The Darkest Hour | TheDarkestHour / Awakenings: Gillian browse

The Vernal Equinox celebration had set Temple Street ablaze with color. The store fronts were adorned with vivid ribbons and flags of red and orange, fluttering like candle flames in the mountain breeze. Amber's citizenry had also embrace the season, wearing their finest and most garish outfits to welcome the coming spring. But even these vibrant displays were outshone by the very air itself, which now teemed with brilliant cherry blossoms. Having emerged early this year, the blossoms glowed like fireflies in the spectral glow of the city's many streetlamps. Surrounded by so many signs of life, a world awash with music and laughter, no one could deny the magic that was Amber City in the spring.

No one that was except for Jonathan.

For him, these wonders were trivial in comparison another far more important matter.

His stomach.

"Oh for the Unicorn's Sake, Gillian," he grumbled. "This is the eighth shop we've been to. It's only paper! You write on it. What's more to say? Now can we please get something to eat?!"

With only seven days remaining before her first Opening Ceremony at Faiella University, Gillian had decided to spend the last of Lord Feldane's allowance on school supplies. Temple Street offered some of the best selections of pens, paper, lab journals, and magical reagents in the city. Unfortunately, while the best deals could be found during the Vernal celebrations, her father absolutely refused to allow 'a young woman' to wander the street alone, lest she run into 'unsavory types.'

So, Jonathan had been 'volunteered' to be her chaperone. Thus far, he'd done more complaining than chaperoning.

"There's a noodle shop right there," he added, pointing across the crowded street. The toad-like Vodyanoi behind the bar took note of his interest and raised his—or was it a her?—webbed hand to excitedly beckon them over.

Gillian rolled her eyes and made an exasperated noise. "For Unicorn's Sake yourself, Jonathan. This is the most important thing that has ever happened to me! I need to make sure I have the right supplies. That last shop's paper bled too much so I wouldn't be able to write small and get the full use out of it. Really!"

Jonathan stared at her, a flicker of comprehension burning in his big, brown eyes. Perhaps a glimmer of their mother's wisdom had been passed on to him. Maybe, for once, he was actually listening to what she had to say. Could it be?

"But they have noodles!"

Apparently not.

She sighed again and gazed at the noodle shop. "All right, if we go get noodles now, will you promise not to complain for the next hour? Please?"

"Okay, I swear I won't make fun of your stupid paper fixation," Jonathan chimed. He grabbed Gillian's hand and tugged her through the crowd.

"I suppose that's as good as I'm likely to get," Gillian muttered as her older brother dragged her along.

In anticipation of their arrival, the Vodyanoi set out cups of tea and menus in front of two empty stools. Its broad, lipless mouth spread into a vast grin, "Rat teebya veedet', Little Ones. Please have seat." The other diners, mostly human, nodded politely and returned to their noisy slurping. Jonathan hopped onto his stool and began reading the menu with wide, hungry eyes.

Gillian ignored the menu and looked around instead. Even though Jonathan was being a pain—like always!—and she still hadn't found all the supplies she wanted, for a young girl that had rarely stepped outside Feldane Estates this was still proving to be the most fascinating day of her life.

"Oh look!" she said to her brother, her face lighting up as she pointed somewhere behind him. "There's a juggler! He's juggling four...no, five balls...oh, what a fascinating pattern—it's like an infinity symbol. I think that's somehow appropriate, don't you?" Gillian paused. "Y'know, he has to juggle an odd number to make that work...otherwise it wouldn't be one pattern, but more like two patterns side-by-side..."

She could gone on about this indefinitely, Jonathan knew.

Jonathan picked up his chop-sticks, rubbing them together as he followed her gaze. He watched the performance briefly before letting out a patronizing laugh, "Yeah. You'd sure be one to know about Infinity, sis. Frankly, if I wasn't so hungry this is the last place we'd be eating."

Gillian frowned at him.

With a wry grin, he turned away to order. "Zdrastvooyte! Two tantan-men, my good si…er… person. And you'll do them old style right."

The Vodyanoi jerked a nod and began collecting various ingredients: noodles, minced pork, scallions, spinach, and chilies that Gillian could smell even from where she was sitting. It formed the ingredients into two intricate piles and then washed its webbed hands. Oddly, the creature didn't appear to have anything to cook with, just a stove with several blazing burners.

"You're going to love this," Jonathan laughed, rolling his eyes with mock dread.

The Vodyanoi smiled toothlessly and plunged its broad hands into a bucket of water. Carefully, it drew its hands back, two perfect spheres of liquid now floating in each palm. With practiced skill, it set the watery spheres above the burners to boil.

Gillian sat up straighter, staring at the spheres, her interest piqued and the juggler forgotten. "Clever," she said in a low voice. Then she flinched as a thought occurred to her. "Um...Jonathan...do you have money to pay for this?"

Jonathan's smile promptly devolved into a frown. The Vodyanoi meanwhile busied itself by dropping their meals into the 'pots' to cook. Although it maintained a friendly smile, one of its nictitating eyelids twitched with keen interest.

Her brother squirmed in his seat; Operation Distract-Gillian-With-Vodyanoi-Water-Shaping having apparently failed miserably. "Uh," he said. "I sort of spent it all on. Something. Heh.

"But come on! Lord Feldane gave you plenty of money for supplies. Food is a supply, isn't it?" He shot her one of his winning grins. "Am I right?"

Gillian gave Jonathan a withering look in return. "Supplies for school. Not to spend on my inconsiderate, short-sighted brother's bottomless stomach."

"Hey, we can't all be as special as you, Gillian," Jonathan snapped back. "I mean come on! It's not like you get to spend the rest of your life shoveling horse shit and helping stallions…" He turned away and shook his head in disgust.

"It's just a few coins, Lady Snoot. I'll pay you back."

Gillian simmered. "You could make something of yourself if you would just apply yourself," she hissed back. "Fine. I'll pay for this." She poked her finger on his chest for emphasis. "But you owe me two hours, not one."

Jonathan's hand shot to his chest, a guilty look flashing across his face. "Hey… nails hurt, you know," he said. "And it's a deal. Fine. Two hours more. Let's just eat before midnight rolls around, 'kay?"

With money now guaranteed in its near future, the vodyandoi returned to its cooking. Eventually, it levitated the spheres of swirling food over two large bowls. The surface tension of each broke, dumping the contents into the bowls with a satisfying splash. "Preeyatnava apeeteeta!" it announced, setting the steaming meals in front of them.

The creature gave Gillian an empathic smile, shrugging its flabby shoulder in Jonathan's direction, as if to say, "Whatchya gonna do?"

She looked down, embarrassed that the chef had overhead their conversation.

After the chef waddled off to serve its other customers, Jonathan turned his gaze on her. "I'm not like you, you know. I'm not smart. So, I've got two choices. Horses or the army. And like mom is going to let me go into the army."

"Well, what about an apprenticeship somewhere?" Gillian asked as she reached for her chopsticks.

Jonathan shrugged, bringing a string of noodles to his mouth. He tried to talk around them as he ate, pausing time and again to desperately suck in air to cool them off. "An apprenticeship? At what? And where? Come on, Snoots. It's not like I have the money to hop on a train outta here."

He furrowed his brow, "Well, not anymore." He brushed this thought away. "Nah. It's not to be."

She arched an eyebrow at him, wondering what he wasn't telling her. "Don't call me Snoots. Or I'll have to think of something vile in return to call you."

"Whatever you say, Gilly-Billy," Jonathan replied.

Gillian stuck her tongue out at her brother.

[Jonathan's] sly smile returned in quick order. "Unless you happen to get a rich roommate who wants to shack up with a stable boy to make mommy and daddy angry. That I know I can do."

Gillian turned away and smiled into her bowl despite her best attempts to remain stern. "Thinking with your little Sir William—typical Jonathan.

"Look, maybe there's an apprenticeship to be had with a printer. That could be interesting work, printing broadsheets and flyers. It would still be messy, but wouldn't stink like manure. And you wouldn't have to help the press perform... Well, at least not in the same way you would Lord Feldane's stallions."

Her cheeks were pink with this talk. Maybe it was the steam from the noodles.

"First of all, his name is Lord Wrinklestillskin," Jonathan said. "And there ain't anything little about him."

Gillian inspected the nails on her left hand. "If you say so," she mumbled, "though how it could be wrinkled and yet not little is beyond me."

He slurped up a string of fragrant noodles, his eyes watering from the spices. "Second, I don't know anything about printing. Or much else. And I'm old Gilly! Who's going to want to take on a man who should be looking to settle down and raise a family?" He dulled the burn in his mouth with some tea.

She had nothing to say to this. He was right in that he was about ten years older than the typical apprentice.

"Although, they do need men for the railroad. Building it, I mean. It's dangerous work, but I'll see new places. And maybe they'll teach me how to drive one of those metal beasts."

His big brown eyes settled on her, almost childlike in their optimism. "What do you think?"

Gillian always melted when he looked at her like that. She supposed he did it on purpose.

She put down her chopsticks. "Jonathan, I think you can do anything you set yourself to. You keep telling me I'm smarter, but you're not stupid by a long shot, and you're far better with people than I ever will be.

"The railroad is a thriving business. It sounds like a worthy pursuit."

She turned away and looked back down at her noodles. They swirled and twined around each other in the bowl, mirroring her own thoughts and emotions. If he worked on the railroad, he would be gone, far and away.

"Really?" he grinned excitedly, oblivious to her sudden pensiveness. "Do you really think so? 'Cause I've been talking to this engineer fellow. He told me that I could get a job as a lineman. You know, riding ahead of the train to make sure the rails are in good shape. And I'm sure that in a few years, they'll need scouts for surveying new lines. Did you know…"

Perhaps for the first time during their lives together, Jonathan outshone his sister's exuberance for talking about a subject of interest. Indeed, his knowledge on the railroad was surprising and insightful. He'd never spoken of it before, but now he went on at length about the most insignificant details, his chopsticks spending more time fluttering around in front of him than in his bowl.

Gillian stared at her brother—there was the way the line of his shoulders moved when he gestured, his expressive eyes that actually sought her out, his happy smile. He was talking to her—not in a patronizing way, not in a teasing way, but actually discussing something as if she was a real person and not just his little sister.

She stared at him, only half hearing what he was saying, her own food forgotten.

Jonathan glanced up and noticed the Temple Street clock-tower; its greenish, copper hands now at mid-Eleventh hour. Suddenly flustered, he wiped his mouth with his sleeve. "Hey, I gotta take a piss," he announced, rising from his seat. "Meet me by the Lancer's Fountain, 'kay?" He bolted into the crowd without hearing her answer.

Oddly, she realized he wasn't heading in the direction of a public lavatory.

She watched his head of hair bob through the crowd until it disappeared behind a corner. Feeling somewhat dazed by his abrupt departure and the day in general, Gillian distractedly paid the vendor and started off for the fountain.

The crowd had begun to thin as the last chill of winter settled over the city, the hour drawing late. Even so, several shops remained open, allowing Gillian to acquire a few last minute items as she made her way to the meeting place.

Lancer's Fountain glimmered in the phosphorescent streetlights, all polished brass and silver. Built to honor Prince Julian's famous charge against the Chaosian ranks in the Vale of Garnath, it depicted the normally dower Royal as some handsome knight straight out of a fairy tale. Only its popularity had prevented Prince Julian from tearing it down, apparently. Several people sat around its marble base, chatting and eating steaming anzac biscuits.

And yet, no sign of Jonathan.

With Twelfth Strike approaching, his continued absence became more irregular. But then Gillian heard his familiar voice on the breeze. Following it, she noticed him talking hurriedly with a vendor. After stuffing something into his coat pocket, he emptied his coin purse into the young woman's outstretched hands. Even at this distance, Gillian could tell that the amount was considerable; certainly more than he should have on him at any given time.

With the purchase complete, he bolted in Gillian's direction. Upon seeing her, he gave a happy wave; his smile the height of innocence.

Her previous euphoria left abruptly, like a bright candle suddenly snuffed out, leaving behind dark uncertainty. When he came close she demanded, "Where did you get all that money, and what did you just exchange it for? Jonathan, what have you done?"

The harshness in her voice caused Jonathan to stumble, recoiling with wide-eyed confusion. "Gilly?" The pain in his voice echoed in her ears…

. . . and echoed on as the Temple Street clock tower chimed.

The world around them began to flicker like a guttering flame. Color leeched out of the people and buildings, a grey shroud settling on the street like ash. Architecture twisted and stretched into unsettling angles. The cherry blossom perfume in the air grew stagnant and tasteless, the scent of funeral flowers gone to rot. Even the sounds of life bled away, a distant singer's voice slowly twisted into a phlegmy parody. . . "I'm going to fly, I'm going to fly…

"You're going to die…. You're going to die…"

The voice disappeared with the last strike of midnight, leaving the brother and sister in a silent graveyard of obsidian coffins. A greenish moon cast its hideous light over the world, making every surface glisten like diseased flesh.

"Gilly?" Jonathan whispered, his voice like a scream in this city of the dead.

Gillian reached up and covered Jonathan's mouth with her fingers, the whites of her eyes showing clearly around her dark irises. She had to swallow her own scream as it threatened to force its way up her throat and out her mouth. Instead she drew in a gasping breath, the sound of it just as loud and just as out-of-place as her brother's whisper had been.

Hide! It started as a primal thought in the base of her brain and quickly grew to an imperative that shuddered through her thin body. Hide!

She grabbed the sleeve of Jonathan's shirt and pulled him toward the closest cover she could find.

Too stunned by the transmogrification of the world he once knew and understood, Jonathan did little to resist Gillian's guidance. He stumbled with her into an alleyway. The squat stone wall of a store's side garden or patio offered them the best option for shelter and a perfect vantage of their new surroundings. With this many shadows around them, they could watch any approach without being observed themselves.

Gillian pulled them under a wooden table sitting beside the wall.

Nothing stirred on Temple Street, an oppressive silence settling into their ears like a contagion. A low mist drifted over the ground, coiling and shivering as it embraced the city. Unfortunately, it could not obscure the bizarre coffins that rose from the ground like headstones.

Gillian bit into her bottom lip to keep herself from screaming and hung on fiercely to her brother.

"Gilly," Jonathan whispered. "What is…"

He paused, sucking in a breath.

"Gilly, I… Gilly, I…"

Jonathan's eye stared at her… no... stared through her, as if struggling to focus. He blinked, slack-jawed and beginning to slur his words.

"Juh-lee…"

And then she could hear... it. A hideous suckling noise like a deformed child at its mother's breast.

Gillian startled, biting into her lip so hard she tasted blood. "J-Jon..." she whispered, trembling violently.

For a heartbreaking moment, Jonathan stared at his sister, the same old, loving annoyance that he'd always been. Jonathan, who had inked her hair when she was nine. Jonathan, who had taught her how to ride when father didn't have the patience. Jonathan, who had carried her on his back before unceremoniously dumping her in the frog pond like a wayward kelpie. Jonathan, who always watched out for her, even when he pretended to be doing just the opposite.

Jonathan, her older brother, whom she'd always known.

And as the sound crescendo, he suddenly…wasn't. The blank stare in his big, brown eyes was that of a stranger. It wasn't even… aware, simply mimicking a semblance of life. Empty. Drained.

Hollow.

As Gillian watched, the darkness behind him oozed its way over his shoulders and around his throat like a leash, greedily tugging him out from under the table and into the shadows. Black rivulets of gossamer emerged from his eyes like living tears; tasting and touching his skin. A torrent poured from his mouth, gaining mass and shape not unlike a baby's arm… reaching out…

Reaching out for her.

Gillian screamed shrilly. She hit her head on the bottom of the table as she scrambled on all fours away from Jonathan, tripped on her hands, and landed undignified on her backside a few feet away.

Jonathan didn't complain or protest as the shadows consumed him, his body simply sinking into the oily nothingness without a whimper. Irrevocably gone. Erased. Even the grotesque suckling noise had vanished, leaving only the stain of silence.

The darkness, however, flowed under the table and continued to solidify into distinct shapes. A multitude of ropy arms, infantile but horribly clawed, dragging its gelatinous bulk with predatory patience. One childlike hand emerged from the main mass, an alabaster tragedy mask held loosely in its chubby digits. Highly polished and elegant, the empty eyes leered at her with an alien intelligence.

More arms, a half dozen or more, spilled out of its liquid body, each gripping a thin stiletto. The wicked metal gleamed in the greenish moonlight.

Gillian screamed again.

Sudden adrenalin coursed through her. Without consciously thinking about it, Gillian found herself on her feet and running away as if the devil himself was after her. Away from the patio, away from the table, away from that...that...that thing.

Oh God...away from Jonathan! A very clear picture of her brother with dark, oily tendrils pouring out of his mouth and eyes flashed before her.

Jonathan!

She stumbled and fell head first, scraping her palms and knees on the cobbles, her breath expelling in an anguished sob.

The voice, feminine and icy, cut through Gillian's mind like a scalpel. Something fluttered in the back of her head like the wings of a thousand sparrows.

"Wh...what?" Gillian looked up from the cobbles, not understanding.

<All it takes is a single drop of blood, girl. One drop and you'll have your brother back.> In the moonlight, Gilly's skin appeared paler, her fingers longer and sharply nailed. The image and the voice faded like a dream. . . if they'd ever been there at all.

Something moved at the end of the alley, making a squelch like a bare foot crushing a slug. And then another. And another.

The back of Gillian's neck prickled. She looked behind her.

Four gleaming tragedy masks flowed out of the shadows, the liquid bulks beneath them oozing closer and closer, a forest of knives cutting the air.

She scrambled up and ran again.

<This is a dream>, Gillian told herself, trying very hard not to succumb to panic and instead to think her way through the situation. She turned corner after corner in an attempt to make her trail as confusing as possible. <By the Unicorn the most lucid dream I've ever had, but still a dream. I need to wake up.>

Gillian paused in the shadow of a doorway, her breath coming fast and harsh. <WAKE UP!> she shouted mentally, throwing her will into it. She pinched herself as well for good measure. <WAKE UP!>

As she did so, the night's terrors were dwarfed by yet another horror. Her fingers dug into her skin. . . and peeled her hand off as if it were a glove.

Gillian yelped and startled.

As she stared down at someone else's hand attached to her wrist, Gillian could hear the woman's ecstatic laughter fill her head like a storm of bird's wings.

Something within Gillian had indeed awakened.

Her hand moved out of its own accord, peeling strips of flesh from her arms to reveal the pale, luminescent skin beneath.

"No!"

There was no pain as her limbs turned traitor, forcing her back out onto the street and in the direction of those. . . things.

"NO!"

Indeed, she felt an exhilarating rush of power pulsing through every fiber of her being. Her body hummed like an angry beehive as she tore more pieces from herself, letting them fall behind her like discarded ribbons, revealing the cold beauty beneath.

"This is a dream!"

Up ahead, the ichorous creatures gathered in a small square, their empty porcelain eyes searching their surroundings, searching for her, their knives anxious, desperate to drink deep of her blood.

The voice spoke to her again, this time like a mother; commanding, yet tender, loving. <It is time, Poppet. Show them what you are truly made of. Revenge our brother. And you will never be afraid again.>

Bluish flames erupted from Gillian's fingertips, eager to heed her every whim.

"Who are you?" Gillian demanded, her fear overpassed by a growing anger. "GET OUT OF MY HEAD!"

<I am you, foolish girl! And so it seems I must save us both> The voice retorted, its patience lost.

<ME?>

Before Gillian had time to properly contemplate that, [she] watched her hands rise as if pulled at the end of a string, the unseen puppeteer guiding her actions. She felt a fluttering grow in her belly, sensual and powerful, fire and ice and moonlight burning through every nerve in her body. Somehow, she realized this was Magic. TRUE magic. Raw and uncontainable.

And pleasurable, she noted with some bemusement. More of her attention was focused inward on the sensations in her body than outward, despite the dire surroundings and the creatures that still approached her, knives twirling. She looked curiously at her hands.

The bluish flames streaked from her fingertips to immolate the approaching creatures and, in the process, transforming the street into a lake of molten stone. As the flames consumed the square, the woman's manic laughter strained Gillian's mind, cracking her skull like an egg and letting the blessed darkness in.

As unconsciousness claimed her, Gillian's eyes burned with the afterimage of a pale, beautiful woman, arms held wide, head arched back in triumphant howl, flames swirling around her in a killing storm.

And then. . . nothingness.

- - - - - - - - -

"Is she dead?"

The man's voice intruded on Gillian's warm cocoon of sleep. Slowly, she recognized the sensations of her body. Pain and cold. Cobblestones biting into her back. Limbs, tired and twisted, but functional. And there was some warmth here. A comfortable pillow supported her head.

A kindly hand brushed her brow, "She's just sleeping, I think." A woman this time.

"She should be dead, though!"

Gillian realized she her head was resting in the woman's lap. "The Unicorn was watching over her tonight."

"Lady, she doesn't have a scratch on her. Unicorn or no, a building fell on her."

"Shush. I think she's waking up."

Gillian opened her eyes. "Wh-where am I?" And then her eyes grew wide. "Monsters! With knives! Fire! Where's Jonathan?"

She sat up and looked around wildly.

Gillian found herself in a smoking ruin with two other people. Shattered masonry and broken furniture now lay everywhere, spilling out into the street. A brown-haired matron with smile lines squeezed her shoulder, "You're safe, child. You've just had a little scare."

Kneeling across from them, a dark-skinned youth stared at her with disbelieving eyes. "Monsters? Uh, what are you talking about?"

"It was a coal-gas explosion, luv," the lady explained. "Oh dear! Was there someone with you? You were the only person we found in the wreckage."

"It's a miracle, really," the youth added. "I've no clue how no one got hurt. You in particular, miss." He gestured to the destroyed building lying around her.

Gillian barely paid attention to either of them. She scrambled to her feet and starting searching the rubble. "Jonathan!" she shouted. "Where are you?"

Gillian soon realized that she must have been several streets away from where the original attack had occurred; her panicked flight having taken her some distance from Temple Street. Unless the things had dragged him off, Jonathan—or his body—would likely still be there, hidden away from sight.

"Hush, child," the woman said. "There's no one else here. You need to rest your head. You've had a terrible shock."

"Yeah, you were alone when we found you, missus," the youth concurred.

Even with the smoke and destruction, it wouldn't be difficult for her to backtrack.

Once she realized that some of her movement and actions were played out here as well as in that other place—Was it a dream, as she had thought? Or maybe that wasn't it at all—Gillian forced herself to pause for a moment and think. In the other place, her other-self had melted the square the monsters were in, outside. She was found in the rubble of a gas explosion, inside. But unharmed, which lent more credence to the "not a dream but actually somewhere else" theory.

She realized that the ruined 'building' was actually the remains of several structures, which had collapsed into the street like a house of cards. At the center of this destruction, a smoking crater billowed fire and acrid smoke; marking the location of the square from her 'dream.' Citizens staggered about in shocked confusion, dazed by the violence and late hour. Fortunately, between the obscuring smoke and stunned crowd, Gillian easily eluded her rescuers, their voices fading behind her.

She stepped outside and noted where she was, memorizing details of both the explosion and the location before winding her way back to Temple Street, where her brother was hopefully still in the shadow of that table on that side patio garden.

Temple Street was in turmoil, cries for help filled the night. People ran to and fro, while Black Cloaks arrived to render aid and the throng of spectators swelled in numbers. As she made her way through this chaos, Gillian noted a surreal sight. The Temple Street clock tower only read 12:07 am.

But...more time that that elapsed for her. So, apparently a direct correlation physically between reality and that...other place. But not a direct temporal one...

Strange, but she had no more time to think about it. Finding Jonathan consumed her thoughts.

And there beyond Temple Street, in the cramped alleyway in which she and Jonathan had sought shelter from the terrors of this night, she found the patio and the wooden table within. So plain and ordinary, yet hiding such tragedy beneath. For there beneath the grey wood laid a gaunt figure, so terribly familiar yet almost unrecognizable in its wretchedness. It did not move nor stir; its slack-jawed face little more than fleshy funeral mask.

This thing—alive, yet hollow—that had once been her brother.

"Oh, Unicorn..." Gillian breathed, her heart sinking. She lowered herself to her knees beside her brother and touched his face. "Jonathan? Can you hear me? It's Gillian."

Beneath Gillian's fingers Jonathan's skin felt clammy and cold. He remained perfectly still, his eyes living but unseeing. A line of drool wet his cheek and collar. His chest rose and fell in a shallow rhythm, but otherwise he exhibited few other signs of life. Although there were no marks on him, she noticed that his jacket had fallen open during some kind of struggle. Even in the shadows, she noticed that a package wrapped tissue and blue ribbon poked out of an interior pocket.

Feeling both troubled and curious, Gillian reached inside Jonathan's jacket and pulled out the package.

Someone had put a great deal of love and care into wrapping the weighty package. The tissue came away easily to reveal an immaculately carved writing case of polished ebony. A silver latch had been crafted into the symbol for Faiella University's School of Alchemical.

 The insides were lined with blue velvet and contained four styluses

of bronze and deer antler, each representing one of the main Element. Utilized in formulaic research, the styluses easily would have cost Jonathan several month's salary; perhaps even more. This probably explained the payment she'd seen him making and yelled at him about.

A letter was folded inside the box:

Gilly,

When I first learned that Lord Feldane wanted to send you to school, I have to admit I got a little jealous. Dad always told me that Lord Feldane would give me money for school when I got older. I'd always thought it'd be my ticket out of the stables. So, we were all a little shocked when he picked you, instead. For weeks, I was mad at you. Envious, in truth. I could tell how much that hurt you, but you probably never knew why. And for that, I am sorry. The last thing you need is for me to whine like some petulant child. You get enough grief from Dad and guilt from Mom without me adding to your stress. You're my sister and I love you. I want what's best for you.

I am so proud of you, Gilly. You're the smartest of us all. You're courageous and driven. Anything you set your mind on, I know you'll accomplish it. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise, not me, not dad, not those stuffed-shirt nobles. You were born for this, sis. You'll see amazing sights and do things I can't even imagine. You've got the heart of a true noble, Gilly. There's no telling how far you'll go.

So go far, Little sis. And never look back. You'll never have to. I'll always be there, watching out for you.

Your big brother,

Jonathan

She looked from the letter back to her brother as he stared off unseeingly past her. "Oh, Unicorn, Jonathan. I didn't know you'd spent your money on me!"

Gillian drew in a shuddering breath and took his hands in hers. "What's happened to you?" she cried. "I want you back! You're suppose to watch out for me!"

The young girl wet her brother's hands with her tears as she dissolved into uncontrollable sobs.

Jonathan didn't hold her or soothe her tears. He remained unmoved by her grief. His chest rose and fell, but little more. He'd gone from Gillian's world.

In time, a gentle hand touched her shoulder. "Missus?" a man said. "Are you hurt?"

Gillian looked up, her eyes red and tears streaking her cheeks.

A willowy figure with raven's black-hair and spectacles now stood over her. He wore the sharp grey and black uniform of a Blackcloak, one of Amber's military police. He pushed his glasses up his and attempted a smile. "It's going to be alright, missus," he said with deep conviction and extended his hand to her.

She stared at the hand for a brief moment, then took it in her own. "I saw the world...it turned sickly and dead...coffins and monsters...and these...shadows...they consumed my brother, and now he no longer knows who I am... Oh Great Unicorn, I don't know what to do!"

The officer squeezed her fingers and nodded, "You're safe now, missus. We'll set things right for your brother in a moment." He turned to address a pair of city guards standing nearby—their blue uniforms so drab in comparison to the crispness of the Blackcloak. "You two! Help the boy. He'll need a stretcher from the looks of it. Make sure a healer attends to him immediately. . .

"Well? Be quick about it!"

One of the guards rushed off to get a stretcher, while the other checked Jonathan's prone form. The Blackcloak guided Gillian toward the main street. "Right missus, let's get you checked, aye? I am Senior Sergeant Major Maes. And you are?"

Gillian kept looking over her shoulder, as if afraid to let her brother out of her sight. "Gillian Talbot, sir. I'm a student at Faiella University. Or I will be, once term starts."

That was the safest thing to say. A student at the university might hold more rank with the Blackcloak than the daughter of a servant to a great house.

Sgt. Maes removed a notebook from his coat pocket to jot this down. He gave her a discerning look and flipped the notebook closed again. "Good university," he said with a nod. "My wife studied there before I met her. Law."

Back onto the main thoroughfare, the Blackcloak guided them to a street café, away from the frantic crowd. The mere sight of Maes' uniform emptied a table without so much as a word. He held the chair for her before seating himself. "And you're truly alright?"

"I'm...fine. I think." Gillian bit her lip. She was afraid to be examined, that somehow they'd know it was her actions that caused the explosion here in Amber. What would they do? She could be fined, or sent to jail, or kept from starting school, or some other horrible thing...

"Yes, I'm quite sure I'm fine now, thank you," she continued, trying to exude a confident air. "Can you tell me where they will take my brother?"

"He'll be taken to Airmid Hospital and looked after, Ms. Talbot," Maes said through a forced smile. He opened his notebook again, wetting his pencil on his tongue. "Now. About those monsters. . . uh, shadows. . .you mentioned. Tell me more?"

Gillian's forced confidence evaporated. She flushed and looked down at her hands. "I couldn't control myself," she said after a moment, her voice barely above a whisper. "I tried, but she was too strong. I'm so sorry."

She dissolved into tears again and hid her face.

Maes moved around the table and wrapped his willowy arms around her. "Hush, child," he said, "There was nothing you could have done. Nothing."

Part of Gillian felt relief that Maes wasn't going to blame her for anything, though the larger part of her was still consumed with worry for her brother and guilt that maybe she could've done something to prevent what happened to him...

He held her as brother might, lightly stroking her hair as she cried, no condescension or judgment, only patience and understanding. So much like Jonathan had when he was still. . .

Still Jonathan.

Gillian quieted with that sobering thought, for what had happened to Jonathan was at least partly her fault. Thus, it was her responsibility to fix it. How, she had no idea. She wasn't even sure what had happened.

But she would find out.

Blood. The voice said a drop of blood would bring Jonathan back. But whose?

Yes...she would find out.

The rest of the evening passed in a nightmarish blur of questions and sorrows, until finally Gillian found herself back home again with only a couple hours remaining before the dawn. Senior Sgt. Maes, however, cushioned most of the blows to come by standing at her side throughout the harrow revelation to her parents. He delivered the grim news that although Jonathan remained physically unharmed, the young man appeared to be locked in a deep catatonia.

Gillian's mother, of course, took the news poorly, devolving into inconsolability. Her father, stoic as always, remained quietly reserved and distant, not even moving to comfort his wife. Eustace was spared the news and allowed to sleep, while Lord Feldane remained on the outskirts of the conversation, watching without comment. Only once did his eyes meet with Gillian's, a deep sadness residing there. In the foyer, Maes provide Gillian with his card and hugged her goodbye. "You'll come to dinner when things settle down, Gillian," he said, lightly brushing her cheek. "You'll always have a warm meal away from the school, yes?"

She took the card quizzically. Why was a Blackcoat bothering with her, a servant's daughter? "Thank you, sir. You've been most kind." Though sincere, her reply lacked inflection. Gillian felt numb and bone weary.

When Maes had gone, Richard closed the door behind the Blackcloak with a resounded click. He did not look down at his daughter, his fists balled tightly.

While her father was busy not looking at her, Gillian was busy making sure she didn't look at him.

"Why couldn't it have been you?" he asked and then walked off without further comment.

Gillian closed her eyes and exhaled a soft sigh. There were no tears--she was completely cried out. For several long moments she simply stood there, gazing indifferently at the closed door.

Behind her, the mechanical workings of the foyer clock dispassionately whispered away each passing second, taking her farther and farther away from the life she once understood.

Somehow, she sensed someone watching her.

Lord Feldane stood in the doorway to his study, silent and still as stone. He tried to smile, but the expression could not dwell on such a dower face for long. He drifted back into the confines of his study like a ghost, but this time he left the door open, as if in invitation.

Obligation was probably more apt. A summons.

She raised a tired hand and pulled back the stray wisps of hair from her face, mechanically smoothed her skirt, and walked toward the study door.

She found him behind his desk, fingers pressed to his chin, outlined by the fire in the hearth behind him. Despite the heavy shadows, she could see the brightness of his eyes watching her with sagely interest. He gestured for her to sit down in the leather seat across from him. A glass with some bitter smelling tonic had been set there.

"Sit, Gillian," he said in his autumn whisper. "And drink. It will help you sleep without dreams. And tonight, I believe you can do without such ethereal musings, yes?"

Gillian's hand reaching dutifully for the glass trembled violently at the mention of dreams. She withdrew her hand and set it in her lap as she sat down in the chair. "Yessir. In a moment. I just...need to calm down a bit, still. I'm sorry."

"No apology is needed, Gillian," Feldane said. "You've had a most trying evening. It is to be expected."

He touched his fingers to his chin, falling quiet, only the occasional spark from the hearth disturbing their silence. After a few lengthy moments, he turned slightly in his chair. "I've spoken to your Head Master. She will expect you at the school in tomorrow afternoon. I thought it best that you were not forced to dwell on tonight's misfortune.

"When I lost. . . " he paused, unable to voice the name. "When I lost a dear friend, I found solace only in my work. I suspect you will find the same. Simply know your brother will have every comfort provided him, Gillian. Do not allow this to undo your successes."

"No, sir. I will not fail you. I promise." Gillian took the glass filled with the bitter drought into both hands and looked back up at Lord Feldane. "Sir...may I ask who you lost? I realize it's none of my business, but...they seemed important to you."

Feldane regarded her for a moment and then partially filled the empty brandy sniffer beside him. He swirled the amber liquid around thoughtfully, watching how the firelight reflected within the mouth-blown glass. "What I am about to tell you is for us and us alone, Gillian. And only for tonight. It is not mentioned again."

Gillian nodded.

His dark eyes gazed passed her, "I served with the Amestris Legion under Prince Julian during the Interregnum. Acacia joined my command just before Prince Bleys' troops made their initial push through the Arden. A graduate from the War College, she served as our Arcane Support. An alchemist and a very good one at that. She had a smile like spring, a laugh like rain. But to see her in combat was to stare into Death's very eyes. We all loved and feared her, but mostly we accepted her as one of our own.

"I loved her beyond measure."

Feldane sighed and downed the contents of his glass, before refilling it just as quickly. "Acacia shared my bed not long after our first engagement with the enemy. A great sadness existed within her, hidden behind her smiles. And I suppose she sought a kinship with me; a mutual understanding of unspoken disappointments. We all seek peace in our own fashion. But despite this intimacy, she would always leave before morning. It was as if she could not bear to face the dawn as lovers. As if this would. . . provide our relationship with true meaning.

"Her heart could not accept the risks associate with love. Something I suspect had once caused her great pain."

He leaned into his chair, "I wanted to marry her, despite her common birth. To show her that love could be beautiful and welcomed. But the Great Fire took her from me. " Pain etched his expression; a truth unsaid cutting away at his heart.

It was not Gillian's place to inquire about unsaid truths--she'd already risked her master's ire by asking about his lost love. It didn't mean she wasn't curious...but she didn't dare probe further, not with everything else that had happened tonight.

"I'm terribly sorry for your loss, sir," she said instead. "I can see that she meant a lot to you."

Gillian took the bitter draught she held in her lap and downed it.

The liquid filled her belly and throat with fire, only to be replaced with a numbing weight that spread through her chest and into her limbs. Feldane turned his head, gazing at the crackling flames in the hearth. His whispery voice grew heavy with old sorrows. "Thank you, Gillian. It is for her that I decided to help you find your True Path. Now that you know loss, perhaps you will understand how important your future is. And how fragile it can be. I would not have wished that lesson upon you. But Fate rarely heeds to my requests."

He gestured dismissively, unable to look at her, his head hanging forward. "Rest now, Gillian. We will speak again someday."

"Yessir."

Gillian rose and left him to the flames and shadows. She stumbled to her room and fell into bed, not bothering to even take off her shoes.

As Lord Feldane had promised, the draught stole her dreams that night. No voices, no living shadows. Only the bliss of slumber. Before she knew it, an excited Eustace was rousing her while an annoying shaft of sunlight cut across her bed and burned her eyes.

If anything, the waking day itself felt more like a dream than reality, everything compacted in a dizzying muddle of emotion and change. There were teary goodbyes—for which her father remained notably absent. There was the somber ride into the city—all her worldly possessions in tow. There was the unnerving introduction to her Head Master, Professor Midhir Advocat. And finally, there was the numbing solitude of unpacking in her new dormitory room. The dream of a new life had begun, for what is was worth.

And that night, when Midnight came, so too did the greenish moon and the nightmares that lived beneath it.

Some things could not be escaped.