Chapter Text
Autumn of Seven, Third Age of Aristocrats
Eight senior scholars trudged down the main road of Old Town in the mild, dimming twilight; although the cloud that had covered the sky since dawn made it hard to tell. Their heads hung as low as the fog in the streets, their footsteps loud in their ears. Nobody spoke a word and the atmosphere was heavy and tense.
The order has been given that afternoon.
“With the entire state under lockdown, we are now free to scour the streets, herd from the hills and comb every nook and cranny of Nevermoor, for we have been lenient with her for too long- the Wundersmith Morrigan Crow!” Elder Quinn’s voice had rung out across the Gathering place, with answering shouts and growls. Over the din, a boy shouted.
“Elder Quinn, we made an oath- we gave our word! Sisters and brothers!” Mahir Ibrahim’s anguished voice carried over the raucous tones. Elder Quinn fixed him with a blazing look from across the room.
“But didn’t she, also, Ibrahim? Didn’t she say she would be loyal to you? To your unit, to the Wundrous Society- to Nevermoor?” She was shouting. “The Wundersmith broke her promise, she is no longer your sister- this is the last time one of her kind will betray us. From now on, Wundersmiths will deemed hostile and dangerous to all and every person of Nevermoor- Crow’s actions have done nothing but confirmed to us that people like her CANNOT BE TRUSTED!” There was another roar of agreement- from all but one patch in the crowd.
The left over members of Unit 919 sat in stony silence- Hawthorne Swift, staring at the head in front of him, but not seeing. Cadence Blackburn, her face blank, looking determinedly at the Elders on the podium. Anah Kahlo, her head in her hands, face hidden from view since the beginning of the meeting. Archan Tate, all light and energy gone from his demeanor. Thaddea Macleod, her chest heaving as if she would burst at any second. Francis Fitzwilliam, hugging his sides, not daring to open his eyes. Lambeth Amara, trembling from head to toe in her seat, and Mahir Ibrahim, sitting up as straight as a ruler, staring hopelessly at the Elders.
Elder Quinn raised her voice once more. “So, trusted Wuns: go forth from the grounds and retrieve the Wundersmith by ANY MEANS NECESSARY.” There was a stampede in the aisles as the Gathering Place emptied, everyone rushing to the doors. The broken 919 sat as still as stones for couple moments, until Thaddea stood up abruptly and walked robotically to the door, Anah finally peeking through her fingers and letting out a small whimper. Cadence and Arch followed momentarily, then Francis and Anah, leaving Hawthorne, Mahir and Lam in silence.
“C’mon,” Mahir said almost unintelligibly and stood up, Lam following suit awkwardly.
“It’s going to be okay, Hawthorne,” she said quietly, putting a hand on his shoulder. He continued to stare.
“I don’t understand,” he said eventually, his voice breaking. Lam pursed her lips and squeezed his arm before following Mahir out of the room.
Where had it all gone so horribly wrong?