Imprint - 34. Chapter Seven: Trickery

I

“Well, this is so typical, I'm almost disappointed.” Only partially true, after three days hard travel, all day struggling up a fucking mountain, Strife could've wept at the thought of a roof and bed. “Couldn't have had a nice place out on a warm beach? Maybe staffed with pretty young things that could rub the ache out of my ass?”

Canaan, looking none the worse for wear, the miserable bastard, only smirked, “I have a lot of places, some like that. I stay mobile, its how I'm not found.”

“That mean I can look forward to a massage?”

The laugh was almost inaudible, but he caught it, “No pretty young things on hand, but...we'll see.”

Canaan had lost the long coat at the foot of the mountain, the red and black chains up his arms glowed in the sunlight, revealing just how powerful they were. To say nothing of the lean muscle underneath, “Pretty young things never did it for me, anyway.”

There must have once been a larger structure on the mountain top, an outline of its burned out foundation was still there, standing intact was a stone stronghold that would've been in its center; doors and windows were more recent additions, it otherwise looked ancient. Difficult to get to, you'd be able to see anyone coming and have the advantage of higher ground. “So, where'd you find this place?”

Canaan didn't answer, just turned and looked at him, mismatched eyes amused. Realization came slowly, “Oh.”

It was taking its time settling in, the words hadn't even felt real until the morning after, watching Khar'tal burn. “Pitiful end,” Canaan had said, “This was a real citadel once, worth its reputation. Wasting away under a gaudy paint job. When the fuck did that happen?”

Strife had frowned at the unexpected words, “...have you been here before?”

A nod, “Long time ago.”

“They don't let outsiders in.”

“They don't anymore.” A glance his way, expression unreadable, “Its an odd bit of symmetry, that you got me to help you with this. What happened to you, likely my fault to begin with.”

Strife hadn't gotten an answer to that yet, wasn't even sure he wanted to, now that it was over; he recalled his step father's horrified reaction to his partner's identity, that should be good enough.

“So, when did this happen?” he asked now.

Canaan's eyes tilted up, a tell he was starting to recognize as him thinking way back, “Hammer Era.”

“Hammer?”

“Stupid name. But easier to remember,” eyes tilted again. “Before Veil was unlocked. But just before.”

“Fuck...” That was...it was so... It was going to take a while before he was used to this, “Let's go then, old man. Want to get off my fucking feet.”

“How very unoriginal of you,” but there were subtle hints of a smile there on that stone face. More blatant on Jacender standing just behind them, though Strife had yet to hear him speak a word of common. The Dahakran had walked with them, ahead of the others leading pack animals carrying baggage by at least a mile now; didn't know why they were rushing forward but he wasn't about to complain, either.

Inside the stronghold's central room was empty; a short staircase went up, hall wrapping around to two doors above. A second staircase disappeared below, Strife leaned over it but it just kept winding down into the dark. “Bigger than I thought,” he said aloud.

“Much,” Canaan agreed, “Goes down four floors. Five technically, but there's nothing at the bottom now.” A quick smile, “I sleep all the way down. Almost comfortable there.”

In other words, it was an ice box. “I'm sure I'll survive,” somehow, elves were not designed for the cold. He changed the subject, “How does a place like this sit empty so long?”

“Its in the middle of nowhere. Built for one purpose, and it failed. Why go back?”

Strife fully intended to ask what, but he was interrupted by a sudden flurry of motion above them. “You're back,” an unfamiliar voice, heavy footfalls and a swish of fabric, skirt belling out, casting a brief shadow below.

He had been prepared for just about anything: stock piles of arcane weaponry, man eating beasts roaming the ground, everything wallpapered in human skin, excessive maybe, but all right. This though, why the fuck did Canaan have a teenage girl here?

“I see you have brought gifts,” spoken in a weirdly thick accent he couldn't place. Strife had a moment of wondering if that meant him, but the girl wasn't looking at him – probably not, she was wearing dark glasses, it was hard to tell.

Canaan's eyes turned upward, he – he smiled. A real one, with teeth and everything. Almost looked like a different person, Strife was too unsettled to decide if he liked it or not. He watched Canaan produce a ring, recognized the Khar'talan style so he must've picked it up there, holding it out to the girl as she came down the stairs.

“Oh, thank you.” Odd outfit: a leather and metal top that appeared reinforced for protection, and a long flowing skirt that was very much not. The reason became apparent when she hit the ground floor and Strife found himself stepping back from the aether cloud that was suddenly there; he hadn't had such a strong reaction in years, not since learning to control his sensitivity. Dark blue lines ran down her arms from a blue circle on her temple, and when she slipped the ring on a gloved finger the aether lights in the stone went crazy.

Holy shit, those burns must be outward facing.

Agnarian's familiar face appeared next to him, causing him to jerk in surprise. “So. You're still here, huh?”

The man had a big shit eating grin on his face, “And you look thrilled.”

“Sure am. Quint owes me forty coin.” a wink, “Next time we're in the real world, I'll buy you a drink. Something classy even. I'll have the funds.”

“Yeah, sure,” Strife frowned, “I thought you got sent out on some mission or something?” That Canaan had been cagey about.

“Yeah. Been here the whole time.”

That's what Strife thought, and he wasn't sure what to make of it. Canaan and the girl stood close, heads bent in conversation too quite to overhear. Maybe not a girl after all, on closer examination; almost too androgynous to be real, but there was something in the jaw and shoulders that looked more pubescent boy than mature female. Maybe not a teenager either, but not much older.

“So, how'd your thing go?”

“Fine,” an absent response, when Agnarian expected more enthusiasm, “Really, fucking great. Just like I planned it.”

Agnarian's expression said he understood the distraction, “Well, good then. Wish I could've been there.” A clap on the shoulder, “Going outside, make myself useful. See you around.”

Canaan's attention had returned to him again, guiding the boy closer with an arm around his shoulders; Strife tried not to think on what it meant he could put a hand over those marks and keep his skin. Mismatched eyes watched him carefully, critically, but his face didn't give away any thought.

“This is Trick,” and the boy nodded his head, gaze pointed somewhere off to the left. Blind, too, then, “He'll show you around. Be nice about it, or its your head.”

The boy didn't even blink, just smiled, like it was an old joke, complained of often but never really tired of hearing. “You are too harsh,” spoken at Canaan's retreating back, going out the door, meeting the rest of the troop maybe half a mile behind.

Strife just stared after him, still uncertain what was happening, if that last was meant or not.

“He does mean it,” Trick was speaking to him now, “But no worries, I do not make it hard, to be kind.”

“Good to know,” Strife tried for a quick recovery, flashing a smile, “I've been told I'm very charming.”

“Yes, as I hear,” the boy returned the smile, very white teeth against dark olive skin, “Canaan has told me much about you. And Agnarian, though I believe his information is out of date, yes?”

Canaan? When did that happen? Just then, in those few minutes of private conversation? “Can't say anyone mentioned you.”

“They would not have. This is a privilege that must be earned,” that small smile again, perfectly sincere where mockery may have been expected, “Congratulations.”

Convenient to blame his exhaustion, with a decent night's sleep he could've handled this turn of events better, better understood what it all meant.

“You will be wanting off your feet, of course.” One step ahead; wonderful, how obvious was it? “Apologies, I was supposed to show you to your space.” A gloved arm swept out, indicating the staircase, the upper staircase, starting up two steps.

“Wait a fucking minute here,” the words were surprised out of him, glancing between the two staircases, up and down, because didn't Canaan say...? “I thought – I-” Strife forced his mouth shut, trying to hold on to some shred of dignity.

A stab of – irritation – pierced through him. How badly did I misread this whole thing?

“Work space,” Trick's voice cut through, his face showing subtle alarm, “Your possessions that are coming, they are work related, yes? I have a space above for that, you are welcome to share it.” A calming grin, “You would not wish to conduct your craft below. Very poor lighting.”

“Oh,” thrown off balance again, “Yeah, no, don't want that. Its just, I was looking for some actual fucking sleep.” Indirectly asking the question.

Trick's face said he understood, and it was not a comfortable thing, knowing he was that transparent. “I will allow Canaan to show you the way himself, when he returns. It should not be long.”

Strife changed the subject, “You said the space is yours? So, you-”

“I have more knowledge than capability. Too much interference, I am sure you see,” he held up both arms, a little more than half covered, making Strife wonder how far those burns extended. “I confess, I am quite interested to see you work. Canaan tells me you are a scavenger?”

“Can't say I ever heard that one before.”

“It is an archaic term, a simple one,” a short pause, “You prefer corpse grinder?”

He tried not to react much to that lucky guess, “Yeah. Mostly. Its a lot more colorful.” The longer spent listening to him talk, Strife realized he did recognize the accent, pieces of it, certain letters, certain words. They were all from different languages, different regions, it made no sense to hear them all together, in one person's speech.

“It is one discipline I know very little of. My Ma-” the word stopped, like it had been ripped off his tongue; the boy closed his mouth, breathed in through his nose, composing. “...he considered it to be a low art.”

“Doesn't everyone?” shrugging a shoulder, nice and casual, ignoring what he saw.

“If it helps, he was very much the bar by which low was determined,” his face twisted into a more pleasant expression, “I would like to see how it works.”

And Strife liked little more than a chance to show off, a win all around. “Its effective. But a huge pain in the ass.”

Trick's unfocused gaze turned, addressing the third person in the room, in Dahakran no less. He hadn't thought Jacender made a sound the whole time, perhaps not blind either. “I told him to wait here,” came an unasked for explanation, “No need to crowd the space, I should be fine with just you, yes?”

And suddenly a couple things made sense, Jacender and Agnarian's presence, but not why. Why the escort? Why the secrecy? Why the complete lack of any warning? Was it a test, or a lesson?

Strife climbed up the first two stairs, putting himself on level. “So,” tried to smile, tried to find some last reserve of charm, “Is that your deal here? Like, information, or something?”

“My deal,” the boy's features were calm, eyes seemed to look at him for once, “is not a threat to you. Or your desired position.”

The grin slipped off his face, “The fuck does that mean?” He knew what it meant, on the surface anyway. But there had been something, something in the tone, in the look, that seemed to imply – Strife hadn't meant it that way, he did not mean that.

“Of course not,” Trick spoke again, nodding his head, “Pardon me. I say things sometimes, that I should not. You need not mind it.” He turned his eyes away, “Information, one way to put it. I have been telling Canaan for a time he needs an aether specialist. I am glad to see you here, for that. Together, we can prove him wrong.”

The boy didn't attempt to mask his intention, it felt less like placation and more an olive branch extended, to forget and move on. Too unnerved at his apparent uncharacteristic transparency, Strife accepted. “Fair enough,” he said, “Lead the way then.”

With a relieved smile, Trick continued up the stairs.

II

The tracks from the caves stopped abruptly, right where the trees thickened. It was too silent, not even a bird chirped; that alone would've told Canaan his quarry was here, even without the unseen eyes he could feel watching him.

He turned his back before speaking, “I know you're there. Might as well come out, I'm not leaving until you do. I can wait forever.”

A stubborn minute went by before he heard the drop, heavy and uncoordinated, maybe half a yard away. He gave it a minute for dignity's sake, turning back around again.

They had never properly met before, in person. It was a shared awareness of the other, made them feel like old friends, somehow.

“I am surprised you are still alive.”

Are you sure you still are? Shock flooded his thoughts, not even the pang of guilt seeing the other wince at his expression could stop it. Still, it was helpful in masking other thoughts. “I got lucky.”

The boy leaned against the tree he'd tumbled out of, arms crossed, lost in a stolen fur coat far too large that came down to his knees, pantsless and barefooted. He was emaciated, dark hair matted, vibrant blue burns on the side of his face serving as a cruel contrast to his sickly pallor. He smelled awful.

Eyes stared ahead at nothing, pupils pulsing a steady rhythm. “Just out for a stroll, then?”

Canaan had anticipated the question, his answer already chosen, “Some little birds told me I might find something of interest if I wandered out this way.”

The boy accepted the reply, mouth turning down in disappointment. “Hmph. I suppose I must be moving on once more.”

The coat may have begun life white, it was dirt brown now, tinged with spots and streaks of red, as well as a noxious green whose origins Canaan couldn't at first identify. Aether, it must be; the only thing keeping him alive now, sweating out through his pores.

“Don't go just yet,” Canaan took the bag he carried here off his shoulder, holding it out, “Brought you something.”

The boy was quiet, didn't ask but he wouldn't have to.

“Don't tell me you don't need it,” The red on the coat, at collar and sleeve, faint stains on his skin over the dirt and grime, near his mouth, down his chin. Don't tell me you've been eating raw game.

A skeletal hand snatched the bag away. The boy hobbled passed him, limping, following his own tracks back to the cave. Wordless, Canaan went after him.

He was missing a chunk out of his calf. The skin had grown back over the wound, seamless if still pink and tender; the destroyed muscle underneath remained unrepaired. Canaan swallowed any questions and angry words, now was not the time.

The boy had a fallen log to sit on, just inside the cave entrance, dropping the bag and rifling through it, that single hand shoveling food into his mouth with a speed that belied his desperation. Canaan sat across from him on the ground, glancing curiously around. Further back from the entrance he saw a pile of leaves covered by a cloth sheet, moderately comfortable perhaps, and little else.

“I don't need to introduce myself, right?” he didn't wait for a response, “And you? Got a name?”

A pause, and the boy shook his head.

“Nothing?”

“He,” a venomous spat, “had many things to call me, none of which I care to hear again. Not from you.”

Deep breath in, couldn't say he was surprised; he might've been angrier but, well, it was over now, wasn't it? “Yeah, he had a whole collection of pleasant nicknames for me, too.” The boy jerked in response, lip quivering, that look on his face... “No,” he said, “Not once.”

“...he told me he did.”

That was a little surprising. “And I'm sure he wanted to, but it still never happened.” Don't tell me, whatever he said, I don't want to know.

The boy looked relieved, “Drogan protected you, then.”

“Drogan never was big on sharing, not even with his brother.” He let the boy continue eating a few moments, before asking, “Have you been here all along?”

“Here and there.”

“I assume there was no better than here?”

The boy looked up, almost meeting his eyes, “What would you have me do, then? Find a home? A community? Could I be a productive member, do you think?”

There was nothing to say to that. Canaan had come to the same conclusion, freedom didn't mean there was any place for them to go. But he did have the luxury of being able to walk through society, unremarkable and unnoticed, if he didn't linger no one would ever know what he was. The boy couldn't do the same, barely human anymore and visibly so, a fright or a temptation depending on who was looking. He would have very few options.

He continued, “In the beginning, I kept close to a small village. Close enough to slip in unseen, take what I needed. One day, by the river I had to cross there, I find a make shift shrine set in my way, with just what I had been going to retrieve. It is a message, to their trickster spirit, a bribe left to leave them in peace for a month's time.” His jaw tightened, sitting back again, “That far away, they could sense enough about me to make that wrong assumption. And what attention that would have drawn them, were any to be looking for it.”

And someone would be, they both knew that; if Canaan could find his way here, so could others, it was only a matter of time.

The other arm was kept cradled close to his body, not having moved an inch away since his appearance. On a hunch, Canaan leaned forward, taking hold of the coat sleeve and tugging it upward. It was more emaciated than the rest of him, bones brittle, skin so thin wind could tear it, very little muscle holding it all together. Blue tipped fingers curled inward, delicate twigs that likely couldn't move much. Two inches below the elbow and the limb abruptly filled out as normal, a neat line separating malnutrition from true deformity.

“What happened?” But Canaan didn't have to ask, he had seen this, many times before.

The boy's voice didn't waver, “I cut it off. How did you think I got away?”

Too much to ask that it could've been as simple as walking out the door. He must be in constant pain, the limb like a new born infant knowing only how to scream. Even conditioned to ignore pain, Canaan still found it difficult to endure for the standard time, but his training had been more practical, hard to imagine the boy's own experiences were the same.

“And the leg?”

“Bolt.”

“Hmm?”

“A bolt. They shot me. Had they aimed for my other arm, I would still be there. A lucky thing for me they were not that smart.”

That happened some time ago, too. The healing had progressed too far to be corrected now; he would have to lose the limbs again.

“I know,” low, regretful.

His teeth ground together, Canaan could feel that anger bubbling. “You know you did it to yourself,” released him and sat back, to avoid shaking him, “If you had been taking care of yourself, you'd be healed by now.”

“I know that.”

“Do you? You know what's going to happen to you if you keep up like this?” The aether in his body would keep him from starving to death, but function would degrade as it should.

“I am intimately familiar with my limitations.”

“Last I saw Drake he could barely move. But if he could somehow pull himself out here on the one good limb I left him, he could drag you off by the ankle and throw you back in the pit. But we both know he won't do that, he'll send someone else to do the work for him.”

“I know that!” there, a reaction, the boy glaring at him with those strange eyes, “Do not think I have fooled myself into thinking I am naught but delaying the inevitable. I know this path has one end only. If there was anything, anything I could do to delay it a day further. You tell me, what more can I do?”

“You can come with me.”

That had not been expected, it threw the boy's tirade off track, “...what?”

“You can come with me,” he repeated, “Drake isn't going to come to my house looking for anything. He's still got an eye to lose. You and I are enough alike, I could take care of you, better than anyone else could.”

“...and why would anyone care for me?”

“Because you would be useful.” Not a spirit, not a deity, once someone realizes that they'll want to know why, want to know what he can do. And when they find that out, another pit is what he could look forward to. Canaan could see on the boy's face that he did not consider this, perhaps lacked the exposure to humanity to have.

“Would I not be useful to you as well?” hurt, bitter.

“Sure,” honesty, followed by a shrug, “But I can get by.” He didn't kid himself that he wasn't in the same boat, even if he might escape a trap easier thanks to skill and experience. And wasn't that one of the great benefits of this jailbreak? Never being used again?

Blue tipped fingers picked at his coat sleeve, tugging it back down over his ruined arm; pupils pulsed, shrinking to pinpoint size before fluttering outward again, slow and steady. “Why?”

“Because I took everything away from that man. And I promised him he wouldn't get any of it back, not one fucking scrap, not while I live, and I live forever.”

“And that is why? That is all of it?” blue tipped fingers pulling at dirty animal fur, those eyes searching him, looking for something, something specific, but Canaan didn't know the answer to give. “Why are you here?”

(paints himself in shadows, a still grey shore, a vanished village, frozen in time; an unreal place that feels like home, like guilt gnawing deep inside)

(“why do you always-”)

(“I don't want you to see-”)

(bloody handprints up a locked door, so close to the knob, so close to escape, never had a chance really)

(-want you to see me like this.”)

(why did you show me if you didn't...what did you think I would do?)

The boy looked down; he'd seen something in Canaan's thoughts, hard to say what he felt about it.

Undeterred, Canaan held his hand out, “Take it. You're not going to hurt me.”

Still, hesitating, drawing in a deep breath, “I used to see you. Before, when... Ma-he would allow me space, at times, if I kept distant, only watched. I used to see you, in camp, with Drogan.” a faint smile, “You looked happy, then. Were you?”

Canaan nodded, answering honestly, “Mostly, yes.”

“He was good to you, then? Drogan?”

“Yeah. In his way.”

The boy's smile grew a fraction, wavering, caught between relief and sadness, “And now? After...what are you now?”

That was a complicated question. “It went as it had to. I regret nothing.” Most nothing, at any rate.

The smile slipped away altogether, “...why are you here?”

Because he had to be, because after hearing he couldn't stop himself rushing out here; a simple understanding that didn't need words, and he didn't know how to make them. All that came to mind when he thought for anything that could convince this boy he could be trusted, words he'd heard long ago, from an unexpected ally. “Because freaks like us should stick together.”

A short breath of a laugh, the boy's head raised again, letting his face be seen. He held his good hand out, placing it in Canaan's grasp, “I suppose that will have to do, for now.”