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Your rooms are empty this night, as they were intended, of course. Your Cabinet have all made their ways out of your domicile, and you made it clear to any companions you will not be hosting for the next little while. All you can do is wait, as your friendly Ministers went about their “diplomatic exchange”. You think of the urn in your possession, the means to this journey's end. Will it be worth it? Will you finally find peace when Mr Cups is dead and gone and your love is avenged?
Not a satisfying end to your story, we could say. A simple killing in exchange for all the crimes it has done, that all of them have done? Not proportional, not proportional at all. There is better vengeance to be had.
You clutch your head, it was all too much. You could deal with the voice of the fungus, but it left your mind open, and something else has made its way home. Something that speaks with a voice not unlike your own. Worse, something that speaks with your voice, your true voice. It speaks more like you than you, leaving you a pale shadow flickering in your own candlelight. With your voice comes memories, inhuman and unexperienced by this form, with those memories comes a hunger you have barely contained. You hope that the bloodshed you will inflict will be enough. You dread that it will not.
The hunger grows, voracious and deafening. You try to stumble to your kitchen, some roasted chestnuts might help, when you see yourself. Must have stepped to a mirror. You tilt you head, the other you does not. As concern starts to mount you smell the ammonia, oh, it is just you. Rather, the Noman you. She looks to you with concern. “Are you alright?”
“Of course, we are always alright, we know this.” You give your best smile, not wishing to worry your other self. “Why are you here? I am certainly not in the proper position to host at this moment.”
Unfortunately, none of your reassurances seem to put her at ease. “I told you I would be a while, however I stated my intention to return on the twenty seventh.” Oh. It appears you have lost track of time. “I know we say we are alright when we do not wish to discuss our situation, but I am you, you can confide in me.” Looking at her face, you see your own concern reflected back at you, her violant... Wait, she should not have violant eyes. What was she doing all this time?
“Should I? What have you been doing these past thirteen days?” You see it far easier now, she is violant stained, deep in her lacre, faded, smothered, but still visible to the trained eye, to your eyes.
You can read yourself with ease, the desire to dilute the severity of the statement, the need to digress, and ultimately your candid nature winning out. “I had a hunger, I was unaccountably peckish. I consumed violant ink hoping it would help me remember what I was missing, help me be remembered.”
“What, what did it do?” You speak with worried kindness, you did not think this hunger would be felt by her. There must be some way you can help, you just have to think.
“It... It gave me perspective.” Her voice hollow, her cadence flat. “I cannot say it was bad, it worked. It changes things, however.” She looks over you, unsure quite how to speak her thoughts. “Why have you not dealt with this? You know there are ways out, Hell you have an entire pile of correspondence with a way out! Master Irons continues to send you those letters, why have you not heeded its advice? What, do you think,”
“I deserve this.” The words leave your lips before you can process them. You certainly always had a strange relationship with martyrdom, but this was not what you believe, right?
She does not call out the perspective, her thoughts only barely betrayed by her look, a look of comprehension, she sees something you cannot. “Just like you 'deserve' to be haunted by a death thirteen years umquhile? If anyone else was suffering like this you would almost force yourself into it, doing whatever it took to help them.” Her understanding turns to anger, fists clenching in impotent rage. “You are doing it right now! You are suffering this road alone, but only when you realise you have given it to me are you willing to take any action! You are already formulating responses, calculating the best course of action, comparing the properties of lacre and flesh to understand how this could be cleansed! I am not even a person in the eyes of London as a whole, yet you are willing to do anything to save me, extend my life, just like you have for every single Noman you have ever made. Why? Why us and not yourself? Why do you never do anything for yourself? We are just means to an end.”
Lacre tears trail down her face, staining the shirt she was wearing. Luckily the clothes your Noman wear are part of your winter wardrobe, you can never quite get the smell of ammonia out of them. You hate that smell, it makes your skin crawl, it smothers the scents that should be olfactible, yet whenever you wear those stained clothes, aches and pains you never feel fade away, a relief you allow yourself only a short while. You step forward, brushing her cheek, catching the lacre on your fingers.
“You all were never means to an end.” Ironic, she looks more human than you. The violant give her a faint pinkish hue, her lacre more the colour of skin than your pale complexion. “At worst you could be considered a vessel for new life, an opportunity to live as myself again. In you I see a chance for me to be truly myself, free from all that imprisons me. In you I see hope.”
Oh what you would give up for her, for all of them. Unshackled from your destiny, free from the pain you carry, unburdened by expectations of what you should be. A freedom to stop being, and to start becoming.
She beholds you, a sorrowful look of holding back. “One can only hope their creator shares your mindset." She pauses, there is an implication behind those words, why can you not see it? "Then why will you not heal yourself? Then why will you not deal with the problem right in front of you?”
“I am so close to the end now, I must keep up appearances, I must keep myself in this state, I must be ready for what needs to be done. That is a wonderful thing however, the end of this story is fast approaching, a tale ending, no more chapters left to write. Soon I will have a new chance, a new start, one where I can heal, one where I can live truly as myself. All shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of thing shall be well.”
Before you can say more, she embraces you, her grip around you as tight as a vice. “You are so pretentious. This is not some monograph to be studied. Not some article to open the eyes of fools. Do you seriously still believe that?” Why is she so concerned, should you be worried? What connections does she see with her violant stained eyes? If only you could remember, if only you could see clearly.
“Of course. the board is set, the endgame is approaching, and soon all I have prepared and done will culminate in a perfect finality. I am so close to fulfilling my purpose.” Only now do you notice the voice have quieted, the hunger receded. Perhaps this plot will soothe your pain. A smile sneaks it way onto your face, perhaps you should host.
“Well, I have nothing to do till I receive notice, how shall I host you in the interim?”
She gives you a gentle smile. “It is up to you.”
You have an idea. “Cards?”