Perpetual Peril

Dear Samson,

Summer is truly splendid in Maroma. Each evening, I hear the cicadas call out to each other. Joined by the taste of ripe fruit and the beauty of the natural gardens that make up the landscape, their songs remind me of a home I left behind long ago. 

Before anything else, I wish to congratulate you. Word of your recent seminar on protoprismatic essential limiters has reached me even this far from Saint Palmer. Your theories, as I have heard them, are quite sound. Without the necessary furnaces, it would have been impossible for earlier generations to, as Mister Rett suggested, create even a more primitive version of the sort of long-term binding devices in common use today. It is far more likely, as you yourself suggest, that earlier humans used what materials they had available to create dampening wards around their villages. I am confident that further research will only confirm your theory.

I hope that you will forgive me, my friend, as I must follow up this praise with but a small point of criticism. It is being said in Port Grimsby that you proposed an expedition to find the old spirits of legend. I have heard whispers that you even believe you may find the prison in which Liberation bound mankind’s eternal nemesis. Let there be no doubt in your mind that, even as we have spent these long years apart, I still consider you the same friend with whom I shared many a drink in the shadow of Mount Tarpon. Know, then, that I say this out of great affection to you:

Pursue this no further.

As it is told here, your theory is that these immortals’ endless lifespans would make such imprisonment particularly torturous. You claimed that several of the spirits cast down by Liberation so long ago must, by now, have either gone insane, making it merciful to bind them to a prism, or have become contrite, causing them to instead become potential allies against their violent kin. I fear, dear Samson, that you have fundamentally misunderstood what it is to be born immortal. I ask that you not take this as a comment on some personal failing. It is not so much a fault I have found in you, my friend, as it is an issue in how humans view such beings.

I beg that you forgive me if I am mistaken, but it seems that you cannot help but view immortals as essentially… 

…like yourselves but longer lived. 

…like yourselves but far wiser.

…like yourselves but more powerful.

You imagine that, to immortals, the mundane concerns of the world only matter when something has gone wrong—that their attention is focused far more on events occurring on a cosmic scale. If these immortals chose to fight against your ancestors, you cannot help but believe that the grudge is forgotten, that your civilization has advanced beyond the cause of the initial conflict, or that these beings are nothing more than beasts to put down in the modern day. For whatever reason, you seem to believe that, left to their own devices, such creatures would prefer to spend their days charting the path of each solar ray rather than indulging in so petty an act as crushing bugs.

I must remind you that the bugs, unlike the solar rays, bite and sting and make every effort to preserve their short lives. They react differently to having their homes flooded than to being smoked out of their nests. Even as a far larger threat looms over them, they fight one another. Indeed, if one were to drop a spider into a nest of ants, neither creature would think to join forces against the hand that caused the whole affair. They would only struggle to survive, unable to do anything about the now-bored interloper preparing to pour out a glass of wine over the mound.

For now, I will briefly break with the bug metaphor, as I wish to instead focus on the idea that the length of time these spirits have been imprisoned may have been somehow detrimental to their mental health. I have often pondered why so many people seem to think that the different ways in which mortals and immortals perceive time is merely a matter of scale. How many centuries of immortal life is equivalent to one human year? The answer is, of course, that the two simply cannot be compared in this way. This is not only true of humans. Though it is not alive, let us speak of the sun. Compared to the timespans usually dealt with by humanity, it may as well be eternal itself, for no individual or even civilization on this world has or will ever last a fraction of the time that the sun has burned. Yet, being finite, all of the sun’s years amount to nothing when compared to infinity. Only so many rays will ever radiate from its surface. There is no limit to the amount of bugs an immortal may choose to squash, even if it only takes the time to do so once every thousand years.

You may answer that humans are no gentle little caterpillars. After so many generations, you possess sharper fangs and more deadly venom. It is true, of course, that you may destroy their flesh. You may seal them away in prisons that trap their essences. You may cast them into darkness and build your homes where they once proudly stood. Yet cities crumble and the very materials used to build their cells will decay long before the spirits themselves. Even if it should take them years, they will regain their flesh. Few things can ever truly destroy them. That they live at all means that they have an eternity to exhaust every other outcome and eventually attain their victory.

I am reminded of an old motto used by my own kin. “Every battle in every heart” was etched on every shield and every plaque within my ancestral home. It is relevant here, I believe, for it is this very same philosophy that such timeless beings may use when waging their wars or pursuing their goals. For someone so bloodthirsty as the wicked spirit bound in adamant chains by Liberation himself, there is no soldier so beneath notice that they are not worth pursuing after the battle has seemingly ended. Indeed, why would there be? Time, as I have tried to get across in my rambling, is worth nothing to such beings. For them, there is no victory but a complete victory, and there is no defeat but a total defeat.

I have written far more than I intended on this matter, so I will trouble you no more with this. I hope that you are well and look forward to sharing another drink when I have returned from my expedition. 

Yours sincerely,

Zer Manetho

Jane woke up late. It was nearly noon, and her digital alarm clock had been buzzing obnoxiously for hours by that point. There was no point in trying to make it to work. That old prick Strangways had probably found someone else to come in and run the cash register. Besides, when she was late, he always deducted half a day’s salary if she showed up before noon and a full day if she showed up after. There was no way in hell it was legal, but he somehow got away with it. She was not so eager to ring up random snack foods and drive away teenagers trying to buy cigarettes that she was going to subject herself to the indignity of having to listen to one of his lectures on work ethic just to go without pay.

No, instead she decided she would bother Henry. It was probably his fault that she slept in late, and she knew he wasn’t working that day. They lived on the same block, so no one living near the gas station was going to see her and ruin whatever excuse she came up with to explain her absence.

After pulling herself out of bed, Jane threw on her old, frayed Opah Opossums t-shirt, a pair of sweatpants, and some well-worn tennis shoes. Like always, she grabbed her purse, then opened up the drawer of her bedside table to get one last item.

She paused as she stared at the little handgun that sat in the middle of the drawer, accompanied by a box of ammunition on one side and a cleaning kit on the other. It was not her first gun. That distinction belonged to the .38 revolver her mother had left behind when she passed. She couldn’t say it was her favorite either. She kept a set of hunting rifles—some inherited, some gifted, and some purchased—in a cabinet in the living room. Pressed, she would definitely say that she favored one of them, possibly the antique duck gun that hardly fit in the thing at all. Even so, the .22 semi-automatic pistol was important to her for a specific reason: it was small enough to fit inconspicuously into her purse whenever she went to visit Henry.

Obviously, she had no fears that Henry himself would hurt her, even putting aside the fact that he was not strong enough to do so. They had known each other a very long time, and she wouldn’t have kept up a friendship with a man she suspected would ever try to cause her harm. Instead, she had purchased it a few days after they found the Princeling. In a way, it tied her to the town. Part of her had wanted to leave like Hugh. The decision to purchase it was a commitment to remain with her friends, even if it meant going to their houses armed.

Now, though, they were making new plans. The disgusting monster Henry dug out of the muck looked quite different from the oddly alluring creature that currently lived with him. It turned out to be playful and easily amused. It was amazing to think they were actually planning to go out to sea with the thing! 

Jane left the pistol in the drawer when she closed it. Instead, she made her way to the kitchen to get a pair of gifts for the men (or man—she still wasn’t sure what to consider the Princeling) she was going to visit. A few minutes later, she was knocking on Henry’s door.

“Who’s there?” a nervous voice asked, sounding far away.

“It’s me!”

“Jane? Let yourself in! I’m a little… uh… well, I’m a little tied up.”

Raising a brow, Jane reached into her purse and retrieved her keyring. After being hospitalized with a pretty bad fever, Henry had copies made for his tiny group of co-conspirators, lest the Princeling ever go hungry and end up wandering town looking for food. Craig down at the hardware store was hardly a skilled locksmith, however, and the keys didn’t turn out quite as perfect as the original. Jane was forced to jiggle it in the lock a bit to get the damned door to open.

Once inside, Jane let out a cough at the thick smoke coming from the kitchen. She rushed inside, immediately finding the source and pulling the charred remains of the eggs off the stove before turning it off. 

“Shit, Henry! Are you trying to bur—” She didn’t finish the sentence, instead staring at the unmoving, unblinking monster currently holding her friend by the chin.

The next morning, Henry woke up to ruby eyes staring into his own. At the sight of the Princeling looming over him, hands against the bed to each of his sides, nails cutting through the top sheet, he couldn’t help but scream. Almost as quickly as he started, though, he brought his hands up to cover his mouth, hoping to whatever gods might exist that no one had heard. 

“Shit,” he managed once he calmed down a bit. “You scared the hell out of me!” 

“Sunlight,” the Princeling answered, not yet moving from the bed. “Motivation.”

“Motivation, huh? It sounds like you’re pretty motivated. Enough that now you’re motivating me to get out of bed and get started too, huh? I can’t do it with you in the way. You’re gonna have to get down.”

In one smooth motion and without changing his expression at all, the Princeling removed himself from the bed, letting Henry get up and start his usual morning routine. As he got dressed, Henry turned his attention back to the creature now standing in the corner of his bedroom.

“You’re pretty lucky the others agreed to pitch in,” he said. “I ought to be working today instead of helping you with this. Not all of us can eat for a week on a single bargain bin flashlight. I, for one, have got to eat real food, and it gets expensive.”

Tilting his head, the Princeling brought a finger up to its chin. “Real food?”

Despite his usual patience for the thing, Henry rolled his eyes. “Fifteen years and you don’t know what I mean? Well, come to the kitchen and pay attention this time instead of sticking your head in the fridge. I’m tired of replacing the bulb.” 

Obediently, the monster followed Henry as the man grabbed some eggs and a few pre-packaged cheese slices. He began scrambling them in a pan, adding a bit of hot sauce when he felt the urge. Admittedly, he may have added just a bit extra in some poorly thought-out attempt to make it at least a little interesting for his one-monster audience. Throughout the process, Henry could tell that the Princeling’s attention kept being drawn away by every little source of light. To the creature’s credit, though, it only ever lasted a moment. It may only have been because of excitement about the excursion, but it seemed he was paying attention. 

“These are eggs,” Henry explained. “Real food for people like me. Humans and animals eat this kind of stuff.” After a brief, he followed up by asking, “You’re not some sort of weird plant are you? I never really thought about that.” 

“Eggs,” the Princeling repeated. “Real food for people like me.”

Henry laughed and shook his head. “Almost. I’m me and you’re you, but the opposite’s true too, right? To you, you’re me, and I’m you. Uh… that probably didn’t make much sense. What I mean is…”

“I’m me and you’re you,” the Princeling interrupted. “Real food for people like you.”

After staring in surprise for a moment, Henry nodded. “Exactly! You’re you and I’m me! Real food’s for people like me, but you eat light.”

“I eat light,” the Princeling agreed. “Sunlight. I eat sunlight.”

“You will, at least. For now, we’re still stuck on your old diet.”

It seemed the answer didn’t satisfy the Princeling this time. One inhuman finger pointed at the kitchen window. It was a tiny opening just over the sink, and Henry always kept it half-shaded so some light would still get it. It looked out on the backyard. There was little chance anyone would see, yet he had only risked it a few times when he feared that the Princeling was ill. Not that he ever actually figured out if he was right or not.

Pausing in his meal, Henry thought. The Princeling pointing meant he understood the conversation they were having. It was tempting to reward him. Maybe it would calm Owen’s nerves to know that sunlight wouldn’t have any negative effect even after a long exposure. With that thought in mind, he stood up and went over to the window, opening up the blinds.

Immediately, the Princeling moved towards the beam that came in through the window and began gathering up the light. Eager as he was, his slender fingers had a certain grace to them as they pulled glimmering gold and silver strands of the stuff from the air, forming it into a ball and darkening the room. “Sunlight,” he said quietly to himself.

“Yeah, sunlight. I get it. Just hope you like the stuff.”

The Princeling turned to stare at Henry, though his hands kept working on gathering the light into a sphere. The look lasted far too long, and Henry began to regret allowing his charge this small pleasure. His own food was just about ready, so he moved to grab a plate. He stopped, however, when the Princeling raised up one finger. Bringing his hand to the ball, the monster pinched off a tiny glob of light, which he held between his thumb and forefinger. He then swallowed down the larger ball, the light creating a rainbow of colors on his teeth as it disappeared down his throat. Once it was gone, he moved towards Henry slowly and silently holding the remaining glob.

“Uh… everything okay? Not much I can do if you don’t like it…” Henry began, taking a step back.

Seizing Henry by the chin with one hand, the Princeling brought up that little remnant of the light, pushing it towards Henry’s mouth. “I eat sunlight. You eat sunlight.”

“Hold on, buddy, I don’t thi—” 

It was too late. Opening his mouth to speak gave the Princeling the opportunity to push the glob past Henry’s lips. At first, he expected that it would be like nothing he had ever felt but, to his surprise, it was incredibly familiar. It was watching the sunrise with his first real sweetheart, when he was still learning what it even meant to feel love towards another human being. It was his first time playing outside with other children by the banks of the gulf on a bright and sunny day. It was sitting on his own roof at sunset and sobbing after hearing the news from Owen that his father had passed away. It was the soft glow that reflected off of the moon and the twinkle in every star the first night he actually grew comfortable enough to have a restful sleep after taking in the Princeling. 

It had always been there. The sun he knew was simply an expression of its boundless glory. He and everyone he had ever or would ever know simply lived on a tiny speck orbiting one of a countless number of stars. Yet they were not insignificant. As children clung to the legs of their parents—depended so entirely on those who gave them life—so too did humans cling to and depend upon the light of their own life-giving sun. 

And Henry had just tasted that very same light for the very first time in the nearly four decades of his life.

The smell of burning eggs brought his attention back to the room. There was little he could do about it at the moment, since the Princeling was still holding him by the chin. As Henry learned a very long time ago, the monster was far stronger than he appeared. Besides, there were more important matters on his mind than a couple wasted eggs.

“What the fuck was that?” he asked.

“Sunlight,” the Princeling answered simply.

“Yeah, I got that. That’s how you feel all the time eating this stuff? Why even share it with me? Not like it filled me up! What’s it even gonna do to me? And what the fuck were you thinking putting it in my mouth like that?”

Here, the Princeling let out something almost like a cat’s purr, underscored by a faint clicking sound coming from somewhere deep inside his throat. Allowing his expression to relax a tiny bit, the creature then pressed his forehead against Henry’s own, simply resting like that. 

“Sunlight,” the creature eventually said. “How I feel all the time. Buddy. Pal. Henry.”

Immediately, Henry began to feel uncomfortable. His face was flushed. He could feel his legs tremble just a bit. After all, he had never stopped to truly consider how the Princeling viewed him. At first, he saw the little spider-moth-doll-thing as a particularly dangerous pet that he just fed and kept out of sight. Later, Henry instead saw him as a ward that needed a little bit of care and attention. Yes, he worried quite a lot, particularly in the earliest years, that the Princeling only saw him as prey, but he eventually came to doubt that something with a diet of the glow from lighters and the beams from flashlights would ever be able to process the flesh and blood and bone that made up a human being. 

Of course, such a creature was also unlikely to have the right equipment to seek out mates among humans either, crude jokes aside. That thought gave him just a bit of relief as he brought up a hand, placing it on the Princeling’s chest and pressing on it slightly.

“It’s a nice thought, pal. Really. But I’ve got to get some real food in my belly, and I’d like to do it before those blackened eggs burn down the house. Think you can let me go?”

All he got in return was another purr and more of that quiet clicking. It seemed he wasn’t going anywhere just yet.

Count Francis d’Autun was born in Autumn of 253 to an ancient and noble family. He spent much of his childhood touring the great courts of his time with his wealthy parents, who had wisely invested in the Hallerbos Trading Company. As an adult, he was called into the court of Maximilian IX, King of Ostwald to serve as an advisor on foreign affairs. There, he witnessed first hand many of the events that shaped the continent for centuries to come.

Having inherited the throne at the age of 23, Maximilian was a reckless and inexperienced ruler. Not only did he loathe the kings of the neighboring Sonnenreich for their political and economic dominance, he also resented Archduchess Rosalia, the most senior member of his own House Ravensburg, for dictating policy without his consent. By surrounding himself with advisors from among the upper nobility and the wealthy merchant houses, it seems, Maximilian hoped to break his great aunt’s hold on his house and the Sonnenreich’s hold on continental politics.

Unfortunately for both Maximilian and Francis, the story told in these memoirs is one of loss. Despite his efforts, Maximilian proved too easily manipulated and too shortsighted to effectively defend himself against what, to Francis, was an obvious enemy waiting within his court. 

This text has been abridged to focus on the most interesting parts of the count’s time in court. Others have already written excellent translations of his full memoirs for those interested in an unabridged copy. Where necessary, I have included commentary of my own to clarify matters. For the most part, however, I have striven to preserve the original text’s meaning and even to retain Francis’s own voice. To that end, I have left most of the memoirs in first person. 

It is my hope, dear readers, that you will find this volume most illuminating. 

-Linnaeus von Roslin

Over the years, Henry had settled into a comfortable situation with the monster. At first it had become more grotesque, but it eventually began to take on a more recognizably human form. As it did so, it started to become more troublesome, wanting to go outside during the day to enjoy the sun’s light. Henry learned he could distract it the same way as any other child: with toys and treats. Even a match produced enough light for it to snack on, so that was easily taken care of. His neighbors put together a trunk full of toys using what they had left over from their own time as children and what they thought the creature might like from shops around town. After coming by drunk and seeing it hungrily snacking on the golden light that reflected off of a plastic crown, Harvey called it “the Princeling.” The nickname stuck. The first time the monster spoke, it repeated the name back to them.

Seeing it play with toys and eat treats, Henry couldn’t help but think of it as a malformed child more than anything. Yes, he had to keep it hidden, but he could not hate or fear it any longer. This was only helped by the fact that it became more beautiful as it grew into what he assumed was adulthood for its species. Its hands grew so that they were more proportionate to its fingers, even if they still had that unsettling extra joint. Though its nails never changed in length or sharpness, Henry learned to avoid cutting himself on them. He had never seen it fly, so he mostly ignored its wings, even as they grew with the rest of it. Its legs became longer as it quickly became taller than Henry, though it learned to hide them behind an old red bed sheet wrapped around its waist. Its teeth remained needle-like, but they came to fit better inside its mouth, making them look somewhat less intimidating. From its head, curly golden locks began to grow, which Henry had to cut every so often to keep from getting tangled. 

In a rather disgusting display, its milky blister-eyes one day burst while it was devouring the light from another matchstick. Feeling more worry for the thing’s wellbeing than he ever imagined he would, Henry rushed it to Father Owen. They bandaged its eyes, though they could only speculate about whether it even used them to see. After all, it had no trouble tracking down its favorite foods without them. When they finally removed the bandages, however, they found a pair of perfect spheres of white porcelain with bright red irises staring back at them. That they looked lifeless compared to human eyes barely seemed worth mentioning considering what an improvement they were over what had come before. In time, its lips turned the same shade of red, making it seem a little more alive, even if its chest didn’t rise and fall, its heart (if it had one) didn’t beat, and it only spoke words it heard earlier the same day. 

Fifteen years after his discovery, Henry sat at a folding card table in the living room of his two-bedroom house. Jane, Harvey, and Father Owen came by to play cards. There was little worry that they would be found by the neighbors, so the Princeling was allowed to come out from his attic hiding place. Even so, Harvey kept it busy with a cigarette lighter. They had never pieced together why, but it reacted slightly differently to light from different sources. Those cheap plastic things Harvey picked up at the convenience store put it into a trance. It sat perfectly still at the edge of the room, staring into the flame. Its shadow, however, moved along the walls as if prowling for something. From time to time, a tiny circle of light would appear on the wall, as though cast from a penlight, only to be chased, caught, and devoured by the shadow of the monster. It never seemed to notice them while in that state, and they found it easy enough to ignore while they played their game.

A little past midnight, after a few too many drinks, Jane was the one to draw their attention back towards the creature. “You know,” she said, “I’ve gotta admit, Henry, when you refused to kill that thing, I thought you’d doomed the whole town. I had half a mind to leave with Hugh that night.” 

“I still say we could make a good buck off it,” Harvey said. “More now than back then! It’s not just a freak now. It’s pretty on top of it. Looks like some kind of fucked up doll, sure, but in a good way.”

“Wow, thanks,” Henry answered, laughing. “I’m sure he’d love to hear you say that, Harv.”

“He?” Jane asked, arching a brow. “All these years and now you decide it’s a he? You find four dicks behind those eight legs or something? It is two balls each or do they have to share the one pair?”

“No, hold on,” Harvey said, glancing over at the still figure. “I can see it. It’s not like it’s grown tits or anything, right?”

“Is that what makes it female? All that beer’s been putting a pretty big pair on you, Harv.” Jane shot back. “If it starts getting a pair of its own, maybe we’ll luck out and end up the same size. Bras are like everything: cheaper in bulk.”

Harvey and Henry both laughed in response. The former answered, “We’re gonna have to buy in bulk either way. You think it’ll have four dicks but not four pairs of tits? You always did suck at biology, Jane.”

Once the next round of laughter died down, Henry chimed in again. “I guess we worried a lot about nothing back then. It’s not like I’m planning to show him off to the town or anything—it would help if he ate the flames off the torches instead of just the light, and I don’t know he’d do much about the pitchforks at all—but I’m glad he just ended up being kind of a weird pretty boy instead of a monster.”

His hands shaking with the tremors of his frankly venerable age, Father Owen set down his cards. “Henry, I owe you an apology.”

With the good humor of the night already starting to die from the priest’s tone alone, Henry put down his own cards. “Yeah? What for?”

“For never putting some of that tithe money towards the night’s booze?” Harvey offered, trying and failing to reignite the mood. When three pairs of eyes silently turned towards him, he muttered an apology and took another sip of his drink.

“When you found the creature—the Princeling, as you all have decided to call him—I put an unfair burden on your shoulders,” Owen said. “Small though my congregation may be, I should have taken the beast myself.”

Letting out a short and awkward laugh, Henry shrugged his shoulders. “It’s not a big deal. Hiding him’s cut into my social life, but he turned out pretty harmle—”

“No,” Owen interrupted, standing up with his hands on the card table and fixing Henry with a serious look. “No, my friend, it is not harmless.”

Jane stood up, putting a hand on Owen’s shoulder and guiding him back down into his seat. “Father… I know it might seem like we don’t take it seriously, but we’ve all been watching the Princeling grow. We’ve seen what it does all day. For heaven’s sake, Harvey keeps it busy with a lighter every time we need it to give us some space! I’m sure Henry knows what he’s doing.”

“Yeah,” Harvey agreed. “Doesn’t exactly take a rocket scientist to figure out that giving it something bright and shiny to… uh…” He looked over at the wall, seeing the creature’s silhouette grab another glimmering light between its fingers and pop it into its mouth. “…hunt, I guess, will shut it up for a while. Unless you’ve seen it do something different?”

Owen sighed as he settled back into his seat. “I have not. I simply… hm… I feel concerned for you. You take it too lightly, Henry. It isn’t a child you are raising. It’s a monster you’re keeping occupied, but it should not be your responsibility. In a way, I cannot condemn Hugh for deciding he didn’t want to be a part of this. If you ever decided the same… I would only ask that you come by the chapel and tell me, even if only me, before you go.”

Henry crossed his arms in front of him and leaned back in his chair. He looked back over at the Princeling, humming to himself as he considered the priest’s words. “I’ll keep it in mind. Still, I think I’m pretty happy. Things haven’t changed as much here as down by the docks, so it’s not so hard to keep him busy and hidden. It beats being alone, and I think he’d scare away anything dangerous.”

Nodding his head silently, Owen picked his hand of cards back up. The group played for a few minutes in relative silence before Henry managed to change the topic.

“So,” he began. “I heard that Jake’s selling his old trawler.”

“Yeah?” Harvey replied without looking away from his hand. “He getting a new one?”

“And how much is he asking?” Jane added.

“You remember his sister?” Henry asked.

“Jessica.” Owen wheezed out a laugh and tapped a trembling finger against his forehead. “See if Father Red remembers his flock like that!”

“See if Father Red chips in on th—Ow!” Harvey muttered, only to be cut off by an elbow from Jane.

Henry nodded his head. “Jessica lost a hand to a coyote a couple weeks ago. You know she had two more kids after she moved to New Whernside. Since Dan left, she’s… uh…”

“Shorthanded?” Harvey asked, a wide grin on his face.

Jane rolled her eyes. “Glad one of us is enough of an ass to say it.”

“Yeah,” Henry said. Before they could start bickering about Harvey’s crude comment, he added, “He’s asking eleven for it. Not in bad shape, though it might need a little work done to the exterior. It’s got room for all of us and… you know. Not like he sleeps in a bed or anything anyway. Out on the water, maybe we can even get him some sunlight.”

“Sounds good to me,” Jane said, putting down her cards. “I’ve got three saved up.”

Harvey put his cards down as well, prompting Henry and Owen to do the same. “I’ve only got fifteen hundred. Maybe I can stretch it to two thousand if I cash in that CD a little early.”

Henry smirked. “I can put in five, but you’ve gotta let me pick what we rename it.”

“Done,” Jane and Harvey answered.

“A fair trade,” Owen agreed. “I’m not certain about your plan to get the creature into the sun, but I think I have two or three thousand squirreled away for a rainy day that I may be able to put towards this. I’m having lunch with Kevin tomorrow. I’ll ask what he can pitch in, though I wouldn’t expect much if his tithes are anything to go by.”

This got a laugh from Harvey. “If we’re going by tithes, might as well count the whole group out. Ever think of hanging around the people actually keeping you afloat?”

“I like to think,” Owen responded, his mouth turning to a thin line and his gaze shifting towards the Princeling again, “that we have a special bond between us. You all give in your own way, even if some give more than others.”

“He also thinks the Andersons are a bunch of ass kissers,” Jane said. “Doesn’t matter if they’re the ones who give the most.”

Soon, the conversation shifted to the relative merits of some of the families in the neighborhood and to the question of whether or not it was virtuous to be overly involved in the life of one’s priest. Eventually, though, things died down again and the group began to leave for their own homes.

Father Owen was the last out the door. As he went, Henry helped him get his coat back on.

“Remember,” the old man said, “if it ever becomes too much, you are free to go. I will never keep you here, Henry.”

“I know, Father. You have a good night, okay?”

Henry watched as the priest nodded his head and disappeared into the night. Once Owen was out of sight, he felt long fingers wrap around his forearms, taking special care to avoid cutting him with those fingertips, though still pinning his arms to his sides without any real effort.

“Go?” the Princeling asked.

“Ah. You heard that? Father Owen means well, but I think he worries more the older he gets. I’m not going anywhere without you, alright?”

He felt the fingers loosen their hold on him. Only once the Princeling pulled his hands away entirely did Henry turn around. The once-monstrous thing was looking down at him with a puzzled expression. His smooth black hand now held onto his own opposite arm as he seemed to consider what to say.

Henry reached out, putting a hand on the Princeling’s shoulder and giving him a reassuring smile. “Trust me. I’ve stuck with you all these years. I see you every damn day. The other guys can talk all they want, but I know you, right? You know me too, don’t you?”

The silence continued for a few seconds longer before the Princeling replied, “I know you. You know me too.” 

“That’s right!” Henry laughed and turned back around to shut and lock the front door. “Man, you’re getting quicker to pick up what we’re saying! Just wish you could string it together a little better from one day to the next.”

“String it together?”

“Yeah. Like… huh. Well, today, right? We talked about maybe going out on a trawler—a boat—and getting you a little sunlight!”

The Princeling’s eyes grew wide and his red lips stretched into a wide smile. “A boat. Sunlight!”

“Thought that’d excite you!” Henry turned back with a grin of his own. “I kinda feel like I’m feeding you junk food with all those matches and crap. I know you like getting light from the windows, but it doesn’t seem like you get enough with the blinds closed. Nobody’ll be around if we’re out at sea. You can soak in all the sun you want!”

“Sunlight!” 

“Yeah. I’ve gotta admit though” Henry rubbed at the back of his head, feeling a little nervous admitting his fears to the literal monster he kept in his house. “…even if I think Owen’s worrying too much, I still hope I’m not being stupid. I don’t really know what you’d do if you were in the sun for a long time? Maybe I stunted your growth or something and you’d turn into a huge spider monster if I let you outside too long. So, how about we make a little deal, alright?”

“A little deal?”

“Uh-huh. I’m gonna work on getting us the trawler, but you’ve gotta work on stringing those words together. It’d make me feel a little better about this whole thing if I didn’t feel like you just repeat words you like back at me all the time. I can tell you’re smart. You just… I think you just need a little motivation, right? That’s what they told Dan about his kids. They got to go to the city for a weekend if they got good grades. You hold an actual conversation with me, and we’ll all go out on the boat and get some sun. Think you can do that?”

It was the pause and the way the Princeling’s eyes darted back and forth that made Henry certain his words had been understood. The way those nails tapped against that unnatural sin, making a clinking sound as they did, left him a little nervous, as it reminded him how little he could do if the thing ever turned on him. Still, he had hope.

“A little deal,” it finally said. “A little deal. Sunlight. Don’t feel like you just repeat words back at me. String it together a little better. Sunlight. Hold an actual conversation with me. Motivation. Boat. Sunlight.”

“Yeah! I think you’ve got it! The important parts at least! So, is it a deal?” Henry asked, offering his hand.

The Princeling stared at the hand long enough that Henry started to think he had lost him. Finally, though, he watched as the tall creature took that human hand into his own and raised it up to his lips. Henry flinched, sure that those teeth were about to sink into it, only to feel those cold, hard lips against his skin, the Princeling’s eyes shut as he kissed the hand. 

“Is it a deal?” the Princeling repeated. “Motivation. Boat. Sunlight.”

Pulling his hand back, Henry tried to laugh off the odd behavior and nodded his head. “Yeah, I think it is. It’s… it’s a deal. Maybe we’ll use the time to work on your handshake a little. Not sure where you picked that up, but it’s not a great way to make friends around this town! Uh… I guess you don’t need to worry much about it either way, though. Still! We’ll work on it!”

Pompano Lagoon had recently become a tourist destination.

None of the locals had ever made any effort to attract outsiders. The diner in the middle of town served the same items it had since its stainless steel modules were first put together on First Street. None of the fishermen were particularly inclined to trade in their trawlers for tour boats or their rods and nets for cheap wine and prepackaged snacks. For the last century or so, even the Williams family, with their three-room inn by the highway, never drew in more than the occasional lost motorist. 

Even so, tourists found Pompano Lagoon. At first, it was just a few families without much money to spare coming on vacation from places further inland. The beaches of Opah Dunes were not so far away, though they were, in the opinion of most locals, nothing to write home about either. Still, those first few families stayed at the inn, drove out to the beach, and bought a few trinkets to commemorate their trip.

It only took a few years before teenagers, nostalgic for the places they had seen as children, showed up in groups a bit too large for the old inn to handle. Many drove on to find motels closer to the beach. To the surprise of the locals, however, a few proved far more insistent. Fortune, it seemed, favored a number of the original families. Their children arrived with enough money to persuade this fishmonger or that dockworker to rent them a tiny loft or perhaps a makeshift bed by a window. The worse the conditions, the more rustic the town seemed. 

As soon as the young visitors returned home, they shared photographs and stories with their friends. The next year, larger groups arrived. Everything that seemed mundane to the locals—iron fishing hooks, red and white life preservers, old bowls made of tin, canvas sacks, and even stained tobacco pouches—seemed a potential souvenir to the tourists. Sentimental objects were not spared either. Some nineteen year old boy left town with a photograph of a sailor he had never met. In return, a fisherman walked away with more than he made in three weeks. Even as they did nothing to encourage it, the townspeople could not resist the change.

For most people, the money brought in by tourists could hardly be called a problem. Fishing boats made less per haul than they once did, so their crews were happy to part with old junk in return for ten or twenty times what they paid for it brand new. The local church became something of an attraction because it held a relic of Saint Sonia of Ichnia, meaning that it quickly raised enough funds to fix a decades-old crack in its bell. Despite all of this, though, the new arrivals were not entirely welcome by a very particular portion of the population.

When some millionaire first drained the swamps north of Opah Dunes to build up a new town, Henry Disston’s great grandparents answered the call and moved out to the newly-formed Pompano Lagoon. His grandfather worked as a fisherman, selling every haul to that same millionaire’s company. Eventually, that business was sold off to some immense food conglomerate, but it kept buying from its old suppliers. Additional money to keep the town running did stop flowing, however. The new owners were not at all interested in real estate development. They claimed it detracted from the main business. This suited Henry’s father just fine, though. In addition to fishing, he worked around town, fighting off the encroaching water by building walls or digging ditches. 

By the time Henry inherited the house, it was clear that the battle was lost. No matter how much work a handful of laborers could do, they were no substitute for heavy machinery built to drain water out of the swamp and fill it in with soil. The government provided a small sum each year to preserve smaller localities, but the council usually spent it on areas closer to the docks. Henry’s little corner of town quickly returned to being a fetid swamp. By digging some small ditches and using a number of sandbags, he and his neighbors kept the water away from their homes for the most part. On rainy days, it was almost impossible to drive on the roads, so they tried to plan around the weather. Horrid as it was, it had not yet attracted the tourists, but they all knew it would happen eventually.

Henry saw himself as a simple man for the most part. He fancied himself a fisherman, though he spent more time doing odd jobs for his neighbors than out on any of the trawlers. He dressed in durable, navy blue pants, a light grey, short-sleeve work shirt, and the same worn-down wading boots he had since he turned twenty. He also had a horrible secret, of course, though he tried not to let that detract from his self-image.

When he had just turned twenty three, about a week after the last big hurricane hit the town, Henry went out to help his neighbors fix the drainage ditches and get the water back under control. It took hours just to ensure Father Owen, the priest who ran the small chapel the larger church had replaced fifty-or-so years earlier, would be able to sleep the night in his own house again. Late that night, when the others stopped to play cards and drink behind the abandoned gas station, he decided he’d continue just a bit longer. Widening the ditches even a small amount, he hoped, would help more water drain away over the course of the night. 

Well, while Henry was digging through the mud, he found something. It was wrapped in sackcloth and was completely still. In the dark, he peeled away the muddy fabric. As far as he could tell, it was an infant. 

Though Henry never considered himself a particularly pious man, he knew a tragedy when he saw one. Cradling the infant in both arms as though to give it one final bit of fatherly comfort before its soul reached its final destination, he took it over to the priest and his other neighbors. There, in the soft glow of the single propane lamp that lit the game of rummy, Father Owen, Harvey Cooke, Hugh Robertson, Kevin Key, Jane Plancker, and Henry himself saw the truth of what he had found in the muck. 

The rough shape was that of an infant, yes, but what seemed like two little legs huddled up to its chest was, in fact, a bundle of eight thin, delicate black limbs stuck to each other by quickly-drying mud. The skin was smooth but not soft. It was like matte black ceramic. Its fingers were too long, and each one had an extra joint. Even as small as it was, its nails were like obsidian daggers. Mercifully, its mouth remained closed, letting them see only its dull grey lips. Its eyes, on the other hand, were wide open. Indeed, it seemed to lack eyelids of any kind. In each socket, there was a cluster of eight small, disuniform eyes that looked like milky blisters. Its head and body were completely hairless, but on its back, it had a pair of moth-like wings with a beautiful pattern of purples, greens, and blues that reminded Henry of a peacock’s feathers. 

Hugh Robertson suggested that they bury it back in the mud and forget about it, but Henry was too naive to do so. He insisted that, ugly as it was, they should at least wash it off in a basin and take a closer look. He had hoped this was all some grotesque mistake. A dead babe, half a crab, a plastic bag, low light, alcohol, and exhaustion, he thought, may have all come together to produce a terror. He was wrong. The water only proved it to be the same monster they had seen behind the gas station. Worse yet, as they tended to the thing, its wings and legs began to twitch. 

That drunkard Harvey seemed to think it was some novelty—a freak to sell the next time there was a circus in driving distance. Jane and Kevin wanted to kill it before it finished waking up. They only differed on how it should be done. Jane wanted to drown it. Kevin wanted to burn it. Hugh quietly left. By the next morning, his things were packed into his truck and he was on his way out of town.

It was Father Owen’s opinion that ended up holding the most sway over Henry. “No point in trying to kill it now,” the older man had said. “Keep it happy and keep it secret, Henry. The rest is in heaven’s hands.”

Though the priest spoke to Henry, the secret belonged to all of them from then on. Mercifully, when the creature finally awoke, it seemed to be harmless. It stretched its eight legs out and writhed out of Henry’s grasp. Without paying the others any mind, it walked over to the propane lamp and stretched out a hand. As easily as a human child may snatch up a handful of treats, it somehow pulled the light from the air, leaving a dark gap in the circle of illumination the lamp had previously created. Floating a millimeter or two from its fingertips, the light collected into a sphere, then the monster opened its mouth, showing off rows of needle-like teeth that glimmered as though they were covered in glass dust. Without a second thought, it devoured the glowing ball.

Perpetual Peril will be on hiatus for the next few days. Thank you for understanding!

Day 19
Moon 9
Teru 211

Galdr: 

I am indeed pleased to hear that Akio has reached the island safely. You have always been a loyal advisor, and I have no doubt that you will not fail me. My son has grown arrogant in his time aboard the Dromon. Remember that, though he may outrank you in political matters, I have given you and you alone command of the Ninth Droungarios. Do not allow your loyalty to the Omphalion Seal or your concern for the boy to cloud your judgement. You must not sacrifice our objectives on Atossa for the sake of his pride.

It is disappointing, though not surprising, that Port Balica has responded in this way. Our campaign on the mainland has kept the bulk of our forces occupied, so I do not wish for you to waste any resources on the conquest of such a small colony. Focus your efforts on taking the Protectorate and keep Akio’s aggression in check. To him, Balica will appear to be an easy prize.

Finally, I wish for you to send spies among House Bromia. The Protomagistros believes that an interloper seeks the Sword of Skara. I am unconvinced that the blade still exists, but it would be unwise to ignore the possibility entirely. Other agents are already looking into the identity of this outsider. If it is merely some collector from another world, it may be to our benefit to have it removed from this place once and for all. I expect you to keep me informed on this matter.

Exarch Teru

Dear Mr. Graves:

Please forgive my slow response to your reports and letters. I am afraid that I have been away on business. Fortunately, it seems you have gained a rather firm understanding of my usual methods. I look forward to the delivery of everything you found, and I will begin the process of restoring the scrolls as best I can.

There is no need to trouble yourself with finding the previous set of raiders. If all they took was a bit of gold, they can have it. That said, just to be sure that it does not attract attention from certain rivals of mine, I would ask that you make sure the structure is destroyed. Naturally, I am happy to fund the demolition. 

I realize that I have been working your company to the bone lately, but a new site has caught my attention. You will be happy to know that this one can be found close to your own home on Atossa Island. I have arranged for a ship to transport you to the Lauric Protectorate after you finish your current delivery. Please let me know if this is inconvenient for you. Unfortunately, I am in a bit of a hurry to investigate this particular set of ruins, as I have recently learned that a fleet from the Craterlands was spotted off the island’s coast. If you do accept the job, you can expect hazard pay. 

Stay well, Mr. Graves. I look forward to hearing your answer to my request.

Sincerely,

Sir Hyades of Edin

17, 9, 211

Hag,

How many times do I need to tell you that I don’t need you or that crusty old wizard “guiding” me? I know how to be an Exarch. I was born to be one, after all! I also don’t wanna have to tell you again that it’s PRINCE Akio! Dad’s got a country, a crown, and an army. That’s enough of a king for me, even if he doesn’t like using that title.

Anyway, thanks for the answer. You’re not as stupid as you look, I guess. Maybe I’ll keep you around when I take the throne after all. It sure doesn’t hurt that you piss off the old guy so much. He spent an hour this morning lecturing me about how I shouldn’t listen to a warmongering crone like you! I expect you two to fight plenty while you’re here. Otherwise, I’m gonna get bored governing this nowhere island!

Your (Future) Ruler, 

Prince Akio