Canticle [Historical M/M Romantasy]

In the musty, dim back corridor of Madame Beaumont's Lyon chateau, Mirk gathered the children close and crouched down to speak with them eye to eye. His chest went tight at fright he saw in their expressions, just as it had when he'd seen the chateau's front door already draped in black crepe and chrysanthemums wilting in the afternoon sun.

"I know this is a sad time," he said to them, reaching out and settling a hand on the crown of Edmé's head, so that they could touch skin to skin. Edmé's empathy had only just begun to blossom, but he was sensitive even without training. Mirk forced down his own worry and made himself focus on the good memories he dredged up to take the edge off his own melancholy— Madame Beaumont scolding Kae over putting impossible wrinkles in her dress after she'd accepted a young stablehand's challenge to a fistfight, the tidy, self-satisfied smile of approval that came onto his godmother's face when something went just as she'd planned. How warm her embrace had been, before the end.

It worked, more or less. Edmé blinked the glassiness from his eyes and nodded along as Mirk reassured the rest of his cousins with words alone. "But Madame is very, very old. Older than any of us can dream of. This is a happy time for her, even if it's a sad one for us. And she'll be even happier when she goes to meet the Savior if we're happy when we send her off."

All around the small circle of his remaining cousins, Mirk was met with glum nods and strained attempts at smiles. He'd have to lead by example, then. So Mirk did his best to put on his own smile as he straightened back up and gestured to the door to Madame Beaumont's chambers, where Uncle Henri and a footman were waiting for them. "Be sure to tell Madame about all the good things that have happened since you came back to Bordeaux. Like your studies, Armel. And how all your friends are so happy to come visit again now that the weather is better and everything is settled."

Only once he blinked the wavering from his own vision did Mirk realize that the footman beside the door wasn't a footman at all. Mirk could have sworn it was the same man who'd accompanied Madame Beaumont to London, Pascal, who crossed himself whenever Mirk appeared on his godmother's doorstep and always had a sour word or two to say under his breath about the kind of company she kept. Instead, it was Am-Hazek.

Mirk hurried over to him and bowed, keeping his voice low in the stillness of the back hallway. "Monsieur. I thought you and the others had already left."

"We have, seigneur," Am-Hazek replied smoothly, returning the bow. Off to the side, Henri looked on, befuddled and a bit out of place. "But I thought it only right to pay Madame a visit. Unless you think it would be ill-advised?"

"Of course not, monsieur. I'm sure she'll be happy to see you again before you leave."

Both Am-Hazek and Mirk stared first at each other across the threshold, then down at the cut crystal handle to Madame Beaumont's bedchambers. Dragging a smile back onto his face, flashing it first at his cousins, then at Monsieur Am-Hazek and Henri, Mirk reached out and opened the door.

He didn't need to see his godmother to know death was close. It lingered in everything — in the stifling scent of the rosewater the room had been doused in to mask her body's final struggles, in the gloom that spilled out into the hall like a living, twisting, devouring thing. Mirk could barely hear the faint rattle of Madame's breathing over the hammering of his own pulse in his ears. He fumbled against the wall for the rune to the magelights, but stopped just short of them, calling out into the darkness. "Madame? It's Mirk. I've brought everyone to come visit you. May I turn on the magelights?"

A croaking laugh rose out of the dark, followed by a fit of coughing. Mirk felt the pain that came along with it glance off his shields. All he wanted to do was lower them, to suffer alongside his godmother, sharing the burden of her sickness and loss. But if he did that, he didn't stand a chance of being able to put on a brave face for his cousins, a composed one befitting the heir to Jean-Luc's potential. And there was nothing his godmother detested more than weakness in a man. "I suppose there's no point left in appearing presentable. Come in."

Mirk nudged on the magelights, stepping aside to let his family and Am-Hazek through. The djinn lingered beside Mirk as the rest hurried in, Henri's warm greeting setting the tone for the others as they circled up around Madame Beaumont's grand bed with the heavy, blue velvet draperies. Most of his cousins did a fine enough job putting on a cheerful face for her. But Edmé lingered behind, frozen by the pain radiating from the bed. Mirk stepped up and put a hand on the crown of his head again, lending him the strength of his mental shielding as he led him to Madame Beaumont's side.

His throat went dry at the sight of her, reduced to nothing more than a dried out, wrinkled husk, lost in the mounds of quilts that'd been piled on top of her to help keep in what little warmth her dying body could make. At least her eyes still had some of their old sharpness to them as she surveyed the remains of the d'Avignons, listening to Armel boast about how hard it'd been to teleport his whole family to Lyon, and about how he'd finally learned the knack from an expedition his uncle on Henri's side had taken him on.

Mirk was glad for Armel's rambling. It gave him time to think, time to prepare for whatever parting words his godmother had reserved for him. He watched with a frozen smile as the children all gave Madame Beaumont their report, just as requested: shy Inès telling her about how well the garden was coming in at their country house, despite being neglected all through last summer and most of the spring, Claire confidently assuring her that she intended on becoming the first swordswoman to compete in the guild dueling tournaments. His godmother coughed up another rattling laugh at that. Half pleased by Claire's refusal to be cowed, to resign herself to a life within polite society, and half marked by bitterness that such options hadn't even been a thing she could dream of when she'd been young.

Madame Beaumont had always laughed at Kae the same way. And had always remarked on how lucky Kae was, to have those snow white wings of hers that kept her from ever hoping to be a part of human society. Kae would never have to learn to be polite.

Edmé and Honoré couldn't think of much to say. Especially Edmé, who Mirk always kept a hand on to keep from shrinking back at Madame Beaumont's pain. But his two youngest cousins clambered up onto her bed nevertheless, toying with the bedclothes and saying a few things each about the small concerns of their small worlds. New toys, the cake they'd been promised back in Bordeaux after dinner, how Edmé had insisted that the goose Cook had bought last week to fatten up for distant Christmas would become a member of the family rather than dinner.

Madame Beaumont had laughed at Honoré's mention of the goose, reaching out to clasp Edmé's small, warm hand in both of her own. Mirk felt his shock at the feel of them, as bony as cold as a corpse reaching up out of the grave, the pain of her dying carried along with them. He projected reassurance and comfort to Edmé so that he didn't recoil away.

"I see you take after Mirk," she said to Edmé, though her eyes flicked over to him. "It can't be Jean-Luc. When he came to the first ball I hosted at this house, I caught him stealing chickens from the henhouse. Like a fox stuffed in a suit. Apparently taking all the pastries off the dinner table wasn't enough for him."

Henri laughed, rubbing his hands together and shuffling awkwardly from foot to foot. "Jean-Luc was intimidating, God bless him. But not nearly as intimidating as Enora, I've heard."

"Ah, Enora..." Madame Beaumont's eyes went distant, fixed up on the ceiling now as she let herself sink into the past. "I was always surprised she decided to give Jean-Luc the time of day. For decades, all I ever heard from her was how she'd serve no man other than the Savior. Then again, I don't think she ever served Jean-Luc. How gentlemanly of him, to grant her that courtesy."

The bitterness in his godmother's tone wasn't missed. Not by Mirk, and not by Henri, who encouraged his cousins to embrace her one last time and give her their best wishes, under the guise that she must be exhausted from having the children clambering all over her. But Madame Beaumont didn't shy away from their pecks of kisses and careful hugs. She leaned into them, stroking hair and pinching cheeks, all the while murmuring under her breath about how much each of them looked like other children, all long dead and gone. Including her own.

Henri kissed her hand, bowing at her bedside, then withdrew, shepherding Mirk's cousins on ahead of himself. Always with one hand on Edmé, to reassure him, even if he couldn't shield him from Madame Beaumont's pain. Which left Mirk and Am-Hazek alone in the bedchamber with her, one on either side of the bed she was lost in, a speck of driftwood tossed about on a dark sea of blue velvet and linen.

"So it comes down to you two," Madame Beuamont said, her breath rattling in her chest as she locked her eyes, the only spot of life left in her, first on Mirk, and then on Am-Hazek. "I would have thought you'd run off with your new friends already, Monsieur Am-Hazek. You were certainly in a hurry last we met."

"My apologies, Madame," the djinn said, drawing down into a low, deferential bow. "Circumstances required me to—"

"I'm only teasing you," she replied with a weak wave of her thin, pale hand, using the other to muffle another fit of coughing. Once it'd passed, she'd continued. "Or have you already forgotten the art of entertaining conversation? I suppose it won't be needed much where you're headed."

"On the contrary, Madame. Wordplay is much admired among the djinn."

"I got a rather disturbing letter the other day. From a friend of the Comte de Coudray's wife, you know their eldest married that ugly Austrian. Rumor has it that things are very unsettled in the east. Something about people's servants being stolen out from under them in the middle of the night and houses being ransacked for gems...and not without a few murders along the way..."

Am-Hazek allowed himself a small, troubled sigh. "Comrade Major Genesis recommended that we start our campaign in the east and work our way westward. So that his men could help us understand the best way to do things. They're more familiar with the customs in the east than in England. Most of the other djinn haven't been well enough to join yet, but Am-Gulat's skills when combined with Er-Izat's knowledge of combat and the noble houses has been...sufficient."

The djinn brooded over his own words, shifting back on his heels, as if he expected Madame Beaumont to rise out of bed and scold him for forgetting his place. Instead, her eyes drifted off toward the ceiling once more. "Good. Someone should give them all a piece of their mind. I regret very few things in life, you know. But first on the list not having a strong enough spell to put Herbert's cane through his face."

Across the bed, and his godmother's withered body, Mirk and Am-Hazek exchanged a worried glance. "We've already gone to Seigneur d'Aumont's estate in Dordogne," Mirk said. "Comrade Major Genesis is...euh, skilled in that sort of thing."

Madame Beaumont laughed again, though Mirk could feel through the haze of pain rising from her body like smoke that her heart wasn't in it. "I'm not surprised by that in the slightest."

"There were caves. But they'd all been abandoned. And Seigneur d'Aumont has hired on a dozen squads of guild guards and mages to work on his defenses. Monsieur Er-Izat and Genesis decided that it's not worth the risk to try to overpower them."

Am-Hazek nodded. "We must always be focused on our ultimate goal."

"Which is?"

"We're returning to the home realm. To put an end to the problem at the root, as it were."

"I suppose Herbert won't be happy about that either. Us humans must matter very little to beings as strong as djinn. Almost as little as we matter to angels and demons."

Am-Hazek's sense of propriety, of good manners, was overcome by his anguish. He stepped up close beside the bed, taking one of Madame Beaumont's hands in both his own. "I don't regret a single day I spent in your service, Madame. Not for a second."

Madame Beaumont would have arched an eyebrow at this, if only she'd had any left. Her illness had robbed her of them, along with the remains of the hair that had always spilled out from underneath her bonnet. "Oh?"

"I could have never had a better teacher in the art of perseverance," Am-Hazek insisted. "Or in cunning. I'm sure it'll serve us all well once we return to the home realm."

"But this is the end of it all, isn't it?" Madame Beaumont's eyes drifted downward to fix on her bony slip of a hand caught between Am-Hazek's. "All that work. All that time. For...this."

Silence fell over the room, broken only by the rattling of his godmother's breathing. With no one left to save face for, Mirk allowed the walls around his mind to fade, looking his godmother over with his magical senses. Her illness was so advanced that it took no focus for Mirk to see it, a great snarl of darkness in her midsection, a spot of coldness that disrupted the flow of her magic from her life-sustaining core out to her limbs.

There was no undoing that, not even with the staff. If they lingered much longer, Mirk had the eerie feeling that a third figure would soon join the vigil at his godmother's bedside. One that'd be none too pleased to see him again.

Neither Mirk nor Am-Hazek could find the will to speak again. But Madame Beaumont managed it, though her voice was reedy and faint. "As I said, Monsieur, dear Mirk, I have very few regrets in this life. I only wish I had lived long enough to see those bastards get what they deserve. I apologize for using such rough language, but if anyone deserves it, it's them."

"You're always welcome to speak your mind with us, Madame," Mirk said, unable to raise his own voice above a whisper.

"Then let me give you one final piece of advice, my dear," she said, letting her free hand fall limp atop the bedclothes. Mirk picked it up, fighting hard against the urge to try to press life and warmth back into it. "These terrible men will be the death of all of us if you're not careful. There is no reforming them, no matter what the Scripture says. No woman, no servant, no man who won't play their game will ever be able to make their own way while they're still alive. You and your cousins included. A strong will isn't enough."

She didn't have to continue for Mirk to understand, not with her hand pressed between his. He could feel it in the bitterness that threatened to make the darkness in her gut overwhelm the dying shreds of her magic, could see it in the way her eyes went distant again, fixed once more on the ceiling, as if waiting for someone, anyone to speak and confirm that she'd done what she could, that she'd fought as hard as a woman in her position could fight to retake her life from the circumstances she'd been pressed into. But there was no answer from above.

Mirk made himself answer instead, fixing a smile on his face again to keep himself from crumbling. "I know, Madame. It's...we'll do everything we can. This wasn't for nothing. Henri and the children owe you their life."

"As do I," Am-Hazek said, squeezing his godmother's other hand with as much of his strength as he dared. "If your husband hadn't brought you to the market that day, I would have gone with someone else. I'd have moved on to another realm after a year or two. I wouldn't have been here to help my kin. You helped open my eyes, Madame. And for that, all the djinn are grateful."

Madame Beaumont scoffed, her eyes refocusing one final time as she surveyed the both of them, nodding to herself. "If you djinn decide to put up a statue of me, make me fifty years younger, at least. Don't think I won't come up out of hell to haunt you if you don't."

"Madame, I'm sure you..." Mirk's protests died on his lips as Madame Beaumont's eyes closed, her hands slipping from both their grap as she pressed them to her mouth to stifle another fit of coughing. When it faded, so had the sharpness in his godmother's eyes. Bracing himself for the worst, Mirk reached out and touched the back of his hand to her cheek. She didn't stir, but Mirk could feel her life-giving magic still struggling within her. It was fading fast.

Across the bed, Mirk heard Am-Hazek draw in a deep breath. "Is she...?"

Mirk shook his head. "But it won't be long now. It's...well."

"Would it be best if we stayed, seigneur?"

He'd never seen Am-Hazek so distraught, fists clenched at his sides, eyes glassy and wide and circulating with his magic in a way that convinced Mirk that he was on the brink of either collapsing to his knees or lifting his fists and bringing the house down around them in rage. Mirk stepped back from the bed, bowing to his godmother again, though he knew full well she was already too far gone to see it. "I think she'd rather we not stay to watch, Monsieur Am-Hazek."

Mirk had stood beside enough dying men by then to know that there was no beauty in dying, no poetry or strength to be found there, either for the living or the nearly dead. Once the focus left their eyes, there was nothing left but the grotesqueness of their body breaking down, the flesh struggling to live on though the spirit had already surrendered. Madame Beaumont had always tried, above all else, to keep her dignity about herself. And there was no dignity in what a body did in its struggle to cling to life.

At least, that's what Mirk told himself as he retreated out the door to Madame Beaumont's bedchamber, Am-Hazek fast on his heels.

His godmother's nurse was waiting in the stifling hall beyond, her tray laden with that evening's potions. Mirk balked at having their choking, bitter scent forced on him even there, as he tried to suck in deep enough breaths to clear the suffocating aftertaste of rosewater from his mouth. To distract himself, he went to the nurse and sorted through the potion bottles, examining them by feel rather than straining to read their labels in the glow cast by the dim magelights that lined the hall. "I don't think these will be necessary, mademoiselle," Mirk said, plucking a single bottle from the collection on the tray and moving it off to one side. "Give her the laudanum and let her rest, please."

The nurse dipped into a curtsy, her head lowered. "As you say, seigneur. You're the better healer, of course."

Mirk hated the way the words stung, both in his chest and at the corners of his eyes as the nurse slipped off into Madame Beaumont's bedchambers and shut the door behind himself. That left him and Am-Hazek, his eyes still flickering between blue and white and green, alone out in the hall. Armel must have already whisked his uncle and cousins back to Bordeaux.

"What now, monsieur?" Am-Hazek asked, his fists still balled tight at his sides. "Do you require help in returning to the City? Am-Gulat won't go back in, but I'm sure he'd be willing to take you to the mage quarter, at least. He is getting better at moving through the Abyss. Though I suppose you must be accustomed to that by now."

"I already paid the guild teleporter," Mirk said, shaking his head. "Besides, none of you are servants anymore, monsieur. I'm sure you all have better things to do than take me places."

"That anger can be put to better use on other nobles, Am-Hazek. Keep it. It's time for you to do your share."

The voice wouldn't have startled Mirk, had he not been so distraught. The instant Am-Gulat spoke, Mirk noticed his magic pressing against his unshielded mind, the static of his chaos still tinged with warmth rather than the coldness he was accustomed to. Am-Gulat had appeared behind Am-Hazek, stepping out of his shadow, dragging an ill-looking Er-Izat along with him. Mirk suspected that Am-Gulat was still much less skilled at moving others through the Abyss than Am-Hazek had implied, if the green tint to Er-Izat's face was anything to go by.

"Monsieur Er-Izat, Am-Gulat," Mirk said, bowing to the pair as Am-Hazek looked over his shoulder at them, trying to muster his usual self-control. But there was no hiding the magic gleaming in his eyes. "I'm glad to see you again."

Despite what they'd been doing the past few weeks, the pair looked much better than when Mirk had last seen them in the infirmary, helping Genesis and Er-Izat move those who still weren't fully recovered to a safe place outside the City. Am-Gulat's magic no longer pained him. He'd come into his own, standing tall with head held back in defiance, the same half-challenging, half-taunting gesture Genesis was prone to making when in a cross mood.

It left Mirk wondering, yet again, how many of the commander's odd habits were due to being trained in the ways of the ancient K'maneda and how many were part of being a Destroyer. It was obvious to Mirk that Am-Gulat still had far to go in mastering his control over the shadows, at least in comparison to the iron grip Genesis kept on his. They writhed and flickered behind Am-Gulat, constantly shifting.

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Er-Izat, to his credit, seemed to have learned to tolerate them, even if Am-Hazek was still visibly discomforted at having so much chaotic magic so close. It was striking how much more at home the burly djinn looked in a borrowed K'maneda uniform, with its workman's trousers and thick, rough-spun shirt, than he did in a three piece suit or an embroidered waistcoat or breeches and stockings. Though Er-Izat still kept his clothes neatly ironed and free of stains and loose threads, unlike Am-Gulat beside him. There were still flecks of dried blood flaking off the sling Am-Gulat wore his war-hammer in, across his back. And there was something odd in the way that Er-Izat looked at him, half disapproving of his companion's lack of manners, and half proud.

"You have to forgive me, wajinn," Am-Hazek said, shifting smoothly into English. Though he managed to scrape up some of his usual chiding good humor, it sounded hollow to Mirk's ears. "My life among the human nobles must have softened me. I'd much prefer to have supper before going after whoever's next on your list."

"It is better not to fight on an empty stomach," Er-Izat said, before Am-Gulat could respond crossly to Am-Hazek.

Am-Gulat sighed, folding his arms across his chest, the shadows looming tall behind him. "We can't take the next one until after nightfall, I suppose."

"Do the other djinn need any more potions?" Mirk asked, trying his best to match Am-Hazek's composure. Even though Madame Beaumont's bedchamber was well shielded, he was still acutely aware of the fact that his godmother was fading away beyond its impassive oak door. It felt wrong to smile at the djinn in light of that, even if it was the proper thing to do.

Er-Izat shook his head. "You've been very charitable to us, seigneur," he said, still speaking in French, ignoring the cross look that Am-Gulat shot him at the use of Mirk's inherited title. Mirk only noticed then that Am-Gulat had a translation charm pinned to the sling across his chest. As did Er-Izat, on the collar of his shirt. "We have more supplies than we need. And the other djinn are almost healed."

Mirk nodded. He tried to keep in mind what he needed to do to show his appreciation, his concern instead of focusing on the burning in his chest that was screaming at him to run, to flee Madame Beaumont's Lyon manse and hide himself in the bushes at the end of the drive where he could cry alone. Where no one could accuse him of weakness. Or blame him for being responsible for all that had come to pass.

"If you need anything while we're still on Earth," Mirk said, "you know how to reach out to us. Anything I can give, you only need to ask. Though methinks you might be better off finding me if you need something from Genesis, Am-Gulat. He's always been very bad at responding to letters and messengers."

"This is a thing I must learn on my own," Am-Gulat said. "Through use."

"Bien sûr. But please, don't hesitate."

Though he was doing a better job of hiding it, Mirk thought Am-Hazek was feeling the same strain he was. Am-Hazek didn't hesitate to slip in between the two other djinn, taking hold of Am-Gulat's arm in anticipation of being whisked off through the shadows. "I'll be sure to write to you with all the details, seigneur," he said. "It's the least we can do. And I know you're a much better correspondent than your friends."

Am-Hazek paused, his eyes flicking back to the door. Then they focused back on Mirk, and he attempted yet another smile. That time, Mirk thought it came through more genuine. "It is done. And now, we go forward. Without regrets."

Er-Izat sighed. And Am-Gulat took the djinn's traditional blessing as a sign to depart, lifting his free hand and drawing the shadows in tight around the three of them. When they cleared, Mirk was alone in the hall.

Mirk was only able to keep himself together a few seconds longer. Then he was running down the hall, away from his godmother's deathbed and the memory of all the things he'd failed to do.

- - -

"Left...left, no, right, right, ri—"

The unwieldy package slipped from his grasp the instant Mirk was past the doorway to his quarters. He bit back a yelp as it landed on the toes of his dress shoes, struggling to keep it from toppling over onto the floor, his numbed fingers straining to grasp its edges, nearly as far apart as the span of his arms were wide. He should have taken up the apprentice teleporting mage on his offer to carry it upstairs for him. But he couldn't bear to hold himself together a moment longer once he'd reached the foot of the dormitory steps and had begged off with his thanks for carrying it all the way to the City. He'd presented the teleporting mage with a wavering smile and a few extra gold instead to get him to leave.

After everything that'd happened, Mirk thought he deserved the ordeal of hauling the portrait upstairs himself.

And he deserved getting his toes bashed, for all the half-cursing he'd done as he'd struggled up the narrow stairwells, including the one that nearly snuck past his lips as he fumbled in the dark to find something to lean the heavy package against long enough to wave on the magelights and shut the door.

Genesis wasn't there. Otherwise he wouldn't have needed to use the key on the door. Even if the commander could be blind to the mundane struggles of others, Mirk didn't think he'd have left him alone to wrangle the portrait. At the very least, he'd have appeared to ask him where he was intending on putting it.

For the time being, Mirk leaned it carefully against one of the bookcases nearest the door, sighing with relief as the sullen door decided to shut and lock itself. As he illuminated the magelights, Mirk looked longingly at Genesis's equally disgruntled ottoman, but made himself continue on, though he paused to take out his handkerchief and dab away the sweat and stray tears that'd run down his cheeks.

It'd be better to get it all over and done with. As soon as he was sitting down, Mirk knew he wouldn't have the strength left to rise again. Not in his body, and not in his heart.

Mirk recognized the twine that kept the sheet secure over the portrait, just as he recognized what the layers of plain white cloth that covered it had once been. A few spare tablecloths, singed from candles that'd been left unwatched and stained with wine and gravy. The abbey's mark, a cross with a moon and star on either arm, was stitched in red thread on the corners of them. Waste not, want not, the same as always. It didn't make Mirk feel any better about things.

He did a much less tidy job of unwrapping that portrait than Genesis had with the one of Jean-Luc. Once he'd pulled aside the cloth and undone all the twine, Mirk left it in a heap at the portrait's bottom, snatching up the note that'd been tacked to its frame with a trembling hand as he retreated to the ottoman. Mirk collapsed down onto it, not daring to look up at the portrait or at the note in his hand until he'd caught his breath, waiting for the nausea that always came after he'd been teleported to fade.

There was the letter that'd been waiting for him at the Lyon Teleporters' Guild Hall too, the one with Madame Beaumont's seal on it that he'd tucked into the breast pocket of his plain, formal gray suit. But he could only handle so many things at once.

Biting his lip, Mirk looked across the room at the portrait. It wasn't enough to keep him from gasping.

Even with nothing but his memory to work from, Brother Pierre had captured every last detail. The exact pattern on his mother's favorite dress, the way that the tiny feathers on the outside of Kae's wings stood up, no matter what she used on them to try to stick them down. How his father's mouth always twitched up on its left side when he was fighting to keep his composure, no matter whether it was laughter or a curse that was trying to sneak through. Mirk almost felt like he didn't belong among them in the confines of the portrait's gilded frame. His parents and his sister all had their own kind of unflinching confidence and easy strength. But there he was, his hand on his mother's shoulder, mirroring Kae with her hand on his father's.

Brother Pierre had placed his parents at the center, both of them seated, the king and queen of their own small domain. It made sense. His father was seated in every portrait made of him, to keep him from skewing the proportions of the humans he'd chosen to live among. Usually Kae was just painted smaller than she actually was so that she didn't ruin the composition. But Brother Pierre had painted her true, from her imposing height to her flawless, pale skin and those tiny feathers and clumps of dark hair that always fell from whatever coiffure his mother convinced her to wear.

It should have made the painting feel unbalanced, having Kae and his father on one side, and he and his mother on the other. But his mother's presence made up for it. Mirk didn't know what magic Brother Pierre had used to paint her so true, to capture the indomitable strength hidden in her small, soft body, the iron masked by the warmth of her tidy, self-satisfied smile. As if she dared anyone to question the worth of what she'd built alongside his father, challenging anyone to say that she'd done any less than Mikael to make their family rise always higher, shine always brighter.

Ignoring the warmth flowing down his cheeks, Mirk read the note Brother Pierre had attached to the portrait. His penmanship had gotten worse as he'd grown older, even though his brushstrokes remained as sure as ever.

It has always been an honor, Seigneur. I hope this brings you some comfort. God bless.

Mirk couldn't fall apart then. He had to keep moving. He had to see it through until the end, or else he'd never summon the courage to open the letter carrying Madame Beaumont's seal. Grinding his teeth against the sobs that kept trying to escape him, Mirk ripped the letter from his breast pocket, prying open the seal and jerking out the long sheet of mage parchment that'd been inside, folded over six times so that it'd fit.

He didn't have enough strength left to read it all. To read any of it, aside from the first few lines. All of it dry formalities, informing him that the will had been prepared by a Master in the guild Madame Beaumont's husband had been a member of, enchanted to be dispatched to the Lyon Transporter's Guild Hall at the moment of her passing, to then be carried onward to its final recipients.

Unable to hold himself back any longer, Mirk crumpled the will and the note into a ball, hurled it blindly at the floor, and wept.

"C'est pas juste...c'est pas...pas..."

"...fairness...is not an essential quality of existence."

Mirk clapped both his hands over his mouth in embarrassment, trying to bite back his crying but managing to do little more than muffle it. He stared through his tears at Genesis who, as always, had appeared silently and unbidden in the common room of the quarters they shared.

And, as always, Genesis was fastidious without exception. He stooped down to pick up the note and the will Mirk had cast aside, smoothing them out and scanning them with a frown. The frown shifted to his usual blankness as he put together the reasons for Mirk's sobbing.

Rather than leaving him to stew in his misery alone, Genesis crossed the room to his side, his eyes flicking back and forth as if he was still reading as he thought of what to say. "But...something approaching it can be gained. With effort." He held out both the note and the will to Mirk with a steady, slender hand. "I am...sorry. Mirk."

Mirk waved both him and the pieces of parchment off, yanking his handkerchief out of his pocket once more and doing his best to clean off his face. The tears wouldn't stop coming, even though his voice came out in something better than a croak when he finally found the right English words. "Methinks it's a miracle she stayed with us as long as she did, messire. I knew right from when she used that spell at the ball to take Monsieur Er-Izat's soul from Seigneur d'Aumont..."

But that didn't make it any less hard. Though it was hard to tell from the tears still filling his eyes, Mirk didn't think that Genesis found anything shameful in it. He merely read the will again, sitting down on the armchair behind Mirk. Mirk felt a little better without Genesis looming above him. Less like he was being judged for his weakness, no matter how unintentional that impression was. "The will does not...mention a painting."

"They're two different things," Mirk said, swiping at the last of his tears. Even if Genesis hadn't reached out to reassure him, the cold press of his magic against Mirk's mind soothed him. Mirk didn't know whether that made him more pathetic or not. "They just happened to come on the same day. The painting is from Brother Pierre at the abbey. He...wanted to do something nice, I suppose...he's painted all my family's portraits..."

"I...see." Genesis was silent for a long time, doubtlessly studying the portrait of his family over Mirk's shoulder. "It is an accurate likeness."

"Brother Pierre is very good. I'm sure if he wasn't at the abbey, all the mortal and mage nobles would have him doing their portraits."

"However. There is...one thing I do not understand."

Exhaustion pressed down hard on Mirk's shoulders, making him slump over on the ottoman, bracing his elbows on his knees. "What is it?"

"I understand why you are...upset over your godmother. But I would have thought that seeing your family again...even in this form...would improve things." Genesis's voice lowered, the hisses and clicks that always snuck out along with his words growing more prominent. "I must not understand fully."

Mirk shook his head. "It's...it's just that I miss them, messire. I miss them every day. And..."

He looked back across the room at the portrait, at his mother's small, private smile. And he felt like crying all over again. Only by biting his lip and forcing his fingernails into his palms was he able to keep himself together.

There was a faint tap on his shoulder. Mirk turned around, still dabbing at his face with the handkerchief. Genesis was staring at him, head tilted back and slightly to the left. And he'd deliberately sat down on the far edge of his terrible armchair, his thin frame taking up not even half of it. He still hadn't recovered from the wedding bread, not truly. Not enough to make that chair of his any less suitable for two instead of one.

Sniffling to himself and mumbling his apologies under his breath, Mirk shoved himself up off the ottoman and sat down beside Genesis, leaning against his side. "You must be sick of all my crying. I know it's...I know it doesn't do any good. But I just..."

Genesis shook his head, once. He was reading the will again. Though it was in plain view, Mirk was too weary to lean over and read it himself along with him. "If I understand the ways of the royalists correctly...your godmother cared very much for you. I do not think that your...emotions are not reasonable."

"What do you mean?"

"You were given a full third of the gold. Along with her...nephew and niece."

Mirk did his best to tidy up his dripping nose without making a spectacle of himself, then shoved the handkerchief back in his pocket. "I don't care about the money. I'll...I don't know, I'll find someone who needs it more. I'd rather have her."

"I believe that is the reason why it was given to you. The...property is even more telling."

"The property?"

Though Mirk couldn't yet summon the nerve to look up at Genesis's face, he could tell from the shift in his voice, how his usual pauses shortened to be almost imperceptible, that he had to be reading straight from the will. What he said only confirmed it. "To my dearest godson, Mirk Alec Jean-Marie Dishoael d'Avignon, I also leave all my land and properties along with my household goods and personal items that have not been assigned to another. A lord cannot be a lord without a proper house in which to entertain his friends. As he's been robbed of the benefits of his blood family by rogues and scoundrels, it is my responsibility, as his godmother, to restore him."

Genesis paused, folding the will carefully back into the sixths before offering it back out to him. "I...was not aware that your full name is so...exhaustive. I don't understand why it's necessary. You do not have a...common name and surname."

Mirk coughed up a weak snort of a laugh at that, as he took the will back and stuffed it in his outside suit pocket. "Both your godparents have to have their say in your middle names, messire. Maman said that Uncle Aker and Madame Beaumont almost came to blows over it. It should have been Aler, but Madame said that she'd die of shame if she had a godson with such a silly-sounding name."

After a long silence, Mirk felt the light weight of Genesis's hand on his shoulder. "Any individual...who would challenge an angel over such a thing must have been...fearless. To a degree."

"That's why it's all so terrible," Mirk said, balling his fists in his lap as he let himself relax against Genesis's thin frame. Unbidden, the memory of his godmother's final advice wormed its way back to the front of his mind, the fading sharpness in her eyes and the bitterness he'd felt through her cold, trembling hands. "It's...it's not fair, Gen. None of it is. If they'd let her study the guild grimoires..."

He trailed off. Across the room, he felt the weight of his family's smiles. Their easy confidence, their proudly upheld heads. "They all should be the ones still here," he continued. "Them and Madame Beaumont. All of this is wasted on me."

While Genesis searched for a response, Mirk finally snuck a glance up at him. He was staring at the portrait as well, his eyes flickering from face to face, as if trying to read their faces and postures like a book. He didn't look bothered, not by his words or his crying and clinging. And the hiss of his magic against Mirk's mind was soft. Restive. "There is no certainty in this world other than chaos. There are...infinite possibilities."

Mirk sighed. "I suppose that's true."

"However...in my opinion...it is better to use your nature to your advantage rather than...attempting to change it."

"Is it?"

"Perhaps it is why you have survived and they did not. A violent disposition often leads to a...violent end."

"I wouldn't say any of them were violent, but..." But every last one of the people who had left him over the last two years, both friends and family, had been fighters, always fighting in whatever way they could against the things that kept them from their goals. The thought worried Mirk, considering how his remaining friends, Genesis included, faced the world. "I don't know. It just doesn't feel right. But you're always saying that things aren't ever fair."

"They are not. This is...why we fight. You can choose to do as you wish. However...recent events lead me to conclude that you have made up your mind."

Mirk nodded, sniffling rather than digging out his handkerchief again, though he felt Genesis's body stiffen for a moment at the sound of it. It brought a weak, wavering smile onto Mirk's face. No matter how much other things changed, some would always remain the same. Genesis's enduring disgust at the messiness of being alive, at the bleeding and crying and all the rest, was one of those things. "You wouldn't think it from looking at me. Every day I'm running off crying..."

A hint of a frustrated hiss returned to Genesis's voice. "I anticipated this. I had planned on being present when you returned from Lyon. However, I...miscalculated the time it would take to convince the clothing mage to give me the necessary materials at a fair price."

Confused, Mirk looked up at Genesis again. "The clothing mage?"

The commander waved a dismissive hand at his work desk. Mirk didn't know whether the suit draped over the back of its chair had been there when he'd come in or not. But there it was: the suit he had worn to his godmother's last ball, the foolishly white one with its black lining, its intricate stitching and sapphire waistcoat.

Mirk had balled it up in his dresser after taking it off, intending to put it down the rubbish chute when he felt well enough to trudge down the length of the dormitory's main hallway. When it hadn't been there the next time he'd looked, he'd assumed that Genesis had gotten rid of it for him. It'd been so filthy, so stained with rain and blood and sweat, that Mirk knew there'd be no saving its silk.

And yet, there it was, as pristine as the day he'd received it, its fabric smooth and pressed and brilliantly white beneath the delicate vines and flowers. Genesis took a small bag with the mark of the tailor Mirk favored in London out of the pocket of his overcoat, passing it over to him without looking, still staring over at the suit. With annoyance rather than amazement.

"I am...aware of my limitations. Small portions of the pattern require stitching again. The thread the Supply Corps laundry offered me was not an exact match. I was forced to go to the mage district."

Mirk opened the bag, peeking inside. There were several bobbins of thread inside, one for every color of the embroidery. And there was more, a handful of buttons gleaming in the darkness at the bottom. "Genesis, you didn't have to..."

"There were...twenty seven buttons, correct?"

That's what the gleaming things were, the crystal buttons he favored. Mirk took one of them out, holding it carefully between two fingers. "I...I don't remember offhand..."

"Twelve were still attached. I located fifteen more in...various locations. If that is insufficient the clothing mage will provide you with the remainder."

Mirk let the button fall back into the bag. There was no telling what Genesis had done to convince his London tailor that it'd be in his best interest to find buttons that matched the set he'd gotten from the Nasiris. But even if he needed to go find a new tailor at the end of the day, Mirk thought it was worth it. "This is too much."

With a final resentful look at the suit, Genesis looked back down at him. There was a smile hidden there, or at least Genesis's equivalent of it, something in the way his thin lips pursed for an instant before he spoke. "One does not discard their armor if it is dented. It is valuable enough to be repaired. I assume...considering the price for the thread that the clothing mage suggested...that this is a similar case."

Mirk let the bag fall into his lap, reaching out and taking the hand that Genesis hadn't left propped on his shoulder instead. "Thank you, Genesis."

Genesis didn't twitch at his touch, the frown didn't return to his face. And he didn't try to whisk his hand away. He simply stared down at their hands wrapped together, thinking. "Additionally...I have used the time provided by the pause before the summer contracts to complete the translation of Jean-Luc's journals. I am certain that some portions are...incorrect. But it is comprehensible. There was nothing else in it of use for understanding the exact mechanisms of the staff. However, there was a great amount of...sentimental and social material. I hope that it provides you some comfort. To make up for the rest."

Mirk couldn't stand it a moment longer. He pushed things further, letting himself collapse against the back of the chair, taking Genesis with him. Though he was tall and his shoulders broad, Genesis wasn't very heavy. Especially considering how much weight his struggles with that spiced bread had made him lose. Rather than attempting to worm away, Genesis swung his legs up onto the ottoman, arranging the rest of his overlong limbs to his liking as he settled in.

If there was anything Genesis was good at, it was recognizing patterns. And all of this — him returning to their quarters crushed, able to keep himself together until he thought he was alone — was nothing if not a pattern by then. Mirk was still ashamed of it. But it was clear by the way that Genesis picked up stroking his hair, the way he didn't protest when Mirk propped his legs across his because the ottoman was still a few inches too far away, that the commander didn't begrudge him his emotions. Even if he didn't understand them.

"Methinks I should save a little of that gold, though," Mirk said, as he leaned his head against Genesis's chest, closing his eyes and letting himself sink down into all the small comforts of being so close to him — his steady breathing, the smell of his soap, the touch of his hands. "We really do need something more than this one chair in here, messire."

Genesis's hand paused, his body tensing beneath and beside his own. "Your...godmother left you her house in London. There is no need for you to remain here."

Mirk lifted his head just long enough to confirm his suspicions. Genesis's eyebrows had shot up and one of those defensive grins had come onto his face. Chuckling, Mirk closed his eyes once more and pressed himself up tighter against Genesis's side. "Don't be silly, Genesis."

"...silly."

"I hate getting up early, and it's at least an hour's walk from there to the City. Besides, you'll waste away to nothing if there's no one to make sure you eat supper."

"This is...rational. Partially."

"What? Do you want me to leave? I know I'm always making a mess of everything..."

Beneath his cheek, Genesis's chest rose in a long, hissing sigh. "...no. I do not."

Mirk felt the familiar heat rise on his cheeks. That time, it only made him smile. "Then it's settled. I'll go to the upholder tomorrow and put in an order. I don't mean to be rude, messire, but I'd really like somewhere to sit with a little less...euh...personality. At least when you're not here."

Genesis muttered something under his breath, hissing and clicking words that Mirk still didn't understand. But he picked up stroking his hair nevertheless.

"I'll make sure it's still black, though. I know you like things to match."

Most things in their lives would never match perfectly, Mirk knew. Not their bodies, not their habits, not their opinions. But he wouldn't have it any other way.