Less than Roger did," a girl not much younger than Shesta replied, stepping out of the shadows cast by the thick brocade curtains. She flicked a thick, bound piece of hair, longer than the rest of her close-cropped locks, off to the side of her face where it hung in front of her ear. "But they're connected. Everyone is." She pointed to the bottle. "See?"
"What are you saying?" It would be disgraceful for a Dragonslayer to turn and run from a child, but Shesta was considering doing just that. How long had she been watching him? Had she been there when the girl—his girl—had flung herself into the wide uncertain world? Why hadn't this girl stopped her?
"The Group will help her...if they can. But I can't see him letting them."
"What group? Who's 'he?'"
"The one you serve. The altered fate. The one I brought as I brought you."
"Brought me where? Why? Who are you? Where is she!" His voice cracked, but he didn't care.
"Do you want to go back?" she asked. "Do you wish to forget?"
He didn't know what to say, didn't know what she was saying. He was suddenly aware of how young he really was, how much of life he would never get to live, for this could not be life when he knew that he had died. Before the apothecary, before the inn, before the beautiful girl who had taken his heart with her through the shattered glass, there had been the walking. And the silence. And before that...the pain. He had burned. Burned and broken beneath the enemy's advance.
"Where am I?" he mumbled.
She smiled. "If you knew, you wouldn't be here."
"So tell me."
"You wish to leave?"
"I wish to find her."
"No, you don't." Her eyes flashed for a moment, became charged and dangerous. "You're afraid."
"That doesn't mean...I don't wish." How had everything gotten to this point? Had he really been playing games an hour—less than an hour?--ago?
She laughed, a short barking cry. "Please. Don't try that. Human beings never wish for what they fear. They run from it, but that makes it pursue them all the faster. Why does this inn exist the way it does? The proprietors each are scared of letting the other's norm dominate. That's the way this whole town works. Roger should have showed you the fear here; you were right to turn him away. He sought to control her, for he feared her. And it is the same with you. As long as you stay, there will be the fear." She sat on the bed, glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. Light flashed off a long earring on her left earlobe; when had she put that on? "And if you find her again, you'll wish you hadn't."
Did he want to go? Why would he want to stay? To find her...but what would he do when he did? What would he say? Could she forgive him? Would she even want to see him? What did he want from her, truly want, desire to know not out of duty to a person he'd failed but in his heart?
Shesta sat next to the strange girl. "Her name. What was her name?" Then she would be real. Then he could decide where to go. Why couldn't someone make the decision for him? He was a soldier, a follower! This kind of a choice was too much.
The earring had vanished. The girl whispered something. Shesta leaned closer.
"Celena," she breathed in his ear. "Celena."
"Celena." He tried it out, rolled it across his tongue. "It suits her." He smiled. "If I go after her..."
"You will find her. And she will change. And the fear will grow, for you will see what you have done and hate yourself. And he will hate you too." The girl spoke softly, shyly, yet with prophetic gravity. "But if you go, you will remember her as she should be and not as she has become. And there will always be the dream. That is why so many things are left unfinished or unattempted: without an attempt, there will always be the dream." She looked at him, into him, pupils shrunk to pinpricks in her wide brown eyes. "So will you sleep again?"
He looked away and swallowed. In the door, he could see Miguel standing, waiting, unsure as to whether or not to come in. Afraid...
Something caught his eye as he moved his gaze to the floor: his sleeve. Had it been there all along? Hadn't she taken it? Or had he just wished she had?
He picked the ripped black cloth up, turned it over so he could see the blood seeped into it where he had wiped clean the wound. He tucked it into his armor over his heart. There would always be that dream. "I will sleep," he told her, though his mind screamed Coward.
"Very well," she replied, and he felt himself drift away. His feet hit the desolate ground, and head bowed he began to walk again, his comrades surrounding him. He would walk forever in the ceaseless unrest of the fallen soldier. But he would be buoyed by the memory of an unfinished encounter, and dream of how it might have been. And in the dreams, he would be calmed.
O0o0o0o
Lain stared at the shadows on the walls long after Shesta and Miguel had gone. She had not planned on bringing them, not immediately, and she was glad to have a mistake undone. Somewhere in the city, she knew a man was mourning a second wound, pursued by forces on black wings and blacker magics, but protected by the strength of an ignorant rabble determined to right the wrongs in a town never meant to find peace. Not for the first time she wondered why she hadn't let her own dreams be.
"Because you too are lonely," came the voice of a black-robed figure in the shadows. "Because you too acted on your fear and regretted it."
"Go away," she told him, and he slunk out of view. Sighing, she stood and walked slowly to the door. Behind her, the room righted itself; the pieces of windowpane flew up and reassembled; the letter opener remained harmlessly by the wine bottle once more. She twirled a single feather from the pillow in her hand thoughtfully, then dropped it; it vanished back into the vessel whence it had been ripped. Then she too was gone.
O0o0oo0
Yuuri Shibuya stared at the guest list and scratched his head. "Did you see the soldiers leave?" he asked Orsted. "Becasue they're marked as checked out." Behind him, Yuka snorted. She had seen the brown-haired girl come in.
o0o0o0o
Outside the front doors the dragoon scratched his head underneath his helmet, dreaming of his own lost chances. He had heard the scream, but thought nothing of it.
After all, oddities happened at the Ptolomea Inn almost every day.
0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o
a/n: So...that's that. Like I said, Ptolomea isn't going away. Do people like it?
For those of you I lost at the ramune reference, "ramune" is a Japanese lemonade/fruit soda-ish drink. It comes in a glass bottle closed off by a marble that you have to push into the drink (using a little device that comes with the bottle) to open it, and if you don't hold the bottle so the correct side is facing downward, the marble floats back into the opening and you have to unstop it all over again. The preferred drink of otaku sadists everywhere. I couldn't explain this earlier because I wanted to surprise someone with it (o).
Future plans for "Beyond Antenora" stories include Kaizer's past, Naesala on his day off, monologues for various and sundry people whose voices I think I need to practice, and several other ideas I can't say yet as they contain spoilers. I will update this anthology as things come to me—ie, not regularly, so don't hold your breath.
I hope to see you all in Canto X of "Judecca." Thank you for indulging me as I sink ever deeper into the dredges of insanity.