Castle Kingside

Streetlight seeped through shuttered windows, painting the bedroom a blood-red hue. Laughter, ceramic clinking, and shrill chatter echoed from below. The brothel’s nighttime operations were in full swing. Besides lascivious guests and employees, one man didn't share in the revelry.

Dimitry shivered. His hands, hiding beneath a woolen blanket, were filthy despite a dozen washings. Dried fluids covered them, coagulated around them, layered them like grease that refused to come off. The grime couldn’t be seen—only felt.

Whenever he was on the verge of sleep, images of the men he let die would flash into his mind, jerking him into wakefulness. His arms and legs would shake. His teeth would chatter. Each time, Dimitry remained in perturbed stasis until the process repeated.

As a trauma surgeon, dozens died under Dimitry’s care. Although an emergency room’s brutality swiftly steeled him against the grief of death, he was once a resident who cried with each untimely passing. A boy who didn’t know what he got himself into. While the hollowness following a deceased patient never fully left, not once had Dimitry felt this way.

It was a feeling foreign and familiar. A sight common in any hospital: cancer patients that survived when a wardmate didn’t, car crash victims that watched fellow passengers die in the operating room right after the accident, parents whose children committed suicide. Pernicious and irrational guilt hung over them all, tearing at their consciences.

Now, survivor’s guilt lingered over Dimitry, too. Why should he live when Samuel and Arnest didn’t? Although the fault wasn’t his, attempts to rationalize his innocence only intensified the sin. Contrary to the oath he once took, to escape his identity as a teenage vandal that robbed elderly women for their sterling silver hoop earrings, he regressed to murder.

All Dimitry wanted was a modicum of self-worth.

To feel ‘good’ again.

There was only one place to go.

Although the plan was to stay cooped up in the brothel whenever possible to avoid suspicion in preparation for an eventual escape, Dimitry threw on his tunic and hooded cloak. He rushed down two flights of stairs, past moaning rooms, a first-floor crowd of patrons and sex-workers, and onto frigid streets. Icy winds brushed his cheek with every step to the spot where the clinic once was.

Two crates of an examination table still stood against a white-plastered wall, yet the quilt that once covered them vanished. Milli’s ‘home’, a sideways timber box, lay empty nearby. Among nostalgic objects, there was an unfamiliar one—a straw basket. It huddled among piled mud. Inside was a half-eaten loaf of bread, some grapes, and a note upon yellow paper. Dry contents despite a recent storm hinted that whoever left the assortment here did so recently.

Dimitry held the note to green moonlight. He deciphered the clumsily scribbled characters with ease.

‘Holy Cleric, I pray to Zera you are safe. Me and some of the others left you food. May Celeste guide you to The Holy Kingdom once more, just as she guides my caravan to Worlstock.

-Madalinde Taylor’

Confirmation of Milli’s well-being brought a brief smile to Dimitry’s face. He hoped the starving woman didn’t overeat too soon, or else refeeding syndrome would bring a swift end to her medical triumph. Damn. Why didn’t Dimitry warn her before it was too late?

“Hey!” a terse and shrill female voice called out.

His head shot up.

Leaned over an overhead windowsill was a tiny pale face with fittingly tiny golden bangs and a long ponytail tied with vegetative fiber. “G-get away from my g-grapes. Y-you and the person s-stalking you!”

Dimitry recognized the shivering creature. He saw her admiring the bitter melon he purchased at the market. Although shocked to discover she wasn’t a hallucination, her words more than her existence pumped dread into his spine. “What do you mean someone’s stalking me?”

“D-dummy.” She pointed past the alley.

Praying that neither guards nor a member of the Church followed him, Dimitry glanced around the corner.

A hooded figure several buildings away darted into a dark passageway.

The creature knew.

“Who the hell was that?” Dimitry asked.

“I d-don’t know, and I don’t care!” she spat. “Just s-s-step away from the fruit!”

Full of questions for the creature, Dimitry would tempt her with food. He plucked a purple grape from the basket. “Are you hungry?”

She stared with wide-open eyes. “None of your b-business.”

“You can have it all. I don’t mind.”

“You d-don’t want to kill me?”

“Why would I want to kill you?” Dimitry asked.

“You’re not lying, so… so…” The tiny creature fluttered down on green wings, her mangled white dress enshrouding a shivering torso no larger than a saltshaker. “P-put the grape down somewhere I can reach it, p-pathetic miscreant.”

“A little beggar calls me pathetic?”

She giggled maliciously. “Anyone with as much g-guilt and self-loathing as you is n-nothing but pathetic. Now drop the grape.”

Her shitty temperance aside, the creature’s ability to discern emotion captured Dimitry’s interest. “I was going to just give it to you,” he said, “but now I want payment.”

“What if I don’t want to? You’re too harmless to threaten me.”

Dimitry couldn’t let that slide. He leaned over, filled his lungs to the brim, and released a gale so strong that the creature could not help but fly across the alley, barely stopping in front of a jagged timber beam.

“What are you t-trying to do, moron?” she asked.

He pressed the grape to a crate’s surface. “Ready to talk?”

The creature frowned, folding its arms across its chest. “Fine.”

“What are you?”

“You d-don’t even know what I am?” She hovered closer. “How c-clueless are you?”

Dimitry pulled the grape back. “Another condition—no backtalk.”

“I’m a faerie! Now, g-give me the fruit!”

Recalling Arnest mention the species before, Dimitry relinquished her reward. “How did you know that I was feeling guilty or that someone was following me?”

“The shame way humansh can be sho shtupid,” she said through a mouthful of purple mush, “we can shensh emoshion.”

Dimitry paced the alley. Not only could the faerie accurately predict feelings, but she also knew the direction of her target—an invaluable skill for tracking pursuers during an escape. Her powers could prove powerful boons.

She gulped down her food. “What are you s-scheming over there?”

“Nothing much.”

“N-now you’re l-lying to me? I just told you I can sense emotion. Such a d-dummy.”

Dimitry’s gaze returned to the creature. Could she detect lies, too?

“Caught your attention?” The shivering faerie grinned. “I have m-many skills, and I can tell you’ve taken a liking to me. Since you’re t-too pathetic to attack anyone, even myself, I wouldn’t mind m-making a deal with you.”

While Dimitry wouldn’t describe himself as ‘liking’ her, he did think she was useful. “And what do you want from me?”

“Things like food and p-protection and…” she looked longingly at his fuzzy cloak. “Other stuff.”

For a budget-priced Tinkerbell to barter in concrete terms shocked Dimitry. But the agreement wasn’t bad. Now that he had some income, he could easily buy the faerie warm clothes and grapes. Protection, however, was another issue. “Is someone out there trying to hurt you?”

“You really are d-dumb, aren’t you?”

“Quit prattling and get to the point.”

“I. Am. A. Faerie!”

“People kill faeries because they’re annoying and refuse to answer questions directly?” Dimitry asked. “Makes perfect sense to me.”

“I’m not annoying!” Her whispers’ shrillness sharpened with every word. “Do you wanna make the deal or not?!”

Dimitry stroked his freshly shaved chin. In addition to her ability to discern emotion, the faerie’s knowledge of this world offered avenues of edification he never considered. The benefits far outweighed the burden of minding a grape-loving critter. “Alright. While I arrange to have clothes made for you, you’ll answer my questions.”

“No need.” The faerie darted into his cloak, then snuggled on his shoulder. Her wings reverberated like tiny wind chimes beside his ear. “Clothes are too heavy for me to fly in, so I’ll just use yours! They don’t call me a genius for nothing.”

“I doubt anyone calls you a genius.” Dimitry briefly considered the implications of her accompaniment, but as long as she stayed hidden, their partnership would be mutually beneficial. “Just don’t let anyone see you.”

“I know, I know. I’ll see them before they see me.”

“Have a name?”

“It’s Precious.”

“Precious?” The absurdity of the situation coaxed a confused chuckle from Dimitry. “Sounds like something someone would name their dog.”

“Oh yeah, what’s your name then?” she asked.

“Dimitry.”

“Dumitry?” A sadistic smile surfaced on Precious’s face.

Dimitry shook his head. “You’re an ass.”

“Only because your despair is soooo delicious.” She patted her belly.

“I take it back. You’re an ass, and you’ve got issues.”

From the time Dimitry returned to the brothel until he reached his room, not a peep escaped the faerie’s mouth. Although annoying, Precious was smart enough to keep silent around customers and sex-workers. Her experience hiding amongst antagonistic humans likely trained her to be cautious. Even after reaching Dimitry’s upstairs bedroom, perhaps to avoid a surprise murder by her new companion, she pretended to fall asleep multiple times before drifting off beneath a thin towel.

Spending countless days in the cold in non-insulating clothing must have exhausted the poor thing. Just like Dimitry. Sympathizing with the inflammatory creature was odd, but when not only humans risked death for comfort, their similarities trumped his grievances.

Insomnia left him awake to ponder alternate possibilities in solitude until sunlight overpowered red streetlight, bringing the grating clangs of church bells and a new day’s dawn. The brothel’s clamorous ambiance transitioned to one of tranquility, only for aggressive and enclosing stomping to disrupt the peace.

Precious darted from under the blanket and into the crevice between Dimitry’s neck and tunic.

“What?” he whispered. “Is something wrong?”

“Good luck,” she mumbled in a sleepy voice while burying further down. Her wings tickled Dimitry’s abdomen as she snaked into a position imperceptible from the outside.

The door flew open.

A barrel-bodied man stood in the hallway. It was Gerbald, Dominic’s less affable twin. “Get the fuck up, time to go!”

Dimitry jumped to his feet, praying Precious didn’t draw the moron’s aggression. He followed Gerbald down the hall to the reception room.

The musclebound moron shuffled towards Delphine, who read a book and sat with a dignified posture across the table. Kneeling beside Dimitry was another person whose jet black cloak disguised their identity. They waited in silence.

Delphine laid down the book and met Dimitry’s gaze. “Dominic informed me that you’ve performed the cuts well last night.” She stood tall and walked towards him, a gem-encrusted dress trailing behind her. “If you told me you were a noble, I would have believed you. I’ve traveled as far as the Sundock Confederacy and never seen pale-green eyes like yours.”

From across the room, Gerbald bore a powerful stare into Dimitry. His scowl, full of contempt, only grew more vicious.

Dimitry did his best to ignore him and the critter shuffling underneath his loose tunic. He forced a smile. “I appreciate the compliment.”

“To tell the truth, when you showed up yesterday, covered in rags, I wanted to leave you in that cellar forever. To be dressed that way and proclaim yourself a surgeon with an education vaster than a duchess’s daughter… I had to suppress my vitriol.” Delphine smiled, and the wrinkles that flanked her eyes entrenched themselves further into her face. She reached to caress Dimitry’s chin. “Fortunately, I didn’t. Although you’re lanky, it’s nothing that can’t be fixed.”

The nearly inaudible chime of Precious’s wings came from below. Although Delphine didn’t seem to notice, the black-cloaked figure beside Dimitry twitched their head. Gerbald’s glare from across the room grew increasingly violent.

Delphine frowned. “But there is one thing that perturbs me to no end. Do you know what that something is?”

Dimitry guessed that the faerie hiding beneath his clothes was that ‘thing’, but he didn’t verbalize his fears. “I am not sure, madam.”

A retributive grin surfaced on Gerbald’s globular face.

“Last night, you snuck out just to mire the clothing I’ve gifted you in some mud and filth infested back alley, but that’s not what I find so insulting. It’s the manner in which you’ve neglected to tell anyone about your nighttime escapades. You best have a reason for your sudden absence.”

Like a child who stumbled into an unfamiliar patient’s cubicle curtain, Dimitry scrambled for an excuse. “Forgive me. It’s just that the dull saw in the cellar made performing high-quality amputations impossible, and I yearned to show my appreciation for your gracious hospitality by doing the best work possible. I snuck out yesterday to retrieve my surgical tools from my old workplace, but when I got there, they were gone. I can’t apologize enough.”

Twirling her hair around a finger, Delphine would have been attractive if not for the wickedness her aged beauty concealed. She stroked Dimitry’s cheek with the back of her hand. “Reliable workers need not apologize. Let it be known that I reward effort. Gerbald!”

The human meat statue stepped forward. “Yes, madam?”

“Replace the saw immediately.”

“Uh…” Gerbald muttered something doubtlessly unpleasant under his breath. “Sure.”

Dimitry suppressed a satisfied smirk that yearned to surface onto his face. His lie covered his ass and pissed off Gerbald. Indeed, the best things in life were simple.

“Good.” She pulled back, and her magnanimous expression bittered as she strolled to the kneeling figure. “Dimitry, today you and Saphiria will do an important job for me. The foolish girl already knows what to do.”

Delphine threw back the silent watcher’s black hood, revealing a young woman’s glossy, raven black hair. Around her neck was an engraved steel collar with an ominous silver glow. Pulling the collar with one hand and reaching inside her dress pocket for something with the other, Delphine’s eyes narrowed. “Servia.”

Saphiria’s pale hands reached to grab her head as if to deal with a severe and sudden migraine.

Despite disgust at yet another use of malicious magic, Dimitry swallowed every complaint. His powerlessness made endangering himself on another’s behalf reckless for all parties involved. He observed silently.

“Saphiria,” Delphine said grimly, “take Dimitry, deliver the cargo, then come back. Understand?”

“Yes,” Saphiria responded with a quiet yet self-assured voice.

“Good. Teach him everything he needs to know and nothing he doesn’t.”

“Yes. Let’s go, Dimitry.”

During the day, Ravenfall’s pleasure district was a depressing sight. Crimson lights fought a losing battle against the sun as filth-drenched alleys struggled to support starving beggars. Thugs would force them out before nightfall.

Standing behind the brothel, Saphiria turned towards Dimitry, her vacant, indigo irises in full view. “We need to lead the oxen out of the stable and load the cart.”

Although he wanted to make the unfortunate girl’s life easier by wordlessly complying with her request, a hazy recollection nagged him about her eyes, cloak, and collar. They were familiar. In a moment of clarity, Dimitry remembered. He ran into her while dashing out of Inscriber works. Whether she knew who he was could alter plans.

“Did we meet before?” Dimitry asked.

“I’ve met no one that traps faeries underneath their tunic.”

Precious’s head popped out of his collar. “That’s… that’s not all he does to me.” Her crocodile tears were bigger than her head.

Saphiria’s indigo eyes opened wide. “It speaks.”

“And lies too, apparently.” Dimitry shook his head. “I just wish she would be quiet when she isn’t spoken to.”

“Hold it still.” Saphiria pulled up her cloak and reached for a dagger within a leather sheath strapped to her pants.

Precious’s arms shot forward. “Dimitry! Our promise?!”

He sighed. “Can you let her off with a warning? She’s important for my surgical work.”

“Yeah, surgical work!”

The girl sheathed her dagger. “It better not get in the way.”

Precious exhaled a relieved breath and tucked her head back underneath his tunic.

“Thank you.” Dimitry took no pleasure in apologizing for the little jerk, but he would need her help. His attention shifted to a different issue—the hole in his foot. Dry bandages and washings in lukewarm water wouldn’t stave off infection for long. “Since we’re taking oxen, I’m assuming we’ll be traveling somewhere distant. Do you mind if I gather some medical supplies before we go?”

Saphiria nodded. “Meet me outside the north gate by midday.”

“Got it.”

Grateful for an understanding traveling companion, Dimitry rushed to the closest barbershop. Traveling through the city in warm clothes rather than rags wasn't something he took for granted. Frigid winds numbed exposed skin no longer, and the faces of passersby were devoid of disgusted grimaces. Their shouts and vigorous laughter resounded in the streets.

Dimitry pushed through crowded streets and dodged piled fecal matter left by horses and pigs until a sign depicting a red and white pole came into view. It leaned against the wall of a small shop. Although this world’s barbers were barbaric, they alone could provide surgical equipment in a timely manner.

Lowering his hood to hide his pale green eyes, Dimitry pushed open an iron-reinforced door.

Sat on a crude stool while leaning against a wall was a man studying a yellowed parchment sheet. Without putting it down, the barber-surgeon spoke. “Haircut, shave, illness, open wound?”

“Neither. I’m here for supplies.”

“We only sell services.”

The front counter played host to a variety of creatures, hooks, needles, saws, threads, bottles, and other instruments.

Dimitry held up the gold gadot he received from Delphine. “I’m willing to pay a high price.”

The barber-surgeon slammed his parchment onto the table. It was an astrology chart displaying unfamiliar constellations. “Shit, for that much, I can’t really refuse, can I?”

“In that case, I need scissors, tweezers, curved needles, thread, boiled water, concentrated alcohol, and a bag to hold it all.”

“We have most of that stuff, but consecrated alkorol?” He leaned forward, cascading wrinkles embedded in his forehead. “What’s that?”

Dimitry rubbed his chin. Did people in this time-period discover distillation? He should have paid more attention in history class. “Something like gin or vodka.”

The surgeon wore a confused expression.

Referencing his brief experience in Agatha’s dilapidated alehouse, Dimitry concluded that they at least knew fermentation. “It’s like ale, except much, much stronger.”

“Ah. You speak strangely. Did you mean to say aqua vitae?” He slid a ceramic bottle across the counter. “Though I’m not surprised. Valuable medicines are unfamiliar to the uneducated.”

Dimitry pulled out the stopper and inhaled its vapors. The scent was that of a powerful brandy. Perfect. “Do you have any needles?”

“Do I.” The barber-surgeon reached for a shallow crate filled to the brim with sharp iron.

Rather than reaching for individual needles among countless rusted and potentially contaminated metal shards himself, Dimitry pointed to those resembling fishing hooks. “Can you grab me four like those?”

“Are you sure you know what you’re doing?”

“I have a faint idea.”

“I’d suggest you leave sutures to the professionals.”

Dimitry smiled. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Why do I bother?” the barber-surgeon mumbled. “Youngsters these days don’t listen.”

Leaving the store with a leather bag, Dimitry looked inside. Fabric strips cushioned gaps between ceramic bottles and iron equipment. The arrangement was beautiful and complete, yet its presence elicited only dread.

How many more patients could Dimitry have treated if he had these tools from the start? Even a minor wound could spread infection to the rest of the body and trigger sepsis. What if someone died unnecessarily from his negligence? What if he could have saved Samuel?

He sighed.