A.N: This chapter/installation is bringing the rating up cause there is death, 'blood', a moment of ritual self-harm (this is a magic world y'all, have you ever heard of the ancient druids and the way they did things?) and some language. Personally I feel like it's tame but I have been reminded I'm kind of desensitized compared to the rest of society. Nothing too explicit but like I said, this is being rated Mature from here on out for violence, death and language.
Also kind of rushed this out at the end so might revise later. Constructive criticism appreciated and encouraged!
He didn't want to be here. He shouldn't be here. He should be back home helping Miss Annie and Medda with the preparations for Samhain; making sure Irving Hall and the Duane St. Lodge were properly warded, that they had small fruit cakes and warm spiced cider for whatever children kept up the old traditions of going door to door and whatever spirits decided to walk amongst them for the night. He wanted to be back in Manhattan sitting at the Jacobs' kitchen table helping Sarah and her family make charms and shortbread cookies blessed with runes of protection and good fortune to hand out amongst their neighbors in the tenement. He should be anywhere but behind Spot Conlon -King of Brooklyn and something more that made his stomach clench and flip uncomfortably and the breath in his chest freeze- as the younger boy stood before another nameless, ageless, entity in some hoity toity office building.
He didn't want to stand to the boy's right -a few people removed from the actual place of honour, but still- while the man pacing in front of the rich mahogany desk and it's monstrosity of a chair raked twitching, clenching hands through fiery hair brighter than Albert's to match the healthy ruddiness in his cheeks then pulled at an unbuttoned burgundy waistcoat and plucked at red suspenders too similar to the threadbare ones worn by the boy he was spitting obscenities at.
"You cheated, the deal is void if you cheat!"
"Brooklyn never cheats, and neither does Spot Conlon." Hotshot shouts something about the honour of Brooklyn and the rest of Spot's boys roar their approval alongside her. "If my predecessor taught me anythin' it was never make a bet you weren't sure you'se would win."
"Is your ambition really worth betraying the City, mutt?" Beside him, Jack can hear Racetrack suck in a sharp breath and the other Brooklynites amongst those who had gathered to stand witness grumbled amongst themselves.
Spot simply shakes his head with a sigh. "You know better than most what I'se done ta defend Brooklyn from those who would wish 'er 'arm." The man bristles and the smell of hot asphalt and metal hangs heavy in the air.
"I defend Brooklyn! Not some half-fae, bastard, upstart."
"The River defends Brooklyn." And those words seem to rip through the man as he takes a rattling breath and his form wavers like a heat mirage for a moment. The pleasant warmth that had greeted their party and had most of them taking off their heavy overcoats when they walked into the building is growing stifling. "The Bridge is the way between worlds. Ambassador and gatekeeper. Ally o' all, friend ta none." Spot seems unphased by the heat and the very angry man shaped being obviously controlling it. "And if you'se recall, I stand as King and The River. I stand as defender and keeper o' the old laws."
"What do you know of the old laws, brat?"
Spot clicks his tongue in annoyance, rolling his shoulders back, a hand coming to rest on the head of his cane still tucked into his suspenders. "Enoughs ta know tha' as King and River I has the right an' tha power ta challenge you'se fer your Seat." The ruddy faced man pales a little at that. His pacing stops and he turns on his heel to glare at Spot.
"You wouldn't dare challenge me here in my own home, my Seat." Jack can only liken the way the man moves to an alley cat's prowl as he walks behind his big fancy desk to sit in his big fancy chair like it drives his point home. Like it has any bearing on what Spot has come for. "Even you aren't that pompous and foolish." Jack wants to run, the 'man' is turning red in the face and he's starting to spit a little with the force of his words. His breath is coming in short, barely contained, bursts and he blinks a few times to get the image of Snyder's sneer out of his head as the 'man' leans back in his chair.
"I'se been called a lot o' things brother Bridge," the being that looks like a man sneers at Spot again. "But almost every persons as tried tellin' me my own limits, well," Spot shrugs and gives out a dry chuckle as his fingers dance over the gleaming head of his cane. "Let's say they'se hasn't always been around long enough fer me to say 'I told you'se so'."
The Bridge snorts out a laugh, "And do you expect me to be another such fool, mutt?"
Spot shrugs and his hand stops fluttering to rest on the shaft of the cane like he's about to draw it out, a bored look on his face. "Ways I sees it Brother Bridge, you'se has only got so long afore you'se just poof, up and disappears. And whens dat happens I'll be right there ta send you'se on yer way."
The Bridge is going even redder than before and Jack could swear there's steam coming out of his ears like a boiler turned on too hot and left on too long. He doesn't realize that he's started moving back away from this thing that looks like a man but is something so much more and far older and filled with so much anger until he registers the hand on the center of his back keeping him from going any further. He looks around and sees faces filled with awe and fear and begrudging respect and excitement. Then he looks to his side and there's Racetrack, his Second, his little brother. The younger boy is grinning around an unlit cigar and looking at Spot with a mix of pride and excitement and a wildness in his eyes that Jack knows too well, recognizes as thinly veiled fear.
Jack turns back to look at Spot. Spot who is standing tall and proud with shoulders too broad for his skinny frame and large hands and feet and ears that he knows mean the younger boy is going to grow tall and strong, probably even taller than Jack one day, but right now only remind him that this is a child standing between a handful of mortals and the literal manifestation of a piece of Brooklyn. And he knows. He knows that Spot and even Racer are something more that he can only begin to try and understand. Sarah had tried explaining it to him once one of the times he was allowed to escort her on her errands. Some people were bound to their homes, their territories, it became a part of them. Sometimes it was the other way around. And looking at the King of Brooklyn, pale skin glowing in the warm lamplight that dances over the shiny key and strands of almost golden hair falling in too blue eyes that flash with power and around his face, he thinks he may understand what she meant.
"You think I'll just roll over like The River did then? You think I'll, what? Just hand over even more power for you to hoard and-" He's cut off by a dry hacking cough that has him bending forward over his desk and curling into himself accompanied by another ripple through his form. As it washes over him his hair seems to be a little duller and his skin pulled almost too tight.
Spot sighs and takes a step forward. The Bridge snaps up with eyes like shining copper and another snarling sneer on his face. "We'se hasn't always gotten along, Bridge. But you'se knows everythin' I've done 'as always been fer Brooklyn, you knows what I've done fer the City and her People. You knows what's I've given ta her and ya know I'd do it all again an' more if I needed. I swear to ya Brother Bridge, if ya ever trusted me, or at least whats I stand fer then you'll listen ta me now. There's change comin' to tha Boroughs an' the Cities an' it'll shake all o' New York, maybe even tha world. And there ain't no changin' it, ain't no stoppin' it, but we can do somethin' ta protect our own."
"You think I don't know that?" The Bridge coughs out. His burgundy vest is looking more worn and grey and closer to the one hanging loose on Spot's own frame over his pink suspenders. Jack gulped as the man raked another hand through red hair, a dull almost copper colour left behind, and his vest shifts to show faded pink have replaced firetruck red. "You think I don't know what those fucking bastards are trying at? Think I don't know what'll happen if the vote goes through?"
Spot's voice is quiet and sure but Jack swears he can hear the edge of fear and nervousness as the boy takes another step closer. "The vote went through last week."
"What?!" And the anger is back, The Bridge is trying to stand again, using his desk as leverage but falls back onto his chair. "What did you say?"
Spot scoffs, "Ya heard me ya numbskull, the vote went through last week! By this time next year Brooklyn is gonna be a Borough." Jack knew that. It had been all over every newspaper for months. The debates and discussions, politicians and businessmen and neighbourhood leaders all putting in their two-bits on the matter. Most druids and mages had been for it, nearly every sorcerer and witch in 'hattan and Brooklyn had cried out in outrage when the results of the vote had come through. "The City o' New York don't hold ta the old ways, tha old laws like Brooklyn. You will die and you will be forgotten." Spot practically spits out the last few words and the venom in his voice has Jack trying to back up only to be stopped by a gentle hand again.
"And what?" The Bridge snaps, "You think you'll fare better? No Borough needs a King."
"So long as Brooklyn stands, so will 'er King."
And it's quiet, just the sound of heavy breathing and the rustle of cloth as those gathered fidget in place, unsure of what exactly is going on. It was nothing like this last time. Jack knows he has no idea how this is all supposed to work but he just can't shake this sense of wrong to go with the magic hanging so heavy in the air even he can feel it and the hum of something other wrapped about the room. He knows that Racetrack has abandoned his cigar to mutter quiet curses and pleas for Spot to hurry the hell up and for the Bridge to just not be a self-centered dick for once please and thank you. Hotshot and Jojo are holding tight to some of the younger newsies who came along and look ready to soil themselves alongside the adults gathered about the room.
He wishes Miss Annie or Medda had come with him. Had come instead of him. He wishes someone older and smarter and who actually knew what they were doing and had magic had come to stand witness as Brooklyn's King did something Jack was sure was going to be so so stupid.
The Bridge laughs and it sounds like a dog's bark, the whine of old metal and the creak of aged wood settling. "You really believe that don't ya, brat? You really believe that you can do anything about this? When we couldn't?" Jack has a good idea who the 'we' are but he would really rather not think about that and how Spot knows them to be honest. Or how they had already visited one of them. "You, a child?"
"I'se more'n a child and you'se knows it."
"Ah yes, how could I forget?" His voice is strained even as it drips with sarcasm and condescension. "You stand as King and River, guardian of the City and her people and keeper of her oldest laws. And now you wanna play ambassador too."
Spot growls and the urge to run is back and he can feel Racetrack's hand clench into a fist where it rests against the small of his back. "I don't have time for this." Faster than Jack knew a human could move Spot is standing not even a foot away from the still sitting Bridge who is smiling up at the it's tight at the edges and his eyes are cold and hard. "If you'se is gonna be difficult about it then I ain't got no choice." Spot's voice cracks and Jack shifts uneasily at the tremble in the younger boy's shoulders. The Bridge grins wider.
"Can't do it lad? Don't have enough guts to do it again?"
"Just let it be and I won't hafta- don't make me-" And in that moment that Spot sounds so young it makes something in Jack ache The Bridge laughs.
It's a raucous full-bellied sound backed by the screech of rent metal that grates on Jack's ears and makes him wince. It's cut off by a wet gurgle that silences the room. Jack grabs Race and clutches him to his chest before he's even aware the other boy has moved. All around him there's yelling and noise and the boy in his arms is kicking and screaming at him to get away but it's all muffled. The only thing Jack can really hear is the sickening gurgling sound as The Bridge tries to laugh despite the copper liquid spilling from his slit throat. He thinks that he heard somewhere or read in one of those books Miss Annie keeps about her tiny apartment that the first gods in the old lands bled gold and really, copper wasn't too far of a stretch if you took that into account was it?
He swears he can hear the liquid that slides down the blade in Spot's hand to land on the floor.
"I'm sorry." The child King says and Jack doesn't know if anyone else hears him as the boy leans back, his hands shaking at his side. "I didn't want to." Jack doesn't know if anyone else sees the tears welling up in his otherwise blank eyes as he reaches one hand down into the still flowing blood and spreads it on his blade. He doesn't know if anyone notices the hilt is the head of Spot's cane.
The rest of the world comes back into focus as Spot uses his 'bloody' knife to slice a line down his forearm. He grips Racetrack tighter against him as their friend smears the copper blood into the cut and his skin muttering words that make the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. Hotshot and JoJo are working with grim faced adults to hold back the children who earned their place as witnesses.
He didn't want to be here. He shouldn't be here. He should be back home helping Miss Annie and Medda with the preparations for Samhain; making sure Irving Hall and the Duane St. Lodge were properly warded, that they had small fruit cakes and warm spiced cider for whatever children kept up the old traditions of going door to door and whatever spirits decided to walk amongst them for the night. He wanted to be back in Manhattan sitting at the Jacobs' kitchen table helping Sarah and her family make charms and shortbread cookies blessed with runes of protection and good fortune to hand out amongst their neighbors in the tenement. He should be anywhere but in some fancy office building in Brooklyn watching Spot Conlon, the youngest King his or any City had seen, the boy who was something more that made his stomach clench and flip uncomfortably and the breath in his chest freeze.
He wishes Miss Annie or Medda had come with him. Had come instead of him. He wishes someone older and smarter and who actually knew what they were doing and had their own damned magic had come to stand witness as Brooklyn's King shook the very foundations of the whole damned state.
Racetrack is crying now, wrapped up in his arms and Spot is standing over the still form in the big fancy chair behind the big fancy desk that used to be an ancient, powerful, being. He wonders what it means that a teenage wisp of a boy was able to bring him low. He wonders what it means that the thought doesn't scare him as much as it really should.
When Spot turns to look at everyone gathered to stand witness his eyes don't seem to be able to focus on anything in particular and his knuckles are white as he grips his blade tight. "By sacrifice made and blood spilt;" Jack shudders at the thrice layered voice coming from his friend and the wave of power that came with it. He tries not to marvel at the way the light shines and bounces off of the copper covering his hands. "By oaths upheld and the old laws of the land, the Bridge between worlds is reforged."