Chapter Text
I notice the blinking of the distant lights that measure my return.
They are the same ones that lighted, with their pale reflections, hours of profound sadness.
And, although, I didn’t want to return one always goes back to ones first love.
The ancient street where the echo said: “His life is yours” “His love is ours”
under the mocking gaze of the stars, which look on me with indifference.
Today, they see me returning.
To return with a withered brow, the snows of time silvered my temples.
To feel that it’s a life’s puff of breath, that twenty years are nothing.
That feverish look wandering in the shadows seeks you and names you to live, with the soul bound to a sweet memory which I lament again.
I’m afraid of the meeting with the past that has returned to confront my life.
I fear the nights which peopled by memories enchain my sleep.
But the traveller who flees, sooner or later, ceases his wandering.
And although the forgetfulness that destroys everything has killed my old illusions, I keep hidden a small hope… that is the only treasure in my heart.
—Estrella Morente, “Volver”
Prologue: The Hechicera
He had done nothing, all day, save to sit on his bed and wait to see if he was needed.
He hadn’t been.
It was funny, really. Thomas had never considered the awful implications of being useless when he’d been a young haughty footman. It had all seemed so natural to him, that he would always be needed. He’d had such a sense of self importance. He’d believed himself to be immortal in a sense, above and beyond all the other worthless insects he was forced to work amongst. But as time had wore on, and Thomas had grown older, he’d realized that he wasn’t immortal.
That one day, he was going to die, and what would his life be worth then?
But it had been too late, in so many ways. People wouldn’t forgive him for his younger years. They refused to give him a second chance. For as kind and gentle as Downton Abbey could be to the criminal, it refused to hold any sort of empathy for the dreamer.
Thomas had tried to tell himself at the start that it didn’t matter if he was loved. That he didn’t need to be adored by the masses like Bates or revered as a saint like Anna. All he needed was the affection of those closest to him, like Jimmy whom he’d so adored.
But then Jimmy had been taken away from him, and Thomas was alone again.
The worst, truly, were the amount of regrets he’d formed. So many things that he wanted to take back and do better. So many things he’d left unsaid to the people he loved. At the time he’d thought they were better left in the quiet, but now Thomas knew better. Time was fleeting, nothing was sure, and he would never ever be able to regain the past.
He’d ruined his life… and he knew it.
He could hear through his door the faint pattering of feet. There was laughter, and a warm light inking in from the slit where the sill met wood. Life was going on just outside his cold bedroom. People were laughing, eating, playing, enjoying their lives. It seemed impossible to him. It was like watching some surreal nickelodeon and being told that he was the one on the other side of the silver screen. That he was the one in the queer.
Thomas looked down at his hands, weathered and marred from war and a life of servitude. He could remember when his hands had been as smooth and white as fresh milk. His hair was beginning to silver, the undersides of his eyes were bruised with lack of sleep. He was like a Russian doll, slowly crumpling in on itself. All the steel, all the energy was gone.
Utterly gone.
A soft knock upon his door jolted Thomas out of his reverie. His first thought, as comical and delusional as it might be, was that someone might finally have a job for him. Hopeful, Thomas rose up from bed, but realized halfway across the room that if anything it was probably Carson finally telling him to get out. That officially had no where else to turn to, and was being thrown out on his arse tonight.
Thomas opened the door, wary, but only found Andy on the other side. He could not help but feel spitefully jealous of the boy, with his youth and promise. Andy was going to marry Daisy one day, Thomas was certain of it. He had a whole future ahead of him, and a group of people who loved him. Thomas wondered, did he even know how lucky he was? Did he know that not everyone was as indulged as he?
Did he even care?
“Mr. Barrow,” Andy was out of uniform and in a day suit. Why? “There’s a fair tonight in Thirsk. We’re going as a group, and I was wondering if you might come?”
A fair? Thomas hadn’t thought about it, but it was almost July so it made sense that the fair was back in town. It would be here for long… but even with regrets piling up Thomas still didn’t want to go out. He didn’t have money to spend on festivities, and he was afraid if he left the abbey he might not be able to get back inside. What if Carson locked him out?
“No,” Thomas whispered. He made to close the door on Andy, but Andy held out a hand so that Thomas couldn’t latch without catching the boy’s fingers.
“You ought to come.” Andy urged, “You’ve been in a way for a while now. It’ll cheer you up.”
“No, it won’t.” Thomas said. A fair wouldn’t help him reclaim his life or find peace. A fair was nothing more than a feeble, cheap distraction from the painful reality in which he lived. It would only make it worse, if Thomas were to go.
Andy made a distressed noise, finally coming clean. Thomas had had a feeling Andy didn’t really care if he went to the fair or not. Something else was at stake to make Andy want him to go.
“Mr. Barrow, I shouldn’t bother you about this, but Carson says we can’t go unless another adult goes. I was hoping it might be you. I dunno about you, but if he were to go instead I wouldn’t really enjoy myself.”
But this was just stupid. Carson would sooner chew broken glass than go to a fair. Andy had nothing to worry about. If anyone was going to go, it would be somebody like Mrs. Patmore, who was already wary of Andy spending too much time with Daisy.
But if Mrs. Patmore were to go, Andy wouldn’t be able to enjoy his time with Daisy either. In fact, she might even be worse than Mr. Carson, given how protective she was over Daisy.
Thomas sighed, looking over his shoulder at his jacket, which had so far stayed untouched on the back of his desk chair. He’d not put on a livery today either, but there was no point anymore. He didn’t have a job, and he didn’t have a reason to look smart.
But if he was to go to the fair, or even just for a walk, he’d need to put his jacket on.
Thomas let out an exhausted sigh, which made no sense technically since he’d done nothing today but sit in his room and wait for the end. He hadn’t even eaten. Thomas fetched his jacket and shrugged it on, not even caring to do up the buttons or re-smooth his hair. There was no point anymore. There was no point to anything.
“Will you go?” Andy asked, hopeful.
“Yes.” Thomas cut him off, his tone dull and flat.
“Thank you! Thank you so much, Mr. Barrow.” Andy was gleeful.
Thomas didn’t care.
He shut his bedroom door behind him, and followed Andy downstairs. It turned out that the party going to the fair was painfully small. No wonder Carson had wanted an adult to go along. It was just Andy, Daisy, and Peter the lone hall boy. Daisy was looking smart in a purple frock, and was fixing a cloche upon her head in the hallway to the kitchen. She did not look at Thomas, nor acknowledge him in any way as she took Andy’s arm and headed for the main servant’s passageway. Mrs. Patmore was too busy cooking; she didn’t care about him anyways. In the servant’s hall, the Bates were tucked into a corner by the fire, delighted with Anna’s pregnancy. Baxter was sewing something for her ladyship, and Moseley was working on his times tables for his upcoming school lessons. Carson was at the table as well, reading the paper with a cup of tea. He was smug, relaxed, a king on his unchallenged throne.
Anna glanced up, noticing his daywear. The only reason why she paid attention to him anymore was out of a source of pity. Thomas hated it; it made his skin crawl.
“Are you going to the fair, Mr. Barrow?” She asked, curious.
“Yes.” Thomas did up the buttons on the front of his jacket.
“You’d think you could find a better use for your time.” Carson sneered. Thomas’ blood went cold at his words, “If you think my patience will last forever, you are wrong.”
“Maybe you could look for a job while you’re out.” Bates joked. His tone was dark, and ugly.
“Just shove myself in a coconut shie, shall I?” All things considered, it might be a better prospective than what he had going right now.
“I doubt you’ve even got the brass.” Bates rolled his eyes, turning back to Anna.
Baxter didn’t look up to acknowledge him in the door. She was too focused on her work.
He left the abbey at the back of the group, with Daisy and Andrew leading the fray. They took the wagonette to Thirsk, with Daisy and Andrew talking the whole time about Mr. Mason’s farm repairs while Thomas and the hall boy said nothing. Peter was far from a social pariah though; where Thomas was ignored Peter was merely shy. Daisy offered him a peppermint from her purse, and he accepted it with warm thanks before falling back into silence again. Thomas, on the other hand, was offered nothing save for a cold shoulder.
The fair was strung up with colored lights and bits of painted paper in long lines. As the wagonette was parked by the side amid twenty other carriages, Andy and Daisy made a bee line for the ticket booth with Peter in tow. It resulted in Thomas being left alone, but that was just as well. Thomas was lost in a sea of fair goers, most of them in pairs or groups. He was like a bland dot in the wave of color. People were dressed up smart with flowers in their pockets and purses ready to be spent. Thomas had brought nothing, was intending to do nothing, and therefor slunk around the outer edge of the fair so as to avoid paying for an overpriced entry ticket.
There were freak shows, acrobats, and jugglers. There was a zebra on display, attracting quite a lot of attention. There were slides with long lines, and even a steam powered carousel that seemed to have been put together on pegs and slats. Thomas heard a familiar voice, and looked up high overhead to see Andy and Daisy already in a bucket seat. They were nuzzling noses, and seemed to be on the verge of kissing. Peter was no where in sight. He was probably drinking ale at a booth, despite his young age.
Burned at the lack of love and warmth in his life, Thomas found himself growing bleak and numb again, as had happened so often in the past week. He momentarily found himself contemplating simply not returning to the abbey. Maybe he should lay down in a field somewhere nearby and not wakeup.
Make up he should line his pockets with stones. There was a river nearby, even if it was shallow.
Thomas sat down on the edge of the fair, utterly exhausted. The grass was damp beneath his backside; maybe it had rained last night. Thomas hadn’t slept, so he’d been awake to watch dark turn into the dawn. It hadn’t rained at Downton… but maybe it would tonight.
The sounds of the fairgoers, the rides, the clowns, it was all started mumble and mute in his head. Instead Thomas found himself looking at the trees that surrounding the grassy knoll. He wondered at how old all these trees were. How they’d lived for so many years and not been affected by time, or drought, or disease. How could he be like those trees?
He wondered if, when he died, he might be able to come back as a plant. Maybe something simple like a dandelion. He could blow in the wind, scatter and find new places to grow. Trees had a way of hiding things… of swallowing up tiny wooden cabins and homeless vagrants.
And one odd orange tent.
Thomas blinked, snapped out of his misery by the sight of a threadbare ridge tent that was tucked away on the side of the fair beyond the rim where paying customers would visit. There was a light, shining from within. It allowed the patchwork of the canvas to gleam in a swirl of crimson, umber, and orange. But why was a tent so far away from the main fair ground? Surely, whoever was in charge of it must realize that they weren’t going to get a lot of attention if they were hidden by the trees. Thomas might have been prone to think that this was merely just a tent for someone to live in instead of sell by… but there was sign hanging from the front flap. It read only one word in black painted text: “Hechicera”.
Thomas had no idea what that word meant, but he had a feeling that he was about to find out.
He no longer had the strength to be curious about things anymore, but what bare vestiges of his personality remained urged him to get closer and find out what this tent was about. He carefully thread his way down the backside of the knoll into the thicket of oak trees which surrounded the fair, and gently lifted the front flap of the orange ridge tent aside.
He was at once greeted by the image of a Spanish woman seated at a lone wooden table. Her tent was decorated with nothing, save for a threadbare rug underfoot, a wooden chest, and an oil burner which cast light over everything. There were only two chairs: one on either side of the lone table.
The woman looked tired and poor. Her skirts were threadbare and browning at the hem with dirt. Her long black hair was curled but hiding beneath a wrap that kept it out of her face. She was perhaps Thomas’ age, maybe a bit older, but looked like she’d suffered a lifetime of grief.
There were tarot cards spread out before her. She was mulling them over like one would a book or paper. Chin in hand, she turned one card over, then the next, only to scoop her deck up and reshuffle.
She paused when Thomas’ shadow graced her floor, looking up to see him standing before her.
“There you are.” She said.
“Pardon?” She sounded as if she’d been expecting him-
“I’ve been waiting for you.” She said.
She must have him confused with someone else. “How?” Thomas asked, “I only just decided to walk over here, and I barely came to this fair at all.”
“I saw you coming.” She explained, gesturing to the cards on her table.
But Thomas knew a trick when he saw one. After a lifetime of them, he wasn’t willing to play along anymore.
“I won’t be taken for a mug.” He said, turning to leave.
“Sit down before you fall down, Thomas.”
He stopped, one foot out the tent and one foot still inside.
Perhaps he’d misheard.
Thomas looked back around, stepping fully back inside the tent so that the flap ruffled down again. The woman did not so much as bat an eyelash, merely smiling and gesturing to her tarot spread.
“Fancy a game?” She asked.
“How do you know my name?” Thomas asked, wary of the stranger before him.
“I know quite a lot about you, Thomas.” She said, re-shuffling her tarot deck. “You could say we’ve met before.”
“If we have I don’t remember it.” Thomas sneered. He doubted that he’d forget meeting a Spanish vagrant in the middle of England.
“Of course you don’t.” She said as flippantly as you please, “You were asleep. Sit down.” He stared at the only unoccupied chair.
“You met me in my sleep?” Thomas repeated. It had been a long time since he’d heard something so damn ludicrous. Boy, was he getting his steps in tonight!
“A bit of you, yes. Sit down.” She said again.
Annoyed, but undeniably tired, Thomas finally decided to do as she said and sit down. He found the chair to be rickety, with one of the legs uneven so that as he sat, he rocked a bit.
“How did you meet me in my sleep, then?” Thomas asked, crossing his arms over his chest.
The woman did not give him a straight answer, instead spreading the tarot deck before her in a wide carved arch. Every card was on its front, leaving nothing but a smooth slate of painted black to the naked eye.
“I’m a woman of many capabilities.” She said. She pulled out a card from the far left of the stack, flipping it over to reveal a youth in a green tunic and yellow thigh high boots. He had a stick over his shoulder, a flower in his hand, and was laughing soundlessly to the sun above him while a white puppy yipped at his feet. Of course, the card was turned oddly upside down so that the fool was on his head. He was on the very edge of a cliff, looking ready to leap off (or rather fall into the sky). Even upside down, though, Thomas could read the thin line of white and black text at the top: “The Fool”.
“Is that supposed to be me?” Thomas grumbled.
“The hanging fool.” The woman said. “In the past, you’ve taken a great deal many risks, and none of them brought you success. Everything that you tried failed. Everything new you put forth crumpled into ruin. It’s brought you to a moment of hellish truth…”
She paused, pulling out the next card. It was right side up this time, bearing the text “The Tower”. It bore a mighty tower being struck by a thick bolt of lightning, As a result, two men were falling to their deaths from the side, with the tower windows being licked in flames and the entire top half crumbling off. Thomas’ heart was starting to beat faster as a response.
“The Lightning Struck Tower. Danger, crisis, sudden change and utter destruction. There is no where left to run. There are no more friends to call upon. You have reached the ultimate end… and you must now face the future head onward if you are to survive it.”
But how was he to do that, when the house hated him and he’d ruined his life? How on earth was any of this possible for him? The way forward was just as foggy as the way the woman knew any of these things at all.
“How do I do that?”
Thomas hated how small he sounded. How frail and weak.
He felt like he was speaking to the embodiment of his sorrows in that moment. As if, by looking at this strange and haggard woman he was looking at himself and all the pains he’d ever caused. Like his shame could be worn as a brand, draped over his face till it hung in thick obvious lines.
She flipped over one last card, pushing it slowly across the grained wood till it sat before Thomas in the forefront position for his approval.
It was of a maiden in white, crowned with a glowing ring of holly, and holding dominance over the open mouth of an angry lion. With her creamy hands, fingers tight on the fangs, she kept the beast at bay. She was unafraid, as was befitting to her title at the base of the card: “Strength”.
“You must have strength. Not just strength to weather the storm, but strength to sooth the savage beast inside of you. You must go back to the beginning, and right the upended fool. You must have patience with yourself, compassion with others, and understanding that the world cannot be ideal.”
But Thomas couldn’t fathom such a thing possible.
“I have no strength.” He whispered. He felt raw and wounded, filleted wide open, to know what the solution was and yet to be aware that it was beyond his reach.
“I know.” The woman said, which surprised Thomas. Here he was thinking the beggar might tell him to ‘buck up’. “It’s why I knew you were coming. Your heart reached out, and I heard it. You need a bit of help, and why not? It’s not a shameful thing… to need. To want.”
Wasn’t it? Thomas’ experience had proven somewhat different. He’d never been given help when asked, save by those who acted out of the hierarchy of pity. Mr. Carson liked to think that Thomas had flat out shut help down, but that wasn’t the truth. The fact of the matter was that Thomas had never been able to ask for help from Mr. Carson because he’d already known what the answer would be: a sneer, and a ‘no’. As for wants and need? Thomas had never been able to hold either in the open. His wants were sin incarnate. His needs were just the same. In his life, he’d only had a few escapades. His longest had been Philip Prevet, the Duke of Crowborrow. Every time they’d lain together, Thomas had known intimately that they were but one wall away from hell. Hell was claimed to be a hot and violent place, but Thomas knew better. Hell was England: cold and unfeeling. Hell was the damning request to want nothing, to need only air… and to still be denied for both.
The woman rose from her chair, walking around the stubby table to open her one wooden chest.
She rifled around inside, pulled out a small wooden slot box, then returned to the chair so that she could sit down again. The cover was a simple wooden hinge, to be pushed open instead of on a hinge. When the slat was removed, Thomas saw there were only two items inside: a golden shaving razor, and a vial filled with black liquid. The woman removed them both, and sat them before Thomas so that he could see them.
The razor was a peculiar thing. Thomas couldn’t tell if it was real gold or not, but it was likewise carved with what were surely arabic symbols. Thomas opened the razor, only to see that the blade was likewise covered in symbols and (bizarrely) black. Was it made of stone? Perhaps obsidian? And what was in the bottle? It look like ink.
“Tomorrow,” The woman began, and Thomas glanced back up to catch her eyes. They were as black as the liquid in the bottle, “You’re going to slit your wrists in the men’s attic bathroom.”
Thomas paled, all the blood fleeing from his skin so that he suddenly was horrifically clammy. How could she know such a thing? How could she know any of these things? Her wisdom seemed almost irreversible, and now with the a razor before him Thomas suddenly realized that he was, indeed, standing on the precipice of the lightning struck tower. And that he, like the men painted on the card, was going to topple out a fiery window only to crack his head on the rocks below.
Thomas observed the razor with fear in his heart.
“This is the future.” The woman said.” And you cannot change it, Thomas Barrow. You can, however, reverse the past.”
“…How?” Thomas’ voice cracked. “How do I reverse any of this?”
“Tomorrow, when you slit your wrists, pour this into the water first.” The woman said, reaching out to tap a long almond shaped fingernail upon the stopper of the black vial, “It’s an infusion of sacred oils from the middle east, with mud taken from the broken tomb of Christ and salts from the dead seas. It will open a channel for you, but it will not be complete without the last ingredient…” She then took up the black razor, showing him how it folded upon its hinge.
“This razor was owned by a long dead Muslim lord. It is cursed.” She offered it to him, but Thomas shrunk back.
He did not like being in the company of cursed things. His life was already shit enough.
“Courage, Thomas.” The woman advised him. She offered him the razor again, and this time (though hesitantly) he took it.
“Tomorrow, instead of using your own razor… you’re going to use this one.”
“Why?” Thomas asked, “What will it do?”
“The last ingredient needed to reverse your wrongs is your own blood, spilt in self sacrifice.” The woman explained. Thomas pursed his lips, his thumbs running over the grooves of the sigils.
“Take the tincture, mix it with your blood, and you will be given the chance of a lifetime. The chance to redeem yourself, to turn back the clock, and fix your life.” She said. “You must be willing to face great pain.”
Thomas had certainly done the same before. He’d lifted his hand up during the war to escape pure hell, and had experienced a literal beat down to aid Jimmy in his escape from local thugs. He wondered if he could do it one last time, all for the prayer of having a better life.
But how on earth would this help him? Wouldn’t this just kill him instead?
Then again… maybe that was the point.
“What if… what if you’re just taking me for a mug.” Thomas mumbled. “What if this is just gonna kill me instead-“
She seemed to have been expecting him to say such a thing. The woman reached out across her arch of black cards, and gently took his hand in her own. Her weather beaten fingers were careful as they slid across his knuckles.
Thomas had not been touched with such compassion for years. It utterly shocked him, to the point where he simply did not know what to say or do but to watch as the woman gave him a small smile.
“You have the opportunity to fix everything, Thomas Barrow.” She murmured. She spoke with such authority that it was hard to dismiss her for a cheap trick. “And now, you have the courage to do it too.” With her free hand, she pushed forward the final tarot card, that of strength and the woman tackling the lion. He picked it up, observing the paling paint and the way the card was lightly faded around the edges.
“Don’t be afraid to die.” She murmured, “Because that’s the only way you’re going to live. A calamity for a calamity.”
Thomas returned home to the abbey feeling terribly unsure about what to do next. He felt like a man walking away from a religious experience, too dumb to truly grasp the meaning of it all. He rode on the back end of the wagonette with the wooden box in his jacket pocket and the tarot card for strength in his hand. He kept looking down at it as they drove through the night, wondering at what he should do next.
The woman had known his name, and a great deal more. She’d known about his past, and his present, and had offered him a ticket into the future. But the way forward seemed so terrifying that Thomas could not imagine himself going through with it. Part of him, feeble and small, desperately wanted to believe that the woman was telling him the truth. That the black liquid was magical, that the razor was cursed. But what if it was just ink and the razor was nothing more than cheep steel painted with fake gold paint?
As they returned back to the Abbey, Thomas found it mostly dark and quiet. Only Mrs. Patmore was still up, and she didn’t speak to Thomas when he passed to the stairwell.
“Did you enjoy your time at the fair-?” He heard her ask Daisy.
“Oh yes, Andy took me on the Ferris wheel!”
“A what wheel?”
Thomas continued upstairs, feeling oddly like his feet were on a racetrack and he’d couldn’t stop. As he passed the doors on the men’s hall, he could not help but stop where Jimmy’s room had once been. Now, it was quiet and dark, with a layer of dust coating all the furniture. Thomas felt like he was an embodiment of that room. Like the dust had been layered over his lungs and heart.
Like he were already dead.
Andy reached the top just as Thomas made it to his door. He was smiling, blushing furiously, and looked as if he’d gotten a peck on the check from Daisy before hitting the stairs. He didn’t even look twice at Thomas as he headed into his room. Thomas was left alone, in the hallway, without even so much as a ‘goodnight’.
He didn’t know if he’d have accepted one either way.
That night he didn’t sleep. He didn’t even take off his clothes.
Thomas sat upon his rickety bed, staring at the tarot card for Strength. Next to him, leaning against his thigh, was the wooden plate box the woman had given him. He tried to scratch off the gold on the razor handle, only to find that it wouldn’t budge. Despite how unhygienic it might be, Thomas even touched the handle with the tip of his tongue but felt no tang. What was more, the metal felt heavy in his hands.
It was undeniably real gold. But what was a Spanish peddler, with barley two pennies to her name, doing with a real gold razor? Why hadn’t she sold it to get some decent shoes or a warm coat for the winter?
And what if it was really cursed?
She’d urged him not to be afraid to die. She’d told him it was the only way to live.
But what if she was wrong? What if it was just a razor (gold or not) and a vial full of ink?
It doesn’t matter, a tiny voice whispered in the back of his head, Because you still want to die.
And he did. That was the sick part of it.
As the sun slowly rose in the East, Thomas found himself deciding with awful clarity what he must do next. It wasn’t so much that he wanted to die, more than he simply did not want to live. There was no point to living, no true objective or goal anymore. He had absolutely nothing, and he knew in that moment that he would not be gaining anything in the future. It was an ugly, awful feeling. Like he’d gotten to the end of a long book only to realize that the ending was absolutely awful.
It left a terrible taste in his mouth, and there was nothing to be done but… end it.
Or something like it.
As morning rose, and Thomas did not go downstairs for breakfast, no one made to come check on him. It was just as well, because he really didn’t have anything to say.
And what was more, Thomas was too numb to speak.
He rose up, and took the wooden box with him.
As Thomas walked down the hallway to the men’s lavatory, he considered what exactly he was about to do.
He kept going through the plans in his head, wondering if it was even lucid to pour an inky black substance into a tub and expect a ‘portal’ to open up. It would be just Thomas’ luck that the bottle would only contain a type of ink that might stain the tub, and where would he be then?
You’ll be dead, a voice urged him, So it won’t matter will it.
He looked down at the box as he walked, pushing open its wooden hinge again to reveal the blade and tonic within. He wondered, as he walked, if it would hurt to cut his wrists. If it would take a while for him to die, or for the portal to work—
Listen to yourself. The voice whispered, What are you even saying?
Magic and fairytales didn’t exist, and even if they did they certainly wouldn’t work for Thomas. Fairytales were for Anna and Bates, who’d overcome so much only to be together and happy in the end. Magic was for Moseley, Daisy, and Andrew, all of whom had gone through trials of their own only to find gold at the end of a proverbial rainbow. Thomas had done nothing in the form of deserving a fairytale. He’d exiled himself from the house in which he lived, had squandered away his money and his opportunities, and had never truly tried (honestly) for something better in his life. Maybe, at one point in time, he’d thought about going into business… but it had all fallen through. Black markets and fake flour. What in the hell had he been thinking?
But he hadn’t been thinking at all, had he. He’d just been going with his gut.
His deeply misguided, idiotic gut.
“Are you alright, Mr. Barrow-?”
But Anna didn’t care what he said. So Thomas just spouted some garbled to make her go away: “Yes, why wouldn’t I be”.
And off she went again, with no one the wiser that Thomas was effectively carrying a box from a Spanish enchantress intent on opening up a portal to save his life.
Baxter went with her, and Thomas found his eyes lingering upon her, remembering how she’d been in youth. His memories were powerful, despite being old and fading around the edges. She’d had olive tinted skin and sweet dark eyes. Now she seemed just as faded as the tarot card in his cards.
The closer that Thomas got to the bathroom, the more numb he seemed to feel. It was like he was detached from reality as he knew it when he opened the bathroom door. Andy walked by, clearly about to head down to serve tea, but did not say anything to Thomas as he passed. If he noticed that Thomas was still wearing the same clothes as the night before, he said nothing.
Thomas shut the door to the bathroom, and found himself entombed in a wall of red marble tile. It was difficult to care about things, like locking the door or taking off his shoes, but Thomas was prone to do both simply for the sake that he didn’t feel like explaining why he was taking a bath in black water fully clothed.
He didn’t know what to do next. On the precipice of great change, he felt confused like a child. Did he simply run a bath like normal? Did he turn off the lights, or shed all his clothes?
Thomas sat on the rim of the tub, not even bothering to roll up his shirtsleeves before plugging the drain and starting the bath. He ran it with hot water, feebly enjoying the slight waft of steam which began to issue up. Taking a moment to simply prepare himself mentally for what must come next.
He opened the wooden box once more, taking it out from his trouser pocket to observe the golden razor and the black vial.
“The last ingredient needed to reverse your wrong doings is your own blood… spilt in self sacrifice. Take this tincture, mix it with your blood… and you will be given the chance of a lifetime. The chance to redeem yourself… and fix your fate. You have the opportunity to fix everything Thomas Barrow. And now… you have the courage to do it. Don’t be afraid to die. Because it’s the only way you’re going to live. A calamity for a calamity.”
Courage. She’d told him to have courage and had even given him a card for reference. Beholding the tattered image, Thomas ran the tips of his fingers over the lion’s teeth, held back by the maiden’s creamy hands. Was it really that easy? Just… plunge himself into murky water and slit his wrists? Grab the teeth of the lion and not let go?
Thomas put the card back into his pocket again, pulling out the black vial from its wooden shelter so that he might at last hold it up to the light. The vial was oddly smaller when he held it in his hand, and Thomas uncapped it to sniff at it.
It smell strange, like nothing he’d ever known before. A mixture of spices, all of which sparked internal images of the Middle East. Unsure of what else to do, Thomas tipped the bottle over and watched fascinated as the liquid hit the water.
Despite being a relatively small vial, the liquid immediately expanded and dyed the entire tub black. But it did not stop there, with a sudden powerful scent of spice and musk filling the air. Thomas shut off the tap, amazed as the liquid began to coagulate. It thickened, turning the water into a substance thicker than jelly.
Thomas gaped, reaching a hand out to touch the water. His hand sank through, only to pull back covered in black mud. He ran his fingertips together, but there was no grit to be felt. He’d never felt a substance like it before.
His heart began to pound faster in his chest again.
Could it be that this was real? That this was even possible?
Suddenly sparked with a sense of urgency, Thomas rapidly began to shed his clothes. He got all the way down to his pants and undershirt before stopping, still swearing his socks and garters as he timidly slipped into tub.
He gasped, shocked at the sudden sensation of slipping beneath the thickened surface. His body slowly sank to the bottom, with the black sludge creeping over his limbs till everything was hidden beneath the water.
“Jesus.” Thomas whispered, suddenly terribly frightened and excited all at once.
He reached over the edge of the tub, his blackened hands staining the rim of the porcelain as he fetched his trousers so that he could pull the razor and card out of his pockets. For a moment he simply sat with both, letting the mud play over the gold and the fibers of the worn card. The sludge was like ink, staining the card so that suddenly the picture began to vanish beneath a wave of black. It was like night swallowing the sun whole.
And quite suddenly, the whole vision of a maiden holding a lion down was gone, disappeared beneath the dye.
The card crumbled, the sludge like water destroying the texture of the fibers so that it began to thread and vanish into the mud.
Thomas’ heart pounded in his throat. He did not know why, but the card being destroyed frightened him.
He suddenly realized the very real implications of messing with magic he did not understand… for there wasn’t a doubt in his mind now that it was magic. That the woman in the tent had given him a truly dangerous razor and ink to change his fate.
She’d called for courage. Did Thomas have what it took to finish off the job?
Now it was all down to the golden razor in his hands, with its long black blade.
Thomas opened the razor on its hinge, observing how the sigils were tainted by the mud so that they began to stand out even more.
It was all down to this razor.
To the last element that had to be added. His own blood, willingly given in self sacrifice.
In that moment, Thomas thought of all the faces and souls he’d seen over his lifetime. Of all the things he’d done improperly or simply not done at all. All the friendships he could have formed, and all the things he could have done better.
The pride he’d never been able to put aside.
The anger and the fear that had dominated every move he’d ever made.
It was with that same anger that Thomas took up the blade, willing to recognize that he’d officially reached the very last wire. That there was no more ego to be had, no more prize to be won. The only consolation he could be given now, the only hope he could feasibly aim for, was to take his future back.
The woman, the Spanish enchantress, had told him this was the only way to do it…. the only way to survive the Lightning Struck Tower.
That was what it boiled down to in the end. Survive the fall to the rocks.
Thomas laid the razor against the bared flesh of his blackened wrists, dripping in sludge, and pulled hard.
He gasped at the sudden seizing pain of his hand being sliced, the burning sensation causing him to nearly weep aloud for the awful sensation. He’d not felt such pain since he’d taken a bullet in France. As it stood, his wounded palm was now utterly covered in mud, so that the bullet wound was hidden beneath sludge.
He took the razor in his wounded hand, and laid it against his other untainted wrist.
He took a shuddering breath: “Courage” He mumbled, a quiver of fear in his voice. Blood, seeping from his one wound, was pooling atop the jellied surface of the water.
“Courage.” He told himself again.
The blood was beginning to sink beneath the mud, slowly mixing till red turned fully into black.
Thomas took one, deep breath, and pulled the cursed razor savagely across his remaining wrist.
He cried out, unable to hold it in as the awful pain gripped him. Blood was now pouring from both his wrists, mixing heavily with the black sludge.
Thomas heart pounded wildly. He watched as the razor, dropped atop the surface of the mud, slipped beneath and was pulled down by its weight.
He gasped, shuddering in a sudden, awful cold sensation. He felt the razor lay near his groin, and rested his head against the rim of the porcelain tub.
He tried to focus on the sensation of his heart beating, trying to count the rhythm as his wrists continued to burn horribly.
“A calamity for a calamity.” she’d urged him.
And suddenly Thomas was sinking under, the black sludge creeping up his collar bone and onto his neck as he slid deeper and deeper into the tub.
But hadn’t he been resting against the bottom?
Thomas tried to feel with his wounded hands and feet for the bottom of the tub, but suddenly could not touch it. Confused, thinking himself floating in the mud, Thomas tried to sit up only to find that he was too weak to do so.
He’d lost too much blood. His heart was losing strength, his pulse quieting in his breast.
And it only got worse.
Thomas was only sinking deeper and deeper into the tub, with no sign of the bottom beneath him. The black was up to his chin now, and growing higher. When it reached his lips, Thomas gasped for breath—!
He was sucked under, his whole body now in the black.
He could feel his heart stopping, his whole body turning icy cold despite the warm mud in which he’d been laying only seconds before.
There was no up or down, no sense of direction or texture.
There was only the suffocating blackness.
The feeling of weighted cold keeping him still.
Thomas could do nothing but pray in that moment, for there were no atheists in fox holes. He thought of his life, of his youth, of his mother and the bed in which he’d grown up. Of Jimmy’s beautiful smile, and the way that Philip had held him so close when no one else had been looking.
He prayed to God. To the Spanish woman who’d given him this cursed spell. It was not an elegant prayer or even a finished one. Instead, he only managed one word over and over again in his mind:
“Please”