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"Ashes and Sparks" (Muse) She kicked outward. There. A pulse. Glowing blue, a bleeding of light that seeped inward. It even smelled like blood: metallic, raw, exotic. She whirled, spun, twirled, her hair flying out around her, a fire catching the light and reflecting it, so that she seemed to turn the room orange. Orange, melting into blue, as, beyond, someone banged out chords on a piano. The lilting hum of a voice glided to her. As she moved, her elbow struck porcelain. She did not so much feel the pain of it as the shifting of her weight; she pushed herself forward, turned again on unsteady heels, trying to catch the urn before it fell. But, half-child, half-woman, she was not a dancer. The awkward gosling grace of youth yet clung to her, refusing to yield; she flung her arm outward. One finger caught the painted side of it, scraped against it, but caught only chalky blue, trapped between nail and skin. She shuddered, shivered, gasped as it crashed to the ground at her feet. Splattered. Scattered. Broke into a million pieces. Poured its gray all across her feet, her bare ankles. His next blow caught her beneath the jaw. This time, she did not keep her balance. Her head soared backward, her mouth snapped shut. And she could taste what she had smelled in blue: blood filling her mouth. She gasped, gagged, fell into ashes. She seemed to swim in them; they clung to her skin, as though they remembered they once were flesh. She screamed. She kicked outward: Anabelle woke. The world might find it strange that a grown woman yet woke kicking the sheets like a child. Sweat trickled on her brow, swept away by a hasty hand. The mayor of Muse pushed the blankets down, swung her legs over the side of the bed. “Enough of sleep,” she murmured aloud, pulled her candle from where it rested. There was always work to be done—she might as well get on it. There was a glass of wine sitting undisturbed upon the table. Her fingers had played near it once, twice, but passed by it both times, to push a stack of papers aside, to trace light fingers across the polished wood. It wasn’t her glass of wine, and it had been somewhat disconcerting to find it there that morning. Trying to poison me? she thought, amused. Oh well. She could always use it to toss at the man, should he prove an annoyance. The man's eyes touched the glass. Moved past. Well, if he was waiting for her to speak, he could leave. She wasn't about to break the silence that had fallen over him: that she had a way of stealing words from otherwise brave men, she knew and didn't much care. He was wasting his own time—and hers. "Lady Anabelle, if I may—“ But his words were snuffed out, drowned, as the door to the chamber was flung open. Light scattered and shattered and flew, like chips of wood, trickling across the room. Upon the table, the wine-glass trembled. Lady Anabelle, Mayor of Muse, looked across the room in a moment of startled shock, brought her lips together in a tight, thin line. For a brief, fleeting second, her heart screamed that they were under attack, they were under attack—impossible, the peace treaty—but she saw the face of the man who entered, felt relief flood her. For half the time it took to breathe a whisper. And then the panicked look on his face brought a new apprehension. Fitcher looked like some wild animal, tossed in by a storm—eyes wild and raging and everything that was, inherently, human, but hidden by the mask of society. He was frightened—or elated—or a mixture of both, some other indefinable thing that Anabelle could not quite grasp. She could see it, shiny before her, but it slipped through her fingers like water, like sand. Like salt. And he was grinning at her like a madman. Anabelle stared. His grin weakened; he said, "Um, hello, Lady Anabelle." “Hello, Fitcher,” she said in a quiet, clipped tone. Keeping her eyes on the man pressed against the door, she spoke to the other in the room. “It appears there is an urgent matter I must attend to, sir. Would you be so good as to come back at a later time…?” "But it took me two months to get an appointment!" “I assure you I will find time to fit you into my schedule. I give you my word.” She turned: ice eyes focused. The man jumped up from the chair, turned in a haphazard scurry, knocking over the chair. The wine glass trembled once more. Anabelle placed a steadying hand upon the table as the door was quickly opened—Fitcher pushed hastily aside—and quickly shut. She turned her attention to the man who had entered. Without taking her eyes from him, she bent, righted the chair that had fallen carelessly to the floor, indicated it with her hand. “Wine?” she asked, hand touching the glass. The man gave her a blank look. With a sigh, she sat, folded her hands together. “All right. What happened?” There was a moment of hesitation, a shifting, as though he was uncomfortable in the chair, in his own skin perhaps—or in the world that could send him here, before her. “I hate to be the one to tell you this, Lady Anabelle—“ She gave Fitcher a steady, unflinching look as he bit down upon his lip, like a child might; his eyes moved quickly about in some subtle paranoia. Did he think she would pounce on him? Well, if he didn’t speak, she might. “Yes?” she urged, stringing out the word: she saw it make its impact in the man’s eyes. He seemed to be weighing his words. Calculating—no, that word did not fit Fitcher. Judging, perhaps. How to say, what to say, if he should speak at all. At last: "Toto's been burnt to the ground, and all evidence points straight to Highland." His words were a torrent, a flurry of syllables, as though, if he didn’t speak quickly, he would lose the courage to speak at all. There was a moment, a blinding, imperceptible moment, before it hit her. A moment of perfect ignorance, as the words collided, and scrambled. Then righted themselves. Toto. Burnt to the ground. “Toto—“ “Burnt to the ground.” “And the evidence points to Highland,” she said: a statement, not a question, and he knew it. Fitcher gave her a simple nod, but kept his silence, perhaps giving her a moment to compose herself. Well, it wasn’t needed. “I see.” Silence. Toto. Burnt to the ground. She should have been expecting this. She should have been prepared for something like this to happen. Ruka Bright—he had done it. Her mind screamed his name—again and again, again, irrationally. But she knew she must be right. Clara had said he was not human; Anabelle had disagreed. She was beginning to have her doubts. Again, Anabelle set her face in stone. Her thoughts moved quickly—Toto, where next? She would have to send people out to Ryube, Coronet. Send messengers to the other leaders of the City-State. Whether they would pay much attention or not… Toto was small and an easy target. It also effectively cut Muse City off from Ryube; of course, they could still pass through easily, should she need to send soldiers to other cities. It would be unwise for Highland to leave any of its soldiers in Toto; without any actual evidence, they could try to avoid blame. Until they struck again. “Perhaps you would like to elaborate? Were there any survivors?” At her words, he seemed to relax slightly; the stiffness of his posture eased. Anabelle watched him with quiet attentiveness, gauging each movement, each tiny tick of muscle: as though she could read, in subtle movements, all that he’d witnessed. She could not, quite. But she could understand the emotion flowing from him in tides, and she could sympathize. Anabelle had seen what war could do to people. The living, and the dead. There was a moment of hesitation. Tension hummed within the air. It was so thick, so present, Anabelle could have cut it like butter, lathered it like soap. She could feel its residue upon the palms of her hands. "Er," he began, "I—I’m afraid there were none that we could find, Lady Anabelle." She drew her lips together, pressed them firmly. She was afraid that if she opened her mouth, she might speak, and Anabelle did not want to speak. Not yet. Not until she had more information. Not until she could sort out what exactly needed to be done. Not until she could stop thinking of Toto. Burnt to the ground. Fitcher looked down, unable to face her, unable to face the ugliness of the words he spoke. Or perhaps he was afraid of her reaction—did he not want to be looking into the face of the storm when it finally arrived? "We found the bodies outside of town. It… it was an obvious execution." God. “My god. He is…truly a monster.” She paused: a thought struck her sideways. “Fitcher, why were you in Toto?” Anabelle leaned forward upon the table, eyes sharp; she could read the startled flicker in his eyes. His head snapped up, and she saw the world moving behind his lashes; thoughts spinning into threads of consequence—she already knew the answer, anyway. Anabelle was merely waiting to see if he would say it. She thought he might—but perhaps she overestimated him. Or, underestimated him, depending upon how one looked at it. Did he have the courage to lie to the mayor of Muse? To tell the truth? It came down to who he was more afraid of—her, or her chamberlain. With the strange sort of frenzy he’d been in, Fitcher had dropped the mask of ignorance that he’d so carefully sculpted and molded and formed around himself. He rarely used it in her presence—as it was unnecessary—but all hint of it was gone now. No threads of it clung to his manner. It was disconcerting to see the man defenseless. He seemed exposed, and Anabelle didn’t believe she had the right to bear witness to it. She’d always regarded vulnerability as a very personal thing, and it was something that made her uneasy, at any rate. Still, Fitcher truly was a useful man, one she needed. If it was fear of Jess that held him back—well, if Jess had gone behind her back with this, it was entirely possible he wouldn’t listen to her on Fitcher’s behalf, anyway. The man could make Fitcher's life hell, did he choose to. Yes. Better for him to lie, she supposed. As she waited for his answer, she settled back into her chair. There was so much to think about—so much to take in without sugar. She felt a tight breathlessness worming its way into her belly. Her hands and her thoughts were cold, and there was a dark weariness clutching at her. Ice eyes narrowed; she waited for his response in silence, while her mind raced in circles through a dead valley. While her eyes sought the strange, disquieting images of a town in flames: orange and glowing like mad, like flickers of laughter. Straw burned quickly, and so did hair— "There were reports of trouble in Toto last night, and it just seemed a wise idea to check up on them." Anabelle nodded, slowly. Well, she’d take the matter up with Jess herself, anyway—she didn’t really need Fitcher to confirm what she already suspected. “Lord Jess informed me he required your services. However, since you’ve been—away—I’m sure he found someone else to do whatever was needed. Still, you might want to speak with him on the matter. You may go, Fitcher. And I want a report on my desk tomorrow morning.” Without words, she watched him nod, leave the chamber. Anabelle would have to speak with Jess later, but she would wait for him to come to her. He had to have been planning to tell her some time. It irked her. Was he trying to undermine her authority? As mayor, she should be the first to know, so that she could take action. There was going to be a lot of unease in Muse City that night, and for the next few days. Many of them would have had relatives in Toto. They needed to know that she was handling the situation—as well as it could be handled—and she couldn’t do that if she didn’t know. Well. She would simply have to make certain she did not rely so heavily on the flow of information from Jess. She’d borrowed some of Hauser’s men. Quite a few of them, actually. She’d sent them as scouts: into the mountains, into the areas around Toto, a few into Highland itself. Visibility was not something she was terribly concerned of; she wanted Highland to know that Toto’s destruction had been reacted to. That it wouldn’t be allowed. That they would not tolerate such attacks. But, then, Anabelle knew that Ruka Bright would want that. He wanted war—she felt it; why else attack Toto? Unprovoked…and why Toto? And why attack in such a way? That wasn’t war. It wasn’t battle. It was murder. Anabelle clenched her fists and gazed out her window. Outside, the news would be traveling, spreading, moved by unseen lips and knowing eyes, tear-streaked faces. Toto, burnt to the ground, its citizens executed. All of its children… Toto. To break Muse in half. To weaken them. Because Toto was defenseless. Because Toto hadn’t seen it coming: none of them had. Because the prince of Highland was both human and something else, a darker breed, a deeper breath, clay formed from the same bloody soil that he now walked. Because the human monster of Highland wanted entertainment, and found it in the torture of others. Anabelle shuddered; she shook. Her hair slid across her shoulders, leaving trails of fire upon cloth. With a breath, she tried to keep her mind focused. Messengers; she’d sent messengers to Ryube, to Coronet, to others in the City-State. Tomorrow, she would close down Muse City itself. Later, she would have to make a speech—or Jess would—telling the people that the situation was under control. Jess. That reminded her. She needed to speak to him. Well, Jess could wait. It wasn’t incredibly important. There were other, more pressing, matters she needed to attend to. Because Toto, burnt to the ground, still flamed alive in her mind, orange and dying and drowning in flame. Anabelle had witnessed death. She had witnessed that flicker in the eyes, that desperate spark, the quiet and begging desire to live, live, live. She wondered what Ruka Bright had seen in the eyes of the dying, and shivered, though the room was not cold. If she breathed deeply enough, thought hard enough, strained her eyes to see far enough, she knew what she’d find. Anabelle would find the black, charred, remains of life—not just life, but the thought of it, feel of it, the haunting ghosts of laughter, every need and whisper and curve of the lips—and beneath it, she would smell, taste, that acrid, awful scent of ashes, lingering on the air. Too thick to ever be washed away.
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