Devour Mercifully, Without Remorse.

"I close my eyes just to look at you. Black Angel. You blind me with your divinity.

Hold me under. Holy Water.

Love me. Hold me.

Fly."

@f0rtis-fortuna-adiuvat

Ladies Unique

*Various Artists

*Various Sources

Time, Death and Justice by George Frederick Watts, c. 1900

Yes, I gave over.

I regret nothing. Not even in the morning.

Once the dust has settled.

John Wick || Blood of The Raven King

Act Two || Scene One || Broken Mirrors

The dinner hours always began at 6 P.M. and concluded at 9 P.M. for guests that were interested in joining the glittering, pristine hotel dining room for a late night meal. Winston was never above dining in the main room with his guests. In fact, he had a table for six that was always set in the corner by the window overlooking the terrace gardens with their sculpted myriad of magnolia bushes and charming trees that were wrapped in twinkling fairy lights. This table was always reserved exclusively for management and on this evening Winston, in his dark greys and burgundy silk cravat, had the table set for two as he awaited his niece's arrival anxiously. He was not made to wait very long at all, for on the stroke of seven, Bobby appeared by the dining room doors and was escorted to Winston’s table by the maître d'hôtel dressed in a stunning blush pink evening gown upon dainty nude coloured heels. Her hair arranged in an artful suspension of waves that framed her delicate features. She wore a beautiful antique necklace of champagne pink pearls that complimented her matching earrings and bracelet. Winston rose to his feet at once, absolutely beside himself in pride. Bobby walked completely unassisted. Her walking cane was nowhere to be seen and you would not believe she had ever needed it. Or that she had suffered anything that even remotely looked like capture and torture. Her skin, though paler than the sun-kissed tan that was characteristic of her wilderness exploration, radiated with good health and her deep blue eyes were still a twinkling shade of sapphire that suppressed her withheld turmoil. Not entirely however, for Winston knew intimately the depths of suffering that were hidden behind that veneer of order and beauty that a woman was so capable of masking with an elegant dress and artfully applied cosmetics. 

Regardless, he came forward around his table and took his niece in his arms with the embrace of a man that could not be prouder for the achievements of his own daughter. Her embrace was equally powerful. She tucked herself into her Uncle’s arms and for a moment negotiated with the urge to weep again as she had in her rooms.

No.

No, absolutely not.

She’d ruin her eye makeup and she’d spent considerable time blending and perfecting her eyes-hadow and concealer just as she had witnessed in the tutorials of those other girls online. She wasn’t about to let that hard work go to waste. At least, that thin veil of vanity was what she reasoned to herself was the purpose of her refusing tears. In actual fact, it was the sting in her heart that reminded her she was an orphan now. She had been for nine years and anything that even remotely appeared as though it was parental affection was enough to break her down to components she was afraid of. And then of course, the promise she’d made to herself since her ordeal. That she would never allow another human being to witness her cry.

 Winston sought to pull her back at arm's length so he could admire her fully.

“Oh Roberta! Look at you! You’re magnificent! You are positively radiant!”

“Bobby,” She corrected happily, coming forward to give her Uncle a kiss on his cheek. The elder gentleman lead the lady into her chair and kissed her forehead with fatherly affection before rejoining his seat. 

The moments that passed thereafter were a heartfelt reunion of affection and good nature. Uncle and niece sat for the longest time over a three course dinner, sharing a bottle of wine and deep discourse of everything that the letters they had exchanged over the last nine months could not possibly convey with the profound depth and intensity they so wished. 

“You know, Bobby, I’m still not entirely certain as to why you decide to write letters in this day and age when everyone else your age is busy on Snapchat and Skype.”

“We’ve discussed this sentiment before, Uncle. You’re a man that predates Snapchat and Skype. Do you really want to Face Time me? Don’t you think the English language should be preserved with handwriting and the art of cursive passed down into our post-millennial generation? So that they might be capable of communicating in full sentences moving into the modern world of business, trade, arts and academics with more than a one-hundred and sixty character limit on their already atrociously short attention span?”

“Accurate as this summation of general modern society is, I believe the power to move with the ages is paramount to our perpetual existence. And I can’t help but feel stung, I think you’ve taken a side-swipe at calling me old.” 

“Vanity, Uncle. Amongst the seven deadly sins that I needn’t remind you of.” This admission made the elder gentleman laugh. He gestured generally at their glittering environment with a very definitive meaning. 

“If I’m not the purveyor of hedonistic pleasures that are dangerously straddling the line of the seven virtues, then I’m quite certain my establishment has been a marked sham.” 

The meal concluded with dessert and coffee that Bobby hesitated to partake in. Complaining that the bodice of her evening gown was becoming painfully tight. 

“Nonsense, child! Chef spent all morning making these fruit tarts and you’ll be doing him and me a professional injury if you don’t sample at least a few bites to appease his voracious French attitudes.” 

 Begging a few moments to rest before taking the rich tart was acceptable to her Uncle. And given time, the pair were eventually served a stunning glittering dessert piled with an artfully crafted allotment of fresh glazed fruit and served with rich Italian espresso. 

The conversation between them was as easy as ever. And twice as intimate knowing the involvement they had together that transcended the nuances of human thoughts and feelings. Their expressions and words were amongst the closest in each other’s company that they could come to. At last, their conversation came around to Bobby’s latest research. Following the thread that she had discussed in her latest letter. Winston let her speak for the longest time mindful of not interrupting her train of thought for he was accustomed to his niece being taken by a passionate stream of consciousness and leading the conversation into a maze of tangents that she kept track of in her head and eventually tied off neatly. He marveled at the depth of her philosophical grasp was pleased to see that her Oxford education had returned such a well-rounded individual. 

But this study of hers. This obsession with the other side, and they way she burned under the focus of uncovering magic. Of uncovering creatures of legend and fantasy. It frightened him. To some extent. And he was not readily a man that ever felt fear. He was a tactician after all. A master of stratagems that he had spent decades honing into a network of planning and focus. But this was something else. This fire that burned in his niece's eyes.

“Our mutual friend says-”

“Bobby, please, if I can stop you there for a moment darling. Really, I think I’ve heard more than enough about this hypothesis of yours for one evening.”

“Uncle, don’t! Don’t shut me down like this. I need you to help me uncover a universe, not push me away because you think it all too hard-”

“And then what?!” He snapped at last. Growing tired of her willful demands. “Have you given this any more than a moment’s deeper consideration? What do you hope to achieve if your theorems for the other side prove to be correct?” He could tell he’d stung her badly with this rebuke. Anger flashed in her eyes. Wheelchair bound as she had been, she’d dedicated years of her recovery to do nothing but study, research and theorize. She’d spent years traveling the world in the houses and lecture halls of scholars that did nothing but discuss the disappearance of practical magic and alternative species of other realms. He regretted his choice of words instantly as she dropped her eyes. 

“Bobby, I’m sorry, really. I just-”

“Do you what you’re looking for?” She cut him off. “When you got yourself caught up in all this? This perpetual nightmare that your believe you’re protecting the better part of the city from? Did you fathom for one moment in your life that perhaps you’re not the dark knight you think you are? That all you’re doing is feeding the machine? That you’re a corrupt vigilante creating a safe-haven for criminals and usurpers that our livelihoods would be a great deal better without? Did you consider that the power you have in your hands here is so great that if you wanted to really do something good for what you consider to be your people, your city, your community; that all you need do is turn yourself in to the authorities with a confession and take the entire slate of the criminal empire down with you in one fell swoop?”

“Keep your voice down, Roberta. There are some things that cannot be said in polite company.”

“We’re not fucking polite company any more, are we?”

“No, I suppose we aren't. But there are rules and consequences that govern our behaviors so as we may be elevated above basic instinct. That said, I was simply expressing concern about how you seek to blow the lid off a world you haven’t the slightest understanding of and seem to have no future contingency to protect yourself against what you may find thereafter. You’re being childish and hard-headed and I’ve already watched you knock on death’s door once. If you had any regard for my person, I would have assumed you’d take this into consideration and spare me impending hardship."

This time he did not regret his rebuke at all. He could not fault the young woman for her tenacious will to latch onto the world around her and pull it apart to components only she could see. He was even forgiving of the fact that her outburst was fueled only by her lack of complete understanding to which he was playing a principle role in keeping her uninformed. Again, he reasoned this was entirely for her own protection. The less she knew of the other side the better. But he was fearful for every passing moment she presented him that evening with facts, figures, accounts and case studies of times and events wherein the denizens of the other side might be there amongst them, at their very shoulders. Waiting. Watching. Listening to every word. Knowing that what would come, would come whether they wanted it or no. And nothing unnerved him more than the source of her obsession. That of all the creatures of folklore and legend, she would hunt the greatest creature known to man or indeed fae kind. The Raven King.

For the first time in that evening, his heart did not soften as she sat in wounded silence, looking every bit as stung as he felt. She had offended his pride, hit at a nerve that he had tried to reason with for years.

She was right, though he hated to admit it. When he set down this path of darkness and became the eventual owner of The Continental, he not expected the bloodshed and suffering that would have him forever question his own moral code and force him to make ethical judgments based on the process of elimination.

Even so, when she rose from her chair, his heart dropped in his chest.

"If you'll excuse me, Uncle Winston. I think the journey has left me overtired. I'm perhaps not the best company I could be were I better rested. I've obviously offended you and you have pricked me in turn. I don't think we can progress any further given my current condition."

"Bobby, please.. We've not seen each other in months, we shouldn't let a disagreement end our conversation like this. Won't you sit down a moment longer an let me make this right again?"

"No, Uncle, really. I'm tired. And maybe a little overwhelmed with everything. If you let me go on in this state, I fear I may devolve into something less than agreeable. I think it best I retire for the night and join you tomorrow afternoon, if it's all the same to you."

"Bobby..."

"Goodnight, Uncle Winston. And thank you very much for your hospitality and dinner. Please, give my compliments to your chef."

And with that she was off, in a flutter of blush coloured skirts. The other guests were courteous enough to at least pretend they'd not witnessed the young lady walk away abruptly. They concerned themselves with their meals and coffee whilst waiters bustled about the dining room clearing plates and resetting tables.

Winston however, sighed deeply at his niece's departure. She was always such a willful girl. So argumentative and dominant in her personality. He gave her a great deal of credit for it. Even so, he maintained his better judgment. Their 'mutual friend'  that she referenced repeatedly was none other than New York's Bowery King. A man of whom Winston proposed to have a deep and meaningful conversation with before the week was out. For he was greatly responsible for feeding Bobby much of the knowledge that she now sought to dislodge from him, seemingly against his will.

Alas, he raised his hand to take the attention of a passing waiter and requested a nip of brandy be served to him. He would take it with a smoke on the balcony and then seek to retire for an early night himself. He had no doubt that whatever antics Bobby meant to partake in during her visitation, he'd need as much rest as possible to recover from their aggressive turmoil.

Outside the dining room doors, Bobby made to take a few deep, calming breaths before crossing the lobby toward the elevators. The hour was just past nine o'clock and the foyer was markedly empty in comparison to the vibrant collection of people that were working their way in and out of the hotel when she arrived earlier that afternoon. Charon was completing his evening paperwork and preparing again for the night shift hand over staff that were due to relieve his place at reception.

"Did you enjoy your dinner?" He asked warmly as Bobby approached on rapid footfalls.

"Quite Charon, thank you very much. And thank you for the rooms once more. I'm used to a great deal less so every time you let me stay I can't help but feel a little displaced."

"It is always our pleasure to accommodate you, Bobby." Charon returned as he pulled his glasses from the bridge of his nose.

"But, if you don't mind my saying, Miss. You do not seem entirely pleased. Was something not to your liking?" He probed gently, reading the tense lines in the young lady's brows. He felt he'd instantly overstepped, for she lowered her eyes and looked somewhat uncomfortable before again meeting his gaze and leaning forward a little over the marble counter.

"Oh, no, no not at all. Everything was perfection incarnate. Only, I feel, I'm likely overtired from the journey and Uncle Winston and I drank a bottle of wine with dinner that's relaxed me more than it should and I... well..." She hesitated here a little, struggling with the truth before finally admitting,

"I think we rather just had a little falling out by the time coffee and dessert were served." She sighed deeply with the admission.

"I'm sorry to hear it, dearheart." Charon intoned earnestly. The tenderness of his affectionate naming shook Bobby to the core. She'd rarely ever been called upon with such sweet endearments since her parents had passed and her suitors were set at arm's length.

"Oh, I wouldn't let it worry you, Charon. It's nothing a good night's sleep and a heartfelt apology won't repair given time. You know how it is with family, we argue about the silliest of things sometimes. I wager I'm largely to blame. I find I lose my temper a great deal faster now compared to how I did when I was younger. I've much to answer for and can't help but feel cast out when I'm trying to make an important point."

Charon nodded to the young woman sagely. The tension in her features seemed to dissipate just with the act of being listened to and supported. He offered her his advice and hoped she'd take it to heart.

"If there is one thing, this hotel has taught me, with people, is pull when you want to push. You may find the world a great deal more forgiving when you keep those you'd class as enemies onside."

For many heartbeats Bobby took in the depth and clarity of Charon's eyes. The lines of his face. The way he smiled at her gently, willingly. Un-provoking and completely open. A pillar of support is how she reasoned she thought of him. Now the weight of his words filled her soul with hope and revelation.

"You're of course entirely right." She conceded at last and leaned forward over the countertop to press a kiss to the Concierge's cheek.  

"Goodnight, Charon. I'm going to my rooms to retire. I expect I'll sleep well into the morning so I doubt I'll be down for breakfast. Connie and Nate will be around tomorrow afternoon though for a late lunch and a little tête-à-tête and I've no doubt they'll want to drag me around the city now that I'm not so encumbered with my wheelchair or cane."

Charon nodded to this statement, making a note in his ledger.

"The manager's table will be open to you and your friends when they arrive." He replied, looking up to take the young woman's expression again.

"Thank you, Charon. For everything. Really."

"Goodnight, Bobby. Until tomorrow."

"Goodnight." She said once more, offering the Concierge a tender smile before smoothing down the lines of her dress and making her way across the foyer toward the elevators

She could not help but think the sound of her own footfalls against the echoing walls to be sharp and ringing as each click of her heels cast back upon her like a fan of sound in the otherwise quiet lobby.

Bobby pressed at the brass button that would call her elevator and opened her clutch to prepare her gold room key. A card with an ornate design and a RFID chip that kept a record of her movements in and around the hotel.

She had just freed this card from her clutch when all at once a sudden blackness seemed to overtake her. A ringing in her ears grew to a maddening crescendo that set her somewhat off balance. She put out her hand to steady herself against the marble wall, shocked and wondering what on earth could have caused such a strange turn as she shook her head to free the ringing in her ears... That was when she saw them.

A couple. Dressed in black.

They appeared on the curving marble staircase to her right and she noticed the shadows of their movement first in the peripheral of her vision before at last she turned her head to acknowledge them fully whilst the bell of the elevator that was descending from the top floor pinged out at regular intervals the closer it got to the lobby floor.

And she could not help but stop and stare. They were glorious to behold. A lady in an obsidian, floor-length gown and matching gloves that rested above her elbows. Her skin was as pale and ethereal as the autumn moon. Her mahogany hair was pinned delicately away from her face. And what a face! Her features sharp and stunning. Her lips the colour of deepest red wine. And her eyes... Oh, those eyes were otherworldly. They were the deepest cascade of evergreen. Bobby stood, transfixed, unable to look away. For the lady was escorted by a gentleman of equally handsome fixture. He too was dressed in a pitch black suit. A single glittering ruby caught the light and shimmered from his tie pin. His long, dark hair cascaded classically handsome features that were accented by a dark beard and moustache that were well-groomed and seemed to accentuate the darkness of his allure. In contrast to the lady at his arm, his eyes were dark pools that seemed to absorb the light of their surrounds. His strides were confident, easy. He flowed with the lady at his arm down the stairs and spoke with her quietly, almost reverently, his head inclined slightly toward her shoulder. It was impossible to discern what was being said by the pair.

And they were coming, closer, closer. And Bobby, could not look away. The sudden dizzy spell and ringing in her head seemed completely replaced. She was vaguely aware that the elevator had arrived and was awaiting her boarding, it's polished brass doors rolled opened.

Who were this pair? Who on earth were they?

It was the gentleman that finally looked away from his lady and took her eyes. It was but a moment in time. Fleeting. Like the passing of a cloud over the sun. He smiled at her, inclined his head. And Bobby's breath caught in her throat. She was acutely aware she was being rude, gawking at them like this with what she was positive must have appeared as a half stupefied expression. Now the lady inclined her head toward her as well and offered her the slightest curvature of her lips in greeting. The couple were but two feet away, having cleared the staircase and paused for half a moment.

"Goodnight, Miss." Was all the gentlemen said, before he and the lady carried on across the lobby.

And she meant to reply. She was half certain she had at least said "goodnight" in turn as she stepped into the lift and turned about, watching the pair recede into the distance. The elevator doors rolled shut blocking them from view.

It was then that Bobby realized she'd been holding her breath for goodness knows how long. She sighed heavily, unable to organize her thoughts. The room key in her hand. The elevator still, awaiting its next command.

She came forward, waved the card across the small glass panel and pressed the button for level five. The elevator began its climb and Bobby took this moment to lean against the brass rail to brace herself against what, she wasn't entirely sure. What had come over her, she wondered?

My goodness, this was a strange day after all.

The travel must have exhausted her more than she bargained for.

Now she longed to attend her room and lock the door behind her and put this entire episode well out of her mind. Had she skipped her medication? Yes, perhaps that was the cause of it all. For the doctor had assigned her a mild antidepressant pill that she was to take once every forty-eight hours. It had the duel effect of acting as a manager to her anxieties. Only now with the shifting time-zones, she wasn't sure if she had missed a dose or not.

 Within her rooms at last, Bobby ensured the door was locked and latched shut. She had placed the 'Do Not Disturb' sign upon the handle outside so as cleaning and room service staff would leave her be. And her first port of call was to set down her clutch and room key upon the lamp table and then attend to pouring herself a glass of water from the pitcher on the sideboard. She'd take another pill. It was safer to double the dose than skip it entirely. Perhaps that was why she was feeling queer. Agitated and overwhelmed and that horrid darkness that took her downstairs in the lobby had left her shaken.

That lady. That gentleman. Who were they?

This question continued to repeat its self for the better part of an hour as Bobby sought to undress and draw herself a bath with lavender salts.

She'd washed off her makeup and unpinned her hair. Brushed her teeth and sank into the steaming tub. Just laying. Quietly. Thinking to herself.

That face. That gentleman's face. She almost felt as if she'd seen it before.  Where or how she could not discern. And the lady. She was purely beautiful. Statuesque and refined. She'd seemed to glide down the staircase on her gentleman's arm.

She would ask Uncle Winston about the couple tomorrow, this much was certain.

She was not sure when it occurred, but shortly after this self-affirmation, lulled by the soothing scent of lavender and the solitude and peace of the night. Bobby dozed in the bathtub.

It was a spider.

Small and black on the rib of the tub at her feet by the brass faucet. It had a small bulbous body and spindly legs hesitated to walk into the gathered droplets of water. Rather, the creature stepped over them, like a dancer. It was too little for her to make out its tiny red eight eyes, but they seemed to turn and acknowledge that she was there before turning back to make its way up the heavy golden shower hose. There was something important it meant to do as it reached the top. And there, suspended from a glittering web that shifted in the rising steam was a butterfly. Large... massive actually. It had great black and blue wings that were pulsing, slowly. The insect's delicate little legs were caught in the sticky threads of the web that was hung by the showerhead. And as the little spider made its way closer, the butterfly did not seem to fret. Rather, it continued to pulse its wings, open, shut. Open, shut. Open, shut. Open... Open...

Now the spider stood face to face with its prey. The butterfly was at least three times its size and seemed to regard its spider hunter with little to no regard. And Bobby could not help but feel the clutch of nerves take her.

Anxiety crawl across her skin as she found herself almost begging for the beautiful insect to tear free of the web, to come away. To fly.

’Please..' Begged her thoughts, 'Fly.... damn you... fly!'

Why wouldn't the butterfly move? Could it not see the danger? That this spider, though tiny would eat it in time?

She watched in horror, for the spider reached out its foreleg and sought to tap the butterfly upon its head. Beating it. Admonishing it for its stupidity. There would be no escape. There would be no mercy. This was the dance of evolution. The strong would prey upon the weak. The beautiful would be eaten by the very grotesque.

It was more than she could bear. Bobby rose in the water, she would free the butterfly, let it escape from the bathroom window. She would upset the natural order, just for one day.

Just... for one day.

And then his voice.

'Goodnight, Roberta.'

She jolted awake. To the splash of water and the sound of her own choked cries. Where was it? The spider? The butterfly? She looked about herself disorientated. What had happened? Where did that voice come from?!

The showerhead and its heavy brass hose.

There was no spider. No spider web. There was no black and blue butterfly. There had been no voice. Aside from the ones in her own head. She was alone. Entirely. Of course. She'd had a long day. A longer night it seemed. And an argument with her Uncle at dinner. Too much wine. The food perhaps too rich and still digesting.

Bobby pulled herself from the tub. Pulling the bathplug and letting the lavender water drain. She sought to dry herself. To put on her clean, lose fitting silken navy pyjamas with their pink carnations and took herself promptly to bed. The clock on the mantle read just past midnight.

No wonder she was tired. Too tired it seemed.

Before long Bobby had drifted off to sleep. Her bedside lamp cast a warm low glow over the room and reflected the surfaces of the furniture in the mirror of her dressing table at the far end against the wall.

And as she slept, she dreamt.

And such dreams were these.

There was music, up ahead. The sound of violins and flutes playing in harmony, a cascade of shimmering notes that were lulling and beautiful. She wanted so much to get closer, to hear them. To see the people who played such wondrous melodies. But she looked down and could not help but notice she was barefooted. And beneath her, a bridge spanned out into the distance. Narrow and suspending by ancient heavy ropes that were set by the roots of trees. Trees whom if she craned her head and looked up, there seemed to be no canopy. And no light. It was cold... and dark. And this bridge... Now that she looked down between the planks at her feet she noticed, to her horror that there was no end in sight. Some, hazy darkness, indiscernible, swelling, moving, breathing, a nothingness that went on forever and ever and made her sick. She clutched at the ropes that were cold to the touch. And rough. Bark perhaps? Feathered in vine leaves and dappled poisonous looking flowers crowned in thorns and swarming with occasional moving shadows. But there was music up ahead. And if only she would walk forward she might chase its beauty. And not find herself so horribly alone. She turned her head, to look back over her shoulder. There was nothing there. Just the endless expanse of this bridge that seemed to go on forever. And this feeling that sank in her heart that told her she'd been walking this bridge for the longest time already. She was tired. Tired and worn down and the music, it called to her. Lulling her.

Where is your coin?

The expanse asked as she set out. One foot in front of the other.

A favour in gold, repaid it must be. Where is your coin?

"I haven't one." She breathed to the expanse, clutching at the vines. Fearful of disturbing the silence in the break of swelling music. She would walk across the bridge. But the end was as indiscernible as the darkness below her feet. It went on forever.

Open your veins then... Pay in blood.

"Blood?" She asked... her brows furrowed, stitching together. Her hand in her pocket, something cold and hard. A disc. She pulled it forth and noted... it was a gold coin. Emblazoned upon it, the image of a raven in flight. Where had it come from?

She offered it to the expanse.

"Will it do? This?" She asked the emptiness. The bridge did not sway beneath her. The wind picked up, and gathered her hair, exposing her throat.

"Please... It's all I have."

In blood.

Said the expanse. And the coin she pro-offered the nothingness before her slipped from her fingers. She watched it arc down, spinning, spinning... and disappear between the boards of the bridge. Her panic reared. It was the last one. The last one and she'd lost it. Lost everything.

Lost it all.

The beating of wings overhead. She looked up for the darkness above the bridge and the melody of violins and flutes were taken away by the sound of cries. Birds. Black birds in their dozens seemed to fly on ahead. In their claws, each one carried a single golden coin. They gathered in the distance, cawing, screaming out, gathering the darkness under their wings. Their eyes were white, their beaks sharp and their cries heart-wrenching. There...in the distance, she saw him. In a black robe. And he turned to her. His eyes the deepest green. Illuminated from within by a fire it seemed.

And there was blood on his fingers and a silver blade in his hand.

"Please!" She called to him, reaching out... desperate to get closer, only every step seemed to place him further away.

"Please... how do I get back?"

There's no going back. Ever.

She woke then. Sweating profusely, disorientated. Her throat dry and her hair stuck to the nape of her neck. Outside it seemed to be raining for she lay upon the bed, kicking back her covers and listening to the constant patter of the rain upon her windowpane. The drip, drip, drip of droplets striking the glass.

And for the longest time Bobby covered her face in her hands. Uncertain with what she had seen and heard. This dream. Like so many she seemed to be having these past nine months or more made no sense. No reason. Coins and blood and birds and butterflies. Bridges to nowhere.

But this was a first.

There was a man.

She had always dreamt there would be a man. He wore dark robes that hung over the edges of the footbridge and were lifted by the breeze that came from nowhere and everywhere at once. And she could never discern his face. Never.

But this time, she saw him. And he had a clarity that was unlike anything she had remembered before.

This man... his eyes... They were inhuman. Abnormal. But his features, his voice. It was the same gentleman that was escorting the lady down the staircase last night, she was sure of it. Absolutely certain.

Positively certain.

God!

She wasn't certain about anything. Let alone the cacophony of thoughts in her mind.

She rose from the bed and sought to take her battered, leather-bound dream diary from her hatbox and her trusty fountain pen that she had written a hundred letters or more with since the day her father had left it behind for her in his will.

Armed with these tools that she understood, Bobby pushed back the curtains letting in the grey light of the late morning penetrate with the warmth of the lamplight at her bedside table.

She attended her dressing table now and sat before her mirror. And she wrote what she saw in her dreams. What she felt in her heart, what she heard in her head.

She wrote and wrote for a quarter of an hour. Perhaps more. Her pen filling page after page with descriptions, imaginings, visions, the sounds that she heard and tried desperately to describe. For it was music she swore she had heard somewhere else. Violins and flutes.

At last she looked up, the nub of the pen stopping short at the word, 'madness'.

There was a crack on her dressing table mirror. It seemed to gather from the lower right-hand corner and spider out into a web that arched up along the glass. It was quite large, incredibly noticeable. Hardly something that she would have missed even in her excitement and exhaustion the day before as she milled about the bedroom to unpack and place her belongings upon the dressing table around her. And she'd stared into this mirror for the better part of an hour the night before applying her makeup. She'd sworn it was not there the night before. Surely. Something like this? She would have seen it and mentioned it to Charon.

Her fingers reached up to run along the cracks in the glass. To trace them against her fingertips.

How long had it been like this?

These cracks were unusual. The appeared to have been forced from the other side, the glass slightly protruding outward. Against the mirror's frame.

Careful!

She pulled her fingers away as they caught over a jagged edge that threatened to slice at her skin.

She would tell Charon about it.

Because there was something dangerous about broken mirrors.

Dearest Readers,

 We hope that you are enjoying our dark fairy tale! There is great intrigue and mystery that awaits on every corner. Every stage holds hidden paths and rising darkness, coming forth from the shadows to swallow the light. Do you have a favorite character? Are you excited for the next turn? Send an inbox message and have your name tagged in the reader’s list so you never miss a new chapter.

Stay tuned for Act Two || Scene Two coming next Sunday, Eastern Standard Time.

JW. || Blood of The Raven King

Act One || Scene One & Scene Two

Act One || Scene Three

{[ @rubydian @rubydart @lalienna-dementriento @f0rtis-fortuna-adiuvat @cynic-spirit @sapphowinter ]}

Joker || Fracture

Readers Please Note: Joker || Fracture may contain spoilers for the film. Read at your own discretion.

|| FOUR ||

Three months, two weeks and four days.

Arthur had been keeping a log of the passing time in the staff sign-in book where he was taught to autograph his name and the date for every morning as he clocked in and every evening before clocking out. The theatre director, the enigmatic and somewhat eccentric Lauretta Styl proved to be a regimented woman who ran her staff both cast and crew strictly, but fairly.  With the exception of the performance personnel, theatre crew were worked on a two week rotating roster over a nine hour day. Staff began at either 7AM, 9AM or 11AM and worked through to 4PM, 6PM or 8PM respectively. They were afforded an hour’s lunch break, unpaid and two coffee breaks spaced evenly throughout their shifts ensuring the floors were never kept unmanned and always evenly staffed.

Arthur’s first fortnight in the theatre saw him on the 9AM shift and he was mindful to take an early bus into town to avoid being late. The weekend leading up his first Monday on duty found him to be a veritable ball of kinetic excitement. He could hardly sit still his anticipation was so great.  That evening after the interview, found him bolting home on jubilant footfalls. A new sense of purpose filled him. Opportunity did wonders for a man’s self-confidence. Divesting himself of keys and coat, he called for his mother who was reading in the warm lamplight of the living room. She fixed her son with a cursory glance and nodded approvingly. He furnished her with every detail he could recall, bustling into the kitchen, intent on cooking a celebratory dinner. He’d make pasta sauce from scratch tonight!

“This is why I named you, Happy.” Penny murmured fondly as she sat upon a stool at their kitchen counter drinking sweet, hot tea and watching her son chop onions and sing to himself contentedly.

“Are they going to pay your better at this new job?”

“I dunno, Ma. It’s not right to ask about money during the interview. I’m sure it’ll be okay. We’ve always gotten by before even when things were tight. You should see this place, Ma, really. They have these beautiful purple curtains and gold fittings on the ceilings. They’re so high! You’d strain your neck looking up. And the stage is beautiful. The lady who runs the place, Lauretta, she said one day I might be able to perform on it, with my comedy act.”

“You’ll have to write some better jokes then. Something funny.” Penny replied absently. A shockingly loud clatter jolted her abruptly upright. Her son dropped the cooking knife he was handling to the sink.

“Jesus, Happy, do you have to be so clumsy? And loud? And did you check the letter box on your way up? I’m waiting for a letter.”

“They are funny.” Arthur murmured indistinctly beneath his breath. His voice quiet and his gaze unfocused upon the middle-distance. His elation deflating as suddenly as it had swelled. Penny’s ears were sharp though.

“What?”

“I said no, Ma. There wasn’t any letters today. There never is.”

“Oh… Well, I’m going to watch some television for a while, leave you to cook in peace.”

He waited for a few moments. Listening to the shuffling slippered foot-falls of his mother as she groaned, rising from her seat and padding away.

Through the kitchen window and across the street, Arthur’s sight fell upon his neighbor’s drab, old brick building. His kitchen window regrettably afforded a view of the neighbor’s living room on occasion when the curtains weren’t drawn.

The tenants were never of any interest to him directly. There was something impolite about looking into their living room. For his sake as much as theirs he sought to avert his gaze or draw the kitchen curtains whilst he cooked.

What drew his attention on this night was their great ginger tom cat with white paws and striking yellow eyes. The animal wore a red collar with a tiny silver bell around its neck and perched regally atop the window sill, watching him. Seemingly never moving. He’d lept upon the peeling sill at some point during the conversation with his mother and proceeded to lick at his left paw watching Arthur with feline interest all the while. He wondered at the cat’s name.

Come Monday morning, Arthur made sure he was at the stage door early. Martha answered his knock and offered him a polite compliment over his neat attire for which he was grateful. He’d spent the night before agonizing over the state of his wardrobe, ensuring his shirt was ironed and his shoes were polished. He wished he had a better bag rather than his worn brown leather satchel. It would do however. He made certain he had copies of his resume and ID in his wallet. Money was tight this week, he’d have to eat when he got home. Just as well, he couldn’t stomach anything right now. He was far too nervous. 

“Pleased to have you, dear. Follow me to the break room. There are lockers were you can put your belongings and the coffee and tea is complimentary. You can help yourself before your shift starts. We take turns bringing in fresh milk. I’ll mark your name on the roster pinned to the fridge door. Mind you don’t forget it when it’s your turn hmm?” Martha began briskly as she lead Arthur around the box office, up a stair well, into a corridor and out into a large and airy breakout room with unfurnished windows that looked down into the bustling city below. The stage manager checked her watch and continued.

“Now, be mindful of the time. Laura’s called a meeting downstairs in front of the stage at 9am sharp. Take care you’re not late. She’s very particular about punctuality and famous for keeping us honest about it. I expect she’ll be wanting to introduce you to your crew mates formally and assign you some duties, you follow?”

Arthur nodded his head yes. He’d been listening intently as he followed Martha and her rapid footsteps to a row of tidy grey and white lockers that were set against the wall on the opposite end of the room. To Arthur’s surprise, number 11 had been assigned to him, his name written neatly upon a white label in black marker pressed upon the locker door. 

“This one’s for you, Arthur. You’ll need to bring your own padlock but I’ll loan you this one for today.” Said Martha producing a small mail lock and its key from her jacket pocket. Arthur took the lock in hand, nodding his thanks. Martha continued her preamble intently,

“Now, if you bring your lunch, make sure you label it clearly when you put it in the fridge, food will mysteriously disappear otherwise. And where possible, don’t keep clothes or shoes in your locker over the weekend. Take them home to be aired and laundered save you copping unwanted flack.” 

“Sure. I mean, of course, Mrs?”

“Martha, is perfectly alright, dear. You’ll find most staff will tolerate a first name. But be mindful, some of the actors are sensitive whilst performing or rehearsing. It’s best to keep out of their way. And for heaven’s sake don’t let yourself be caught near the women’s dressing rooms unless you’re expressly asked or you’ll catch hell for it, clear?”

“Crystal clear, Martha. Thank you. For everything, really.” Replied Arthur quietly. His gratitude welling in his eyes. He offered a docile, slightly lop-sided smile.

“Well, see if you make it through the first fortnight before giving me any thanks. Stage front in fifteen dear, yes? Ciao for now.”

And just so, Martha bustled away on a brisk footfalls, adjusting a pen in her tightly rolled bun, leaving Arthur to his own devices in the empty break room. A number of round timber tables and chairs waited quietly giving the room the impression of an unoccupied café.

With little left to do, Arthur set about putting his satchel away in his new locker, helping himself to some instant coffee and lighting up another cigarette to pass the time. Once the clock above the door read five to nine, he was quick to leave the large breakroom behind, retracting his steps downstairs until he came to the open theatre doors where a congregation of some fifteen people were standing at the foot of the stage.

Martha was among them, speaking hurriedly with Lauretta who seemed to acknowledge what was being said and taking notes on a clip board.

Oh, she was splendid today. Dressed in fitted, black high-waisted slacks and a peach blouse. Her sleeves rolled back and her hair gathered in a French braid. Around her stood an array of staff dressed in various states of uniformed workwear. Arthur gathered his wits and strode in what he hoped was a confident fashion to Lauretta’s shoulder.

She turned fixing him with a dazzling smile.

“And here he is. Alright, everyone!” The theatre director clapped her hands sharply, the crowd quieted and listened.

“For months now you’ve told me this production has taken a toll on each of you. I thank you for patience. As it stands, I’d like to introduce you all to our latest crew member, progressive comedian and practiced harlequin, formally of Ha Ha’s Entertainment, Mr. Arthur Fleck.”

All at once a dozen smiling faces broke into hoots and hollers. A round of applause was had and Arthur offered a heartfelt smile. A little shy beneath the heat of so much fresh attention.

“Hey, welcome aboard buddy!” Called a particularly sharp dressed young man. African American, lanky of limb and distinctly possessing the style of a pop-star.

“You’re gonna love it here. Hey, you wanna see your future? Look at that guy over there. That’s Greg, he’s what we all gotta look forward to lookin’ like, even the ladies, yeaooow!”  

This seemed to draw laughs from the gathering, even from the unfortunate Greg who was weighty, balding and sucking on a partially lit Cuban cigar. He waved off the sly remark with good humor.

“Enough from you Freddie, you’ll give Arthur the wrong impression.” Lauretta corrected playfully before continuing.

“Now, Arthur will join us as a stage hand over the next two weeks, shadowing Freddie and Fay respectively. I ask you all mind your manners and be patient whilst he learns the ropes. Stagecraft takes time to come into, but if we can work collaboratively we’ll find opening week to our musical runs a great deal smoother.”

The next twenty minutes were spent exchanging handshakes whilst Lauretta introduced Arthur to each of the theatre staff individually. Freddie was finally introduced as the theatre manager, holder of all the keys. Whilst Fay, a sharp eyed, pretty brunette advised she was the stage assistant and understudy to Martha.

“Together, we’re your ‘A’ team, my man.  Get ready, because we’re gonna work you to the bone.” Freddie began, shaking Arthur’s hand with a dazzling smile. Arthur could not help but feel this young man reminded him strongly of the pop star, Prince. He moved with musical grace and had a habit of adding a “yeeoow” to the end of his sentences when making a humorous quip.

“Don’t let him scare you off, Arthur, can we call you Art, or Artie? And what size shirt do you wear? We’ll have to work out some uniform shirts for you now that you’re part of the crew.” Fay announced, gesturing for Freddie to give them some space. Arthur could not help but smile radiantly. His other employers and colleagues were never so welcoming.

“Artie is fine,” He replied finally, “and I wear a medium dress shirt, if that helps any.”

Fay made a note in her log book signaling a thumbs up as Lauretta once again clapped sharply and drew the attention of her team. For the next few minutes she took feedback about the state of the up-coming production, making notes and giving a great deal many directions. Arthur stood by, smiling and noting how pretty her small drop pearl earrings were and the way the rest of the team seemed content if not a little stressed. She addressed each problem and complaint individually and earnestly. The team seemed at their ease around her. In time the crew dispersed to their individual tasks in groups of twos and threes.

“Freddie, I’m going to borrow Arthur a minute. I’ll send him backstage with you shortly.”

“You got it boss lady!” Freddie exclaimed, turning smoothly and strutting away in time with a melody in his head.

The theatre crew finally out of ear-shot, Lauretta turned to Arthur with her characteristic warm smile.

“So, how are we holding up, so far? All good?”

“Oh, yeah! I haven’t done anything for you yet. I’ll work very hard though.” Arthur replied sincerely.

“It’s not about working hard so much as it is about working smart. Relying on your team mates to support you and more than anything, not taking anything personally. You’ll see staff lose their temper more than once and sometimes it may appear directed toward you. It shouldn’t be. But if it is, remember, you’re in your rights to just shake it off and move onto the next task. We’re something of a family here, Arthur. Working a forty hour week means you’ll spend more time with us than you will your own flesh and blood. It’s important that you’re at your ease, even when you’re not. No matter what state you’re in or how busy we all look, I am here to listen to you.”

This sentiment seemed to bring some profound change to Arthur’s features. His smile slipped and his eyes began to sting. He looked away a moment, fumbling for his cigarettes as he whispered,

“Thank you. Really.”

“Of course.” She replied, reaching out her hand to caress his arm gently. Arthur’s smile returned, he lit up, breathed in deeply and exhaled sharply.

“Now, Arthur, I hope you don’t think this too forward of me, but, about your condition. I was giving it some thought over the weekend and I wanted to get your impression. Would you prefer I have a quiet word with the staff just to alert them or would you rather speak to them of your own accord during the breaks and such? What would make you most comfortable?”

Arthur coughed sharply, his eyes widening in disbelief.

“Oh, please, I’m sorry, I hope you don’t think I’m being rude?” Lauretta continued, concerned she’d said something off-key.

“No, no, not at all. I just got on with my cards in the past. I prefer to not draw attention to it if that’s okay with you, ma’am?” Arthur responded quietly.

“Of course, by all means. I just thought, if everyone was on the same page from the get go, it would make it easier for you. If people know what to expect.” Arthur’s eyes seemed to harden as he nodded, taking another pull of his cigarette and blowing the smoke sharply out of the corner of his mouth. Lauretta couldn’t help but feel she’d somehow overstepped herself.

“We just want you to feel comfortable, that’s all. If you have any questions, don’t hesitate to find me. I’m almost always upstairs in the office. Have a great day ahead Arthur, I’ll see you at lunch.”

“Thank you, Lauretta. I appreciate it.” Arthur returned.

“Laura’s fine.”

“Laura then.” Answered Arthur with a smile.

The remainder of the day seemed to fly. Arthur diligently shadowed Freddie with a myriad of tasks. He was given a new pen, note book and clip board where he scribbled a range of instructions as he was toured around the theatre. After morning coffee break, Fay rushed to find him before he left the break room with a new walkie-talkie and a microphone head set in hand.

“Here you go honey, you’re on channel eighteen with stage hands. Push this button to call all crew and flick this switch to mute your mic. Try keep radio noise to a minimum during rehearsals. Actors lose their shit when they’re in the zone.” She punctuated the last word by gesturing inverted commas into the air, earning a laugh from Arthur who stifled himself by coughing. He wasn’t about to risk an attack in front of everyone in on his first day. He’d control this. He had to. Instead he thanked her and clipped the walkie-talkie to his belt whilst Fay rushed off taking an apple from the fruit bowl on the counter on her way out.

The evening came too soon. Arthur’s head was swimming with instructions. He’d managed to make notes of his latest directions and did a great deal of shifting, pushing and carrying of stage equipment on Freddie’s direction. The two men seemed to get on well and Freddie showed a sincere interest in asking a great deal many questions about Arthur’s personal interests that he took great pleasure in answering. Arthur was relieved come the end of the day. He’d found a friend in Freddie and Fay and looked forward to telling his mother all about it.

Come six o’clock, Lauretta found her way to the break room where she shook hands with the staff preparing to leave for the day, wishing them all the best and thanking them for their hard work. The same courtesy was applied to Arthur whom she lingered near a moment, whilst he made to take his satchel from his locker.

“Thank you, Arthur, for all your hard work today. I know there’s an awful lot to take in so quickly but your crew mates have nothing but praise for you. I’m thankful to have you in our team.”

“I’m grateful to be given the chance, honestly. It’s been a pleasure today. Are my papers okay?” Arthur replied with a questioning smile.

“Yes, they’re well in order. You can expect to pick up your first pay-cheque from my office next week. Now, go home and get some rest. Let’s see you back on deck bright and early tomorrow. Fay will have arranged some new crew shirts for you by the time you arrive.”

This was his chance. Arthur stepped forward,

“Laura, before I go, could you hold this for me?” He produced from his pocket an oversized match box and handed it to the director. She took it slowly with some trepidation.

“Arthur, this is not one of those prank boxes where if I open it I’ll be hit in the face with something, will I?”

“Haha! No, nothing like that, open it, go on.” Arthur urged, his eyes shining intently.

“Uh, okay.” Deft slender fingers gently pushed the large matchbox open to reveal within its depths a tiny pink rose bud.

“Oh how pretty!” She exclaimed lifting the flower gently and holding it to the light. Arthur furrowed his brows and clicked his tongue in exaggerated annoyance.

“Tsk, that’s not right at all. These boxes can be so unpredictable. Are you sure there’s nothing else in there?”

Perplexed, Lauretta opened out the match box fully affirming to Arthur that it was indeed empty

“May I?” He asked gently, taking the little rose bud from the lady’s fingers and shutting it back into the confines of the match box.

“Now, maybe if you blow on it, like a birthday candle?” Enchanted, Lauretta played along taking the box back into her waiting hands and blowing against it gently.

“Now try.” Arthur prompted. Nodding, the theatre director slid the match box open for a second time gasping with childlike surprise when within, where the tiny rose bud once lay was her light blue handkerchief folded into a neat little square.  With a gasp she lifted the cloth free of the matchbox looking up with stunned joy. The little rose bud was nowhere to be seen.

“Arthur! That’s remarkable! What a charming trick!” She gasped exuberantly.

“I’m glad you like it.” He breathed, deeply relieved and gently taking the box from her hand.

“Really Arthur, give yourself a little time to settle into your new role, then we’re going to have to talk about organizing some sort of show time on the side for you. How does that sound?”

“Oh! Wonderful, truly! Thank you!” Arthur exclaimed brightly.  

He left work that day and took the bus home in high spirits. He may have had little to offer, but his determination to succeed was great. He was tired now. Tired from a day’s solid physical and mental labor. He hoped to shower and maybe eat something. Perhaps it wouldn’t be so hard to sleep tonight. He began to plan his next visit to Pogo’s that weekend on the bus ride home. He still wasn’t able to get a seat. But it didn’t matter so much now. He’d have a lot to tell his mother when he got home.

He’d made Lauretta smile.

Fracture 1 | Fracture 2 | Fracture 3

Wayne Tsay on Instagram

Hey man, nice Shot

Oh god yes, hello. You're wonderful! If this is appropriate for a prompt request: There's a violent world of unseen fae all around us, and in the center of it is John Wick. There was no reason for him to fly away from there, until he found one.

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Be seeing you on the other side, Mr. Wick. ❣️