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Gertrude was being followed again.
She could sense it, the unseen presence of a body that was not her own, the same as she could touch or taste. As she winded through the darkened, narrow streets of the city she knew so well, she could feel her gut stretch and pull, like the strain of a leash as something dragged behind it. Or someone.
She shoved her hands deeper inside her pockets. The January wind was a harsh, biting cold which she could feel even through the thick leather of her gloves, not to mention on her exposed neck. She wanted to kick herself for forgetting her scarf. Though, if she was right, she would not be worried about the cold for too much longer.
She did not want to be right. It would not only mean being right about a trivial late-night stalker - even in her short number of years working as The Head Archivist of The Magnus Institute, she had had plenty of those, too many for it to matter. It would mean that all her work, her preparation, her precautions, everything she had done in the last four years would all be for naught. It would mean the mental torment that she had endured for months would never end. It would mean that she has been manipulated. And that there is nothing she can do about it.
She quickened her pace. Streets and alleys unfurled ahead of her, and she darted through them with the ease of water flowing over a riverbed. This city had always been home to her, but perhaps she could lose her follower in its labyrinth. And yet with every step, her feeling only grew closer, as if it had become easier for them, like she was leaving a string in her wake to guide the monster to its prey. She kept going faster, until her steps had almost reached a run. She had diverted from her route; she had no idea where she was going now, and yet she pressed on, forging her own maze. She was nothing now but twists and turns, paths and alleys, step after step after step-
Now. She thrust out her hand, catching a small, pale wrist between her fingers.
Instantly heat coursed through her veins, pulsing through her gloves up her arm and then down her spine. Without these gloves, she was sure her hands would be scalded, and even they were starting to singe. But she did not let go. Instead, she gave it a sharp twist and pushed it against the neighbouring wall, holding it fast against the coarse brick as she stepped in to pin its owner. If the sudden warmth in the middle of winter wasn’t enough, the waves of auburn hair were enough to confirm all her suspicions.
She forced her seething expression into a dry smirk.
“Well, if it isn’t Agnes Montague. Has Arthur finally let you off your leash?”
“Let go of me, Archivist.”
“So you can go back to stalking me? Chance would be a fine thing.”
Agnes struggled, writhing against the wall’s flaking paint, but Gertrude’s grip was like iron. She squeezed for good measure, pressing her thumb into the wrist’s veiny flexor. Agnes’ hand flailed uselessly at the pressure.
“Do us both a favour and get to your point, Montague.”
Agnes made a noise that could have been a laugh. She met Gertrude’s eyes through the strands of hair that had fallen in front of her face. Her eyes were grey, and piercing, like two silver headlights glaring into Gertrude’s skull. It took all her focus not to loosen her grip.
“I think we both know my point, Archivist.”
As she spoke, Gertrude felt something warm and viscous cover her thumb. Pulling her eyes away from Agnes’ gaze, she saw her thumb was now pressing inside Agnes’ wrist, the skin giving way like it was clay being moulded. Or melting wax.
Before she could process it, her hand had already dropped to her side. At that moment, the world spun round, and she felt her head slam against something hard. Pain shot down her temple, and she fought to keep her eyes open as her head lolled forward. She felt a warmth under her chin, and her eyes flickered down to see Agnes’ hands gripping the collar of her coat. Fuck.
Agnes looked down at her, clearly amused. “I never thought The Archivist would be so squeamish. And so weak.”
Gertrude let her muscles slacken. If Agnes was going to kill her, she was not going to squirm like some insect. With everything that had happened, all that she had done, she supposed this was inevitable. It would probably be a relief. She looked back up at Agnes, her head still pounding from the impact.
“I never thought you’d talk so much.”
“And yet still so sharp.” Her expression stiffened as she tilted her head. Gertrude felt her eyes burning into her. “Aren’t you afraid?”
Gertrude gave a bitter laugh. Ending like this was welcome to her. One more taunt and perhaps she’d get on with it. “Why should I be?”
Agnes stilled. It felt like the surrounding city went still with her. All Gertrude could hear was the thumping of her heart in her head, and her own breath heaving.
Then, Agnes let go.
Gertrude slumped, her legs giving way slightly with the sudden release. She watched Agnes back away, her arms folded gingerly around her middle. What is she doing? Why did she stop?
“You’re right.” Agnes said, looking back over to meet Gertrude’s eyes. “You shouldn’t be.”
She turned and made for the end of the street. Gertrude stumbled after her, her legs moving before her mind could stop them. “What are you doing?”
“Leaving. This was a mistake.”
“What are you talking about?” Gertrude reached for her wrist, but this time Agnes dodged. “Montague!”
Perhaps it was her probable concussion talking. Perhaps it was the years of planning, the months of not knowing, the weeks of strange emotions plaguing her, toying with her mind. Perhaps she was finished with this life, and she had not realised until now.
Whatever the reason, Gertrude shouted after her retreating figure:
“Why don’t you kill me?”
Agnes stopped. She turned around. Her eyes were angry, accusing. Gertrude watched as her mouth started to twitch, like an invisible hand was pulling at her jaw, forcing her to speak.
She had not meant to compel her.
Agnes’ words came heavy and staggered, like falling rocks.
“I want to. I should want to. But… What- what you did… To me. Our… connection."
She sucked in a breath, hissing in what sounded like pain.
“I can’t.”
So, it was true.
The ritual had not just tied Agnes’ power to her. It had tied them together.
Meaning that Gertrude’s constant distraction, constant feeling of incompleteness that subsided whenever she stepped out into public view - it was all because of her.
Their souls were now one.
Meaning it was possible that if Gertrude died, Agnes would also.
Gertrude stumbled back slightly at the realisation. Agnes was watching her, panting from the effort of being compelled. For the first time, Gertrude felt guilty for it.
Then Agnes spoke again, of her own accord.
“Why didn’t you kill me?”
—
Agnes watched The Archivist, dumbfounded by her words, and wished she had the instinct to feel satisfaction. But ever since that day, she no longer felt anything she used to. Her power was still there for the most part; she still radiated that burning heat, and could still melt the skin off anyone she chose to. But something within her was dormant. The fire that had always burned within her, since the day she was born, had dimmed. It was binary, now. Anchored to the physical world. To a physical person. Ever since Gertrude did… whatever she had done. And to be this tethered, and restricted, to be this human - for her, it was a fate worse than death. Gertrude was a servant of a Dread God too. She had to know that.
“Do you have a destiny, Archivist?” she asked.
She watched Gertrude’s brow twitch, her back straighten up as she regained her former composure, her head tilted a little in curiosity. In the months of watching her, Agnes had come to know this expression of hers well - it appeared when her mind was at work, crafting the best strategy, the way to find out what she wanted to know.
“Not one that I haven’t forged on my own.” She replied.
Agnes could not help but laugh. It seemed that Archivist or not, she truly was just human. She could not understand.
“Destiny cannot be forged. It can only be destroyed.” She felt her eyes brimming with wet anger. “I know that now. I was only brought into this world for one reason. To destroy it. My mother died for that. I was raised only for that. Now my reason is gone. My purpose is gone. I cannot reach it. All I can reach is…”
She forced her mouth shut. She did not know why she had said so much. She had never spoken this much to anyone before. And yet she could barely stop herself.
“... you.”
She watched Gertrude’s face, that had been forced into a tight-lipped, confrontational stare, soften, her mouth dropping a little open at that final word.
They were silent for a while.
Agnes stayed where she was, though every inch of her body wanted to move closer.
She hated that this was just a part of her now. As if her power being stripped from her was not enough, she was now drawn to Gertrude Robinson in a way she could not explain. Metaphysically drawn. She told herself, and her followers, that she had been following Gertrude to gather information, to find out how to reverse whatever ritual she had carried out, and most importantly, to make sure she did not die. But in truth, she had a feeling, a pull in the pit of her stomach, right where her flame used to burn. And whenever she followed it, it led to her. And then she’d be unable to tear her eyes away until she was inside and out of sight.
It was ridiculous. It was unfair. And Agnes had had enough.
“Answer me, Archivist. Why didn’t you kill me?”
Gertrude bit her lip, looking down at the ground. Was she ashamed?
“I didn’t know this would happen. I…” she paused, biting her lip again as she looked above Agnes’ head. Looking anywhere but in her eyes, Agnes noted.
“All I meant to do was tether your power. I thought if I killed you, the cult would only be more invigorated to attempt The Scoured Earth, or at the very least destroy The Archives. This way would stall them for the foreseeable future.”
Her tone had become emotionless, matter of fact, as if she were discussing something as mundane as her taxes. It stung Agnes more than her words did. She swallowed.
“I see.”
They were silent again. This time, Agnes did not try to meet her eyes, and she did not think Gertrude did either.
So that was it then. There was no anger, no vengeance, no cunning desire to strip her of her entire being just for the fun of it. It had nothing to do with Agnes herself at all.
She felt a hot tear making its way down her face. She did not move to wipe it away. It dropped to the ground, sizzling a little as it dissolved into the icy pavement.
So, Gertrude Robinson was no villain. Just a woman trying to do her duty to her God.
In that way, they were similar.
Agnes had thought they were now similar in another way too. But Gertrude had made no mention of it. Even after Agnes had let it slip herself.
So, it was just another way she was cursed. She, and she alone, was the honoured one.
It would seem she had not been stripped of that.
Agnes turned around. She was done here. There was nothing here for her. She would go back to her followers and tell them there was nothing else to do but wait.
Decades awaited her. Cold, empty, lonely decades. With no hunger but the one that could never be satiated and could never be allowed. She wondered if Gertrude would kill her, after all.
She started to walk.
“Wait.”
The word cut through the thin winter air like a knife. Agnes stopped. Truth be told, she was already stopping before she heard it. She took a breath and looked back over her shoulder.
Gertrude had stepped forward, and her arm stretched out slightly, reaching towards empty air. She quickly retracted it when she saw Agnes turn, forcing it into a fist by her side.
“Please.” Her voice was thick, her words through gritted teeth. “Don’t.”
—
Gertrude had spoken before she even realised it. It was like the sight of Agnes’ back alone was enough to trigger it, like some inverted fight or flight response. Her hand had reached out to her. She wanted to touch her again, pull back her shoulder, take hold of her wrist, her arm, her neck, anything to force her to stay.
Instead, when Agnes’ eyes met hers once again, she pulled her hand back.
What is wrong with me? She thought. Agnes would leave, and she would be out of her life. Why isn’t that something she wants?
It had to be their binding. There was no other reason she would be like this, why she’d felt plagued by emptiness in the months since the ritual, why she’d always felt alone until she felt a familiar presence lurking somewhere behind her.
Her life. Agnes’ life. They were one. She knew that, now. Perhaps that was something she should accept.
Agnes’ expression was unreadable. Gertrude was sure she had been crying earlier, and now she could see that her grey eyes glinted in the light of the streetlamp even brighter with their moisture. Her gaze was penetrating, like looking into the sun but if the sun could reflect your own soul back at you.
But Gertrude did not look away. She couldn’t. She had to keep Agnes here, in her view. She couldn’t let her leave again.
The sun started getting bigger. Gertrude blinked away the sudden light and then realised it was because Agnes was coming towards her. Her heart pounded in her chest, but her feet stayed rooted to the ground.
Agnes stopped a few paces in front of her. Gertrude could feel the heat that she had felt so closely before, except now, at this distance, it was a radiating warmth.
Gertrude thought that she’d never need to be sheltered from the cold again, as long as she could stay here.
Without breaking eye contact, Agnes gently took hold of the fabric of Gertrude’s sleeve, pulling her to her side. Then they started to walk.
Agnes turned her face away, and in the sudden clarity of her vision, Gertrude was able to think again.
“Where are we going?”
“I’m not sure.” Agnes responded, her gaze unmoved from the street ahead. “Somewhere to talk.”
Gertrude took a moment to locate herself, remember where she had forged the centre of their maze. “There’s a park a few streets away.”
Agnes smiled softly to herself. Gertrude could see the path the tear had made on her face, like a crack on marble.
“Lead the way, Gertrude.”