alexithymia (n.) inability to identify and express or describe one's feelings

The atelier was all silent, wrapped in the soft hush of early morning. Overhead, the stars had begun to fade, such that only the memory of their light still pierced the sky; to the far east, the sun had begun to creep its way over the horizon, bleeding amber across the walls. The smoke had dissipated across the sky in broad paintstrokes, and the cobbles of Ganzir had collapsed back into their rightful places, unfolding the streets again into a semblance of their original form and leaving little sign of the dark magic which had, for those sparse moments, been wrought upon them.

He could feel them now – extensions of himself, faraway limbs, weapons lying in their sheaths. How had the first World ever lost them? How had he ever loosed them upon the world? Had he been able to live with himself afterwards, watching his xrafstars go to war with one another? It was a strange, protective instinct that led the World to keep his – what could you call these, thralls? – asleep.

It was still dark. They could afford to dream a little longer.

The stairs had creaked as he descended from the bedroom over the workshop, but the sleeping Warriors did not stir. Ina and the Hierophant were upstairs, and the Moon – Kinga – whichever one she currently was – had not yet returned, so the remainder made for a motley crew. The Wheel was almost invisible beneath a pile of discarded jackets, only the slit of a yellow eye showing from beneath her heavy lids indicating her anguine prescence.

But she was, at last, asleep, rather than merely feigning slumber. Eero did not envy her that. There were few places so undesirable as Nerezza Astaroth's own mind.

Over on the futon – he hadn't wanted to wake them either. They had seemed, for a moment, peaceful. Eero could see that Ilja had some colour to his hair - lightly painted - when he was lost to dream so. Khalore had mastered the esoteric art of seeming vicious even in her sleep, the slightest furrow marking the natural home of a scowl between her brows. Their dark heads rested together; they rather had the air of puppies in a pile, he thought, and that thought had a peculiar, hollow feel to it.

It was something like

Happiness, said the Tower.

It was something like

Hunger, said the Tower.

It was something like

Fear. said the Tower.

All of those, and moreso, and less as well.

He woke to soft sheets and to sunlight on his face. The room was a small one; the bed took up most of the space, touching three walls and bordering the narrow, rectangular windows which looked out onto the avenue below. Craftsmen had started to go about their tasks; the faint scent of sawdust drifted through, and permeated the room, strangely honey-like and reassuring, like a strange reminder of home.

When he sat up, his vision swam before him, sprouting a number of strange black spots that swarmed about. He couldn't seem to catch his breath but, looking down at his chest, he could see that it was whole again – whole and bruised, bruised white here and there in raised patches. His hands, too, were complete and healed, though similar white patches were slowly receding across his nails, as though these were the final parts of his body to necessitate healing.

He ran his hands through his hair, pulling tiny pieces of gravel from where they had embedded into his scalp. He was not tired. This was not truly like waking; it was simply returning. It was simply becoming present again, where once – for however long – he had not been.

He.

Was that the right word to use? Was that fair? He still wasn't sure. Druj were it. Walls were it. The Moon was it. Could the Tower really claim to be otherwise?

The door clicked open. He looked up.

"…are you…. Ina?"

The girl smiled slightly. She had a soft face, with a very faint scar running down one cheek, and a more recent wound lying open, angry and red, on her jaw. She looked younger than the others, with a freckled face and curly brown hair lying about her shoulders in a tangle, as though she had been summoned from bed. "No," she said, "I wish. I'm Khalore."

"The Hanged Man." The Tower spoke the words as though he was repeating them, as though she had spoken it first and he was merely mimicking her words. He stood, slowly, testing each part of himself as he did so, ascertaining whether any part of his form remained unhealed.

"My friends tend to call me Khal," the Hanged Man said, wryly.

The Tower looked at her. She appeared, visibly, to relent – to decide not to push the matter. She was not a girl who seemed to relent often; she wore it uncomfortably.

"Did you sleep well?"

He did not see the wisdom in explaining that he did not sleep. It was unlikely to be a reassuring tangent. When he had explained it to his brother, he had been met with a sigh and a murmured oath. Then: don't say that where they can hear you, okej?

He had been silent for too long. The kindness, the warmth, the familiarity, in the Hanged Man's eyes was fading; she was looking more and more wary as the seconds slipped by.

She must have known Pekka.

"We're having breakfast," she said.

The Tower said nothing, only sat back on the bed and clasped his hands, running his fingertips over his still-white nails, his knuckles, his wrists. If he pressed hard enough, he could feel the points where he had fractured; he could still feel the splinters.

The Hanged Man lingered for a second. Her eyes were much harder than the rest of her, as though they had aged independently of the rest of her body. The World could see that her curse lingered around her edges, not quite reaching her core, like something unrealised; the Tower could see that she had bitten her nails down to the quick, and that the imprint of a coat's piping was pressed into her neck and cheek where she had slept against it.

She said, again, more firmly, making clear that it was more than a merely informative statement: "we're having breakfast."

Ah. At last – he understood. He understood, but the words came slowly, stubbornly. He had to search each one out, and force it to the surface, painstakingly, wrestle with it in his mouth. He could see that was frustrating for her to wait for; he could see that she was growing impatient.

"...I'll… be down… in a moment."

She withdrew with an eyebrow raised, the door clicking shut behind her. In her absence, the silence rushed to deafen him, roaring in his ears with something that was not quite a voice. Though the black spots had dissipated, his vision still warped and swam before him; it shimmered and swayed, as though he were perched on the very edge of a boat pitching and rocking back and forth on uncertain waters. That, too, was familiar.

Who had he been?

The World said, you have always been thus.

The Tower said, I will always be thus.

He went downstairs. Each step protested his descent – he was heavier, perhaps, than the usual weight they bore – but that was better, wasn't it, that they knew he was coming? He found himself waiting on the fourth-last step, turned towards the workshop – transformed, now, into a cosy nook of food and blankets as the Warriors commandeered the space for their own comfort and convenience – and paused, taking in what he could, and silently comparing it against whatever the World could offer him.

There was a smaller group than he expected: the Hanged Man, there, and the Wheel of Fortune, skulking around the corner, near to where the Sun was lying in her stupor, lost in a thrall. The Chariot was sitting on the ragged green futon with his head in his hands, speaking in a soft voice clearly intended for the Hanged Man only – he looked up only briefly at the Tower, and then was lost to his own thoughts again, directing his eyes towards to the floor as though the secrets of the kingdom were embedded therein for his eyes only.

"...where is…"

"On the roof," the Hanged Man said, "she'll be down in a moment –"

The Tower said, "...the World?"

"Oh."

The Chariot stood, and casually sauntered to the counter where the Hanged Man was arranging their paltry rations into some semblance of a meal. Though he made the motion look natural, the Tower could clearly perceive the silent, protective instinct that lurked beneath it. The World said, they work best when they have someone to gang up against.

A charming bunch.

"He just stepped out," the Chariot said. He was a colourless, forgettable fellow. He wore his hair as all guards did; he wore his jacket with the first button open, as the World did. He braced himself against the counter with his thumbs facing outwards, as the Tower's brother always had. Was that doubt etched upon his face? He had stayed behind, after the Moon had gone to quell the tagma; he had seen what the World was capable of. Had that rocked him? Had that knocked him off balance? But when he looked at the Tower, it was with generically warm eyes, a generally friendly demeanour. "He'll be back shortly. Do you want to borrow a shirt?"

The Hanged Man said something to him, too quietly to carry across the room; he smiled, and turned aside.

"No," the Chariot said, "not as far as I know."

On the roof over them, there was a soft murmur of voices and the dull sound of footsteps across the tiles. Two people by the sounds of it, the Tower surmised, and then they were, quite abruptly, joined by a third, for a short time. One of those voices rose jagged – and there were two again.

They were descending the ladder onto the landing; in turn, the Tower descended the stairs and replaced the Chariot on the futon, intertwining his fingers as he had before, probing again at all the places where he had broken apart, testing the weakest points with the point of a less-white nail. He was nearly complete, nearly whole. The World could not but be pleased to hear that.

As for the third person: there was a hiss, and the crunch of gravel outside the door, like someone had landed very heavily on the street. The Moon had landed beside the World, and was pointedly avoiding his gaze even as he spoke to her. His voice was not quite soft or gentle, but it feigned the same; it strained to adopt a fraternal cadence. She nodded, once, brusquely, and the World reached across her to knock on the door, languidly, so the Hanged Man could let her into the atelier.

The Tower knew this without seeing it; he knew it, without experiencing it, in the way that one sometimes knows what happened in a dream without being present as themselves, without being capable of viewing its particulars. He looked up as the Moon came through the door; she was wearing a dark green coat, phtalo green, and she had a small bag of herbs clutched in her hand, as tightly as she might, under other circumstances, clutch a throat.

The Tower could almost feel it again – the way her nails had dug into his neck. He had been serene. The World had stripped from him all fear, all doubt. It was a kindness, he supposed; it would have been a kindness, if she had succeeded in her bloody endeavour. It must be nice, dying without fear, without doubt. That was kind, if ever the World knew how to be.

He was seeing the truth in the World's pronouncement now: they did rather conspire together, those three, the Moon joining the Chariot at the work-counter to bow her head with his and speak quietly. For his part, the Chariot said nothing; he only looked at her, quietly and intently, and managed to even hide the merest hint of a flinch when something she said struck too close to the bone.

"All excellent points, and eloquently made," he said. "But I did already offer him a shirt."

Beside him, the Hanged Man said, "wait for Ina and Zor. No point having this conversation twice."

The Moon grinned. It was a terse, artificial expression. "How was Suero?"

The Chariot cut the Hanged Man off before she could speak. "She wants him to adopt her."

The Hanged Man choked out a laugh. "Not what I said."

"Smart," the Moon said, ripping open her bag of herbs with an undeserved violence and sending them scattering across the countertop, "he's got a lot of money, and a nice house, and a dead wife –" She cocked an eyebrow.

The World said, his wife died at Mont and you killed her.

The Tower said, is that so?

The Sun said, her name was Tejal and you killed her.

The Tower said, is that so.

"And he's tagma," the Chariot added. "So you'll get the payout sooner rather than later. Life expectancy of, what, six days after graduation?"

"Seven," the Moon said, seizing up a spoon like a weapon. "Apparently I'm singlehandedly driving up their average."

"Despite your best efforts," the Hanged Man murmured with a smile.

"Blue suits you, Lore." The Chariot slid down to the ground, with his back against the counter, so that he was facing the Tower even as he continued speaking. "You should have started your Studies sooner."

"I'm still learning to read, Schovajsa."

The Moon pointed a teaspoon at the Hanged Man with an abruptness that suggested either violence or a very important thought. "Never let anyone tell you that'll hold you back. I never learned to read, and I'm doing great."

"I don't know if you're joking, Kinga."

"I just memorised a lot of words."

The Chariot laughed. "Are you suggesting she's not doing great, little butcher?"

"I am," the Hanged Man said, a little preciously, "going to stop speaking before I incriminate myself."

It was a brittle kind of levity. It might snap, at any moment, if they weren't capable of balancing it just so.

"That kind of smart thinking," the Chariot said, rather proudly, "is why you're the Scholar and not us."

The Wheel said, "I'm not convinced any of you aren't idiots, frankly."

The Chariot shook his head. "It's that kind of incorrigible team spirit that makes you such a wonderful and irreplaceable part of the squad, Nesta."

Irreplaceable? Not quite, the World thought, and the Tower thought, no, yes, true, not quite.

He twisted his grip. If he raised his fingers to the light, he could perceive clearly, through the wan morning light, how dense and grey his bones had become in the sparse few hours since he had transformed. Perhaps they would revert; perhaps this was why the World did not want him to dwell eternally in his curse form. Could he conjure enough feelings to be concerned about the possibility?

It appeared that he could not.

The group were gathering around the low coffee table that the Chariot had managed to produce, apparently from nowhere, and wrangled into the space between the counter and the couch, so that the Tower's knee awkwardly bumped its edge every time another plate was dropped upon it, every time another teacup or mug was added to the clutter on the surface. Eero had entered, without anyone noticing, and was busying himself with the Hanged Man's detritus, the assembly of weapons and tools that she had stained with her blood in a vain effort to push forward their understanding of her curse; he smiled, slightly, when he caught the Tower's eye. The Warriors were speaking of nothing with any true import, poking fun at one another like any other adolescents might; the Hanged Man was giving them a thorough description of the Schools, not explaining anything that she had learned, only outlining the books she had glimpsed, the green marble of the buildings, the way Suero had dealt with her – with, it would seem, considerable kindness and thoughtfulness.

Eero would have said that there was none in the group more deserving of such treatment.

The Tower only tore his gaze from his own hands when someone opposite him cleared their throat, loudly and pointedly. He glanced up; the girl with the eyepatch leaned forward and, with the point of one knuckle, pushed towards him the teacup that she had painstakingly prepared. It had several cracks that had been repaired with long, thin lines of gold; it had a chipped rim.

The Tower regarded it suspiciously.

"Herbata świętej Brygidy," the Moon said; she had a rough voice, which matched her bruised exterior. The Tower would have taken her with him, if she had succeeded in her objective; he had seen in her eyes that she wasn't afraid of that either. No doubt in that dark eye. Did that mean she belonged to the World as well? "It helps."

"...does it?"

"The last Tower certainly thought so."

He accepted it gingerly; it was rancid smelling, with chunks of half-stewed flowers floating to the clouded surface of the liquid. A thin film of oil clung to the top of the cup; it was the colour of sulfur, this tea. The Tower caught his brother's eye; his brother nodded. Not poison, then – if poison could even fell the Tower. What could it affect, truly? He had no need of food or sleep, except when the World imposed it upon him. Did there exist within him any physical systems which could be shut down by any toxin in this world?

The World said, drink.

The Tower obeyed.

They were in such a cramped space, the Moon had to stretch her legs across the Chariot's in order to sit beside him; he groused every time he had to lean across her for the slices of dried meat they had arranged across the plates on the table, but he would not let her move away either, grinning widely at her when she protested and went to draw her legs away. The Hanged Man had slung her arms over her knees, and was chewing thoughtfully on a piece of bread as hard as leather, staring at a crack in the table like she might divine the future from its meandering path. The Wheel was not eating, nor sitting with them, but pacing the steps between cellar and staircase, like a wild animal searching for an escape.

And down the stairs came the Hierophant and the Lover.

He knew the former – knew him not by his shape, but by the silhouette which surrounded him, the spectre of the man he had once been, the stench of insanity which drifted in his wake. Mere proximity to the World would have been enough to recognise the Hierophant, no matter what form they took; it was intrinsic. After all, the World was determined not to make the same mistake twice. He was a narrow man, with dishevelled dark hair and eyes that seemed inclined towards a soulful kind of sorrow.

He guessed the latter – there were no other Warriors that it could be but the Lover. He had narrowed it down by simple means of elimination. She had the same golden eyes as his curse form, and long dark hair, and a peculiar way of looking around the room, eyes darting about, lips pressed tightly together, curled inwards on herself, like she wasn't sure whether she should sob or shout or scream. She was clutching to the Hierophant's sleeve like a lifeline – or perhaps like it was the only thing holding her back.

"Breakfast," the Hanged Man said, as though this would suffice as explanation.

The Lover said, stiffly, "outside," and the World raised an eyebrow languidly, but obeyed, setting down the Hanged Man's screwdriver and slipping from the workshop, silently warning the Tower to stay where he was. The Tower did not need to be told twice; he was not entirely sure that his legs would hold him up if he attempted to disobey.

The Hierophant lowered himself rather gracelessly to the ground beside his comrades, accepting a cup of tea from the Hanged Man rather than attempting any of the food. In a voice strained hoarse from lack of sleep, he said, "how is everyone?"

The Chariot said, "I've been ordered to report to the Crown Prince directly."

The Hierophant squinted at his friend. "They're finally executing you, I guess. Took them long enough - you are kind of a bastard."

"He's probably just recognised that none of the girls in the Selection can compete with you, Iliusha." The Hanged Man grinned broadly. "Have you picked out a ring?"

"I can braid one for him out of grass," the Chariot said thoughtfully. "It will mean more if it's handmade. That's what Frida always said."

"Delightfully quaint," the Hierophant murmured.

"I prefer the term rustic, actually."

"Make it out of your hair," the Hanged Man said, with great depth of feeling in her voice. "You just know he's into that creepy crap..."

"Tried and tested, Khal?"

The Hanged Man stuck out her tongue. "I'm sufficiently irresistible without such cheap tricks, thanks."

"That would be one way of taking the Radiance back," the Hierophant said, thoughtfully, but he was obviously taken aback by the vigour with which the Chariot was shaking his head.

"Our friend here was a very helpful stress test," he said, indicating the Tower. "Surely if the prince held the Radiance, he would have done something to avoid imminent death."

That was true. Curses desperately wanted to survive; there was no benefit to the black magic festering in a carcass, or succumbing to its own extinction. There was, for most curses, an automatic instinct for self-preservation. The Hanged Man said, "that's true. And if Aviram is as badly hurt as you say –"

"Death's door," the Moon said, softly, "that's what the tagma say. Tethered by a single heartstring."

"Then it probably isn't him either."

"Who does that leave? Realistically?"

"If we assume they're still passing it through the royal line?" The Chariot listed them off on his fingers; the World listened intently as he did so, clearly checking it against his own instincts. "Asenath, Kasimira, Priscus."

The Wheel said, softly, "and if we don't assume?"

"Not in the excubitors," the Hanged Man said, "not in the Scholars."

"The Watchers?"

"Maybe," the Chariot said, at the same moment that the Moon said, "absolutely not."

They exchanged a look. Outside, the Lover's voice spiked in an inaudible rebuke; the Hierophant's gaze darted towards the door, but he stayed sitting where he was, as though feigning the silent stillness of the Tower.

"If it was anywhere else," the Hanged Man said, in a voice that suggested she was walking herself through a path of thought that was, by now, very well-trod. "Then it should have surfaced in Mag Mell, or Aizsaule, or Vanth. Surely."

"If it was in the palace," the Chariot said. "Then it should have surfaced last night. Surely."

"Are we sure," the Wheel said, her voice dripping with barely veiled cruelty, "that they still have it?"

"They still have it," the Hierophant said. His tone broached no disagreement. "They still have the Radiance."

So. Asenath. Kasimira. Priscus. That intrigued the World. That reflected his own understanding of the situation. He had surmised as much. All had been absent; all had been attending to the dying Txori boy. They were the most likely candidates. They fit best. Did they not?

The Sun said, what are you not seeing here?

The Chariot raised his eyebrow. "Should I take this as instruction to seduce the queen instead, then?"

"Instead?" The Hierophant laughed, seemingly reflexively. "What were your plans for the prince, Ilja?"

"Boo," the Hanged Man said, "booo – give the old man a chance first, won't you?"

The Moon yawned and reached a hand across to pat the Chariot on the face, purposefully clumsily, so that he had to bat her away impatiently with a low chuckle. "You want to practice on one of us, Iliusha?"

"I'll start with Zor," he said, thoughtfully, "and work clockwise. No one will be safe."

Outside, the World was becoming impatient. "I'll say this as kindly as I can," he said, which, as it turned out, wasn't particularly kindly at all. He had a peculiar clipped tone to his voice, as though he were the only one to have noticed that they were taking fire, that the sky could crumble down over them at its liberty, that they were small and insignificant beneath the enormity of the Walls. He sounded like the Tower's brother, when he spoke so. "It was – it is – none of your business."

"You must know," the Lover bit back, "how stupid you sound."

They were standing too close to one another for safety. The World acknowledged this thought in the same moment that he dismissed it.

Inside, the Hierophant was on his feet, and moving towards the door. "We should include Ina if we're planning."

The Chariot blanched. "I wasn't actually planning on – unless you'd like to…?"

The Hanged Man rolled her eyes. "You're so funny."

The Hierophant clearly wasn't listening, but nor did he get far; the door burst open and the Lover and the World re-entered the room, resolutely looking away from one another.

The World said, go back to bed. You are not needed now. Go back to bed.

The Tower was not in the habit of questioning such orders. He rose.

Every xrafstar in the room fixed their gazes on him when he did – the Chariot looking wary, the Hanged Man looking openly curious, the Lover stranded between sorrow and anger, the Hierophant unreadable. If they moved against him – would he be able to take them on? Would he be able to stop them?

The World asked the question.

The Tower answered.

Of course.

They were not a bunch built for open combat – the Sun had been taken from them, the Hanged Man had yet to master her curse, the Moon was transparently one step away from losing either her faith or her mind or her humanity. Of course he could take them on. Of course he could stop them.

If he needed to. If the time came.

Good, said the World, now rest. Rest, Petja. Let us hope the time does not come.