Chapter Text
Zolf stays in Prague too long. How does he know this?
Well.
Six days after leaving— right, he’ll just say it — after ditching the team he was supposed to lead, he’s standing at the foot of blue-tinted marble stairs. The mouth of the temple is set above the banks of the Vltava, looking out across a preternaturally clean section of river spotted with smaller boats in the early-morning. There are only a few people coming and going at this hour—something he’s counting on— and most of them look like the beaten-down in search of healing. Not people likely to stop or remember him.
“Right.” He glances down, making sure the water legs are well-hidden beneath his trousers and boots. If he walks in there to some sort of fuss, he knows himself well enough to know he’ll turn right back around and walk out. The plan is get in, talk to the most calm-looking fellow cleric, finally get some bloody answers about what Poseidon wants, get out. “Let’s…”
He looks behind him for a beat, to an empty spot of riverbank where no one is standing. He sighs.
“Go.”
The stairs wind upwards, but he takes his time thinking up what he’ll say. He’s practiced plenty alone, but it still doesn’t come out right, and the river nearby is calming, helping the words along.
He’s deep enough in thought by the time he jogs up to the temple doors that he can do absolutely nothing to stop himself from full-on colliding with the person hurrying out. The person staggers, a small bottle flying from their hand that Zolf manages to leap forward and snatch right before it hits the ground.
“Sorry mate, miles away, uh, caught your—“
“It’s quite alright, that was an impressive— Zolf?”
Zolf blinks, taking in the daisy-yellow suit lapels he follows up to a brilliant pink cravat. Above that, a familiar face looks down at him, genuine surprise written on its features.
“Oh, you’re bloomin’ joking.”
Wilde seems to recover quickly enough, slouching a bit more carelessly and raising a single eyebrow. At the same time Zolf starts to put two and two together, and all the calm from the river evaporates.
“I’m not coming back,” he says, controlling his tone best he can. He is in a temple, after all. “I told Hamid and Sasha as much, and you’ve got no right to track me down and—“
“That’s not—“
“—got my own life outside bloody Meritocratic contracts, I’m not—“
“—other business to attend to, it’s not actually—“
“—done with you and your ridiculous secrets—“
“I’m not here for you!” Wilde says very suddenly and very loudly, and Zolf is taken aback enough by the tone that he shuts up.
“Er. Good. Then. Well.” He looks Wilde up and down. “You’re— then what are you here for? You’re not what I’d call a god-fearing man.”
“You flatter me,” Wilde replies, much less airily than he'd expect. “I have my reasons, Mister Smith.”
Zolf rolls his eyes.
“I don’t work for you anymore, you can quit with the intrigue. Reason’s being?”
Wilde purses his lips, looking away as he gestures sharply, almost awkwardly.
“It seems you’re holding it.”
“Wha—oh!” He squints at the little glass bottle still in his hands, turning it over. No label, but the color is plain enough. “What, Bertie continuin’ to be the most exhausting person on the planet to be around? Who woulda guessed.”
“Bertie’s dead,” says Wilde, and Zolf doesn’t have time to take in how factually he says it, how firmly, before Wilde is holding his hand out for the potion.
“Huh,” Zolf says, for lack of a better word. He gestures with the bottle, refusing to examine any of the emotions surfacing in his chest. “So, what, just bought this for fun, then?”
“It’s for a friend,” Wilde says smoothly.
Zolf looks from the bottle to Wilde. Pristine hair, bright eyes, a healthy glow to his skin. His knowing salesman grin is shining its full force down on him, casual and careless.
The hand extended between them is shaking ever so slightly.
“You’re not actually that good a liar,” Zolf says at last, handing over the bottle. Wilde tucks it away immediately, returning his cool gaze to Zolf in a heartbeat.
“Lucky for me, you don’t care,” Wilde says with a self-satisfied twist of his mouth. “If you did, I’d think I’d have a chance re-recruiting you. Which, Cairo is beautiful this time of year if you'd like to join—”
“You’re right, actually, I don’t care.” Zolf adjusts his bag, nodding at Wilde. No need to burn more bridges than he already has. “Good luck, Wilde. See you never.”
Wilde smooths his lapel once, a gleam of magic zinging imperceptibly around him, and winks.
“Only if you’re that unlucky.”
And with that he slides past Zolf and out of the temple.
It’s not until Wilde’s gone that Zolf realizes he hadn’t even taken the chance to ask about the others. He’s been avoiding the news, avoiding the crowds. He could have asked. Bertie’s dead. The others might be. He could have asked.
He knows he wouldn’t have.