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The Collection; Short Story Challenge: Thankful
Topic Started: Sat Nov 25, 2017 3:15 pm (43 Views)
Ioann
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He should have been thankful.

Ioann Gregori stood in the shadows of the graveyard, beneath the black, twisted trunk of a naked tree. Purple and gray mottled leaves, cast off in an autumnal fit, were scattered limp and sopping about him, saturated with the perpetual Balefiren drizzle. Ahead, lit by muffled orange lanterns that reflected off the dark stone of a tomb, Red Viskovien – Yuri seemed more appropriate now, he supposed – was being interred.

He should have been thankful that Red’s reign in the Morozhen District had finally come to an end. He should have felt closure. Instead, he just felt tired and empty.

Snippets of the spellward drifted to him through the rain, carried upon the death-priest’s sonorous baritone.

“...estia, grant us your shield and sanctuary to protect Mr. Viskovien from all who seek to foul his corpse with vile intent, so that in death, he may finally find the peace that escaped him in...”

It continued on, simultaneously placating and begging, so unlike the Red that Ioann had known for two decades. Around the death-priest, a small congregation of mourners stood, drinking in the words and water. Three of Red’s mistresses. Talmot Stonedrinker – whose squat, broad form was unmistakable, Red’s most trusted and sycophantic lieutenant. Two new enforcers, if their builds were any indication. Ioann hadn’t seen them before, but then, it had been many months since he’d last spoken with Red. Enforcing tended to be a revolving door of short-term employment. And others, heads bowed in respect.

“...forgive Mr. Viskovien, for though the sins he committed were wrong, he repented, and his soul deserves...”

Repented? Doubtful. The bastard deserved something, all right. Red’s soul, secreted in the heavily warded stone casket, had probably earned the full force of Abyssal entertainment. But then, hadn’t Ioann’s, too? How many lives had he ruined with his participation in Red’s schemes? How many more through his willful passivity?

The sudden, too-near rasp at Ioann’s ear started him.

“It seems loyalty is a hard thing to kill in you, Mr. Gregori.”

The Stranger stood a few paces away, but somehow its words seemed much closer. It was wearing a black, high-collared longcoat that kept the worst of the mists at bay, and tugged at a short-brimmed gray hat sharply angled atop its head.

Ioann’s mood soured.

“Red and I had a... complicated relationship.”

“It does not seem so complicated from here, Mr. Gregori. He took you in when you had nothing, then used you to build his empire. When he was finished, he cast you off-”

“You wiped his memories! He didn’t cast me off.”

The Stranger paused a moment, waiting patiently for further interruption. When it didn’t come, it continued.

“Mr. Gregori, please, see reason. He cast you off long before we took an interest in you. How else could we have erased your presence so completely from his mind? Memory is a fickle thing, Mr. Gregori. It is more challenging to manipulate than a deed or certificate of citizenship. Deep tendrils require a great deal of pruning. Shallow roots... less so.”

Was that all he had been? Twenty years of shallow roots?

“What are you doing here, anyway?”

“Your debt to us is due, Mr. Gregori. I’ve come to collect.”

“Debt?” A chill descended Ioann’s spine. “What debt? I’ve been working for you!”

The Stranger made a grating, choking sound, too-like the suffocation of an entire schoolyard full of children. Ioann grimaced, then realized the thing was laughing. At him.

“Mr. Gregori, your intentional ignorance, while amusing, does not suit a man of your pedigree. Did you not think, for longer than a single moment, about whom you were working for?”

Ioann swallowed and took a step back. His throat was suddenly dry, despite the wet around him.

“We are generous, but our generosity has limits. Prices. And from our accounting, the balance shows we have given you far more than you have returned to us. We are all accountants at heart, if we are anything.”

If the last was meant as a joke, its edge against Ioann’s hammering heart bled away the humor.

“What is it that you want?” he coughed out. The gnarled black trunk was behind him and he felt for it with his whole left hand and spectral right. Felt the rough solidity of it. Took strength from it.

A pound of flesh, indeed.

“Why, your gratitude!”

Ioann blinked. “That’s... that’s it?”

Again that strangulating, horrible chortle.

“Of course not. We want your memory.”

“My memory? Of this?” Ioann swept a hand over the cemetery, and Red’s procession, and all of Balefire. “You want it? Take it.”

“Oh no, Mr. Gregori, not Balefire. Never Balefire,” it replied, voice monotonous, but all the more sinister divorced of inflection. “Of everything before.”

What?!”

The Stranger took a step toward him. It licked its lips in anticipation.

“You can’t steal my memories! She’s all I have left-”

“Of what? The man you were, Mr. Gregori?”

The more the Stranger repeated his name, the more it seemed drenched in blood and shadow, a reminder of all his failings. And there had been so so many.

“You are not a simple clerk on holiday in Balefire. You haven’t been for a very long time. Would Elena even recognize the man you are anymore? Would she embrace you, or shy away? You are not that man, Mr. Gregori, you are not the doting husband nor the dedicated clerk. You are... something else. Entirely something more.”

Ioann sunk to the earth, winded. How many sacrifices, how many compromises, until the man he used to be wasn’t the man he was? How would Ioann Gregori, copyist, greet Ioann Gregori, thief and murderer and jarkman? Like a friend, an older, wiser, though world-weary brother? Or like the fiend he was?

“It will be entirely less painful than your hand.”

A consolation. Ioann sighed. He’d been killing the man who’d entered Balefire for a long time. Slowly, certainly, but piece by piece until the only thing left were memories. Best to finish the job.

“What do I have to do?”

The Stranger simply smiled and stepped toward him. It rested a gloved hand on the side of his face.

“Not a thing, Mr. Gregori. It will all be over soon.”
Edited by Ioann, Sat Nov 25, 2017 3:41 pm.
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