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Exhaustion crashes into Maxwell harder than he’s ever felt. He’s been running on adrenaline and high stakes since Mount Charuk, or perhaps, if he’s being quite honest, since Bellenuit. Only now that the battle against Straka and the Corrodi has been won and Ludmila has been saved does the weight of it all drop Maxwell to the mat. His limbs are heavy, uncoordinated and uncooperative, all his athletic prowess sapped now that he’s hit the wall. His mind, too, is encumbered, tumbling out of the zone and now thoroughly zoned out.
This is the part Maxwell hates. His body is demanding rest and recovery, and there is no scholastically verified way he has ever discovered to bypass this necessity.
He usually only experiences the physical and cognitive symptoms of a crash, but as Maxwell slumps against the docked Mark II he knows he’s pushed himself into something worse. His mood is plummeting. The knowledge that this malaise has a bodily origin does nothing to help Maxwell overcome it. It’s supremely unfair.
Nevertheless, it’s his reality.
It’s Maxwell’s reality, too, that so much of the blood he’s had to wash off his skin had been his family’s. Yet the taint of their deeds is still caked under his nails. He cannot ignore the worst parts of the Gotch family legacy: corruption, violence, and putting their surname on advancements they had no hand in. His grandfather was the shining exception to that, or so he thought. But if the voice that encouraged him to kill his father was truly his grandfather, Maxwell can’t be sure. No matter how badly he wants to be. Perhaps none with Gotch family blood can escape the desire to shed it.
The burden of legacy, indeed.
Maxwell’s tired mind wonders, as it has been, where Torse might be. He could theoretically go searching for him. If his legs worked. Or even his arms. Were Maxwell not cemented to this spot he would go find his friend. Unfortunately, his body has decided to become an inanimate object without his permission. Awful.
“Maxwell?” Oh, That’s Torse’s voice! And those are Torse’s legs, walking into view. “Are you alright?”
“Yes, hello. I’m just experiencing a tad bit of a crash at the moment, Torse,” Maxwell reassures from the spot he has been unable to move from for multiple hours now. “No need to worry about me. I’ll be back in peak form in no time.”
Torse tilts his head, giving a rumbling hum. Maxwell, in his exhaustion, feels near tears from the comfort of that newly familiar sound. Hearing it has started to give him the same sensation as cradling his grandfather’s mug in his hands or listening to Wealwell ramble on about Goldbeard’s gold. It’s impossible to fathom how he lived for years without knowing the sound. He does not want to fathom how he might have to carry on only hearing it in his memories.
Would it be improper to tip over and rest his head against Torse’s leg for a nap? In all likelihood. But maybe his friend wouldn’t mind. Torse never finds fault in Maxwell when he should.
Apropos of nothing, Torse says, “It is an honor to fight alongside you, your strength is unparalleled.”
Maxwell looks up to squint at him suspiciously, even as his cheeks warm. “And you as well, my friend.”
“In our time together I have never seen you so exhausted.”
“Hey—”
“Your typically impeccable grooming is in disarray and Olethra has informed me that you have been in this exact position for far too long, waving away the concerns of your crew mates,” Torse continues, then barrels into the last part of the sandwich before Maxwell can interject. “You are my best friend.”
Maybe it’s the extreme exhaustion, maybe it’s all the emotion he’s already choking on, but those words drive through him and splinter. This is a hurt that will never leave. He’s never digging this man out of his skin.
“That was quite a good sandwich, plenty of bread.” The tears are hard to fight, but Maxwell manages. Even if he has to blink far too many times in a row. He rubs his nose, drags a hand down his mouth, and chokes out, “You, too. You’re my best friend, Torse. You’re fantastic.”
They’ve known each other for days, multiple of which Torse spent disanimated. It’s the truth all the same.
“Then I hope you will not send me away if I express my concern.”
No, he can’t send him away. Not Torse. “I won’t, I won’t. Promise.”
“Hm,” Torse pauses. Clears his throat, one of his many physically unnecessary mannerisms Maxwell will never admit, even under pain of death, he finds endearing. Torse loves a theatrical gasp— a performance— as much as Wealwell, and Maxwell will never, ever make him aware of that. “It pains me to admit, but I had presumed that convincing you to accept aid would be a battle of attrition. I sincerely apologize for underestimating you.”
A frayed laugh punches out of Maxwell’s throat. “I think you estimate me just fine.”
His best friend levers down to sit beside him, leaning close and taking up all of Maxwell’s vision. Facing Torse is quite a bit like staring at the sun, and not only because of the light reflecting off him. The glow of his eyes is the red-orange-gold of molten metal and even without a face capable of making expressions, Torse’s stare always feels intense on his skin. It warms Maxwell, drawing him towards its source.
“If you are unwell,” Torse says, resting a sun-heated iron hand on Maxwell’s knee. “I can only beg that you might confide in me. Please. I cannot help but worry, seeing you in this state.”
It’s hard to argue against him. Even if Maxwell did argue with his crew mates and his brothers and the overly friendly personnel of the Zumharan docking station.
The Wind Riders had all stopped by: Van leaving snacks and replenishing liquids courtesy of Bert, Olethra and Ludmila leaving a beaded bracelet in his pocket, Monty leaving a bit of guidance and a clap on his shoulder, Daisuke leaving a maxim from Ghost Dog, and Marya leaving her shawl thrown over Maxwell’s suit-less shoulders.
But they all still left without any answers from him.
Of course, everyone had something to be doing, somewhere to be going, and even Samwell had been ushered back to the medbay before he could break past Maxwell’s defenses. Wealwell, who had been doing the ushering, had taken a moment to tidy Maxwell’s hair and kiss the top of his head. He knows Maxwell’s lows better than anyone, how his anger can burn itself up until the hurt it protects is left bare amongst ashes, and he’d never force Maxwell to admit his vulnerability. That’s why Wealwell is the only one he’s ever trusted to know the extent of his lows.
Until, perhaps, today.
“It really is just exhaustion, Torse, I promise.” Maxwell reassures. Then hesitates, wrestling with the idea of saying more. Torse’s words decide the bout. “It is. Worse. Than I’ve had in a while, though. I can usually handle it fine on my own, but I must admit that all this adventuring has caught up with me.”
And tackled him to the dirt, too. Every part of his body hurts. He has absolutely no energy. His emotions are raw, welling up at the slightest prod. His father tricked Olethra so he could shoot her at her most vulnerable, lodged a bullet in Ludmila’s heart, nearly killed them all for the chance to gain Straka’s power, pitted his sons against each other their entire lives, and murdered Maxwell’s grandfather.
(Not to mention all the tumbles Maxwell had taken down the manor’s stairs before he learned to take the servants’ passages.)
Shards of Longspot Gotch’s skull had embedded themselves into Maxwell’s fist. Later, Monty tweezed them out with the same steady hand he used on wild animals as Maxwell went over his plan to stage the body. It was easier to find pleasure in his father’s death while the rush of adventure muted his pain.
Now the pain threatens to drown everything else out.
“...Maxwell?”
Torse’s face has gotten closer. His grip on Maxwell’s knee is firmer. But there’s a distance between Maxwell and the sensations. They’re happening, but not to him.
Somewhere else, a hand takes one of his own. There is temperature, texture, and pressure. A voice he knows he cares about asks, “Maxwell, do you know where you are?”
Fuck.
Samwell’s asked that question too often to count. Wealwell, even more so.
Does he know?
Maxwell squeezes the hand tight, attempting to anchor himself to the present through sheer force of will. He hasn’t retreated from reality once this entire adventure and he refuses to let the impulse overcome him now. Dig in deep, do not submit, stay here. Stay here.
He takes a deep breath. Holds it. Releases in a slow, steady stream.
Revington taught breathing as a fundamental pillar of athletics, and he quickly discovered the principles work similarly outside of combat.
He takes another breath.
The air filling his lungs is clean, crisp. He smells motor oil, the sharp tang of metal, Monty’s favored tea blend, Bert’s now-favored Zumharan spices, the lingering smoky incense that clings to Marya’s shawl.
Holds it.
Maxwell is resting his back against metal, not wood grain, and sitting on chilled pavement.
Exhales, steady and slow, his breath turning to fog.
There’s laughter in the distance. Chattering voices. A bird whistles its cyclical song. His muscles ache, but Marya’s shawl is around his shoulders and Torse’s hand is squeezing his own in the rhythm of a heartbeat, or clockwork.
One more repetition as Maxwell reclaims his body.
Torse comes into focus. Maxwell can see all the scuffs and scars in his iron again. The vibrant hues return to the rolling flame of his gaze. Warmth radiates from his iron heart. Maxwell traces the articulation of his fingers, feels the minute movements of his joints. He tethers himself by their hands and knows where he is.
“With the Zephyr. Mark II. We’re docked in Zumhara.”
“Good, Maxwell. Indeed, you and I are in Zumhara. Sitting beside the Mark II.” Torse huffs in relief, squeezes his fingers, then leans over and grabs something on Maxwell’s other side. “And I am glad we are here.”
Torse deposits the items Maxwell’s arms; they’re the meat buns and tea Van had left him with. He had forgotten about those.
Even cooled, their scents pull at the hunger Maxwell’s been too unfocused to sate. The pangs are suddenly impossible to ignore.
“Eat,” Torse commands. Sighs without breath to emphasize his exasperation. “The tendency of the flesh and blood to ignore their most basic needs becomes more infuriating by the day.”
“Big talk from a guy who keeps ripping his own heart out. I’d call that a pretty basic need,” Maxwell retorts. Then shoves a meat bun in his mouth to kill the argument.
Damn it. This bun is actually delicious. It’s somehow managing to bring him even further into reality.
The meat is juicy and tender, cooked from a fresh butchering rather than their salt-preserved stores. The flavor is elevated by rich spices that have no Gathie analogues and the fluffy dough has avoided sogginess despite however long the buns have been sitting out, giving easily beneath his teeth.
There’s not even any aoli in it, a gift so rare in Bert’s cooking he could cry.
“This is so fucking good,” Maxwell groans. Demands, “Never tell Bert I said that. I still haven’t forgiven him for my lost gains.”
“My death will come before I betray your confidence.”
Maxwell pauses in the middle of a bite. “Okay, um, addendum: never tell Bert how good this is unless your life is on the line. Then it’s... fine.”
Torse grumbles, “Fine.”
“I appreciate the enthusiasm, but I’d much prefer you stay alive, if possible,” he says a swig of tea.
Monty’s blend is as complex and soothing as the man who created it. Maxwell would consider himself more of a casual tea drinker, but the tasseography phase Wealwell went through gave them both quite a bit of taste-testing experience.
They’d drunk an absurd amount of tea purely so Wealwell could practice reading their fates through the dregs, trying it in as many varieties as possible to determine if there was any impact on their fortunes. Wealwell almost always determined that Maxwell’s absurd and grisly demise was imminent, though the cause varied.
Still, it was always fun to indulge in his brother’s interests, and his tea sampling has given him another topic to debate with Monty.
Maxwell is finally starting to feel like a person, now cognizant enough to recognize he’s displaying horrendous manners. At least he murdered the two guys most likely to give him shit about it.
Hopefully Torse’s respect for him is strong enough to endure Maxwell scarfing down several meat buns and licking the juice off his fingers.
He’s not sure how likely it is to survive the mess he’s making of his mustache, however.
“Our friendship is far stronger than mess, Maxwell,” Torse says, staring intensely as Maxwell licks his knuckles clean.
“If you say so,” Maxwell hums, dabbing at his upper lip with the towel Van had brought alongside the food. He appreciates her foresight immensely. It’s almost enough to get him to compliment her husband. Almost.
Oh fuck. He jolts in mild terror. “...How long have I been speaking out loud?”
“I believe it began with a comprehensive review of Bert Chapman’s cooking.”
Shit. “Have I mentioned that I’m exhausted?”
“Mm-hm,” Torse confirms. Their shoulders press together. A chilled breeze ruffles Maxwell’s hair, carrying distant sounds of celebration. “It is a state I do not mind when it is not driving you to distress. Despite your fond recollections of your brother’s many plans for your death.”
“Wealwell was not planning my death. He was predicting it.”
“That doesn’t comfort me. I detest any fervent anticipation of your painful, tragic demise.”
It’s more of an anxiety-ridden preoccupation that regularly renders his brother physically ill, but Maxwell’s not going to out Wealwell’s mortal terror just to prove a point. “Take from the buffet, Torse.”
“I do not eat.”
One day Maxwell will get him to stay through an entire conversation with Wealwell. Maybe they’ll even find something to bond over. Probably. Hopefully. When nut pugs fly, perhaps.
“In any case,” Torse pivots. “I quite enjoy hearing your thoughts without censor, and to be trusted with your honesty is a gift.”
Ah, back to sincere emotional admittances. Okay.
Only years of silently talking shit with Wealwell (and, in rare instances, Samwell) at dinner parties keeps him from choking on a mouthful of tea. This fucking guy.
Maxwell can handle the compliments on his competence, wit, and strength. Those make sense, he worked hard to earn those descriptors. It’s when Torse spins poetry about traits Maxwell knows are intolerable that the words stab between his ribs and twist.
“There’s no need to inflate my ego,” Maxwell smiles through his instinct to snap. “The crew thinks it’s over-sized as it is.”
Torse shakes his head, a faint growl in his voice. “Unless the protests are your own, I will not heed them. I am willing to gild my words for others’ comfort, but I refuse to silence myself to align with their misconceptions. If I offer you kind words, Maxwell, it is because I believe them. I respect you far too much to flatter you. I care about you far too dearly to let my affection go unsaid.”
Ah, alright.
A single sob wracks Maxwell’s chest.
He manages to dam the cascade rushing to follow, so his body shakes only once, in a convulsion that has him lurching forward with its force, before he straightens and arrest his movement.
Torse rocks back, red light flickering. He does not touch Maxwell, but his hands hover like he wants to.
Maxwell presses the last of his tea to his lips to hide his mechanical breathing. He pretends to drink so he doesn’t have to scrounge up an explanation for his behavioral misstep.
(There is a scarred dog tied to Maxwell’s spine by a too-tight leash. An abandoned prize-fighter trained to survive at any cost, then left for dead. It begs for kindness— and snaps at outstretched hands. It wants to crack his knuckles on some rowdy’s skull. It wants to run to Samwell’s bedside and beg him to explain what’s wrong with his head, that kind words and soft touch are terrifying. It wants, terribly, to be hurt so he’ll stop anticipating the blow.
Maxwell wants to be held. To be kept. But when has wanting ever served him?)
Torse stills, cocks his head in deliberation, seems to weigh his next words carefully.
A neighboring airship has begun its ascent. Birds scatter across the sky, small ink blots on a painted horizon. In a few days, maybe less, Torse will step aboard a Zernian vessel on a one-way trip to his homeworld. There is a possibility, however slim, that they will never see each other again.
Torse hasn’t indicated that he still wants Maxwell with him now that the Aganti Zernai are back. Perhaps the only one at risk of loneliness is Maxwell. It’s childish, but he’s terrified to ask. Maxwell trusts Torse. Of course he does. In all likelihood he would receive the polar opposite of a rejection.
But he is used to losing what’s precious to him without ceremony.
He can fight to preserve his grandfather’s legacy, to find Zood and MacLeod and Ludmila, but staying with Torse is a singularly selfish desire. Maxwell wants it far too badly to ask for it.
When hands flinch at the first flash of teeth, a closed mouth is only proper. Experience stays his tongue.
The dregs of his tea don’t look like much of anything. Maxwell only sees leaf fragments at the bottom of his mug, like always, but he’s never been as creative as Wealwell. He can’t put a shape to his fear. He only knows that when everything worth feeling drains away, the fear remains, too bitter to swallow.
Finally, Torse speaks up. “I do not wish to bring up sensitive topics where anyone might eavesdrop. Do you have the energy to switch locations?”
Maxwell swallows. Torse’s voice is pleading, and that’s not something he’s ever been able to ignore.
It’s the sound of Torse asking strangers to trust him enough to show them Zern, of asking Maxwell if he would ever plan an expedition to his homeworld and soothe his loneliness. Uncertain, where he has grown to be sure.
Torse is taking a risk. Maxwell may not know what’s at stake, but damn it— damn it— he won’t let Torse risk it on his own. The food, drink, and company have replenished him enough. He can handle this.
“I think I can manage, yes. But do you mind if we find somewhere else? Away from the Mark II, I mean.”
Torse tilts his head for a beat, then nods. “There is a place Daisuke showed me that I believe will be suitable. I had already been hoping to take you in the future. Wait here, I should obtain some necessities.”
Torse tugs the shawl tighter around Maxwell, grabs the snack box and travel mug, and presses their foreheads together for several seconds longer than he’s done before. Maxwell squeezes his eyes shut and breathes.
“Mm, and more tea. You need to stay hydrated,” Torse mutters, then departs.
These dregs are bitter, bitter, bitter on Maxwell’s tongue, but Torse noticed his empty mug and chose to refill it. Thoughtless of whoever on this skyport might see him, Maxwell cups a hand over his mouth and cries.
By the time Torse returns, his eyes are dry.
His friend has brought a large thermos, the satchel that once held his iron heart, and a thick coat he makes Maxwell put on underneath the shawl. When Torse reaches a hand out, he takes it, but Maxwell stubbornly walks under his own power until they’re out of sight of the Mark II. Only then does he stumble through a request for a lift, and only because he has negotiated with himself that it’s a fair trade for carrying Torse through Zern.
(Maxwell wants, more than anything, to hold and be held. Is it so wrong to cling to this when Torse is clinging back? Maybe.
Maybe that’s not enough to stop him.)
Some might say he shouldn’t be exerting himself at all, but Torse doesn’t. Probably because Maxwell hasn’t corrected some of his misconceptions about Gathie health. At least Comfrey’s inability to know her limits was good for something.
Their destination is tucked away in the outskirts of Zumhara, where the ostentatious finery falls away to practicality and a thin blanket of snow covers the streets. Most buildings they pass are lived-in and well-loved, and the ones that sit empty look like they had once known the same. The light pollution fades enough Maxwell can see the tallest peaks of Zern where the sky is cloudless. It’s nice.
If anyone he trusted less had brought him this far out, Maxwell would’ve knocked them unconscious and booked it back to the Zephyr.
He’s too lost in his head to notice the clock tower until it overtakes his vision.
The building Torse sets him in front of is distinctly un-Zumharan. Its face isn’t designed like any timepiece Maxwell’s seen in Zood, or even in Gath. The structure is all wrought iron and brass, sharp angles and gothic drama, an imposing anomaly amidst crystal cabins. No one has lived here in many years, but there’s evidence it’s being maintained: a lack of rust and weeds, a path of stepping stones cleared through the snow, recent welding, bags of fertilizer and gardening tools resting against its wall.
Curiosity shoves him out of his rumination.
“This is... of Zern?” He asks Torse, who is staring at the clock face.
“Close,” Torse says, turning to take Maxwell’s hand. They follow the path around the tower. “The design is Zernian, but it was not built with Zernai hands.”
There are words etched all along the walls of the tower and carved into the stepping stones, most in an alphabet Maxwell recognizes from the demonstration Van coaxed Torse into giving one pre-dawn morning. Maxwell’s half-awake mind had likened them to the musical notation he’d learned in his youth, before his father dismissed his cello instructor. Their forms, scrawled in countless hands, have turned metal and stone into sheet music for a symphony.
They turn the corner to find the grounds bursting into a sprawling garden of iron, crystal, and plant that sits nestled in the long shadows of the clock tower. Colorful frost-covered wildflowers intertwine with painstakingly crafted metal blooms and crystal willow trees that ring with the wind. Birds nesting in the trees’ grooves trill along.
Clockwork fish of brass, iron, and aged copper swim in an artificial pond, swirling beneath a layer of ice— or perhaps glass— unimpeded by corrosion or wear. The pond shimmers a bit too much for him to be certain they’re swimming in water.
This place is a fantastical scene, one Maxwell would nitpick for its liberties if it were written in one of Monty’s books, but that leaves him helplessly moved to see before him.
“Pappy brought you here?”
“He had found it in his own wanderings and believed I would appreciate a hideaway during this period of rapid change. I initially assumed he was leading me to isolation for an unforeseen betrayal, but Bucklesby shoots too quickly to neutralize and escape from.”
“So you followed him to the secondary location?”
“...Yes.”
Torse guides Maxwell to a roofed garden swing that is, surprisingly, wide and solid enough to accommodate an athlete and his cast-iron companion. The seat is covered in lovingly darned cushions and quilts, crystalline lights wrapping around the supporting frame. Torse has to angle himself sideways to keep his spines from scraping against the back, but even still they seem to fit in a way they never would in any other garden.
Belonging is a strange sensation.
Torse pulls Maxwell’s new favorite mug from his satchel, one whose text declares “ANOTHER WIN FOR THE HONOR SYSTEM” when filled with hot liquid. Olethra had found it a few days prior during one of her and Ludmila’s excursions.
Torse hands it over and pours him some tea from the thermos. Steam wafts. Maxwell blows on it, then takes a sip.
This blend tastes much better warm. Another huge win for the honor system.
“You said this place wasn’t built by Zernai,” Maxwell prompts. His tea is sweetened exactly the way he likes. The burst of flavor on his tongue doesn’t allow him the distance of thinking he’s in a daydream. “Who made it, then?”
Torse hums, sets the thermos aside and rocks them idly. “An aging Zumharan craftsperson, according to the tower’s keeper. An artisan of flesh who spent long years shaping this clock tower and its garden with her hands alone, hoping to crystallize a shard of home for her Zernai paramours to find solace in, when they finally arrived.”
Maxwell glances around, wondering.
This is a clock tower with a keeper. Its walls are marked by countless hands. The building and its garden are well-cared for, but do not bear the markings of a private home. There were words etched into the clockwork fish, all the letters written in the same hand.
“They never arrived, did they.” Maxwell cannot phrase it as a question, but he needs it confirmed.
The three fish swim in figures of infinity.
“No,” Torse murmurs, the word only audible in a momentary lapse of the wind. “No, they never did. And she knew they would not, even as she persisted in her fruitless labor until her death.”
“How could she know? She built this place for her partners, didn’t she? She must’ve believed they’d be coming.”
“The initial construction of this project was done in hope. A home synthesizing Zumharan and Aganti sensibilities, intended for three.” Torse tilts his head to capture Maxwell’s gaze. “One of the artisan’s paramours was said to be cleverer than the Queen Herself, sharper even than the talons of the Beast. The other— fiercer than the Calefactory’s burn, defiant even in the face of Her wrath. They had been high on Her list of enemies, climbing higher the longer they survived, and their paramour finally convinced them to escape before their luck ran out.
“The lovers had spent months of careful correspondence plotting the safest route through Straka’s hunting grounds. Escape would have been dangerous, but feasible. Many before had accomplished it, and the networks of Zernai in Zood were vital to our homeworld’s rebellion. The artisan herself was not of Zern, but in her youth she was a loyal ally who crewed with aeronauts transporting refugees, correspondence, and supplies between the strands of the braid.”
A gauzy insect lands on Torse’s knee. He carefully encourages it to perch on his fingers as he says, “The lovers’ reunion seemed inevitable.”
“But it wasn’t.” Part of him doesn’t want to hear the rest, has had enough of tragedies, but he cannot let Torse bear even one more unhappiness alone. “Why?”
The butterfly flits to the willows. Torse reaches out to clutch Maxwell’s hand. “Katur rose.”
“The barricade,” Maxwell parses, the pieces clicking into place. “It cut off travel between Zern and Zood.”
“Completely. There was no escape, and no one in Zern had any explanation for it. The artisan would discover the cause of their tragedy, the reason why their home could never be, but her paramours would forever be wondering in the dark.”
Maxwell sets his mug on the ground to hold Torse’s hand in both his own. Torse clutches back, painfully tight. “I myself have heard their names as whispered myths. Two rebels who fought ceaselessly, recklessly, to reclaim the future that had been torn from their hands. They shielded others from Straka’s flame when they themselves could hardly stand, and outmaneuvered the Corrodi in gambles no other would dare risk. Until strength and cleverness weren’t enough.”
“And their luck ran out,” Maxwell murmurs to their hands, barely hearing Torse’s affirmation. He’s burning up with rage at the unfairness of it all. It’s unconscionable how, no matter the world, good people are made to suffer the consequences of monsters’ actions. There is no justice in this story. Nor in his grandfather’s murder, Ludmila’s perpetual torment, or the subjugation of Zern.
(Marya told them it was easier to believe in superstition than circumstance. Torse said the flourishing lands of Zood made him wonder if there was a reason for Zern’s suffering. They had searched for stories, unjust as they may be, to give their pain meaning.
Maxwell had wanted a story, too, to make sense of his father’s loathing. He’d tried to reframe bruises and burns as narrative devices. Wanted his broken cello to be symbolism, rather than fireplace kindling. He’d hoped to turn his father’s derision and his brothers’ jeers into character development, if only to give himself reason to survive them.)
But there isn’t justice, because it isn’t a story Torse is telling.
(The worst feeling was realizing their cruelty was senseless. Not even Monty could spin a story worth telling from their actions. His family called him rowdy for fighting back, but Maxwell wasn’t the one low enough to beat the shit out of a child.
Their violence had no greater meaning, because it wasn’t a story he’d been living.)
Torse’s clawed feet dig into the dirt as he rocks them. “In her grief the artisan tore their home to the ground, and rebuilt it as a memorial. A Zernian clock tower breaking up the sky as a reminder of all those still living beyond the barrier, and a garden to mourn the happy future that would never take root.
“The clockwork fish were her final creations before she passed, alone. It became a memorial for all those who had lost someone to the separation of the braid, their names written into metal and stone so they will never be forgotten.”
Their motion stops.
Torse croons, low and pained, “I did not imagine anyone in Zood felt the loss.”
“Of course they did,” Maxwell replies, suddenly fierce in his certainty. “Zern and Zood are a matched set, and the greedy assholes who claimed otherwise were trying to gain power at the expense of others. We destroyed the engines, the Corrodi, Straka, the Temple of Katur— everything keeping people separate.”
Except for distance. The space between individuals that grows wider and wider. There can be nothing stopping companions from reuniting, and they still might never see each other again.
Maxwell doesn’t want to step away from Torse.
But he doesn’t know how to step closer. Maxwell’s confidence is a glove, everything beneath split open and scabbed.
“You’ve got the Aganti Zernai back,” Maxwell says, slipping his hands from Torse’s grip to tuck them under his armpits. He forgot to bring his gloves and the cold leaves his skin chapped. “You’re not like that artisan— you’re not going to be alone anymore, Torse.”
Torse keeps his hands between them, fingers flexing on nothing. Maxwell wonders if their bodies interpret temperature the same way. Torse hadn’t needed gear to trek to the Ectic Station, but maybe he still felt the biting frost.
“And what of you?” Torse’s hands clench into fists. His eyes flare, momentarily blue as a flame’s center, head cocked at an angle signaling danger.
“What about me?” Maxwell asks defensively, holding himself tighter. “I’ll— I have Wealwell, and Samwell, of course. I might— It would be prudent to do a stopover in Gath, but after that the crew’s already got a few leads about Shahar—”
“Why do you not count yourself among those I might miss?”
“That’s—” Maxwell’s voice hitches. He tucks his chin to his chest. Damn it. “I am sure we will see each other before too long, my friend. So soon you won’t have time to miss me.”
(Maxwell wants so badly to hold and be held, but)
“Look at me, Maxwell.” Torse pulls his face up with gently insistent fingers on his chin. “I did not wish to impose my desires upon you by reiterating my request, but I fear my decision only served to aggravate a wound I could not see.”
(his fingers feel too stiff to curl)
“You’ve done nothing wrong, my friend.” Maxwell tries to smile, but it wobbles and collapses. “Like I told you— I’ve simply overexerted myself and it’s got me behaving a little foolishly, is all.”
“You are no fool,” Torse snarls.
(and he snaps at outstretched hands.)
Those words trigger such a rabid denial in Maxwell that he jerks his chin away and pushes himself off of the swing. Marya’s shawl falls to the bench. Every muscle protests his frenetic movement, threatening to send him careening into the pond, but he cannot handle rest— comfort— in this moment.
Maxwell does not want it. He does not need it. He cannot allow himself to feel it.
(“So, what do you see?”
“It’s truly terrible, brother. A horrific monster with enormous claws and razor-sharp fangs is going to tear you to pieces to get at your still-beating heart. It’s going to eat it whole, Maxwell— I— I need to get better at standing, I can’t let your heart get swallowed up by some beast. Oh, I think I’m going to be sick...”
“Hey, it’s alright, Weal. You’re okay, I’m okay—”)
“I wish that were true,” Maxwell scoffs. “But how can I believe I’m anything other than a fool when my stupid fucking father killed my grandfather and I had no idea? I should’ve seen it. I should’ve stopped it. I should have known.”
Torse stands, bristling, shrinking their distance but not closing it. “It is absolutely unfair to place that blame upon yourself.”
The wind picks up. Snow falls. The garden is picturesque and frigid.
“No. No, I think it’s perfectly fair,” Maxwell snaps. He’s pacing, nerves crawling, digging into the hurt of his limbs to match what’s in his chest. “I spent so much time with my grandfather while he was sick. There must have been signs I just— ignored. That I didn’t question because father told me it would be improper. I should have pushed, or, fuck, done something to save him. Anything.”
(“You’re not okay, Max... I don’t think either of us are.”
“Well, we’re alive, at least. That has to count for something. But we should maybe take a break from prophesies and the like, for a little while.”)
He stops abruptly, then turns to stare into the artificial pond. The movements of the fish are rhythmic, but not choreographed. Maxwell’s focus shifts to his and Torse’s reflections. It’s absurd how intensely he hates the distance between their forms.
(“...Alright. As long as you promise not to die a horrible death.”)
“What’s really unfair is that I’m here and my grandfather isn’t.” Maxwell laughs, sharp and bitter, dragging a hand down his face. His grin flickers out a moment later. “Zood was his dream, not— not mine. I was supposed to stay on the ground.”
“What of your dreams?” Torse moves beside Maxwell, still giving him plenty of space. Maxwell knows his friend is only respecting the distance he created between them, but it’s awful. The separation hurts. Especially when their reflections show Torse facing Maxwell with his whole body, all his attention and care devoted to this moment. “Did you wish to remain in Gath? On the ground?”
He doesn’t want to be hurting like this. (He wants to keep and be kept, but—)
“What I wanted doesn’t matter.”
“Maxwell.”
It’s almost funny how those words make Torse recoil. That’s why Maxwell’s mouth is trembling, surely. There couldn’t be any other reason.
“It doesn’t, alright?” He turns, faces Torse head on. If his voice is wavering, it’s from the cold or held back laughter. “I’m a Gotch son. I am the seventh son. We’re born to carry on the family legacy, though I was mostly born to follow a stupid numerical trend. A decision my father never hesitated to remind me he regretted.”
Torse growls. “Your father was a rotten man, with a death far too swift.”
Maxwell snorts. “He was, but that doesn’t change reality.”
It’s so goddamn cold. Maxwell knows if he weren’t exhausted he’d hardly feel it, but in his current state the brisk air leaves him shivering. He starts rubbing his hands together to get some feeling back. “I was born to the Gotch name, I am beholden to it.”
He blows hot air into his cupped palms, but relief seems futile. Until Torse reaches out, palm up, and Maxwell’s body moves before his mind.
(There’s a tired stray curled around Maxwell’s spine. It snarls at most people, but has learned to trust a few. Torse’s hands have never flinched or formed a fist. He holds one out, steady, waiting patiently for the stray to learn his scent.
And Maxwell finds he wants more than he fears.)
He gives his hand over.
The iron is nearly cold enough to make him flinch, but then Torse is guiding Maxwell’s hands to press against warm iron ribs. Heat radiates from his clockwork iron heart. It’s such a fucking relief that Maxwell closes the gap, clinging to the metal and bringing himself entirely into Torse’s orbit.
“I am the seventh son of Longspot Gotch, himself the heir of Cadswitch Gotch.” He mutters into their shared warmth, “My desires never factored in.”
“And yet you are here.”
“For my grandfather.”
“The man who told you to stay on the ground?” Torse asks. He’s so close, then closer. Heat radiates from the vents in his cheeks. “You took to the skies for his sake alone?”
“Yes, goddamnit.”
“I do not believe that.”
If this bastard weren’t so damn warm Maxwell would push him into the pond. “What’s the truth then? Huh? Tell me.”
“You love your grandfather, but it was you, Maxwell, who wanted flight.” Torse reaches up to pull the hood of Maxwell’s coat up, making sure his ears are covered. Considerate asshole. “Freedom. I cannot imagine any of your family doing what you have done. Not even Cadswitch, from all the tales I’ve heard of the man.”
“The bell was his.”
“Yes.” Torse presses iron hands against his vents. “It had been in his possession, and then Comfrey’s. Yet neither of them rang the lights of the Zernai back to life. They certainly did not convince an assembly hall full of Zoodians to dismantle their precious engine.”
Maxwell flusters. “I’m quite sure that was you, actually.”
Warm metal fingers press against Maxwell’s cheeks.
“It was us. I never would have been in that position had I continued working alongside Comfrey. What we accomplished in days I had never once dared, in all my years as her ally, to ask of her.”
“But you asked m—”
A stinging wind pushes the hood off Maxwell’s head.
Torse stares up at the offending sky and growls, grabbing Maxwell to drag him back to the swing, all while trampling freshly fallen snow. Maxwell’s embarrassingly elated that his companion has lost his conscientious hesitance.
Maxwell hadn’t noticed it when the weather was milder, but as they settle down now, he realizes the swing’s crystalline lights are somehow creating a bubble of protection from the elements. Out of his wheelhouse, but probably something Marya would find fascinating.
Cold tea is dumped in the dirt, replaced with a warm batch from the thermos, and shoved into Maxwell’s hands before Torse continues where they left off.
“I had been disanimated in Ramansu for months before you woke me, because I had been willing to sacrifice myself for Comfrey, and she was quite willing to sacrifice me. Neither you nor your crew ever demanded that, from me or anyone else.” Torse shakes his head, grabs a pillow to trace the intricate design that runs through it in silvery thread. “It was... confusing at first. Not having to fear the captain’s discontent might turn on me, or navigate conversations filled with land mines I could never predict. Your crew challenged the peace I thought I’d made with being disposable.”
Maxwell opens his mouth, but Torse gestures at the mug. Fine, then. He’ll shut up.
“I may have been a cog in Comfrey’s machine, but you met me and days later reached out for a friendship ritual.” Torse’s voice crackles like radio static. “Then again to pluck me from the sky. I had spent years trusting nothing and no one, Maxwell. I cannot remember when I was last spoken of as a friend.”
The sound hitches, shatters. Torse curls in on himself. “Do you truly not realize how miraculous it was, meeting you?”
Maxwell lowers the mug to his lap. The impulse to cover his trembling mouth is near painful, but he needs to quit hiding behind inanimate objects and half-truths. At least with Torse. He locks eyes with his friend and wills himself not to look away.
Dig in deep, do not submit, stay here.
Stay here.
(The stray and the man want to hold and be held and keep and be kept and drink tea without anticipating the emptiness that will be left)
“No, I think I get it,” he admits. “It’s the same for me... No one’s ever wanted me around like you do. They’d rather I be anyone else, or out of sight and sound completely. That’s what Father usually demanded, though I suspect much of what he asked me was purposefully unachievable so he could punish me for falling short.”
Torse snarls a curse.
Maxwell keeps going, he won’t divert this moment for that dead bastard. There’s more important things he wants to say, “I thought I was done hoping to be enough for someone else, but then I met you.”
“You are more than enough as you are.” The fierceness of Torse’s sentiment is so sweet, Maxwell feels himself go hot in embarrassment. “No one with any sense would believe otherwise.”
Maxwell covers the hand Torse is clawing into a pillow with his own. His squeezes tight, shaking their fists, feels his grip almost instantly matched.
“See? This is exactly what I mean. You like who I am. You like Maxwell, not Gotch. Not the guy I thought I had to be. That’s never happened before. I’m not stuck wondering it you’re making fun of me, or— or being polite when you’re actually pissed off at something I did. I can actually fucking breathe because I’m not bracing to be hurt.”
He realizes he’s crying, absolutely blubbering. He doesn’t even have a free hand to wipe his face, but what the hell. Can’t stop now.
“I really thought caring about someone was always going to be scary or shameful, but you’re so proud to be my friend, I don’t even think about that. You make it fun. You make me like myself.” He laughs. Hiccups. “You make me want—”
His voice breaks and he’s not sure how to find it again.
Torse is immediately closer, unoccupied hand picking up the edge of a quilt to wipe Maxwell’s face. “What is it that you want, Maxwell? You did not answer earlier, either. You’ve spoken only of duty and the wishes of others.”
His companion drops the cloth to hold Maxwell’s face, thumbing the soft, no-doubt purpled skin beneath his eye. That’s when he realizes Torse is trembling. They both are.
Maybe their bodies don’t process temperature in the same way, but there’s something here they’re both feeling.
Torse whispers, “Please, don’t let it go unsaid.”
The words tumble out, uncontrolled.
“I want to go with you to Zern.”
A weight Maxwell hadn’t realized was unbearable falls in their wake. The relief breaks the dam and he doesn’t suppress it. Can’t bring himself to try. He leans into the heat of Torse’s gaze.
“I don’t want to figure out how to miss you,” he implores, voice stronger than it’s been all day. “Not if I don’t have to. Zood was my grandfather’s fantasy, and I know the other Wind Riders want to find Shahar, but I have no stake in that, really. I’m not obsessed with the prospect like I am about Zern. It was so cool, Torse, and now it’ll have you.”
Torse laughs, raw and delighted.
“I want you to come to Zern with me,” he echoes. “I just found you, my friend. I cannot stand the thought of you wandering my memories when you could be standing at my side. I have had enough of loss, Maxwell. Fly with me.”
Torse leans down and their foreheads press together without the patience to be gentle. Maxwell might have a goose egg later, but it is absolutely worth it.
“I promise Zern is really fucking cool,” Torse hisses. “And absolutely dangerous. So many things will want to kill us there.”
“I’d like to see them fucking try.” The words are barely out when Maxwell yawns directly in Torse’s face. His energy reserves have truly run dry. “Ah, shit— After a full night’s rest, perhaps."
It seems the relief of this moment has brought with it another kind of tiredness, this one distinctly sleepy. He presses his cheek to Torse’s chest. It’s as good a place as any for a nap lasting anywhere from 45 minutes to 9 hours. “Raincheck, or... snowcheck as it were.”
Torse huffs. Maxwell feels him start wrapping the shawl and quilts around them, sharp edges getting covered as he’s tucked tighter against his friend’s warmth.
Wow, he is suddenly far too cozy to keep his eyes open. What Obtenebrant occultism is this?
“Sleep, I’ll keep watch through the storm. This space was created as a haven, so we should be—” A snort. Metal pokes his cheek. “Dead weight already. I suppose I needn’t assure you of our safety.”
Maxwell grumbles, patting the purring warmth against his cheek. Of course he’s safe. He’s with Torse. Now, if everyone could please quiet down. He’s trying to get some sleep.
/“I must confess... I already told him you liked the food, Maxwell.
"He helped me make your tea, I had to.”/