The Restless Fugitive (Closed)

[Duffy]

Part Two

“You say it as if it’s the easiest thing in the world.”

Duffy took a few moments to consider his words carefully. His head was starting to spin and the cityscape spun with it. He had reached the point after drinking when a premature hangover loomed, and the euphoria of being drunk started to fade. He was really beginning to feel a need to sit down.

“It will be anything but.” He pushed away from her softly. He started to walk east along the winding road. He got several feet before he turned. Ruby lingered at the foot of the clock tower. “We must make the journey all the same,” he said loudly. There was suggestive tone in his voice that commanded her to action.

She jumped with a start, as though woken from a dream. She rubbed the tears from her eyes with her sleeve, adjusted herself as though she had just tumbled down a hill, and followed with dainty steps.

“This is not what I had planned for the afternoon,” she said softly. Duffy chuckled. “All this torment, not a whiff of apple turnover.”

The bard pictured the infamous sweet treat as they walked. He had been foolish to think any attempt at normality by the troupe could have lasted. He picked at the sugary pastry, let the filling spill out, and then discarded the sticky, cinnamon mess to the back of his mind. He needed something more fulfilling now. He pictured meat, gravy, and a platter of vegetables steaming and buttered.

“Let’s make ourselves a bit more presentable for the play.” He looked at his muddied clothing in despair.

Ruby hissed. “You are really going to make me do this, aren’t you…,” she said. Duffy felt as if she were trying to avoid the topic, but did not give her the chance to distract him.

“We have to, Ruby. We can look upon it as the first of many concessions, apologies, and acceptances. What better way to show the world we’re still here, ready to move on, than to consent to Pete’s début?” He did not like the idea either, but he saw its merit.

Ruby did not reply straight away. They walked for over a mile with noisy abandon; they kept their eyes levelled low to the well-worn path where thousands of people had trodden before them. By early afternoon, Scara Brae entered a strange twilight zone. The market lulled. The streets emptied. The bustling taverns became countryside retreats. They remained open on the charity of a handful of regular patrons too stubborn to be part of everyday life. On hot days, like today, people napped, did laundry, or made the most of the natural calm to get things done.

“I suppose,” she said wistfully. “It’ll be nice to hear laughter in the streets again.”

Duffy rolled his eyes. “It won’t just be nice, Ruby. It will be a godsend for the island.” Scara Brae had started to feel like any other city in recent months. It had lost the spark that made it unique in their absence.

“I guess…,” she erred.

“It will be fantastic to walk down Lowell Lane and see ribbon furled and glitter spread wanton along the board walk.” He waved his arms wide, as if his excitement needed any more emphasis.

There would be fanfare. There would be tumbling. There would be spectacle.

[Duffy]

The city pressed on them as they pressed ahead. They felt the tales of grandeur weigh down on their shoulders. They heard snippets through time spoken by their past lives, and all the past lives of the citizens of their home. They dwelt in the deafening silence, broken only by gull cry, distant waves, and the rattle of their feet on stone. The hanging baskets and privet fences gave way to fortress like garden walls and guarded cul-de-sacs. They were approaching the outskirts of the noble district.

“Should we call Arden and Lillith?” she asked, realising they were nearly home. She did not like the idea of returning to an empty household. Her butler had gone on annual leave, and Leopold, ever the busy man, was at some meeting or another with clients from Fallien.

Duffy smiled. He pointed to Winchester Mansion when it loomed around a corner. Its awning and white framed windows caught the sun as it lingered over the rooftops and set it ablaze. It looked incredibly inviting.

“I am not going to call them all this way for this.” The idea was appealing he had to admit. He could have summoned them from Akashima with a click of his finger and a clash of the bangles around his lanky wrists. It would have been so easy for the troupe entire to attend the debut. They crossed the distance between empty, sad streets and the first slate step leading to the doors home with newfound confidence. “You know she would just outshine whatever you chose to wear.” He clenched his teeth, fully expecting a sharp reprise.

She punched him in the arm. They came to a stop at the door, as though they were guests, and stood side by side in awkward silence.

Ruby chuckled. “Yes…she would, wouldn’t she…?” She pressed the bell. The door opened when it recognised her. An ancient enchantment pulled the frame and halves open, mahogany giving way to its oaken mistress. The enticing smell of old, dusty corridors, well cleaned tiles, and antique furniture greeted them in a wave of nostalgia.

“Let us not even begin to talk about Arden’s laugh…,” he added. He recognised opportunity to use self-deprecating humour to lift the spell singer’s spirits. “He’ll drown out any applause and all the tense bits.” He gestured politely for her to advance, and she tucked at the knee to bow in the most lady-like of manners.

“Not to mention,” she said loudly as she disappeared inside. Her voice echoed as it bounced off the wooden panels of the entrance hall. “He would eat all the turnovers!” She laughed again, joy lifting her chest so that she walked with an arched back and a regal pose befitting of a queen. She felt suddenly invigorated beneath the glare of all her past lives. The portraits that lined the walls welcomed her.

“Drink all the wine…,” the bard groaned. He pulled the door to, stopping on the doorsteps to give the city a farewell thought.

[Duffy]

“He does seem to possess quite the tendency for drinking you under the table,” Ruby mused. She disappeared around a corner and left Duffy alone, in the hallway, with his thoughts and memories.

He watched the empty hall beyond; rekindling all the times, he had come here over the years. He had been young in some of them, old in others. He had been happy, and sad, and sorrowed alike. The troupe was beginning to see the city of Scara Brae in a different light. There was history in its streets, and not just the passing of time. They touched the city, and it them.

“Ruby?” he heckled, growing impatient after several nostalgic moments passed.

The spell singer popped her head around the corner, smiled, and disappeared again.

“I won’t be long, make yourself at home in the drawing room!” she shouted, her voice trailing off as she apparently vanished into some strange back of beyond in the mansion.

Duffy shrugged. She was clearly going to change. Women had the dispensary nature of a constantly worried egotist. She would be some time deciding what to wear. He had plenty of time to do something about his encroaching hangover. He strolled cocksure over the black and white marble tiles of the grand hallway and approached the gold leaf doors, newly restored, that divided entrance from inner sanctum. He pressed his fingers against the lion-esque doorknob, turned it, and entered.

Pausing for thought, the bard found himself in a dark place. Literally, and metaphorically, he could not see the world for the shadows that clouded his mind. He remembered something he did not want to remember. He quivered his bottom lip.

“Lucian…,” he whimpered.

Four or so years ago, at a dinner party, the dark bard Lucian Lahore had returned to the world in force. He had stolen the Orb of Wainwright, a powerful relic, from its resting place. It was the first of many events in a rising crescendo of war. It was the reason he was crippled. It was one of the reasons he hated himself so much.

“Oh for the love of the Thayne,” he moaned. He flicked his fringe from his brow, and sloth like advanced across the dusty floor. The tiles in the hall became thick, luxurious carpet when he crossed the threshold. In the limelight of early afternoon, it appeared brown, but it had once been hazelnut, ridiculously expensive, and a crime to muddy it.

On the eastern wall of the room, tall bookcases stretched from floor to ceiling. On the southern wall, paintings of all the previous Winchester patriarchs leered down at the innocuously large desk at the centre of the room. Duffy turned to the west, where large bay windows looked out over an immaculately kept greenhouse. It leads out, through tropical heat, to a veranda and herb garden, where Ruby retreated when things got too tough even for her.

“Make yourself at home…,” he whispered. “Well,” he turned to the bar, which Leopold always kept well stocked, “if you insist.”

With lazy feet, he approached the mahogany tallboy and drinks cabinet that stood next to the desk. Whatever Leopold did in here, he apparently needed a drink close to hand. Duffy raised an eyebrow when he folded down the compartment door, and scanned the contents.

[Duffy]

“I’ll need to be carried out of here if I’m not careful,” he chuckled.

On instinct alone, he reached for the Salvarian ice wine. It was a strong, curious mix between white wine and vodka. It was whatever it was made of, incredibly clear, crisp, and ridiculously strong. The only time Duffy has to drink such a luxury, was when Ruby and Leopold were away, and he had the misfortunate weakness of saying yes to house sitting. The glass bottle, cut crystal, rattled noisily against some Alerarian rum and a small vial of Fallien fig wine.

“Heck, what do I care, I hate crowds.” He raised the bottle, flicked the top away, and waited for it to come to a stop on the carpet. It rolled under the desk out of sight. “Damned if I’m going to sit through a whole play when I did not write it,” he drank from the bottle without concern for body or mind.

“Ermm,” said a voice.

Duffy dropped the bottle to his side, swirled, and hid it behind his back. His heart raced. His eyes widened. His goose bumps bristled.

“I said make yourself at home in my home, Duffy. I did not say eat me out of it,” Ruby lashed sarcastically.

Duffy sighed with relief. On the one hand, Leopold had not caught him. On the other, he was now reeling from the vapours, and quite taken aback by the sudden appearance of a divinity in red. Ruby over the years had clearly refined the art of a quick costume change.

“I am sorry.” He stumbled with his words. A streak of liquor rolled down his right side. “I…just, really needed a drink.” He looked back at the cabinet, and then back at Ruby. His sheepish grin announced his guilt to the world.

“Do you know what this room is for, Duffy?” she asked sternly. She held her hands firmly in her front, and bounced on immaculately polished heels. They were black, unworn, and teetering dangerously close to inappropriate.

“Something to do with Leopold’s business,” he guessed. In truth, he was not remotely sure. He was not remotely interested, either. He tried to avoid looking like a rabbit in torchlight.

“This room has been the heart of the Winchester family for three centuries. Before I ever met Leopold, his father, and his father’s father, conducted their respective business right here, and right at that desk,” she pointed over his shoulder. “They have all drunken, a little too much, from that cabinet.”

Duffy looked behind, to the cabinet, and felt worse still.

“One thing I never understand was why,” she said sullenly. “You just made me realise…they all drank to forget.”

[Duffy]

“I envy them…,” the bard moaned. He looked at the bottle as he lifted it up to the streams of light pouring in through the greenhouse. It danced with colour and eastern promise. It glimmered with obfuscated lies, and sharp, bitter, and painful morning afters.

“To forget all that happened the night before, save for the pleasantries and the highlights,” Ruby mused. She tapped her foot on the last of the tiles of the hall. She leant against the doorframe. “Do you really envy that? Is remembering all our past lives, after fighting so hard for that right, such a curse as to scorn every waking moment?”

Ruby asked herself that question as much as she posed it to Duffy.

“What the fuck happened to you Ruby?” Duffy asked, perhaps a little too bluntly. She blinked. “You have never, once in your lives, questioned fighting for our identity.” He set the bottle down, now half empty, on the green veneer of the desk. He lingered over placing it, but relinquished it after a muttered mantra of momentary abstinence. He looked back at her.

“Not to your face, anyway,” she spat. Duffy glared. “Just because I chose not to voice my concerns for all to hear, does not mean I am impervious to mortal fears.”

“What have we got to be afraid of anymore?”

This was a question the bard had asked himself so many times he had forgotten his own answer. He had turned his lips dry and cracked muttering mantras and metaphors over their misdeeds and forgiving. He had always found an excuse to avoid cutting to the chase. The study teemed with anxiety and nausea. Duffy could not be sure if it was the mood, or his now spinning head. He pressed down on the silver tip of his cane.

“We have everything to fear Duffy, everything and all things.”

He scoffed.

“Please, Ruby, don’t make melodrama out of nothing. Our enemy is dead, our fame secured, and our wars fought.” Duffy made a grand gesture with his right hand. It was a salute to nobody in particular.

“Then perhaps all we have to fear is ourselves.”

“Get real,” he balked. He would have gone on, but an idea struck him. It struck him again, just to make sure he was listening. His lip continued to tremble. His hands began to shake. She was right. “Wait…”

“A few home truths and you’re sincere?” she rolled her eyes. She let her hands drop to her sides. She abandoned all hope of compliments on her stunning choice of leather bodice, flowing red trail, and gold wrought hair bands set with rubies. She would have to fish for compliments elsewhere. “We have to stop doing this.” She pointed to the clock above the mantle. “It is three o’clock. If we do not leave now, we will miss the opening act.” She turned to leave.

“Ruby wait,” he cried. He held out a hand, fingers arced, as though he were trying to claw her back. She stopped. She turned her head back, though revealed only half her all-knowing smile. “I am sorry…” She turned. “Look,” he sighed.

[Duffy]

“We have all the time in the world to work this out Duffy.” They had all the time they could ever need to argue dusk until dawn. They had all the whiskey, vodka, and rye from every continent and time line possible and probable to drink them sober.

“Why can’t we do it now?” he pleaded. His pale, milky, and translucent cornea began to weep. They were not coy tears acted to life. They were genuine, admonished, and relenting sorrow. “There is no time-”

“-Like the present,” she continued. She snatched his metaphor from his lips and half wanted to slap him across the face with it. “True enough, on all accounts, but there is also no time like the present to leave to be on time.” She left. Her heels clipped against the tiles, a sound as comforting as it was telling.

“Ruby!” he shouted.

“Duffy, if we do not leave in ten minutes I am going without you.”

The bard teetered on cane stance and gin blossom. He felt the wine hit his stomach proper, as his knots unravelled, and his muscles relaxed. He felt sick. He felt feverish. He felt as if he were about to bring up dry vomit and unfinished business. He ran his last few words over in his mind, and kicked himself each time they made less and less sense.

“You’re a fucking idiot…,” he said, quite flatly. He dropped his gaze to the carpet.

The study loomed around him for several minutes, its walls rising, its ceiling smothering, and its contents rattling on battered, antique shelves. In between rows of books on accounting, geography, and history, little bell jars rattled with butterfly wing beats. Dragonflies pinned to chalk board flicked their long decayed tendrils of silver hairs. The fox head over the fireplace roared on its plaque.

“You do not deserve her…”

Amidst the perfect silence and solitude, Duffy pictured the world coming undone. He saw the books fly off shelves, the flames in the hearth rise a hundred feet tall, and the glass of the green house shatter. He saw clouds roll, thunder rattle, and lightning crack. His world caved in. His heart exploded. His determination grew.

“You never have.” He said flatly. He bit his lip. “You never will.” He clenched his fists around the tip of the cane until their knuckles whitened. It began to hurt, but he paid it no heed. He surged forwards, far too late, but all the more sincere in his action. He emerged into the hall with the air of a duke, looked up through the crystal chandelier, and spoke his heart.

“You look resplendent by the way!”

His words fell flat. Ruby appeared sultry and brooding through the now open front door. She stared at him, white hair catching fire in the sunlight.

“Too late, Duffy…far too late…"

[Duffy]

For a long, awkward while, the two bards stared at one another. The intensity of their scowls could have started a fire, or at least, wiped slate clean of chalk and memory with a sweep of contempt. Neither of them backed down, nor would they, so long as they continued to wind one another up.

They had been playing this petty game for nearly a year now.

“Forgive me,” he mumbled.

Ruby crossed her arms over her chest, and resorted once more to tapping her foot on the tiles. “I can try,” she replied.

With a sheepish grin, he walked to the front door. His cane clicked against the tiles in the same manner her heels did, though with half as much enthusiasm. She looked him up and down as he approached. There was a look of incredulity on her face. Duffy became very aware of it.

“You cannot be serious.” Her enquiry was painfully rhetorical. She did not attempt to give him an opportunity to answer. He stopped abrupt, looked himself over, and shrugged. “You are going to get changed this instance.”

“What is wrong with this?” he asked. He knew exactly what was wrong with it. It did not mean he was going to do something about it.

“Your shirt is sweaty, your trousers mud stained, and don’t get me started on your boots.” She said, matter-of-fact, finger pointing to each offending article in turn. “If you’re going to insult me, you can at least come to the play looking like you give a damn.” She began foraging in a large stand of umbrellas.

“I do give a damn.” He said with protestation thick on his tongue. He did not, but he was not going to show it. “Look, this is how much damn I give,” he brought his cane up, and instantly felt the weight press down on his shin. He winced. All the same, he slammed the tip of the cane into the floor.

There was a brief moment of silence. Ruby found her umbrella, pulled it free noisily, and stood to attention. The tinkle of bells caught her by surprise, but no so much as Duffy’s sudden change of form did. She blinked. She shuffled nervously.

“Yes, well…,” she mumbled. Her fire and temperament waned. “That is very good.” She stepped out onto the porch. “That was all you had to do,” she shouted inside, not quite ready to not have the last word.

Duffy walked out into the shade of the awning, eyes fixated on the back of Ruby’s head. He bore into her skull with bitter resentment, his tongue pushing hard against his piercings, his fist still white about his cane. She had caught him off guard appearing so soon. He took a moment to calm himself. His breathing became slow, but heavy, and full of ambition. The air tasted like sweat, hot slate, and sea salt.

“Are you ready to leave, then?” he enquired.

[Duffy]

“Now you have changed I think so,” she replied with gumption. Duffy did not need to see her face to recognise that she was smiling.

“Well I’ve hardly made as much effort as you, but if you’re sure this is okay,” he continued, resorting to flattery to double-check she was being sincere. He had forgotten how to deal with Ruby Winchester, but he was a quick learner.

He had not changed, exactly. He had simply called on the latent abilities he possessed to refresh his appearance. His simple white shirt was now pearl white. His collar was starched, pressed, and perfectly angled with an open top button. His black trousers possessed perfect ironing lines, and not a stitch was loose. The mud they had acquired from their escape into the alley was gone, and the sweat, though it still lingered in his nostrils, found itself clean with phantasmal soap and a flourish of white light.

“Is that the sun shining again?” he asked as he stepped forwards. She opened her umbrella, which was a little ambitious, but entirely necessary and they locked arms.

“It is rather-“

“Oh no, sorry,” he cleared his throat, and with a bright grin, he dragged her into the street, “it’s just the light shining out of your arse.”

“Duffy Bracken!” she whelped. Before she realised, she felt dragged away and she was just going along with it. Once, she would have kicked him in the groin, dressed him down, and then dragged him through the streets in a manner befitting of a noblewoman’s desire. She did not think she would get the chance today.

“You said that if we don’t leave in precisely ten minutes we will be late.”

“We are never late,” she said, as if to echo the truth in his statement. She practically felt the air dredged from her lungs when they swing around the corner at the end of the lane, and left the street she called home well and truly in the dust. The sun was seeping back into the city slowly, and when they stepped out of the shade, and into the light of the thorough leading back to the market, she instantly felt warm and hazy again.

“You might not be dear, but I recall you once saying how you would ‘cut me a new orifice’ if I so much as turned up a second beyond schedule again.” He remembered it all too well. When he caught her confused expression, it appeared she did not. His hair bobbed as he flicked it from his eyes, and his eyes sparkled with grey, pallid, but jubilant life. He was firmly back in control.

“Did I really say that? What did you do…?”

Duffy guffawed as they lurched out into the edge of the square. Ahead, the crowd had already gathered, despite them having made very good time to get a good spot. They both stopped in their tracks. Duffy wrinkled his nose.

“I got drunk the night before Lillith’s wedding…”

Ruby’s eyes widened. “Yes!” her inner child half-shouted.

[Duffy]

Duffy blinked with disbelief. He so very much wanted to just walk out and leave the conversation dead in the water. Every time he opened his mouth today, he seemed to dig himself a deeper hole. “Did you really forget?”

Ruby nodded. “That’s funny, because I would have made you suffer for weeks if you’d done something like that.” She chuckled nervously. Her mind raced through centuries of recollections, seeking for something to rekindle why she felt guilty.

“You did,” he replied flatly. She had made him suffer excruciatingly, to the point of being on his knees and grovelling for forgiveness. The troupe had pulled their hair out to try to calm Ruby’s wrath.

“Oh,” she mouthed. It was her turn to blink awkwardly.

“I think it’s ironic that despite me being virtually an alcoholic, I still remember all these little titbits of our past. You can extol virtue all you like about men drinking to forget,” he referred back to their flared discussion in the house, “but I remember all the important things in due course.”

Ruby could not argue with that. She saw his point. There were plenty of times she had drunken herself into a stupor the likes of which would have killed lesser women. She took a deep breath, embraced him under her arm once more, and with renewed glamour, advanced.

“Then I am very glad you are still here, Duffy,” she pursed her lips. She took another deep breath. She half wished she had partaken in the ice wine. “Even if we argue until sundown,” and she was sure that they would, “it is comforting to know that we’ll always have each other.” She meant it purely in the manner of friends.

“That is half the problem,” he smiled.

“Oh tosh, we can’t keep bringing that up. We were never meant to be because if we were, it would have happened by now.”
They dove into the rear of the crowd without flinching. They did not break their stride. The crowd, on the other hand, broke apart for them. When angry faces turned to see what rude individual had prodded them aside with the tip of a cane or a well-placed finger, the anger faded with recognition. A wall of warts, wigs, and wags staffs rippled and ruptured away from them.

“Yes, it’s us, now if you wouldn’t mind just,” Ruby ushered a young man to one side, his top hat and tails no match for her wealth and infamy, “that’s it, stepping over there,” they walked on and left even more gormless expression in their wake.

“Come on now people, you’re not here to see the Tantalum,” Duffy slapped his thigh; Ruby flicked her hair serenely behind her ears. “Look ahead, and behold the newest spectacle in the city!” Blood trickled down out of his trousers, his tiring form pushed a little too far to maintain their image.

[Duffy]

To avoid subjection to further scrutiny, Duffy raised his hand to the skyline. He pointed to the top of the stage at the centre of the square, where the troupe had vanished an hour or two ago. Everyone turned, as if given royal command. Atop the stage, a young boy stood cocksure and brazen.

“About time it fuckin’ started,” a merchant roared. His unkempt hair dangled in damp locks, and his apron, plastered with tomato seeds and green grass stains, dangled with noodles and kitchen utensils. The crowd was dense everywhere except around him. “I have been waiting-”

“-and will continue to wait,” Duffy said over him. He did not look at the man, but his voice pierced his anger and struck him silent. There were muttered thanks in the wind for several moments afterwards.

The breeze picked up, rolling over the crowd east to west. The sun shone from behind the figure, casting a silhouette of a youth clad in midnight black and donning a tall, needle tipped hat. For a second, Duffy thought he saw Wizard Blueraven, but then a light shone from below and showed the boy’s true colours.

“Who do you think that is?” Duffy enquired calmly. He raised an eyebrow inquisitively.

“Pettigrew,” Ruby whispered, “he looks rather fetching now.” She said quieter still, so only Duffy heard. He rolled his eyes. “Oh I am excited for him so very much!” she squealed.

Duffy sighed. “Given you wanted to rip his face off earlier, you’ll forgive me,” he shut up when he took a finger to the ribs. He had to admit, he had come into his own from the snotty nosed brat who had a penchant for thievery. He used to ruffle his hair before bed, and give him sherbet lemons as a treat for annoying Ruby just enough to get away with it.

“You wanted to have a boring afternoon on the docks, can’t a woman change her mind?” she raised her eyebrow less inquisitively, and more administratively. Duffy felt undone by it, and fell silent. The tension between them abated, just a little, and they called for a temporary ceasefire.

Pettigrew clapped his hands, ruffled his hair with too much vanity, and spread his arms wide.

“Ladies and gentlemen of this fair island!” he roared. His voice somehow shook the atmosphere, and grabbed every person’s attention for a good mile. “Are you ready to be excited?” he beamed a smile that caused jowls to deepen and eyes to sparkle.

“Yeah!” everyone jeered, as if all had been to a thousand plays before.

“Then I shall entice you with the tale of the Restless Fugitive.”

They remained transfixed, proud noses raised to the crowd, and spines righted so not a hair fell out of place or a shoulder slouched. Clad in fine red silk, new white cloth, and matching black shoes, they took their place at the heart of the crowd and, for once in their life, began to a watch a play that would surprise them. They began to watch a play that titillated, cajoled, and carried them away.