when it isn't just a game, it's the way we come undone

[paperclipbitch]

doors no one ever quite closed

{Across The Line - Sharlo West, Mariah Drummond, Firenze Lane}



.{june 1872}.

Feather Bay is where you go when you have nowhere else to fall. When you are tired and poor and dirty and your own family won't look at you or can't look at you and even the prostitutes sneer just a little at your coin. When the world doesn't want you and you have no more options. Feather Bay is full of the hopeless, the disillusioned, the flat broke, the dregs of society. A Sky Island whose sole purpose seems to be to accept those that nowhere else wants or that don't want to be anywhere and so they end up scraping together a cheap existence in the rundown buildings of the Bay.

The sun is rising, vivid pink, as the dark-haired young man makes his way through the streets. It rained during the night and the cracked cobblestones are wet and slick, more of a death trap than ever, though the man is light on his feet and his boots are still in good enough condition not to leak, which he's glad about. He does not have a great deal of things left to be glad about - he is living in Feather Bay, after all - but reasonably intact boots are at least a good starting point. In any case, he's been here long enough to feel almost at home, and it's a better home than the one he left on the Ground Below, the one they threw him out of a little after his tenth birthday, leaving him to his own devices. He is less bitter about this than most people feel he ought to be, when he recounts the story - always so drunk he can barely stand, the words skinning nakedly between his teeth - but the fact of the matter is that he hadn't liked it much anyway, and he doesn't really miss it. All his home gave him was the awkward lilting Western accent he cannot shift, no matter how much time he lives elsewhere, and the determination to rely on himself because no one else is worth relying on. It's not a bad lesson to have under his belt, he's always reasoned, and it has helped him through a lot in the past.

Few people are stirring this early in the morning; most of the Bay's inhabitants will be sleeping off the excesses of the night before, out cold wherever it is that they've fallen. The alcohol is cheap here, brewed strong and vile, but it does the trick wonderfully. He steps over a man lying in a gutter, drooling his own blood and with two teeth lying on the ground beside him; waking up will definitely be an unpleasant experience, if he wakes up at all.

Pubs are throwing out the last of their customers, some of whom can still just about walk, some of whom can still just about crawl, and some of whom are deeply unconscious, being kicked and rolled to stay in the streets until they wake up or until it's established that they are actually corpses. The man pays no heed to this, stepping smartly around the drunken people attempting to work out where they are and if that bears any relation to where they ought to be, tilting his battered hat a little more over his face to hide the beginnings of a derogatory smile.

Some of the shops are beginning to open, water sluicing out of their doorways over the pavements. No one sells anything that anyone particularly wants to buy, but food and clothes are a necessity and the goods are cheap enough; poor quality, dreadfully dull to look at, but at least you can afford them and the shopkeepers probably won't spit after you as you leave. The man does not stop to look in any windows, stepping over the streams of dirty, soapy water running from the establishments that still bother to wash their floors. He wants nothing at the moment and in any case money is not exactly plentiful.

He nods acquaintance to a few of the shopkeepers, keeping his face hidden by his hat. He likes Sunday mornings in Feather Bay, when everything is quiet and over but for the clearing up of broken glass and the patching up of the wounded. He's been well out of it of course; there are places in the Bay less inclined towards carnage, for those who've found themselves there with a little more hope. Or, as in his case, on someone else's behalf. He wouldn't be here for himself; but that's all right, he's been in a lot of places out of choice and none of them have ever made him particularly happy. It's almost home now, and even if he sometimes feels a little like he should be trying harder to get them out of here, well, it isn't as though they have anywhere to go.

A girl wearing a torn white dress that would technically count as underwear anywhere but here grins at him with too many teeth, something predatory in it. He resists the urge to roll his eyes and tell her to cover herself up before she catches cold - he might feel like an old man at times but in reality he's only twenty - and raises his left hand to his hat, tipping it in a gesture that is simultaneously respectful and mocking. He can feel her eyes on his hand, because it bears the only thing interesting or remarkable about his appearance; etched on the back on the skin between his thumb and forefinger is an elaborate letter W. She recognises it for what it is instantly and her eyes widen a little, but he's already walking on. Sometimes he wishes he'd picked somewhere less obvious for the tattoo marking his allegiance, but he was a little arrogant at seventeen.

He isn't arrogant anymore; or, at least, he tries not to be.

The sign of the Parakeet is creaking in the breeze, light glinting orange and pink off the puddles outside. He stands for a moment, hands in his pockets, and looks up at the windows of the uppermost floor; the shutters are closed, which could mean anything. He grimaces a little and then walks inside the inn.

Mrs Bexlow is mopping the floor, hair escaping in loose curls from where it was severely pinned back last night. She's still relatively young but it's easy to forget that because she's so very bitter. The downstairs rooms are empty though they still smell like blood and sweat and cheap beer. He glances around and then calls over to his landlady: "good morning!"

She turns to him, leaning on her mop. "Good morning, Mr West. Am I going to get any rent this week?"

"I don't know," he replies easily, offering her a smile. They pay as often as they can, but even when they can't they can usually manage to get away with it; Mrs Bexlow likes having him on the premises even though he doesn't do anything for the establishment, as such. He'd feel guilty for taking advantage of her but he could take far worse advantage if he wanted to. "Did he make it back upstairs at any point?"

Mrs Bexlow rolls her eyes. "I had Harry and William carry him there when he started talking about the blood again. It isn't good conversation for my gaming tables."

"It isn't good conversation for any occasion," he replies with a hint of a smile. "Thank you."

She smiles just slightly and he's startled by the thought that in another time and another place she'd be pretty. As it is, the muscles in her too thin, too pale face shift, and it continues to make her look like a waxen skull. "There'll be porridge down here for another hour. You might want to make him eat some."

He smiles wider, more genuinely. "I'll do what I can."

The stairs creak beneath his boots as he walks upstairs. They rent three rooms on the top floor - an extravagence, perhaps, but one they can just about afford - and have done for well over a year now. He unlocks the door and walks inside to be confronted by the sight of his best friend sprawled unconscious and snoring across the sofa.

Mariah Drummond isn't abnormally tall by any means, but he always gives the impression of being taller than he is really comfortable with. He's still awkward in his skin, leftovers from his teenage years, long limbed and too thin from a handful of vices. His hair needs cutting and is a nondescript brown, and he's hardly unattractive though his jaw is a little too big and his eyes are a little too sunken. He's dressed in the ragged mishmash of clothes they've managed to buy and mend and preserve, legs draped awkwardly across the back of the sofa. It doesn't look comfortable.

The man maybe shouldn't be as quietly pleased as he is about that small fact, but the fact remains that the task of getting Mariah upright and vaguely sober has once again been left to him. He's been doing it for years now and he'll never give it up for anything, even though he sometimes wishes he could. But Mariah is all he really has in the world and he can't ever abandon him.

Removing his hat and scrubbing his hand though his flattened black hair, he walks over to throw open the shutters and allow some light and some air into the small, dusty room.

"Mari," he says quietly. "Mari, you might want to wake up now."

Mariah lets out an obnoxiously loud snore, and that's all he gets for his pains.

"Fine," he mumbles, looking around and finding a half-full pitcher of cold water. He looks at Mariah's sleeping face for one moment before shrugging and tipping the water straight over him.

Mariah awakes spluttering and swearing, his whole body jerking. "Fuck, fuck, fuck. Fucking what?"

"Good morning to you too," he responds, making sure his voice is brutually cheerful, upping the lilt just a little to really aggravate Mariah. "It's a beautiful day."

Mariah groans, one arm flopping over his eyes. "I hate you, Sharlo. One of these days I'm going to kill you in your sleep."

"And I'll be grateful for that, I'm sure," Sharlo West responds, grinning down at Mariah although he can't see him. "Although you'd have to succeed first, and I'm reasonably sure you'd never manage it."

Mariah makes a mouth of sounds that might be cocky Weaver bastard, but they might not be.

"Do we have rent for this week?" Sharlo asks.

Mariah screws up his face in thought, gingerly shifting his arm away from his eyes. "Did I leave the gaming table or was I carried?"

Sharlo kicks a pile of battered books off one of their rickety chairs and sits down. "I wasn't actually there," he says.

"I know," Mariah says, sounding hurt that Sharlo suspects him to be incapable of remembering any aspect of the previous night when there was clearly more alcohol than either of them can afford flowing. "But you find these things out anyway."

"Mrs Bexlow had you removed when you got morbid," Sharlo informs him.

Mariah screws up his face. It's been four years since he found his foster father's body and it always spills out when he's drunk, even though he isn't supposed to talk about it. Luckily, Mariah's almost incomprehensible when he's been drinking, so all anybody ever gets out the conversation is something about blood; and everyone's got a story like that in Feather Bay.

"Right," he mumbles, and slowly begins sorting through his pockets, spilling coins and notes onto the warped floorboards. It's not a great amount of money but slightly more than Sharlo was expecting; he leans down to scoop it up.

"Babying me again, are we?" Mariah asks, sounding resigned.

"You may have given up eating, but I haven't," Sharlo replies.

Mariah mumbles something like and it shows while he eases himself upright, running a hand through his messy hair. Sharlo ignores the snipe and folds the money into his waistcoat; he'll add some of it to the fund he's hiding under the flooboards of his bedroom later. He and Mariah have had the conversation about money several times before and they won't ever have it again. Sharlo knows Mari doesn't really understand why he won't use his Magic to conjure food or money or clothes or any of the other things they frequently need; Sharlo isn't even entirely sure himself, except that he never wants to take anything for granted the way he knows so many Weavers do. He wants to be more than his Magic, he wants to do something other than invoke fear and mistrust and awe in the people he meets.

Sharlo is tall enough that he's never mocked for being short, handsome enough that no one would ever call him ugly, and eloquent enough that no one would ever call him stupid, but he isn't a whole lot more than that. He's got dark hair in a haircut he knows is unflattering and blue eyes and the symbol of the House of West on his left hand. He was someone before he was Sharlo West, but you renounce your family and your former last name when you come of age and give your oath of allegiance to your House, and Sharlo never minded; his family don't want him back and he doesn't miss his home. His village was too small for him, and in any case he hasn't lived on the Ground Below for nearly a decade now. You don't get a lot of Weavers in the Sky, but that's good; they may be his own people but they're frequently poisonous, arrogant and cruel.

Mariah is still hunched over, tugging on his hair with his thin fingers although they both know it isn't going to help with whatever headache he's nursing.

"Want to offer any assistance, Sharlo?" he asks.

Healing isn't a particular skill of Sharlo's but you don't spend as much time around Mariah Drummond as he has without having to learn a few things. He sighs and reaches over, cradling Mariah's skull in his hands and pressing down with his thumbs, sucking his lower lip into his mouth and biting on it in concentration. He feels it when the pressure eases and Mariah breathes out slowly, hands unknotting in his lap. Sharlo pulls away, flexing tingling fingers.

"You could have done that before you woke me up," Mariah points out, a rueful grin tugging his lips as he sits upright.

"I could have," Sharlo agrees, "but where would be the fun in that?" Before Mariah can reply, he adds: "there's porridge downstairs and the Service starts in just over an hour. You're going to need a clean shirt."

Mariah thinks about this for a moment. "Do I own a clean shirt?"

Sharlo shrugs. "I don't think I do, but then I wasn't indulging in any particularly obvious sins in mine."

Mariah bats vaguely at his alcohol-stained shirt. "I'm sure you were indulging in some other sins that are going to get frowned upon far more than a few too many drinks."

Sharlo bites the inside of his lower lip and counts to five before he says: "yes, but the Church are not actually capable of reading minds, Mari, so I'm the one more likely to get away with it."

He watches Mariah attempting to tidy himself up and failing miserably at it. "Why are you so much better at this than I am, Sharlo?" he asks after a while, sighing. "Is it because you're a Weaver?"

Weavers tend to be far more unstable and pathetic than any number of normal people, but Sharlo doesn't say this aloud. He can think of a dozen reasons as to why he is better at everything than Mariah is, but none of the reasons will be things Mariah wants to hear, so he keeps them to himself.

"It's because I'm me," Sharlo responds, fluttering his eyelashes and succeeding in drawing a smile from Mariah. He gets up from his chair, brushing down the sleeves of his worn jacket. "You really do need to eat something."

"You're so much better at mothering than my mother ever was," Mariah tells him, locating a slightly cleaner coat and shrugging into it.

"I'm much better than my mother ever was," Sharlo shrugs, following him downstairs.

They eat in silence while Sharlo tries to convey to Mrs Bexlow with his eyebrows that she'll be getting some approximation of rent this week in the hope her perpetual scowl will soften a little. All she does is nod abruptly and dump a handful of broken cups into a box already full of shattered glass. Her days for smiling are possibly over, and it's sad but not the first time Sharlo's seen this by a long way.

"I think I'd be dead if it wasn't for you, Sharlo," Mariah mumbles into his porridge.

I know, Sharlo thinks, but doesn't say it aloud.

Mariah hasn't always been like this, but the last few years have been difficult for the Sky, and it isn't the place either of them grew up in anymore. Too many people have died and too many things have changed and the future holds too much uncertainty. Mariah has lost a lot of people and the people he hasn't lost have altered almost beyond recognition and Sharlo is the last constant Mariah has; they've been the best of friends since they were twelve years old and even in this world of danger and shifting alliances they've managed to remain on good terms. Sharlo, in his more depressed moments, thinks that this shouldn't be counted as the achievement that it really is; that maintaining a friendship for eight years shouldn't be seen as almost impossible.

Then he thinks about the fact Mariah doesn't even talk to his foster sister anymore, and maybe it is something remarkable after all.

Sharlo has no time in his life for the Deus or the Church or any of the trappings of religion, but he acknowledges that Mari either sees something he needs in it or he attends because his foster father always did and it's something Mariah feels he can still do for him. Whatever it is, it does something Mariah needs and Sharlo has never attempted to stop him from going. He has tried not attending himself, but Mariah got quietly reproachful and never mentioned it but Sharlo could tell he didn't want to go alone.

The Drummonds are all dead, but Mariah, and the Wilcoxes who took him in are shattered, scattered across the Sky and the Ground Below; Mariah hasn't spoken to Rosie in almost two years, Rosie won't have talked to her mother in four years, and who knows what's happened with Elizabeth, who was only ten when her mother took her from the Sky; if she's communicating with Rosie it must be through the most complicated of deceptions; from what Sharlo recalls of Lucinda Wilcox, she was formidable and would not allow anything to happen that she did not first approve.

They take one of the passenger boats going from Feather Bay to the Island of Arcachon, where the Sky Church is located. It's surprising how many people from Feather Bay actually attend the Sunday Service, especially since Feather Bay is meant to be the worst place in the whole world; worse even than Daylight City, whose reputation is infamous. Almost everyone knows someone who has ended up in Daylight City and who never returned.

The Church on the Island of Arcachon is the largest in the Sky and larger than all but two of the Ground Below Churches, which Sharlo always finds amusing because they're supposed to be Deusless heathens up here in the Sky, rampaging about with no proper standards or morals. It's true that's what it used to be like when the Sky was first claimed by the old Pirate families, centuries ago, but now there are whole Islands with cities and communities on that have far more safety and decency than a number of Ground Below cities that Sharlo could name. It's also a fact that many of those who actually classify themselves as Pirates - whether they have ships or not - are deeply religious; Sharlo has seen people with a lot of blood on their hands kneel on the floor of the Church with their fingers laced together, praying to the Deus with the most innocent of expressions.

This is mainly how Sharlo spends his time at Church; the Deus apparently does not approve of Weavers - although this is never directly stated in the holy book, just implied - and Sharlo's done a handful of other things that will not endear him to the religion either, so he tends to just sit and go through the motions of worship and wait for it to be over. The Church is beautiful, built of creamy white stone with a high, arching ceiling and elaborate glass windows depicting various scenes from the holy book. The one where the prophet Myklas is buried alive beneath the White Tree is particularly detailed, and Sharlo has spent a lot of time just staring at it, wondering how something so unsettling is also so beautiful.

He sometimes finds himself wondering the same thing about Mariah, but that's far more complicated and far more dangerous so he doesn't think it often.

After the Service and the prayers, the congregation disperses. Those sitting on the higher tiers above the altar will have their own boats, will return to the smaller Islands they privately own; those remaining from the old Pirate families will also have boats to return to. Everyone else simply has to wait for the passenger boats to take them home. The Brothers of the Church begin to walk among them, easily recognisable in their dark blue cassocks, feet bare on the stone floor. They have devoted their lives to the Deus, and Sharlo does not understand why but he respects their decision enough not to judge them cruelly for it. Deus knows he's made enough decisions over the last few years that no one else would be able to comprehend.

Brother Firenze Lane is easy enough to spot; he's tall and willowy with a lot of dark, shoulder-length hair. He's a cousin of the Thornes, Sharlo thinks, another old Pirate family, who shocked everyone by his decision to take on the robes and leave the traditional family pursuits behind. Mariah has known him a long time; Firenze was a good friend of the Wilcoxes, as far as Sharlo knows. It's difficult to try and learn the various Pirate family ties if you haven't been born into that world, though Mariah has diligently tried to teach him over the years. Mariah is a great traditionalist and believer in the old ways of the Sky, after all.

Firenze blesses them both automatically; Mariah closes his eyes and bows his head while Sharlo bites his lip awkwardly and curls his toes in his boots. Firenze knows his feelings on the Deus and yet he does this anyway; he always does.

"It's good to see you," Firenze tells them, sombre expression softening. He's a little older than them but not by much; he can't be more than twenty-five. "You look a little worse for wear, Mariah. Do I need to hear confession?"

"Do you have all afternoon?" Sharlo asks, and Mariah elbows him while Firenze's eyes light up with a smile. His face remains appropriately serious, but there's laughter in it anyway.

"I have not sinned," Mariah says with dignity, and then, when Sharlo and Firenze look incredulous, he adds: "not much, anyway. No new sins, that's got to count for something, hasn't it?"

Firenze sighs. "I'm not sure you quite understand how the concept of sinning works, Mariah." His mouth is twitching just slightly, though, dark eyes bright.

"We don't have much time," Sharlo says apologetically, which is possibly a lie but they both need some sleep and he gets nervous the longer he spends in the Church.

"Of course," Firenze responds. "And I have to offer my services to others who won't be facetious when I do."

"It's a character flaw," Mariah offers without much conviction.

"I'm glad you're both alive and well," Firenze says, and Sharlo can tell he means it; Feather Bay is never going to be a safe place to live. "And I have a message to pass on," he adds. His expression is suddenly a lot less bright.

"Who from?" Mariah asks, wary, eyes narrowed. Sharlo can see how tense his shoulders are.

Firenze hesitates, but after a moment he says: "Your sister was here last week."

Mariah takes a step back. "She wouldn't be here. She doesn't come here, she doesn't have faith-"

"She came to talk to me," Firenze interrupts. "You know she came of age two months ago. And you also know what that means for her."

Sharlo finally realises something that Mariah has been trying to tell him without words since April. For whatever reason, whether it's unhappy coincidence, a deliberate mission or something else entirely, the heads of the old Pirate families are dying without viable heirs. Their money, their council seat and their ships become the property of the council by default and their family name goes with them. It happened to the Drummonds sixteen years ago - Mariah was just five when his father died - and Rosie Wilcox has only remained safe as the head of the Wilcox family through her youth. She's eighteen now, and that puts her in a great deal of danger indeed; especially since no one knows exactly what is happening.

"I do." Mariah has gone very white, fingers curled into his palms.

"She asked me to pass on a message to you, when I saw you." Firenze must be able to see just how much this is affecting Mariah but he keeps talking and Sharlo hates and admires him for that. "She asked me to tell you that she doesn't intend to die."

Mariah swallows. "Is that all?"

"That's all," Firenze assures him.

Mariah smiles, quick and unhappy. "All right then."

Firenze seems to be thinking about saying something else, but in the end all he says is: "take care of yourselves. And the may the Deus be with you."

Mariah spreads his fingers and makes the sign of the White Tree, while Sharlo nods awkwardly. He won't pretend, not when the mark of the West is so very clear on his hand.

They don't speak on the way back to Feather Bay, or on the walk through the streets that are beginning to become crowded now most people have slept off the previous day's excesses and are now ready to start on today's.

"Mari," Sharlo says quietly when they're back in their rooms and Mariah is kicking off his boots with a vehemence that looks like displaced desperation.

He's the only person in the world to use that diminutive and it usually gets him what he wants, usually helps him break through the shell of anger and fear and misery that Mariah wears around him.

"I can't, Sharlo," Mariah responds softly. "Not right now. I can't right now."

Sharlo stands and lets Mariah shut the door on him, disappearing into his bedroom. He thinks about following but there's nothing either of them can say right now; they're trapped and helpless, and whether she dies or not is all in Rosie's hands now.