Work Text:
No hay manera de creer.
Que soy libre.
Todos me están mirando
Porque en un mundo de reyes y tiranos
Con el diablo me estoy acostando
By Anónimo
"Your boss is the worst piece of emotionally constipated shit in existence," Zanka growls with effort, slipping through the shadows of the main palace's wide corridor. Jabber smiles, delighted by his partner’s distaste. There are marble statues, strange paintings, and portraits of every Caines family member—all with bicolor hair and large, upturned noses. They maintain a light jog, trying to decipher the directions and wings of the palace. After seeing Zodyl emerge unscathed from the throne room, none of them were left with the feeling that Rudo was okay.
"And anyway, who decided he should be the one to rescue Rudo?" Follo snaps, following the couple closely. Jabber barely pays attention to the new round of bickering between Zanka and Follo when a particular painting catches his eye. The outside noise fades as his pace falters; he has never cared for art, but this... he cannot describe what went through his mind upon seeing it.
It is an oil portrait, as large as a window, depicting a vast and angelic scene of a young couple. It is recent, judging by the date scribbled on the edge. Jabber, who has never appreciated art, finds himself confused and ensnared by the work. It is like tasting a familiar poison, one with strange additives that Mankira cannot process.
In the center of a spacious room, Rudo Surebec stands wrapped in a white suit and a cape that falls like a pair of broken wings, sprawling across the floor. 3R rests in his hands—rough and dirty to contrast with the hegemony and neatness of the painting. The red of his eyes is mirrored in the heavy necklace of red tears tied around his neck. He is slumped without order in a velvet chair, while standing beside him is Tamsy Caines, bearing the likeness of a Monarch. A crown crosses his forehead while his hair covers the burned areas of his face; one hand is behind his back and the other in front, fingers brushing Rudo’s shoulder. A giant spinning wheel unfurls throughout the room, entangling the severed head of a lamb, a crown, and a grimy portrait of an indistinguishable couple behind them. The floor of the painting is littered with black, gray, and white feathers. In the background, he discerns the silhouette of a servant gathering what appear to be longswords.
Beneath the painting, a silver inscription stands out with a strangely familiar name: "The Master and Cerberus in The Devil of Swords", written in a slanted script that reminds him of Zanka’s practiced calligraphy.
"Zan-zan! Look, isn't this Rudo?" he inquires, only to find they have left him behind. How long did he let himself be absorbed by the painting? It hasn't been that long! The cries of battle can still be heard, and the monster girl is still whole in her form.
"Ah, hell." Jabber breaks into a light trot to catch up, visibly drawn to the paintings. They are all recent, clashing with the way the tapestry shifts from new to old in its patterns.
There is something wrong with all the paintings.
The swords and the feathers repeat as a constant element. What strange things.
"My lord, if you were benevolent, would you at least leave the basement doors open so the people can evacuate?" Chiwa walks with long strides, stumbling over the heels typical of the servanthood. Her hair is tied in a tight ponytail, and she holds her dress with her fingertips. The servants wear gray—long skirts for the women and doublets for the men. Chiwa is no exception, though her outfit bears a few patches and coarse stitching, as it was her only suit.
"I already told you the Master will handle it," he snaps through gritted teeth, quickening his pace. By requirement, Chiwa must stay three steps behind any regent or master she serves. A measure pushed by Tamsy, but only applied to Chiwa.
"My lord, I insist. The collapse will reach the Tribe sooner or later. The palace has enough shelter to protect them."
"I don't care," he growls, on the verge of losing his temper. His hands have begun to burn, and he has an urgent need to reach his quarters to change his bandages and apply ointment. "Dammit Tamsy, what is taking you so long?" thinks. Trash beasts are rarely a struggle for Givers. Was he showing off for the Tribe members? Giving them hope and all that moralistic mess that causes Rudo repulsion and amusement in equal measure—mostly because the rich try in vain to win his favor.
"But you are the King! You can do something!"
"I don't want to do something."
"Please, Rudo!" Chiwa crosses the line, grabbing his forearm and pulling. Rudo stumbles and is forced to turn, meeting the tearful gaze of the girl he once considered a friend. A love interest. With luck, a girlfriend. How things change, he reasons in the confines of his mind, the weakness that clings to his initial life in the Sphere and later in Ground.
"Do something!" she demands, tears falling down her cheeks. Rudo remembers the scent of clear skies and the Tribe's accumulated trash—the same memories Amo knew how to plant in him to manipulate him. Crocodile tears that ignite his anger, the demons locked inside him. He feeds them generously.
What a demanding bitch! With him! With the Prince Consort of the Sphere! How does she dare? How the hell does she dare?!
"Don't call me that. I am your lord and you will treat me as such!" With a sharp shove, he manages to break free from the girl's grip. Chiwa wavers but does not fall. Where she grabbed, it now burns, pulsing with the sensation of lava running through his veins. His hands clench into fists, pressing the fabric against the oozing wounds.
Rudo does not feel the usual searing pain, only static in his ears. Nothingness itself. His mind turns to the conversation he had with Zodyl. The disappointed look, the harsh words that stood like truths before him.
"This is what I am," he tells himself. "Tamsy didn't need to use the book to make me like this; he only had to take 3R away for my true nature to come out." Though it is a sad thought, Rudo experiences it as fuel for the growing bonfire that is his rage.
"Rudo," Chiwa sobs. A tremor shakes the building and both are struck by the brutal movement. Through the wide window to his right, he discerns an avalanche of trash falling down a steep slope. The beast moans, and the screams of panic from the people swept away by the torrent of waste are the only thing Rudo hears behind the static in his head.
"Once, you believed your hands could fix anything," the girl murmurs, standing up carefully. Her skirt is wrinkled, and several loose strands fall from her hairstyle.
Rudo savors that last word with disgust as he watches the servant leave, her shoulders slumped and trembling.
"The paintings are chilling," Jabber reasons after staring at them for a while. Well, Rudo will need Zanka and Follo’s vision more than that of an ex-raider reformed by love. Comforts, trifles. If Jabber is there, in the Sphere and conspiring with Cleaners and Raiders, it’s because of the agreement between Zodyl and that guy, Arkha Corvus.
"To think their only clue was the boy's old clothes and mask." Jabber had been there, fighting Riyo and Zanka when Rudo’s filthy clothes fell upon them, along with a torrent of trash left by the moving shadow. Riyo had cried, throwing down her weapon and Jinki; Zanka froze in such a way that it even surprised Jabber to see him string together a thought in that state.
"Now... it seems he’s been living the high life like a caged bird."
With the tip of Mankira, he scratches the canvas of a particular painting: Rudo with his head tilted, sleeping on an uncomfortable throne of metallic faces.
A draft catches his attention as he finishes his scratch—which could pass for an accident. A foul stench clouds his senses, making him want to gag. It’s not the characteristic aroma of a good, noxious poison; it reeks of blood and body fluids in leather that was never cured.
"Ugh, all we need is for them to have a body in here." Jabber tears the painting further, this time with his hand. He discovers a sort of small door.
He quickly fumbles for the poison vials in his pockets to pull out a degradant. He hastens to put a few drops on the back of his hand and lets the sting fade before sinking his claw into the lock.
The scent worsens. Abandonment and despair.
Opening the door carelessly with his arms fully extended, Jabber manages to see the silhouette typical of the Watcher's Collection.
"What are you doing?"
"Damn"