Judy's hesitation at seeing the apparition before her lasted only a moment, her shock at seeing the translucent fox before her freezing her in place. And then with a wild yell she lunged. She put all of her might, all of her fury, behind her thrust, her hatred for the thing before her seething like a bright poison in her veins. She was absolutely sure that her blow would be a mortal one, that whatever trick he was pulling would fail with the strength of her blow.
And then the tip of her sabre passed through the ghostly fox's stomach with absolutely no resistance.
Judy could see the entire length of her sword through whatever it was that stood in front of her, the end protruding cleanly from its back. It was as though she had tried stabbing a morning fog, for all the good it had done, and she swept her sword from side to side. The apparition looked down at the sword that should have been ending its life, then up to Judy, and then back down to the sword. It looked up at her again, its eyebrows quirked in a hatefully bemused expression as it opened its mouth to say something, but Judy didn't let it speak.
With another piercing yell, she drew her sword back and then stabbed at its head.
Once more, absolutely nothing happened. The thing went cross-eyed as it looked at the blade that should have been embedded in its forehead, and then looked back down at Judy. She drew back her arm again, and the thing spoke. "Look, that's obviously not working," it said, "Why don't you—"
Judy cut it off with another lunge, and a vaguely annoyed expression crossed its face. And then, with a suddenness that made it seem instantaneous, the thing became solid. Judy could no longer see through it, but when she stabbed at it again a sharp blade of pain seemed to spike into her forehead. For an instant she could see two irreconcilable versions of events—the blade of her sword in the air with nothing around it and the blade buried in the fox's guts—and she staggered backwards, her sabre falling out of a suddenly numb paw.
"I was going to stay all ghostly for your benefit," the now solid thing said, "But if you're going to be unreasonable and keep trying to stab me rather than talk, I'll let you break your little bunny brains each time you try."
Judy panted, the pain slowly draining out of her head, as she looked up at the thing, which seemed completely indistinguishable from the fox she hated more than anything. But, she realized, it wasn't. It was whatever the fox had left inside her as he had mutilated her with his alchemy, and a sense of horror sharper even than the pain of trying to stab the solid apparition flooded through her. Her vision hadn't simply been the result of being tired and hungry. It had some kind of reality to it, and she couldn't get rid of it. The idea of having to spend the rest of her life with the fox's mocking voice in her ears as he appeared to her and only her was a terror beyond anything she could have imagined.
"You haven't tried stabbing me again for a few seconds," the fox observed cheerfully, "That's a good sign. Now, are you going to stop trying or do I need to stay solid?"
Judy regarded the thing through narrowed eyes for a long moment, considering his words carefully. It was an interesting thing it had said; maybe she was reading too much into it, but perhaps appearing solid cost him more effort than appearing translucent. She filed it away mentally and slowly said, "I won't try stabbing you again."
The thing nodded brightly. "I'm glad to hear it. I saved your life, you know."
"You did no such thing!" Judy snapped, the words out of her mouth before she could stop them.
She regretted them instantly; she was trying to learn all she could from the apparition, but her hatred of what it resembled seemed to be all-encompassing. "I did," it said, almost serenely, "The other Nick—the one you think of as the real Nick—wasn't the one who shouted that warning when that assassin was about to throw a knife into your back. You're welcome, by the way."
Judy couldn't do more than gape at the thing as she struggled to put her memories in order. She had the strangest sense of things not quite aligning; she could certainly remember being in the princess's carriage, fighting to save her from the would-be assassin with the fox at her side, but it was as though there were too different emotional colors to the scene. Had she really been worried about what would happen to him after he had been pinned to the wall?
Judy frowned. It didn't make any sense; she had hated the fox from the moment she had met him. Why would she care about his continued survival? Unbidden, though, other memories seemed to float to her consciousness. The fox being pulled away from her side by monsters, far away from any kind of help. Diego Cencerro arresting him, unmoved by words. And a crazed, dreamlike image of a young fox being bullied by apprentice alchemists for the crime of wanting to learn. A lump seemed to form in her throat, and Judy couldn't say why. Why did she care so much? Unless... "You're manipulating my mind, aren't you?" she asked the apparition harshly, "What have you done to me?"
She had tried to be firmly in control as she asked the questions, as full of authority as Bogo himself. But she couldn't help it. Her voice had cracked as she asked the last question, and she could feel helpless tears streaming down her face. Something was dreadfully wrong with her, she knew. Something was eating away at the very fiber of what she was. Two different versions of events seemed to fill her head, the bright and glowing hatred of the fox—of Nicholas—warring with something else. Something...
What, exactly?
It was like trying to remember a dream after waking up, the details trickling through her fingers as they dissolved into nothingness. There had been something, she was sure of it now. Something that the hated fox must have planted in her mind the way he had filled her insides with copies of his own organs and replaced her arm with a copy of his own.
He did it to save me—
He did it to hurt me—
Judy shook her head, trying desperately to clear it. She felt sick in a way she never had before, sick in the mind rather than the body. "I can't," the thing's voice interrupted Judy's thoughts, and there was something like concern in the words, "I can't do much of anything but watch, to be honest."
It hunkered down next to her—Judy realized she had fallen over without knowing it at some point—and looked her in the eyes. As she watched, it faded into translucence again like a fire dying, the bright sparkle going out of its brilliantly green eyes until she could see the dull gray of the wall behind it. "But you're not doing well, are you?"
It was all Judy could do to shake her head. Admitting her weakness in front of the thing should have been humiliating. Demeaning. You weren't supposed to let your enemy see where you weren't strong. But there was something else there, something inside her chest that seemed to match whatever was in the apparition's eyes.
"I'm a bit surprised you went for me," the ghostly fox said, a slight smile bringing up the corners of his muzzle, "Didn't Cerdo want you to take Nick alive?"
The wave of agony that roiled through Judy's head made the previous pain of seeing two irreconcilable versions of striking out with her sword seem like a gentle nudge. Her eyes rolled up into her head and she clutched at her ears, feeling as though her skull was suddenly too small to contain her mind. That was true; the thing was right. Cerdo had ordered her to try taking the fox alive and only killing him if she couldn't. But she had struck out with her sword what should have been a killing blow.
She had disobeyed.
The agony grew as she keeled over, and the feeling of the rocky ground against her back was totally eclipsed by what was going on in her head; it was like her mind was burning. She couldn't see anything but brilliant starbursts in front of her eyes, and her blood roared through her ears. That constant, throbbing thought blotted everything else out. She had disobeyed. She had disobeyed. She had disobeyed. She had—"I'm not Nick!" a voice called, seeming to come from very far away, like she was at the top of a well and it was coming from the bottom, "I'm not Nick. I'm not. You didn't disobey Cerdo."
How long had the apparition been saying that? Maybe it had only been the first time. Maybe he had been repeating the words for minutes. Hours, perhaps. The passage of time seemed to have lost all meaning, and Judy weakly pushed against the ground until she was sitting upright again.
And then, for the first time in her life, Judy vomited.
It was as unpleasant as it had always seemed, her guts clenching as though in the grip of some terrible vice. Once it started she couldn't stop it, the muscles in her neck straining as she sprayed the ground in front of her with the remains of her last meal. The smell of it was terrible, and Judy's chest heaved again with that awful involuntary pressure she could do nothing to control, and her vision blacked out for an instant with the force of it.
When the attack had passed and she had managed to unsteadily rise to her feet, feeling as drained as an empty canteen, the apparition was still standing there. "I'd offer a handkerchief," it said, "But..."
It didn't need to finish the thought. Judy knew that the thing couldn't give her anything. It could watch her—even see things she couldn't, if it was telling the truth about warning her about the blade the sheep had thrown—but that was about it. Well, other than incapacitating her by appearing impossibly solid and yet letting her see the truth of reality, that it wasn't there. It was only in her head.
Judy felt a sudden surprising pity for the thing. "You're not Nick?" she asked, her voice unsteady and weak.
The wave of sickness had passed, but her strength had yet to return. "I'm not," the apparition said.
That made it just as much a victim of the fox as she was. How cruel it was, to create something with every appearance of being alive, and yet had no reality of its own. It was as bound to her as she was to it, and she couldn't help but feel a twinge of sympathy. "What are you, then?" she asked.
It was half concern, half interest in finding something she could use against the thing's creator, and she paid close attention to its face. "How about this," the thing said, "I'll tell you everything I know if you answer a question for me. Just one."
It held up a single finger as it spoke, its tone completely earnest. "Just one?" Judy repeated.
"Just one," the apparition said, nodding, "Promise me you'll answer it and I'll tell you what I know."
Judy mulled over the offer for a long moment. If it had been the hated fox before her, she would have refused flat out; there would be no telling what sinister motive he might have. But for the ghostly fox...
"I promise," Judy said, and the thing clapped its paws together in apparent pleasure.
"Wonderful," it said, "Now, the first thing you have to understand is that I'm not your— I'm not Nick."
It corrected itself so smoothly Judy barely caught it. "I'm sort of..." it continued, trailing off.
It spun one paw in a vague circle, apparently trying to come up with the word. "I'm sort of his will," it said at last, "He's shown you how alchemy works, hasn't he?"
There was that odd duality of memory again as Judy remembered the fox at work, the correct version of events seeming to war with a different one she couldn't quite grasp. "Yes," she said at last.
The ghost—or whatever it was—smiled. "Alchemy is all about changing things through your own force of will," it said, "And when you were dying, and he was improvising, he used more willpower than he ever had in his life. More willpower than any trained alchemist would use, I think. But everything he knows he learned out of books. It makes him strong in some ways and weak in others. Like creating me by accident, for instance."
It gestured at itself as though it was inviting Judy to take in the view. The thing didn't continue speaking, and Judy prompted it. "That's it?" she said.
The apparition shrugged. "I don't know anything he doesn't," it said, "Or didn't, at least. I have no idea what he's up to now."
Judy frowned. From what little she knew about alchemy, it sounded like a reasonable explanation; she should have guessed that the fox's lack of training would cause him to make mistakes. "Now," the thing said, "I believe you have a question to answer for me."
Judy nodded to show that she was listening.
"You hate Nick," it said, and it wasn't a question.
To Judy's ears, the thing was stating a simple fact, and from the tightness that developed in her stomach as she thought of the hatefully smug fox she knew it was absolutely true. The ghostly fox spread its paws wide. "Why?"
"I..." Judy began, more than a little surprised by the question, "I've always hated him."
"That's not a reason," the thing said, "Why?"
"He mutilated me!" Judy protested, pulling the sleeve covering her horribly deformed paw up a few inches to show the fox fur that covered the skin of it.
"You would have died if he didn't do that," the thing said, cocking its head to the side, "Would you have preferred to die?"
A sharp, spiteful answer was immediately on Judy's lips—Of course!—but she didn't say it. Couldn't say it. Because it wasn't true. If she had died, there would have been so many things she would have regretted. Never having the opportunity to report in to the City Guard on what she had seen in Phoenix. Never knowing if that information would have made a difference. Never telling Nick that she—
Judy's head snapped up; another quick burst of pain had run through it, blotting out her thought before it could reach its conclusion. "He didn't have to do this to me," Judy said, gesturing at her arm again before rolling her sleeve back over it.
"I know him better than anyone," the thing said, "He didn't know what else to do."
Judy rummaged through her thoughts, which seemed strangely out of order again. It was an absolute fact that she hated Nicholas. She was sure of it. Positive of it. She knew it with every ounce of who she was. And yet...
No reason she could say aloud came to mind. She simply hated him. Or, was that quite true? Had there been some reason for it after all? Some kind of...
Order.
"I've been ordered to find him," Judy said, "And bring him back. That's all that matters."
The apparition nodded, making a noise that could have meant anything. "If you say so," it said, "But it's a little odd, then."
"What's odd?" Judy asked.
"Why you're still carrying that little golden trinket he gave you."
Judy had no idea what the thing was talking about, and then suddenly she did. Her paw darted to a pocket of her uniform and pulled something small and cold from it. There, in her palm, was a tiny golden carrot, exquisitely detailed and with a loop made out of a cunning twist of its leafy top. She stared at the object, watching light reflect off its smooth golden surface, and thought back to when it had been given to her. It had been...
Nice, she thought, at the same instant another word ran through her mind.
Mocking.
Yes, that had been it. He had given it to her to mock her. That was all there had been to it. And she had carried it around as a token. Not one of friendship, of course. Definitely not, although that foolish thought seemed to be lurking beneath the surface of her mind. She had kept it as a token to remind her to never trust him. That made sense, didn't it? It seemed plausible. But no, plausible implied that it might not be true. It was what had happened, she was sure of it.
"It's just a reminder," Judy said, and roughly stuffed the little trinket back into her pocket.
It was a reminder she could still use. "But why'd you want to know why I hate that traitor?" she asked.
The apparition regarded her carefully. "Well, there's something important you ought to understand," it said, "If anything happens to you, that's it for me."
"Oh," Judy said, although she didn't understand what kind of point it was getting at.
"So it's in my best interest for you to succeed," the thing said, and then grinned suddenly, "That sounds just like him, doesn't it?"
"It kind of does," Judy agreed, and she couldn't help but smile.
The thing that had appeared to her looked exactly like her hated enemy, but she didn't hate it. How could she?
"But the real question is, the one I was getting at, is if you have it in you to stand up to whatever tricks he throws at you. Forgive my saying so, Carrots, but running at him with a sword probably isn't going to work."
Even the use of that loathsome nickname the fox had given her took on a different tone coming out of the apparition's mouth. Friendly. Kindly, like he actually cared about her. "I'll do whatever it takes," she said.
"To capture him?" the apparition asked mildly.
Still, there was a rather shrewd look on its face as it regarded her. "To capture him," Judy agreed, vividly recalling the wave of pain she had suffered at the mere thought that she might have disobeyed her orders.
"Then I want to make you an offer," the thing said, "It works out best for both of us if you capture him alive. But he's a crafty one, isn't he? Very cunning."
The ghostly fox's words had taken on an almost conspiratorial tone, and Judy nodded. The fox was a difficult opponent. She had barely beaten him when they had sparred what felt like ages ago. And she wouldn't put it past him to have lost on purpose, trying to get her to let her guard down.
"I can help you," the thing said, solemnly looking Judy in the eyes, "I know him better than you do, after all."
Judy regarded the thing seriously, considering the offer. "Alright," she said at last, extending one paw, "Let's catch him together."
The apparition smiled, extending its own ghostly paw. It couldn't actually touch her, of course—its insubstantial paw drifted right through her own—but they pantomimed shaking. They really weren't so different, after all, and she could certainly use a friend. The thought startled her for a moment, but Judy dismissed it. Why shouldn't she be friends with the apparition? It was, after all, everything that Nicholas was not.
Author's Notes:
In chapter 41, Head Nick brushed the real Nick's tail, and the difference between what actually happened and what Judy saw happened nearly incapacitated her due to seeing both at once. Here, Head Nick deliberately triggered that by making himself seem solid so Judy would have the conflicting vision of her sword passing through the air and of it just going through him. Following that instance, he demonstrates that appearing translucent is a bit less brain breaking for Judy than appearing solid.
The instance of Nick warning Judy about a throwing knife appeared in chapter 47; some readers guessed there that it was really Head Nick doing so and not the real one. Here, at least, Head Nick claims this to be the case.
Real rabbits are indeed incapable of vomiting, which is one of the things that makes individual rabbits such delicate animals. Most of Judy's guts were, however, replaced with copies of Nick's internal organs, and foxes can vomit. I know when I'm sick, throwing up is one of the most unpleasant parts of it, so I'm not sure I can adequately imagine just how bad it would be for an adult with absolutely no frame of reference for how that's supposed to feel.
The real Nick and Judy did indeed spar all the way back in chapter 9. That wasn't quite eons ago; in the story it was only a matter of days, but in the real world there have been 308 days between when that chapter went up and when this one did.
Speaking of a long time ago in real time, Nick made the golden carrot in chapter 5, and Judy's been carrying it ever since.
As always, thanks for reading! If you're so inclined as to leave a comment, I'd love to know what you thought.