Chapter Text
Year 47, in the Golden Orchard:
Julien dodged under a low-hanging branch, pressing deeper into the underbrush of one of the wilder areas of the Orchard. Earlier in the season, many of the bushes in this area had been loaded with blossoms, and soon they would be brimming with ripe berries, but for now, there was little to attract people to this area. More importantly, there was a thicket here with enough room underneath to accommodate a child Julien's size comfortably and a typical adult human not at all, with abundant blackberry vines running throughout as an extra deterrent.
His head of blooms bounced lightly against his thigh as he beelined for the most convenient gap he knew of to get past the outer tangle. He dropped to his knees and crawled through, guarding his second face from bumping against any protruding twigs, and didn't stop until he reached roughly the center of the thicket, where there was a decent little “room” to sit in and he would be all but invisible to anyone looking from the outside.
It was a limited reprieve. There were too many fae good at tracking creatures down and too many Royces who could command the Orchard itself for him to disappear indefinitely, but he should have a little while before his tutors and his parents would admit defeat and appeal to reinforcements.
He settled with his back to the main trunk of one of the taller bushes and his head of blooms in his lap. He scrubbed a now-grubby sleeve over watering eyes (he'd kicked up dust on his way in) and frowned at the head in his lap, restlessly shifting it about. He finally laid it on its side, staring at the wreath of flowers around its neck.
He plucked off a flower and dropped it into the dirt.
Five delicate purple flowers littered the ground next to him when the first kettle-hob showed up. He snapped at the fae, demanding it go away with a haughty arrogance he knew would only add another offense onto the list of things he would be in trouble for when found.
When a second kettle-hob trespassed on his little domain a few moments later, he looked up, prepared to do the same, and bit his tongue. Telling off Great-Aunt Naura was probably not worth the consequences.
“Hello, Julien,” she said pleasantly, gaze raking swiftly over the thorns at his throat, the head of blooms in his lap, and the little pile of blossoms next to him. (The purple of their petals matched those encircling her own neck.)
He mumbled something that could be plausibly mistaken for a greeting, looking down at his head and the next purple blossom (the last one remaining on this side of the neck). His fingers pinched lightly around the base without actually plucking it, waiting for the inevitable admonition to leave the flowers alone.
It didn't come. Instead, Naura sighed, set down her things, and, with a faint pop, twisted her head of blooms off of her shoulders. Julien looked up, startled, trying to figure out what he'd done to cross her now, as she set the mournful-looking head aside and replaced it with the other, thorns spreading from her throat to the rest of her body.
She planted her hands on her hips. “Alright now, what happened?”
Instead of answering, Julien experimentally twisted the flower from his other neck. Neither Naura nor her head of blooms reacted. He moved to drop it alongside the others.
“Throwing those away?” Naura inquired.
“Yes.”
“Hm. May I have it?”
After a long moment, unable to think of any reason why not, he handed over the flower. Naura tucked it behind the ear of her head of blooms.
“…You're not going to tell me to stop?”
Naura hung her spare head from her belt and climbed up to sit on a nearby branch. “Why would I tell you to stop? They're your flowers.”
He shrugged, his eyes fixed on his other neck as if still scrutinizing it for more available blooms. “Roland said to stop.”
“Your tutor? Hmph. When Roland grows flowers of his own, he can decide what to do with them.”
“Roland says they're not mine; they're his.” He indicated the silent head of blooms.
Both of Naura's heads stared at him in consternation. “This is the person my niece and Raimond chose to teach you? That's one of the stupidest notions I've ever heard, and that's saying something. What does this bozo do, teach you sums and then turn around and teach your other head the same lesson over again? You're both you.”
Julien shrugged. He turned his head of blooms over and plucked one of the flowers from the other side. He hesitated, then silently held it out to Naura.
“Thank you, dear.” She tucked the second flower behind the ear she was wearing. “Now we'll match.”
She scrutinized him with her arms folded across her chest as he silently plucked another blossom and added it to his collection in the dirt.
“You haven't told me why you switched heads and are skulking out here to begin with.”
Julien carefully selected and decapitated two more blossoms before he answered. “I threw Morain Elbrendi in the lake.”
“Hmph. What'd he do?”
Julien's fingers stilled. “What?”
“What'd the Elbrendi brat do that you threw him into the lake for?”
Julien eyed her suspiciously. Was automatically taking his side a ruse to get him to volunteer more information than was good for him? “He tried to grab my head.”
Naura's scowl deepened to thunderous. “That little— Which one?”
Julien silently pointed at the one he was wearing. Naura nodded.
“Out of the blue, or did something happen before that?”
Julien shifted, pulling his knees up. He rested his chin on top of his head of blooms, now balanced upright on his knees. “He said his mother said Father would need another heir, because the noble houses and the fae are supposed to be separate, and no one would trust a lord who was 'literally two-faced.'”
Naura was ominously silent for a long moment. “And so you put on your head of thorns and threw him in the lake?”
Julien hugged his head closer. “…Kind of. I punched him first. A few times. And then I threw him in the lake.”
“Good,” said Naura. “Serves the little fucker right.”
Julien's eyes widened.
Naura sighed. She clambered to a closer branch so she could put a hand on his cheek. “Julien, what do you think we have thorns for?”
“If you break promises to a kettle-hob or treat them with dishonor, they'll put on their head of thorns and switch into a grig and respond in kind,” recited Julien mechanically.
Naura's eyes narrowed as if she had some quibbles with that. “Alright, but why?”
“…So people won't want to do that because then they'll have to deal with grigs?”
She huffed. “I seriously need to have a talk with Maya about that damned tutor of yours." She shook her head. "Why do roses and blackberries have thorns?”
“To keep things from eating them?”
“Exactly.” Her finger jabbed his cheek for emphasis. “You have a head of thorns to protect you, and your head of blooms, and the people that you care about, against people who will hurt you. If the world chooses to be kind and honorable, we will give them kindness and honor back. If it doesn't, then it will face our thorns, and we will use whatever tools are necessary to protect our own. If Morain Elbrendi wants to spout slander about another house and try to lay hands on you, the wrath of your head of thorns is exactly what he should be facing. And,” she added, “if he thinks that human noble houses protect their own by being perpetually honest and straightforward and sweet-tempered, then his tutor should be sacked, too.”
Day 11, at the Hallowed Round
Julien wrapped his heavy travel cloak around him, pulling the hood well forward over his face as they followed Thaisha towards the outskirts of Halandil Fang's new theater. Performers were scattered in groups around the amphitheater, practicing… something. The only coherent activities Julien could even begin to identify were some choreographed combat and Hal himself sitting on a bench drinking from a coffee mug.
He hung back with Vaelus and Occtis as Thaisha strode forward, waving off an old orc Julien vaguely recognized from Thjazi's funeral as she beelined for Hal. After speaking for a few moments, Thaisha raised a middle finger in their direction and started climbing the hill with Hal towards the city proper.
“Is she leaving?” blurted Occtis.
“Wait, wait, that wasn't part of the deal, we—” Julien hastened into the Hallowed Round proper with Vaelus keeping pace, while Occtis crammed his vassal's corpse into a back closet.
“I don't even know what to talk about,” said Hal. “A lot of shit has happened here. We've had a couple of assassination attempts. I'm sure you're familiar with King Augustus. That would be one, and then the Photarch, sort of.” Julien shadowed the group silently as Hal summarized the assassinations, and Thaisha and Occtis filled him in on the situation with Alogar (the absence and rumors of Alogar, to be precise), until the talk turned to moving into the city itself.
A flash of something strange ran over Hal's face when Julien referenced the fate of his family and the need to remain unrecognized. By the furrow to Thaisha's brow, she caught the fleeting expression as well. As the talk of disguises and wigs (and Thaisha's accursed determination to crush Julien's curls beneath one) continued, Hal shook his head to himself with a frown. He murmured something under his breath that sounded like “Not the time. Too much too soon,” and led them instead into the theater's costume storage.
“All right,” said Hal, once their disguises were deemed sufficient, “Let's get into the city. Why don't we go to my house, and you guys can wait for Murray and crew, unless you have pressing business?”
“No, I mean, we need to talk to everyone,” said Thaisha. “There's a lot of information to get out. Let's go to your house.”
Hal made it two steps towards the door before pulling up short. The odd, conflicted expression stuck this time. He pivoted back towards the group, “Actually, before we go, there is something…” He paused, as if uncharacteristically lost for words.
He took a deep breath. “Julien. A couple of nights after you left, we… found something that appears to belong to you. I—it seemed to have been left behind when you had to make a fast exit from the attack on the Palazzo.”
Julien's heart lurched in his chest, and his tongue turned leaden. It had to be his head—nothing mundane in the wreckage of the Palazzo should give Hal such pause. But unexpectedly finding a head that mirrored his would give anyone pause, that didn't mean it was still—
He thought he would know if his head of blooms was dead, but if he were wrong… Julien wasn't sure he wanted to know. He wasn't sure he could know and still keep going, and falling apart now was not an option.
Hal frowned, visibly hesitating to say more given Julien's (lack of) response. Julien swallowed heavily, trying to figure out how to ask—
“Was it his head?” said Thaisha flatly.
Hal blinked at her, surprised, then sagged against the wall in relief, burying his face in his hands. “Yes. Oh, thank you. This didn't seem like it could wait, but I had no idea how I was going to manage to explain if the rest of you didn't know.”
“Oh, don't give me that look,” said Thaisha, in response to Julien's incredulous glare. “If they hadn't found your literal other head, that would have just sounded like I was being an ass about you not thinking things through.”
Hal jumped in, words tumbling out at a rapid pace now that he had license to speak clearly. “So, first off, your other head is fine. Completely unharmed. Long, weird story, but as far as we can tell, the Tachonis have absolutely no idea he was ever there. He's at Bolaire's place, for… reasons.” Hal exhaled shakily; Thaisha put a hand on his arm. “So much has been happening here. Uh, ideally I would suggest that we go to my house and get Bolaire to bring your head to you once he knows you're here, because I would prefer not to attract attention to his place with too many extra comings and goings. However, it's also your head, so if you want to go get it immediately, that's completely understandable and we can do that.”
Safe. His head of blooms was safe. An invisible band of tension that had been constricting his heart like a vice for the past nine days seemed to have cracked open. Julien blinked away the moisture threatening to well up in his eyes (dust from the costumes, surely), and a hand gently squeezed his shoulder from behind—Vaelus.
Belatedly, he realized Hal was still waiting for a response. “No, that—that is fine. We can get it later. Thank you. It is… It is good to know that it is not in the hands of the Tachonises.”
As they headed out, he heard Thaisha murmur to Hal, “So you've known about this two-heads situation since a couple days after we left?”
“Yes,” said Hal. “When did it come up with you?”
“Yesterday.”
Day 11, Halandil Fang's house:
As the groups prepared to disperse, Julien sidled up to Thimble. “Thimble, was it?”
Her face twisted in disgust at the implied disregard, as though she had not aged eight years after having an eternally childlike visage the entire time Julien had known her. “You are such a dick.”
He shushed her. “I have spoken with some of the surviving fairies of the Orchard before coming here, and I have a message for you. Twig's OK. And that, uh… you are missed. They are also wondering what they should do.”
“Thank you,” she said. Thimble glanced down at his belt, with only his rapier attached to it, and then scanned over the rest of him, searching. “They said Tachonis attacked the Palazzo Davinos? Around the same time as the Orchard?”
Julien's jaw clenched, and he folded his arms tighter. “They did.”
She glanced furtively around and fluttered closer to his ear, without alighting. She switched into Sylvan. “I know you haven't carried it in a long time, especially not outside the Orchard, but—”
“It is safe,” said Julien. “I… have not seen it myself, but Hal assured me it was found and is unharmed.”
Thimble, who had visibly started to relax, shot upwards several inches. “Found?” She hastily modulated her tone as a few heads turned in their direction. “You didn't have it when you left?”
Julien bristled. “The Palazzo was filled with ghouls,” he hissed, leaning towards her. “The Tachonis and their pets nearly killed Lady Aranessa; they did kill your friend; I did not have time to—”
“That's not what I meant!”
“Then what did you—?”
“I meant you've been gone nine days, with no way to know if it was OK or where it was? That's awful.” She hovered in silence for a moment. “When you see— I'm glad he's OK.”
Julien took a breath, tamping down his ire. “Thank you.”
She was silent for a long moment, except for the buzz of her rapid wings next to his ear. “Does it make it easier,” she said, so softly it was barely audible, “to literally be able to put on a different head for revenge and then switch back when you're done?”
Julien snorted. “It's been fourteen years. If I am ever done, I'll let you know.”
She huffed a mirthless laugh. “Yeah. I just got started on my list, and it keeps growing, so I guess I'll pencil it in for 85 to compare notes.”
“Ask that Arcane Marshal to write it down—if anyone already has a calendar marked out that far, he seems like the one.”
Thimble sighed. “We gotta go to the Orchard, right?”
Julien nodded. “I think we do.”
“OK. Thank you.”
“Good luck.”
“You, too.”
Day 11, Knife & Palette Pigments:
“Julien, you can ask one!” said Wick, enthusiastically.
This, thought Julien, as he looked up at the 12-foot-tall, nightmarish, tiger-wasp-ram-something fiendish behemoth, is what he got for trying to be nice to people.
This was supposed to be the straightforward mission—help guard a (fool of a) Sundered House noble during a meeting. A normal, standard task he had done a thousand times for Aranessa (minus the “fool” part). No undead hordes; no immediate Tachonis plots; no dealing with “miraculous” Yanessa Halovar or other nobles that might recognize him; no uselessly twiddling his thumbs in a magical museum waiting for people to fiddle around with magic he didn't understand; no dealing with foreign, rebel-sympathizer royalty all of his allies were inexplicably enamored with. Not even any actual violence unless something went terribly wrong—just a little show of force that Wicander Halovar was protected as a deterrent to trouble. The fact that the group (aside from the last-minute addition of Bolaire) were some of his only allies who still believed him to be an ordinary human knight and were not asking anything about his still-absent head was just icing on the cake.
And yet, he now had a nightmarish fiend staring him down demanding that he, specifically, ask her a question.
He had so many questions. Can we leave now? Are any of those spines venomous? Do you eat people? Is the pink one hiding something like that under the whimsical goat theming? Did fucking Thimble know what you were when she let us head down here without a warning, to be potentially ground into paint? What other kinds of blood do you put into paint and is three parts human to one part fae dilute enough to be of no value? Can fiends smell fae?
The damned nama apparently could, judging by how he'd stiffened and eyed Julien in the midst of raising his alarm about fiends. Julien supposed he now owed Bolaire some thanks for waving that off before it could be discussed in front of the watchman (though not much given that it was also Bolaire's doing that they had stopped to talk directly in front of the watchman he knew about), in addition to his role in sheltering Julien's head of blooms. He did not at all like the apparent debts beginning to pile up.
“You'll be fine,” said Bolaire, with a condescending smile, “just don't fuck this up.”
On second thought, fuck gratitude to Bolaire. Gratitude was head-of-blooms territory, and Julien's had probably already thanked him. He was nice like that. That's why people preferred him.
Regardless, that was a matter for later, after they had left this den of fiends without being turned into smears of pigment. He scrabbled for anything relevant to what his companions were digging for that had not yet been covered. “…What would occur should the river of Gavzidra come in contact with the fabric of the Old Path?”
An alley near Knife & Palette Pigments:
“What the fuck was that?”
“That was a paint company.”
Julien's fingers itched to rip the fucking mask from the condescending asshole's face as never before.
He had fucking had it. He had clearly been clocked as fae by the nama, as if there weren't already too many people outside the Orchard who knew his true nature. He had been splattered with “paint” of unknown composition or properties and later with demon-spittle of regretfully clear origin, been questioned by the most terrifying creature he'd ever laid eyes on (and that was saying something, having grown up in a demi-plane that was home to fae of Harrow) in a den of fiends who either proudly proclaimed their adherence to or their hatred of the fucking Candescent Creed with no in-between. He'd watched the mechanism for someone else's part-otherworldly ancestry be speculated on with idle amusement reminiscent of every scrap of tasteless speculation he'd heard about his own, and discovered that the terrifying fiend knew his name without being told (fairy tales might have overblown the importance of concealing names among the fae, that was alarming enough on an entire mundane level).
He should have just stayed at Hal's house instead of risking his ass to help these fools.
And throughout it all, Bolaire Lathalia had play-acted that he was comfortably in control of what was going on, even implying that he could produce Wicander Halovar at the fiend's pleasure and would have willingly entertained the idea of leaving him in her clutches. Julien had no love for or responsibility towards a Halovar, but the attitude set off every alarm bell he possessed.
Bolaire had his head of blooms. He could not afford to pick a fight until he had it back.
A few moments later, Wick's jaw crunched under Julien's bare first, spattering blood droplets across the brick of the adjacent building. (Tsul'rekshi could have saved herself some trouble, had she just waited and followed them, he thought distantly.) It was probably a more tactilely satisfying target than the cursed mask, which he doubted would crack under a mere punch. Wick clutched his bleeding nose with a howl rivaling that of a new nixie subjected to water for the first time.
…And neither of his self-appointed protectors had made the slightest move to stop Julien.