Witch Hunt

Gods I hate festivals.

Just one more item on a long, long list of things I cannot stand, but they must be near the top. Noisy, full to brim of people and pointless activities and far too many colors and sights and sounds and smells especially. Gods, the smells, mixing in an awful cocktail of sweat and fatty foods and outhouses and mud. All of this in service to celebrating a holiday dedicated to making a mockery of my existence.

Costumed children and adults alike run around, dance, laugh, play. On the concrete stage, a band lets loose a cheery brass procession in swinging, breezy melodies. Booths for water-dunking or apple-bobbing or ring-tossing are set up in rows, banners are strung between high poles and trees, autumn leaves brush through on a light wind, tables are set out with food and alcohol, a parade circles the miles of Medi Park in a loud joyous cacophony, several tall structures and rides and tents have been set up in the open space of the grounds, and I stand stock still in the center of it all. Hatred brews within me as potent as any potion I could craft.

And if one more festival goer tells me to 'turn my frown upside-down', I may relinquish the watch just to see them all die.

I regret showing up at noon, right as the festival gates were opened. I have no idea when Lyla is supposed to be speaking, or where I might find her before-hand, but clearly she's not the event organizer. In fact, the Lupine party seems to have their own section off in a corner of the park, holding signs proclaiming to 'Stop the Madness', or 'Take our country back!'. From who is anyone's guess, but I see neither Lyla nor Thassalia in their number. Perhaps they're sequestered somewhere until it's time for their little performance, which could be happening whenever, really.

Of course, Alabastra would know; presumably such information was on the posters. But I would sooner swallow glass than debase myself and find her to ask.

So instead I stew angrily in the corner of the makeshift fairground. Waiting.

And waiting.

And waiting.

I don't dare skip ahead as I have been, lest I miss something vital. One last day of torment is all I need to endure, and then I am well and truly free. My eyes catch a giant wheel ride, spinning around and around slowly, carts full of observers rising up and above the orange-gold canopy.

And I can't help but think of what he'd have to say about such a contraption.

My teeth grit against my failure to dislodge the thoughts from my mind. Of course, the watch would choose those memories to haunt me with now. Like beady eyes on my back, I feel the need to shrink inward.

What is it, exactly, that makes me so tormentable? I spot a dress in the crowd that looks like his, and nearly claw myself in the face. I have to get out of my own head, do anything. So I start walking.

Crowds gather around the outdoor auditorium stage in the center of the park, a massive bowl-like dome stood on its side for sound to bounce off, at the bottom of a descending procession of carved marble stone amphitheater seats. A large banner hung over the top wishes the fairgoers a 'Happy Devil's Night', and it's decorated in little... ugh, vampire bats. I roll my eyes.

The band on stage finish their jaunty patriotic song, and back up for an individual approaching the microphone. Briefly my interest is piqued, before I quickly realize it is neither of the women I've to watch for.

Instead, an older man approaches the stand. He speaks to the crowd through the buzzing speakers, "Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen, I hope you're having an exquisite Devil's Night festival so far." A short series of claps and whistles. "Though our great country has been haunted and assaulted on every side by horrors, we remember tonight as an opportunity to laugh in the face of such monsters. After all, we are Anillians! And our great spirits will never be tampered or defeated!" The clapping grows louder. "We have guest speakers lined up to honor and remember the heroes of the Plague Wars, but for now, please continue enjoying the festival grounds, and be sure to tip your event organizers, if you can!"

I'd always found it bizarre, how the old taboo-breaking holiday dedicated to debauchery and sinful desires became such a family-friendly affair, all due to the recent cultural context of these wars and plagues. It must be some talent of Anillians, to turn nearly anything into a chance to 'honor the fatherland'.

The band starts up another song.

On the opposite side of this section of the parkland from the amphitheater, a tall clock tower stands looming above the grounds, several stories of beige brick. It pales in comparison to the colossal high-rises of Nivannen around us, but that it stands in the center of a parkland somehow makes it seem more ominous; a thing made imposing from its solitude.

I'm not entirely sure where I'm going, as I move. Perhaps it's simply the act of moving that I need... a walkabout, a change of scenery.

Chill autumn winds whip through the park, buffeting my hair behind me. I bristle at the unfamiliar feeling, the lack of weight of most of my hair. The locks I've left myself with still brush against the bottom of my neck; I never did summon the courage or loathing to shorn myself any shorter. Yet more cowardice... perhaps when this is over.

Costumes color the scene, abound of witches and liches and devils and demons and zombies and skeletons... and yes, vampires; as well as more esoteric costumes, clockwatch and owlbears and plague-wraiths; even some of differing time periods or cultures, pharaohs and samurai and cowboys.

Their costumed performance reminds me of another. 'You seem like you'd enjoy bein' someone else...' I clutch at my forehead, as if I might physically pull the through from behind my eye with my fingers. How much more of this am I expected to endure?

A child runs past me, dressed in a high-collar cape, with cheaply-made fake fangs of rubber hanging from his mouth in a degrading mockery. "Nice costume, mister!", he says as he goes, cape aflutter in the wind.

Upon further consideration, this seems as good a spot as any to lay down and decay.

I press myself flat against a tree trunk once more. This has become unbearable. I take a moment to calm myself, imagine being anywhere else, breathing slowly, in and out.

When I open my eyes again, a familiar laugh catches my ear. I turn to see... ugh. Faylie's light, breathy faun laughter filters through the air. For a moment I think it a memory, but then I catch sight of her. She's dressed in a surprisingly elaborate sparkly white dress, tiara sitting just ahead of her antlers, which are adorned with beads and ribbons. The outfit shines a little too brightly, in fact... likely an illusion. Next to her, Tegan stands, arms crossed and smiling, as the faun tries and fails to pop several balloons with a dart. The knight isn't dressed any different. I imagine her armor and new extremities are passable as a costume already, to an everyday crowd.

No sign of their leader, and blessedly, they don't seem to have noticed me yet. I should leave before they do, yet... something about their revelry transfixes me. A swirling, churning sea of hatred that had built to overflow yesterday starts to stack atop itself once more in the brackish depths of my mind. I watch, for a while, snarl growing on my face as they enjoy everything that I can't.

Tegan turns to look around, and catches my eye. I freeze, suddenly caught feeling like a lecher, and she pats Faylie on the arm, leading her away.

Ah. Good. They're finally getting it. It's supposed to hurt, I remind myself once more.

I turn, heading back in the direction of the stage. Of course, it is just like the thieves to get distracted. They're here for the same reason as I, yet they spend their time with games, like doddering children. Ridiculous. Untenable. Undeserving

.

A face catches mine in the crowd, and my heart skips a beat. For just a moment... it looks like her. A feline beastfolk with ears pointed up, enjoying her afternoon as she bites into a leg of meat. I close my eyes, shaking my head, and the similarities melt away before me. She isn't Lainey... Lanely... fuck!

Fuck this. I can't bear it anymore. I'm coming apart at the seams. I have to go. I can't be in this crowd, with these people, assaulted on all sides by memory and sound and light and longing. Forget my debts, I need to leave. With panicked breaths I march for the nearest exit.

* * *

I make it about as far as a service building at the edge of the park before I stop myself, admonishing between cracking fissures of agony in my head. I'm being absurd, I stand to lose everything.

My fingers squeeze the watch. The unfathomably powerful trinket that has found its way to my hands, and I would risk it for an unpleasant afternoon. I feel every bit the moron as I've claimed to be above. Pull yourself together.

I step into the service building, what looks to be a small concrete hut of restrooms and supply closets, a single hallway with several doors down one side, a metal-grated window cut through the other. I lay myself flat against the wall, letting the muffled sounds of the fairgrounds disappear behind me. Far enough to make out any individual element that might send me spiraling once more.

The building smells absolutely foul, cleaning products failing to wash away the stale scent of urine clinging to the floors. Not exactly a pleasant place in which to recover my faculties. I listen back into the distant crowd, only to catch a nearer clatter, from the direction of the road adjacent to the park. Horse hooves and wagon wheels slowing to a stop, along with a more clamorous, noisy machine, bursting and blasting engine sputtering and spewing.

As stealthily as I can, I peak my head out the door of the service building, to see indeed a large cart stocked with people and supplies pull up along the park. And behind it, a metal bed like a boat rolling along on four wheels, pulled not by horse or other beast, but propelled under its own power. The shiny black automobile holds maybe four or five people, who all get out at the same time.

I roll my eyes. Those annoying, smoke-belching contraptions clog up the streets whenever they're seen; at least horsecars are regulated. I sincerely hope those machines don't catch on.

One individual leaving the automobile in particular catches my eye. The blue-bobbed actress from yesterday. Thassalia Demetrix saunters out over the open field, flanked by a contingent of guards, suit-wearers, and handymen carrying crates of unknown supplies. Finally. I duck inside before any of the individuals can see me, waiting for the footsteps to pass my vantage. Thassalia comes into view through the metal grate window of the shed, and I wait until it seems her entourage is past before I exit to follow.

She stops ahead of adoring crowd members, chatting and shaking hands with those whom seem to recognize her enough to be starstruck. She seems to amble through the fairgrounds aimlessly, clearly not required to be anywhere with any amount of punctuality, at least not yet.

Ducking behind trees and booths as I go, doing all I can to stay out of sight, I watch as the actress gets in line for the giant wheel. Perhaps she needs some amount of height for whatever it is she's planning? I groan, as I try to get closer, to see if she lets anything slip talking to her lackeys or guard.

She and a couple men step inside a booth-like pod, like a split-open capsule, leather seats lining the inside in an octagon. The red-white stripe-vested staff member closes the door behind, waving forward to the mechanical operator, as the stories-tall wheel starts to spin upwards, the actress within.

Someone pushes me forward from behind, and I only realize now that I seem to have accidentally gotten in line for the ride. But if what she's planning involves this contraption... fuck it.

I step forward to the ride operator, paying a handful of coppers for my faire, and wait for the next pod. My eyes stay locked on the actresses' seat, rising further into the air. The next pod comes along, and I step into it alone, the uncomfortable seat shifting beneath me.

And as it starts to lift, I realize what a horrible mistake I've just made. The ground below disappears in vanishing dizziness, and I look away from the edge. What the hells was I thinking?! I can only concentrate on the ground of the pod itself, not daring to look out into the open sky I'm being slowly lifted into.

I may truly be my own arch enemy.

As the wheel continues to spin up, I quickly realize what a foolish idea this was even from a reconnaissance perspective... I can't even see her pod from mine! All I can see is the sky, and the canopy I'm now rising above, and-

Suddenly I am nauseous.

A strange sound from below takes my attention away, as I hear startled shouting and yelling from the crowd, and a clanging sound. Soon my irrational fears feel far more rational; is there something wrong with the ride?! It would be just my misfortune to be party to a mechanical failure, or freak accident-

The clamoring gets louder, right below my pod-

And a hand grabs the side of the open window. Ah.

Climbing into the booth seat from below, Alabastra Camin heaves herself from her moronic ascent up the carnival ride. The pod rocks slightly as she does. She meets my eyes, not half as concerned with the shaky movement as I am. "Hi."

"Leave!"

"What, back the way I came?" She points back with her thumb. "That'd be dangerous!", she says, pretending to be scandalized. Despite everything, still she smiles.

My arms cross. This is unbelievable. Is she going to continue finding increasingly distressing ways of forcing herself into my life? Do I have to start checking the corners of my home for her? "Are you following me?"

She points up. "Actually... I was followin' her." Ah. It's no surprise I didn't see her, then. "But, I saw ya get on the ride and thought... why not?"

I brand an angry stare into her. "Then why are you distracting us both? You could have kept an eye on her!"

Alabastra only shrugs. "To be honest... I'm pretty sure she's just enjoyin' the fair right now." She leans forward in the seat. "Plus, what's she gonna do from up there? Recite soliloquies evilly?"

I wouldn't put it past the universe to conjure something so ridiculous... Before I can say anything, I catch sight of the sky behind Alabastra, and my balance washes away in another wave of vertigo.

Though I look away from her, I can hear the grimace she forces her words through. "Damn heights, huh?"

Without eye contact, I give a noncommittal shrug, like my shoulders alone might bat her away.

As ever, she doesn't get the message. "Listen. I wanna talk."

"Haven't we done enough of that?"

"We've got like ten more minutes of this ride, might as well." She pauses, and her tone shifts, purposeful, delivered as precise as one of her arrows, "I mean it, though. Let's talk. One last time."

My brow raises. Surely she isn't implying something so final. Again, and again, and again, she comes around like a bad habit. "Wasn't the last time, the last time? I'll believe it when I see it."

She huffs. "I'm serious. You win, Oscar. I am outta your life, after this. Let's just hash it all out now, and say our goodbyes." Finally, I find it within me to look at her face, and see she's staring into the distance, not at me, and glassy-eyed. "I'm not sorry I tried. But I am done trying. It's obvious I can't change your mind."

Now she truly does sound serious. Still, I'm not so easy a mark anymore. "I don't have anything else to say to you."

"Oh, you've made that clear." She nods bitterly, swallowing the poison pill of her defeat, then meeting my gaze again. "You've said 'fuck off' in every way you could. You don't need to repeat it. But I still have shit to say. Alright - I cared about you. And regardless of how much you hate me, I'm still a person. I deserve to say goodbye to a friend. So I'm gonna do that."

Alabastra sounds... serious. Truly serious, though it seems unbelievable to me. If she's right, then I have finally, fully succeeded. One last conversation, then. I look to her. "Fine."

The half-elf takes a deep breath. If she had some speech prepared, her face says that she's thrown it out. "Look, I get hating me - I do. Alright, I have come to expect it... I am a hard person to know. I'm pushy. And I gotta get told not to do shit I outta know not to do. And I fucked up, and I kept things from you, and I lied - I was so scared of you slippin' through my fingers that I crushed you instead. So, I don't blame you." She swallows a lump in her throat. "You have to know you saved me. You do know that, right? And I wasn't... I couldn't make it up to you."

That strikes a chord of confusion. I saved her? When?

She continues, "But you are allowed to hate me. You've earned that, and you don't have to forgive me. I don't even want you to, anymore, if that's what you need." Her pause is accentuated by a slight jolt of the wheel ride, as it stops to let another passenger into the bottom pod. "But... do you need that? To hate me forever? Do you even know why? Because I'm not sure you know. And I'm damn sure it's not healthy for you. I mean, you should see yourself right now - you're clearly in pain, Oscar!"

I wince away the headache, trying to hide it. She doesn't get to use that against me. "Of course I know why I hate you. You're a manipulator. All you ever wanted out of me was a loyal puppet."

"What?!" She throws up her hands. "No! That's the exact opposite reason why I needed you. I need someone around me who will call me on my shit. Who'll point out when I'm about to go over the cliff - who keeps me fucking grounded! I needed you exactly as cynical and skeptical as you were! I would never try to make you agreeable, I like it when you push back!"

Nonsense

. Just more lies. "And you're an oathbreaker."

She looks like she's about to spit. "You keep saying the same things... We already went over this. I mean, is that why you hate me? That I broke a promise? Or do you just hate that I didn't let you die?"

I swat away her comment, digging back into my mind for more to throw at her. "And you... you kept things from me. And lied."

"Yes, I fucked up - I just acknowledged that! Are you even listening to me?"

"And what you tried to say..."

The rogue looks at me in shock, as if I'm saying unreasonable things. "You're repeating the same points over and over... you just gotta tell me one reason why you think this is actually what you need."

She's just trying to distract. "And. And you don't know anything about me, and-"

Alabastra interrupts, "Gods, Oscar, you haven't moved on an inch! You can't even answer a question straight - you're just... on a script!"

"Well I certainly didn't start this quarrel!"

"But it's more than that! I mean, you're as angry as the second it happened! Fuck, it's like you're stuck in that-"

And then she stops. Her own words hang off the edge of her tongue. Her eyes grow wider and wider, and her mouth falls from screaming to confusion, to grim realization. She looks past me, staring into space like the page of a book, recounting and reading the pieces, as if she and not Latchet were the detective.

She lets out one tiny breath, and says in a small, humbled voice, "... moment..."

Her hand covers her mouth, and she stands as best she can in the tiny space of the pod, nearly vibrating in place for lack of ability to pace. She drags the hand down her face, and as if her touch turned it to stone, her expression hardens into pure resolve. And she turns back to me.

"Os...?" Her whole demeanor's shifted, deathly serious. She holds out a hand. "I think you should give me the watch."

A shot a panic tears through me like a cannonball. I grip the watch under my shirt. "You wouldn't dare!"

She winces. "Just for a second, okay, I just wanna see somethin'-"

"No! You can't have it!" I scramble back as far as the damned pod will let me go. That's what this was always really about! She was jealous. She just wants the artifact. I won't let her take it!

"Os, I think it's affecting your mind-"

I scream over her, "Absolutely not-"

"It's, it's making you see things in a totally twisted light-"

"It's mine! You can't take it-"

"Please I swear I will give it right back-"

"Stop!" I pull into myself and look frantically for some kind of reverse switch on this ride. "Don't come any closer!"

Alabastra breathes out of her nose, staring into the ceiling of the ride cart like her answers might be found printed on the underside. Then she nods. "Gods I hope I'm right." And she rushes me.

Her hands paw at my shirt, clawing for the watch, and instinct takes over. I'm little better than a rabid animal, thrashing and kicking against her, as if it were my beating heart she had her hands around. Despite my frantic attempts, she finds the artifact swinging from my neck, and pulls at it. I pull back.

"Please, Os, just let it go!"

"I NEED IT!" I pull with all my might backwards.

And force us both over the edge.

For a moment, the ground approaches too rapid to have any last thoughts, the crowd of people shouting, the leaf-covered muddy grass expanding to meet my view. But before we hit the ground time feels as if it slows to a crawl, sounds stretching, wind dulling, gravity lessening.

Until it all stops.

The two of us are caught frozen in the air, locked in place mid-fall, the watch slung down past my head, as I stay fixed in my face-first falling position. The crowd below is a still painting.

The watch chain goes slack from the static it was spooled into, dangling in front of my face. I can move my eyes, then my neck, as I crane up to see Alabastra in place, wild hair going from an unmoving piece to individual falling strands again, as she turns to look at me in our mutually time-held moment of forever plummeting.

And then the watch ticks.

 "?eid uoy tel t'ndid I taht etah tsuj uoy oD"

"We'll owe you. I'll owe you .od ydaerla I naht eroM"

Like shining emeralds glinting back the world in their clarity.

A force takes hold, grip stronger than gravity, pulling us toward the watch. Forwards and back. Backwards and fro.

Tick.

I have no intention of making it my last.

"To want something so bad, ti eman ot sdrow eht evah ton tuB"

".yako s'tI. ethearb tsuJ"

With ripping, engrossing arcana beyond anything capable of mortal hands, the watch pulls us inside. Our forms shift, and morph, twist and squeeze through a needlepoint. Draped through its works, spinning and slotting and floating. Memories like lilies, possibility like a skipping stone, bulwarked along the ticking-

Ticking-

Ticking hand.

An unassuming brass pocketwatch is stuck in frozen time above the trodden festival grounds: and the hand is spinning.