ILLUVATAR. ( @theenigmaticadvisor. )
Say what you will about London’s governance, there is one thing that everyone, regardless of political affiliation, can agree on: the postal service does a damn fine job. This fact is particularly salient, because one intrepid member of said office was swimming away from Oliver, having just delivered a crisp white envelope to him, despite the fact that he is drifting a not inconsiderable distance below the surface of the stolen river.
The envelope itself is coated in a stiff wax, an interesting alternative to reaching a drownie, the more standard option being, of course, patiently waiting for them to return to shore. But, upon turning the envelope over the entire scenario makes a great deal more sense; in piercing blue ink is written Oliver, the handwriting clearly that of his mentor, Illuvatar. Inside is a small, again wax coated, card, it read
Oliver,
It has been too long since we’ve met. Would you care to join me for a dinner and discussion? I would be positively thrilled to have you, and if the wine is good enough perhaps we could even exchange some poetry. I will await you in my yacht at Wolfstack.
Yours,
Illuvatar
A letter? For him?
How novel! How strange! How utterly delightful! Ordinarily, such correspondences would be stuffed into the drafty slot beneath the door in his attic home, there to wait, or be carried away by one of the many felines that have taken up residence with him. There’s no telling, truly, just how many letters have gone astray in just such a manner; he doesn’t begrudge the cats that, certainly not, though he knows them more than clever enough to know what they’re doing. He likes to think they behave in a manner according to their beliefs of what is in his best interests; but then, they are cats. Perhaps his trust in them might be ill-placed.
But still! How good of the postal worker to go to all this trouble, slogging into the river to find him; he thanks the person with a wave, a smile that seems to startle the poor worker for some reason, and some sea glass that has found its way into the bed of the river. He takes to the surface, then, though the air feels wrong in his lungs, too dry, and it makes him cough, makes him heave; though the wax coating makes it quite possible to keep the letter undamaged in the water, nothing that gives off light, down there, is anything that he wishes to be near.
Instead, he sits on the dock, sopping wet, dripping water onto the wax-coated surface as he skims the invitation; dinner! Discussion! Wine, poetry! An evening more than promising enough to coax him from the water’s edge. There’s a diving suit waiting for him, waiting for a bit of the river to come with him, and, in as short of order as he can manage, Ollie has set off. Perhaps, should he retire early – though such a thing is rare when he meets with Illuvatar – he might even catch Miss Liza on the docks. It is always such a joy to find her there.
It is not quite evening when he arrives, a bottle of wine in hand; though the other had made no allusions to the fact that anything of the sort should be expected of him, there had been such a sweet – and incredibly insistent – merchant along the way, and oh, it hadn’t done him any harm to part with a small few trinkets, anyway.
He knocks, and sloshes, and announces himself at the door with a quite friendly sounding burble.
A little preparation goes a long way, and when inviting a drownie into one’s home, it can, at the very least, save quite a few echos worth of water damage. To begin, choosing to meet on his retired tramp steamer covered took care of most of it. The hole in the hull that kept the old thing from being seaworthy became an asset when dealing with those of aqueous persuasion. A little sanding (to eliminate the jagged edges, it is a wreck after all), furniture that is either water resistant or cheap, and the installation of his plated seal to keep uninvited guests out, and what you have is a perfectly serviceable drawing room, compatible with those that are more comfortable in the Stolen River than the Fallen (not Stolen, perish the thought) City.
The meal would contain no fish, only things that are harder to get if one is confined mostly to the water. It also goes a long way to treat ones guests. That being said, the servants would be rubberies, as they are accustomed to burbling and unbothered by getting wet, not to mention, having even such distant relations could only ease things. The wine would need to be something strong, so as to stand up to possible dilution. Finally, bringing his Starveling Cat along would take care of any rodent problems, they were dining on a ship after all.
When he hears the knock, Illuvatar opens the door with a flourish.
“My dear Oliver, welcome, welcome. Do come in. The wine seems lovely, you’re too kind.”
He says, ushering him in to his carefully prepared sitting room.
Say what you will about London’s governance, there is one thing that everyone, regardless of political affiliation, can agree on: the postal service does a damn fine job. This fact is particularly salient, because one intrepid member of said office was swimming away from Oliver, having just delivered a crisp white envelope to him, despite the fact that he is drifting a not inconsiderable distance below the surface of the stolen river.
The envelope itself is coated in a stiff wax, an interesting alternative to reaching a drownie, the more standard option being, of course, patiently waiting for them to return to shore. But, upon turning the envelope over the entire scenario makes a great deal more sense; in piercing blue ink is written Oliver, the handwriting clearly that of his mentor, Illuvatar. Inside is a small, again wax coated, card, it read
Oliver,
It has been too long since we’ve met. Would you care to join me for a dinner and discussion? I would be positively thrilled to have you, and if the wine is good enough perhaps we could even exchange some poetry. I will await you in my yacht at Wolfstack.
Yours,
Illuvatar
His eyes go wide for a moment at the mention of red honey. It seems this protege has steered herself into dangerous waters. Red honey. While he knew of it, it was once of the few things in the Neath he has no experience with. It must have been desperation, not depravity that drove her to it; she was not a hedonist, but she was relentlessly and recklessly determined once she got going.
He clears his throat, still reeling slightly, “there is one final point first: if your conditions are met, do you want to see it coming? I shall respect it if you don’t, but I understand if you wish to face it head on.” His statement is matter of fact, almost nonchalant, more out of a desire to ease her nerves than a casual attitude towards the topic. It is no small matter to bring permanent death, let alone to someone you like.
His mind settles back on the matter of the honey, unavoidable as a gaping wound, and equally apt to inspire prodding. He clears his throat again, feeling somewhat awkward for the first time in a long time, his curiosity is burning, but this was not the kind of experience one just asked about, “if you have need of any other assistance, or wish to discuss anything, all you must do is ask.”
“Also,” he begins reluctantly, “should this come to pass, what should Oliver be told?”
Liza sucks in an unsteady breath, the heel of his hand still pressed to her brow. Behind her closed eyes, she can see the memories of the sights she ripped still-screaming from someone, the visions and reflections she saw, as though reflected into blood.
She wishes she could blame the Neath for what she has done.
“Please. Tell me.” Her voice is soft. It will break her heart, to look at her husband, to know she is looking her last — but it hurts her, too, to think she might not have time to draw him close a last time, to say the sweet-soft words he deals in so easily but have been so hard for her to give voice. “Give me —- time. I will nae fight it. I only—-” —only has found herself in the smell of the sea and river, only has found someone for whom she would – she has – done unspeakable things, only needs to say goodbye. Illuvatar will not fault her for that.
Dropping her hand, Liza looks at him, eyes hardening. “Nothing.” She leans forward. “Nae a word of this deal will reach him. Tell him – tell him it was devils. Tell him it was the Game, tell him whatever he will believe, an’ he’ll believe any tale ye spin him. But he cannae—” Her fingers curl hard around her tea cup. “Understand?”
He looks at her, and gives a curt nod. His face and demeanor nonchalant, almost uninterested; he is the very image of detached power and professionalism. It is what she needs of him. His concern an compassion would do her no good now. What she wants was something hard and implacable, and he had enough practice in his life to be that for her. After all, what good is an adviser that doesn’t provide what his proteges need? But for all that, he still placed his hand on hers briefly, a trifle of comfort. A shot of whisky in a blizzard: not enough to save you, but enough to give some solace and make the what will come a little easier.
“If it comes to that, Ms. Jerusha” he says in the same tone he uses to discuss students’ grades, “you will have time to do what you must.”
His voice trails slightly, and for a brief moment, no more than several heartbeats, his eyes are distant, the clouds dark and roiling. Thoughts of good byes that never were swirling though his head. He idly rubs at the plain gold ring on his finger.
His eyes refocus as he says, “and Oliver will be told something that gives comfort, if the need arises.” He pours a cup of tea, forgoing the sugar this time, and pressing it into her hands says, “and all shall be well, and all manner of thing shall be well.”
Tonight the darkness of the London night is punctuated by candles in windows, the small circles of flickering light marks of the season’s festivities. Masked figures skulk in the tremulous shadows, their eye sockets as dark and impenetrable as the hearts they hide. Confessions are given and taken in turn, for Hallowmas is upon London; the season of secrets, with all its sins and absolutions, its betrayals and confidences.
Somewhere in this revelry, a meeting, ostensibly of chance, but who can ever tell with him, let alone during Hallowmas. In the flickering light of the candle between you, stands your mentor, Illuvatar. The rubbery man mask he wears hides his face, but not his identity; his manner (and the ring on his finger) are instantly recognizable.
The mask, though, is a wonder. The opalescent sheen of the mantle somehow captures the impression of the moist undulations of the rubberies. Its valves and vents contort in such a manner as to make his voice quaver and modulate in an alien, fluting way, fluctuating between low and high mid utterance without interruption.
“A confession for a confession?” he pipes, his voice and face not his own. “A sin for a sin?”
Thomas laughs, hoping the sparkle of his gilded mask and mirth will hide the chill he feels at the thought of both what he might be forced to divulge and what Illuvatar might tell him.
“Of course. I hope you find mine diverting,” Thomas responds, watching what he can see of Illuvatar’s expression through the mask. He walks over towards the alleyway, “I’ll tell you my secret first, I suppose.” As Illuvatar approaches, Thomas wonders what to tell him. What can he say that will elicit a true confession from his mentor but not open him to anything truly dangerous? He begins to babble, almost giggling, about Marlon–or more accurately about the affair he had with the beautiful 19 year old once-urchin who cornered him to ask for help getting in with the Widow since he had had no luck in the years since being kicked from the urchin gangs. Marlon had no idea. But as he told the tale, Thomas grew more and more nervous, perhaps this was insufficient.
“This did lead me to a grand loss; I’m afraid to look at mirrors. I brought the boy into the Glass and, well, let’s just say the Finger-Kings took an interest in him. One I was not expecting.”
Illuvatar watches Thomas pace and stammer. He wonders if he feels guilt for this one, or if it is merely part of his repertoire, a mere nothing to be put forward in the hopes of something more substantial being given in return. Regardless, he would keep it in confidence (though he muses, he is unlikely to receive the same confidentiality) and offer his in turn.
“Flesh changes, the Chain forbids, “ he says, his voice burbling through the mask, “but the chain does not touch here; the weak may become Great. I have indulged in the shapeling arts, I have been touched by the principalities of Hell, I have drank of the Mountain’s blood and coveted her Garden, and I have sought more ways that this: I have become more than I was. I have sought the cracks in the Law and pushed my way through them. I have ascended link by link the the Chain that once was my binding.”
His mask is barely visible in the light of the flickering candle now, losing himself for a moment in the recollection of his past and the giving of his confession.
“This is my sin, the sin of ambition, and of transcendence.”
Of course, she hadn’t knocked, but that was no surprise, part of her charm was her no nonsense brusqueness; and anyway, that is why he had ensured that the boards in front of his office were loose enough to squeak. She seemed more haggard than usual, her recent endeavors had truly been hard on her physically and mentally, not to mention morally, but there was something more: worry? It must be a personal matter then.
But despite all this, there was still careful caution in her movements, hard suspicion glinting in her eyes. This one had never trusted him; she showed great promise in that way, even if her misgivings were misguided. But then again, she couldn’t know that, and were he in her shoes, he would be the same way.
She cycles through a few names and titles (”is there really any difference between them now?” he muses, a smirk pulling at his cheeks) before settling on “sir.” She asks if he has some time, and of course he does, even if he had any appointments, they would be easy to adjust and far less interesting anyway.
“Of course,” he says, adding “would you care for some tea?” Letting a little glimmer of amusement enter the tone, a gentle taunt about her mistrust of his refreshments. “What is it you need?”
“No,” she says, “thank you.” He knows she wants no part of his tea; he’s wasting her time. Making a joke at her expense. It is no different in his classes: either he’s distant, a world away, stormy-eyed and dreaming, or he’s too close, too real, despite being half a lecture hall away. It’s an odd effect, like looking at a too-lifelike portrait.
When he’s like that, Liza cannot help but feel that those eyes fall on her each time they roam the room, and that every word is a joke at her expense. It’s no different from the other professors, and yet completely so. The joke is never, Ah, Miss Jerusha, our willful filly, shouldn’t you be at home? Wed, perhaps? The joke is never, Speak English! I “cannae” understand a word you Scots say.
The joke is, much more simply, You need me. And she hates that it is true.
Folding her hands behind her back, Liza lifts her chin. “I need – information.” It is, after all, the most common and perhaps most precious currency in the Neath. “On Drownies. On what they are.” She stresses the final word with care; she does not need to know they were human, does not need to know they drowned. The information she needs, rather, is more pointed, more specific. More exact. And Illuvatar has her answers. He would not be who he is if he did not.
He leans back in his chair, taking a sip of tea, his smirk just wide enough to be seen around his cup. The smirk’s composition was more complex than the mere satisfaction of his knowledge giving him power, although that was no small part of it. Nor was it just pleasure of teaching, being the conduit through which information is received, but that pleasure was there, he is an educator after all. No, for all that his smile would be more contained, a private joy, to revealing to expose to others. This smirk was because one of his proteges, one of those he’d chosen, was beginning to probe the deeper mysteries of the Neath.
“Well, Ms. Jerusha,” he says, the smirk gone without a trace by the time he lowers his cups from his lips, “as I’m sure your tuition here has made you aware, information does not come free.” His eyes flash, lightening amid the storm, “how do you propose to pay?”
He sets his teacup aside and leans foreward, his bland mask of an expression barely concealing an almost predatory eagerness. “You could start with why you want to know.”
Tonight the darkness of the London night is punctuated by candles in windows, the small circles of flickering light marks of the season’s festivities. Masked figures skulk in the tremulous shadows, their eye sockets as dark and impenetrable as the hearts they hide. Confessions are given and taken in turn, for Hallowmas is upon London; the season of secrets, with all its sins and absolutions, its betrayals and confidences.
Most revelers pass by your candleless house, knowing it to be no refuge for confessors nor their secrets. Yet, eventually there is a knock in your door. On your stoop, dressed in unfamiliar clothes and bearing a candle, the light from which glints on the bright brass of his skull mask, is your mentor, Illuvatar. Though disguised the way he holds himself (not to mention the spots of violant ink on his fingers) are immediately recognizable.
His mask though, is a marvel. All hard lines and polished surface that glimmers ominously in the dancing light of the candle. It gives the same impression of heat and subtle vibration that the devils do. It’s so shaped as to make his voice resonate, and the teeth are set just slightly loose, so that as he speaks it comes out low and mellifluous with a hard buzz at the edges.
“Will you take my sin?” he vibrates, the sound all honey and coals. “A confession given in confidence.”
Tonight the darkness of the London night is punctuated by candles in windows, the small circles of flickering light marks of the season’s festivities. Masked figures skulk in the tremulous shadows, their eye sockets as dark and impenetrable as the hearts they hide. Confessions are given and taken in turn, for Hallowmas is upon London; the season of secrets, with all its sins and absolutions, its betrayals and confidences.
Somewhere in this revelry, a meeting, ostensibly of chance, but who can ever tell with him, let alone during Hallowmas. In the flickering light of the candle between you, stands your mentor, Illuvatar. The rubbery man mask he wears hides his face, but not his identity; his manner (and the ring on his finger) are instantly recognizable.
The mask, though, is a wonder. The opalescent sheen of the mantle somehow captures the impression of the moist undulations of the rubberies. Its valves and vents contort is such a manner as to make his voice quaver and modulate in an alien fluting way, fluctuating between low and high mid utterance without interruption.
“A confession for a confession?” he pipes, his voice and face not his own. “A sin for a sin?”
His faux friendly demeanor fades as his face shifts into a carefully neutral expression. He takes the note from her hands and reads it without a word. When he finishes he looks up, first meeting her eyes and then flicking over to the knife.
He lays his hands on his lap, flat and fingers splayed. “Are you particularly attached to that implement?” He asks, his voice crisp and businesslike, “because while I can do what you ask, it would be more unpleasant for everyone involved than if I used my own means.” He pauses, “that being said, your preference is paramount and I am certainly capable of doing what you ask with that.” A flash of emotion appears in his eyes for a moment, impossible to truly parse in so brief a time, but something between pride and regret.
After the moment passes his eyes lock back onto hers, “I think you should be fully aware, I can and perhaps even will do this for you, so you must be sure. I understand some of these terms,” he says, gesturing to the note, now crisply folded and lying on the table, “but others are perhaps less reasonable. You are only human after all (perhaps it is nothing, but it almost seems as if there is a peculiar stress on you and only), and giving into a vice is no cause for such drastic measures.”
“And so,” he says, leaning forward, his tone grave and perhaps slightly pleading, “are you certain of this?”
She retreats into herself as the note is taken, expression flickering between relief and resignation. Her head hurts. Taking her tea once more, Liza studies her face, reflected there in all its hollowness.
Fortune-tellers speak of futures spelled out in tea-leaves, in china cups and kettles made in sunlit lands above. They proclaim to know what the shuffling passage of days will bring. She has never put stock in their trade; never would it be said that Elizabeth Jerusha had consulted the fates like some superstitious sod taken in by clever hands and more clever words. But she wonders now what the leaves would have said. Wonders, perhaps, if they could have foreseen this: Illuvatar and his star-bright eyes, asking her how she wants to die.
She feels sick.
“I leave it tae your discretion,” Liza says, staring at the tea. Her hand trembles; the water ripples; her reflection dissolves, reforms, dissolves again. “However it must be done. It dinnae seem proper tae ask it without offering a means. And I’m certain of it; I cannae risk going forward without being sure of it. I–”
He is watching her. Careful, close, quite calm. Years ago, when she was young, when she still lived in the sunlit cities above, the fact that Illuvatar had hardly faltered at her request would have given her a shiver: a feeling of dread. Today, it is a relief. “The honey is—” She licks her lips. “—the most important thing. The most important. It cannae be permitted, not a bloody drop, not yellow, not re—-” Liza looks away from him sharply. Her head spins, and she presses the heel of her hand to her brow, taking an unsteady breath. “Are we agreed?”
His eyes go wide for a moment at the mention of red honey. It seems this protege has steered herself into dangerous waters. Red honey. While he knew of it, it was once of the few things in the Neath he has no experience with. It must have been desperation, not depravity that drove her to it; she was not a hedonist, but she was relentlessly and recklessly determined once she got going.
He clears his throat, still reeling slightly, “there is one final point first: if your conditions are met, do you want to see it coming? I shall respect it if you don’t, but I understand if you wish to face it head on.” His statement is matter of fact, almost nonchalant, more out of a desire to ease her nerves than a casual attitude towards the topic. It is no small matter to bring permanent death, let alone to someone you like.
His mind settles back on the matter of the honey, unavoidable as a gaping wound, and equally apt to inspire prodding. He clears his throat again, feeling somewhat awkward for the first time in a long time, his curiosity is burning, but this was not the kind of experience one just asked about, “if you have need of any other assistance, or wish to discuss anything, all you must do is ask.”
“Also,” he begins reluctantly, “should this come to pass, what should Oliver be told?”
He slumps back in the bed, resigning himself to whatever care she deigns to give, lord knows that she’s accepted enough of his ministrations with…well, she’s accepted them at any rate. He begins planning his social recovery as the night goes on. His body may be whole, but these past few days have done him no favors. Plans and networks tend to get disrupted when the one at their center suddenly starts ranting, bleeding, and…consuming without apparent provocation. Not to mention the disapproval that the powers that be have for such activities.
All shall be well, as the phrase goes, and he didn’t go deep enough to lose himself, although it was a sore temptation. But some depths are not to plumbed, at least not yet, and there is still enough of him to pull up. In no small part to Liza and others; many new debts had been established, but their recounting will be immediate he resolved, best not let these things linger.
“As the doctor orders” a hint of sarcasm entering his tone, changing quickly into sincerity, “I do mean it though, I appreciate this kindness and please let me know if there’s anything I can do by way of repayment.”
Dropping her hand into her lap, Liza looks at him, wondering how she became the caretaker – for tonight, at least – of such a man as this. And of her husband, who is kind, who wrote her love letters the likes of which stole even her silvered-stone heart, who cannot defend himself against the cruelties of the Neath. And, too, of her employer, the Detective.
“Doctor indeed,” she mutters. “Nae for a great many years, I fear. If they even decide tae give women the title. But order is a damn good word indeed, and one that’s hit the mark: I am ordering you tae stay in bed. Rest. I’m nae interested in debts and repayments.” A bad business model, as they go; it seems some days that the Bazaar itself is run on favors, and the lives of each inhabitant of the Neath shaped inescapably by who owes whom a dinner, a debt, a deposit.
“Though—” Drawing her fingers through her mess of curls, she begins again. “Though I do wonder what brought you here, by the river. ‘Tis out of the way, and the business ‘round here is business I imagine you’re rather above. Cats and fishmongers and half-rate couriers and the like.”
He chuckles darkly, “there’s not much above me, especially not lately.” He stares down at his hands for a long moment before closing his eyes and shaking his head vigorously. “I am not so…lofty as you seem to think my dear, and I was even less so in my past, and our pasts do tend to stick around, for good or ill.”
For a moment he looks much older and much wearier. A wistful smile spreads across his face as old memories bubble to the surface, but its corners are tugged back by the undercurrent of melancholy that swirls under such recollections.
Then it turns to a sour grimace as he recalls the matters that put him in this state. “Nothing you should concern yourself with,” he says curtly, an apologetic note creeping in at the edges, “very old and very bad business. Although to be perfectly frank, I’m not entirely certain how I got here per se, I was not really myself.”
Flashes of images race across his mind. Of sharp stones in clenched fists, of desperate struggles, of vines in impossible, profane shapes, of ripping, rending, tearing, of blood and hunger and feasting, of redredreDREDREDRED
His breath is coming in rapid gasps and he visibly struggles to regain his composure. After long moments filled with a silence sharp and heavy he is back. He collapses onto the pillow, “bad business” he murmurs as he slips into troubled dreams, “bad business.”
His eyes linger long on the knife, his mind whirring with the possibilities. This obviously isn’t an assassination attempt, although if it were it would certainly suit her style. She isn’t the sort to request a…illicit problem removal, and even so, he has much more effective tools for such a job. She is a detective of no small talent herself, so unless she is particularly stymied this can’t be a clue in some mystery. He closes his eyes for a long second. This is pointless, she isn’t one for needless obfuscation, the simplest way to find out is to ask.
But, decorum must be observed. He sips his tea and sets the cup and saucer down carefully. His eyes pause on the knife and then pointedly move away from it, the lack of attention making it the focus of his question, “a favor? Of what sort?”
He leans back, eyes still pointedly away from the knife, his manner just as pointedly casual, awaiting a response.
The knife lies between them, the flat of its blade reflecting the high ceilings of Illuvatar’s home. It is sharp. Practical. Not hers. Meant for a butcher’s work, which reminds her of the question she wants to ask, the question she must ask.
Liza closes her eyes. She feels sick.
Strange, that she trusts him with this, but nothing else.
Her voice is soft, unsteady, thick with the accent that has yet to fade away once more. “Better tae say it outright.” She frowns, shifts, takes a breath. “Recent events have brought it tae light that I— Have ye killed anyone?” The knife glints in the corners of her vision as she leans forward. “Permanently? I have tae ask it of ye, one way or the other. I have – conditions.” Without taking her eyes from her former mentor, Liza holds her tea and saucer on one palm, china clinking due to the tremor in her hand, and fishes in her small bag once more. She holds out the scrap of paper she finds there. “The favor is a safeguard, understand? In case it – it becomes necessary. In case the conditions are met.”
Moving to the edge of her seat, Liza Jerusha waves the proffered paper a little and tries not to sound like she’s drowning. “In case I go too far.”
His faux friendly demeanor fades as his face shifts into a carefully neutral expression. He takes the note from her hands and reads it without a word. When he finishes he looks up, first meeting her eyes and then flicking over to the knife.
He lays his hands on his lap, flat and fingers splayed. “Are you particularly attached to that implement?” He asks, his voice crisp and businesslike, “because while I can do what you ask, it would be more unpleasant for everyone involved than if I used my own means.” He pauses, “that being said, your preference is paramount and I am certainly capable of doing what you ask with that.” A flash of emotion appears in his eyes for a moment, impossible to truly parse in so brief a time, but something between pride and regret.
After the moment passes his eyes lock back onto hers, “I think you should be fully aware, I can and perhaps even will do this for you, so you must be sure. I understand some of these terms,” he says, gesturing to the note, now crisply folded and lying on the table, “but others are perhaps less reasonable. You are only human after all (perhaps it is nothing, but it almost seems as if there is a peculiar stress on you and only), and giving into a vice is no cause for such drastic measures.”
“And so,” he says, leaning forward, his tone grave and perhaps slightly pleading, “are you certain of this?”