A Day To Forget - Part 1

A ring of condensation glistens on the bar's varnished wood and marks the place where Gabranth's glass had sat. He knocks back another gulp of gin. The alcohol no longer blazes a trail of fire down his throat but the ice jabs a knife up through his front teeth. He drops his heavy arm to the bar and sends the glass sliding. Glass on varnished wood roars like a river in miniature, a waterfall churning to the sea. The bartender catches it, his waiting hand cupped and ready.

Gabranth jerks his chin toward the bottle on the shelf. The bartender doesn't question the man's wisdom. Instead, he pours an unmeasured gush of gin over melting ice as Gabranth uses his thumb to smear the ring of water on the bar and wipe the wetness on his trouser leg. It is quarter to eleven in the morning and he plans to sit where he is until a better idea comes to him. He's already dropped enough gil on the bar for good week's take, forcing the bartender to put up with him.

Turning his glass between his fingers, the ice cubes slide against each other, melting along the surface of the other's touch. The silver bracelet he wore sits on a white handkerchief stamped with the Imperial crest. He should turn it in to the appropriate authorities and sign paperwork ordering its destruction, but he suspects it would find its way to Draklor's scientists instead. He will not risk this as he does not want the Imperial Army to know he is still alive.

The air shimmers above the bracelet's metal band, a mist storm captured in miniature that circles an eye of calm in the space where the bracelet would encircle a person's wrist. Etchings glow on the inward face, an endless repetition of a charm known to be whispered by Lea Monde's dancers. Even if he hadn't known what power this bracelet holds, it reeks with contraband magick. Gabranth wonders how a group of sky pirates came to possess it. The girl who slipped this on his wrist did not dress as a dancer-priestess and Mullenkamp's followers are loathe to let their secrets fall into the hands of the uninitiated.

Dousing fire with fire, he gulps his drink, a final gesture to forget the slaughter of lies spoken by the silver tongued emperor's son. Vayne has descended into madness, a huntsman who sends his dogs to chase a scent marked in deception. No act of retribution can ever wash clean the blood staining Gabranth's hands. He has been reduced to nothing more than a sword, a blade poisoned by his own pain and left to rust. The Empire has betrayed him.

He realizes his face is wet and he wipes his cheeks with the backs of his hands. He is powerless to stop the wash of tears flooding his lower lids. Even though he cries, his vision does not blur. He thinks this ironic. For years he had been blind to all the warnings cast before him. If only his blindness could return but right now it is easier to drown in a numbing sea.

It was once easier just to comply.

Gabranth pokes a dull finger at the metal band. Wearing it had been even easier.

He passes his hand over the shimmering storm of air hovering above the bracelet. The mist pushes against him, a soft pressure that forms the outline of a shape. He can feel it almost as if it something solid and this reminds him of the mist creature with Cidophus – the creature who appeared like a goddess. She held the strength to stop the electrochemical signals in his body and she left him limp, a child's doll, something powerless to be thrown against the wall and discarded. He remembered nothing after that until the girl – Penelo – revived him with phoenix feathers and potions. And then he remembered nothing at all. Nothing of pain.

.

.

.

Beaten down to his bones, he saw a flash of metal in the healer's palm. Not a dagger. As the girl tugged at his left gauntlet, he began to suspect what she might do. 'We can't have any more losses,' she said. 'Not today. Not after Reddas. And this is just what a sky pirate has to do. It's just– you can't stay here. The cryst looks like it will explode.'

He lay there, looking up at where a stone pillar met the ceiling, up where he had been slammed, where he hit his head and his helm was knocked loose. That blow sucked him dry of his will. His body fell to the ground, an empty husk, a dried leaf ready to crumble, to decompose. He let the girl fuss with his gauntlet and press metal to his wrist. When she was ready, he flexed his fingers outward and let her pull his plated glove back over his hand.

'Noah, you need to get up. You need to follow me.' Her fingers brushed against his face, a smile, a little giggle. 'Come on. Here's you helm. Don't forget your swords.'

'Penelo?' A young man, a familiar face, eyes shared with a vengeful ghost. 'Penelo? What are you doing? Are you crazy?'

'Vaan, just wait!'

'Vaan, Penelo. Hurry, we must leave.' Basch held his tension in the hunch of his shoulders, the stiffness of his limbs. 'Vaan, cover Ashe. Penelo, let's go.'

'Basch, Wait! Noah's coming with us.'

'What?' The commanding officer stopped. Noah watched his brother weigh the girl's words, hesitating only a second. Noah pushed himself to his feet and took the potion Penelo offered. He downed it in one gulp, ready to go, knowing only that he should follow her.

'Basch, we can't leave him behind,' the girl said as she squeezed Noah's arm. Mist mingled with the pressure of her touch. He wanted her then, ashamed that lust sprang from little more than words of kindness. It took all of his will not to kiss her firmly on her lips. Instead, he fit his helm over his head.

'Of course,' Basch said. 'Noah, can you fight? We leave now.'

And he fought, body and soul, lunging at ephemeral mistmares, stabbing at the animated bones of ancient creatures. Foul fluids corroded his blades as he sliced at bullish beasts and knocked away statues that mocked him with demonic fury. This was no temple of the gods and, even if it was, the gods worshiped here were none he wished to follow.

When they stopped to rest, he sat next to the girl who fed him food from her pack and scrubbed dried blood from his hair. He fought to stay awake as she wrung out her cloth and started to wash cuts on his ear and his chin. She tipped soothing potions to his lips and, when she was done, he pressed his body close to her, as close as he could. In the darkness he spoke the words of a possessed man, not caring that he was unable to still his tongue. Lips to her ear, he whispered his vows just so he could hear her giggle. She freed a hand and moved it between their bodies, unfastening her leather armor, unbuttoning her shirt beneath it. At her invitation, his fingers learned all he could about her nipples and the near-ripe apples of her breasts. Her breath floated and leapt at his touch, the flutter of moth's wings on his cheek.

Those first nights, the tease of her touch left him impatient but he waited. He waited as he should, waited until she offered. The first night they made love he noticed his brother pretending not to watch. The girl reminded him of someone he has lost long ago in a fire of lies. He spoke a name he hadn't whispered for two decades. He forgot everyone else since, everything that had happened after leaving Landis.

Under moonlight in Ridorana, the girl's nakedness was all that mattered between the water and the sky. Blissful, he sunk into her skin, into the warmth of forgetting. He wanted to lay with her every night, every morning, until her belly swelled and their fathers met to announce their marriage. His brother would speak the blessings, his mother would manage the women who would prepare the feast. He whispered his secrets to her and then they slept without an inch of space between them, his cock resting against her thigh.

Never once did he ask why they wandered through jagd a thousand miles from their home. He never questioned how ragged his brother had become nor did he wonder about the strange names and faces of the people who traveled with them.

Without a word, he followed her into a YPA-GB47 fighter. Once they were aloft, they wandered back to the ship's stern, to a cozy cabin. He pushed aside oil rags, the spare bolts and screws from a collection of archaic guns. He stripped himself naked and knelt between the girls knees, speaking prayers he inscribed with the tip of his tongue. She shuddered as he held her flesh to his face and then she fell back. She let him inside her, her legs high around his waist, her fingers entwined with his, knuckles pressed into the bedsheets. He came as the airship dropped and rose sharply on the winds.

He might have slept for a few minutes beside her, she on her back, him curled around her body in the space under the curve of the ship's hull. Awake, he writhed his face between her small breasts. She kissed his wrist, her warm tongue circling over his pulse, giving him an erection that dug into her leg. After exchanging a glance, he was in her again, stubble scraping her cheek, wet kisses on her face. He begged her to say that she wanted him more than his brother. He begged until he was certain she had come while he was inside her. When she said yes, he sucked the needed word from her mouth.

.

.

.

Gabranth covers the bracelet with the edge of the handkerchief on which it sits. He realizes now why Basch kept an eye on him and Penelo for the last nine days. And he knows why his brother kept them far from Vaan and Lady Ashe. Why Penelo did not kill him in his sleep he does not know. And he can't understand why she shielded him from others who should seek to extract their revenge. Instead, the girl led a dead man down from the top of the Pharos, a man who has fed on the putrefying flesh of nations. Had she any sense she would have slit his throat. Instead, she bathed him in kisses, her sincerity wet on his naked skin.

He sucked down the last of the watery gin remaining his glass. Better to forget.

This city of pirates never asks for Imperial papers and official names. Come afternoon, he could board a cargo ship and set sail for a year of heavy labor. If he is lucky, storms will not drown him at sea. If he is luckier, Vayne will never find him. Gabranth's name is marked with death and he knows he cannot stay here.

He slides his head down to the bar, arms sprawled out, crucified against the wooden surface. His eyes are level with the charmed bracelet. Mist seeps up through the pores in the handkerchief's weave.

It was always easier to comply.

And easier still to slip the silver band over his wrist, waiting in simple ignorance for the gash of a blade to empty him of his blood. Even when drunk he hates his brother. Hates him for feigning pride when nothing but a failure. Gabranth's hand falls to his side, his cheek flaccid against varnished wood. He closes his eyes.

.

.

.

Living a lie is easiest, if only to forget the man who craved the power promised in the position of a judge. Once upon a time, a boy named Noah ran.

.

.

.

He slips off the stool and tries to stand upright as his eyes scan the room. Unsteady on his feet, he aims himself at the empty sofa against the wall. He steps forward until his body falls, dissolving in darkness, dizzy with drunkenness, knee cracks against wood, chin snaps. Blood in his mouth, on his lip. Hand fumbles for his face. Perhaps he's sitting upright, falling backward. For a moment his legs appear folded in improbable angles. He leans forward and claws himself up, grasping the upholstered leather of some heavy piece of furniture.

An explosion of sunlight bursts through a door and is blocked by the rush of frantic movement. A shout. A familiar voice. A hungry ghost with a taste for his blood. Gabranth drops to the floor, surrendering.

"Basch, I found him! He's in here!"