Work Text:
There is screaming when the ritual fails.
No one expected it to. They all thought, at least, that one side would get what they wanted. That even if the Archmother fell, the Hidden King’s allies would succeed in summoning him, or vice versa.
Surely, it couldn’t fail. The entire city had prepared for this since it became known that there was to be a second Maelstrom. The Patrons, pushing through the walls of reality just enough to whisper in the ears of those who wanted things the world couldn’t bring them, had divided the city, grabbing at anyone who would be brave or stupid enough to partake in the ritual that would summon one or the other. This is something that had been in the works for years.
And yet, when the Hidden King is close to falling, the Archmother’s court seconds away from securing their victory, the mother of the city cries out in agony, screeching for help, and before anyone in the Archmother’s court can properly react, one last projectile from someone’s weapon slams into the core of the Hidden King’s being, and the Amber Hand falls.
The Sapphire Flame is soon to follow. Her followers rush to assist her, as do many of the Hidden King’s followers, despite their crushing defeat, but her voice fades from her allies with one final enraged screech.
Upon reaching the Archmother’s shrine, every participant sees the same thing: two people standing at the base of where the City Mother’s statue had stood, surrounded by rubble of blue stone. Two men, donning different uniforms but allied to the same cause, one in a priest’s cassock, a cigar hanging from chapped lips, and the other in an imitation of a constable’s uniform, a star shaped badge glinting on the hat that covers his eyes.
This is when the screaming begins.
Not out of anger, not yet. This is agony, pure and raw, scraping the throat of whoever it came from—a man made of stitched together parts, green lightning flickering along the barbed wire that twines around his arm, falling to his knees as he witnesses his one chance at answers disappear before his eyes. A second voice joins the harmony, deep and ragged, from a man with two white braids and a green owl on his shoulder, watching his chance at vengeance crumble in front of him. A third turns it into an off-tune chorus, a woman in an old sheriff’s hat, knowing now that the source of her nightmares would never be found and brought to justice.
Anger swells. A ghostly woman shouts, a wordless syllable of rage, rushing forward, loading her sniper’s rifle with swift practiced movements. The sheriff follows close behind, because although her Patron had fallen first, now no one will get what they came here for, and that unfairness angers her more than losing her chance at justice.
Their fire is blocked by a beast—a hulking wolf who takes two shots, one from the rifle that was aimed for the priest’s head and one from a revolver that was on track with the constable’s stomach. One hits the wolf’s shoulder, the other hitting her arm. She transforms, back into a white-haired woman in tattered clothing. Her wounds glisten with blood, but she either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care.
She shouts at the two women—this isn’t worth killing them over, back off!—but her voice is drowned out by various other sounds of anguish. A young redheaded woman holding back tears, hugging a book to her chest; a lady with an elegant horn sticking out of her forehead, shouting at the two men, a wand clutched in her fist; a man trapped in the headgear that nearly killed him, yelling at the top of his lungs in a voice far distorted from how it used to sound; an Ixian with a book on his hip slinging curses from lips that hold a half finished cigarette between them.
Some people stare at the ruined form of the Archmother, aghast, devastated. Some are resigned already, as they would be unable to claim their promised wish the moment the Hidden King fell, but disappointed no one else could claim theirs.
No one looks pleased, aside from the priest, although even that appears to be faltering. The constable’s face is unreadable beneath his helmet.
Some turn and begin walking away. Others remain, screaming out their anger at the men who took everything from them. The man made of stitched together parts has his head in his hands. The man with the bow and owl stands next to the ghost with the rifle, glaring at the men with all the vitriol he can muster. A young mystic with a suitcase turns on their heel and strides away, followed closely by a large mole man and a much smaller man with monkey-like features. Surprisingly to many, a woman in purple with a cat on her shoulder trails after them, her arm brushing that of the person with the suitcase. A young vampiress follows suit, stomping in her heels, her umbrella over her shoulder, sending one last glare at the men who ruined everything for everyone before she’s gone. A rotund robot with a tiny star twinkling in the case of its head leaves next, devastated that he will never feel the touch of his wife again in her lifetime.
No one tries to kill the two men again. The wolf wouldn’t let them regardless, but they all know she’s right. Killing them would not bring the Patrons back.
In the sky above the Archmother’s museum, the moon moves, the shadow cast on it by the earth from the sun on the other side fading. The eclipse ends. And with it, the second Maelstrom.
Their chance has passed. There will not be another Maelstrom for a long time. Fifty years, it’s estimated, but research will need to be done in order to find out exactly when.
The yelling and screaming continues for many long minutes after the eclipse passes. The man with the bow finally leaves, the ghost with the rifle on his heels, both furious. A reptilian woman nudges a man with the head of a goat, and they take off together, the goat ranting, angry at something he can’t even pin down, and his companion just stays quiet, her tail between her legs. A robot made lovingly out of scraps turns to leave. A man in a blue tank top clips his shoulder against the robot before storming out in front of him, as if it’s some sort of race. A doorman, perfectly put together despite the events of the night, assists the stitched together man to his feet and places his other hand on the shoulder of the redheaded woman, then ushers them both out of the building, insisting they both stay the night at his hotel.
The more people file out, the less pleased the priest’s expression is. It isn’t regretful, no; he clearly did what he came here to do, and nothing will make him feel any differently. It’s just flat. Disappointed, almost, that no one else sees this as the victory he sees it as.
The last few people disperse, leaving only four: the wolf woman, the unicorn, the Warden, and the Venator.
The priest reaches out for the wolf’s shoulder, words on his tongue—you knew what I wanted to do, this is better for all of us—but she violently shrugs his hand off the moment it grazes her jacket. She shoulders her shotgun, shoots a glare behind her at the priest, and then she walks off towards her unicorn friend, who begins to fuss, telling her they’ve got to get those bullet wounds taken care of and then they can grab a drink. The Dazzling Celeste slings Lilah Silver’s arm around her shoulders, and they leave the Archmother’s museum side by side.
The Venator and the Warden stay for a moment. The din of the yelling and anger and anguish has faded, leaving only the two of them.
They exchange no words. Father Quinn Rourke hooks his crossbow across his back and trudges out of the building with a heavy sigh, having finished what he was sent to New York City to do. He will return to his home, and then he will be sent on another assignment. This is just one more thing to check off his extensive to-do list.
The Warden watches his last and only ally leave until the echoing footsteps finally fade, standing in the rubble of his legacy.