The Writer's Lord - 1. The Failed Writer

He stood facing the shop window with slightly hunched shoulders over which hung a chafed and tattered frock coat, smoking a sorry excuse for a cigarette. It did not quite have the semblance of one of those neat, tightly rolled little accessories that true gentlemen kept in engraved silver cases in their breast pockets for friendly and intimate chatter with cognac by a marble fireplace. He had rolled it with anxiously shaking, tobacco- and inkstained dry fingers, on his way here, to this window, and was now gripping it tightly with two fingers, wiping the bitter brown off his chapped lips, searching the display behind the glass with a deepening frown. His gaze turned into a glare which became more pained and desperate by the second. When the short, grubby stump he was holding and sucking on threatened to burn his fingertips, he looked at it with annoyance, let it drop into his upturned palm and closed his hand over it with an small, angry noise.

"I take it you're not happy." He turned around to face a serenely smiling face - He grunted and shook his head once, took off the wire spectacles and rubbed his eyes. Damned imagination. By showing him the most interesting possibilities of what could be it was a constant reminder of the drabness of his situation, and no attempt at putting it to practical use had ever paid off, which had been proven yet again by the mute, dull, uncommented absence of his latest book in this shop window.

A girl brushed against him and he felt the slight disturbance at his hip, but did not care much about it. There was nothing in his wallet anyway, save for a button that had fallen off of one of his three shirts. It was old and of poor workmanship, so she would probably drop it in a nearby alley where he could pick it up again instead of trying to resell it. There was no bustling crowd in the street, so it was easy to follow her, and just as easy to make out the single patch of leather on the ground. He dusted it off and slid it into his front pocket.

I really wanted to get drunk today. And now I really need it, and can't afford it. The tiny advance obulus he had received from his publisher was all but used up, and selling copies of the book would not only have brought him some recognition, but also a little money at the end of the week. Not enough to live, of course, but at least more than nothing.

He headed back home to change into his only good suit, so that he would be let into one of the finer establishments of the city. He did not have the money to pay for his drinks, but he had no intention of doing that, anyway. He simply needed to be served, and in a pub where his face was unfamiliar, so that he could bilk in a calm manner. Slightly less ragged-looking, and with sleekly pulled back hair, the young man with the worried eyes set off towards Island Garden. In addition to donning his least patchy clothes he had prepared a few cigarettes with the last of his bitter tobacco, which he now carried in a flat, bare plywood case with a burnt engraving showing a crest and his initials. A friend had made it for him years ago and he had used it only for occasions like this ever since - for sneaking into gentry company.

On his leisurely stroll through the less busy streets which became cleaner and wider avenues and boulevards the further south he walked, he devised and revised his plan. He would be calm and casual, yet not like somebody who has too much time on his hands. He had to give the impression of a man with an income. After taking the drinks he wanted, he would order another one and leave quietly before it was served, perhaps taking an inconspicuous swerve among the tables to divert suspicion. As rain began dribbling lazily and unceremoniously onto roofs and pavement, he smiled calmly. His plan would work today.

Sure enough, the cafés and inns in Island Garden were all crowded with people by the time he crossed the east bridge to the isle, and the drenched gentry huddling together joyfully provided the perfect cover for him. Stepping through the fogging glass doors of the conservatory and wiping water out of his now curling ponytail, he scanned the large hall for free space at the bar or a table. The plants in their enourmous pots screened most of the tables from his view, but judging by the crowd near the entrance it was fairly certain that all of them were occupied. If the waiters served patrons standing up they would have even less overview over the orders and he would be able to slink back out more safely and elegantly than usual.

"That'll be sixty pence, sir." Shit.

He nodded with the calmest smile he could muster and reached for his breastpocket, taking a swig from the glass. Despite it being the cheapest whisky they had, it was really good. He produced his wallet and flicked it open, placing the half empty glass back onto the waiter's tray, and bolted.

No one followed him, or anyone who had tried had given up the pursuit fairly quickly. Under the reliable cover of park foliage and rain, then carriages and buildings, the drenched bilk made it off the park‘s island and back into the city. His hurried step and frequent ducking behind things caught nobody‘s attention. It was raining, after all, and those who had time to look outside and notice other people would attribute his behaviour to the weather. This weather was indeed the only reason he had for doing what he did next.

His flight had taken him into an ancient alley that lead into the guild plaza, a great cobblestone square in the old heart of the city, surrounded by the magnificently pretentious facades of all the great guilds that had essentially ruled the city since the middle ages, when it used to be a city-state. These buildings made up most of three of the four sides of this stone rectangle. The fourth was entirely filled up by the front a single building. The cathedral was the oldest building in this square, and had been added to throughout the ages so that now every major epoch since the gothic era could be distinguished in the architecture.

The failed writer crept up the steps from one side and tried the first of the four doors. It swung open without a sound.

Seeking sanctuary in a church... what could be more shaming? Not sanctuary, he tried telling himself, shelter. Shelter from the rain and the cold. Just shelter. What else could an educated, enlightened individual such as he want in a church?

"Sanctuary, of course. You just thought it. You've been brought up in this society. Christianity is ingrained in you." Shut up. "Pray. Confess, pray, confess, pray, confess." Shut up. It's dry in here.

And it was a little warmer. Only a little. The smell was nice. Calming.

He gathered his wet ponytail and wiped some of the rain out of it, then took off his spectacles to wipe the thick droplets and watery smears off of them. Everything else kept dripping into the flat blue carpet. He checked the schedule that was put up in the small entrance hall between the great doors and the steps down into the cathedral proper, where hundreds of candles and the stained glass windows were flooding the stonewalls, the wooden benches, the tapestries, statues and golden everythings in a billowing sea of golden dust and calming light. The timetable told him nothing he cared to know. Other than that a mass was looming dangerously near this time, and he did not want to attend that. But he wanted to stay in this building. Something about these old, gold-lit stones fed him like a calming drug, covered his frayed nerves in a soothing patina of reassuring ancient-ness, and he wanted to use that. Food, dry and warm clothes and some more whisky would have set him right again, but he had none of that.

Slowly he walked around the empty benches to the right aisle, looking around for any worshippers or acolytes to avoid them, if at all possible. The confessional boxes and the stairs leading down to the crypt sat on the other side of the hall, so he reckoned it would be less likely to happen across someone here. He wandered past a few statues and paintings with their own little altars and racks covered in wax and stacked with armies of burning candles. At the end of the hall, only a few paces away from the dais that supported the great altar, a narrow flight of stairs curled upwards behind a wall. He supposed it led up to a gallery, maybe to the organ, or into the belltower. It was dark and cordoned off with a thick chain. With more cautious glances around the aisle he walked back to the closest statue – some sainted bishop – and took one of his candles. It took some wriggling and pulling, but it came loose eventually, and with a whispered "Sorry," he took the candle back to the stairwell. Carefully shielding the flame with one hand, he looked around again before he stepped over the chain and started climbing up.

This was not the belltower. It was, but... there were no bells. This was...

The strangest sort of... salon.

A very large bed stood in the middle of the large room at the top of the tower. It had to be one of the two belltowers of the cathedral. The slatted shutters in the windows all around it and the beams, chains and ropes under the roof made this fairly obvious. However... there were carpets on the floorboards, dusty and old, some threadbare but once magnificent and valuable. Two iron braziers were emanating heat and light from red-addered lumps of coal and wood, a chaise longue and an armchair were standing somewhere near one of them, along with a low wooden table that looked just as out of place as everything else with its dark varnish and exquisite carvings. On it and on the floor around the bed sat an assortment of bottles, decanters, a wiry contraption on a metal platter with a bottle of green liquid next to it, a big antique wardrobe behind a painted folding screen and a dresser with a mirror mounted on it.

Something moved in the bed. It was so filled and covered with soft, shiny folds of various, obviously expensive fabrics, that the slight shifting in it escaped his notice at first. Then a naked foot kicked upwards out of it, a pair of pale arms followed, and stretched with a small groan.

"Did you forget something?" the heap of covers and pillows drawled.

The writer blinked stupidly. At least he remembered to breathe now. Somehow, this muffled voice sounded familiar to him. Even through the steady drumming of the rain on the high roof and against the shutters, its constant rushing reverberating through the streets outside, and through the -

"Who are you?" said a white face he was certain he had seen a thousand times before.

"I..." He had to take a closer look. He had to take a step closer. He had to look. The candle tipped dangerously in his hand as he slinked closer. The face looked at that and rested its chin on a hand.

"Do you want to burn down the church?" it said.

The writer looked down and quickly steadied the candle. He looked for a place to put it, then just extinguished the flame between two fingers. The face smiled at him. It looked expectant, somehow.

"You're not the bishop," the face stated. It was youthful, in a way, but not exactly innocent. The voice was young, but also cool and poised, and too artful for anyone under thirty. And it was genderless. Even now, with bare back and part of the chest showing, the writer could not have decided what exactly this person was. Other than maybe a prostitute. This person was obviously being kept up here, apparently by the bishop.

"Far from it," he said. His voice was a little raspy now.

"Indeed," the person said with a smirk. "Did he send you?"

"I don't know the bishop."

"Then how did you get here? This is a secret." The person grinned impishly now, and turned around with a piece of velvet blanket twisting around the legs, and stretched luxuriously.

This was not a woman.

"Not very well kept. There was only a chain at the foot of the stairs."

"Oh?" The young man tipped his head down over the edge of the bed. The weird smile looked rather pretty upside down. "That can't be. Wasn't there a solid wall right around... that corner there?" He pointed to the arched doorway through which the writer had entered. He turned around to check, then looked at the person on the bed again.

"No."

"Oh?!" The stranger quickly turned back around and sat up. The smile had vanished. Now he looked very alarmed. "How – who are you?"

"No one."

"No, really, who are you?" The stranger pulled the velvet blanket around him and stood up to march the remaining few paces up to the writer and stare at him. The writer studied the face some more. It was so familiar.

"You look like someone I made up," said the writer. "You sound like him, too." He felt as though he should shiver with cold, and apprehension of this very strange, surreal situation. But although he was still keenly aware of how wet his clothes were and the wind slicing through the slits in the shutters, he felt warmer now than among all those candles downstairs.

The face before him softened but stayed serious.

"Someone you made up? Who's that, then?" The stranger seemed to fight a smile. His tone was softer, as well, like a fur mitt wrapped around a steel dagger. Sardonic and condescending like an arrogant young noble pretending to take something seriously. The writer did not care much. This person was the bishop's secret courtesan, possibly drugged into complaisance and led to believe he was actually imprisoned here. He held no sway over him. And he was the perfect real-world-incarnation of his own creation, so he had nothing to gain by being courteous and coy now. And he had certainly nothing to lose.

"Lord Ansgar, a very conceited, beautiful young man who trades his soul for magical powers," the writer said simply. The pale young man before him froze. His face fell and instead started glaring. His eyes narrowed. Even that looked handsome.

"The bishop didn't send you? But you know my name? Very likely. Now tell me who you are or you can start praying, because what I'm going to do to you -"

"I told you, I'm no one. I'm just a failure."

Ansgar blinked angrily, then jostled him aside to walk to the staircase. Briskly and urgently he rounded the corner into the gloom behind the stone arch, where the rustling of his blue velvet blanket wrapped around him suddenly stopped.

The writer followed him. Just to the doorway. He peered around the corner to see Lord Ansgar standing on the topmost step, with his naked toes curled around the edge, staring down into the dark. When he looked up and around at the writer, he still looked angry, betrayed somehow, and very confused.

"There was a wall here," he insisted. The writer smiled. He dearly hoped it did not look as pitying as he felt. This person was obviously derailed. "The bishop said I'd be here forever. Until I died. And there was a wall right here." Lord Ansgar waved a hand through the air.

"Well, there isn't now. And you don't have to stay here forever." The writer shrugged. Ansgar turned around to face him.

"I'll die if I leave," he said. He looked and sounded very sane and sober as he said that. "I tried climbing out and it didn't work."

"Well. Now you can use the stairs?" The writer could not imagine climbing down the belltower would end in anything but a broken neck. So in that respect, leaving would indeed have to equal dying.

"No. Whenever I got outside, I lost consciousness and woke up in here again. It's impossible to leave. The bishop says it's because I don't have a soul. I'm not a creature of God -"

The writer sighed and pushed his glasses up to rub over his burning eyelids. He turned back into the large room and sat on the disheveled bed. Ansgar followed him and watched.

"Have you got any whisky?"

"... I have wine."

The writer waved tiredly to signal 'Give it here' and peeled his drenched coat off.

It's happened now, I've gone insane. Or this boy has, but he's made up by me, so it's me. I'm completely out of it. I'm dead and in hell. Or delirious. I've fainted in the street and am dreaming this now.

A crystal glass with dark red wine was placed into his hand. He downed it and held it back up to Ansgar, who immediately refilled it from a dark green bottle with a red label. As he lifted the glass to his mouth again, the writing on the bottle caught his eye. It was a brand he had made up for a book. His unsuccessful novel, another failed attempt at making a living out of a talent he had stopped believing in. I am. Insane.

"Ansgar..." He whispered numbly into the space between his knees. "Just go down the stairs. You can leave."

"But -"

"Just go." He leaned forward with the elbows on his knees, and pressed the crystal to his forehead. The dusty floorboards were blurred and he squeezed his eyes shut. A soft thud on the floor next to him as the bottle was put down, and then even softler rustling moving away to the stairwell signalled Ansgar's leaving. This time, the sound did not stop just shy of the steps but kept receding down the tower.

After minutes of silence, the writer drained his second glass.

After half an hour, he had emptied the bottle.

After much longer than that, he woke up.

It was dark. The glowing coal in the braziers still provided enough heat, but their meagre light served only to delve this high chamber into an orange-tinged gloom. It was impossibly quiet. Apparently the rain had stopped.

"I told you," said Ansgar. He was dressed now, in unremarkable breeches, shirt and waistcoat. His hair was combed and loosely tied back. He was sitting on the far edge of the bed and observing the writer, who turned and groaned a bit. He was still damp and everything clung to his skin. His hands were soothingly cold when he rubbed over his face with them. With some difficulty, he sat up and took his waistcoat and shirt off. His stomach was empty and beyond growling now, it ached and made him want to hurl, but with nothing in it he knew it would be a pointless and painful exercise to give in to the urge. The wine's dizziness, or maybe that of his new insanity, rocked his blurred vision until his tortured consciousness had acclimatised to this upright position. With his crumpled rag of a shirt in his fists he tried to focus on the handsome Ansgar. The near-darkness did not exactly help his endeavor.

"I got as far as the door," the boy informed him. "Then I woke up next to you."

He sounded so calm.

"That is... mysterious," said the writer. His tongue was heavy. His lips were numb.

"That's how it's always been. For as long as I can remember. The only mystery here is you." Ansgar leaned forward and crawled closer. He reached and picked something out of the folds of the many covers and handed it to the writer.

At least they're not broken, he thought with bitter relief as he put his spectacles on. The world's fuzzy edges sharpened considerably. Now he could see that Ansgar's clothes actually were of exquisite workmanship, tailored on him, stitched and embroidered by masterful hands, and tastefully matched, piece by piece, and this only served to confuse him further. If he had been held here for as long as he could remember, how could he be owning something like this? Could the bishop have taken his measurements and have his own tailor make his prisoner's clothes? While that was technically possible, it made no sense. Ansgar was being kept here, kept secret, was unable to leave, so why would the bishop risk being exposed by clothing him?

"What on earth is mysterious about me?" the writer finally managed to ask.

"You were able to enter. And when you did, the wall disappeared." Ansgar studied him thoughtfully. "You know my name. How can you know my name? Are you God?"

"What?" The writer blinked rapidly. Insanity. This is. Insanity. Do I need more to drink? More wine. "I'm not God. What makes you say that?"

Ansgar folded his hands in his lap and looked at them. His serene face betrayed nothing.

"The bishop said... that no one could enter, and no one could know me, except for my creator. That would have to be God," he explained, as if that were the most logical thing in the world.