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Red.
Red, like the title that was bestowed upon him once his violence had proven to be worthy of achievement.
Red, like the spilled blood that steadily dripped after every step in his life.
Red, like the darkened eyes that glared at him in the mirror even if he went out of his way not to flick the lights on out of a lack of a desire to see his own face.
Vergilius could not stand the colour red, even as it enveloped him in such a way that he had no choice to find comfort in it. Yet here he was, positioned quite literally under the Second Kindred as her heel dug harshly into his own shoulder. As he gazed into burning irises that—despite not belonging to him—were the richest red he’d seen in his life.
It was a series of ‘simple’ missions–this, the third of twelve in total. As the designated Guide of the slowly forming Company, it was up to him to retrieve who Faust had directed him towards and lead them back to Mephistopheles, the Bus which would function as his and their home on wheels for the foreseeable future. This is what Vergilius was told, and nothing more. Naturally, he was more than a bit…peeved to walk blindly and be expected to pave a path in return. But, he supposed, even a Colour Fixer was not above the law of the City.
…He had to trust that ‘Faust’ truly did know all outcomes, lest he had to exert far more effort than he ever originally wanted to.
“What reason do you have, Red Gaze, for seeking me out as you have done?” Vergilius did not so much as flinch at the mention of his title, which was hissed with a tone that could be considered scorn if there was enough emotion to label it such. Scorn was too strong of a term, in the way that a man with a rolled newspaper in hand would not feel scorn for a particularly irritating fly. “Even with the capability to stand and face me as my equal, you sit quite literally beneath me, awaiting your chance to speak. Why?”
Vergilius did not answer. It was not yet his time to speak.
“Do you take me for a fool? A Colour Fixer of your status would not venture through my domain just to plant yourself at my feet. Yet I do not understand. I have not committed such animalistic acts that would draw the attention of the City’s authority. In comparison to the blood so wastefully spilled by this pathetic world, I could very well be seen as a saint. So why have you hunted me down, in a way not dissimilar to the hunt for that arrogant, reckless juvenile that you took part in–the one they have dubbed the Blood Red Night?”
“If I may, Second Kindred,” Vergilius began, his tone weary but not dismissive. They carried an air of great respect. “I was not aware that you possessed the knowledge of my participation in that…hunt.” He mirrored Sancho’s words, opting to meet her where she was instead of attempting to clash his thought processes with her own.
Sancho raised an eyebrow, the crimson eyes narrowing at Vergilius’ words.
“As I have stated, this place is my domain. I know everything that goes on here.” She tenses. “Is it not my sworn duty as a Mother to keep tabs on and care for my children, and their children still? I would have committed filial impiety if I was so careless as to let an event of such importance slip out from under me.”
Yes, of course, Vergilius thought. The familial terms Sancho used were a reminder of how her kind operated. A reminder of the crimson blood that flowed through every Bloodfiend and tied them all together. The blood of the covenant was thicker than the water of the womb, after all.
The Fixer took the silence that followed after Sancho’s statement as permission for him to explain why he dared to meet the Second Kindred in her own lodgings. That is what Miss Faust ordered him to do, after all.
“I am not here to cut you down, though I have no doubt in my mind that you are well aware of this already.” Vergilius spoke with intent, but did not rush through his speech. Despite her power and status, he knew that Sancho would most likely be willing to hear him out. She was a Mother, not a tyrant. “I approach you with a message on behalf of my benefactors. An opportunity that I believe a woman of your nature would not wish to pass up.”
The pressure on his shoulder increased, though not enough to cause true pain. Never enough.
“Do not speak as if you know me. You know nothing of my life, and nothing of my suffering.”
Vergilius wished to speak out against Sancho in that moment, but that was not his role. Not as a Colour Fixer, nor as a Guide. Perhaps as a peer, yes, but in such a situation, they were not equals. Despite his status, he was below the Bloodfiend.
They were more similar than Sancho believed, Vergilius thought. Blood red eyes tinged with residual sorrow from what misfortune had befalled not them, but their kin. Bodies that held the weight of what felt like the world. The weight of their families’ suffering.
“There is a mission that we must complete. One that we cannot think to accomplish without you. In exchange for your aid, I offer you a contract. I offer you…a path.”
“A path?”
Sancho hollowly echoed the words, not a hint of discernible emotion in her voice. However, the fact that she repeated them at all served as a sign to Vergilius that he had gotten through to her. The Guide nodded.
“That is correct. I act as a Guide on this journey, you see. I mark the path we must traverse and, along with not only the others in this journey, but the clock’s hands which serve as both a golden light and a compass, we will march on. There is no doubt in my mind that you would be able to grasp even the most unreachable star in the peak of the sky. You would be able to achieve dreams previously thought impossible.”
“El sueño imposible.” Sancho mused more to herself—or rather, some unseen force—than the Red Gaze. Vergilius did not pretend to know what she meant, but he said nothing of it. If Faust, who knew all, did not bother to inform him, it must have been unnecessary. “I understand.”
The pressure on Vergilius’ shoulder very briefly got stronger before it was released entirely, which he understood as permission to pull himself to his feet. Despite the evident height difference between the two, Vergilius’ ability to physically tower over Sancho did nothing to temper the overwhelming power emanating from her. She commanded respect, and Vergilius was not stupid enough to deprive her of that.
He stared down at the Second Kindred with harsh red eyes, as Sancho had just recently done to him, but there was a gentle quality to them. It was not sadness, nor pity. It was recognition.
“Fine then, Guide.” The title was not used in the sense of mocking or belittlement, but as an acknowledgement of Vergilius’ role past that of being the Red Gaze. “I will join your cause along with your group and the Promised Timepiece, and lend my aid to whoever holds your leash.”
Vergilius did not react. He was waiting for the catch, as there always was one. He did note, however, the mention of a title only familiar to him because of Miss Faust.
“On one condition.”
“That will not be a problem.” He paused before briefly diverging from his given script. “Do keep in mind, Second Kindred, that you will not be asked to use the full extent of your power in the very beginning of our journey. You will be operating not as a superior, but as a peer. Even the Promised Timepiece, the leader and the compass pointing northward, will stand with you on equal grounds.”
”Hah…you have a level of knowledge that would not be expected from a simple human.” She hummed thoughtfully. “It’s as if you’ve taken a glimpse into my mind.”
With a dismissive but not irritated wave of her hand, Sancho continued, though not before leaning back into the grand throne that she was sitting atop when Vergilius first arrived to retrieve her. She let out a sigh, which to most, would read as relief. But Vergilius knew better than to take it as such. In fact, it was a feeling he experienced every day of his life. A profound and weighty sense of weariness that could not be dismissed under even the most peaceful of conditions.
“I suppose I do not need to bore you with my long-winded spiels that are saved for the ignorant, then. Let me request something of you then, Guide. Hark, for my condition is this,” She folded one leg over the other, her bare foot pointed out with a misleading sense of fragile vulnerability. “My most reliable and loyal mount lies in this room. You shall be the one to retrieve them and slip them onto my person.”
Vergilius nodded in acknowledgement.
“Upon the proper placement of what will act as the seal for my power, it must never be removed before its time. I have no way of ensuring that great destruction shall not befall you if you disobey my words, but…I trust that you and whoever serves as your source of knowledge have the ability to discern when it is appropriate to remove that which shod my feet.”
Vergilius turned away from Sancho to retrieve the aforementioned loyal mount, perfectly encased in a glass casing that he instinctively knew would take great strength to shatter. With what he could only assume were dubbed Rocinante due to the stitching on either side of both shoe, he stepped forward to approach the woman once again.
The Second Kindred gave a slight nod as Vergilius stood expectantly before her. He kneeled, not by force as he had ended up originally, but of his own volition. Perhaps, the last act of supplication he would show before the clock’s hands led them both, not just the Guide.
“You needn’t be anyone’s Mother any longer. Let me shoulder your burdens. From this point on, you will not be known as Sancho, the Second Kindred of La Manchaland, but as an employee of our company. You will be dubbed with the title of Sinner.
“…I understand. This will be my first and only command of you, Red Gaze.” She was addressing him as something of a superior, now, despite their positioning. “Guide me through what you must. I accept my position.”
Sancho, despite possessing such an overwhelming, innate power that would take even Vergilius great effort to suppress, stared down at the man with the same shadowed face and stern expression. With the same eyes that burned with such a passionate and fiery crimson that Vergilius was sure he would not see after this encounter for a long, long time. The difference now, however, was something so slight that only an equal could see through it. A sense of warmness not bestowed by blood—not spilled nor flowing through her veins—but by compassion.
“Of course, my Lady.”