1. Arcana Cabana
The Tenth of February
Anno Domini Eighteen-Hundred Eighty Eight
Balthazar forced the grimhold into an upper shelf, almost breaking it in his anxiety. He had finally found him. Finally imprisoned him. Now that Horvath was out of the way he could focus all his energy on finding the Prime Merlinian. He was so close he could smell it. All he had to do now was blend in. And wait.
The Cabana didn't have electricity. Its only light came from oil lamps lining the walls. Balthazar should take care of that one day. He had the money. He could risk exposure. Horvath couldn't escape. He was fine. He had a steady business while other workers were dirt poor. Life couldn't get better than this.
Balthazar had to calm down. His whole life, he had more than one thing on his mind to worry about. Now that he took care of one, he missed the feeling. He had to get his mind off of things.
There were still boxes to unpack. He shuffled over to the storage closet and took a knee. Some crucifixes, a watch, a Chinese tea kettle. He stuffed them back into the closet. Another box with some brooches and a box of dominoes underneath the desk. And then, at the bottom of it all, he found the mask.
It was fraying apart at the edges. Still corpse white underneath, but drenched in dust. Balthazar could still smell the incense he had stuffed in the beak from all those years ago. That stench churned his stomach. The glass eyes stared at him, as if they were waiting for him to scream. He was almost too scared to touch it, as if it would cause flashbacks.
Just as he was entranced by it, the doors creaked open. Balthazar quickly got up, inadvertently dropping the mask on the floor. A wealthy young man, neatly dressed with a snow-covered hat. Clean shaven, perhaps a student. He wished Balthazar a good afternoon, and then walked around the store for a few minutes.
"Is there anything I can help you with sir," He asked, praying he got the syntax of the times right.
"My mother's birthday is next week. She simply adores antique jewelry, so I was wondering if you had anything special. Something genuine."
Balthazar nodded and presented the brooches from under the desk. "These come from the 1700s. Some say they were made for English royalty, but more likely for wealthier families."
"This is perfect. Is it expensive?"
"Two hundred and fifty dollars."
"And it's genuine?"
"Swear'd I.. excuse me. I would swear by it."
"Well… it is for my mother."
As he produced the payment, Balthazar watched his eyes fall to the floor.
"Pardon me for asking, but is that a Plague Doctor's mask?
Balthazar swallowed. "It is."
"How much does it cost?"
He could sell it. It would release a weight from his shoulders. It would help him forget all the death he saw and all the fake cures the Church forced him to use. He could sell it.
"I am sorry, it is not for sale. It is being sent out for repairs soon, in fact."
He couldn't. It would be like selling a piece of his soul.
"I'm sorry to hear that. Perhaps next time."
Balthazar nodded as the man left with his gift. He grabbed the mask by the straps and stuffed it into the desk. Whether he liked it or not, he had to keep his memories in the Cabana. Sell the things that weren't truly valuable. He wished he could forget, but he knew the inevitable. He, his memories, and his mission would poison him and never die.
A/N: I've had the idea for a Balthy 100 for a long time. Which explains why I'm writing this at a time where this movie has become even more irrelevant than it was when it came out. Being my favorite movie as a kid (and still one of my favorite movies today - fight me), I decided that this would be a good format for a mature series of short anythings (see the description for this fic). Even though this story's not the best, I'll do my best to update when I can and stay in order of the Balthy 100 list. That being said, I'm excited for the next stories and hopefully you'll stick around for the ride. Thanks for reading!
-Sinbad