Imprint - 32. Ch. 6 Part III, IV

III

A light laugh pulled his attention out of the book, rescanning the last few lines Canaan couldn't find the cause. “I didn't realize you were following along,” he said aloud.

“Hmm. Its been a while, since we read anything.” Trick was still curled up on the other end of the tacky but comfortable red and gold couch, head resting on his folded arms but his eyes were open now, the movement of his pupils slow and steady.

“Interesting?” He'd only just picked it up looking for a distraction while he waited, his own mind was far from made up; Strife collected books at random, he found a lot of trash.

“Your thoughts are,” Trick stretched his legs, his bony bare feet poking at Canaan's thigh.

“And what am I thinking?”

“Your usual commentary. You know it amuses me.”

A snort, “If I'm this funny already, the book is going to be terrible.”

“Probably,” smiling, Trick dug his toes into Canaan's leg, “Keep going.”

Canaan grabbed those feet and pulled them into his lap, resting the book on the top of his toes.

“The setting, makes me think of that place we had in Harrow. Do you remember that?”

He had to think, “That half rotted castle? I believe the author had something nicer in mind.”

“I liked it.”

“It smelled like fish.”

“It smelled like the sea.”

“Which smells like fish.”

Trick's foot knocked against the book, “I was there more than you, I say it fits.”

“If you'd like.” A noise from outside interrupted them, Canaan turned his head toward the window, frowning, “Is that a car?”

“Hmm.”

His frown deepened, “That was fast.” He hadn't thought Strife intended to be driven out either, he'd said it wasn't far. No way he could let this slide, not with the metric ton of shit he was still getting about a lingering over-reliance on his car; just a matter of knowing when to strike.

Trick's feet pulled away, he sat up on the couch, “...something's wrong.”

Canaan put the book aside, eyes on the other man, “What?”

“I don't know. He is...uneasy? Very much,” Trick's gloved hand briefly touched his thigh, in lieu of actually looking his way, “Do you want me to...?”

Canaan heard the front door opening, heard Strife's voice in the former reception area, talking to someone whose responses, if any, were too low to register; nothing in his tone sounded alarmed. “No,” he said to Trick, “If you don't know already, then he'll tell me.”

He listened to Strife crossing the reception area to the room they were in, which had been a lounge where clients without a particular companion in mind could come and be entertained, make a final decision, or throw an orgy right here if that was your thing. The door opened and Strife quickly closed it behind him, leaning back against it; he was quiet, eyes on the ceiling.

Between that and Trick's clear agitation, Canaan wasn't sure what he was supposed to think. He broke the silence, “If you're back here this quickly, then that smuggler must either be very good at his job, or very bad.”

Strife looked at him, considering his response in a way that spoke more clearly of a pending problem than anything else. “Never got that far.”

“Find another smuggler then,” that would not be much of a hardship, whatever good word of mouth this particular one had. “What put you off?”

Strife laughed, a strange quality to it, “Oh, nothing, nothing at all. In fact...” pause, “I actually brought him with me. He's right outside.”

That was unexpected. “What the fuck did you do that for?” words harsher than he maybe intended, but gods damn it Canaan did not want to sit through their negotiation. Strife's business was his own, he trusted him to handle it and thus left him to it; without enough information to meaningfully contribute he was little more than arm candy, and he hated being arm candy.

“Oh, you'll see.” It didn't seem like a joke played on him, Strife wasn't gleeful enough for that; a glance over at Trick showed him still on edge, trying to prod without passing agreed upon boundaries.

“Better be good.”

“Oh, it is, believe me.” Strife walked several steps closer, halfway into the room, lowering his voice for the next part, “Okay, I don't want to leave him out there much longer, he's jumpy enough he might bolt, so here's the game plan. Play dumb and follow my lead, don't say anything else unless he says it first. Try to control your reaction, especially you.” That last was directed at Trick, who went very still at whatever he saw.

The usual prickle of annoyance came at that, and Canaan's attention zeroed in on him as Strife went back to the door, opened it and ushered his guest inside. He heard Trick's surprised gasp, saw the openly shocked look on his face in the seconds before he remembered himself and turned his head down, covering his mouth. Saw that he was trembling, just a little.

“This,” Strife's cheerful voice sounded, “is Tallen, the fledgling smuggler we've heard so much about.”

A boy – only a boy, he barely looked eighteen – a whole head taller than Strife next to him, blond haired and green eyed, dressed in shabby clothes and a long dark coat. He stared around at the room they were in, disgusted enough to let it show slightly in the downward curve to his lips; it was an opinion Canaan shared, this place was gaudy even by whorehouse standards, and maybe in another year or two it would bother him enough to change it. The boy's eyes skittered carefully around the room's other occupants, barely touching on them before retreating again, like he was trying not to see.

“All the more impressive since, as I just recently learned, Tallen here is originally from Veil,” yellow eyes met his, “Kind of like you, huh?”

“No,” and Canaan thought they'd agreed not to speak of it. It caused the boy to look right at him for a moment in hopeful interest before his eyes turned down again.

Strife moved on, reaching up to squeeze the boy's shoulder, “Never mind. Here, let me introduce you. This is Canaan, my crustier half, and that over there is Trick.”

Trick had managed to look up again, hand lowered so that only two fingers covered his mouth, staring at Tallen openly with... Canaan wasn't sure what, exactly, but far more emotion than he cared to see directed at an unworthy stranger.

Tallen's eyes briefly landed on each of them, long enough for politeness and no longer. “Yeah, hi.” He turned to Strife, “Look, no offense or anything, but do you think we can discuss business now? Maybe before the torch and pitchfork mob shows up?”

“Excuse me?”

“Nothing, Canaan, nothing to worry about.” Strife nodded, “Yeah, sure, we can do that. Grab yourself a chair,” a gesture along the wall, “Mind the stains. They came with the place, I swear.”

“That's, uh, comforting,” Tallen's tone was light but cautious, responding to a joke but unsure if he should. Canaan realized then this kid knew exactly who they were, knew what had happened here three years back; yet he walked through the door anyway, controlled his nerves well enough, had to respect that.

Trick scrambled suddenly off the couch, surprising him yet again, standing in the middle of the room when Tallen turned back around with one of those gilded gold chairs in hand. Arms around his waist, he stared straight ahead with a nervous determination. He hadn't reached for his glasses again as he should have, as he usually always did until he knew someone very well, a process which could take years; bare foot and eyes uncovered, he was vulnerable under Tallen's gaze, but unafraid.

If Tallen said one word about it, if he so much as startled, he'd find himself on the bottom of the food chain. There would always be another smuggler.

Tallen stared back, his throat worked, “...hey.”

“Hello.”

The silence between them felt heavy

(…?)

“Uh, here,” Tallen set the chair in place opposite the couch. “Here you go,” He ran a quick hand over the seat, glancing up with a smile, “Its stain free, too.”

“Thank you.” Trick turned on Strife after, silent gaze confused and accusing. Strife gave him a quick shrug, and yellow eyes moved to Canaan but whatever he expected to see wasn't there.

Catch up quick, that expression said; Canaan never liked being the only one in the dark.

“All right then,” Strife took Trick's former place on the couch, his hand on Canaan's thigh, fingers digging in, trying to keep him focused, “I hear you have a steady Veilore connection?”

“Uh, yeah,” Tallen had presumptuously sat himself next to Trick, closer than necessary, “A couple I've used, a few more I know could get it but I've never had to. Its not a very popular item.”

“Well, I'll be changing that. But first I got this project-”

Canaan tried to tune him out, instead watching Tallen himself, trying to find it, whatever he was missing...

-watching the way Tallen kept glancing at Trick, not in anyway he could find fault with, except in frequency. Trick stared back, body turned toward him-

Okay, this is something. This, I can chase this. This is-

(-try to grab his arm but Trick slips right out of your grasp, running on ahead, heedless of any-)

(“Trick! Damn it, wait!”)

(through the snow fall as fast as high heeled boots will allow, toward a lone pine tree and a lone corpse...)

(-on his knees in the snow, cradling the body in his arms, face buried in wet blond hair. Your eyes trail down the limp arm, once white scrub top now crusted in dried, frozen blood, bare forearm sporting a strategical pattern of bruises and burns, the broken fingers hastily patched up only hours before...)

“-not going to be able to get it all right away. Some of these I'm going to have to ask about,” Tallen frowned down at the list in hand, held between long fingers, “...can I ask what you're trying to do here? Its just that, if there's some easier to acquire alternative I could-”

“There isn't. And that's not why you're asking,” Strife leaned forward, hand still on Canaan's knee, “But I'll tell you. I want to build a defense and security system here on par with what I'm used to, not this Veil knock off shit. And when I'm done with that, I'm going to try opening a door.”

“...you can do that?”

“I could over there. Not long distances, one person at a time, or just supplies. I'm going to try.”

(-clear disturbance in the snow, two feet across by your measurement, forming a complete closed circle around the cabin, around the blood...)

(a barrier of some sort? Kept them penned in, to be slaughtered...)

(and by who? The same person who sent them to the cabin in the first place, sacrificial lambs callously wiped out for a chance to take two kids out with them? Or a third party yet unknown...)

“-whatever currency you want. And a bonus.”

“Bonus?”

Strife nodded, “I'm sure you could use some extra security there in Pikesville. Or your car. Help me with my system, I set you up with yours.”

Canaan stared in confusion at that, that had not been part of the plan, and it wasn't like Strife to be that generous.

(-a mound of red snow, letting it run off the palm of his hand; it wasn't liquid, a thick sludge oozing back to the ground, you can see bits of pulverized bone within)

(“There is nothing left of anyone,” Strife washes his hand in a patch of clean, quickly drying off on his long fur coat; the temperature has dropped significantly since you were last here, his ears and cheeks are bright red with cold)

(Not entirely true, you saw one limbless torso in the mess, face caved in but you recognize him anyway; been a while since you last saw Sandar, couldn't have happened to a nicer guy)

(“Five hours. Five fucking hours! What the fuck happened here?”)

(who knows. Something like this, should've caused a disturbance in the whole area, they should be choking on foreign aether polluting the air...yet it is calm, like nothing unnatural happened here)

(you think of the warehouse, what you all found there, what you alone know that you can not share with them. You don't need to look, you know he was here...how he pulled this off you're not sure, but you don't think it a coincidence)

(You lied to me, miserable bastard, looked me right in the face and lied. This time, I think I'm going to kill you for it...)

...okay then. He couldn't make any connection between those memories and this boy; he would just have to ask later and endure the teasing.

He watched the conflict in Tallen's eyes as he contemplated the deal laid before him – not that he didn't want to take it, he did and it was conflicting with a previous decision, maybe a previous commitment. Canaan wondered what had won him over: the money, the favors, further connections...better not be those glances at Trick, not if he wanted to stay pretty. He was, too, pretty in that very ordinary way that held no personal interest, but which was irritating him for some reason. It made him want to reach across the space between them, mess up his hair, take his unmarked face, smooth cheek and just-

….?

Canaan bit down on a laugh. Odd thoughts weren't uncommon, stray pieces of memory knocking loose with the slightest hint of the familiar, often without any context, which sometimes came later though sometimes not; this had to be one of the strangest yet.

Why would he ever want to write on someone's face?

IV

“Any time now.”

“I know, all right. I'm thinking.”

Trying to help, Canaan gave him a start, “I remember you, I remember things you tell me. At least I think I do. But I don't know how any of it is possible, unless I'm secretly forty years old and everything I know about my life is a lie.”

“No, it happened, all of it. Us first, then all the rest.” A deep, resigned breath, “You're imprinted.”

“Meaning?”

“In Veil terms? Closest they come to is, well, immortal.”

Rage prickled again, Canaan pushed it back, “There are two or three baby pictures back home that would argue that. Want to try again?”

“What did I just say?” Strife snapped back, just as angry, “Closest, not exact. Don't assume you know anything growing up here in this backwood dump. Veil is a fucking void, the aether we all live on is near dead, gods avoid it, and since nothing ever happens here people have stupid ideas about how it all works.”

“Fine, then explain.”

“You think this is who you are?” Strife whacked him on the chest, “This is a disposable meat suit. You can't take something destructible and make it indestructible, it doesn't work like that. But this,” and Strife's finger jabbed between his eyes, “that's forever. But its supposed to be malleable, its supposed to change and come back new every time. Imprinting, a full imprint, it freezes everything in place. You stay the same person, come back the same, every time.”

“...are you seriously talking about a soul? You don't seem the type.”

“Call it whatever the fuck you want, the basic idea, its true. I know its true, and not just because I'm standing here talking to you now when the last time I saw you, you were missing your head.”

He tried to hold onto the rage, wanted to yell and beat back the bullshit this had to be...but it was fading, little by little. He was reminded of how he felt the morning after, knowing where he recognized his guest from: a cold calm, in retrospect relief long awaited.

(“You were Drogan's final knight? The one that killed him?”)

(“I was Drogan's only knight.”)

(“Then, right? I thought it was a position that went back, like a thou-”)

(“Yes, and they were all me.”)

“See, this is why I didn't want to do this, I do know how it sounds to you,” Strife's eyes burned, his tone tired “If you were born at home, like you fucking should've been, this would be so much easier. Because you'd know about this already, and it would just be the you mean I'm one of them song and dance to get out of the way. Instead, everything up to now has told you this is impossible, and I don't know what to do with that.” A hand ran through his hair, “I can think of things to try and prove it, but you won't like them. Even if they work right, and I don't know that. Unless my word does anything for you, and you know it really fucking should.”

He thought Strife meant their relationship both new and half remembered, or maybe his physical features that defied the possible; but there was something else, wasn't there? “You look the same.”

“Thanks. I actually aged a few years, but I guess you wouldn't know otherwise.”

“How? You immortal, too? Or just an elf thing?”

“I'm not an imprint. And elves might live longer and age slower than humans, but its not five hundred years or any shit like that. I should've been in the wind a long time ago.” Strife pulled up his shirt, drawing attention to that red-orange circle tattooed on his hip, bisected by two dark lines, “I've had my life extended, twice now. Its not forever, if I don't get killed first then I'll get to a point where I can't take anymore treatment, and then I'll get old and die. But that might be a while yet. Until then I can keep entertaining you, and wait for you when you up and vanish.”

“How long was that? The waiting?”

“Way too long. Not as bad as it could've been, you pop back quickly, only took fifteen years. So, about thirty-six now.”

Canaan blinked at the number, much higher than expected, than was sane. “And how long were we...?”

“Oh, we had a good sixty years before you lost your head.”

That was less surprising, though he knew it should be. The fragments of memories that came were disjointed, without context, but there was a sense of time to them; so familiar, so settled in, despite that the image of them never changed.

Strife seemed to sense where his thoughts were going, “You'd been alive for over a hundred years when we met.”

“...kind of contradicts your earlier statement.”

“I said you can't make the meat suit indestructible, not that you can't improve it.”

Canaan waved his hand, indicating to continue.

“Okay. That thing on your back, remember I called it a mod? That's what it does. Its like a much better, more permanent version of mine. You'll get to a certain point, I think you said it was set between twenty-seven and thirty, you always looked thirty to me. Hit that and you won't age anymore. You don't get sick. When all your mods are there and functioning, you are about as hard to kill as its possible to get. You could live forever, barring reckless stupidity and suicide runs.”

There was a story there, Strife was all but begging him to ask; maybe he would one day, he didn't think he wanted to know right now.

“What about this? You know how this sounds to me?”

And yet...

(“Oh my god, that's it, isn't it? They all know, that's why they follow you?”)

(“Of course they know, its not something I could hide for long. When you see me get hurt, you'll know what I mean.”)

“You ever been sick? Aside from that once that wasn't really? Why can't you get drunk? How come you eat pills like candy and they do nothing for you, good or bad? Ever thought how that sounds?”

No, because it was the way it was, the way it had always been, there was no need to question it; other people had, every now and then, and he would brush them off with vague excuses and never wonder why he had to.

He paced away from the car, thinking of that, of a lot of things that had been considered odd, in a new light.

(“I knew there was something, you know. Something about you.”)

(“So, you coming with me then, or not?”)

“You're supposed to remember,” Strife's voice followed him, pointedly soothing, reading more into Canaan's mood and movements than he should, “You will, whatever the fuck I have to do, there has to be a way. I've not waited thirty years to give up now.”

One of those oddities in particular crawled right to the front of his mind and would not leave; Canaan turned back to the car, “In the bar, that first night, you recognized me?” A nod, “Do I look the same?”

“Well, you weren't a red head. I don't know what's up with that. But otherwise, yeah. Every mole and scar in place.” And, because it was Strife, he grinned and added, “Same sensitivity, same flexibility, same pain tolerance.”

“Wait,” distracted from his original point, Canaan pressed, “What scars? What does that mean?”

“You have two, I'm sure you've noticed them.”

However often the question was asked, he didn't think he'd ever given a serious reply, “I was a c-section. It was a medical error, that's all.”

Strife wasn't impressed, “Is it? Or is that just what people told themselves? Not a bad explanation, if you don't have another.” He grabbed Canaan's hand, uncurling his fingers and running his own along the deep grove in the palm, “Does this really look like a surgery accident to you?”

...no, it didn't, it never had. “What then?”

“You tell me. It was the best thing you ever did, you can't have completely forgotten.”

He tried to think, best he knew how, but all that came

(blue)

was nonsense.

(agony, worse than anticipated but you can't let go now; it is holding on to you, now, your skin grafting around it, no stopping until it is done...the sound, oh listen to him scream...)

“And the other one?”

“Don't know. Looks painful.”

Back to the original point, as trying to think on that got

(ssh)

less than nothing.

“Is that why I don't look like my family?”

A nod, “Of course. You're not really their kid, not in any meaningful way.”

He'd always kind of liked the mailman theory, freed him of one of those idiots; this could be seen as a step up, one day, when he could appreciate it.

Canaan leaned back against his car, next to Strife; out of words he counted to ten in his head, and again said the first thing that came to mind, “...I believe you.” A harsh laugh, half manic, bubbled out of his throat as he realized it was true, “Oh god, I believe you, I really do.”

“You do?” Strife sounded surprised, he quickly recovered, “Of course you do. Why wouldn't you.”

“You're trying to tell me I'm over two hundred years old and I'm still listening to you. You're allowed to be surprised.” A suspicious silence followed that, drawing his eyes back up to see the uneasy expression on Strife's face, “Oh god, what?”

“Nothing – not important, really. Just don't want you to think later that I lied to you or anything.”

“How long?”

“Its not important, if you don't-”

“How long?”

“Fuck, Canaan, I don't know. I don't think you know either.”

“That's very comforting,” he was unsure if he wanted to keep pursuing this or let it go, which would be easier on his sanity right now.

There was a short silence, then, “You're Illeathen.”

“A what?”

“Not what, where. Twelve little islands, way out there, think the Bahamas without the rich tourists. That's where you're from. First time, I mean.”

“And you know this?”

“Its easy to see, Illeathens have always been real distinct looking. The eyes, especially yours, a dead giveaway. Just like a pure blood native.”

“Okay then.”

“That's the thing though,” Strife said, “There are no pure blood natives, not anymore. They lost a few battles, long time back, against bandits that wanted to stay there, raid the sea between. Hostilities lessened, everyone learned to live together and intermarried and all that usual shit. It changed the way people looked, still distinct but different. Their eyes are still weird pale for one, but they're usually the same color now. Most of the time.”

Canaan watched him, cold calm, “So what?”

Strife shrugged a shoulder, “So maybe nothing. I mean, you could've been a one in a million birth, that happens, I don't know. Or...”

“Or what?”

“Or not.”

He took a deep breath, didn't even try to pursue the thought, didn't want to know, not right now. “You say that like I had a normal – like I came from somewhere, like anyone else.”

“Well, yeah. Of course.”

“What I mean, was I born like this, or did I crawl in toxic waste and it just happened?”

Strife snorted amusement, “Yeah sure, we can call him that.”

Surprised, he hadn't been expecting an answer, “So you know the what, not the when?”

“The what is easier. Only a god can imprint everything like that. In your case, it was Drogan.”

“Wait, what?” the reaction was stronger than he knew was wise, but he couldn't help it, not after... “Drogan? As in my ex Drogan? He's a god?”

...though that would explain a few things.

Strife nodded, unfazed, “The Berserker. Kind of a war god, but not one you invoke, more one you beg and bribe to leave you alone.”

(he is blood and battle and death...)

“So what then? Am I this way because he and I-”

“No,” Strife shook his head, “No, that came later. And you also said you started it.” A smirk, “Gross bastard. Like I always say, aside from me you have no taste.”

(taste of metal on your tongue, biting into your skin, just hard enough to burn, to bleed...all teeth and claws and fire inside, he could tear you apart, drive you insane, when you climb up on-)

“So why then?”

“Because Drogan and his brother wanted to start a war. They wanted control over pieces of land, at least at the start, and the gods that owned them didn't want to give them up. They can't just go and do whatever they want, there are rules, you know. So they found a loophole. You.

“You were their weapon.”