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Chapter Text

The two were rarely called by their individual names, it was always Garrett and Erin or Erin and Garrett. They weren't siblings by blood though, some did speculate the claim, they acted, and could very well pass as brother and sister regardless.

If Artemus was perfectly honest with himself, he couldn't exactly remember who Garrett was before he met Erin, he could remember how the young man acted, thought and spoke, his mannerisms and tendencies.

But that wasn’t Garrett… Or at least not the Garrett Artemus grew to know and love, no, it was almost as if Garrett hadn’t really existed before meeting Erin…

Artemus could of course however, remember how he met the young gutter rats, that and their first few years within the Haven. Those memories were far too precious to be tarnished by time.

Artemus was after all, the one to pick the thieves up from the streets.

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Garrett had attempted to pick his pockets while he was on his way back to the Haven from some information rendezvous regarding stray rumors of revolution.

Revolutions were common enough in the city, though successful revolutions were rare. Back then it seemed as though there was a new faction within the city rallying support from the shadows, at the moment their goals seemed ambivalent enough, but Artemus knew how quickly motivations could change.

Absolute power, corrupts absolutely after all.

He was a young Keeper then, hardly two summers out of his schooling days, still new to his responsibilities but old enough to find himself disappointed by the simplicity of his task.

Surely hiking across the city was something anyone, specifically anyone other than Artemus could do? Someone younger perhaps, fresher from the folds of schooling?

Artemus’ musings were cut short by the gentlest of tugs to his belt, and had he been a normal man, he would have merely dismissed it as his cloak catching the edge and carry on.

But Artemus was a Keeper.

The young street rat almost got away with his coin pouch as well as a ring of rather important keys, and had the young boy not tugged a touch too hard on the leather loop-let securing said ring of keys to his belt, Artemus would have never seen his coin or keys again.

And dear stars that would have been the end of him.

At the time of their first meeting, Garrett was but a mere child, a lanky thing with filthy pale skin, hands and feet bare, caked with street sludge to the point where they appeared nearly black.

Years of grime coated his raven feather hair. His clothes were tattered rags, weighed down by dirt. He reeked of the gutters, rank and vile, it had been a long, long time since the city had seen rain, clean rain and the only water available to vagrants was just as diseased as the rest of the streets…

Yet despite his starving disposition, the boy, Garrett, was a fighter, his eyes, an incredibly deep russet, burned with an undying fire, wild and ruthless, that Artemus could only associate with that of feral creatures, desperate for survival.

And Artemus saw this the instant he snagged the young rat’s wrist.

The young boy struggled viciously, swatting, punching and clawing at the hand holding his wrist, but he never used his voice, never cried out or shouted for help, he cried yes, silent tears as his expression twisted into a gut retching desperate, terrified grimace.

The young boy froze, ceasing his struggles only when Artemus began to speak, slow and steady, gently, as he would to any other younger apprentice within the Haven.

Promises of food and shelter set the boy into a panic, a wild, feral, blind panic, followed by teeth sinking into the exposed flesh of Artemus’ wrist.

Artemus still had the scars where Garrett’s teeth broke skin.

The sudden pain was enough to force Artemus to release his hold on the street rat. The Keeper clutched his wrist to his chest as he stifled the sudden need to snap in surprise, rather, he quickly tended to the minor wound, it wasn’t the first time he had been bitten and he doubted it would be the last.

Once Artemus recovered from the attack, he moved to go after the boy…

However, the street rat was nowhere in sight.

He had vanished…

It had taken the Keeper, at most, three seconds to tend to the bite, to say that Artemus was impressed would be an understatement.

Artemus returned to the Haven that night with little fanfare, he had completed his task without any other interruptions or incidents. His success was acknowledged and he rewarded…

But as he lay in bed… The young Keeper found himself… Restless.

Artemus was a young Keeper then, not quite fresh out of his schooling, but nowhere near senior Keeper status.

He knew the histories of the city, of the Haven…

He knew he was not the first Artemus to roam the halls of the Haven.

And somewhere at the back of his mind, he knew, knew, with his very soul… That he was not the First of his name to look into those burning russet eyes...

It took Artemus three moon cycles to find the boy again...

Though their second meeting held far less of a struggle.

Chapter Text

It was the dead of night during the cycle of the eighth moon, the western winds had settled with the sun and while the overhead clouds still sat heavy high above no snow fell. 

The cold season had come early that year and Artemus was out enjoying the bitter cold as he paced the streets with a few younger Keepers, cataloguing the dead lining the gutters.

It was a cumbersome task at worst, again, something which Artemus figured himself overqualified to do… But someone with experience needed to guide the newest batch of Keepers through the frozen streets, lest someone take a wrong turn and add themselves to the body count.

Artemus paused at a street junction as he waited for his partner, Keeper Hessia, to uncover yet another body curled up just at the mouth of an alley nearby.

He watched as his breath fogged in the crisp night while he kicked his feet through a snowdrift before him, feeling for yet another unfortunate soul unlucky enough to be caught in the surprise cold with his boots while his hands remained buried in his pockets to ward off the deathly chill.

The Eternal City, for all it’s faults, was a marvel in winter.

The dark stained wood of the homes lining the vacant streets glistened with frost, ice and snow from the winter's fury, the cobblestone hidden beneath the pristine layer of sleet created a rolling texture which reflected the golden firelight of countless windows…

The streets were silent, every creature fortunate enough to find shelter was tucked away. Artemus knew that come spring, rather than fresh southern air and budding sprouts, the sweet scent of decay would permeate the air as the snow melted, revealing the dead, rotting and bloated with winter runoff… 

A sudden scream flew into the night, followed by the sound of something shattering against a wall.

The surrounding houses, once silent, murmured with shuddered breaths as figures, old, tall, young, small, sickly appeared at the windows to look down to the street.

The Keepers out in the streets took to the shadows with bated breaths.

A door flew open.

A figure clad in too big, too loose, too little clothing ran from the warmth of the house, down the stairs and into the snow, tripping over the still, brittle form of a dead child hidden beneath.

“Ya vermin!” A woman screamed as she stormed down the stairs after the child, knife in hand.

“Filty, filty vermin! Stealin ma food! Stealin ma stores! ‘Il ‘ave ya gutted! Gutted I say!”

The child staggered back, desperately keeping himself away from the sweeping blade, if only by the mere seconds it took for him to find his footing.

Once, twice, trice the blade found purchase across the boy’s upheld arms, staining the pristine snow red with blood and before Artemus could register his actions or second guess the consequences he flew from the shadowed gallery he had sought refuge in.

He rolled back his sleeve, feeling the bitter cold caress his arm as his fingers traced a delicate rune along the inside of his wrist.

A blade of cold iron, leathered handled, no longer than his forearm, sprung to his palm.

Artemus ran through the snow, ignoring his name, hissed in fury, he was young and strong all those years ago, able bodied. 

Still the collision between kitchen knife and dagger reverberated through his bones as he parried the downward arch of the knife which would have settled snugly though the child’s neck if not for his blade.

The kitchen knife would later be found once the snow melted, embedded deep within the cracks between the cobbled street.

The night returned to silence as the woman staggered back, her unsaid words, curses, pleas, screams choking her as she quickly returned to her home, slamming the door behind her, locking it tight.

The boy was gone again by the time Artemus turned around.

But unlike last time, he left an impossible not to see trail in the snow, punctuated by blood.

“Whot da bloodey ‘ELL does ya tink yas be doings!” Keeper Hessia hissed in the silence of the streets.

Artemus offered his companion no response as he began to follow the bloodied trail of footprints, not bothering to check and see if she was following as he set off into the cold, dutifully as a wolf tracking wounded prey.

Artemus rounded corner after corner, constantly expecting to see the child as he was led further and further from the other Keepers out that night.

A knot of anxiety began to settle into Artemus’ gut the longer he trailed the bloodied path... It was cold, so bitterly cold and that child was in nothing but rags…

When at long last the Keeper found the boy again, he was on his knees, curled in on himself, hands pressed to his sides to keep warm, tucked beneath a windowsill, where the snow had gathered poorly, of some skeletal house abandoned for the winter…

There were frantic, disorganised grooves in the snow atop the sill from where the child had attempted to pry open the window… But it was so cold, and the boy had been out so long that his hands must have been numbed…

In some last ditch, desperate attempt to survive, the boy must have hunkered down to try and warm himself. Artemus knew the story well.

‘Just a minute, just a minute, I’ll rest for just a minute and then try again.’

But rarely, rarely, rarely did anyone ever rise after just a minute... 

Artemus approached the boy slowly, cautiously, weak or not, cold or not, the boy was borderline feral, and feral animals, backed into a corner, were dangerous…

That was what the young Keeper kept reminding himself as he watched a single tear roll down the painfully red cheeks of the child, freezing before it reached the ground…

That fire Artemus had seen those three moon cycles ago had dimmed to embers behind glassy, fearful eyes… But it was still there…

Still there...

A gentle tug on the Keepers belt alerted Artemus to the boy once again attempting to swipe his coin pouch.

The tips of his fingers were beginning to blacken.

Artemus watched pitifully as the boy’s fingers shook and jittered uselessly, too cold to properly move or grasp the strings holding the coin pouch…

The young Keeper gently took hold of the street rat’s wrist again.

There was a moment of silence between the Keeper and the street rat before the young boy slowly brought his other hand to clasp the hand Artemus’ had around his wrist, loosely grasping the warmth of Artemus’ robes with a silent, shuddering sob.

Artemus took hold of the boy’s hands, slowly drawing them close to his hood to tuck them against his neck, they burned cold against the Keepers skin, twitching nervously as the child fought the urge to run…

But in the end, the boy was too weak, too cold to offer any real protest as Artemus took him from the cold snow and cobble and into his arms, tucking the boy into his cloak to keep him from the chill of winter.

Cataloguing the dead be damned.

Artemus returned to the Haven without second thought.

Chapter Text

The boy remained silent as Artemus swaddled him with a quilt and brought him to sit by the fire, he pressed a mug of hot cocoa into the child’s hands, cupping the boy’s hands in his own around the warm ceramic to chase away the chill settled into the boy’s skin.

Artemus kept an eye on the child as he retreated to his bathroom to draw warm water, not hot, Artemus knew how damaging hot water could be against winter bitten skin.

He caught the boy sipping the cocoa slowly, his expression, a look of bliss as the sweet, creamy drink warmed his belly. It was probably the sweetest thing the child had ever had…

Artemus took the boy to bathe only once the mug of cocoa was emptied and the cold of winter was chased from his bones.

Artemus wasn’t surprised to see just how pale the young lad was. Fair skin was a most common enough trait in the city, with her long winters and cool summers, the sun was often considered a myth.

But the contrast between how dark the filth clinging to the boy’s hands, and the paleness of the flesh below was jarring for the young Keeper…

The child didn’t struggle as Artemus stripped him out of the filthy rags he wore, he didn’t flinch as he was made to step into the warm water, he didn’t make a sound, though he did cry as Artemus began to scrub and lather his too thin, too frail body with soaps…

Artemus could only imagine the horrors the boy faced out in the streets. Guilt chewed at the Keepers bones as he drained the blackened water, refilling it anew while the boy sobbed silently and allowed the strange man who had taken him to continue his task…

There was fire in the boy’s eyes, it burned and flickered with wrath and hatred and fear… But there was something deeper too.

Something dark and knowing.

Artemus took no pleasure in the child’s fear, thought he could imagine many other, horrible, horrible monsters who would… Who most likely had.

There was surprise in the boy’s eyes when Artemus offered to cook him a meal while he finished cleaning himself.

Though there was no verbal response, the boy nodded, gratitude and unfathomable relief flooded the child’s expression as Artemus removed himself from the side of the bathtub.

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The first meal Artemus served the boy was warm and light, filling. Comforting…

The boy continued to sob as he ate, his hands quaking as he brought the spoon to his mouth and sipped the soup… He was well mannered for a street rat Artemus found himself thinking as he watched the child wipe his mouth with a napkin…

When all was said, done and consumed, Artemus gathered their dishes and offered the child his bed.

The boy hiccuped a sob, a single gasped, half-choked noise as his legs shook. His eyes fell to the floor as his hands shakily began to unbutton the shirt Artemus had found for him.

The Keeper knelt before the boy and took his hands, halting their quivering actions silently.

“I will sleep on the chair.” The young Keeper said quietly, reassuringly. “I want nothing from you young one… Nothing.”

The boy offered no words, but his eyes flickered.

‘Everyone wants something…’

Artemus knew the look regretfully well, and not even he could deny the statement…

Still, he brought the boy to his bedchambers, tucked him into the bed, the bed which seemed to swallow the young boy whole.

Artemus took a seat at the edge of the bed, just beside the child’s hip, he reached out slowly to press his palm to the child’s forehead before he tossed another log into the fireplace and left.

Leaving the door ajar as he vacated to the chair by the other fire.

He dozed the entire night, never falling too far into slumber lest the boy need him… And lest the boy attempt to slip away in the dead of night.

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It came as no surprise that Artemus awoke… ‘Awoke’ before the child.

When the young Keeper peered into his room come morning, he found the boy curled up with the quilt he had wrapped around his shoulders, snug and warm beneath the short sofa near the fire.

Dead asleep.

Artemus was more surprised by the fact that the boy hadn’t tried to escape and despite his desire to return the boy to the bed, Artemus knew he would risk waking the boy.

He let him be for the time being.

Breakfast was a quiet affair, the boy slunk from the bedchamber, quilt still draped over his shoulders, the too big shirt Artemus had found him hung to his knobby knees, just as Artemus was about to rouse him to see if he was hungry.

The young Keeper spoke to the boy softly as he ate, attempting to draw a response from him…

Other than brief flickers of eye contact, a nod or shake of the head, the boy gave Artemus little to work with…

“I must return to my duties…” The young Keeper finally admitted once the dishes were cleaned and put away.

The young you looked up to Artemus, eyes wide and dark and afraid.

“I will return at noon.” Artemus continued, he couldn’t tell if his words brought comfort or not…

“I… I will be locking the door once I leave so you do not wander.”

A glistening look of betrayal flickered across the boy’s dark, dark eyes.

“Believe me when I tell you that you are safe here.” Artemus sighed, “You… You should probably rest more…”

The young Keeper reached out to the boy, slowly, slowly, pausing as he flinched at the initial contact of Artemus’ hand.

“I’ll be back…” Artemus promised softly, squeezing the small shoulder gently.

“I’ll be back.”

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Artemus stayed with the child whenever and for however long he could for the first few weeks, even going as far as to drag his duties to his bedchambers whenever possible.

Though, unfortunately often, his tasks tore him away from his chambers, and consequently the boy, for long, seemingly endless hours.

But even then, he always made sure to check up on the boy, he was after all Artemus’ responsibilities, and the Keeper would damn him if he allowed his new charge to go hungry....

Their first bout of separation, the brief time Artemus was forced to stand before his superiors and receive his penance for not only shirking his work, but also abandoning his partner, had been jarringly successful.

Artemus had returned at noon, just as promised, to find the child curled up in Artemus’ armchair, smothered in his quilt, cozy and warm…

They sat together, quietly, and ate lunch, the boy was silent and no sooner had Artemus began to collect their dishes did the boy return to the armchair and snuggle down once again…

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It took nearly two weeks before the child spoke.

Artemus had returned to his chambers late one eve after a grueling day out in the library searching for some ancient tome some student had carelessly misplaced.

A late dinner from the main hall in his hand and an apology at the ready as he unlocked his chamber door. He maybe expected his charge to be sat at the armchair or perhaps back in his bedchambers already asleep. What Artemus was not expecting was the boy ready and waiting at the door.

Artemus expertly balanced the plate holding their supper in one hand as he snagged the boy, not by the scruff of the long cloak he was wearing, stolen, Artemus’ mind supplied, but by the hem of the shirt below.

He tugged the boy back into the room, kicking the door closed behind him before asking where exactly the young boy thought he was going.

The child paused at that, not because he was caught off guard by the question but because Artemus had unwittingly called him Sámhach, the name Artemus had been calling the boy in his head for the past few days…

Quiet was what the boy was, so quiet was what Artemus had named him.

“My name is Garrett.” The boy hissed coolly, his voice rough with disuse, his eyes burning as he looked up to the Keeper.

Strength, resilience.

Both fitting for such a child.

Chapter Text

Artemus, despite the First Keeper’s feverish protests, enrolled Garrett into the Haven’s training program by the next fortnight. 

He could tell his charge was growing restless in his chambers, he had been after the first week he had been confined there and honestly it was cruel to keep the young boy, so used to freedom, locked to those four walls.

However, the instant Artemus offered Garrett the door, the door Garrett had so stubbornly tried to slip through so many times before…

The young boy cowered behind the Keepers leg, desperate not to lose sight of the Keeper.

His Keeper.

It took time and patience on not only Artemus’ half, but on behalf of many other Keepers dedicated to the education of the foundlings… Behavioral problems were nothing unheard of within the Haven, many children indoctrinated into the Haven has some odd little tick about them. Nothing a guiding hand couldn’t ease and nothing never seen before...

But it took an impossible amount of bravery for Garrett to properly settle into the Haven.

And Artemus used the term settle very lightly when it came to Garrett.

At first, as most children did, the young street rat remained cautious, sticking to Artemus’ side whenever and for however long he could, and if not the Keeper, then the shadows.

Garrett walked as if he were treading glass. Constantly alert of every action and word he spoke or made. Even so young, Garrett was a remarkably quiet child, only speaking when spoken to unless he was in the presence of his Keeper, typical behavior of a street child.

The fear that one wrong step could see him thrown out pushed the young boy to continue, to strive, to survive.

“The Haven won’t see you gone for something as silly as dropping a mug Sámhach.” Artemus cooed as he dabbed his charge’s dampened cheeks with a napkin.

“And I most certainly won’t see you gone for something as silly as dropping a mug.”

Garrett sniffled sheepishly as he looked down to his hands where he had collected the shattered remains of his cocoa mug, the very same cocoa mug Artemus had given him his very first night under his care.

“Are you sure?” The young boy whispered softly as he watched Artemus scoop up the clay fragments of the mug.

“Of course Sámhach.” Artemus replied as he set the mess on the table before he turned back to his charge, just in time to hear Garrett mutter something along the lines of, “My name’s not Sámhach…”

Artemus crouched low before the boy, setting his hands on Garrett’s shoulders, ignoring the snide little comment.

“Just wait. Be brave.” The young Keeper chimed, “Everything will be fine, you’ll see.”

And as the weeks dragged by and it became clear that mere missteps or a striking tongue would not be enough to have him cast from the Haven, that everything would indeed be fine…

Garrett began to return to… What Artemus could only assume to be his old ways.

The young Keeper wasn’t exactly sure the development was good, but it was… Positive, at the very least.

The young boy stopped walking on glass, and began to pace among the shadows.

Artemus would watch as the young boy he had taken into his arms, into his home, in the dead of a cold, cold winter night night… Slunk through the darkness of the ancient library, stalking his prey until finally, he would reach out and strike with startlingly silent grace.

Picking pockets and swiping coin right beneath the noses of his fellow Keeper Apprentices. Even going as far as to swindle extra food right from beneath the cooks noses during mealtimes!

Of course, Artemus would force the young boy to return everything that had been stolen, if the young Keeper caught him in the act, much to the young boy’s chagrin.

“They weren’t being careful enough.” Garrett would mutter stiffly as he watched his latest prizes disappear into the same pockets he had taken them from.

“They weren’t expecting anyone to take their things.” Artemus pointed out calmly as he ran his fingers through his charge’s hair.

Garrett remained quiet and thoughtful as he leaned into the soft caress, Artemus could tell he was already planning his next attempt.

And he wondered if he’d be able to catch Garrett the next time...

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True to Artemus’ assumption, the young apprentice grew more and more apt in his trade with every attempt on a pocket, caught or not.

So much so that even Artemus fell victim to the young boy’s tricks more often than not.

It was a funny little joke between them in a way, though most subjected to finding their coin pouch or what have you missing, found it annoying, Artemus couldn’t help the small swell of pride which welled in his chest every time Garrett offered him some stolen trinket.

Garrett had come a long way from a lowly street rat desperate for any amount of coin… Artemus could remember the young boy he had plucked from the snow that fateful night.

The boy who called himself Garrett.

The boy who clung to his leg and hid beneath his cloak whenever he could…

Artemus could remember the boy fondly.

But that boy was not the Garrett he knew today.

Everything Artemus thought he knew about the young boy changed once Erin came into the picture.

Chapter Text

Artemus could also remember Erin quite well.

It was the cycle of the fifth moon, the winter thaw was running late but the rainy season was right on schedule. Most of the streets were little more than knee deep slushy swamps of ice cold water and filth. The air was still cool for the season and the sky dark with clouds brimming with rain.

Artemus caught sight of her trying to pick a locked safe in some store while he was out doing some menial task.

At first, he thought Garrett had escaped again, the young lad had been getting frustratingly good at slipping out of the Haven to wreak havoc where he could…

It was only when he stepped into the store that he realized that no, that was not Garrett…

The young girl was half starved and desperate, with dirty skin, greasy, matted hair and little more than rags to cover her bones… A stark, visceral re-imagining of Garrett.

Artemus met her eyes, ash grey rather than burnt russet, before she dipped her hands into the safe, the safe she had successfully opened, grabbed all that she could in her hands and ran from the store, slipping out a low window as the clerk approached Artemus.

From that brief instant of eye contact, Artemus saw that, just like Garrett, that girl was a survivor.

She was long gone by the time Artemus was able to escape from the shop, disappearing into the twilight shadows just as Garrett had all those years ago…

This time however, Artemus went on the hunt.

Garrett had given him an exasperating amount of practice when it came to tracking people and while Artemus was undoubtedly thankful for the skill, he found himself unfortunately good at it.

The Keeper trailed the young girl as best he could in the growing night, following her bare footprints in the muck before they were washed away as an evening storm blew in from across the ocean.

It was still bitterly cold, and she, much like Garrett back then, had little else but rags to guard her.

By the time Artemus drew near the old Mill District, the evening storm had begun in earnest, frigid winds raced through the streets as sleet began to pelt buildings, stone and people alike.

Artemus could only hope the girl had found shelter from the storm as he retreated to the warmth of the Haven.

He strolled through the familiar halls, reported to his superiors, swung by the kitchens for a very late dinner and then returned to his chambers, not at all surprised to find Garrett curled up in his armchair, snuggled into a familiar quilt.

The young boy awoke as Artemus closed the door, the faint ‘click’ of the latch rousing him from his slumber.

Artemus approached his charge, running his fingers through the unruly raven locks once he drew close enough. The room smelled faintly of char, there were dishes in the sink but only a single pan with a suspicious amount of gristle latched onto its base…

“You missed dinner.” Garrett mumbled as he rubbed the sleep from his eyes, “I was waiting for you… But then I got hungry.” The young boy yawned from his seat.

“I didn’t set anything on fire this time.” Garrett chimed in a bright, albeit, drowsy voice. Artemus smiled down at his charge, “Did you eat?” He asked in turn, Garrett nodded.

“Did you?” The young boy asked in turn. “Yes.” Artemus huffed lightly, “I had some broth from the kitchens before I came, don’t worry.” Garrett nodded once before he slid from his seat, still cocooned in the quilt.

“I’m going to bed.” He announced simply before walking past Artemus, just down the hall, and into Artemus’ bedchamber. The Keeper sighed and rolled his eyes.

It had become some sort of routine over the past year and a half. At first Garrett would sneak into Artemus’ chambers and sleep on the armchair by the fire. On a whim, Artemus attempted to invite Garrett to his bed again and thereafter, Garrett rarely slept anywhere else.

The young boy had his own room, his own bed, his own everything… But above all else, Garrett preferred to fall asleep nestled into Artemus’ side, safe and warm.

Artemus didn’t have the heart to send the boy away, especially not after the first time Garrett had drowsily addressed him as, “Papa.” One night as Artemus was rising to add another log to the hearth.

Neither questioned the development, nor did they scorn it.

Artemus glanced to the sink briefly before deciding to let Garrett’s catastrophe sit overnight. He slipped into his bathing chamber and prepared for bed, drawing himself a warm bath he would have loved to soak in but sadly could not.

Artemus hurriedly changed into his sleepwear as the bath drained, dimming the lights in the bathing chamber as he stepped into his bedroom. The hearth glowed warmly, the fire still strong, the Keeper added half a log to burn through the night before turning to his bed.

Garrett was curled beneath the blankets, quilt circling his shoulders and head beneath the comforter, eyes once again watching his Keeper. Artemus sighed as he tugged down the covers to join his charge, Artemus settled on his side and opened his arm expectantly.

Garrett wordlessly shuffled closer, pressing himself to the heat of his Keepers body, tucking his head to Artemus’ throat to mumbled a sleepy soft, “G’night…” Against his Keepers throat before he fell still.

Artemus heaved a breath.

“Good night, Garrett…”

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Artemus woke bright and early the next morning to resume his search of the old Mill District.

“Are you off to do important Haven stuff?” Garrett asked as he pulled himself up onto his chair at the small table, watching patiently as his Keeper prepared them breakfast.

“I am.” Artemus replied casually, “And I expect you to head to your classes once I’m gone. No shirking just because your missing your books young man.”

The storm had faded to rolling fog come morning, bathing the streets in an eerie mist.

The rain had washed the streets, leaving a fresh, smooth tapestry of grime in the gutters.

Most vagrants were roaming so early in the day, but the few who were Artemus found.

Rarely did street urchins wear shoes, why would they? Shoes were expensive, the best an urchin could do for themselves was bind their feet with cloth and while some of the trails leading through the muck were formless cloth prints.

They were not what Artemus was interested in.

The girl from the previous eve was barefoot and young, about the same age as Garrett when Artemus first found him roughly six or so years ago… Her feet were small, just like the rest of her.

The Keeper found hardly a trace of her that day save for a single smear where someone had slipped in the muck while attempting to hop between clear juts of cobble.

She was clever Artemus had to admit. Most streets rats didn’t bother to cover their tracks, no point wasting energy on such pointless endeavors…

Unless of course, you were being hunted…

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The Keeper continued to scour the Mill District each day for nearly a moon cycle, sometimes he would spend the entire day in the streets, sometimes a few hours.

Garrett called him a hypocrite for shirking his duties while forbidding him from shirking his schooling so they had to compromise.

More and more frequently did Artemus stumble upon traces of the vagrant girl, sometimes even catching glimpses of her ducking into shadowed alleys. He could never catch her, but at least he knew she was firstly alive, and secondly, still in the old Mill District.

The old Mill District wasn’t large mind you, it was a strip of land by the mouth of the river, spanning maybe four blocks at most mostly comprising of (surprise, surprise) Mills, bakeries and upstairs apartments.

The old Mill District was prone to flooding however, being so close to the ocean, every thaw and rainy season saw the streets swamped and houses deluged.

It still took most of the growing season before Artemus finally found the girl again.

She was sheltering in some waterlogged basement of an old abandoned flour mill just at the edge of the river… Hidden within the darkness, scampering across crate tops to avoid the icy water below.

She refused to venture out into the street once Artemus found her, snarling like some wild beast when Artemus had attempted to fit through the small ground window to better reach her.

In fact, the first time the Keeper had stumbled across her hiding spot, he had seen her slip through the opening as he rounded the corner, she had forced herself so far into the darkness that Artemus lost sight of her, and remained so perfectly still and silent that, had he not caught sight of her retreat, Artemus would have doubted anyone there.

Still, Artemus refused to simply abandon the child, patience was a virtue, one that Artemus excelled in, much thanks to Garrett.

For many moons, Artemus returned to that flooded basement to stand by that window and speak…

Speaking always seemed to soothe Garrett, gentle tales of folklore and legend to imbued lessons or dull recounts of his day to ease his young charge into slumber.

So he spoke to the girl in the streets as he did to the boy in his home. He spoke of his day, of things he had learned, of life and death and lore, of the sorry state of the City.

He would leave a scrap of food by the entrance of her shelter each time he left and by his return it would be gone.

He hoped it was the girl taking them and not some passer by.

Chapter Text

Progress was slow, some days were better than others, some days Artemus left feeling as though he had done more bad than good… But he never wavered in his routine.

And with time, the young girl slowly began to creep closer and closer to the broken storm window which served as the entrance of her abode.

They would sit together, Artemus on the street, perched atop the closest sill to the storm window, his back resting against the house and the girl in the darkness…

The Keeper would speak, she would listen.

Once or twice during those uncertain meetings did Artemus glimpse those glistening eyes, grey as ash, brewing like a storm, peering up from the darkness if he dared look into the gloom below.

It took time, patience and effort to draw the young girl out from the depths of her hiding place. But it was worth it… It was more than worth it.

Shortly before the cold season returned to the city once again, just as the chill in the air allowed for breath to thicken and frost to creep across the slumbering city in the dead of night…

The young girl finally emerged.

Crawling from the storm window on gangly limbs, filthy, starved and weak, but alive…

Artemus watched out of the corner of his eye as the girl slowly pulled herself up and out of the window well, keeping her gaze trained on him as she moved to sit against the opposite side of the window from him.

She reeked of sewage and rot, Artemus could see the extensive patchwork of injuries just beneath the layer of filth covering her visible flesh like armor…

Very few of the wounds were properly healed, many were risen high, inflamed and angry, from her skin, festering with infection and disease…

Artemus found himself looking at the girl, she sat there on the ground, watching him expectantly in turn.

It was then that Artemus realized that he had stopped talking…

“I know someone just like you.” He murmured softly, soothingly, watching the girl.

“He lived on the streets, just as you are… The picked pockets to survive…”

The girl remained silent, but her eyes brightened inquisitively.

“He bit me the first time we met.” Artemus continued, slowly rolling up his sleeve to show the ring of scars adorning his wrist.

“I offered him my home, and he panicked, dreading what he thought I was expecting in return.” Artemus didn’t miss how the girl tensed beside him, how her hand slowly inched towards the rim of the window well.

“He disappeared after that, for many moons… But I never forgot his face.” Artemus sighed, watching as his breath floated from his lips, catching on the chilling breeze before wafting away…

“I feared he wouldn’t survive the winter… Not many street urchins do, and he nearly didn’t either…”

The girl shivered then… Artemus wondered if the coming cold was to be her first winter…

“He was taking shelter in some butcher’s home, hiding himself among the walls and rafters, swindling cuts whenever he could.” Artemus paused to better recall the memory.

“He was caught one eve… And thrown out into the street.” Artemus shook his head absentmindedly.

“It was the middle of winter. So bitterly cold that the very air would burn your lungs with every breath you took…” Artemus glanced to the girl again, she was still watching him.

“I was out counting the dead when I stumbled upon him… Sheltering beneath a windowsill, desperately trying to keep warm.” The Keeper smiled gently…

“He didn’t bite me a second time… He let me take him to my home, let me help him…”

Artemus looked to the girl again.

“He’s been with me ever since…”

Slowly, carefully… The Keeper offered the girl his hand, holding his breath as she flinched away. Artemus feared she would retreat, but she was brave… So brave.

Artemus stayed still… Watching as the girl looked between his eyes and his offered palm.

After a pause, a very long pause filled with bated breath and timid glances, the young girl slowly began to reach out, hesitating briefly just before closing her fingers around the large palm.

Artemus smiled gently as he slipped from the windowsill to crouch before the girl, keeping his movements slow to reassure the girl of his intent as he shed his outer cloak, wrapping it around the young girl’s shoulders as best he could. The girl was very small, and his cloak seemed to swallow her, but it did a good enough job of shielding her from the chill of the early cold.

Once the girl was adequately covered, Artemus stood and offered his hand once more, the girl slipped her small, cold fingers into the Keeper’s palm, allowing herself to be led away from the rank basement without a word…

Once he was sure the girl was not about to bolt, Artemus hoisted her into his arms, cocooning his robe around her small body. She struggled only briefly, confused by the unexpected position she found herself in.

Artemus apologized, simply and softly. She settled thereafter, even going as far as to bury her face against his throat, seeking further warmth as her arms came to wrap around his neck.

Artemus carried her to the Haven just as he had with Garrett.

Chapter Text

He swaddled her in another quilt upon arriving to his bedchambers.

Garrett had claimed the first quilt he had given him, the quilt Artemus had wrapped around him upon his arrival to the Haven, as his own, no questions asked.

So Artemus  made another, specifically telling Garrett that the new quilt was not to leave his chamber.

Artemus was honestly surprised the quilt had not vanished the moment he turned his back to the boy, but he would take the miracle.

Regardless, the second quilt was wrapped around the young girl’s shoulders in place of his cloak as he set her by the fire. It was not yet winter so he wasn’t exactly concerned with frostbite as he had been with Garrett…

But he knew as well as the next person how nice a warm hearth could feel against chilled skin. He told her softly to stay put while he retrieve something to eat.

“I will return soon… Wait for me.”

Artemus was honest when he said he would return soon. He must have only been gone for three minutes at most, at most! Granted, he practically ran the entire way.

But by the time he returned, Garrett was seated right beside the girl, pressed snug to her side, his arm around her shoulders, his cheek resting atop her head. Garrett’s quilt wrapped securely around both of them…

They looked so… Remarkably similar… Comfortable beside one another. Dark raven hair, the girl’s rough and choppy, matted, dirty. Garrett’s tied back into a small, tight braid, straight if somewhat wavy when loose.

Dark eyes watched the fire, the golden glow warming the children’s cheeks.

The door closed behind Artemus with a soft ‘click’ and the two younglings turned to the sound, their eyes falling to the Keeper soon after.

“I named her Erin.” Garrett said quietly as he watched the Keeper approach, the girl slowly pressing herself further into his small side as Artemus passed.

“Did you now?” He asked softly as he sunk into the armchair just behind them. Garrett nodded as he abandoned his seat beside the girl to crawl into Artemus’ lap once the Keeper had settled into the chair.

“She didn’t like her name…” Garrett murmured softly as he pressed his forehead against his Keeper’s throat, “So I gave her a new one…”

Artemus hummed softly against the crown of Garrett’s head as he offered his other thigh to the girl, Erin...

Erin followed Garrett’s lead nearly as soon as Artemus offered her a seat on his lap, albeit a tad nervously. Still, she too settled into Artemus’ lap, resting her head against his shoulder as she drew the quilt tighter around her shoulders.

The Keeper doubted he would ever see that quilt again.

Artemus held the two children close to his chest until they were warm and fed, Garrett necessarily so.

He didn’t bother sending Garrett back to his dorm room either, the young lad always had a habit of sneaking back into Artemus’ bed, with an inordinately high success rate too boot.

Rather, he sent Garrett off to his bed to prepare it for Erin, which the young boy did dutifully, ruffling and shifting the comforter and quilts about to form a comfortable nest of blankets as Artemus bathed the young girl, Erin, as Garrett had called her.

Erin remained still as Artemus lathered her hair with soap and scrubbed the dirt and grime away with washes. Not a fear fueled stillness either, she was tired, too tired, it was expected given all that had happened to her that day.

Artemus dressed her in one of his lounge shirts, the sleeves fell to her knees and the bottom just to her feet, but it was soft and warm and clean.

At first, Artemus planned on sleeping on the armchair by the fire, leaving his bed to the two younglings. He tucked them in, snug and warm and left.

Not ten minutes later, Garrett slipped wordlessly into his lap once again, nestled close, and fell asleep. Not two minutes after Garrett’s arrival did the girl appear as well, rubbing the sleep from her tired eyes as she blindly stumbled to the chair, quilt draped over her shoulders like a cloak.

Artemus sighed and hoisted the two now quite asleep children into his arms, returning them to his bed.

This time he didn’t leave, the three of them settled into the bed, curled around one another snug and warm where they remained until morning.

֍

 Three days after Erin came into the Keepers compound, she firmly situated herself as Garrett's shadow and refused to leave his side, following after the older boy whenever she could, regardless of Artemus’ fretting or the fact that Garrett had classes.

 Garrett. The lone wolf within the Haven, was surprisingly content with having a tail, in fact, he seemed pleased by it.

When asked about Erin whenever the younger girl managed to sneak into class behind him, he would shrug and reply with a cryptic, “She’s mine.” Erin would preen in her seat until Artemus came to retrieve his wayward charge.

Erin was properly enrolled in the Haven far faster than Garrett had been, hardly a week after her arrival she was gently ushered into her first class by Artemus, bright eyed and excited.

Artemus would later be found once again leading the young girl out of Garrett’s class after she realized that they weren’t learning together. It took nearly a moon cycle for Erin to understand that she needed to stay within her own year group.

Besides their different schedules, however, the two were rarely seen apart. 

 Breakfast, lunch, dinner and any moment of spare time they shared was spent together.

They would sit together in the library reading, or beside one another at Artemus’ table doing their school work. Though nightly curfew would see the two separate for a time, many other Keepers had witnessed the chance occasion of either Garrett or Erin sneaking out of bed in the dead of night to go join the other.

Though more often than not, Artemus would wake to find his children pressed snug against his sides.

Chapter Text

As the years rolled by, Garrett and Erin grew into themselves.

Gone were the gangling limbs and knobby joints of starvation, the vile sludge beneath their nails and grime on their knees.

Artemus took care of his children, good care, watched them carefully as they grew, guided them, helped them, whichever way he knew how.

Garrett developed a sleek, lithe build, but a healthy sort of lithe, not the kind of lithe found on young street rats from running away with whatever measly scrap of food they had managed to swipe.

No, Garrett’s form came from the countless hours he spent out in the Haven’s training fields. Artemus wasn’t exactly surprised by the young boy’s developing interest in training, after spending so many years on the streets helpless and afraid, it was nearly natural for Garrett to want strength for himself lest he be forced into another unfortunate situation…

However, try as Artemus did, he could not erase all traces of the streets from the boy.

Garrett remained a quiet child, no longer shying from everyone who dared look at him, but never really reaching out to interact with his fellow apprentices either, save for Erin of course.

It was also not only Garrett’s voice to remain quiet, but just about everything else about him. On the streets, you learned fast or you died. You used what you had to your advantage, no matter how little.

Garrett’s wasn’t a strong child, he couldn’t use brute force to worm his way out of messes, so he developed sharp street wits and light feet instead which was ideal for him then as years of little food and rest and love had taken their toll, leaving Garrett to reach a rather petite stature.

His forehead remained the perfect height for Artemus to press his cheek to without needing to bend low, the Keeper respected the older boy too much to forgo Garrett’s firm request of ‘no kisses’, and Artemus most certainly did not want to get onto Garrett’s bad side.

Things always tended to go missing if you got on Garrett’s bad side...

Erin, likewise, grew akin to Garrett, rivaling each and every advance of her not quite brother with her own feminine grace. Developing elegantly supple curves to challenge Garrett’s sleek build. Training alongside Garrett to build her own strength, steadying her posture and physique.

The old roots of survival were etched into her veins, while the blossoms of knowledge supplied by the Keeps bloomed in her mind.

Artemus did his best to encourage more… Constructive hobbies onto his children to starve off the inevitable as best he could.

Garrett liked learning about the history of the once thought Eternal City? The Haven was always in need of historians.

Erin mentioned she wanted to try her hand in design? Blueprint paper and pencils at the ready…

Truthfully then, Artemus was… Troubled by the direction his charge’s lives seemed to be coursing towards. At every turn and insistence, whenever Artemus attempted to steer Garrett and Erin’s attention away from what he feared most; they would rebound dutifully…

The Keeper Enforcement Unit was a prestigious faction within the Haven.

Made of only the strongest minds and able bodies... Many joined the unit by their own terms though a select few were coaxed into the profession.

The Keeper Enforcers were the bloodied hands of the Haven… And Artemus cowered at the thought of Garrett and Erin disappearing beneath those golden masks, never to be seen or spoken to again…

It was both a blessing and a curse to find out what exactly his two children had become so captivated by during their years within the Haven.

Thieving.

Again, if Artemus was honest with himself he could say without a shadow of doubt that he wasn't surprised the two turned to such a…  Profession.

They were, after all, never ones to take kindly to the laws of the Haven, and they seldom had eyes for anyone other than themselves or each other.

Artemus watched the two carefully, patiently… He was well past the point of concerning himself with his children’s safety, he knew damn well that Garrett and Erin would take care of each other…

The waiting nearly killed him however… The waiting and the watching.

Garrett was older than Erin by six or so years by Artemus’ best guess. He graduated from the Haven’s basic schooling program at eighteen(?) as most apprentices did, Erin was still buried beneath a few more years and at first, Garrett seemed content to wait for his sister…

At first…

Artemus tried his best to brace himself for the day he awoke to find his children missing, gone with the night. He could tell the two were growing restless within the halls of the Haven.

Despite Erin’s schooling and the job Garrett had secured for himself as a Rune Scribe to pass the years… It wasn’t enough...

Artemus tried to brace himself… He did…

But…

The evening Garrett and Erin came to his room in the dead of night, not yet a year after Garrett’s graduation, silent as ghosts, to press ginger kisses to his cheek and murmur the softest of goodbyes… Before they slunk off into the shadows.

Broke Artemus’ heart…

Artemus tried to be strong, stars knew he tried…

Artemus rose the very next morning with tears dried on his cheeks, his throat sore and chest hollow. He ate cooked and breakfast alone… It wasn’t exactly uncommon for him to eat alone in the morning, Erin had her dorm and main hall, Garrett had his own flat by then…

But the fact that he knew, he knew, that his was to be the first of many lonely mornings…

Artemus went about his day as best he could, desperately trying to distract himself from the absence his children created…

There would be no silent shadows passing him by with sly eyes and cheeky smiles that spoke of mischief. There would be no arms to wrap around his waist in surprise embraces as he set books back onto the library shelves…

Oh but the gnawing… Worry…

Artemus told himself that they would be fine. He told himself over and over throughout the first few days…

They had each other… They weren’t alone. They were survivors. They would be fine...

As the saying went.

You could take an animal from the wild.

But you could not take the wild from the animal.

It was a hollow comfort… But it was the only comfort Artemus found…

Chapter Text

The First Keeper, Orland, newly appointed to the position, was furious upon learning of Garrett and Erin’s desertion… To say the least.

The older man always had a vendetta against the two siblings, believing them too wild, too distractible and far too enthralled by their wicked pass times.

Though nearly everyone knew the only real reason behind his heated distaste for the two was because, as they were, Garrett and Erin were a packaged deal, you insult one, you insult both.

That was bad enough, but to slander Artemus, before the two no less?

Orland had dug his own grave, shit in his own bed, whatever have you. Garrett and Erin were only there to make sure he understood those facts.

The only thing that had kept the two safe from Keeper Orland’s wrath was Artemus, sweet, gentle Artemus who could soothe the ire of the bastardly old man with simple words, even when Keeper Orland was appointed the position of First Keeper, Artemus, somehow, kept him in line and most importantly away from his children.

With Garrett and Erin out of the Haven however… The blockade Artemus had carefully created, fell.

Upon hearing word of their desertion, Orland stretched his resources far and wide across the City to find the two thieves.

By his word, the Keeper Enforcers, the very group Artemus had so feared his children would join, rifled the City for weeks, searching for the two defectors tirelessly, day and night...

Artemus had never felt so helpless in his life, there he was, watching, waiting, listening, from the walls of the Haven, which had become uncomfortably prison-like, as his children were hunted like hounds in the streets above.

He had pled and begged Orland to spare his children, to, if not kill, merely return them to the Haven for discipline. Orland reminded the younger Keeper that the two thieves had the power to destroy everything the Keepers had worked up to…

Garrett and Erin were a threat to the Haven…

But they weren't!

Artemus knew they weren’t…

֍

For many moon cycles, Artemus wandered the halls of the Haven, listless and dreary… Waiting, just waiting for someone to tell him that his children had been struck dead…

The news never came… And by the dead of winter, everyone assumed that the two had perished of more natural means. The Enforcers were called off… And Artemus took to the streets.

“Surely your time would be better put elsewhere?” Keeper Deandy mused as he watched Artemus tug on a thick fur coat to count the dead.

Artemus offered no response as the first lash of frigid winter air raked its claws against his cheeks.

He counted the dead diligently, uncovering each and every corpse he came across, praying to whichever deity had the heart to listen that he wouldn’t find his children, stiff, cold and dead beneath the snow…

Artemus searched for Garrett and Erin all throughout the long winter seasons, and even when all bodies had been counted, he wandered more…

Stopping only once the thaw arrived and those unfortunate and damned to not survive were dragged, bloated and rancid with decay, from the streets...

Still, Artemus, despite his worry... Never believed for a moment that his children had perished that long winter.

The Haven held a small eulogy for the two come fist seeding to commemorate their lives and the talent lost to recklessness and greed.

Artemus never bothered attending.

He was busy tracking a rather suspicious chain of thefts out by the old Mill District...

Chapter Text

Looking back throughout the years, all those years…

Artemus would be lying if he said the lives of his children, his two thieves, hadn’t been riddled with twists and turns.

From the time he had first met Garrett, the young street rat who had attempted to pick his pockets on his way home, who held the brightest fire in his eyes, who dared to sink his teeth into a Keeper wrist...

Until that fateful winter where they met again. And Garrett, desperate, afraid, cold, so very cold, tucked himself to Artemus’ side and never quite left.

To the young girl hiding within a flooded cellar, resorting to scouring the muck and grime of the City, desperate for food, coin or clothing… Affection… Simply fighting to see the next sunrise, simply fighting to survive…

Before finally taking the hand offered to her.

Through the years they spent within the Haven, hidden beneath the welcoming safety of Artemus’ shadow, they learned, they lived, they thrived. And all the while, Artemus watched. Watched them grow, watched them survive...

Until finally, the Haven, a place of safety and learning, became too small for them and they realized that they couldn’t grow anymore, couldn’t call the Haven home anymore...

They assured Artemus that their decision to leave the Haven, leave his watchful shadow, leave the only home they knew… Was not made rashly. Hastily perhaps, but not rashly.

They were suffocating within the confines of the Haven, suffocating.

The Keepers had offered them much, and the two would be forever grateful, but it wasn’t enough to keep them…

Artemus tried not to take offence, he understood, truly he did. The Haven was no longer salvation, there was more out in the city streets, more out in the world…

But Artemus was of the Haven…

To leave the Haven was to leave Artemus.

And Artemus understood… He did.

His children needed to leave the Haven, leave Artemus…

Their return to the city, to the streets was not one of defeat, not of fear or desperation no. the lessons of the Haven were etched into their bones alongside the horrors of their youth.

Garrett and Erin’s return to the city, to the streets was of conquest.

A silent declaration of war.

They were no longer children, weak and afraid and hungry and cold.

They would be called monsters and myths, ghosts and wraiths, living shadows or daemons.

They would stalk the streets that once ruled them, and claim the absent throne for themselves.

They were well prepared, strong, swift silent, intelligent. They could survive the cruelties of the city, better yet they could thrive!

And it should not have been anywhere as much of a surprise to the thief siblings that their father would eventually and inevitably find them.

“Do you have any idea how worried I’ve been?” Artemus said softly, his voice on the verge of wavering as tears warmed his cheeks and dampened Garrett, his alive, so very alive, son’s shoulder.

“No note? No way to contact you two? Oh, I nearly died with concern.” Artemus scolded as he drew Erin, his daughter, close, tucking her head beneath his chin before he began to gently sway them back and forth.

“We’re fine Pa…” Garrett murmured quietly, sheepishly, as he watched Erin press her face into their Keeper’s throat, her shoulders shook as the front of Artemus’ cloak began to darken with tears.

“And how was I supposed to know that?” Artemus snapped, not cruelly, never cruelly. “Orland ordered your death you know. And there was nothing I could do to persuade him otherwise.”

Artemus pressed a firm kiss to the top of his daughter’s head, “I never lost faith in you two.” He said firmly, “I know that you would never allow yourselves to be caught…”

Artemus reached out to pull Garrett, his son, close, drawing the older thief into a tight hug alongside his sister. “But I worried… Stars was I worried.” Artemus sighed as he pressed a kiss to his son’s forehead.

“Never do something like this again. Please… I don’t think I could handle losing you two…”

The two bowed their heads, averting their eyes, Artemus held them firm, drawing them to his shoulders silently.

“I… I can’t expect you to return to the Haven…” He murmured softly once they, his children his! Stopped their soft weeping, “And I can’t force you to return either, that would be cruel…”

Artemus took a step back, keeping one hand on each of his children’s shoulders. “You two have grown so much… And I know that this.” He gestured vaguely to the cathedral attic he found himself in, “Is where you want to be.”

He smiled and huffed something ginger, “I’ve no idea why… But if it makes you two happy, I won’t discourage it…” The hands on the thieves’ shoulders moved up to cup their cheeks.

“I am so, so very proud of you two. It broke my heart that you decided to leave without saying goodbye, but stars know I would have done everything I could to have you stay…”

Artemus swallowed thickly as he looked between his children, “Please…” He whispered, “Write me, come visit, I know damn well that you two can sneak in and out of the Haven…”

Garrett and Erin, his children, his children! Chuckled at the statement before they moved to him again, burying their faces into his robes as they tucked themselves close.

“Don’t leave me like that again…” Artemus whispered delicately, “I know you don’t need me anymore… But please, don’t leave again… Not like that.”

“Thought you’d be upset…” Erin mumbled into Artemus’ shoulder, “Oh I was, I was Erin… I was so upset that you’d think to leave me in the dead of night. But you know me… You know I could never stay mad at you…”

“We’re sorry, pappy… So sorry.”

Artemus sighed, “I know Erin… I know…”

The Keeper stepped back once more to smile before he turned to settle himself atop an evidently well laid in nest of blankets, he patted the spaces beside himself.

“Now… Tears aside, tell me everything, what have you two been up to? How was your first winter outside the Haven?”

Erin’s bout of laughter was accompanied by a sob as she rushed to her Keeper’s side, pressing herself beneath his arms as she began to delve into the wild and wonderous adventures she and Garrett had been on.

Another weight appeared against Artemus’ opposite side as Garrett settled beside the Keeper to listen to his sister.

The three sat in the candlelight of Garrett and Erin’s hideout until the early hours of dawn, talking among themselves in hushed whispers until Erin’s voice drew quiet and her eyes heavy.

“I love you both…” Artemus whispered softly as he drew the duvet Garrett had most definitely stolen from some estate over Erin’s shoulder, pressing a final kiss to her forehead as she finally nodded off to sleep.

“You’ll look after your sister, won’t you?” Artemus asked softly as he ran a hand through Garrett’s hair, soothing the unruly raven locks as the elder thief curled close to his sister.

“I always have.” Garrett replied quietly as he leaned into his father’s hand.

“And you’ll come visit me? You won’t stay away?”

Garrett nodded again, “We will, Pa, I promise…”

Artemus pressed a kiss to Garrett’s forehead, the elder thief didn’t even flinch away from the contact.

“I love you both.” Artemus repeated firmly.

“We love you too.” Erin mumbled against Garrett’s chest, “Now either come to bed or get out.”

Artemus merely laughed.

His children were safe.

His children were alive…

And he was so, so, so very proud of them.

Chapter Text

Some years after Garrett and Erin had fled the Haven there was an… Accident...

Artemus had long since come to understand his children’s need for freedom. He was no longer bitter over their departure, though he worried (constantly Garrett would say) the average amount for any doting parent, he wouldn’t be the one to cage his children in a gilded prison…

No, he’d watch them soar, and he'd be there to catch them should they fall, just as any loving father would…

Despite his children’s insistence that they were fine, that they were careful, that he didn’t need to worry… He did… And he was right to.

The whispers of revolution which had first crawled and squirmed through the city gutters like maggots within a bloated corpse, had been steadily growing over the years, evolving wings to break free of the festering decay, sparking courage and bravery in the lowest of the common folk.

And as demands for change, for equality began to rise in the streets, taking flight in the form of countless voices, the Baron, sheltered high above the city in his grand estate, turned his ears away.

֍

Garrett came to Artemus one day, unprompted. 

It had been three years since the two had let the Haven at this point, and yes, the two visited Artemus often, but each visit would be preluded by a letter.

The thieves never just dropped in unless…

Artemus suddenly found himself very worried upon finding Garrett, only Garrett, seated at his kitchen table.

The only time one of the thieves had ever dropped by for a visit without warning was when Erin had failed to cross an alley.

Something had gone awry, to say the least, and the younger thief had suffered a broken leg and a shattered wrist as a result, Garrett had been able to get his sister to safety, but he was no doctor. 

At Erin’s insistence, Garrett left her to seek out their Keeper on his own. 

Artemus of course sent his aid, damning the fact that Garrett had approached him in the middle of a meeting with Keeper Sovel, a rather nosey Scribe who immediately sought out Orland to inform him of what he had seen.

Regardless of the peril he faced with his name under scrutiny within the Haven, Artemus worked endlessly to repair his daughter’s broken bones, staying with the two thieves in their newest hideout until Erin was good as new.

Luckily, Artemus was welcomed back into the Haven some weeks later, partly due to popular demand, and partly due to a compromise between Orland and the two thieves, on the thieves’ behalves for their Keeper.

Artemus didn’t particularly enjoy the fact that his children more or less willingly struck a deal with the First Keeper to keep him out of trouble, but he was grateful.

The compromise, Artemus would come to learn, basically enabled the two thieves free reign of the city so long as the Haven could utilize their services in times of strife, granted they were willing to pay.

Artemus found it odd that Orland would agree to such a trivial bargain, the Enforcement Unit was more than apt at dealing with such tasks. Something was afoot, Artemus wasn’t sure what exactly… And he didn’t like it…

Still, the deal allowed Artemus to see his children more often than before, whenever the Haven had a mission for the two thieves, it was always he who went to negotiate their terms.

Their most recent task was a long term endeavor. The thieves were tasked with collecting information regarding the rising rumors of the most recent revolution and they, Artemus, Garrett and Erin, would meet once a week to discuss the thieves’ findings over tea. 

The revolution, according to the thieves, was not yet collected enough to even begin thinking about taking to the streets. The ideas and motivations were there, but the city had yet recovered from the previous revolution to dye the streets red…

Artemus and his thieves had last seen one another Saturday evening, hardly three days ago, so to see Garrett anxiously sat at his table, alone, without Erin…

Meant that this visit pertained to something either incredibly important...

Or very, very bad.

Chapter Text

What Garrett came to Artemus for was… Concerning to say the least.

“Erin killed someone tonight…” The elder thief murmured quietly into his teacup, his expression was stoic though Artemus could see the emotions rolling about his son's eyes.

“We snuck into a rendezvous between some commoners interested in the revolution and one of the lower rungs." The thief stated before going into a simple debrief as Orland always demanded.

"His name was Mithrin, he worked as a tailor before a riot burned down his house and livelihood, he's been getting by on what little coin he can scrounge up and thinks the revolution is the only option he has... They’ve claimed the name, ‘Graven Dawn’.” Garrett said softly, absentmindedly.

"I'll inform Orland." Artemus assured his son gently, patiently waiting for Garrett to continue onto the real issue at hand.

“Erin wanted to split up." Garrett sighed after a pause, "Which I thought was weird… She said something about reading the documents they had out on the table which we didn’t really need because they were discussing them out loud and the risk always outweighed the reward, and you know that it's always better to let the opposition think they have the upper hand…"

Garrett's wrist trembled slightly as he rose his cup to his lips again.

"But it was a small building, so I agreed…”

The elder thief paused, quiet and thoughtful before he shifted to retrieve some scraps of documents from somewhere hidden on his person, he set them down on the table with revered melancholy…

There was blood on the parchment...

“I heard a noise… Right above my head, on the floor above me...” Garrett continued softly, “It was this kind of thump, but heavy… And then this gurgle…” The thief shuddered, nearly violently as he bowed his head low, staring intently into his cup as if to hide from Artemus' judgement…

“I found Erin standing over this dead man… His throat was slit and he was still bleeding, still twitching and Erin… Erin was just standing there…” Artemus rose from the table to settle his hand at Garrett’s shoulder, offering a silent comfort as Garrett continued to murmur his tale.

“At first I thought she had been attacked.” He admitted softly, “Why else would she… Do that?” Garrett’s voice faltered then as an abrupt sob tore through his throat.

“But she wasn’t… She wasn’t hurt or anything… She was just standing there, she wasn’t even looking at the dead man Pa… She was looking at his ring.”

Artemus cooed softly into Garrett’s hair as he pulled his son close to his chest.

“When I confronted her she seemed… Nervous, like the kind of nervous she gets when she does something wrong and she knows it was wrong but she did it anyways…” Artemus nodded slowly.

“She told me that she wasn’t hurt, that it was an accident, that she was sorry…” Garrett curled further into himself, “I went through some of the files she’d been collecting... I know I shouldn’t have but she wasn’t acting right, Pa… She wasn’t.”

There was a long, uncomfortable pause once Garrett actually broke down and began to cry. Garrett had only cried, as far as Artemus knew, thrice before.

When Artemus finally took him to the Haven, carrying him through that cold winter night bundled beneath his cloak.

The night he and Erin slipped away.

And the night Artemus found his wayward children once more…

“Erin’s been… Erin’s been taking blood coin Pa, she’s been taking blood coin and I… I don’t know what to do.”

Artemus didn’t know either…

Between Garrett and Erin… Erin had always seemed more angry, more resentful. Garrett couldn’t hold a grudge to save his life, he could and would remember, forever if need be, but he was professional enough not to act out against his enemies…

But Erin?

Erin could still recall the origin of each and every scar on her body…

Erin was wrath and anger and fear and hate and…

Erin was loyalty… Erin was compassion and adoration.

“Erin loves you Garrett.” Artemus murmured softly into his son’s hair, “Erin loves you, she’s loved you since she first met you… There is never a good reason to take another life, but you can trust that Erin would never hurt you.”

Garrett jerked away from his father.

“I know Erin would never hurt me!” He seethed, “She’s! She’s my sister, Pa! Your daughter! She loves us!”

Artemus gently tugged Garrett back to his side.

“She has blood on her hands…” The Keeper murmured softly.

Garrett nodded.

“She… I don’t know how much blood is on her hands, I don’t want to know how much blood is on her hands…” Garrett whispered. “I don’t know when she started accepting blood coin or how she began…”

“Are you upset with Erin?” Artemus asked quietly as his hand began to run over his son’s spine.

“I don’t…” Garrett mumbled tightly, “I don’t know.” He concluded, “I don’t want her to kill people, Pa… I don’t want…” Artemus sighed as he tucked Garrett’s head beneath his chin, cradling the thief close.

“You remember what I asked of you in the cathedral attic?” He asked softly.

“To always take care of Erin…” Garrett replied quietly, Artemus nodded.

“Do you still love your sister?” The Keeper asked as the thief’s arms came to loop around his waist. “Of course…” Garrett whispered, “She’s my sister…”

Artemus ran his hand through his son’s hair, gently tilting Garrett’s head back before his palm settled against the thief’s cheek.

“Will you still take care of her?” Artemus hummed, Garrett leaned into the palm as he mumbled a quiet, “As best I can.” Artemus nodded as his other hand came to rest at Garrett’s cheek as well until he was cradling his son’s head.

“This path Erin has chosen is her choice Garrett, I need you to remember that.” The Keeper said simply, “We learn from our choices, good and bad, just because Erin is choosing something that you and I don’t necessarily agree with, it does not mean she is any less my daughter or your sister.”

Artemus looked between his son’s eyes.

“No matter what… Do you understand?”

Garrett nodded firmly.

“Be there for her.” Artemus emphasized, “Keep her safe, talk to her, but don’t try to force her into following you, let her come to you.”

The Keeper smiled, small and fragile.

“And she will come to you Garrett… Just give her time.”

Chapter Text

Erin never came to Garrett… Or at least not in the way Artemus expected her too.

Garrett remained faithful to his sister, staying by her side, inviting her out with him in the night, offering his hand, shoulder, whatever she may need…

But with every offer, Erin strayed further and further from her brother...

And, with time, she began to stray from her father too...

The weekly tea the three would have soon became Erin joining them every other week... And then once a month... Until it was only Artemus and Garrett meeting...

There was a tension to Garrett, a dangerous kid of anxiety that had felled many thieves before him, Artemus did what he could to try and soothe his son's restless mind, but the Keeper couldn't help but feel... Powerless...

Especially when Garrett's newfound instability brought forth vicious bouts of emotion Garrett had never dealt with before.

Garrett had been beaten down by the world so brutally that, even with all the years of love and support Artemus has offered him, he still preferred to keep his heart tucked close to his chest where he knew it would be safe.

But then Erin had managed to worm her way into his chest and seat herself right alongside his heart..

And now... She was brutally tearing her brother apart...

The fifth time Artemus saw Garrett cry was when his son came to him, alone again as he always seemed to those days...

Things had started simply enough, Artemus was setting up the kettle while Garrett rummaged through his cupboards, snatching some biscuits or whatever caught his fancy to nibble on...

Garrett seemed far more... Subdued, that day, Garrett was always a quiet one, but there was a difference between being quiet and subdued... Artemus tried to coax his son into conversation, asking Garrett about anything interesting he had done since they had last seen one another, asking about any noteworthy jobs or... Anything really...

But Garrett's answers were short and cagy, at most a few words...

When the tea was boiled and biscuits set out, Artemus finally asked the dreaded question...

"What happened?"

Garrett remained silently for a moment, staring down into his tea before he spoke, his words quiet and delicate like china shattered on the ground...

“Erin wants to leave me.”

Artemus had already see that the two thieves were growing apart day after day, with Erin seemingly determined to untangle herself from the comfortable cocoon she and her brother had built together while Garrett desperately tried to repair the frayed ends... And all Artemus found himself able to do was watch, helpless in the Haven as he was.

Garrett tried to fix what Erin had left undone... He tried so very hard... But when his efforts to fix, to repair, were time and time again thwarted and rejected... His desperation bled into frustration.

It was both a relief, and a heart wrenching thing to see Garrett throw what little remained to the wayside... But the act of cutting loose something vile and sick, like an infected limb, or a twisted adoration was sadly rewarding in it's own way.

Garrett never truly turned his back on his sister however... He couldn't, he wouldn't...

But it was clear he was no longer interested in chasing her.

Instead, Garrett found himself to delving deeper and deeper into the shadows of the Eternal City, first becoming a myth, then legend. A thing spoken of in hushed whispers, a thing of shadow, unseen and unknown but felt across the city…

He still payed Artemus his weekly visits, talking and drinking tea, discussing the ‘Graven Dawn’ and their growing influence across the underbelly of the city...

Ever desperate to fill the void of purpose Erin had left in him...

Erin on the other hand…

It hurt, greatly, to think of Erin… To speak of Erin...

To think of the young, sweet girl who used to, along with her brother, cling to Artemus’ knees as he walked through the halls of the Haven and hide beneath his cloak to avoid their teachers.

To think of… Of just how heartbroken she looked to her father as Artemus shied from her bloody touch some stray night when they ran into one other, the Keeper out to rendezvous with his son at Garrett’s new hideout.

And she, with her blade drawn, out on the hunt.

“Oh Erin… Oh Erin, what have you done?”

“Pappy, I-”

“Where did I go wrong?”

Erin. Daughter, thief, assassin. Choked on a sob, a delicate little sound of anguish that hurt Artemus more than any blade could as she staggered back from her father.

“I’m sorry… I’m so sorry, pappy…”

֍֍֍

It was shy of two years before Garrett properly spoke to his sister again. 

He had seen her about the city, of course he had, he was a responsible older brother, he kept tabs on her… But they never spoke… Not really. 

Erin avoided him whenever she could, he and their father... 

And it hurt.

It hurt so incredibly much that Erin would abandon them so easily.

“You two both left me, remember…” Artemus pointed out as he ran his thumbs over Garrett’s cheeks, drying his sons tears as best he could. It was Erin’s naming day, the day she first arrived in the Haven…

The day Garrett had first met his little sister…

The day they had celebrated together since the very first time they had met...

Only Erin wasn’t there.

She came last year, nervous and shy, as if she wasn’t sure she’d be welcomed. Of course she was, “You’re always welcome home Erin, never, never doubt that!”

But she wasn’t there this year...

“But you found us.” Garrett hissed through clenched teeth, “Y-you found us.” He repeated.

“And you let me.” Artemus whispered, “You let me find you Garrett, you let me back into your life and if Erin…” Artemus took a shaky breath.

“If Erin does not want to be found… Then we cannot keep chasing her…”

It was the solemn truth...

Garrett still saw Erin from time to time, always at a distance, always alone… He never gave chase, never called out, never purposely tried to cross their paths… No matter how tempting. 

It wasn’t until Basso, an old friend from Garrett and Erin’s thieving days, began to meddle that the siblings were more or less reunited.

Artemus had met Basso exactly twice. The first time to see just who exactly the boxman his children chattered about so regularly, was. 

And the second to see if he knew anything of Erin…

Well the first time Artemus met the man he screamed and cursed Artemus out on the spot, nearly threw a wrench at the Keeper before he recovered from his brief bout of panic he suffered after Artemus had supposedly emerged from nowhere.

“So yer the one who taught those bloody thieves that giving their frends hart attacks was alrite!”

Basso was a younger man, well, younger than Artemus, but at least seven years Garrett’s senior, he was surprisingly healthy, well dressed for a commoner and friendly enough.

The boxman spoke of the siblings fondly and highly of their talents, though he made sure to mention their habit of scaring him half to death every time they came by for a visit or job, and despite the boxman’s obvious irritation towards the siblings, he spoke of them with the same air of annoyance Artemus would expect from a far older brother or close cousin.

The second time Artemus had reached out to the boxman was when Garrett first confessed to seeing blood on his sister’s hands… Basso admitted that yes, he had given the younger woman some… Alternative jobs.

“She requested them.” The boxman said, “I jus let ‘er take ‘em, no questions asked, jus as I would ‘ave wit’ anyone else.”

And that was that, neither Artemus or Garrett could really fault the boxman, he was a simple black-market businessman and Erin, they were forced to remember, was a near grown woman, she could make her own decisions…

Still, the newly formed and growing rift between the two siblings was cause for enough concern that Basso as both their friend and employer, decided to intervene…

Chapter Text

It was supposed to be a simple job.

Sneak into the Northcrest Mansion, find a very specific artifact, Basso said that his client’s description was literally, “You’ll know it when you see it.” As if that would help any.

Steal said artifact, sneak out of the mansion and return to Basso by dawn.

Easy right?

Garrett could have done it alone of that he had no doubt, but the last two words in the description brought the thief to an unfortunate pause... Northcrest Mansion was massive, it could take days to search every nook of the place, yet the client wanted the stone by dawn... He was willing to pay more than handsomely for such a tedious request sure…

But that still didn't make it feasibly possible for a single thief...

“If you can think of anyone willing to help, you could drag them along.” Basso suggested from his workbench as he looked over to Garrett, clad in his thief garb, still as a statue, dark as a shadow, silent as a tomb.

“I work alone…” The thief replied simply.

The Boxman huffed, “Well what about that sister of yours?” He tried to suggest casually.

Garrett looked over to the fence at that, eyes narrowed slightly, “Basso.” His tone was low with warning.

He had wept to the Boxman about his predicament with Erin, and he knew Artemus had paid Basso a visit regarding Erin... Basso knew that Erin was a painfully sore spot for Garrett...

But Garrett knew that Basso would have a good reason for treading so close to something so sensitive...

“Look Garrett," Basso sighed, "this is the largest gig I’ve found in a damn while, the shared cut alone would be enough to keep me afloat for years."

Garrett frowned at that, "Thief Taker?" He asked sourly, Basso groaned and nodded, "You heard about his new 'Blacktax' for fences?" Basso asked quietly.

Garrett pursed his lips and nodded slowly, he had heard of the new tax, a way for the watch to keep the city underbelly on a tighter leash.

"I need this jig to go through Garrett." Basso grumbled softly, "I offered you this jig because you're here, and because I know that out of all the blackhands in this damn hole, you're the one I personally have the most faith in actually finding this thing."

"How many thieves do you have working this job?" Garrett asked slowly.

"Three other groups of two." The Boxman admitted.

"Basso..." Garrett chided coolly.

"Yes, I know it's a bad call to send so many thieves to one jig, but Garrett, we all need this right now, and besides, you're not the only person out there willing to take on the Northcrest guards.” Basso huffed bitterly.

A tense silence settled between the two before Basso groaned and raised a hand to pinch his brow.

"Look," He sighed, "you can say no if you want, I just thought you'd be interested to know that besides the extra thieves... I managed to rope in an assassin willing to dabble back into the blackhand business to cop some extra coin.”

Basso could see the thief’s eyes widen.

“If your interested, I’m having the rouge meet her partner out by Auldale.”

Garrett left without a word.

He didn’t return the parchment to Basso.

Chapter Text

They met on a rooftop some streets outside the perimeter of the Northcrest estate.

Garrett arrived first, taking refuge in the attic as he waited… He was silent in his patience, the attic crammed with caged magpies and he didn’t fancy alerting the homeowners below.

Not that it mattered when someone ran across the roof a mere half hour after Garrett had settled himself down to wait, the way they ran made Garrett suspect that this was either their first time on the thieves' highway, or they were purposefully intending to make as much noise as physically possible.

They paused just at the edge, overlooking the street. A precarious position, especially considering night had yet to fall.

Garrett scowled as he slunk from the attic through a window, fully intending to spook the novice roof runner, perhaps run him out of the profession before the idiot got himself killed.

… Only it wasn’t some novice roof runner Garrett found on the edge of the roof…

It was Erin.

Garrett stared at his sister, despite not being able to see her face, her back was to him… He knew it was her…

But that just begged the question of, what had happened? 

The Haven had taught them how to walk without sound, how to move with the wind and through the shadows… And the streets had taught them why.

Yet, here was Erin… Disregarding everything she had learned…

Garrett could only stare at his sister… Silent, awed, confused.

It took him far too long to find his voice, let along the right words…

“I’ve missed you.” He said softly into the silence between them, once he was sure his voice would hold steady.

Hollow… Disappointment settled in his chest as Erin flinched and turned in surprise.

How had she not known he was there? She always knew he was there…

“Pa has too…” Garrett continued, “You missed your name day you know…”

Erin swallowed thickly, shifting her weight nervously from one leg to the other. “You never came after me.” She pointed out, her voice just as soft, if not heated and fragile, as Garrett recalled, though he could tell she wanted to sound cold, but her voice trembled ever so slightly in her throat as she spoke.

“Pa said to give you space.” Garrett replied slowly, “I didn’t want to… I missed you, but he kept insisting that this was your choice.”

Erin heaved such a heavy sigh her shoulders slumped into the motion. 

“I’ve… I’ve missed you too…” She admitted quietly as she slowly began to approach her brother.

Garrett quickly tucked his sister’s head beneath his chin once she drew close enough, marveling at how familiar and warm she was against him… It had been so long since he had held his sister…

Standing there with her, Garrett allowed himself, if only briefly, to forget the past few years.

Erin arms looped around his waist as she pressed her face into his throat, Garrett shuddered. He didn’t want to let go, not ever… He had missed his sister horribly… He didn’t want to see her gone again, never again…

He buried his nose in her hair and stole a breath.

The still lingering scent of blood coiling around her sent the elder thief’s stomach churning.

Garrett stepped away from his sister, perhaps a touch too quickly if the brief look of hurt Erin offered him was anything to go by.

Things were different now. Painfully different.

Garrett had missed her, missed her like a lost limb, if Garrett could he would have abandoned the mission to drag his wayward sister back to the Haven, back to Artemus so their Pa could talk some sense into her...

And after that? After that, Garrett would never leave her alone, ever. He'd fix their bond, he'd fix everything so Erin would never leave again, and they could go back to how things were before and-

Garrett knew that was wishful thinking...

Because now, whenever Garrett looked between his sister's eyes, he could only imagine her red and warm with gore...

Garrett offered his sister a smiled, a hollow smile, a sad smile… A smile that could never reach his eyes...

A smile Erin could see crumbling at the foundation as her brother extended an olive branch...

“How about you show me what you’ve learned these past few years?”

Chapter Text

The heist began differently than all the others they had been on together.

Garrett was used to leading, to taking charge, Garrett was used to being the first to assess the path, to point out dangers and give warning of nearby threats.

Garrett was used to having a shadow… Garrett was used to Erin being his shadow, safe behind him.

But that eve, it was Erin to take the lead, in a manner of speaking that is.

She went on ahead yes, but she wasn’t taking charge. She would hardly pause to assess their path, she wouldn’t breathe or so much gesture to potential dangers to her partner, to Garrett, to her brother. 

She would run off a ways ahead of Garrett, threats be damned, without so much as slowing or pausing to ensure her brother was following.

Of course Garrett was following.

Following and desperately trying to bury the knots of worry and anxiety settling in his gut because he and Erin quickly fell into the familiar routines they had shared years ago. 

Silently mirroring one another in the glow of the moon…

Because everything was so painfully familiar and Garrett didn’t want to lose Erin, his sister, again… So he sucked it up, buried his fear and kept going... 

But everything felt different… Wrong and different.

Different and dangerous.

Erin’s newfound recklessness was troubling, she would blindly run ahead, disappear into the shadows time and time again, leaving Garrett behind and alone and worried until she would call to him and he would follow her again.

Gone were silent strides, Erin was still quiet thank the night but she wasn’t silent, not like Garrett, not like how she used to be. It tripped Garrett up constantly, to unexpectedly hear footsteps, quiet footsteps, sneaking footsteps, approach behind him as if someone were following him only to find… Erin.

And that wasn’t the only thing about the younger thief to change…

Garrett and Erin had a connection of sorts when they were young. A silent line tethered them together, tying and intertwining them so perfectly that Garrett could know, simply know, where exactly Erin was, no matter the distance. 

There were no barriers between them then, there was only them.

Words became obsolete when alone, they had no use for such things when they could always know with a mere glance what the other was thinking.

At times, Garrett could swear he heard Erin’s voice in the back of his mind.

Artemus didn’t understand their connection, but he loved them all the same.

Their connection changed as they grew, new barriers came to separate them from time to time, but it , whatever it was, never wavered…

It took Garrett perhaps a bit too long to realize that Erin could no longer feel him through it.

He could feel her, of course he could feel her, how could he not feel her?

For Garrett, knowing Erin was as easy as breathing. 

It had never, ever occurred to him that she, his sister… Would, or could break whatever it was between them… Yet somehow that was exactly what had happened…

Garrett had never thought it could break… And yet it had, and Garrett knew it had, because Erin could no longer feel him…

And then she killed a watchman right before him...

Oh Erin… Oh Erin, what have you done?

Garrett wanted to call off the heist then and there, he couldn’t focus, he couldn’t think straight, he couldn’t stand the sight of blood from the young watchman she had bludgeoned on his sisters hands.

“He was hardly older than you!”

 Couldn’t stand the look Erin was giving him.

“Fine, go home, I’ll finish the heist myself!

Garrett couldn’t simply let her, he couldn’t. He couldn't lose her, not again.

So he swallowed his worry, his hurt, his panic and nicked what his sister called her ‘claw’ right from her belt before following her into the night.

Fury and recklessness fueled his sister’s movements as she ran across the thieves’ highway, leaping across alleys with deceptively graceful carelessness.

They stopped again atop the eastern wing of the Northcrest estate.

Erin snapped and snarled at her brother as Garrett grabbed her by the shoulders and forced her to face him.

“I’m worried about you Erin… You’re scaring me.”

“Well don’t be! I’m strong now! I don’t need you!”

The younger sibling wrenched herself away from her brother before taking off across the rooftop again, Garrett watched for a moment before moving to trail after his sister.

They spoke little thereafter as they peered down into the estate from above, looking for a way into some quiet room to begin their search… 

But the estate was packed full of guards and people and…

Something was wrong…

“We should go…”

“What? You doving out now? C’mon Garrett, I thought you were the Master Thief.”

“This is dangerous Erin.”

“Yea and? Every job in this damn place is dangerous Garrett.”

“No Erin. We need to go. Now.”   

Erin refused, Garrett insisted 

The two began to squabble, loud and angry on Erin’s half, atop the roof of the mansion they were supposed to be breaking into, atop the roof of the mansion hosting nearly every guard the city had to offer…

Their argument was disturbed by a… Lustrous glow emanating from a norther wing.

They looked between one another.

Garrett shook his head firmly.

Erin turned and ran.

The rest of that night was a blur…

Garrett could vaguely recall trying desperately to convince Erin one last time that this wasn’t right, that there was something wrong that they needed to go, but Erin didn’t listen.

Their argument turned violent atop the Northern Ceremony room of the Northcrest Manson. Erin attacked Garrett out of anger, Garrett struck Erin out of fear and then…

The world began to quake, violent and afraid. The very foundation of the ancient estate began to splinter with the ferocity of the earth’s screams.

It was dangerous and Garrett was afraid, he wanted to leave but he couldn’t leave Erin. 

Erin who was so angry so… Wounded by hurt. Erin who refused to leave.

Erin who was so desperate to prove herself she damned everything she had ever learned to pursue a most meaningless prize.

A window broke. Garrett was afraid, but without hesitation he flung himself into peril, finding himself hanging over a room filled with vibrant light and smoke, the smell of the sea and ozone.

Erin was holding his hand tightly as she dangled over the gaping void below. Her voice high and terrified, eyes alight with blistering fear.

“Garrett! I’m slipping!”

Nonononono.

He couldn’t lose her, not again, please, not again.

“Garrett! Throw me the claw!”

Oh, he tried, truly he did, but the glass was splintering beneath his belly and the claw was just out of reach.

The world roared, high and angry, as if awakening from a most vicious nightmare as it shook and thrashed around them.

And then her hand was gone.

Garrett could only watch, helpless as his sister fell into that swirling abyss, her voice, her scream, rising high above the deafening cries of the massive, unseen beast circling within the haze of blue.

The glass below Garrett shuddered one last time before he too found himself weightless. The claw found its way into his hand, when or how he grabbed it he wasn’t sure, but it saved him from joining his sister… 

The light was blinding.

The screams were deafening.

The cold burning.  

And Garrett was falling. 

And …

All Garrett knew was that something horrible had happened...

Chapter Text

The Eternal City was built upon generations of toil, blood and stories.

Many of those old as time stories died with the people who swore them true, but within certain underbellies of the City, some few, delicate myths still slipped from mouth to ear, surviving only as hushed whispers, passed between those desperate to be heard and those very few who were interested in listening.

Garrett had learned them all.

Each and every legend or myth the city had to offer, Garrett found. It was a hobby of his, one of the few that didn't feed into his profession, save or the fact that he would spend many hours seated just above the heads of the oldest, wizened beggars to listen to the stories they spun disguised as off ramblings.

Oh and did he listen.

Garrett has a special place in his soul for legends and lore of old, it was one of the reasons he had loved his Ancient Histories lessons with Keeper Vairia while he was enrolled in the Haven's mentoring program.

And his love for lore was the only reason why Ancient Histories was the only class Garrett had perfect attendance in.    

The Ancient History lessons spoke of old, long dead civilizations, of creeds and mysteries of the past, of lost treasures and riches, Keeper Vairia, the teacher of the course, kept a close eye on young Garrett whenever he gave such fantastical lectures as they were the young boy’s favorites and the early signs of his future profession were well into development.

However, with every long dead civilization Keeper Vairia introduced, he also made a point to discuss the beliefs and religions which died alongside its people...

And of their dead gods…

And of gods... 

Garrett’s fondest memory of those history lectures was when Keeper Vairia spent a solid month speaking of an age, a time, countless lives ago where the world was stagnant and never ending.

He described the world then as a barren paradise, full and lush with life, were existence permeated unchallenged and people lived motivationless, desireless, hollow lives.

That is until the first incarnation of life, fell in love with death.

Together, they bore change, a child, human and true, as beautiful as his mother, with eyes as green as the sea and the tide he so truly loved.

The mythos went on to describe how the child of change brought about a new era, an era of beginnings and endings, where death was no longer merely a new beginning, but rather a true, finite end.

The world continued. People evolved, forced from their purposeless stagnation lest their bodies wither away with the newly flowing times.

Life and change and death continued.

 And then the precious child was wrenched from his mother’s arms to become a god.

"People were greedy", Keeper Vairia said, "Greedy and desperate, especially in their times of strife."

“A war broke out across the old land. The rivers flooded with blood of the dead, and in desperate haste, an old clan from the north turned to the child of change and saw a means of control.” Keeper Vairia explained.

“They believed that, if they could somehow control the child, they could control the outcome of the war, that they could change the outcome. They believed that to control the child was to control change.”

Certain parts of the legend were lost to time or tongues, such as the actual happenings of the ritual. 

But other parts remained true and clear. 

It was a known fact that the newly created infant god that ancient clan sought to appease all those times ago, damned them.

Garrett found that specific myth both fascinating and incredibly annoying. It was bizarre to think that gods could be simply created, that any individual could simply be ascended to some other plane of existence and given dominion…

Garrett at the time firmly believed that the old gods were supposed to be of divinity and awe, to govern such unfathomable forces like life, or death or change must mean that you were of reckonable might, worthy of your title and worship. 

However, Garrett quickly came to learn that the god that the northern clan had created all those millennia ago was far more annoying than divine, and if he could, Garrett would have gladly ensure that the ritual either failed outright or never occurred at all…

The Leviathan laughed at young Garrett’s remark when he had seen fit to drag Garrett into his realm one eve.

"I will not lie to you little thiefling." The young god hummed through dead blue lips, his too sharp teeth clicking behind his smile, making Garrett, in that moment, never feel more like a thing of prey...

"My eyes have rarely strayed to your plight... So often do your kind, little thiefling, vie for my attention, despite how terribly dull you all are with your simple desires, you vie for my boon... Except for you, little thiefling... Tell me, why is that?"

Garrett had few answers at the time, too awed by the young god, too overwhelmed by the lore and myths surrounding the character before him.

Garrett never got the chance to answer the Leviathan's question before the young god leaned close and smiled wide enough for Garrett to count every single too sharp, too many, teeth the young god hid just behind his dead lips.

Garrett could see his reflection in the young god's eyes, he couldn't see any indication of a pupil in the Leviathan's abysmal eyes... But the ancient and fathomless weight of the young god's gaze bore down upon Garrett's shoulders, leaving no question as to where the god was looking...

And when he finally spoke, the Leviathan's breath reeked of decay and sea water.

"You bore me little thiefling, you bore me miserably..."

A cold, dead hand settled at Garrett's arm, squeezing his shoulder as the young god grinned down at him.

"The tides of the coming storm are in neither of our favors Garrett. We will meet again."

Another thing Keeper Vairia taught was the fact that history had a habit of repeating itself, regardless of the people who had learned from their past mistakes.

"Some people say that time is like a river, ever flowing onward, never stopping, and in some ways, that is accurate." Keeper Vairia had said during one of his many lectures.

"But other people argue that time is like the tide, rising and falling in endless tangent with the sea, rather than simply flowing onward. We Keepers find this to be a better representation for the sole reason that, on the rarest of occasions, the waves of the sea will overlap so perfectly with a previous swell of water that is seem as though it is repeating itself... Likewise, history may seem repetitive for the exact same reasons."

The Eternal City had a long and brutal history of civil wars, where by the people would attempt to rise up against the ruling Northcrest line and take the city back from the tyrannical clutches of corruption, or something else wordy and poetic, over and over, in time with the rolling waves of the tide.

Garrett however, never thought that he would live through such a thing…

He should have seen it coming.

Should have seen it coming for years...

The Haven's History spoke of another group hidden within the city, fully separated from the Haven, residing in the shadows, sometimes dwindling on the very edge of existence, sometimes making a name for themselves in whatever way they could.

They were harbingers of change and war.

And during Garrett's life, they had claimed the name the Graven Dawn.

Garrett and Erin, after they had defected from the Haven, had been tasked with keeping an eye and ear out for the so called Graven Dawn by Artemus, which they did dutifully, though their father offered them little in the way of purpose behind the task.

Arguably, neither the Haven or Artemus knew very much of the Graven Dawn, histories spoke of the horrors they bred and the fires they fueled. But unlike any other group to rise and fall within the city, they were constantly on the fringes of the city, evolving alongside her without ever fully integrating or holding to any past virtues.

It made tracking the cult difficult during its years of dormancy, and those years of dormancy could span mere seasons or decades.

All the Haven knew was that, unless the cult mobilized, they were of little to no threat to the Haven, and likewise, Artemus believed them to be of little worry to Garrett and Erin…

Until they were.

See, the Haven was not the only body within the city to concern itself with things such as the repeating histories of the Eternal City, they were merely the first and arguable the most diligent when it came to the recordings of said events.

The Northcrest family, however pitiful few remained, would, as they always did, eventually catch onto the festering wrath boiling in the shadows of the city below, and so they would also begin to worry over each whisper to creep through the streets they claimed to own.

The city was still in shambles from the last war, a civil war, because no one wanted the city. The people were scared and hungry yes, but complacent, there had been far worse times than these and the people knew that…

But if offered something more? Oh they would claw and crawl to it desperately as if it were salvation itself. 

And who, of course, would take the brunt of the blame for the sorry state the city found herself in?

The Northcrests would not survive another civil war...

And that fear, the same fear that brought those ancient kin to cast a mere child into godhood, made way for haste.

And in that haste, the Baron Northcrest decided to once again, as his ilk had done so before him, seek control over the child of change.

However, the Barons means to seek control were very much unlike those before him, impossibly so.

Rather than attempting to appease the god for favor or attempt to control the god by what little force mere mortal men are capable of.

The Baron sought to snatch power straight from the god.

Chapter Text

The eve of the heist, unbeknownst to Garrett and Erin, was the night of a most profane ritual.

A vesper designed to curb the will of nature and seize the most ancient power of the Leviathan, the balance of the primordial sea itself, shielded from humanity for centuries by god and guardians alike.

A ritual that Garrett and Erin had accidentally interrupted upon their literal breaking into the manor.

Resulting in that fragile balance to falter when the ceremony became violent with the introduction of the uninvited thieves.

There were many remnants of the olde rituals scattered across the city, entwined with the lore carved into the very stone the city was built upon, and the most ancient of artifacts hidden within the dankest depths of the city, shrouded from sightless eyes by mystery and myth.

Unless you knew where to look.

The Keepers coveted many of these treasures in the safety of their vaults, far below the lustrous halls of the Haven, and even deeper beneath the streets of the city.

Many of the treasures kept in the vaults were so ancient and fragile that even thinking about relocating, let alone examining a piece could have it withering away into dust.

Other pieces were so priceless that should their existence come to light, the already fragile state of the world would unravel as greed would force the hands of thousands to vie for such incomprehensible worth.

The vast majority of the artifact however were all considered sacred, in one way shape or form... Weighted with myth and lore, basked in mystery, steeped with secrets and considered so, so precious that not even Garrett dared himself to draw near…

Though he did try once...

It was two weeks after Keeper Vairia had gone through a long and thoroughly fascinating overview of some, just some, of the priceless artifacts that swelled within the Haven Vaults.

Garrett had already demonstrated more than enough signs of early onset Kleptomania, and a tenacity for getting into places he didn't belong. He wasn't caught often, he was good at getting in and out unseen, unheard.

"You're late."

Garrett didn't flinch or yelp as most young boys his age would if they were caught with their metaphorical hand in the metaphorical cookie jar, (Artemus had long since stopped trying to lock, hide or guard the cookie jar from his rambunctious children)

He instead froze in place, his homemade lock-picks still pressed deep into the lock he had been working on, he had been caught red-handed, and even if he attempted to abandon his task, he had clearly already been seen.

Despite knowing the gig was up, Garrett decided to at least try to hide for a few more seconds, sometimes, a few seconds was all it took for someone to convince themselves that they were imagining things...

"Come now Garrett, you are far to clever to think you can just hide in place sight with me."

Garrett sighed and stood, turning slowly to face the man behind him, holding his arms out to his side slightly to show that he was unarmed.

"Keeper Vairia." Garrett said quietly.

"Hello lad." The Keeper sighed tiredly as he crossed his arms over his chest, looking down at the young boy before him.

Garrett did his best to remain composed, but inside? He was panicking.

"He knew that the Haven Vaults were strictly off limits to everyone but the Keeper Archivists, the people responsible for categorizing and organizing the Haven's documentation.

He knew he was taking a huge risk treading so deep into the Haven.

Oh, but the splendor and glory Keeper Vairia described in his lecture was too tantalizing to pass up. Garrett couldn't help himself, he told himself that he wouldn't take anything (A first) just that he wanted to see...

"What are you doing down here lad?" Keeper Vairia asked gently, in his typical, 'history teacher teaching a very heavy lesson that will probably upset more than a few people' voice.

Garrett replied with sheepish silence as he cast his eyes to the floor.

"I take it you are fully aware that you're not supposed to be here?"

Garrett nodded slowly, his silence speaking volumes.

"You're late you know?" Keeper Vairia repeated, his voice lifting slightly into something far more casual.

"Ever since you started swiping pens, the other Keepers and I started placing bets on when we would find you down here." Keeper Vairia huffed softly.

"I bet that you'd find your way down here the moment you learned about the Vaults." Keeper Vairia said simply as he looked down at Garrett with a strange, playful sort of disappointment.

"Do you want to take a guess at who won the bet?" The Keeper asked lightly with a small smile.

"Garrett paused for a moment, debating whether or not to hold his tongue.

"Artemus bet that you'd find your way down here exactly two weeks after my lecture about the Haven Vaults." Keeper Vairia hummed, "And here you are, two weeks after my lecture on the Haven Vaults."

Garrett tried to shift back a step, but the door he had been trying to unlock was right behind him, the wrought iron gate clanging behind him causing Garrett to flinch.

"Why are you here Garrett." Keeper Vairia asked again, "I thought I made it clear in my lecture that no one, and I mean no one but the Acolytes were allowed down in the vaults." He said as he began to stalk towards the younger boy.

"And yet here. You. Are..."

Keeper Vairia stopped maybe a foot or so before Garrett, arms still folded across is chest.

"Garrett..." The Keeper sighed as he set his hand on the younger boy's shoulder, a means to keep the boy in place disguised as a comforting gesture.

"What were you going to do Garrett?"

Garrett remained stubbornly silent, keeping his eyes trained on the floor between himself and the Keeper before him, that is until Keeper Vairia sighed and crouched down, sitting on his ankles to get closer to the young boys height.

"Garrett..." Keeper Vairia repeated, slowly.

"Nothing..." Garrett finally whispered, his small hands curling into fists at his sides.

"I... I wasn't going to do anything." Garrett said firmly, "I-I just wanted to look..."

Keeper Vairia cocked a brow at Garrett before slowly repeating what Garrett said; "To look..."

Garrett nodded slowly, staggering slightly when Keeper Vairia used him as a support to get back onto his feet.

"I like you Garrett." The Keeper huffed; "I like you a lot." The Keeper confessed as he gently maneuvered the young boy to the side, fiddling with the lock-picks in the door, handing them back to Garrett without a second thought before he reached into his robe, pulling out a large elegant key that silently slipped into the lock...

The door opened with a low, ancient groan before Keeper Vairia turned to Garrett, nodding his head towards the open door.

"You tell anyone about this and it'll be both of our heads on the chopping block."

Keeper Vairia spent the night with Garrett, wandering around the ancient corners of the Haven Vaults, regaling tales of triumph and strife to the young boy with every artifact they passed.

There was a reason why Keeper Vairia was Garrett's favorite.

Had anyone else been the one to stumble across him, Garrett had no doubt that at best he'd be killed on the spot, or at worst, thrown back out to the streets.

Yet there he was, being given a personal tour of the Haven Vaults by one of the lead historians of the Haven...

At one point however, Keeper Vairia hesitated to continue, it may have been well into the early hours of dawn, but Garrett was hardly tired, if anything, he was all the more ecstatic. The Haven Vaults were every bit as expansive and bountiful as Keeper Vairia had made them out to be.

A sprawling labyrinth of rooms and halls, all filled with different bits and pieces of history. Garrett's breath had caught in his throat more than once at the mere sight of some relics the Keeper had shown him, ancient, twisting sculptures straight from myths and lore of times long passed...

Garrett had seen it all, or so he thought as Keeper Vairia slowly guided him into another document hall where the Acolytes stored the written histories the Haven either managed to find or scrap together...

"But Garrett could hardly care about the thousands of scrolls littering the floor when, between two bookshelves sat his portrait...

The resemblance was uncanny, albeit, the man in the panting, yes, man, was a good decade or so older than the young boy looking up at him...

But the facial structure, the eyes and ears and nose and lips... Garrett saw every morning when he looked in the mirror...

The only real difference, aside from age, was the fact that the man in the portrait had a single, green eye, vibrant and unnatural even in paint.

"You remember my lecture earlier this year?" Keeper Vairia asked softly from just behind Garrett.

"Time, some say, is like a river." Keeper Vairia sighed, as he moved to stand at Garrett's back, setting both of his hands onto the younger boy's shoulders as he gazed at the portrait...

"Ever flowing onward... And in some ways the comparison is accurate..." He continued, reciting the lecture in a quiet, humbled voice as he squeezed Garrett's shoulders.

"But I disagree... I say that time is more like the tide, ever shifting yes, but constant enough, familiar enough for the illusion of repetitiveness to appear..."

Keeper Vairia looked down at Garrett thoughtfully before continuing with a solemn; "Many of of are mere ripples in the Primordial Sea... But you Garrett... You may very well be a whole damn tide."

Garrett was too transfixed on the portrait to fully understand what Keeper Vairia's words meant, nor the weight they held. And being as shocked as he was, then the Keeper began to coax him from the painting, Garrett went along willingly.

The time it took to reach Artemus' chambers from the vaults was lost to Garrett, as was the brief exchange the two Keepers had at the door where Garrett (Along with a pretty sum of coin) was left under the watchful eye of Artemus once more.

"Did you have fun?" Artemus asked lightly, his tone evidently playful despite being edged, it was the voice he used whenever Garrett or Erin did something they weren't supposed to and either got in trouble for it or hurt, his, 'I love you, but I told you so voice'

"And had Garrett not been in such a state, he may have tried to lessen whatever punishment Artemus had planned for him... Instead, he nodded numbly before walking over to the old chair by the fire and taking a seat, curling up, tucking his knees to his chest.

"A thoughtful silence fell between them, disturbed when Artemus began to make the two of them a cup of hot cocoa, the sounds of boiling water and clinking ceramic mugs was a familiar comfort to Garrett, and the soft; "Skootch" Artemus demanded as he took a seat directly beside his young ward even more so.

"Garrett of course dis skootch, though the moment Artemus was seated comfortably, he crawled into his Keepers far more comfortable lap.

"They sat together sipping their cocoa for a while before Garrett finally spoke up, his voice soft and not quite drowsy.

"I saw something down there..." He said quietly.

"I figured you would..." Artemus hummed gently as he began to run a hand along Garrett's spine, a gently, encouraging motion to coax the boy into continuing.

"Was it a scary something?"

"Garrett shook his head slowly before he shrugged;

"I don't know..." He confessed, looking up at Artemus nervously before he quietly, nervously whispered a timid little;

"I saw myself..." He murmured softly, "I saw a painting of me... But it wasn't me..."

Artemus looked at his ward with a somber expression, the hand at Garrett's back came to pause up by his shoulders before Artemus sighed and nodded.

"I see..." He hummed thoughtfully before he gave Garrett his own version of Keeper Vairia's lecture about the concept of time... Artemus' little lecture however went hand in hand with an ancient myth Garrett knew well...

Artemus told Garrett that the same repetitive tides that Keeper Vairia spoke of were remnants of those ancient eons of endless beginnings, and beginningless ends... That sometimes, when the waves time rode upon fell in line so perfectly with waves before them that it would seem as though time were repeating... People repeated too.

"Believe it or not." Artemus whispered softly as he set the two empty mug down on the small coffee table beside the chair, "I am not the first Artemus to walk the halls of the Haven." The Keeper said that night, quietly, his voice barely audible over the gentle crackling of the fire.

Garrett at that point was pressed flush against Artemus' chest, the Keepers arms looped around him comfortably, he was young then, no taller than his father's thigh, the perfect size to settle into Artemus' lap and press his ear to the Keeper's chest and listen to the warm heart beat below.

"Nor are you the first Garrett."

"The first Garrett, or as history would come to know him as the 'Sneak Thief' was wise and nimble and very clever, "He was a legend before he passed." Artemus whispered quietly, his fingers tenderly running through Garrett's hair as he spoke.

"He did many brave and impossible things, some good, some bad… Some necessary."

"The Sneak Thief was the one to bring about the dark ages, a time not too long ago in the grand scheme of things, but still quite far away, where the tides of time ceased to flow... Where the world stagnated, where nothing changed…

"I expect you'll learn about this soon enough." Artemus hummed softly as he moved to settle his chin atop his son's head, "But it was only recently that the tides began to move again."

Garrett untucked himself from Artemus' chest to look up at his father questioningly, Artemus smiled gently as he ran a hand through the young boy's hair.

"You can feel it in your bones Garrett, I know you can. Time, the Primal, the very energy we Keepers seek to balance." He whispered, as though sharing a most precious, priceless secret with the child in his lap.

"Before, in the dark ages, it was silent, imagine that for me, briefly."

Garrett could not.

"No one knows how or why the Primal began to shift again Garrett, no one… We know why it stopped, and we know how to keep it flowing smoothly, but we don't know why it was returned."

"If the Sneak Thief made the Primal go away... Does that make him bad?" Garrett asked quietly, nervously...

"Artemus sighed softly as he tucked a thumb beneath Garrett's chin, tilting the young boy's head back so he could look at his son properly.

"What the Sneak Thief did was a necessary evil Garrett... He did what no one else wanted or was willing to do."

Garrett frowned slightly at that.

"But... It was still bad, wasn't it?" He asked timidly.

"Not necessarily." Artemus replied simply, "There were many people who cursed the Sneak Thief for his actions... But many, many people would have died had the Sneak Thief hadn't taken action..."

Garrett remained quiet for a small while before asking Artemus something he felt horribly ill-prepared for.

"Will... Am I the Sneak Thief?"

Artemus sighed heavily, dropping his head to press his lips to Garrett's forehead.

"You are my son." Artemus said firmly as he looked down at the boy in his lap.

"But I... I was the Sneak Thief, wasn't I?" He asked nervously.

Artemus paused to consider his words carefully, but upon finding none, he could only offer his boy a slow, solemn nod...

"Does that... Does that make me bad?" Garrett mumbled smally.

"Why would that make you bad?" Artemus asked quickly.

"Because I'm the Sneak Thief."

Artemus cupped the young boy's cheeks, looking between Garrett's eyes quickly before he pressed another kiss to Garrett's forehead.

"You are my son." Artemus repeated, pressing another firm kiss to Garrett's forehead before he continued.

"You may share many, many similarities to the Sneak Thief. But you are your own person, you can make your own choices..." Artemus pulled Garrett as close as he could, holding his son tightly against him.

"You are loved Garrett, never forget that... And Sneak Thief or not, nothing will change this."

Chapter Text

True to Artemus’ word, in the later years of his education within the Haven’s Garrett did learn of the Sneak Thief and the role he played in history as the last human capable of connecting to the Primal…

"We have been studying the Primordial Sea and the Primal for the past few weeks." Was how Keeper Vairia began his lecture one day as he began to draw some strange symbol on the chalkboard, it wasn't a Glyph... Or at least, not any Glyph Garrett had ever seen before…

It was somehow round and jagged, composed of sturdy straight lines curled protectively around a center point.

"But there is something we haven't touched on yet.” Keeper Vairia mused, “And every year, I struggle to find an appropriate time to teach this segment, namely because, this particular subject can fit perfectly into any point of this class, and yet I feel I can never do it justice."

Keeper Vairia signaled that his strange drawing was complete as he tapped the chalkboard twice with his noticeably smaller piece of chalk.

"During our olde legends lecture, I spoke in depth about many myths of the City. There is one in particular we will be re-discussing today, now, show of hands, who here remembers the story of Change's Child?"

Garrett did back then, and he still did, he could recite that lecture, that story by heart...

"The Keepers have been studying the Primal and the Primordial Sea for eons, as you know well." Keeper Vairia began.

"We have extensive records and logs on all manner of things Primal, which continues to grow by the day... But something we Keepers often tend to overlook is the inhabitant of the Primordial Sea."

Most of the class seemed disinterested, which was expected seeing as the majority of the students in attendance were only there for an easy mark... But not Garrett, the lecture had hardly begun and he was already at the edge of his seat, eager to hear whatever Keeper Vairia had to say.

"We call the story of Life and Death's child a legend only due to the murkiness around the truth of it... Whether or not any part of the story is actually true is wholly irrelevant as in this situation, the how is less relevant to the reality. And the reality is that there is indeed something living in the Primordial Sea."

Keeper Vairia caught Garrett's eye then, and thereafter, he was no longer talking to the class.

"They call themselves the Outsider." Keeper Vairia explained; "Though They have many names, the Pagans refer to Them as the Leviathan, believing Them to be the child of Life and Death from the legends. They worship It as a Deity of change as the legend would suggest."

Keeper Vairia scribbled that on the chalkboard before carrying on.

"Of course, many people either disregard the notion of the Leviathan's existence as myth or with scorn. The Hammerites once claimed that the Leviathan was the enemy of the Master Builder, seeking to destroy all they had worked to build. Similarly, the Mechanists despise the Leviathan as, according to them, the Leviathan was in part responsible for the degradation of their machines."

Keeper Vairia turned back to face the hall full of dull, bored teens and a very invested Garrett.

"We however know that none of this is true." The Keeper mused as he leaned back against his desk, crossing his arms casually.

"The Leviathan can neither control time, nor manipulate it in any way shape or form." Keeper Vairia paused for a moment to take a sip of tea. “The Leviathan is merely an observer to the changing tides, unable to interact with the flow of time besides looking.”

A smarmy little smile tugged at the Keepers lips then.

“In fact, one could easily claim that the Leviathan could be considered a Deity of Knowledge or Foresight, having existed within the Primordial Sea for so long, the Leviathan is very attuned with the rises and falls of the tides, so much so that They can prophesize the future with frankly startling accuracy.”

Keeper Vairia uncrossed his arms to lean back against them on the desk.

"However, the Leviathan is not worshipped as a god for no reason..." Keeper Vairia continued slowly as he reached for his mug again.

"What you see on the board behind me is the phenomenon known as the Leviathan's Boon." Keeper Vairia explained; "Though some refer to it as the Mark of the Outsider, what we Keepers prefer to focus on are the people granted this mark."

Keeper Vairia set his mug down beside him with a tired sigh.

"We have centuries of research on the Primordial Sea and the Primal, we have years worth of documents on the Leviathan... However, we have a remarkable lack of research on those marked by the Leviathan."

Keeper Vairia met Garrett's eye again, his expression serious, but his eyes bright and playful.

" Marked individuals are often regarded as harbingers of change, for better or for worse. Their Boons offer them a swath of abilities gifted to them by the Leviathan, fueled by the Primal itself… However, the Leviathan does not offer these Boons lightly, and thus far, the Haven has only ever documented seven individuals to have received the Mark on Morley'n soil… And out of those seven, only one has been from the Eternal City, and believe me when I say that that one Marked individual is very, very well documented in our histories."

Garrett sat up straighter at that... 

He knew exactly whom Keeper Vairia was referring to, he remembered that portrait in the vaults with perfect clarity… And he may have gone on a three week study binge after his little Vault escape.

"The Sneak Thief." Keeper Vairia stated calmly, "Was a Keeper here in the Haven at one point, he walked these halls, learned these lessons, lived among the Keepers of times past until he decided to break away from the Haven to become a thief..."

Keeper Vairia continued to stare at Garrett as he spoke.

"The Sneak Thief did many things in his life, some good, some bad... Some necessary. And at some point, he drew the attention of the Leviathan and earned himself a Boon."

Keeper Vairia continued speaking directly to Garrett despite being in a room full of other students...

"The Sneak Thief was brought into the Haven just as many of you were, from the streets. He was raised just as you all were, taught as you were... But the Sneak Thief was ambitious, dangerously so, which brought him to abandon our ways and strike out alone.

We have many records of what the Sneak Thief did during his life, we have many accounts and logs of events that transpired, either as direct results of the Sneak Thief's actions, or by sheer coincidence...

There are however, three major events that were transcribed with absolute detail by Keeper Scribes as they unfolded, and thusly studied thoroughly by our historians ever since."

Keeper Vairia paused to take another sip of tea to dampen his throat before he rose from the desk to return to the chalkboard.

"The first event to be discussed is known as the Dark Project. When the old Lords began tightening their holds on the world, they disturbed the Tides of Time. The Leviathan who had already been dwelling within the Primordial Sea, was undisturbed by the shifting tides, but Life and Death set a ploy to right the perceived wrong.  

While, arguably, Life and Death were in the right to attempt to re-align the tides of the Primordial Sea to their natural order, their methods would have irrevocably altered the world as we know it...

Now, the details of the ritual are long gone, buried beneath far too many myths for us to ever hope to recover, but one detail remains, a necessary ingredient for the ritual.

An eye from a living creature... And that was where Life and Death's plan faltered.”

Keeper Vairia sighed heavily as he returned to his desk, looking out across the sea of students before him.

“Life did not want to use an innocent eye, claiming that such purity would corrupt the ritual. Death on the other hand claimed that they could not use an evil eye for similar reasons. Together they concluded that the eye they would use must come from an individual who was neither good nor bad, but that posed problems by itself, leaving them with few options when it came to finding their eye... Eventually however, they settled on the Sneak Thief."

Keeper Vairia huffed, shaking his head as he looked down into his mug.

"We have no idea how Life and Death discovered the Sneak Thief, let alone why they chose him to be part of their ritual, what we do know is that the Sneak Thief survived and surpassed every trial Life and Death set before him, cementing himself as the ideal candidate for their needs...

And in return, Life and Death stole one of the Sneak Thief's eyes, leaving him alive as the ritual dictated, but trapped, sealed away, safe, but alone."

Garrett swallowed thickly at that... He was not a thief back then, he had hardly dreamt of a life outside the Haven... But even he feared the powerlessness of loosing something so vital...

"But." Keeper Vairia continued calmly, "The Sneak Thief was a survivor, one eye or two, he managed to escape his tomb. And so the story goes, the first night the Sneak Thief slept with one eye, he fell through the veil and into the Primordial Sea."

Chapter Text

“From what the Sneak Thief was willing to divulge when he was alive, that first meeting between himself and the Leviathan marked a series of annoyances and regrets.” Keeper Vairia chuckled at the quote, no one else did and he quickly moved on.

“Besides that, the Sneak Thief claimed that the Leviathan spoke to him that night, which, for the record, is not a rare occurrence. The Leviathan is ancient, yes, but They are still considered an infant god in the grand scheme of things. They are prone to interfering with us mortals for Their own amusement from time to time… That being said, it was what the Sneak Thief claimed they spoke of that has intrigued the Keepers for the past few centuries.”

Keeper Vairia gestured to the inscription he had drawn earlier.

“The Leviathan’s Boon is granted to only those who the Leviathan finds interesting, what exactly qualifies as interesting has been largely left up to debate. We have records of the Leviathan offering a simple baker a Boon, we have records of the Leviathan offering a Lord a Boon… Both people went on to incite mass change within Morely, but there have been people who have done little to nothing with their Boons so we hesitate to cite ‘Potential to create change’ as a factor of what makes a person interesting in the eyes of the Leviathan…” 

Keeper Vairia paused to catch his breath, which was then that Garrett realized he had forgotten to breathe as well.

“For those of you who haven’t guessed, the Leviathan informed the Sneak Thief that They found him very intriguing… Where most people would grovel or begin begging for the Leviathan’s favor, the Sneak Thief was far less impressed with the god, which, given that the Sneak Thief had lost an eye mere hours ago, was understandable.

According to the Sneak Thief, he was a breath of fresh air to the Leviathan, something new and exciting. The Leviathan apparently offered his Boon to the Sneak Thief then and there, and the Sneak Thief rejected the Leviathan’s offer, again solidifying himself as a person of intrigue for the young god.”

Keeper Vairia paused once more to finish his tea, looking down into his empty mug sadly before setting it down beside him.

“Despite being rejected by the Sneak Thief, the Leviathan still offered the Sneak Thief assistance in his coming endeavors, which the Sneak Thief was originally going to reject again, until the Leviathan informed him of what would occur should Life and Death succeed and their ritual bear fruit.

When the Leviathan offered the Sneak Thief guidance once again, the Sneak Thief accepted the god’s aid.”

Keeper Vairia glanced towards the clock and huffed, Garrett didn’t need to look to know that their time was running thin for the day.

“And before anyone asks why the Leviathan seemed to be against Life and Death’s ploy to return the world to a natural state, They weren’t, even if the ritual succeeded, the Primordial Sea would remain, the Leviathan would remain, what made the Leviathan play an active role in the failure of the ritual was nothing shy of boredom.”

A loud droning bell chimed from the tall clock at the back of the room, the que for most of the class to flee the dusty boredom of history, but eight students remained, Garrett of course included. 

“What class do you all have next?” Was Keeper Vairia’s next question.

After he was solidly reassured that none of the remaining students had anything important to do for the rest of the day, he invited them closer as he took a seat on his desk as he continued his lecture.

“After the Sneak Thief’s escape from the tomb, with the Leviathan’s backing, he set out to confront Life and Death. Unfortunately, much of his adventure he refused to share, all he was willing to divulge to the Keepers of olde was that he sought the help from the Hammerites, specifically, from a Hammerite known as Karras.

Karras was a rather interesting character, considered a prophet among his Hammerite peers, he would go onto splinter from the Hammerites to create his own sect known as the Mechanists. However, according to the Sneak Thief, Karrus’ innovations and prophecies that he claimed were brought to him by the Master Builder himself, were in fact visions from the Leviathan.

And, no, Karras was not a Marked individual, though he was someone the Leviathan considered interesting enough to keep a steady eye on.”

The remaining students all sat around the Keeper before them, clinging onto every word he said.

“The Leviathan had the foresight to… Lets say, inspire Karrus to create something. A mechanical eye, built to look as real as yours or mine and function like a falcon. And when the time came for the Sneak Thief to seek aid from the Hammerites, Karrus’ creation was complete.

With the mechanical eye in hand, the Sneak Thief ventured into the Pagan Forest to confront Life and Death.”

Keeper Vairia looked over the students before him.

“The most we know about what occurred that day is this… Firstly, the Sneak Thief prevented the ritual from coming to fruition by swapping the mechanical eye with his own.

Secondly, the Sneak Thief earned himself both the ire of the Pagans and the endearment of the Leviathan…

And thirdly… The Sneak Thief received the Boon of the Leviathan in the form of a new eye, an eye made of ice, forged from the very waters of the Primordial Sea.”

Keeper Vairia looked over his shoulder to the symbol on the chalkboard.

“Like the marked before him, the Sneak Thief was gifted with strange abilities and talents from the Leviathan, many of which most would kill or die for…”

Keeper Vairia sighed heavily as he hopped off his desk, stretching with a content groan before he offered his remaining students a smile.

“Well, I think that’s enough for today.” Which earned him a series of boos from his students which he laughed off with a wave of his hand.

Chapter Text

 Keeper Vairia’s lecture on the Sneak Thief lasted for three weeks, with each class delving further and further into the history of the Sneak Thief and his deeds.

During the second week, Keeper Vairia spoke of what was known as the ‘Metal Age’ when the Mechanist faction began to rise to power within the Eternal City, waging war with both the Hammerites and Pagans in their efforts to seize control.

“Karras, or Father Karras as he was called once he solidified his position of power, broke away from the Hammerite Order shortly after the Dark Project failed.” Keeper Vairia explained. 

“The Mechanist order which he founded, held similar beliefs to the Hammerite Order they stemmed from, with some key differences however, namely, Karras’ extreme tendencies and views.

Where the Hammerites sought progress through conservation, the Mechanists were far more aggressive with their methods, Karras himself believing that nature was… Well, naturally inferior, imperfect, a direct defilement of the Master Builders plan.” 

Keeper Vairia had gone over the ancient religions of the city some months back, detailing their belief structures, Garrett never understood any of them, not that he quite understood the Keepers either, but at least the Keepers didn’t need to worship anything.

“Father Karras’ idea of an ideal world was a world built from the ground up by men, no natural life, no plants or animals, simply man and machine.”

Garrett nearly snorted at that from his seat, silently of course, but Keeper Vairia was an attentive teacher.

“Sounds ridiculous, doesn’t it?” Keeper Vairia asked his class, he received many blank stares, but the few attentive students he cherished all nodded.

“But, that was his image of an ideal world, and thus, that was his master plan. To devise a way to render the city, maybe even all of Morley should he have succeeded, barren of earthly bounties, and his plan was quite ingenious too.

Despite being certifiably mad, Father Karras was, for all his faults, brilliant, brilliant enough to forge a compound capable of turning organic material into alloys.”

Keeper Vairia paused to write ‘Rust Gas’ on the board.

“His plan was also frankly quite brilliant. See, Father Karras despite his radical line of thinking, was a very charismatic character, able to sway his Hammerite brothers and sisters to leave their order and follow him.

Karras was also very influential when it came to persuading people outside of his order. The old nobility of the city were very charmed by Father Karras’ inventions and some of his ideologies, enough so that many were willing to invest in Karras’ ingenuity, which was a massive part of Karras’ plan.” 

Keeper Vairia offered his more attentive students a smile.

“The city has changed much over the past centuries, but at a time, the city was once a thriving metropolis. There was still a massive disparity between the wealthy and poor, but not nearly as it is today, there was also a stable middle merchant class and most importantly, gardens.”

From all the years Garrett had spent on the streets, the most plant life he had ever seen within the walls of the city were the twisted, gnarled weeds that somehow managed to find their way through the cobblestone streets, dry, dead grass, grey with ash and twisted…

Garrett could hardly imagine what the city would look like with gardens, sprawling green expanses…

“Of course, the only people who could afford, let alone maintain gardens were the nobility and upper middle class.” Keeper Vairia continued;

“But, those were the people Father Karras was most interested in. see, in order for the Rust Gas to function as intended, it required a vicious cycle of consumption, when Rust Gas interacted with plant life or other forms of biological material, the byproduct of the transmutation was more Rust Gas.

Father Karras intended to use the gardens of the city as the launching point of his plan, the gardens were large enough to create a surplus of Rust Gas which would spread out across the city, destroying any plant life not caught in the initially infected areas.”   

Keeper Vairia returned to the board to attempt to draw a loose diagram of the winding city streets far above them, speaking all the while as he worked.

“However, as many of you should know, as they are today, the noble class of the time were just as selective when it came to who they associated with, if not more so. And religion wasn’t exactly seen as charming to the nobility, too many rules that impeded their worldly desires, too many expectations of charity and abstinence…

And so to gain favor with the nobility, Father Karras re-flavored the Hammerite scriptures he favored to better serve his cause. Where the Hammerites discouraged overindulgence, unrestrained desires and sins like greed and pride, things that the noble class practically lived and breathed at the time;

Father Karras made arguments in support of them. If you work hard, you should be allowed to indulge yourself. So long as desires are beneficial and consensual, there should be no reason to withhold them so rigidly. Pride should be taken in one's achievements, greed should be used to further oneself, so on and so forth.”

Keeper Vairia turned back to the class with a strange outline of the city behind him. It wasn’t a bad sketch, but it was certainly different, very, very different from the diagrams in other classes Garrett had seen.

The streets looked far wider in the diagram Keeper Vairia had done, but strangely, the widened streets did nothing to diminish the density of the homes…

“But gaining the nobility's favor was only the first step in Father Karras’ plan. He could have himself invited over to as many lavish parties as he wanted, but that wouldn’t allow him to set his plan in motion.

Now, beforehand, I called Father Karras a genius, and I will stand by that statement for as long as I live. However… Karras' ambition led him to very dark paths, fueled him to create strange and cruel inventions, People made into metal abominations, that had no pulse or mind but still moved and obeyed.

These were Karras’ greatest inventions, the Masked Servants he called them, designed to serve and little else… These inventions were the key to the success of his plot, each servant was created holding a small vessel containing compressed Rust Gas.

Father Karras intended to sell these servants to the nobility and utilize them to sterilize the city of organic life.”

Keeper Vairia sighed as he returned to his desk, taking his seat quietly before he began speaking again.

“It does not bode well to think what would have happened had Karras’ plan come to fruition… Irrevocable changes, complete and total ecological destruction… And once again, it is only due to the Sneak Thief that you, I and most likely, the City, maybe all of the Isles stand today.”

Chapter Text

Artemus had taken history classes when he was just an apprentice at the Haven, he wasn’t a lore nut as Keeper Vairia had been in their youth, clinging to every word their old history teacher, Keeper Dhonova, a kind, soft spoken woman, would say, but he payed attention, listened, took notes and passed with flying colors.

That being said, Artemus knew the legends and lore of the city and her histories. But he so loved to hear Garrett excitedly recall Keeper Vairia’s lecture.

He loved seeing his son so passionate about something, he loved seeing the way Garrett’s eyes would light up, the way he would throw his hands around as he spoke, the way he would leave himself breathless just to fit as much information into a single run on sentence.

There was a time Artemus was so sure that Garrett would become a historian in the Haven that he put money on it.

“Keeper Vairia said that the Haven used to commission thieves to do things out in the city, retrieve or forge documents of interest, gather information and the like.” Garrett rambled excitedly from the chair by the fire, Erin pressed snugly to his side, listening to her brother attentively while Artemus worked on preparing supper for the three of them, commenting whenever applicable.

“We still do.” Artemus chimed as he began to chop onions at the counter.

“But I thought that was what the Enforcer Unit was for?” Erin piped from the chair, leaning over the arm to look at her father with wide, curious eyes.

The question was innocent, the subject was not.

“Now where did you learn about the Keeper Enforcer Unit?” Artemus asked slowly in his, ‘I’m not upset, just concerned’ parent tone.

“Brenata.” Erin replied easily, “She said her brother is going to join them, and that she is too.”

Artemus sighed heavily as he dumped the sizable amount of diced onion into the pot he was working with, already preparing himself for the coming years.

“The Keeper Enforcer Unit…” Artemus began slowly, “Is designed to carry out Haven specific tasks, things that the Haven cannot or refuses to trust to others, which is why we still commission thieves.”

“Keeper Vairia said that too.” Garrett interjected, returning the discussion to a far, far easier topic.

“He also said that the Sneak Thief was the Haven’s go to thief because he was so good at it.” Garrett rabbled excitedly.

“Apparently, the Sneak Thief was brought into the Haven to listen to a new prophesy, Keeper Vairia couldn’t recite it to us because it’s classified, but it boiled down to a warning about the destruction of chaos and the disbalance of order that would result.”

Artemus hummed encouragingly as he began to peel potatoes. He of course knew these tales well, having grown up alongside Keeper Vairia led to long nights listening to his old friend regurgitate the same lectures over and over.

But Artemus always liked a good story.

“The Haven asked the Sneak Thief to keep his eyes and ears open for any sign of the prophesy’s fruition, and at first, the Sneak Thief apparently wasn’t all that interested in getting involved, but as Keeper Vairia explained it, the problems that the prophecy foretold began to affect the Sneak Thief, so he had no choice but to intervene on the Haven’s behalf.” Garrett continued, speaking a mile a minute.

“Apparently, Father Karras was abducting urchins and gutter rats to turn them into mechanical servants for the nobility.” Erin ‘ooed’ quietly at that, a sound of intrigue.

“The Sneak Thief intended to expose the Watch Captain and Father Karras, but before he could, someone assassinated the Watch Captain. From what the Sneak Thief supplied, it was the Watch Captain’s Lieutenant, Perennial Mosley who did him in.” Garrett explained.

“But get this, the people who convinced or paid Lt. Mosley to turn tail were the remaining Pagans!” Garrett exclaimed.

“Apparently, the Pagans had caught wind of Father Karras’ plot to destroy the forests, and they, already weakened by the loss of the Trickster, were desperate to prevent the destruction of their home.

So they decided to try and convince the Sneak Thief to aid them, and for some reason, the Sneak Thief agreed…”

Garrett fell quiet for a contemplative moment.

“Hey Pa…” Garrett called as he leaned over the arm of the couch to look at the Keeper at the stove.

“Would you ever work with someone who hurt you?” The young lad asked.

“Because the Pagans stole the Sneak Thief’s eye and tried to kill him… But he saved them in the end…” Garrett murmured.

“Well…” Artemus sighed as he turned to rest his hip against the countertop to look at the boy in the chair.

“I think it would very much depend on what they did to me and if they were punished for it.” He confessed.

“If someone stole my eye without consequence, then no, I don’t think I would be willing to help them… But if they were chastised appropriately and repented, I would consider helping…” Artemus explained softly.

“The Pagans may have stolen the Sneak Thief’s eye, but he was blessed with a new one… And the Pagans were nearly wiped out due to their attempts to overthrow order.” Artemus mused.

“To the Sneak Thief, he and the Pagans were even, and during the Metal Ages, they were both struggling against a similar foe. So while the Pagans did hurt the Sneak Thief, they had paid the price for it, and so, the Sneak Thief agreed to help.”

Garrett crinkled his nose at the Keeper.

“I don’t think I’d be able to do that.” He confessed quietly.

Artemus merely chuckled as he turned back to the stove to stir the concoction in the pot.

“That’s fine.” Artemus hummed reassuringly, “You’re still young, so no one can expect you to forgive so easily.”

“But the Sneak Thief did…” Garrett muttered quietly as he moved back to sit on the recliner properly.

“Well then I suppose it’s a good thing you’re not the Sneak Thief.” Artemus sighed as he set about pouring three bowls of stew, setting them on the table before taking a seat, inviting his children to join him.

Erin all but skipped over, while Garrett walked, evidently lost in thought. The three of them ate quietly for a while, nothing but the clinking of spoons disturbed their meal until Garrett piped up again.

“The Sneak Thief was kind to the Pagans.” He stated quietly as he moved a chunk of beef around in his broth.

“He was.” Artemus agreed.

“Do you think… I could ever be that kind?” Garrett asked quietly.

“I think.” Artemus began after a moment, “That you could be even kinder.”

Garrett merely hummed as he scooped the chunk of beef he had been toying with into his spoon thoughtfully.

“Eat something before you start again.” Artemus ordered lightly as he pointed his own spoon in Garrett’s direction.

“I won’t have you complaining about your stew going cold because you spent all of dinner chattering.”

Garrett finished his supper before Artemus could scold him for not chewing.

Chapter Text

“I love you. I’ll always love you, you know that.” Artemus whispered softly, his cheek pressed to the top of Garrett’s head as he gently swayed them back and forth, back and forth, Erin watching from the old recliner before the fire, waiting for her turn to comfort her brother.

Typically, Garrett was always a bundle of excitement whenever he returned from one of Keeper Vairia’s lectures, moreso recently as the discussion of the Sneak Thief was still occurring…

But that night, Garrett returned somber and uncertain, whereas before he would have all but skipped into Artemus’ quarters, Erin hot on his heels to listen to her brother re-explain Keeper Vairia’s lecture.

Instead, he approached on silent heels, Erin a little shadow behind him who darted to the seat as soon as the door was closed as Garrett walked to Artemus, suddenly small.

The first thing Garrett did was press his forehead to his Keeper’s chest and loop his arms around Artemus’ middle. Garrett could tolerate affection in front of others, though Artemus knew his boy secretly loved to be held, but Garrett was rarely the one to initiate such displays…

And the first thing Garrett said to his Keeper was a heartbreakingly soft;

“Please don’t die Pa…”

And with those words alone, Artemus knew exactly which story Keeper Varia told the history class that day…

Five years after the fall of Father Karras and the Mechanists, Balance returned to the city, the Pagans were able to regain much of their lost land while the Mechanists were forced to withdraw.

There was no such thing as peace in the city, but a sort of calm did settle among the streets.

A dullness settled, the people were content, but Keepers were growing anxious…

During the five years of calm, the Keepers received another prophecy, a most concerning prophecy detaining something only known as ‘The Dark Age’  

With no other information available regarding what exactly the Dark Age detailed, the Keepers were left largely at a loss. Scholars poured over ancient texts to gather a glimpse into the future, they monitored the ever churning waves of the Primordial Sea, desperately looking for some sort of clue. 

And in the end, after years of research, the only lead the Keepers could find was a myth, a singular legend, hidden among millions of words and thousands of years.

An ancient book, lost to time.

But as he so often did, the Sneak Thief found the impossible.

And with the book recovered, the Keepers rejoiced, the mysteries of the prophesied Dark Ages would soon be unveiled. 

The book however offered no easy answer to the Keepers’ questions, only a single, ominous warning that once again left the Keepers scratching their heads…

The Sneak Thief however was not one to sit idle and simply wait for fate as the Keepers so often did. 

The warning the book offered was simple and surprisingly, not classified.

“When the process of time ceases, the evil one will be pointed out for all to see.”

Artemus knew the warning by heart, and he knew what the Sneak Thief’s response to the omen was.

While the Keepers were content with waiting for the supposed ‘cease of time’ the Sneak Thief was not, the Sneak Thief took matters into his own hands.

The Sneak Thief ceased time.

Not literally, though Artemus knew that Keeper Vairia had a flair for the dramatics, so he would always pause for a moment or two after declaring that a lone thief managed to halt the tides of time.

What actually happened was far simpler, the Sneak Thief simply collapsed the Stonemarket Clocktower, which, while incredibly destructive… Served the omens' purpose well enough.

However, the man, the evil one foretold in the omen, was a very powerful, influential man who easily turned all accusations away from himself.

The First Keeper of olde was a bitter man, vicious with his words and wit, he guided the Haven with an iron fist cradled in the softest of furs, and the moment the Sneak Thief dared to accuse him of being the prophesied ‘evil one’, he closed his hand, the soft furs lining the inside of that iron fist guarded the Haven and the Keepers from harm while shutting out everyone else, the Sneak Thief included. 

For a while it seemed as though the Haven fully intended to cut itself completely free from the rest of the City, something that they would be hypothetically capable of.

From an old journal written by the Sneak Thief, he detailed his frustrations with the First Keeper and his cowardly decision to hide away while the rest of the city suffered when the Haven could help abundantly. 

It was that journal that was used in a court hearing against the Sneak Thief, some few shy weeks after the Haven sealed its doors, Interpreter Caduca was found murdered in her chambers, a true tragedy for the Haven, one that would begin the division of the Keepers.

Despite initially deserting the Haven, the Sneak Thief remained a well adored person among the Keepers, while few agreed with his methods, many agreed with his view on the Haven’s passivism, believing that, while the Keepers were responsible for documenting and recording the histories of the city, should the Haven have the opportunity to prevent disaster, they doubtlessly should.

Others were far less keen on following the opinions of a traitor, and the First Keeper rallied those who despised the Sneak Thief as he did together as a unified front to bring the Sneak Thief to trial for the murder of Interpreter Caduca.

It was all houndshit.

The Haven had been put into lockdown, no one could get in, no one could get out, and it was made sure that the Sneak Thief was already out when the gates were sealed.

It would have been impossible for the Sneak Thief to get in, and it was well known that the Sneak Thief was no murderer…

Still, the First Keeper played his hands to those he knew would support him, and thus, the Sneak Thief was brought before row after row of cruel Keepers and made to stand for a mockery of justice.

What the First Keeper failed to take into consideration were those whom stood with the Sneak Thief. Among his little gaggle of supporters, the First Keeper’s word was law, clear and simple, no one spoke against him, no one disobeyed. 

That was far from the case when it came to those who resented the First Keeper.

The Sneak Thief had few allies within the Haven, but those he did have were loyal to a fault, and played a critical role in the Sneak Thief’s escape from prosecution within the Haven, and further guiding the Sneak Thief’s quest.

Once free, and with the aid of Keepers willing to go against the code of observance, the Sneak Thief made his way all across the city, from the city’s heart where the Keeper Library resided, to the Shalebridge Cradle.

The Sneak Thief did many, many things during the onset of the Dark Ages, things that the Haven deemed blasphemous, sacrilegious, impossible and even spiteful…

Artemus could recall himself staring wide eyed at Keeper Dhonova, at the edge of his seat as he listened to her explain how the Sneak Thief managed to travel between the Tides of Time to slip into the past, an impossible task for a mere mortal, and an incredibly dangerous feat to boot…

But he did it, and it filled Artemus with such awe and wonder and glee that he couldn’t help but grin like a fool in the middle of class…

What Keeper Dhonova said next however, stole Artemus’ breath away...

Chapter Text

Long, long, long, long ago, there was a boy.

A street rat, born from a night of passion between a whore and a Lord.

The whore swore up and down that she loved the Lord, and the Lord did the same, but when push came to shove, the Lord turned a frigid shoulder to the whore and his child.

Artimus bore the name of a man he had never met, a man who had been too cowardly to take responsibility for his actions, his mistakes.

Artimus lived with his whore mother on the streets until he was three, that was when they came to him.

His mother knew that the life she led was not fit for a child, her work could be dangerous, and while money was always a noose around her neck, she made sure to never let her son go without.

Their home was far less a home and more of a shed, just a single room with enough space for a bed and a rikkity old dresser that held all of their worldly possessions, a fire pit, not a stove, just a pit in the floor where they could safely start a fire and a single box cabinet that held what little food his mother could barter for.

It wasn't much, in fact it was hardly anything, but it was all Artimus knew. School was too expensive and he was too young to get a job, so in that tiny little shack he remained while his mother worked.

But one day, instead of his mother returning from a long day of work, two men walked through the door, wearing finely made robes of burgundy, hoods to shield their faces, their hands decorated with rings.

They spoke to him softly, calmly… They promised him warmth and food, an education, a family, a life beyond the four walls of the tiny shack.

And without thinking, without hesitation, Artimus agreed.

And what they promised, the Keepers provided.

Artimus was fed good food, food he had never had before, food his mother could never afford.

Artimus was kept warm, a hearth was always lit nearby, the fires glowing golden and brilliant, unlike the firepit in his mother's shack that they so rarely used in fear of burning through what little wood they could spare.

Artimus was given an education, despite being a coinless urchin, the Keepers insisted he go to class, that he learn and grow and he did.

Artimus made friends and forged himself his own family within the Haven, a family made of people he grew to love, a family of friends who loved him just the same.

And never once, never once did Artimus look back and think about the father he never knew, the whore who loved him dearly, the little shack he called home…

Until the day he felt a tug on a ring of keys secured to his belt.

The small, bony hand he snatched belonged to a young gutter rat with dark charcoal eyes that burned with ire and clawed at him feebly.

But when Artimus offered that boy the same things he had been offered all those years ago, the young urchin fell silent, pondering, hesitating before reluctantly agreeing only after Artimus swore up and down that he wasn't lying.

The young street rat had no name, so Artimus named him Garrett, and Garrett became the center of Artimus' world.

Artimus loved Garrett, Artimus wanted to see Garrett safe and warm and happy, so Artimus did everything he could to guide Garrett through life as any good father would.

And when Garrett turned away, Artimus' heart broke, but he still loved Garrett, loved him as any good father would.

When Garrett's life became unsafe, Artimus opened his door to invite Garrett home. And Garrett did, for a time, but he never stayed.

When Garrett's life became cold, Artimus lit his hearth to invite Garrett to warm himself. And Garrett did, for a time, but again, he never stayed...

When Garrett's life became miserable, Artimus opened his arms to Garrett, begging his son home so he could help.

But there was no helping the Sneak Thief and Artimus' heart broke all over again…

But he still loved Garrett, his son, the Sneak Thief, for all his faults.

He stood by his son, year after year, offering his shoulder, his home, his hearth, his aid, and whatever else he could to his son.

Even when his son fell into bad crowds, Artimus was there.

Even when his son tampered with business not his own, Artimus was there.

When his son was injured, Artimus was there to nurse him back to health.

And when his son was accused of a crime he didn't commit, Artimus remained by his side.

And when it came to saving his son, Artimus did so without hesitation…

Artimus died in the histories, a violent, swift death, all to buy his son some few extra moments.

Artemus lay in his bed, running his fingers through Garrett's hair as his son slept against him, tucked impossibly close to Artemus' front.

Artemus knew the histories well, as did the rest of the Haven.

Artemus pulled his son closer and softly promised that it would take far more than an old Hag to kill him.

The moment those fragile words left the Keeper's lips, a deep shame settled in Artemus' chest.

It was, after all, a fool's errand to even think of trying to curb the flow of time...

Chapter Text

The Sneak Thief was buried in the dilapidated ruins of the oldest quarter in the city.

Beneath the foundation of an old cathedral, separated from the rest of the city by new homes tall enough to hide the decrepit pillars of the ancient church from streets, left to rot behind a wall of faux innovation.

Or so the Barron thought.

Nothing remained hidden in the city however, things got lost yes, but nothing hidden remained so.

Which was why that supposedly long forgotten cathedral, worn by time and neglect had become the home of a kindly old woman who had earned the title of Queen by her beloved beggars.

She was a strange woman to say the least, hardly more than a thinly stretched slab of pale skin that hugged her skeleton too tightly, her eyes fogged silver, rimmed with an impossible shade of blue.

Yet she walked strongly, barring her use of a can, as if she weren’t about to collapse into a pile of dust, and as if she weren’t blind for that matter. She smiled warmly, no matter the weather, no matter how long she had gone without any scrap of food or drink.

The only thing that truly gave away just how ancient she was, was her voice, low and tired, strained with age, and the things she spoke of, the stories from her youth… Were things Garrett had learned about in is history classes...

“Someone once, many years ago, long before you were born, came here with a pick and shovel to disturb the resting place of the Sneak Thief.” She had told Garrett over the rim of her tea cup one evening, not the night they had met, but not long after.

The Queen of Beggars, she called herself, was a hidden thing within the city; very few, save for her Rats knew exactly how to find her, which suited her quite well.

She was a legend among urchins, a myth to the common folk, a witch to the upper class, and a friend to thieves, or, at least, a friend to the thieves who found her.  

Garrett had found her one eve, during his and Erin’s second summer out of the Haven, he had been on a small job, his fence, and now longtime friend Basso, had wanted to test him back then.

It was sheer coincidence that Garrett had stumbled upon her, though she insisted that it had been fate.

“A travesty it was.” She told him quietly, “I was young then and my people afraid, we could only watch as they tore through the earth and stole from his grave…”

The Queen of Beggars and her people were not the guards of the Sneak Thief’s grave, in fact, they too were there by sheer coincidence, having also found the ruined cathedral, they settled within the decrepit stonework having thought they had found their own haven.

It was only after the newly settled group was accosted by a band of forest folk did they learn the nature of the reverend haven they had accidentally claimed as their own.

Chapter Text

The Dark Ages brought along with it a vast dying.

Not just of people, but faith as well.

The Hammerites and Mechanists began to turn their back to their Master Builder in pursuit of other means of guidance and enlightenment.

The only people not so horribly affected by the Dark Ages were the Pagans.

With the death of Viktoria, they were weakened yes, but as the Hammerites and Mechanists fell to time and doubt, the Pagans began to regrow.

Many of the forest folk saw the Dark Ages as a blessing, brought unto them by the Sneak Thief.

And so, a figurehead of sorts he became, an entity to be respected and upheld, not as a prophet or god, but as an ally.

The histories were scant with details when it came to what occurred during the Dark Ages, the Haven and Keepers having fallen almost immediately, but the Sneak Thief’s original journals held ripe insights which modern Keepers devoured hungrily.

The cause of the Sneak Thief’s death was unknown, and how or why he ended up buried within the ruins of an old cathedral remained a mystery, many beggars speculated that the Sneak Thief had been buried within the Olde Pagan Forest, a vast and sprawling metropolis of trees and life, and the city had simply grown, forcing both the forests and Pagans back.

The Pagans never confirmed or denied the claim, though Garrett had yet to ask one outright, and he doubted any of the Queen’s beggars had either.

Regardless of how the cathedral became the resting place of the Sneak Thief, regardless of how far said cathedral stood within the city borders, and regardless of the risks and consequences…

Many, many Pagans dared to breach the outer limits of the city to journey to the Sneak Thief’s tomb and pay their respects, offering the long dead thief flowers and offerings, never in the shape of coin.

Needless to say, the day a small band of Pagans making the pilgrimage to the Sneak Thief’s resting place discovered the cathedral to be overrun by street rats and gutter urchins was nearly nothing shy of a bloodbath.

Nearly being the critical word…

The Queen’s beggars were no warriors, they were hardly fighters in fact, they would cling to shadows and scurry beneath gazes, desperate to remain unseen, unnoticed.

Meanwhile the Pagans stemmed from a history of betrayal and bloodshed, all were eager to not have the past repeat itself, and if that meant culling those who would seek to do them harm then so be it.

But, there was one common, albeit, unspoken law among the city vermin.

To be seen by a beggar is to be unseen.

Beggars and urchins and all other manors of homeless folk were often as prosecuted as the muggers and rapists that ran rampant in the streets. 

Beggars knew how to keep their heads down, how to stay out of mind, how to keep their mouths shut, after all, if the authorities of the city were just as likely to order a beggar to hang, then why should a beggar risk their life for the lady laying bloody in an alley two streets down the way?

That unspoken law was all that saved the Queen and her beggars that day, and every day a Pagan came to visit thereafter.

And when the time was right, the young Queen offered a lone Pagan a seat at her table and a cup of tea in exchange for a story.

A story which she held onto for years and years.

Chapter Text

When Garrett first learned of the grave robbing incident, he immediately brought it to his father’s attention.

Of course, by the time the Haven was informed, they were some century too late. And even if the theft had occurred within the last week, First Keeper Orland seemed largely disinterested in the robbery.

In fact, no one paid the century old incident much mind, not the Haven nor the Queen’s beggars, robbing graves was practically a hobby among the most desperate in the city.

After all, a corpse so often wore a fine set of clothing that would be squandered in the dirt, and if the deceased had anything of value in life, they often took it with them to the grave.

The only people who made any sort of fuss over the defilement of the Sneak Thief’s grave were the most devoted of Pagans who would breach the city limits to pay their respects to the Sneak Thief by moonlight. 

But not even they could do all that much about the robbery, the beggars had trailed the grave robber until they reached the edge of the noble district but they dared go no further.

They should have.

For what was stolen that night would prove to be the single most significant treasure the city would ever come to know. 

The Final Glyph, drawn by the Sneak Thief, mere moments before the Dark Ages fell upon the city, severed the tides of the Primordial Sea and all of humankind.

But the Final Glyph could not cut the binding webs connecting the Sneak Thief and the Leviathan. 

From the moment the Leviathan blessed the Sneak Thief with It’s boon, the Sneak Thief was tied to the Primordial Sea, tethered to the Tides of Time, acting as an anchor between the two worlds.

While he lived, the Sneak Thief utilized his boon to conquer impossible foes and achieve incredible feats, for the Primal residing within the Sneak Thief was a wild and restless thing, desperate and hungry for unfathomable things.

Things that the Sneak Thief refused to provide.  

So for years, the Primal resided within the Sneak Thief, avidly awaiting the day it would be released from it’s prison. 

And when the death of the Sneak Thief failed to free the Primal, it continued to slumber, patient in it’s dreaming did it wait.

It wasn’t until the worms within the dirt finish devouring Sneak Thief’s skin, and his bones turned to stone did the Primal rise once more, for the crystalline eye of ice, forged from the very waters of the Primordial Sea, gifted to the Sneak Thief by the great Leviathan himself, found itself finally free.

The eye itself was not the Primal, nor was it a means of control. It was however tied directly to the Primordial sea, to the Tides of Time.

The Anchor that tied together two worlds, even beyond death.

And that was what interested the Northcrest family most...  

The Primal Eye was to be the epicenter of the ritual, the key to draw the very essence of time to the hands of men. 

By itself however, the eye was but a window into the endlessness that was time.

The Leviathan watched from his world as the men stood around the ancient eye crafted by his hands, chanting their little prayers, wearing their silly robes. 

The Leviathan worried not for his domain, he had seen all outcomes of the eve, he knew he would survive…

He worried rather for what would remain.

For when the younger thief fell down, down, down into that swirling abyss, she had unknowingly made herself the final, missing piece of the ritual.

A living body, fit to wield the Primal. 

The Leviathan could only watch from It’s domain as the Primordial Sea churned and flowed around Them, reacting to the newest vessel of time, flowing through her, in her, around her…

Something was horribly wrong.

The Primordial Sea, the home of the Leviathan, the Child of Change, seemed to fall away from the god, aiming to resettle within her… The thief. 

Before all could be lost, and with what little dredges of primordial influence remained at the Leviathan’s fingertips.

The ties between men and sea were severed once again.

Unlike the severance of the Final Glyph however, the Leviathan had full control over the separation, and, as easily as the connection had been cut, it could be resurrected…

What the Leviathan had failed to take into consideration however was the exact bond the thief would form with the Primordial Sea during her time floating in its waters.

Rather than become a mere passage between the worlds as the few before had, Erin had become her own ocean, a Primordial Basin of sorts…

An embodiment of balance in its purest form…

The Primal which the thief had unknowingly stolen became a thing all on its own, born of the temporal sea and the Leviathan’s own hands, young, naïve and very, very hungry…

The Leviathan knew that should the ties between the Primordial Sea and the world be restrung, that small, starving sliver residing within the thief would no doubt devour the rest of the Primordial Sea without thought, shame or care.

For the small sliver of Time’s Tide within the thief was an ageless, timeless, ancient thing, yet so, so, so very young.

Young enough to mistake itself a babe and settle into a foreign womb.

However, no one, not even the Leviathan, could have predicted what was to come…

Chapter Text

Garrett remembered Erin falling…

The gut wrenching moment when her hand slipped from his own. The high, terrified, soaring sound of her scream as she plummeted into that abyss...

His own voice would cry silently into the night for years to come as he would watch his sister fall from his grasp and into the swirling, blinding vortex below. 

Over and over again in his dreams…

Her wide, wide, horrified eyes.

The way her mouth fell open around his name.

The way her hair thrashed around her head like a macabre halo.

The ways her tears fell, first in fear, streaming down her cheeks, smearing the khol she had smudged around her eyes as she looked up at Garrett, desperate.

Then, jumping from her eyes as her hand abruptly slipped from his own.

He remembered crying her name, just as she did his, breaking the silence that hung around him like a veil.

He remembered futility reaching down to her as she continued to fall away from him, as if he could somehow reach her.

He remembered the sound of splintering glass beneath his belly, the sound of shouting, an arrow soaring through the glass just beside his thigh which finally broke the rest of the skylight.

Garrett couldn’t remember how his sister’s Claw got into his hands, only that it did.

Garrett couldn’t remember the cry of pain, of panic as he hurled the claw up, back into the roof, seeking purchase to slow his fall.

He would only learn that the purchase the claw found was an older guard’s leg far later, the metal fang burrowing its way between the guard’s leg bones, tearing muscle and sinew, dragging the soldier to the edge of the awning in pain and terror as blood spilled and the thief’s fall finally slowed.

And then.

A sharp pain.

Followed by nothing.

Chapter Text

Erin remembered falling.

She remembered the sudden, jarring sensation of the glass beneath her giving out, followed by a sickening sense of weightlessness.

She remembered hearing Garrett call her name, selflessly exposing himself in his panic.

She remembered how he threw himself onto precarious ground to snag her wrist before she fell.

She remembered looking up at him.

She remembered being so afraid she couldn’t breathe.

She remembered crying.

She remembered how the tears felt as they ran down her cheeks, no doubt smearing the khol she had applied earlier in the night…

She remembered the tight grip of panic closing in around her heart when she felt herself beginning to slip from Garrett’s hold.

She remembered sobbing, begging her brother to save her.

She remembered how Garrett looked when she finally did slip from his hold... 

The way he reached for her as she fell, eyes wide and desperate, his voice frantic as he called her name over and over again until the world ceased to exist…

She would scream in her dreams… Years later, she would scream, in fear, in sorrow.

Sometimes she would call her brother’s name, sometimes her father’s, sometimes she would simply beg for mercy, for forgiveness.

But upon waking, always upon waking, her voice would be silent, her chest would burn, her throat would tighten, she would cry and curl into Garrett or cling to her treasure. 

But she would not scream…

Chapter Text

Neither thief could remember what exactly occurred thereafter.   

Erin had fallen, they both knew that much. 

Erin could remember staring up at her brother as the rest of the world fell away, consumed by swirling blue waves of not quite water, not quite light...

And then Garrett had fallen. Using his sister's tool, her Claw, as she had affectionately dubbed the device, to avoid the same fate as his sister. Erin would later claim to have heard Garrett scream, though Garrett would insist on having no such memory.

Both siblings ended up unconscious before they could realize the sheer gravity of their situation.

The newly created Primordial Basin, scared and alone and young and ancient, seated itself in Erin’s womb, binding itself to her flesh and bones, seeping into her blood and breath, forcing itself to beat in time with her heart.

At best, Erin would go onto describe the sensation of being host to such unfathomableness as softly drowning. As though she were floating, weightless, suspended in an endless sea, an endless sky, no horizon in sight, unable to breathe, brine burning her lungs and eyes as she was helplessly tossed around in a unseen storm…

Until the water abruptly disappeared and Erin was left feeling nothing but the chill of the night.

Ultimately, the ritual failed. 

The Primordial Sea was lost to men yet again and would be for a very long time…

The Baron Northcrest however, was undeterred. 

Just because they had not obtained control over the equilibrium of the worlds through that particular ritual, did not mean it was as unobtainable as some of the more discouraged men within the Baron’s circle claimed it to be.

If anything, the Baron speculated, the botched ceremony had aided them in ways neither party could have imagined.

Rather than take control over the impossible beast that was the Primordial Sea.

They simply needed to extract the sliver of water that had passed through during the ritual.

Chapter Text

Shortly after the ritual, both thieves ceased to exist.

The Haven, who had once again been cut off from the Primordial Sea, was in far less in shambles then when the Dark Ages had settled over them, was still in a wild panic.

But none more so than Artemus.

Garrett had told him that their fence friend, Basso, was plotting on forcing he and Erin together, and the Eve of Second Darkness was meant to be that particular mission.

Unfortunately for Artemus, the moment the ties between the Keepers and the Primordial Sea were severed, First Keeper Orland once again ordered the Haven into lockdown.

And unlike in the days of olde, where much of the Haven resided on the surface, hidden away from the prying eyes of commoners through Glyph Runes and spells, the New Haven had been moved completely underground, far below the city streets, where safety and refuge could be found.

The Haven below the city was a work of art, a sprawling metropolis, and if so desired, an impenetrable and inescapable fortress.

Which was how Artemus found himself on his knees before the First Keeper, begging to be let out into the city to search for his missing children.

It was a fools errand, but Artemus was desperate.

Luckily for the Keeper however, as in the olden days, there were still those within the Haven who were quite fond of Garrett and Erin, and while they too supported Orland’s decision to seal the Haven off from the rest of the city.

The thought of abandoning those two thieves was not something many of them could stomach.

So when Keeper Vairia approached Artemus with a plan to get him out of the Haven, Artemus agreed without hesitation.

“You won’t be able to rely on Glyph magic to remain undetected.” Keeper Vairia reminded his old friend as he watched Artemus scramble around his home, preparing a rucksack for his adventure.

“The common folk will be terrified… Just because they can’t use the same magics we do doesn’t mean they can’t feel the shifting of the tides…”

When the Dark Ages first befell the city, riots and unrest ravaged the streets, the people afraid for reasons they knew not, Artemus had no doubt that the second fall of the Primordial Sea would bear similar results.

“You are brave Artemus.” Keeper Vairia sighed as Artemus donned a dark cloak, not a Keeper’s cloak, just a dark, dark cloak to keep him unrecognizable and hopefully less noticeable.

“I’ll be waiting for your return.” The history teacher sighed as he pressed a sleek dagger into Artemus’ palm.

“I’ll be waiting.” He repeated softly, “And you better come back.”

Chapter Text

Garrett awoke with an old, withered hand running along his forehead and through his matted hair.

Everything ached within the thief, his bones felt brittle, his skin frail, his head pointed, his heart throbbed, his lungs burned.

But he was alive.

By some misguided miracle, he was alive.

“Twas fate.” The Queen of Beggars told him once he could finally open his eye, eye, singular.

His right eye was damaged, and with what little the Queen and her Beggars had, they wrapped cloth around the wound… Garrett’s head felt heavy, and panic welled in his chest every time his thoughts dared to stray into the darkness of what he once could see...

Garrett was told that he had been found by one of the Queen’s rats some few days after the manor wing collapsed. The urchin had grown bold enough to dare skulk into the noble district to pluck a few prizes from the debris that could fetch a price.

And the rat did find more than a few trinkets that would have surely have kept him fed for the coming year.

But a full stomach paled in comparison to discovering Garrett amidst the rubble, sheltered beneath a collapsed pillar, hidden away, unconscious and wounded. At first glance the rat feared the worst, that the thief was indeed dead, but even dead, the rat was determined to return Garrett to his Queen. 

According to the rat, Ansel, he called himself, Garrett had been dead to the world when he pulled him out of the rubble, limp, lifeless, pale, had he not coughed when dust fell upon his cheek, Ansel would have been sure he’d be lugging home a corpse.

The Queen of Beggars insisted that Garrett’s recovery was fate.

Garrett would argue that it was merely a coincidence.

Regardless, fate, coincidence, destiny, accident, Garrett was returned to the Queen of Beggars, his injuries were many, but the Queen and her beggars were patient and perfectly capable of nursing the thief back to health.

There was however, little they could do to heal the horrors which stalked his mind…

And so, the Queen of Beggars invited the thief to remain with them for a time;

“Until we can be rest assured you will return to us should you ever decide to leave.”

The Queen and her beggars weren’t expecting the thief to agree… But he did, Garrett agreed with little more than a nod…

There was a crushing weight in his chest, guilt and shame, and for a long while as he resided within the ancient cathedral he pondered… If that was how Erin felt all the years she had spent away from them, too ashamed to come home, too weighted by the guilt, the blood on her hands…

Unlike Erin’s reluctance to see her family, knowing that they judged her severely for her turn to blood coin…

Garrett’s guilt stemmed solely from his inadequacy. 

His failure to protect his sister.

His failure to save his sister…

And so Garrett remained, tucked away within that hidden cathedral, content with wasting away with his sorrows…

But things hidden away within the city had a habit of not staying hidden.

Chapter Text

There was blood coating the knife…

The knife Keeper Varia had given Artemus…

There was blood coating the blade, the hilt, Artemus' hand and wrist and sleeve…

And beneath Artemus was a body, a guard, a younger man who had been walking with his fellow guardsmen…

They were all dead, Artemus had killed them, quickly…

But not the one he knelt over.

Their armor was weak and aged, flimsy, poor, the dagger Artemus wielded sliced through the leather hide they wore like moonlight on a cloudless night.

The blade tore through the guardsmen's throats, one after another until only Artemus and one survivor remained…

Artemus had killed three men and tortured a fourth…

Because the fourth had declared the city blessed with the death of the damnable 'Master Thief'

Artemus had been skulking around the shadows, waiting for the guards to pass him by so he could resume his search in peace…

But he just had to overhear the guards…

And with his three companions on the ground, throats split wide open, their blood spurting in messy fountains of red as they gurgled and choked, eyes wide, hand grasping at their wounds.

The fourth guard sang like a bird.

When Artemus demanded to know the fate of the 'Master Thief' the guard told him, sobbing the tale of how a friend of his brother had seen a lowly cretin dragging some thief through the streets. And since that night, the notorious 'Master Thief' had seemingly vanished into thin air.

Artemus had sliced the guard's ear clean off at that, and the guard howled like a hound into the night, clutching his bleeding head as he stumbled back, away from Artemus, who followed him silently.

When Artemus demanded to know the name of the guard who had seen the thief and the cretin, the wounded man refused at first, and refused again when Artemus threatened to begin taking fingers.

A pinky finger fell to the cobbled ground before Artemus very quickly learned the name of the guard…

Artemus could have stopped there… He had gotten what he needed…

But he did not...

Instead of turning, leaving, disappearing back into the shadows, the dagger Keeper Vairia had given him found its way into the guard's stomach… Again, again, again… Artemus drove the blade into the guard until there was little more than a gaping hole beneath the man's rib cage.

Only when the blade bounced off the cobble beneath the man did Artemus realize the horror he had committed…

He rose, blood drenched, from the body of the guard, and without looking at the atrocity in the street, turned and fled towards the Old Quarter where one Lorus Wright was apparently on duty…

Chapter Text

Garret held a hand up before his face, two fingers extended skyward, the others tucked to his palm alongside his thumb…

Slowly, he moved his hand across his face, trailing his fingers with his eye until it slipped out of sight behind the arch of his nose…

The bandages covering his other eye prevented him from seeing anything, though he could open and blink with his bandaged eye… He dared not remove the bandages…

He wasn't sure what he would do if the same darkness caused by the bandages remained even if they fell away…

"You fear your eye is truly ruined." The Queen of Beggars said one day from just behind Garrett, he hadn't heard her approach, nor did he know how she had managed to climb up the decrepit spire he had claimed as his own… It wasn't his clocktower which he gazed at longingly… It wasn't as tall, or as sheltered…

But it was just as quiet, just as difficult to get to and just as lonely…

"Yet you are living with what you fear." The old woman continued.

"Blinding yourself willingly, so you don't have to face the reality of being blinded unwillingly."

Garrett said nothing, he didn't need to… They both knew she was right, she was always right…

"I'm not ready…" Garrett insisted softly.

"No one ever is." The Queen of Beggars sighed as she moved to stand just beside the thief atop her tower, looking down upon her many beggars.

"But you will survive." She hummed.

"Many of my beggars come to me maimed and broken, and while many may never be able to walk or write again… They survive just fine…"

Garrett merely grunted in reply… Again, he knew she was right, he would survive, he would adapt, he was too stubborn not to...

But he was still afraid to face the reality where he would be forced to adapt.

"The Sneak Thief survived." The Queen mused, a little further away from Garrett as she began to retreat down a stairwell Garrett knew led nowhere.

"I'm not the Sneak Thief!" Garrett called after her, suddenly… Anxious, upset, furious even…

Ever since he saw that damn portrait down in the vaults… Ever since he had heard those legends, those stories, those histories…

Garrett had been terrified of following in the Sneak Thief's footsteps…

And yet there he was…

"No." The Queen agreed without so much as glancing over her shoulder.

"But you are a thief… And if a thief from so long could survive, then you Garrett, absolutely can."

Chapter Text

“Ya-h stole ma-h bro’der.” The street rat said from the shadows just behind Artemus.

Honestly, the rat was lucky that Artemus had the restraint to not slit his throat the instant he snuck up on him.

Keepers were quite jumpy outside of the Haven and Artemus was no exception.

The two stared at one another, Artemus from beneath the hood that shielded his eyes and face in a shroud of shadow, and the street rat from deep sunken eyes and a muck stricken portrait.

The blade glistened in the dim firelight from the mob marching down the street just behind Artemus.

“Is ‘e well?” The street rat asked quietly as he flashed his empty palms towards Artemus, a clear sign of surrender.

“I wouldn’t know.” Artemus whispered in reply as he removed the dagger from the man’s throat, displeased to see the edge stained in red, though the man didn’t seem to notice the wound.

“Pity…” The rat spat before he turned away, skulking back into the shadows from which he came.

Artemus didn’t have any intentions of following him, despite knowing that an urchin would have a far easier time navigating the narrow alleys of the city, he doubted anyone would know where his son was unless he told them specifically where he was sheltering…

And if Basso didn’t know, Artemus could be sure that a lowly rat wouldn’t either.

So, the Keeper remained where he was, hidden behind some old timber as a mob stalked through the city streets, baying like wolves as they hunted nobles, guards and imaginary monsters alike.

-oOo-

“Do you ever worry that the guard will find this place?” Garrett asked the Queen of Beggars softly over a dinner of looted scraps.

“Of course.” she replied as she tucked a single raisin between her teeth, chewing slowly, savoring the rare sweetness a beggar had managed to find.

“Every day, I worry, I must, it’s what a good leader does.” She explained.

“What happens if the guard does come?”

“My, you are certainly in a grim mood this evening Garrett.” The old Queen hummed as she stirred her tea thoughtlessly.

Garrett didn’t reply, she didn’t expect him to.

“I suppose when the guard finds this place, and they will.” She insisted tiredly, “I will die.” She stated calmly as she looked out onto the courtyard before her, teaming with beggars and fires and families…

“And my beggars will be left to run through the streets like the rats once more.”

Garrett watched the old woman’s expression for a small while…

She didn’t seem distraught by the reality she described, she didn’t seem sad or upset, if anything, she seemed accepting…

“Nothing in this city remains hidden Garrett, remember this.” She sighed, turning to the thief beside her with foggy eyes and a gentle smile as she reached out and set her hand atop his, patting his hand softly before she rose.

“Eventually, someone will find this old cathedral, find us, it is simply the way of the city… We can’t prevent it, the most we can do is prepare, and I’ve been preparing my beggars since we settled on these grounds.” The Queen sighed, looking out to her people once more.

“How long do you expect yourself capable of staying hidden Garrett?” The old woman asked softly.

“If what you say about the track record for staying hidden here is true… Not as long as I would like.”

The old woman hummed and nodded once.

Garrett never heard her leave, but he knew if he turned around, she would be alone.

Chapter Text

“Ya-h stole ma-h bro’der.” 

A street rat said from the shadows just behind Artemus.

Honestly, the rat was lucky that Artemus had the restraint to not slit the rat’s throat the moment the scruffy man revealed himself, Keepers were quite jumpy outside of the Haven and Artemus was no exception.

The two stared at one another, their lack of words failing to deafen the sound of a raging fire some few streets away. Artemus looked out from beneath the hood that shielded his eyes and face in a shroud of shadow, taking in the street rat’s appearance with careful eyes.

He was a younger man, most urchins were, rarely did a squallower die of old age in the city, least of all in times of strife. His clothes were filthy and his skin no cleaner, by the way he was standing, Artemus could guess that this particular rat had been found by a roaming mob recently. 

Still… Despite his unfortunate circumstances, the gutter dweller didn’t look desperate. Artemus had seen a Graven woman wearing the bloody remnants of a presumably dead wife’s wedding dress, and yet the beggar before him had not once so much as glanced at his cloak.

The street rat’s eyes were clear and calm, albeit, sunk deep within his skull, his overall appearance gaunt and frail and filthy.

Yet harmless…

The beggar hadn’t so much as flinched when Artemus pressed the blade to his throat, Artemus couldn't even be sure the beggar realised just how close to death he currently stood.

“Is ‘e well?” The street rat asked quietly as he flashed his empty palms towards Artemus, a clear sign of surrender.

“What?” Artemus asked dumbly, the shock of the beggar’s sudden appearance beginning to wane, if only slightly.

“Ma-h bro’der.” The urchin repeated; “Ya-h stole ma-h bro’der… Stole ‘im right out o’h ‘is cradle.” The beggar’s voice never strayed from quiet, nor did ever an ounce of tone betray the young man’s attitude towards the apparent theft of his younger brother… 

“I wouldn’t know.” Artemus whispered in reply as he removed the dagger from the man’s throat, displeased to see the edge stained in red, though the man didn’t seem to notice the wound.

“Pitty…” The rat spat before he turned away, skulking back into the shadows from which he came.

Artemus watched the man disappear from sight, and for half a moment, he considered following after the beggar.

At the very least, the urchin would have a far easier time navigating the narrow alleys of the city. Though Artemus doubted anyone would know where his son was unless Garrett told them specifically where he was sheltering…

And if Basso didn’t know, Artemus could be sure that a lowly rat wouldn’t either.

So, the Keeper turned away, skulking onto a main street and heading towards the Stonemarket, away from the raging flame behind him, though unfortunately, towards a rallying mob, their cries and cheers reminiscent of baying wolves as they hunted nobles, guards and imaginary monsters alike.

Chapter Text

“No w’rd yet Artty.” The Boxman sighed as a now familiar man slipped onto the bar stool beside him.

Truthfully, Basso never thought he would see the Keeper again after their very first encounter, when Artemus first broke into his home to politely interrogate him about his involvement with his children.

Yet, soon after the city was set ablaze did the Keeper appear again.

The tavern was bustling with the same crowd it usually was, familiar faces, in other words, those who had managed to survive the initial onslaught of the Graven.

The Keeper had done well for himself, in the sense that he most certainly looked like he belonged among the more desperate peasants. The most people batted an eye over was his too well refined speech.

“He’s not dead.” Artemus whispered steadily as he took the mug of ale the barkeep had set down before him, swirling the deep amber liquid before throwing the alcohol back. It burned bitterly on the way down, but warmed his bones once it reached his stomach.

“Please.” Basso scoffed as he tapped the counter before him with another coin.

“Those two don’ know ‘ow ta keep down.” The Boxman chuckled as a tall pint of something a whole lot stronger than ale was set before him and his coin vanished into the pocket of the barkeep serving the counter that eve.

Basso took a long, deep swig before setting the pint down with a sigh.

“‘Ave ya tried askin’ any urchins?” The Boxman asked, turning on his chair, which whimpered beneath him loudly, to face the Keeper, his elbow resting on the counter top, casually gripping his drink.

“Dey see more den most, but dey’re not the sort ta blab ta most people.” Basso explained simply.

“How would a urchin know the whereabouts of my children?” Artemus shot back, his voice sharper than he intended.

Basso raised his hands in mock surrender.

“Easy dere Artty.” He huffed as he took another swig from his drink, continuing to talk once he set the pint down.

“Street urchins are dead useful in our line of work.” Basso said, quieter, leaning closer to the Keeper to keep his voice lower.

“Dey see a lot moor den you’d think, robberies, murders, rape, any crime dat ya can think of, anywhere, any time, odds are, a street rat was dere ta witness it.” Basso explained.

“An’ I know fer a fact dat a whole lot of dem gutter dwellers were awfully fond of y’er thieves.” Basso murmured.

“Now, I don’ tend ta go out o’ ma way ta snoop ‘round fer street words, I get ‘nough o’ dat ‘round ‘ere as is… But both Garrett and Erin ‘ad a knack fer sleuthing through street rats fer… Let’s say, juicer d’tails.” The Boxman rumbled through a chuckle.

“An’ thieves dey may be, but Garrett an’ Erin are no skimps when it came ta tips… So when I say dat a few gutter dwellers are mighty fond o’ dem, I mean Garrett and Erin were more den likely they reason dey ate most of the year.”

Artemus nodded slowly, jolting as Basso clapped him on the shoulder.

“If ya go rat hunting, be sure ta bring enough coin ta loosen a tongue or two, dey may be friends o’ thieves, but dat doesn’t mean dey see you as one too… Oh, and lose de dagger, urchins don’ take too kindly ta threats.

Chapter Text

“Word on deh street is that dereh be a new shadow lurkin about.” A beggar murmured softly to a small group clustered together beneath the overhanging sill of a long since broken window as Garrett walked by.

Garrett didn’t stay to listen into the conversation, continuing his quest to pace around the cathedral like some caged dog, he had grown restless in the past few days, desperate to move, to be useful, to do anything, but unable to bring himself to act.

The streets of the city were no place for a half-blind thief. With Graven prowling like a blood thirsty beasts day and night, searching for common folk and guards alike, tempers within the city were summer dried kindling, even looking at someone wrong could ignite a new skirmish, and Garrett did not wish to accidentally find himself in such a predicament.

He did, however, crave news…

Any information, any at all. From the faintest whisper of the wars progression to general lazy happenstances occurring within the city.

Anything…

Yet, the new shadow lurking about was all the Queen’s beggars could talk about as of late.

From what Garrett had managed to gather from scattered remarks made by the beggars, however diluted from word of mouth, this new shadow wasn’t a thief, by any means, Garrett could tell just from the hushed conversations he had heard around the cathedral courtyard.

The man wore a proper cloak, a rarity in the city now, dark in colour, hood drawn, always hiding his face. His steps were sloppy, quiet yes when he wasn't slipping in gutter muck, clearly not adapted to the rough cobble of the city streets.

That alone typically wouldn't be enough to pique Garrett's interest, unless someone suggested that the stranger would make a good mark for pick-pocketing, Garrett would have dubbed him a runaway noble trying his best to not die and leave it at that.

What did draw the thief's attention however was that the new shadow was looking for something, even going as far as to carelessly throw coin around without worry, in exchange only for information…

Garrett was used to being wanted for less than savory reasons. He was a thief after all, he was more than wanted for theft, the General Thief Taker seemed to have a hellbent vendetta against him as a person…

And he was unfortunately aware of how certain people viewed him with far more… Carnal desires. Madame Xiao Xiao and her girls were some of the very few who ever seemed, dare he say, excited? To see him in the flesh. Not that he stuck around long during that particulate mishap...

Regardless. The new shadow wasn’t looking for a thief, not by a long shot.

The new shadow was looking for him, by name…

And there were very few people in the world would ever call him by name...

Chapter Text

“We stole your brother.” Artemus murmured quietly to the hunched figure cowering behind a crate just before him.

The street rat startled, curling in on himself, his hands reaching up to shield his head, expecting to be struck again. Artemus fell to his knees, ignoring how the cold grime of the alley soaked into his pants, biting into his skin with teeth made of ice and gore.

"We stole your brother." The Keeper repeated, watching as the man begore him trembled, his breathing ragged and pained as he slowly lowered his arms just enough to peer out at Artemus. The Keeper withheld a grimace as the street rat's injury came into view, one eye was slashed solidly in half from a long wound sprawling from his temple, through his brow and eye and cheek and chin, blood gushed messily from the wound, staining the rat’s whole left side red.

“We gave him a new name." Artemus continued slowly; "We gave him food and warmth and an education.” He slowly began to encroach into the street rat’s personal bubble as he reached into his cloak for the small first aid kit he kept on himself at all times.

“He goes by Apprentice Niechta now." Artemus murmured softly as he pressed a clean rag to the street rat’s face, grimacing as the clean rag quickly turned red, the street rat however paid the wound no mind, he didn't even wince while Artemus cleaned the wound, he simply watched the Keeper through his only remaining eye.

"He has many friends." Artemus continued quietly; "His favorite class is astrology, he can talk your ear off about constellations and moon phases... He's set to graduate this year and he has a very promising future to look forward to...”

A single tear ran from the street rat's eye, creating a clear streak along his cheek.

“‘E’s well den?” The beggar whispered hoarsely as he moved to hold the rag himself, Artemus nodded, once, surely, before moving to dig out the gauze from the first aid kit. There wasn't much he could do to help out in the streets, for now, stopping the bleeding would have to do until they found somewhere safe to hide.

“Elie was ‘is name." The urchin murmured quietly; "S hort fer Elias, cursed name dat, don’ know what our Ma was thinkin when she decided tah call him that.” The street rat spat sourly. A silence, punctuated by the sound of rain and gauze being unrolled settled between the two men in the alley, it was a heavy quiet, not uncomfortable, just heavy.

The sort of heavy that, if disturbed, would open the fragile floodgates.

The two men, the beggar and the Keeper, remained quiet until the final bandages were wrapped securely around the urchin's head and Artemus moved to sit back against the wall opposite the bloodied beggar. The two stared at one another, not daring the other to break the quiet, but inviting the conversation to come.

“You Keepers take care of your own, right?” The urchin finally asked, breaking the silence, his tone serious, but desperate in a way that had Artemus’ stomach curdling.

“Of course.” The Keeper replied evenly before he quickly rose to his feet, offering a arm when the street rat before him moved to stand himself, the urchin looked at the hand for a moment, his eye flitting up to the Keeper beside him, before returning to the outstretched hand.

Artemus doubted the beggar would strike out at him, even if he could, though he remained wary enough. He had taken Basso's advice, abandoning his blade, and at first he felt foolish for it. Hardly an eve ago, Artemus had spotted a young boy, screaming bloody murder for help in the streets, he had half a mind to help the boy, but he was out in the open, and above all else, Artemus feared being discovered, luckily, it was noon, and there were more than enough people out and about to notice the commotion, but when a watchman tried to come to his aid, the child slid a small paring knife between the guard’s ribs and made off with his coin pouch.

Artemus wasn’t one for taking chances.

But for his children, he would.

“So do we.” The beggar heaved as he took hold of Artemus' hand, staggering to his feet with the help of the Keeper.

“We-we beggars watch out for our own too…” The urchin huffed as he turned away from Artemus, keeping a hand on the wall as he began staggering a few steps down the alley, pausing only to gesture for Artemus to follow.

“Word round the streets is… Yer looking for that thief? The Master Thief? Garrett?”

Artemus wasted no time catching up to the beggar, caution be damned.

Chapter Text

Garrett made his way through the crowd of beggars without care for appearance or noise.

He wordlessly nudged people aside, ducking between narrow gaps of conversation without notice, apology or consequence.

His eyes pinned on the cloaked figure that was darting through the same crowd nearly as frantically as he was making his way through.

The figure was familiar, painfully so, tugging at his heart in a way Garrett was sure would break him if he was wrong…

Oh Stars, please don’t let him be wrong.

Garrett skulked closer, until his resolve began to crumble…

Garrett found himself staring at the stranger's back, hardly ten feet from him, surrounded by scruffy beggars who whispered and watched with bated breath, falling quiet, quiet enough for Garrett to hear the stranger’s voice...

Oh Stars, how long had it been?

“Please, I was told that my son was here.” The stranger said to an old krone of a beggar, hunched and withered, silently glowering up at him with sunken, bitter eyes.

“You stole my daughter…” The woman said in lieu of a proper answer, her accent sharp, voice clear despite her appearance, Garrett didn’t know her, but he knew of her.

“Yes.” Artemus sneered, in a way Garrett had never heard before.

“We stole your daughter. We stole her and we have her warmth and food and an education and a family and a new name.” Artemus rambled, his voice beginning to tremble.

“We call her Keeper Favrim, she’s a teacher, now will you please tell me where my son is!” 

The old krone glowered up at the Keeper, her expression scrunched up, disgruntled, disgusted, and through crooked, rotted teeth she sneered again;

“You stole my daughter.”

Artemus let loose a vicious snarl of contempt as he turned on his feet to stalk away from the krone, presumably deeper into the crowd to try and find any lead from any one.

For a moment, Garrett saw Artemus’ face, twisted in hideous, sick distress.

He was furious, angrier than Garrett had ever seen. And had that expression been on anyone elses’ face, Garrett was sure that death would be on the horizon.

But it wasn’t just anyone… It was Artemus…

Artemus who wasn’t just angry. It was Artemus, a worried father, desperately seeking his lost children in the midst of anarchy. 

It was Artemus, who upon catching a mere glimpse of Garrett froze.

It was Artemus, whose range and fury and sorrow and fear melted away the moment he saw Garrett.

It was Artemus who wordlessly began to make his way over to Garrett.

And it was Garrett who abandoned all pretenses to run at his father.

The second he collided with the familiar body, two arms wrapped around him, one settling around his side to curl around his ribcage, the other around his shoulder to cradle the back of his head, guiding him to a shoulder.

Likewise clung to his father, his fingers tangling in the sturdy fabric of his cloak. And like a child he wept.

He wept and screamed and howled over and over; “I’m sorry.” into his father’s throat as Artemus held them up.

Garrett’s chest burned with every cry to tumble from his aching throat, his eyes itched as tears fell, staining his cheek and the bandages he still stubbornly wore around his right eye.

“You’re alright.” Artemus murmured softly, despite the fragility of his voice, just wavering on a sob, Garrett could tell he was close to breaking down too.

“You’re alright, you’re alright Garrett, you’re safe, you’re safe, Stars you're safe.”

Artemus wouldn’t break however, he couldn’t afford to, he was a father, and his children needed him to be strong, so he would be strong, for however long they needed him to...

Chapter Text

"I thank you for receiving me, Lady of the Frail." Artemus stated cordially as he offered the Queen of Beggars a low bow, his arm crossed over his chest, hand at his heart, his hood removed out of respect.

"I have not heard that title in some years." The Queen hummed gently as she stirred a weak cup of tea with a broken spoon. Her gaze, blind as it may have been, did not so much as pass over the man standing before her.

"Though I suppose your kind would be largely out of the loop in terms of our kin." She continued, a withering smile gracing her features as she gestured for the two men before her to join her at the table.

"I suppose that is true enough." Artemus replied as approached, scuffing his steps to allow the blind women some inkling of his whereabouts as he pulled out both his and Garrett's seat, arranging them to sit closer than strictly necessary, Garrett didn't comment, if anything, once Artemus had taken his seat, the thief scooched his chair even closer.

Artemus made no comment, though he did turn his head to brush his lips against the crown of Garrett's head when the younger man leaned over to rest against his side, basking in the familiarity of comfort he had denied himself for so long.

"I must say however… I found it surprising that it took you so long to find this place." The Queen mused aloud, her pale eyes pinned on the two men before her, sightless yet knowing; "Keepers I thought were known for their knack of finding things." The Queen sighed, her voice light and teasing.

"I do believe you are mistaking me for a thief Madame." Artemus replied smoothly, indulging the old woman's word play as he took Garrett's hand in his own, Garrett was quick to slot his fingers between Artemus', offering his father's hand a gentle squeeze as a silent, exhausted sigh escaped him.

"But I doubt you asked to see us for mere pleasantries." Artemus replied to the old woman across from him. Truly, the Queen and her beggars had graced the many tomes the Keepers treasured, but never had the Haven and the Queen of Beggars interacted beyond brief run-ins and a vague sense of awareness.

"Indeed, I have not." The old Queen sighed as she set her teacup down on a chipped saucer, she folded her hands in her lap, her skin pale and thin, ancient. For a brief moment Artemus wondered, in all of his Keeper inquisitive nature, if the woman before him, the Queen of Beggars, truly was the Eternal City given flesh.

"I take it your kind has been made aware of the recent developments regarding the Primal?" She asked softly, looking at the Keeper despite the deep fog clouding her eyes.

"Quite." Artemus snipped, not cruelly, but not kindly either. Truthfully, before he managed to slip away from the Haven to search for his missing children, all anyone could talk about was the disruption of the Primal, what happened, why, how to mend it.

Artemus was nearly sick of hearing about the Primal. But for the old woman, he would listen once more.

"The Outsider has severed the ties between the Void and waking reality." The Queen explained gently as she reached out to the table, her hands sure and steady as she took hold of the teapot with the broken handle, pouring another cup of tea for herself, and the another for her company.

"Oh, believe me, the Keepers are well aware." Artemus huffed as he watched the water pour and steam rise, some small part of Artemus was aware that he had never caught sight of a fire to warm the water, nor any rain barrels or catches to store water. But the larger part of Artemus couldn't be bothered to care as he took the cup offered to him; "It's the dark ages all over again." He murmured in lieu of a thankyou.

"Not quite." The old woman murmured, pausing to sip her scalding tea to wet her throat and warm herself with a sigh.

"You can feel it, can you not?" She asked softly, "The Primal? It is still here… But it has grown sickly and unkempt. Uncontrollable. But intact… Your Glyphs remain, but you cannot use them, correct?"

Her words shocked Artemus into a stunned silence, though he did manage to nod. The Haven was very selective when it came to unveiling the hidden architecture which the city was built upon, and now to know that someone could so easily whisper such secrets freely had Artemus on high alert.

"The Outsider was the one to sever the ties between the Void and the waking world this time… And should the Outsider see it fit to reestablish the ties between once again, They will…" The Queen murmured just against the rim of her teacup

"The Leviathan severed the anchors?" Artemus repeated numbly.

"They did." The Queen replied as lowered her cup into her lap.

"Something… Blasphemous occurred, the night the ties were severed… Something so foul that the Outsider had no other choice but to disconnect Themselves from our world… And now the Primal runs rampant and untamed…" A shudder ran through her spine, and briefly, Artemus feared she would crumble away before his very eyes.

"Do you know what occurred exactly?" Artemus asked, chest tight and anxious, desperate to know, know more. Orland was so set in his ways to close off the Haven, yet here, here in the middle of the city, in some derelict ruins of some church, lived a legend, the Eternal City made flesh.

"I do not…" The Queen replied solemnly… Casting her gaze to the tea in her lap, had she not been blind, Artemus would have expected her to read her tea leaves for an answer.

"My beggars tend to stay well away from the noble district as you can understand, it was only fate that your son was found alive…" The old woman murmured softly, lifting her head to look at the boy beside the Keeper at her table.

Likewise, Artemus followed her gaze, looking over to his son, his son who had so easily fallen asleep against his shoulder, his hand still tucked into Artemus'

"As far as I know… Your children are the sole witness of the eve." The Queen of Beggars stated quietly.

Artemus shuddered as he choked down a frail sob, pressing his cheek to the top of Garrett's head as his shoulders began to tremble, he looked over to the old woman before him.

"And… You're sure there was no sign of my daughter?"

The Queen sighed sadly and shook her head.

"The moment my Beggar brought Garrett to us, I asked them to scour the site where they found him… I can assure you that there was not a trace of your daughter among the rubble."

Artemus nodded slowly as he ignored the bitterness of grief clawing at the back of his throat.

He still had Garrett, he had found Garrett, he was still a father…

But somehow, that only made him feel worse...

Chapter Text

Artemus took his son from the Queen and her beggars soon after their reunion.

Once Garrett had awoken from his impromptu nap against Artemus’ shoulder, the thief was bright eyes and eager to head out, despite the Keeper's gentle urging that there was no need to rush, that they could stay a while longer, recuperate and rest. Garrett however insisted that he had rested long enough, that he had spent too long idle, that he needed to move.

Their farewell was soft and quiet, with Artemus once again thanking the old woman and her beggars for saving his son, the Queen waved off the Keeper’s offer of thanks however.

“Had you not been the one to find him, he would have been one of mine.” The old woman mused quietly, peering over to Garrett with a knowing smile before turning to Artemus, bowing her head as he had done upon their first meeting; “Saving Garrett was no act of bargaining, I expect nothing from you or your Haven. Your son has done much for us, it only right that we do well by him.”

With that, she wished them luck and sent them on their way, the Queen of Beggars watched the two through sightless eyes, hiding a small smile behind the rim of her tea cup.

Artemus, in the brief time he had spent within the abolished cathedral the Queen and her beggars called home, amidst the emotions and turmoil he faced, completely forgot where the entrance to the hidden estate was located, the street rat he had followed into the heart of the Queen’s Court was well hidden and winding.

Luckily, despite being confined to the dilapidated chapel, Garrett was still more than knowledgeable on the ins and outs of the hidden estate, thus, in the dead of night, as a riot ignited the eastern quarter of the city, sending vermin, strays, civilians and beggars alike scurrying away. Garrett and Artemus easily blended into both the crowd and shadows.

And like many of the fleeing vagrants of the city, Artemus’ hand firmly holding Garrett’s as they hurried through the streets wasn’t at all out of place.

Despite the two men intending on returning to the Haven, their home, Artemus found himself lagging behind his son. The Keepers, Orland specifically, so loved to boast about how they were the backbone of the city, how the Haven kept everything in order, the hidden puppet masters.

Yet all Artemus could think about as he and Garrett slunk through the slums and gutters was how out of depth they were.

“We should take the highway…” Garrett muttered quietly as he peered around a small shaded outcropping he had managed to find in an alley, Artemus was tucked close to his side, likewise watching the street as a small splinter of the riot made a round through the mass of panic.

Their torches lit, weapons raised, faces adorned with hideous glee as they howled and laughed at the misfortune they had caused. Artemus flinched as one rioteer brought a shovel down onto some poor guard’s head, the man couldn’t have been any older than Garrett, and when he fell, he fell heavily, remaining still on the ground save for the cruel kicks he received from passers by.

“Splinter is too small and rowdy to risk blending in with the Graven.” Garrett whispered; “They all know each other, and they don’t look interested in taking in recruits… We have to go around them.”

“We could backtrack?” Artemus offered quietly, peering towards the back of the small alley which fed into a dark, dank, claustrophobic made of houses and store backs.

“Could…” Garrett muttered thoughtfully as he looked up; “But that still runs the risk of us ending up in a worse spot. The Highway could get us anywhere we need to be without as much risk.” 

“But what about your…” Artemus stilled his tongue, but his eyes flickered to the bandages wrapped around his son’s head and no words were needed thereafter.

Garrett wilted slightly, and for a moment, they weren’t surrounded by fire and brimstone, nor the screaming of mothers and children and the baying of monsters hunting their fellow men for sport and some sick sense of justice.

They were simply father and son.

Artemus turned to face his boy, curling his index finger beneath his son’s chin to raise Garrett’s head, he pressed a soft kiss to his son’s forehead before pulling Garrett to his chest.

“I’m sorry…” He whispered as he tucked Garrett’s head beneath his chin, Garrett pressed against him willingly, though his son’s arms remained limp at his sides.

“I’m horribly out of shape Garrett.” Artemus murmured softly, “I think we both know that I'd end up at the bottom of the next alley should I ever even reach the rooftops.”

Garrett snorted at that, and Artemus smiled, releasing his son to look into his remaining eye.

“We’re not far from the entry point… Only a few more blocks at most.”

“That’s a few more blocks full of Gravens and panic.” Garrett pointed out, tilting his head towards the mouth of the alley where a lone cart stood aflame, illuminating the blood still seeping from the body of the guardsman.

Artemus grimaced at the sight.

“We could just go through the alley’s?” The Keeper suggested.

“We could…” Garrett agreed, “Unless the Graven decides to try and flush out anyone they think might be hiding back here, the corridors are too thin for evasive maneuverability, so if we’re found, we’re caught.”

Artemus heaved a sigh as he looked up towards the looming rooftops above.

“You’re sure they won’t find us up there?” He asked.

“Oh, they might…” Garrett replied as he tuned to inspect the wall before them properly. 

“But they won’t be able to catch us.”

Chapter Text

“Just down that alley.” Artemus whispered from his position against a chimney, he clung to the vertical structure tightly, adjusting his footing atop the slanted roof every few moments as he risked pointing to where they needed to go.

Garrett crouched beside him, still as a statue, dark as a shadow, peering left and right along the street without so much as a twitch.

Artemus, thankfully, hadn’t fallen down the first alley the two came across and broke both his legs, but he wasn’t wrong about the thieves highway being slow because of him. Though from what they had seen during their time above the street, Garrett had doubtlessly made the right call.

A few rioteers had indeed gone tearing through the back alleys, and they had indeed butchered every person they had managed to stumble across in the gloom and muck, both dead and alive. At one particularly gruesome point of the massacre, Garrett ended up having to throw Artemus over his shoulder and drag him away to prevent the Keeper from joining the fray in defense of a little girl who wandered out her back door when her pet cat began yowling under the boot of some Graven bastard.

"You couldn't have saved her." Garrett whispered as he set Artemus back down on his feet, his hand still clinging tightly to his father's arm, thankfully, Artemus turned his ire away from the Graven and towards him. Garrett could deal with his father hating him, just so long as his father lived.

"You doubt me?" Artemus hissed as he craned his neck to look back towards the alley where the shrill cries of a little girl soar into the night; "There were only six- I- We could have-" Artemus' words fumbled as Garrett squeezed his arm, tight.

"You could have killed them." Garrett admitted calmly as the alley began to brighten as more and more torches spilled from the street and into the narrow darkness, as the jeers and howls of sick sick men drowned out the dwindling sobs of the little girl.

"But even us, together, could not have killed them, freed the girl and escaped back onto the highway before more came..." Garrett slowly released his father's arm, standing as Artemus choked on a bitter sob. without another word, the two carried on, the pace slow and weary until they finally came across their current predicament.

Getting across the street. Oh, and getting Artemus back down off the rooftops.

They were at the edge of a main strip, the street far too wide to simply leap across, and of course, there was nothing in the way of scaffolding for them to cross over, their only option was to either take a very long and convoluted route around, or return to street level. Neither option was ideal.

The riot had parked itself just up the road at the central junction, jeering and howling as they began to burn overturned carts and whatever else they could set on fire. If they returned to the streets and were noticed by the mob, Artemus doubted he could have time to unlock the passageway before the Graven were upon them.

But as Garrett astutely pointed out, the Graven were actively setting the streets ablaze, and taking the long way around could cost them time that they did not have.

“How does the passage open?” Garrett asked quietly from his perch, eyes still trained on the rallying mob a little ways away, he could hear his father shift nervously behind him.

“I-it’s a brick code.” Artemus whispered; “All the Glyph magic has run dry, so all the old mechanisms have to be used. You recall how at each Haven entrance, once the Glyph was scrawled, the surrounding wall would warp to make room for the door” Garrett nodded silently, a slow move of his head before he turned to look up at his father.

“We’ll have to open the door manually.” Artemus confessed with a tight grimace as he peered up the street, Garrett sighed heavily in return; “Do you at least know the code.”

“No.” Artemus sighed; “I had Vari change the pattern once I was out in the streets.”

“Why would you do that?” Garrett asked, his tone was sharp, frustrated, hinging on fear, and had Artemus been able to see his hands, the Keeper knew they’d be closed into white knuckled fists.

“Garrett…” Artemus sighed; “I’ll be honest… When I left the Haven to search for you and your sister, I fully expected to die.” Garrett stilled at that, and Artemus slowly found himself slipping to crouch down on the roof beside his son.

“It was a fool's errand… Both Varria and I knew that, so I told him to lock the door behind me as a precaution… It wouldn’t do anybody any good if it were to remain unlocked, and I didn’t expect that I’d ever return…” Artemus carefully reached out to grip Garrett’s shoulder.

“The door is just down the alley, at the very back wall, the Glyph is dead, but you can still see the carving. I know you don’t trust me to cross the street without being seen and I don’t blame you, but I know you’re more than clever enough to figure out the code without my help.”

Garrett hummed at that, turning away from his father to scope out the area again; “I’ll stay here until you break the code, then, I guess it’ll be one last mad dash.” The Keeper mused lightly, Garrett merely nodded, rolling his shoulders, a silent gesture for Artemus to let go.

“Wish me luck?” Garrett asked softly as he tugged up the neck of his shirt over his nose.

“You’ve never needed luck.” Artemus pointed out; “But if it eases you, you have all my faith.”

Garrett paused for a moment at that, peering over to Artemus for a solid moment before leaning close, pressing his forehead into the crook of Artemus' shoulder and throat, for the first time since reuniting with his son, Artemus saw the briefest ghost of a smile settle in Garrett’s eye as he pulled away.

And then he was gone.

Swift as wind, silent as stars in the sky, off the rooftops, across the street and into the adjacent alley, all in a single breath.

Chapter Text

Garrett made embarrassingly quick work of the manual lock, but truthfully, Artemus wasn’t the slightest bit surprised, his son was a professional thief after all, getting into places he wasn’t supposed to was part of the job. Likewise, Artemus was wholly unsurprised by the fact that Garrett practically melted into the shadows, out of sight and mind of the mob still howling.

By the time Garrett finally beckoned Artemus from the mouth of the opposite alley, the Keeper had managed to clamber down from the rooftops, and seemingly, despite Garrett’s initial concerns, the Graven were too enthralled in their bonfire to notice some lone shadow run across the street.

The Haven on the other hand was ever watchful, even despite the grim circumstances which befell them.

No sooner had Garrett slid the final lock out of place with a soft click of some hidden mechanism did Artemus press his palms to the newly exposed doorway, looking back towards the entrance of the alley to make sure no prying eyes were spying upon them from the streets before he began to push.

The door was heavy, cumbersomely so, but well maintained, the hinges blissfully silent. For a moment, Artemus prayed that perhaps he and his son would be able to slip back into the safety of the Haven unnoticed, they could cook up some lie together, Artemus never condoned lying but Garrett was starkly skilled at keeping a straight face.

Unfortunately, that hope was dashed the moment Artemus managed to wrestle the door open far enough to slip inside, keeping the entrance perched at his shoulder to make room for his son, not that he dared take another step into the Haven.

The blade laid across his throat halted him dead in his tracks.

The Haven was dim, despite numerous torches being lit, shadows bled along whatever nooks and crannies they could get into, including beneath the hood of the Keeper holding the sword to Artemus’ throat.

Having lost the knee-jerk reaction window to fight back or flee, the Keeper roughly grabbed Artemus by the shoulder, expertly keeping the blade pressed just over his jugular as the Keeper slammed Artemus against the opposing wall.

Artemus watched a stray shadow dart into the halls of the Haven just before the door slid shut on its silent hinges, a brief glint of silver told him Garrett was not going to hesitate...

But then, Artemus felt his own hood being roughly tugged down. 

A pause, a fragile moment between Artemus’ exposure and Garrett fluidly twirling the scrap of iron once used to shave unwanted hair, now reddened and rusted from throat slit, into his palm.

“Well you certainly took your damn sweet time didn’t you?” The Keeper hissed as he quickly released his hold on Artemus’ shoulder, slipping his sword into its sheath before taking a step back, forcing Garrett to retreat on silent feet, drawing his hand to his hood.

All at once, Artemus blew a fragile sigh of relief, the end bordering on a hiccough which was cut short as Keeper Varia dragged him into a tight, tight hug.

“Worried me sick you did Artemus.” The other man muttered against Artemus’ shoulder before abruptly releasing him to begin looking him over.

“Any injuries? Open wounds?” The other man clucked like a mother hen; “You’ve been gone a month Artemus, when was the last time you ate anything?” Keeper Vairia rattled on before he abruptly fell silent.

“Where is…?” He asked softly, delicately as his hands fell to Artemus’ arms, gently gripping the crook of the other Keeper’s elbows, preparing to pull his longtime friend in for a bone-crushing hug should he need it.

Artemus sighed, raising his hands to Keeper Varia’s arms in tangent; “We’re fine Vari.” Artemus said softly as he looked over to where Garrett stood, the blade long gone, hidden somewhere on the thief’s person, out of sight out of mind; “We’re both fine…”

Keeper Varia was quick to catch onto what Artemus was saying, and perhaps even faster to spin around to see who stood behind him.

“Dear Stars lad…” He murmured before gently shoving Artemus aside to approach Garrett.

Artemus didn't miss the way Garrett flinched away from Keeper Vairia’s outstretched hand, and luckily neither did Keeper Vairia, who pursed his lips tightly in contemplation before moving aside, gesturing for the two men to move along.

“Let's get you two home, before someone sees, or worse, Orland finds out I’ve been letting people in ‘an out willy-nilly.”

Garrett nodded silently as he slipped past Keeper Vairia, his eyes, or, eye downcast to the floor as he walked on silent feet, like a living shadow, unnerving in ways words could not quite describe.

Artemus sighed heavily, raising an arm slightly to invite his son to his side. When Garrett was young, he would always shy away from affront gestures of affection… But now, Artemus nearly had the wind knocked out of him as Garrett hurriedly tucked himself into the alcove between his father’s arm and chest easily.

If Keeper Varia noticed the apparent eagerness of the thief, he didn’t comment on it, instead, the other Keeper delved right into the nitty-gritty.

“How bad are the streets?” Keeper Vairia asked quietly as the three of them began to make their way through the quiet halls of the Haven, the torches lining the walls far, far dimmer than they had ever been, the Runes lining the flame bed to promote heatless light had died along with everything else.

The Haven wasn’t quite in shambles, they had learned their lesson from the Dark Ages, but that didn’t mean anyone was quite happy about the situation they had found themselves in.

“Bad…” Artemus replied through a soft huff, his voice echoed in the absence of life. He couldn’t remember a time the halls of the Haven were ever so lifeless, far from the heart of the Haven as they were, part of him still expected to see some wandering Keepers loitering about or running errands for their peers.

“Riots, fire… It’s awful, Vari…” Artemus murmured, giving Garrett’s shoulder a soft squeeze as he spoke.

“I’ll take your word for it.” Keeper Vairia grumbled; “We’re all still in lockdown, full lockdown, rations and everything, like we’re under siege, which, fine, I can understand… But after I let you out, no one else has left… Or come back.” 

Artemus nodded grimly at that; “How many have we lost?” He asked quietly.

“Not as many as we could have.” Keeper Vairia admitted gingerly, pausing just long enough to round a corner, checking to see if there was anyone in earshot before continuing, “All of our informants are either dead or smart enough to hunker down… But the graduates?” Keeper Vairia shook his head somberly.

Artemus sighed again, it was to be expected, but being expected never made such news hurt less…

“Orland is looking for you, just a warning.” Keeper Vairia huffed as they rounded another corner, finally leading them towards the heart of the Haven, or, at least towards the home stretch of hall where Artemus’ apartment was.

“Did no one tell him where I was?” Artemus asked, cocking a brow, “He must have figured out that I wasn’t here?”

Keeper Vairia shrugged, “The Haven’s been a wreck since the new dark ages began, he’s been too busy to look for you himself, and believe you me, no one is very happy with Orland at the moment with the whole lockdown and all, so most word-of-mouth messages are, shall we say, getting lost in translation… But he is asking for you, he has been for weeks so, just think of a nice lie to tell him, alright?”

Artemus nodded slowly, lips pursed in thought.

“Pa, relax…” Garrett huffed as he slipped out from beneath Artemus’ arm to unlock the front door, using the key Artemus hadn’t even realized he had lifted from his pocket.

“I came home before the Haven went into lockdown and you’ve been nursing me back to health ever since.”

Keeper Vairia laughed softly at that.

“That’ll do it.”

“Of course it will…” Garrett muttered quietly as he opened the door.

“Orland loves nothing more than tormenting us…”

Chapter Text

Artemus found Garrett later that night exactly where he hoped and feared his son would be.

They had only been home for a shy hour, enough time for both of them to bathe and scrub the city muck from their skin and blood from beneath their nails. Garrett went first, if only because Artemus knew that his son had gone without a good bath for longer, though if he disguised his reasoning as claiming that with all of the Haven rationing, hot water would be a fleeting thing, no one could blame him.

Artemus had only just stepped out of the tub after a chilling soak when a knock darkened his door, unlike all the other times where the First Keeper sent a summons, this time, it was evident that someone was home, and Keeper Quillek, a brown-noser lackey of Orland, was far more keen to ensure that the message was received. Garrett suggested he burn it, but Artemus couldn’t very well claim that he had failed to receive the summons when Keeper Quillek had seen him open the missive at the door.

Orland had been very displeased by Artemus’ apparent ‘tardiness’ when it came to speaking to him, and as Garrett said he would, the First Keeper directed the majority of his fury to the absent thief.

Had Artemus been conned into meeting with Orland before his adventure into the city to search for his son, he’d had left the Haven with a red hand and knife, no regrets and no intention of ever returning. Lucky for the First Keeper, Garrett was safe and sound, out of harm's reach, and completely guiltless of the mess the Haven had found itself in. 

Needless to say, Orland had nothing of true importance to say, no major plans or projects, no mention of the current means to sustain the Haven or find a way to reverse the second Dark Age. He summoned Artemus to rant, to have an ear to listen to him winge and whine. He didn’t even ask Artemus where he had been, and Artemus couldn’t be damned to tell him.

Artemus returned to his home with a headache looming on the nearby horizon, a desire for a mug of cocoa and a chance to finally rest…

But, as a father, rest was secondary to the welfare of his children… Or, child in his current circumstance.

That being said, his home was just as quaint as when he had left it to search for his children, just large enough for himself, and comfortably crowded with his children. There were only three rooms leaving few places to hide, so when Artemus returned to the sight of his living room and kitchen devoid of his son, and the bathroom door wide open…

Artemus was no thief, his feet were not silent as he walked through his home towards his bedroom.

His bed was well loved, lived in and used, the mattress soft and warm, the blankets even more-so, he could recall countless fond memories of nights where he would read to Garrett and Erin until they fell asleep beside him, content and safe and warm and cherished…

And that was where he found his son.

Curled up in a tight, trembling ball of limbs in the center of his bed, burrowed beneath a heap of blankets he had clearly stolen from the linen closet.

Weeping.

Artemus sighed as he sat down at the edge of his bed, gently laying a hand over the thief-sized bundle atop his bed.

“It’s going to be alright…” Artemus murmured softly, running his hand over Garrett’s shoulder through the blanket, feeling his son’s trembling breaths through the duvet. 

When Garrett stopped shaking so viciously, Artemus decided that a mug of cocoa was the last thing either of them needed at the moment as he hastily readied himself for bed, reluctant to leave his son’s side for any longer than necessary. 

Garrett was as listless as a corpse when Artemus finally dragged the blankets back to reveal his son’s face, devoid of bandages…

“Oh Garrett…” The Keeper whispered as he slowly settled to lay beside his son, gingerly running a thumb over the wicked scar running across the thief’s eye, a mangled wound, ill tended to save for the bandages that had been shielding it.

The wound stretched from Garrett’s temple, scoring down through his brow and eye, becoming a tangled mess across his right cheek…

It looked horrible, Artemus couldn’t deny that much…

But Garrett didn’t need hollow premises and faux reassurances. 

“We’ll get through this Garrett.” Artemus breathed.

“It won’t be easy… But we’ll manage… We’ve faced worse before.”

Garrett merely whimpered as he shuffled forward, pressing himself to his fathers front, his face tucked into the crook of Artemus’ neck.

“I couldn’t save her…” The thief whispered hoarsely.

“I-I couldn’t save her… And now she’s gone… She’s gone and it’s all my fault…” Garrett babbled hoarsely.

Artemus shushed Garrett softly, pulling his son closer silently, simply offering himself as something to cling to and cry on because he knew that no amount of softly spoken words would ever be able to begin stitching his son back together.

And Garrett did just that.

Garrett clung to Artemus, his father, desperately, curled together on the too small but somehow impossibly large bed in Artemus’ room, the bed that used to and could fit both thieves and their father none too comfortably, but still perfectly.

But Erin was gone.

Snatched away to Stars know where, by the Baron Northcrest.

The too small bed felt far, far too large.

And neither Artemus nor Garrett knew if the emptiness left by her would ever be filled…

Chapter Text

Garrett stayed with Artemus for, in the Keeper’s opinion, far, far too long.

There was a time when Artemus prayed his children would return to him, to the Haven, safe and sound, once they had their fill of adventure, of rebellion, of seeing the filth and squalor of the city streets. Artemus thought that surely, his children would grow weary of life outside of the Haven once they saw how dreary their dreams were in reality and thus come home to him and stay, stay with him safe and warm and loved… 

Those musings that kept Artemus up long into the early hours of the morning all seemed so far away, no inconsequential… And now? Now Artemus had never been so desperate to see his son vanish into the night as he had all those years ago.

Garrett was hollowed by Erin’s absence, not in the way he had been during their discourse of blood and coin, but truly, sickly, hollowed.

A shadow of the man, as ironic as it were, he once was.

Artemus stayed by Garrett’s side, his son’s side, for as long as he was needed. Damning the world to burn as he stood vigil over his child during the endlessly long days and nights without Erin, without flight, without a thief in the night…

Even as the City and surrounding forests and sea burned with a vile fever as the veins which the Primal once flowed through became corrupted with the vicious tides of the newly birthed Primordial Basin, bleeding hate and wrath and fear and sorrow and-

“Garrett, Garrett help!”

Festered with disease and desperation. Just as it had during the first Dark Ages…

Artemus stayed by his son’s side… Offering all that he could to Garrett to help, in any way he could. Whether it was his shoulder to cry on, his hand to hold, or something as simple as sitting by his son’s side, keeping Garrett quiet company.

And it was quiet.

Despite the two of them living together, there was little talking to be done, save for the briefest of exchanges, Artemus suggesting what he should cook for dinner, Garrett asking Artemus to help him change his bandages. 

Small words, weightless words, meant less to convey and more to fill the silence between father and son. Even so, as the days dragged by, the quiet grew. Artemus knew that Garrett and Erin needed no words, he had seen them many times speaking to each other with little more than passing glances and the occasional gesture.

Sooner or later, Artemus figured that eventually, he would be able to understand so intimately that spoken words were beneath them. But the silence would kill them far faster than starvation should he allow that. So Artemus continued to fill the silence, continuing trying to engage his son in conversation, in anything he could to keep Garrett from closing himself off entirely. 

Even as the losses piled once again. Commoners and Nobles fell like flies in the streets, in their homes, some to the sickness, some to their fellow man, many to their own hands.

Even as Orland ordered ration after ration to the food and water supplies. Despite the fact that the Haven was perfectly self-sufficient, without the Primal to bring light to the crops and speed along growing, the harvest withered and died, save for the particularly hardy grains and mushroom species they could cultivate in the dim fire-light.

Even as seemingly everything, and everyone began losing hope. Fewer and fewer apprentices saw the point in furthering their studies. Research had come to a near complete standstill, save for those desperately attempting to find a way to revive the flow of the Primal.

Artemus stayed. 

No matter who summoned him, with the exception of Orland, but even the First Keeper was not exempt from Artemus ignoring summons, Artemus stayed glued to his son’s side. Day and night, he refused to stray.

Keeper Vairia took to delivering Artemus his rations just so his friend wouldn’t starve to death. Keeper Vairia was the one to watch as the two, father and son, continued to spiral downward. Keeper Vairia was the one to ask the two, more times than he could be damned to count, why.

There was much busywork to do, and they weren’t helping anyone, least of all themselves by staying cooped up all day.

All Artemus could tell his life-long friend was that he was so horribly sick of losing… He couldn’t stand the thought of losing the one child he had left. Everything he owned, all he had worked for, the Haven, the city, even himself, Artemus would gladly burn to keep Garrett safe.

Because that was what a good father did. 

And he had failed to do so with one child.

Artemus refused to fail a second time, especially when there was so much to lose…

Chapter Text

Garrett ran his fingers over the ancient page of the tome. Sat on his father’s armchair before the waning fire, it would have been far too dim for anyone other than the thief to read, not that Garrett was using his eyes.

Much had been lost during the first Dark Ages. So many histories and legends, stories and lores, wiped clean from existence by the negligence and folly of Keepers long past. All that remained were long faded journals kept by those set in the ink and quill ways.

For when the Primal first ran dry all those lifetimes ago, so too did the ancient Glyphs those old dead Keepers used to scrawl their stories.

Of course, the Haven had learned its lesson, the Haven had learned its lesson well. Glyphs were still used, but never for scripture. Coding information had been practiced by civilizations far before and far beyond the City and the reaches of Morley, and if it were good enough for others, it was good enough for the Haven.

There were still flaws in the practice, it had taken quite some time for order to reestablish, and even longer for the surviving Keepers to claw their way back underground, hiding away from the city once more until the Haven was once again little more than an old whispered legend.

By the time the new First Keeper was sworn in, a century had already limped by, and with it, life worth's of work.

The New Haven had sworn to never fall victim to the same mistakes of its past and remarkably, the oath had stood firm. Thus, the collateral dealt to the Haven presently wasn’t quite as devastating as it could have been.

The tome in Garrett’s lap was an old journal, the personal diary of one Keeper Wyrrnrr, a humble bookkeeper who had managed to survive the collapse of the Haven.

It was written in the old tongue, and though the ink had long since faded, Keeper Wyrrnrr had a heavy hand and his words scoured the pages deeply, allowing those with a deft touch to read with nothing but their fingers.

It was an interesting read for sure, but not a pleasant one. Detailing the deaths of many Keepers, how, once the Glyphs failed, and the Haven was discovered, the many Keepers sheltering within the sanctuary were rounded up like sheep to the slaughter. 

Keeper Wyrrnrr had been lucky to escape, and even luckier to survive. He had even been lucky enough to live to see the New Haven be conceived. That was however, what concerned Garrett most perhaps… 

Keeper Wyrrnrr’s last entry detailed how he fretted over what the Haven was to do without the Primal. For the Haven was designed as an instrument, made to tune the Primal. The Haven was both the musician and the flute, but the Primal was the wind, the breath needed to play.

Without the Primal, the Haven was naught but fools blowing empty breaths in a silent orchestra. 

When Garrett had first gotten his hands on the tome, he had laughed at the image painted by Keeper Wyrrnrr. But now he was living, a part of that silent orchestra. The Haven may have been able to salvage the stories and lores and histories they so deeply cherished. But as those histories proved, relying so heavily upon the Primal left them to stagnate when they were forced to do without.

The Keepers were meant to be the eyes and ears of the city, the unseen record keepers of rolling times, dutifully transcribing the happenings without interference… But the Keepers relied on Primal flowing just beneath the ancient stones they walked upon so graciously to keep their vigilant unaltered. For with their Glyphs the Haven could see and hear all they wished and needed to.

Garrett had once asked why the Haven was so hellbent on residing in such a backwater city when surely, there were other, more important, more interesting places to govern. All Artemus could offer his son was that the city was simply special. Though truthfully, he too sometimes wondered why the city.

In the beginning, the very, very beginning of the Haven, it was believed that the First Keeper was blessed by the so young god and tasked with guarding and guiding the Primal. Eventually, that blessed individual settled in the Eternal City, finding the veil between the waking world and the Primordial Sea far too thin to be left unattended.

Thus, supposedly, the Haven was born, purposed with the original task of that long forgotten Keeper.

Though presently, the Haven’s duties strayed far from that initial foundation, branching more so into means of utilizing and incorporating the Primal safely into the world rather than simply guarding it. The Primal was a living, breathing thing, it pulsed with life, it desired to ebb and flow like a river, creep through stone and flesh alike, the Keepers had merely sought to balance out the energy within the City. The Keepers, never thought to force the hand of change, they never sought to use it with intent that would stray far from their origins.

They coexisted with the Primal.

And the Leviathan allowed it.

There were few who knew of the exact properties of the Primal, fewer still who could wield such power without repercussion. In fact, besides the rare few blessed with the Leviathan’s boon, there was only one other faction within, or more accurately, around the City who were granted access to the wells of power the Primordial Sea offered.

Keeper Wyrrnrr had written about a strange gathering of people who existed on the fringes of both the city and civility. Many other old tomes and texts remarked on their existence, but Keeper Wyrrnrr’s recollection of his time spent with the Pagans was Garrett’s favorite.

All other texts were too detached, too clinical. They explained facts and nothing more, but Keeper Wyrrnrr had lived alongside the Pagans for many years whilst the city chewed the Haven apart. Wyrrnrr had even earned himself a Pagan Name, Fable Upon Olde Rings.

Another, more selfish perhaps, reason why Keeper Wyrrnrr’s diary was one of Garrett’s favorite tomes was because in the later pages, Fable Upon Olde Rings proved his name as both a storyteller and historian, recounting many Pagan legends that had eluded the Haven for eons.

For the Pagans, a beautiful people they were, held more significance to the Leviathan than any other creature in the world.

For before the Leviathan became a god, when he was but a babe, but the child of change.

He was the son of life and death, who met in strange times, loved dearly and then died, damned with the rest of humanity.

Chapter Text

Fable Upon Olde Rings detailed a number of Pagan Birth of Life legends, with each varying slightly depending on the age and family. The Pagans, united as they were in their faith, history and way of life, were built from numerous families, each with their own twists on traditions and stories from olde.

Some families claimed that life began as the first tree to ever sprout from the barren wastes that were once the world, and from that single tree, all else grew. Rivers from flowing sap, birds and animals from fallen leaves, stone and soil from the bark, and finally, humans, when the first tree finally fell, man crawled from the rotting roots and settled into the bountiful world around them.

Other families alluded to the idea that Life was the first spirit who ever dared cross the Primordial Sea to settle upon the world. For beyond the Primordial Sea is both the beginning and end of being, where spirits are born. For ages, the spirits were content to remain across the sea from the waking world, where there was no pain or consequence to existing, but likewise, there was no joy and no reason for being. Life was the first spirit to cross the sea, where Life found a vast emptiness, devoid of all things. And from that great nothing, Life fashioned everything.

The oldest legend Fable Upon Olde Rings had heard however began with the Sun. 

Seated high upon her celestial throne, the Sun wept for she was lonely, despite being the heart of her kingdom, her entourage dared not tread close for while she was beautiful beyond words, her beauty was death. Thus she wept, her tears falling through the night, scorching her closest companions, Mercury and Venus, striking Mars so viciously that he turned red with humiliation. Her further companions, Neptune, Uranus and Saturn all shied away from the monarch and Jupiter, the strongest of the ensemble, boldly stood between the Sun and his smaller siblings. And when his Queen’s tears began to rain down upon him, Jupiter was wounded.

The Sun’s tears did strike the world as well, however, they did not burn the world, for while small, the world had a loyal comparton in the Moon, and the Moon did so love the world and thus, as Jupiter had done, shielded the world from the Sun, allowing not but one single tear to fall to the world below.

That tear, that single drop of sunlight became the first incarnation of Life, daughter of the Sun, who, with her very conception, soothed the Sun’s loneliness. For while they were far apart, the daughter of the Sun became a treasure for the celestial body, to watch and adore from the sky.

Garrett’s fingers skimmed a bit ahead, he knew the story by heart, and while there was never a dull moment in Fable Upon Olde Rings’ recollections, certain parts of the tale simply intrigued the thief more than the birth and rise of man, civilization. And, as all legends of Life passed down from generations forgotten, every tale of Life ended with the death of her child.

That and while still very much considered to be the mere mythos of a strange culture, much of Pagan lore was cemented in the history classes Keeper Varia had taught when Garrett was still in school.

There were many incarnations of Life between the death of her child and the supposed most recent avatar, their names lost to time, but the most popular version was that, with every incarnation, Life would teach man something new, a new skill or lesson. Save for the Life who survived just until the first Darkage.

Known as Conquest, Fable Upon Olde Rings detailed, respected as a general, strategist and defender by both her enemies and people, praised as the Goddess she was. Life took for herself the name Victoria and she, as all of her predecessors had, loved the Leviathan dearly.

The first Victoria burned along with the Eternal City to spare the world from ruin…

Keeper Wyrrnnr died long before Life would make a reappearance, and that had always left a hollow melancholy behind in Garrett’s chest long after he would close the tome.

The most recent incarnation of Life had been birthed in a time of peace and chaos, as the newly awakened Primal ran wild and free without guidance, the Haven scrambling to shake off the long collected dust which had settled upon old duties.

The newest Life was neither conquest or triumph, she was merely a mother to both her people and the Primal, a guiding hand and a shoulder to cry on.

She, like Life before her, loved the lost child dearly.

The Leviathan, likewise, loved Life and her people, trusted Life and her people absolutely.

According to both Keeper Wyrrnnr and the overwhelming majority of texts detailing Pagan society within the Haven, The Pagans were given the Leviathan’s blessing to tap into the veins of the Primordial Sea spread throughout the land. While the exact method to doing so was a closely guarded secret to the Pagans, it was abundantly clear that they used the Primordial Veins to fuel their witchcraft and magic. 

Keeper Wyrrnnr suspected that the Pagans would have been given access to the Primordial Veins for the simple act of being the Leviathan’s Kin, and Garrett was inclined to agree with the old Keeper. For every ten generations of Pagans born blessed with the grace of the Leviathan’s favor from birth, only one outsider would draw the Leviathan’s attention. Still, favored or not, the Pagans still celebrated and honored the Leviathan endlessly for their fortunes and adored him boundlessly…

Which was something that brought Garrett’s fingers to pause upon the page.

Keeper Wyrrnnr’s time with the Pagans detailed largely how the lack of the Primal completely threw the Pagan’s way of life off kilter. How crops failed and sickness plagued the villages. And Garrett couldn’t help but wonder if the Pagans had also learned their lesson from the first Darkages, or if they were once again struggling as so many seemed to be.

Because as soon as the Primal made itself a home within the young thief, it seemed that the fragile balance of the whole damn world shifted.

The Eternal City, the surrounding forests and rivers and ocean was plunged into darkness as the veins upon which the world rested became sickly as the Primordial Sea fell away.

Worse still, the two factions were not the only ones to feel the effects of the dry primordial tides.

Chapter Text

Tensions continued to rise as fear consumed the city once more, suffocating its denizens just as it had during the first Dark Ages.

The sky blackened with slag and smoke as unrest and anger among the common folk began taking to the streets in the form of riots and mobs armed with fury, fire and whatever sharp implements they could find for themselves. The people demanded food and drink and coin from the bottomless and empty well which was the Baron, of course, their cries fell on deaf ears, instead of the bare necessities begged for, all they were offered were shallow words and assurances that the future would be bright and rich if only they the common folk would be paitent. 

But words alone would not fill empty stomachs, and those few who were paitent starved long before the mad ideals of the Baron came to fruition. Once it became clear that the Baron’s grand plans for prosperity were specifically for the fortunate few who were riding the coattails of the forefathers that had clawed their way out of poverty, and that the Baron had no intention of delivering all of his empty promises of prosperity to the lesser people; the sea turned red and black as blood and bodies and ash fell into the river as revolution burned through the streets.

But the worst of the Second Dark Ages’ degradation came in the form of the Gloom.

A strange sickness which crept upon the city with sinister silence, settling into the muck and grime between the cobbled stone of the streets, finding its way between gaps in the woodwork and into houses before it began to creep. Creep into the already starved pantries of the city, souring what little food remained. Creep into the carefully kept timbers of all households, sinking into the wood, rotting it away or worse, laying dormant within until the cold forced a fire to be lit, which then the Gloom would rise with the smoke and taint the very air.

Creep up the legs of citizens to feast and fester upon whatever it could to sustain itself.

Those unfortunate enough to find themselves caught in the clutches of the Gloom crippled like ambitious blooms growing before the last frost of the cold season. Fine one day, half dead the next… The symptoms of the Gloom beyond that point were macabre and slow.

There were of course the typical signs of illness, weakness, fatigue, a painful cough. But where one's best remedy for the common cold would be to drink tea and sleep off the worst, the Gloom's more insidious nature began to rear its ugly head, all beginning with an inability to sleep, an omen so easily overlooked that even those of decent enough fortune to afford a trip to the doctors bothered not to waste their coin. Not that wasting said coin would have done them much good anyhow, the best a doctor would be able to offer was a free handgun and a bullet.

But of course, not many people saw a bad case of sick spurned insomnia as the immediate cause for concern it truly was, it was the Gloom’s following symptom that truly eluded the ill to the far grimmer fate which awaited them. 

Winters in the City were always foul, hard, heartless and long, dreadfully long. Winter always arrived to the City early and clung to the streets for far too long. It made for hardy people, and thus, the cold was a common sensation for all citizens of the city. Cold was a frigid wind tearing at sleeves and cheeks. Cold was seeping through cracks in glass and slipping beneath door frames. Cold was dark nights under too thin blankets.

Weakness and illness preyed on the cold, but typical illnesses burned in the cold, igniting the ill with fever and sweat and shivers. The Gloom was somehow different, not needing cold to infest, but rather, infesting those plagued to feel winter in their hearts, of those rich enough to waste their coin on futile attempts at medical salvation described the sensation to be of icy water steadily replacing their blood, running beneath their skin. And try as any doctor may, none could curb the chill. 

The disease had no cure, no ritual or remedy or medicine could save anyone. The Gloom was not a kind death, nor was it swift or pleasant. It was slow and torturous, agonizing and spiteful. Those infected with the disease would begin to wilt and wither, but death would not come for them quickly.

The fortunate would be brave enough to take matters into their own hands, cut their suffering short with a rope or blade. The cowardly however would do all they could to postpone the inevitable, throw coin at whoever they believed had a chance at saving them from their fate.

It was a horrifically bleak time, and a breaking point was fast approaching for all residences of the City. The common folk had it worst of all, but they were many in number and strong together. The nobility were few in comparison, and maybe because of their limited membership the illusion of favor could be maintained, for every noble to fall victim to the Gloom, ten peasants fell before them.

If it were just those residing above the streets dropping like flies there would be little doubt that Orland would maintain his isolationist stance, bar all doors and forbid anyone from leaving or returning to the Haven and hunker down until the Gloom became a thing of nightmares or the whole city lay dead.

But it was not just the peasantry and nobility falling victim to the Gloom. 

It was the Keepers, the Scribes and Scholars, the Apprentices and worst of all, the children. An ancient Keeper, once a scholar, then a teacher, was the first to contract the disease, and try as he did to ignore it, First Keeper Orland’s denial of that old Keeper’s ailment was not enough to starve off the symptoms nor the slow death of Keeper Jathell.

The only shred of twisted grace the Gloom offered the inhabitants of the Haven was the fact that unlike the common man, the Keepers found themselves susceptible to the Glooms influence, however, perhaps due to their relation or their duty to the ebb and flow of the Primordial Sea, the Gloom found the Haven folk far more difficult to inhibit. The weak, old and young were at far more risk of succumbing to the Gloom as many old and young folk were to any disease.

But the fit and healthy fared fare differently than their surface counterparts. Yes they suffered fatigue and weakness, a certain fogging of the mind and exhaustion, but rarely to the point of withering. The Gloom would eventually settle into their hearts as a dreadful chill, but besides tremors and shakes which would plague the hands of the Keepers infected, the Gloom would progress no further.

The Haven could not spare time to celebrate the seeming miracle however, for no one knew if or when, as all plagues inevitably did, the Gloom intended to evolve and drag the Haven and her Keepers to the brink of extinction once more.

There wasn’t a single safe place within the city where one could hide from the disease, from the unrest and hunger and the first signs of the creeping cold.

All eyes seemed to turn to the clock, awaiting that final hour.

All because some greedy, greedy mortal decided that fate ought to rest in his own hands…

Chapter Text

The Baron Northcrest’s ritual, as many of his grand plans, intended to be, in theory, harmless.

The wells of the city were often run rampant with disease and filth, though more often than not, the wells would freeze during the colder seasons and stubbornly refuse to thaw well into summer. Many households had taken to collecting snow and ice to thaw as needed, some families going so far as to sacrifice their basements in order to create water stores to last through the warmer months where paradoxically, water ran rare.

The Baron proposed a new system, innovative and mechanical in design. Replacing the simple hand crank wells which had stood and operated perfectly well for generations with looming structures designed to syphon water right from the stone, purify it of waste and disease, all of which would have been perfectly fine and well had any of that water ever reached the lips of those it was most promised to…

City agriculture had always been unreliable, that was simply a fact of life. Spring always tended to be too wet with winter thaw for most things to grow well, and trade tricks brought north by southerners with nowhere else to go fell short. Elevating the growing fields and clearing the plots of snow before sowing the seeds was a pointless endeavor when the same storms that buried the streets in six feet of snow began drowning the fields in six feet of rain. Summer on the other hand was a bitter affair, brief, gone often before anyone realized it had come, with such limited amount of time to work with, farmers had to pick their crops wisely, for some years, summer lingered long enough for two rounds of growing to be had, others years summer lasted exactly a week, and if a farmer chose a crop that needed more than a week of sun, then that farmer’s plot would be auctioned off the next spring, the farmer and whatever family dead in their hovels, starved and frostbitten.

Such was life, it wasn’t pretty or kind by any means, but it was all the city knew, it was all the people knew, and the people knew how to survive such cruelties, after all, it was simply because people had been surviving such natural trials and tribulations that the Eternal City still stood. The Baron however, saw a crisis, a crisis with a solution. If elevating the fields away from thaw waters was not enough to keep crops from drowning, then the answer was simply to shield the plots from the rains. Greenhouses were not new to the city, many households with gardens implemented some sort of protection for their crops, but to raise such an expansive operation of greenhouses was unfeasible for mere farmers.

So in a twisted act of appeasement to soothe his own ego, the Baron offered up plots of farmland to those who could afford his solution, playing mind games with numbers far beyond what any commoner could fathom, the nobility leapt at the opportunity, swindling simple farmers of the land beneath their very feet with promises of coin and fortune so long as they work. Many farmers and their families fell victim to such promises, but perhaps it was those without means to grow their own crops that suffered the most, for while the farmers certainly struggled on their own, their prices were in fact expected for such a backwater city. But greed breeds greed, and the nobility were never the sort to be anything but self serving.

What once cost maybe a favour or tinder box or maybe even a coil of twine now demanded a solid fee of coin, coin that few commoners could spare, coin that fewer commoners had ever even seen.

The ritual the Baron Northcrest had been attempting that fateful night was, as many of his grand schemes intended to be, in theory, harmless.

But as all of Baron Northcrest’s grand schemes became, it too turned to be anything but. 

 The Balance, the echoing visage of the Primordial Sea, the very surreal concept that the Haven and her Keepers had spent years upon lifetimes upon generations upon eons attempting to maintain and understand… Was simply supposed to be harnessed and tamed, allowing men to reign over the Primordial Sea and the will of the Leviathan.

A, quite honestly, monumental idea, one so removed from reality that it was surprising how much traction the Baron Northcrest had managed to gather behind himself to even begin to accomplish such a wild feat of ignorance.

The Balance, the so-called Primal, was not a mere thing to be tamed and controlled, it was not alive in the same way a blooded man or beast were, it was alive like the ocean, constantly in motion, guided by frivolous things as waves were by wind. There was no hope for such a force of nature to ever be truly governed by mere men, not even the Leviathan, the deity who dwelled within the very depths of that unalive ocean held no sway over such forces.

The Baron Northcrest and all those who longed for such trivial things as power and glory, were undoubtedly, fools who wished for themselves that which man could not and would not ever find fortune over. Not to say that their silly dances and songs would not have been for nothing, just that whatever outcome they were expecting would have most certainly not been what they would have received had the interference of the two thieves prevented such an outcome, for better or for worse.

Though perhaps either way the world would have been better off damned…

As the Primal, still young and innocent, seated itself within Erin, the tides of the Primordial Sea shifted to form something new, a Primordial Basin if one could describe such a thing, a new plane, nestled between the endlessness of time and the impermanence of humanity. 

The shift wasn’t at all easy, for anyone.

Nor was it perfect in any capacity.

A few delicate shards of the ancient Primal Eye were ripped asunder as the Primal Basin took root within the young woman, syphoning waters of the Primordial Sea from anywhere it could, including the ancient eye, forged from sea ice so long ago. 

The rapidness of which the Basin drank caused the Primal Eye to splinter, the fragments catching in the wind and taking flight within the desecrated hall of the Baron’s supposedly hallowed hall.

Many of the pieces would simply melt away, the Primal Basin devouring the essence of the Primordial Sea which kept the ice and eye intact, other less fortunate shards would find themselves embedded within flesh of the unrighteous faux holy men who had aligned themselves with the Baron that eve.

One such fragment however sat contently within Garrett's right eye, yet another consequence of the night, and the cause for one of the more visible and obvious injuries Garrett had acquired in his life; it was a small thing, no larger than a poppy seed, but precious.

Indescribably so…

Chapter Text

The Primordial sea had been stowed away from the Keeper, the Pagans and all of the city before, with the completion of the Final Glyph all those years ago the waters of the Primordial Sea had not just been damned from flowing, they had been truly and completely run dry; The Second Sealing however was different.

The few precious shards of the original Primal Eye which were forsaken during the ceremony acted as splinters in the veil between the Primordial Sea and the world it sought to separate from.

While most of said fragments were in the Baron’s possession, the small sliver of Primal Ice in Garrett’s eye offered him a more direct link to the Primordial Sea and beyond. 

Artemus insisted that he be the one to attempt to remove the shard of ice from Garrett’s eye once word of the thief’s condition finally reached High Keeper Orland. The council was called, the historians, scribes, researchers and even the few physicians of the Haven were called to asess and discuss what was to be done.

Orland of course ‘suggested’ removing the fragment from Garrett’s eye, and Artemus of course fought the notion if only for his son’s wellbeing. Desperate times however, called for desperate measures, and by near unanimous vote, it was decided that the thief would be put under the knife.

“You don’t have to be here Pa.” Garrett had said quietly as Keeper Alard prepared him for surgery, dutifully cleaning the thief’s face to avoid infection, all done under the ever watchful eye of Artemus who merely scoffed at the suggestion.

“Forgive me for having little faith in Orland, or those who throw their lot in with him.” The last bit was directed at Keeper Alard who took the slight in bitter stride with nothing more than a pursing of his lips.

“I was prepared to lose that eye Pa…” Garrett reminded his father gently as he was made to lay back on the table; “It would have sucked… But we would have made it, right?”

Gently and gingerly did the Keeper Alard attempt to pry the sliver of ice from Garrett’s eye, Artemus wanted to be the one to attempt the surgery, just to be perfectly sure that he could do everything in his power to not damage the eye, his son’s eye more than necessary… But alas, Keeper Artemus was no physician, no doctor, he could clean and bandage scraped knees and pull splinters from curious palms, soothe a flu and cure a cold. But for a prosedure so delicate, Artemus wouldn’t know where to begin.

Garrett was stoic the entire time, holding still even as the scalpel gently peeled layer after layer of tissue back and away. The only indication of pain or discomfort was how tightly the thief held his father’s hand.

The surgery took far less time than anyone was expecting, but that was solely because Keeper Alard found himself unable to progress. Artemus would have begun demanding answers the moment Keeper Alard finished undoing all the damage done to Garrett’s eye, but being a father came first and foremost, and once again, Garrett found himself with a face covered in gauze, only one eye, and strict orders from Artemus to rest.

It was scantily a week later when the council was called once again. Keeper Alard held the floor for a long while, going over the surgery and everything he had discovered whilst scalpel deep in Garrett’s skull.

What everyone initially hoped to be a simple removal of the Primal Splinter was in fact, far, far more… Complex.

It seemed that, like a seed pod nestled between cobbled stone, Keeper Alard found that the Primal Splinter had managed to root itself within the thief’s head, spreading through his eye, creeping along the ocular nerves and blood vesels, reaching so deeply into the thief’s head that Keeper Alard hazard only death would free the Primal from the thief, and the thief from the Primal.

Had the Haven managed to get Garrett onto the operating table within the first week of the splinter finding its home within his eyes then maybe there would have been a chance to retrieve the fragment, at the cost of the eye, of course.

But as things stood, not only was retrieving the Primal Splinter impossible without killing the thief, in all liklihood, the Primal Splinter likely wouldn’t survive without the thief.

“The thief has been made a bed for this Primal Splinter.” Keeper Alard explained as he offered the surrounding council members two rough sketches, the first being of what he saw within Garrett’s ocular cavity.

The second, a hypothisised visualisation of what he could only assume was occurring within Garrett’s very head.

“The Splinter has… Addapted to its new environment, strange as said, ‘new environment’, may seem.” Keeper Alard carried on, his voice stoic and professional as his words delivered world-shattering blows to Artemus.

“I cannot know how far the Primal has spread within the thief. Nor can I be certain of the exact… Relationship the Primal has with the thief.” Keeper Alard made a point to look anywhere but Artemus as he spoke.

“I can say with some clarity that, presently, the presence of the Primal does not seem to be having any detrimental impact on the thief. However, there is no guarantee that the relationship between host and Primal will remain as neutralistic as it currently appears.”

Artemus left the hall at that. He couldn’t bear to listen further.

Garrett may have been willing to lose an eye… 

But Artemus was not willing to lose him.

Chapter Text

Keeper Alard told Garrett that he could remove the surgery gauze by the end of the week.

Artemus insisted he keep it on for an extra two.

Garrett had no issue abiding by his father’s request, happy to put Artemus at ease however he could. Though he would be the first to complain about the abrupt return of dwindling depth perception getting in the way of even the simplest tasks, causing him to misjudge anything from the edges of tables to books on shelves, he kept the bandages on.

Of course, the post-optic surgery recovery was anything but peaceful. With Garrett’s presence within the Haven being well known, Orland not so subtilty hinted [demanded] that Garrett be put to work to earn his keep. And through some strange misguided ‘mercy’ the First Keeper offered to set the thief up in an old apprentice dorm room. On the surface, the gesture was one of good faith, but neither Artemus or Garrett were blind.

Orland had bitterly resented Garrett’s rejection of becoming a Keeper Enforcer. There was little doubt in both father and son’s minds that if given the opportunity, Orland would deny Garrett a choice the second time.

So naturally, Artemus vehemently refused to have Garrett moved to an old apprentice dorm room, and Garrett had no intention of leaving his father’s side, so together they remained in Artemus’ small but comfortably cramped house, just as they had all those years ago when Garrett only came up to his thigh…

Artemus was not the sort to redecorate on a whim, in fact the last time the Keeper had ever done anything major to the small three room home was adding an extra chair for Erin, the memory was a distant one, but fondly thought of and warm. Likewise, the number of places to sleep in the house had not changed recently. There was the reclining chair by the fire in the living room, Artemus’ bed and the small settee by the front door for tying shoes.

The two however were family, and while the concept of family may have been well beyond Orland’s comprehension, Garrett and Artemus shared no qualms or displeasures in sharing a bed. There had been a time after all, where Garrett refused to sleep anywhere but his father’s bed.

Initially, all seemed… Not well, there were too many things wrong for their situation to be well. But things were normal. Father and son fell back into routine, Artemus dividing his time between his usual tasks and fighting Orland off whenever the First Keeper decided to try his luck and ‘insist’ Garrett begin earning his keep.

And Garrett did offer to help Artemus with his work. Artemus merely shushed him and ordered him back to bed; “You can think about helping once you’ve recovered.”  

Eventually, recover Garrett did.

And soon after the bandages came off, Artemus began to… Notice things.

It should have been obvious from the moment he saw his son’s eye again, how the slight flicker of blue seated at the heart of Garrett’s pupil seemed larger… But at the time, Artemus was simply relieved that Garrett had not lost the eye, and better yet, that Garrett was on the mend. Still, Artemus kept a close eye on his son, and for the first while, waited with baited breath for something, anything to go amiss. 

Thankfully nothing did. Nothing while Garrett was awake that is…

When the dreams first began, Artemus found himself jerking to sudden awareness, and Garrett, who always slept tucked as close as he could to his father, would follow suit, ever the light sleeper the thief was.

It would take a while for either man to figure out what was causing the nightly disturbances seeing as every time Artemus would find himself waking in the dead of night, Garrett would be soon to follow. It would take a strange happenstance for Artemus to catch his son in the act.

Garrett never moved in his sleep, never so much as rolled or shifted a limb, once he was comfortable, the thief was unmovable. When he was very small, there were times Artemus feared the boy he had brought into his home had perished in the dead of night, his breathing so faint and slow…

The dead slumber Garrett always slipped into worsened as he aged, the symptoms at least, Garrett slept fine, or so he claimed, he just never moved…

Which was why Artemus was so taken aback the night Garrett fell asleep before him, curled beneath every single blanket Artemus had in his home, twitching in his sleep, not thrashing wild and afraid, merely twitching, curling his fingers, open, close, open, close, as though he were dreaming of reaching for something…

To say that Artemus found Garrett’s unconscious motions unnerving, even more so than his previous lack of, would be an understatement… 

Garrett spoke very little of times before he entered Artemus’ life, though the Keeper knew that his son’s earliest years were far from happy. Even so, never had Garrett ever woken from the throws of a nightmare, something that Garrett always insisted was a boon when it came to his profession.

“Sleeping in strange places has its benefits.” Garrett had told him once, long before the young man, at the time, a mere boy, had flown the coop, nestled uncomfortable across a narrow beam in the Haven’s library, well out of reach from the nearest walkway, “No one would think to check the rafters for a napping student.”

“No one except me.”

The new development of his unconscious fidgeting unnerved Garrett far more than it did Artemus, the Keeper knew that his son would adapt, Garrett always did. But what worried Garrett far more was the prospect of the issue evolving. 

It was one thing to twitch in his sleep, Garrett could live with that, or at least find ways to work around the cumbersome habit. If twitching became tossing and turning, or even more troubling, sleepwalking, Garrett wasn’t sure what he was going to do…

Artemus tried to assure his son that things would be fine, but all he managed to do was jinks his son.

The very next night… Garrett began speaking in the throes of slumber.

Chapter Text

His words were mumbled and soft, try as Artemus did, he could never, at first, make out what exactly his son was saying, all he knew was that Garrett’s words were full of venom, as though he were hissing and spitting at someone unseen.

And once the sleeptalking began, it was as though the floodgates opened, and everything, every little thing that Artemus had noticed in the short weeks that Garrett was by his side seemed to cascade out of control.

Artemus could only watch as, day by day, the familiar shade of russet brown in his son’s eyes bled to Primal blue as the illusion of a poppy bloomed in Garrett’s eye.

Artemus could only listen as night by night, the faint words his son mumbled in the throws of his dreams became clearer and clearer. Mumbles became murmurs which became groggily slurred drawls of speech through unconsciously cumbersome lips, teeth and tongue.

Of course, Artemus could only hear one side of the conversation, Garrett’s side, but even then, he could tell that it was not a pleasant conversation…

It seemed that Garrett was fighting his dreams tooth and nail, the most common word uttered during the night being, “No.” Over and over, as though Garrett was attempting to drown out someone, or something, else.

During one particularly bad late night argument, where Garrett damnwell nearly screamed, “Shut the fuck up!” Into Artemus’ chest, the Keeper gently, carefully began running his fingers through his son’s hair, hoping to somehow sooth his boy in any way he could. 

Nothing seemed to help…

Not humming, not a gentle touch. Hell, it even took Artemus far too long to wake Garrett from his nightmare. Garrett, who would stir to the drop of a pin, let alone a call of his name, had to be shaken awake that night.

And when Garrett finally did respond to Artemus’ gentle shaking of his shoulder, any relief the Keeper felt was swiftly buried by grief.

Garrett sat bolt upright in bed with his final word, another ‘shut up’ of some nature, dying on his tongue as he silenced himself with a sharp inhale. Artemus was likewise struck dumb, simply watching his son beside him in quiet awe and horror.

His right eye, his scarred eye, the eye housing the Primal… was glowing in a spectacular fashion… Illuminating the entire room in a dim wash of pale blue light…

What stood out most to the Keeper however was the fact that, beyond the ethereal lusture of his son’s eye, the whites of Garrett’s eyes, both of them, had become an impossibly dark shade of ink…

Artemus didn’t need to guess who exactly his son was speaking to in his dreams…

Artemus never spoke to Garrett about his nightly visitor, nor did he bring up the happenings with anyone, not even Keeper Varia.

Orland had been more than willing to attempt to cut out his son’s eye for the mere chance of obtaining the smallest sliver of information. And Artemus had no doubt that if he were not present to fight on Garrett’s behalf, Orland would have ordered far, far more to be taken from Garrett.

Artemus dreaded the idea of what the First Keeper would do should he learn that the Leviathan was reaching out to Garrett in his dreams. Artemus doubted that Orland would be anywhere near as ‘generous’ as he had regarding the surgery he had insisted on.

No, Artemus could see a thousand horrors that Orland could put his boy through, all to draw the Leviathan’s gaze towards his selfish self.

Garrett seemed to understand the gravity of his situation at least. He had always loved his history lessons, always loved learning about the past, myths and legends. He knew the lore of the Primordial Sea, he knew of the Leviathan.

He knew what it meant if the dead child came to you in your dreams.

And, quite clearly, Garrett wanted no part in any greater plan.

He was no hero, no leader of any new age, no shepherd of change, no herald of revolution. He was a thief. Nothing more, nothing less.

So every morning, Garrett would apologize whenever he saw the bags beneath Artemus’ eyes darken, he would help around the house wherever he could, and never once mentioned the nightly incidents.

Still… There was a certain sense of… Urgency, to the situation.

It was common knowledge, within the Haven at least, that the Leviathan was, above all else, a trickster, despite the Pagans claiming the Leviathan to be a god of fate and change, first and foremost, the Leviathan desired to be entertained, and through the annals of history, that entertainment came in the form of offering lesser men promises of power, and then watching the destruction brought forth by those who had earned the dead child’s favour.

Consent was not required on the recipient's part, nor was an offer made needed by the Leviathan. 

So to see Garrett fight, night after night, in a desperate bid to fend off the accursed boon, was a baffling thing. 

Perhaps it was due to the severity of the situation that the Leviathan hesitated to so freely hand out its mark to the thief. Or maybe Garrett was actually dodging any and all attempts to receive the mark in his dreams.

Still, perhaps, inevitably, the patience of the god ran thinner, or thicker than the thief's.

Artemus watched in the dead of night as the sacred Glyph faded onto the back of his son’s hand, like the full moon on a cloud ladened night, peering through the veil slowly, slowly until the last of the clouds passed by, revealing the beauty hidden behind them.

Garrett fell still afterwards, and did not move for the rest of the night.

Artemus kissed his son’s forehead gently as he pulled the blankets up over them...

The very next day.

Artemus awoke to an empty nest once more.

Chapter Text

Garrett, upon his return to the City, took to the streets like a raven to a storm.

It had been a long time since he had seen the City… Too long perhaps. The streets were exactly as he recalled, grim and desolate, devoid of hope, full of life yet somehow, somehow, the streets were painfully foreign in their familiarity.

The cobble lining the streets was just as dirty as it had always been, the stones dulled by countless years of walking, uneven from sloppy construction, but, with age came wisdom, and everyone who walked the streets would eventually find their own rhythms, their own dance along the stone walkways.

Garrett knew his rhythm well, knew which stones were his, from years spent wandering the alleys as a urchin, to nights spent silently skulking along quiet deserted roads, avoiding stray eyes and lit windows. Garrett knew his rhythm well, he could dance his way from Cincerfall all the way to the docs in a single moonless night… Despite the sureness of his steps, despite the echoes of familiarity he faced at every turn, every corner, every home, street… Garrett would find himself stumbling along what he recalled to be well-worn paths.

The stones themselves had shifted in his absence, cracked or dislogned from where they had sat for centuries.

Of course, the very foundation of the city wasn’t the only thing to change while Garrett was gone. Structures that had stood for generations, weathering storms, riots, famines and winters stood blackened in ruin, scorched from fires long extinguished, dark sludge, ash, blood and refuse caked between every stone, pressed deep into the crevices by fleeing women and children while the fires still raged, cementing the reeking stench of iron and death into the foundation of the city itself…

The city had become a mockery of a masterpiece, as though an apprentice had dared to try and copy his teacher’s work, pristine in his rendition but not quite right, never quite right. An unkempt brushstroke here, the wrong hue there, familiar enough that, at a glance, all appeared well. But dare to pause and consider the work properly, and the canvas unraveled at the seams.

And Garrett had no choice but to contemplate every brushstroke, every colour, every detail and mistake and every little imperfection.

The only thing between his memory and the new city to remain exactly, inexplicably though unsurprisingly unchanged were the dead lining the streets, sprawled messily, some intact, many, many not… Garrett could not bring himself to examine each and every corpse he stumbled across, for fear of recognizing the dead.

Besides the abandoned dead, the only other thing that remained unchanged was the clocktower… Their, his and Erin’s…

He prayed as he approached the looming spire that maybe, just, maybe… Erin had managed to escape. That she had either awoken before the Queens Beggars had managed to find him, or she had escaped whatever prison the Baron had constructed for her. 

Garrett viciously shoved the clawing ‘what if’ and ‘why’ thoughts begging for his attention to the back of his mind. 

What if Erin hadn’t escaped? What if Erin had been buried in all that rubble worse than he had been? What if she was still buried?

If Erin had escaped, why hadn’t she come home? Why hadn’t she helped him? Why her? Why not him?

Garrett couldn’t afford spiraling, and if the only thing keeping him from drowning in all those cold thoughts was hope, then, no matter how bleak, how dire things seemed, Garrett was determined to cling onto that little shred of hope. At the very least, he assured himself, his hopes weren’t completely farfetched. 

The Erin Garrett remembered was quick and clever, he had seen her get herself into difficult, seemingly impossible situations before and likewise, Garrett had seen Erin claw her way, tooth and nail, out, not always unscathed, but out all the same.

Garrett had every ounce of faith that Erin was more than capable of taking care of herself, no matter what she was facing, Erin would face it headstrong. Erin was a fighter. Erin would be ok. Erin had to be ok.

That line of thinking carried Garrett all the way to the base of the Clocktower, of their home away from home.

A looming spire of stone, metal and wood, which had stood strong since its reconstruction nearly ten lifetimes ago. The interior was hollow and gutted from those desperate and clever enough to try their hands at turning over rusted metal and ancient outdated equipment for a quick coin. The spiral staircase crawling along the interior had broken ages before, leaving the highest point, the clock face and all of her gears and circuits untouched. 

It was the perfect home for thieves and Garrett considered himself quite lucky to have been the first to think of trying to scale the exterior.

They had settled in well, scrubbing the floor, banisters, rafters and anywhere the city crows and pigeons had made themselves comfortable. They hauled up bits and pieces of furniture to reconstruct into tables and chairs. They went on a frivolous stealing spree where they nicked as many blankets and pillows as they could carry, all to make the clocktower just a little more homey…

And it was… Home that is…

The one place Garrett was sure Erin would return to. For safety, for comfort. The clocktower was a place they had built together, a place where Erin knew she would always be welcomed… A place Garrett hoped she would hunker down until help arrived…

That hope began to dwindle as he scaled the clocktower, setting his hands into the same holds he always had, fingers coming away blackened and greasy with soot from wafting smoke, undisturbed before his arrival. 

When Garrett finally slipped into the interior of the spire, onto the upper portion of that old staircase he likewise found his prayers unanswered…

A thick layer of dust had settled over the steps, disturbed only by curious crows and the infrequent gales of bitter wind which had managed to slip their way into the heart of the clocktower.

The clocktower which sat just as he had left it the night of the fated heist…

Not a single treasure was touched.

Not a single spec of dust out of place…

Nothing changed…

Erin wasn’t there… She had never been there...

Garrett’s knees hit the floor with a deafeningly soft thud. And there he remained for a long time, staring blankly around the room, seeing everything and yet, comprehending nothing. Garrett could see shadows dancing across his vision, twisting into familiar silhouettes, himself and Erin, from days long past, where they would cook and eat together, seated around the cold dead hearth, warming their hands against the warm glow of the absent fire.

Then, out of the corner of his eye, something fluttered. A real shape, solid, not some specter of better days.

Garrett turned sharply, hand already reaching for the blade tucked into his sleeve only to be stopped in his tracks by a surprised laugh tumbling from between his teeth.

Guinevere was a familiar presence at the clocktower, a little magpie with a nasty temper and sharp little beak that she so loved to stab into the fingers and thumb of her knave, or, at least, that is how Erin always described the bird’s relationship with their Fence. Garrett honestly had no idea what Basso did to earn himself a place on Guinevere’s shit list, she was easily the sweetest bird Garrett had ever had the pleasure of meeting. 

Worryingly however… Was the apparent frequency Guinevere had been dispatched to the clocktower.

Typically, if Basso had a job for his thieves, he’d send out a missive, with either the job description or a meeting time to talk. If the sizable pile of matchboxes and rolls of paper were anything to go by… Basso had been trying, and failing to get in touch since Garrett went to ground…

With pursed lips, Garrett whistled to Guinevere and with a flutter of her wings from the windowsill she floated to his shoulder, cooing to him sweetly as she offered him her precious cargo.

The missive was short and heavy handed, a simple; “Are you dead?”

Something between a chuckle and a sob bubbled up from Garrett’s chest as he rose from his place on the floor, Guinevere remained perched on his shoulder as he moved through the clocktower like a longtime absent friend.

Unlike the rest of the city, the clocktower had remained faithfully unchanged and to the tune of the still whirring gears and the ever-present tick, tick, tock of the clock, Garrett danced, silent and perfect, to his study, a glorified section of wall where he had strung up a sheet to create a makeshift cork board, below sat a desk, completed with drawers and little organizers to hold papers and such.

Garrett reached for a stick of charcoal, bound by twine and leather. Basso had only written on the outside of the matchbox, Basso only ever wrote his missives on the outside of his matchboxes, leaving the interior for responses.

Guinevere let out a excited trill as she watched the thief slide open the matchbox, scrawling a delicate little “Not Yet” within before slipping the small box closed.

“You know what to do don’t you?” Garrett hummed as he offered the matchbox to the bird on his shoulder. Guinevere chirped at him, giving the thief’s finger a small painless nip as if insulted by the question.

“Of course you do, clever girl.” Garrett assured the bird gently as he brought her to the windowsill again. Guinevere gripped the missive in her claws and without further fanfare, was gone. Garrett watched the magpie until he lost sight of her through the rolling smog blanketing the city. Only when Guinevere was out of sight did he turn back to the matter at hand 

Dismayed as he was by Erin’s absence, there was some relief to finding the clocktower in such a state. At the very least, Garrett knew his old home had been undisturbed, that it was still safe and hidden. It only made sense for the thief to re-establish his base in familiar territory.

That very night, Garrett spent his time familiarizing himself with his old haunt, recounting the gluttonous stash of supplies he had collected over the years. He had left the Haven wearing little more than a stitched together mismatch of his old thief attire and the darkest cloak he could find within the Haven, needless to say, Garrett had never been more thankful for his habit of collecting ‘just in case’ equipment.

Garrett drowned out his anxieties by busying himself with reconstructing new garments, lacing gloves, boots, corset. Fashioning himself new armor, re-stringing his bow, and every other piece of equipment he could need.

For a while, it worked. Garrett could feel the tension draining from his shoulders as he thread and stitched together bits and pieces of leather and cloth until finally, the events of the day caught up to him.

When, and only when Garrett found himself beginning to nod off to the point where accidentally buried the stiff needle he had been using into his finger, deep enough to draw a hiss from his lips and blood from his finger, did Garrett finally set aside his work.

A long stretch, a flex of his fingers and Garrett rose to his feet, taking his time to round the belfry before finally coming to his final destination. The bedroom was little more than an elevated section of the interior, a halfway point between the designated entrance area and the lovingly dubbed ‘collection’, obscured from sight by the many cogs and gears of the clocktower, allowing the thieves an ideal vantage point over the clocktower without sacrificing the security of remaining hidden. 

The bed itself consisted of a makeshift wooden frame, made of bits and pieces of a dismantled staircase, filled to the brim with more blankets than any two people would ever need. In that moment however, the bed looked too big, too cold for any singular person.

Without thinking, Garrett turned on his heels, back towards storage where he proceeded to dig out every blanket and pillow he and Erin had ever found, taken, collected or stolen. Dropping the armful onto the floor beside the bed, Garrett began crafting himself a mighty pillow fort, leaning pillows against the wall, draping blankets over and under and everywhichway until he made himself a perfect little hollow…

There was hardly enough room within for just himself, but Garrett knew damn well that had Erin been there with him, they would have no issue fitting the two of them. 

But Erin wasn’t there… So, alone, Garrett found himself curling up around a stray pillow, tucking it beneath his chin as he strived to make himself as small as possible. 

In that small quiet fortress, hidden away from the rest of the city, beneath a small mountain of pillows and blankets and comfort and warmth, Garrett stole a single, silent, shuddering breath, staring out at the shining blue wall of his self constructed catacomb, feeling the world fall out beneath him the moment he closed his eyes.

“Quite an unorthodox shrine you’ve made for me, thief mine.”

Chapter Text

Garrett heaved a sigh and immediately noticed the lack of warmth surrounding him. 

Everything, the delicately constructed fortress to the pillow he had been cradling against his chest had disappeared from his grasp, replaced by the same hollow emptiness that seemed to permeate the strange realm he found himself in.

“It wasn’t for you.” Garrett grumbled as he slowly pushed himself off the cool grey stone he was laying on. He knew exactly where he was, he had dragged him to this hell too many times before and frankly, Garrett was well sick of seeing it.

“No, I suppose not.” The infant god mused softly, voice reverberating, like waves against the shore or falling rain, a constant rattle against stone and shingles. Unnatural in the most rooted phenomenon of nature, put to human words, twisted by inhuman teeth and tongue. Garrett shuddered within the small hovel he had not quite awoken within, hidden beneath the twisted mess of debris surrounding them.

The Baron Northcrest’s ritual chamber had been everything Garrett imagined it to be. Elegant, nauseatingly aristocratic in appearance, stone pillars upholding the arching rooftop, a true feat of ingenuity, architecture and undoubtedly the pride and joy of some mason somewhere out in the city, provided they hadn’t been killed yet.

What Garrett awoke to, what he had been awakening too since first being dragged off to the strange empty realm, was a far, far cry from the splendor of the Northcrest estate.

Stone walls fractured to rubble, some few chunks of debris still caught, suspended in time and space. Of course, the thief couldn’t exactly remember how the chamber looked during the collapse, he had been too preoccupied at the time to take note of every little detail of crumbling architecture. But Garrett needn’t remember to know that the disaster he stood in the center of was, in fact, exactly how the Baron Northcrest’s ritual chamber looked during the collapse.

He had awoken where he always did whenever was dragged off to the Primordial Sea, exactly where he had fallen that night.

Honestly, looking at the carnage had Garrett wondering how he had managed to survive that night. Rising from the small alcove nestled between a support pillar and fallen beam, Garrett reached above himself, setting a hand against the slab of rock hanging frozen above him. The first time he had awoken, he had panicked and nearly cracked his skull open in his desperation to get out.

He was more careful now, not because he needed to be, the Primordial Sea was a otherworldly place and seldomly, rules from the waking world applied.

“I take it you have finally decided to fulfill your role?”

“No.” Garrett snapped, turning, eyes narrowed at the god hovering at his shoulder. Eyes, inky black, deep as time, stared back from a vacant, wet, expressionless face. Garrett may have once been impressed with the Leviathan from his history lessons, but actually meeting the infant god had done little to endear the child to the thief.

“I don’t have a role to play in your little fuck-up.” Garrett hissed; “I have a duty to my sister, that is all.” The Leviathan slowly tilted It’s head, It’s hair moved unnaturally, short as it was, wafting around the creature’s head as though submerged underwater. Abyssal eyes stared at the thief before, contemplative and silent before the young god’s lips began to twitch and stretch, pulling It’s expression into a facsimile of a smile that showed far, far too many teeth for any human skull to house.

Lesser men would have cowered at the sight, run screaming from the inhuman creature before them or postulate themselves for favor or mercy. But not Garrett. Despite the mounting ache burning at the edges of Garrett’s mind as some deep-rooted human instinct fought to comprehend the maddeningly incomprehensible thing before him, Garrett stared the god down.

“Oh thief mine.” The young god crooned, softly, sweetly, with a hint of poison as, before Garrett could react, It reached out to grip him by the jaw. Its fingers, though appearing as human as his own, were deathly cold, cold and wet, like a grave or winter, a drowning child desperately reaching one last hopeless time for something, anything. Its grip was firm, but not painful, not even all that restrictive, Garrett could pull away if he so desired.

He did not.

“I am not your thief.” Garrett spat back coolly, merely earning himself a somehow wider, somehow impossibly larger smile from the infant god before him.

“No. You most certainly are not.” The Leviathan nearly laughed, Its voice echoed in Garrett’s head, a deafening cacophony of rolling waves and whalesong. 

“We are however, our fates, our futures, pasts, presence, our very lives…” The god murmured, Its words trailing off absentmindedly, Its thumb moved to run across Garrett’s cheek, directly over the jutting scar spanning across the thief’s cheek as It leaned ever closer.

“Entwined…” It finally whispered, Its lips ever-so- gently caressing Garrett’s brow, once again over the ridge of his scar. As quickly as the Leviathan had snatched Garrett into Its grasp, It gently released Its hold of him, Its hand slipping from the thief’s face almost like a tender farewell. Garrett staggered back regardless, a pointless endeavor, he knew well that he was helpless within the Leviathan’s realm.

“Your loyalty and devotion may lie with your sister. But her salvation, and the world's salvation rests upon my shoulders.” The Leviathan spoke, Its voice calm despite the magnitude of Its proclamation. Garrett could only scowl weakly at the young god, the two of them had spoken long and exhaustedly about the circumstances surrounding them, entwining them, the Leviathan insisted.

Whether Garrett liked it or not, he could not save Erin without inevitably aiding the Leviathan.

“Why am I here?” Garrett finally sighed as he hoisted himself up onto a particularly flat slab of fallen stone, taking a seat to face the god before him, the Leviathan smiled again, softly this time as It shifted to imitate Garrett’s posture, albeit adrift above the stone beneath It.

“I called you.” The young god hummed, Its tone was nearly coy, nearly playful, nearly, but not quite.

“Don’t bullshit me.” Garrett snapped; “You never bring me here without reason. So why am I here?” The young god once again tilted Its head, observing Garrett through those damn endless eyes. It’s chest remained still, Its hair swaying as though underwater. Everything about It was ethereal and impossible. And Its final response was just as baffling.

“You, thief mine…” It began softly, pausing to fold Its hands in Its lap, quiet, contemplative, nearly human in Its hesitation… “As I am your sister’s, your world's salvation… So too are you mine…” 

Garrett couldn’t help but laugh, a ugly snort which had the young god’s gaze snapping back to the thief in not quite a glare, but something equally heated with humiliation. Garrett dismayed the god’s affront with a passive wave of his hand as he drew his legs beneath himself to rest his elbows on his knees.

“And here I thought gods were above small human desires.” Garrett teased, spite and wit decorating his tone in equal measures. Once again, the Leviathan moved to imitate Garrett’s position, crossing Its legs where It hovered.

“I have existed for a very long time, thief mine.” The god replied, “And for much of that time, I have governed the Primordial Sea.”

“I know.” Garrett interjected; “I learned all about you in my history lessons.” A small smile tugged at the edge of the young god’s expression, the closest It had yet come to anything genuine.

“Yes… I recall, you were top of your class. You loved learning about the lore and myths which construct the world as you know it…” Garrett bit his tongue to refrain from saying anything unsavory to the Leviathan, unsettling as it was to hear your life discussed as though merely a book plucked from a shelf, Garrett knew well that watching the Tides of Time roll on was about the only thing the infant god could do, and it was of little surprise that the Leviathan had turned Its gaze towards him.

“You do not though know.” The Child of Change continued, knocking Garrett off of his train of thought; “That through all my time residing within this ocean, I have only been alone thrice.” It was Garrett’s turn to tilt his head at the god before him, though the Leviathan carried on regardless.

“Once, and first, when I was initially cast into the Void.” The young god murmured, small and afraid, Garrett had heard the legend, memorized the myth, he knew the god had been young, younger than himself when they had been used and abused in some blasphemous ritual. Still, the mental image, uninvited, made itself, a small child, clutching their bleeding throat, wandering aimlessly through a desolate, endless expanse of fragmented memories and echoes of a place no longer home…

“Second, third, previous, recent… When the Primordial Sea was severed from your world, thief mine…” Garrett blinked, his gaze refocusing on the god before him, the god who no longer met his eye, the god who for the first time since their meeting, finally looked like the damned child who had died all those lifetimes ago.

“So you called me here because you were lonely?” Garrett asked bluntly. The Leviathan looked up, had the child been alive, Garrett was sure they’re cheeks would be gaining hue. But they did not, because the child was dead.

Still, Garrett shuffled on the rock he had seated himself on, putting just enough space between the edge and himself to set down the small deck of cards he kept in his pocket.

“What’s your fancy?” Garrett asked as he began shuffling the cards with swift hands, aware that the god began leering closer to watch his fingers fly.

“I know all of them.” The Leviathan replied simply.

“You can know as many games as you like.” Garrett huffed lightly; “Knowing and playing are two very different things.”

The god hummed, sitting Itself just before Garrett.

“Titles.” The Leviathan finally murmured, Garrett offered the young god a smile as he began to set the deck.

“Titles it is.”

Chapter Text

After that less than restful night within the clocktower, Garrett scraped together a measly breakfast from whatever rations had survived his long absence. 

The clocktower had stood strong for over a century, and would remain strong for thieves to come, and just as she always had, the clocktower remained a bastion against the miserable weather of the city. Garrett should not have been so surprised to find that the stores of rations he had stockpiled well before his impromptu departure were still edible, the jerky was as tough as leather, the dried nuts… Well, dry. But nothing had rotted away, so Garrett took his blessings and contemplated his  next move as he ate.

Lady Luck must have finally begun to take note of the thief’s plight as upon the wings of the familiar magpie came direction.

Guinevere landed on the windowsill, ruffling her feathers, flicking rainwater onto the floor before she fluttered her way to the ground and hopped over to Garrett’s side, a new box of matches pinched between her beak. Garrett traded a bone-dry cranberry for the box, a deal Guinevere could not refuse.

Basso had written a single word within the matchbox. An invitation, as well as an order; “ Knock. ”  

The missive was etched deep within the matchbox, heavy handedly. Garrett of course knew exactly what Basso was trying to convey with the single work, he had known the fence for long enough.

Basso was a large, loud man, the sort of man who couldn’t go anywhere without a cacophony of sounds to follow. Whether it was the sounds of his boots against the ground as he walked, the unconscious whistling of his too-many-times-broken nose, or even just his ability to talk endlessly about nothing in particular, wherever he went, Basso brought noise.

And that noise was the perfect cover for a thief. 

According to Artemus, Basso had been one of the first people he had sought out to begin the search for his wayward children, and while the fence had not been of much help then, Basso was both a long-time friend of the thieves and, more importantly, very much in the know regarding happenings and gossip.

Two things Garrett was sorely lacking at that moment, and two things Garrett would undoubtedly need to begin his hunt. 

Garrett bid Guinevere farewell with trailing fingers along her back and a small scattering of dried berries and seeds across the table before he slipped from the safety of the clocktower, down, down, down to the bloody streets below.

Basso’s base of operation wasn’t all too far from the clocktower, merely a courtyard and two streets over, or six rooftops and an alley for a thief. The path was familiar, though Garrett remained cautious, it wouldn’t do him well to slip on rain-slicked shingles and break his neck at the bottom of some rot stained alley.

Regardless, the Crippled Burrick was nearly just as Garrett recalled. Living quarters on the upper floors, Basso’s kitchen window ‘garden’ looked just as sad as ever. Business in the basement, with a grander than typical entrance leading down a flight of stairs that to the day, Garrett had no idea how Basso had yet to deal with flooding.

Now however, Garrett found himself with far more pressing matters… Basso had been very clear with his wording on the thief’s invitation, and Garrett, thief as he was, was inclined to follow the missives directions as best he could, but certainly not the meaning.

Basso’s spare key was tucked away along the top of the doorframe and as soon as the front door was unlocked, Garrett reached over to bang his fist against the basement door. As much as he would have loved to stick around and listen to his fence crib and curse at whoever he thought was banging their fists at his door at such an hour, time was precious, and Garrett only had a few moments to get to where he wanted to be.

As Garrett slipped into Basso’s apartment, heavy footfalls stomped towards the door. As Garrett made his way through the house, taking note of little changes here and there, different mug, new vase, same kind of dried flowers beside the same urn on the mantle, Basso threw the door of his shop open, most definitely expecting some guard or inspector.

Garrett managed to make his way down into the basement through the inner door and make himself comfortable on the workbench, right beside Basso’s current project, just as the Boxman slammed the door, muttering about ‘damn kids’ as he locked the bolt and turned around.

Luckily for Basso, Garrett was one to leave the lording to the nobility so the undignified shriek of terror the Boxman let out at the sight of his surprise guest would remain between them.

Besides the scream, Basso also attempted to throw his jack at Garrett, it went wide, Garrett didn’t even have to try and avoid the little tool as it soared safely past his head.

“Garrett!” The fence scolded as he tried, and failed, to appear as the ever-stoic fence. Garrett however could see relief easing weight off of Basso’s shoulders, professional or not, Basso cared for the thieves in his employment. Basso was a good friend.

“You son’ov a bitch.” The Boxman cursed as he not quite stormed over to the thief, the far larger man would have been intimidating with his stone cut expression and furrowed brow, but to the thief, the Boxman looked so worried that it almost made Garrett feel guilty.

Basso stopped just shy of the thief, dragging his eyes over every inch of Garrett, looking for any signs of injury or duress. Upon finding none, the Boxman replaced his concern with very understandable fury.

“I see you still can’t work a door.” Basso huffed, crossing his arms, puffing out his chest before he abruptly turned on his heels, stalking past Garrett to retrieve his lost jack.

“You don’t come see me. You don’t write…” The Boxman muttered under his breath as he stooped low to pick up the jack from whatever dusty corner it had landed in. When Basso spun around quick enough to have the thief fight the urge to flinch, Garrett knew that their reunion was not going to be as quick or as pleasant as he had hoped.

“I thought both you and Erin had been killed in the mansion attack!” Basso shouted, chest heaving as he jabbed the jack in Garrett’s direction. “It took that weird scholar in the cloak to tell me that you weren’t dead Garrett. Where the hell have you been?”

Garrett averted his eyes sheepishly before he slipped from his seat atop Basso’s workbench. Tugging his hood down, Basso hissed.

“I had to go to ground.” Garrett replied quietly.

“For…?” Basso trailed off, gesturing broadly to his own cheek and eye, exactly where the scar sat across Garrett’s face.

“Yes.”

“Shit Garrett…” Basso blew out with a heavy breath, moving back towards the thief, the workbench between them. “And that creepy cloak guy looking for you?” The Boxman asked cautiously.

“My father.” Garrett answered easily, honestly, Basso merely nodded. Tense silence settled between the two, steadily growing heavier and heavier until Basso finally found his voice.

“She’s gone then?”

Garrett shook his head silently, Basso sighed.

“Garrett…” Basso began solemnly, “Your old man, when he came by asking about you, he came by asking about both of you… And between you and Erin, you’re the only one I’ve seen.”

“She’s not dead.” Garrett said firmly, pinning Basso’s retort with a sharp look. The Boxman raised his hands in defeat.

“Fine, fine… Forget about it. Now, unless you want to tell me what the fuck you’ve been up to for the past year, I have a business to run and money to make.” Basso muttered as he made a ‘shoo-shoo’ gesture to the thief, ushering Garrett away from the workbench.

Garrett made a show of lugging the workbench stool to the opposite side of the room for himself before he turned and sat to face the fence, Basso merely rolled his eyes at the thief.

“Real mature Garrett.” Basso huffed as he turned his attention back to the safe atop the bench, irritation bled back into his voice as he set the jack and reached for the hammer beside him.

“I don’t have time for this. Especially with the Baron’s new duty on opium thanks to this whole gloom sickness running amuck.” Garrett did not flinch with the first fall of the hammer, but he did blink with every consecutive strike.

“Not. To. Mention. The. Thief. Taker. General’s-” Basso enunciated each word by bringing the hammer down onto the jack until the door to the safe finally gave way as the jack slipped snuggly in.

“Black-Tax squeezing us, entrepreneurs.” The Boxman concluded bitterly as he busied himself with prying the lid off the safe.

“If you got a job for me, let’s hear it.” Garrett replied. Basso paused his prying to look at Garrett.

“You sure you’re up to it? Been a while.” The thief gave the fence a dry look, drawing a wry huff from Basso.

“Okay. So here’s the gig.” Basso sighed, “I need you to obtain a ring for me.” The fence explained as he meandered across the basement. Garrett followed him with his eyes, and a raised brow.

“Getting married?” The thief asked coyly, earning himself a hearty chuckle from the fence; “Never again.” It was then that darling Guinevere decided to make her grand entrance, fluttering down from the stairwell, swooping past Basso’s ear, beak at the ready to clip her master’s ear.

Basso made some high sound of surprise and pain as he swatted at the displaced air of Guinevere’s passing, the magpie trilling a almost smug noise as she seated herself on Garrett’s shoulder, drawing Basso’s glare towards the two of them.

“You mangy bird!” Basso cursed with a pointed finger; “I swear, one day I’m gonna have you made into a hat!” Garrett chuckled at that, raising a finger to trail beneath Guinevere's chin.

“And lose the brains of the ah… Outfit?” The thief taunted lightly as he slid from the stool to trail after the fence, Basso brushed off Garrett’s jab with a ring-ladened hand. “I’m running out of fingers.”

Garrett rolled his eyes as he joined his fence’s side; “The job, Basso?” He pressed.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, right.” Basso huffed as he waved for Garrett to follow him over to the small shelving unit beneath the stairs.

“Belongs to a guy named, uh, Cornelius Greaves. One of those hoity-toity types who doesn’t have any shit on his boots.” Basso began as he peered through the shelves.

“Ah-ha. Here you go.” The fence declared as he passed a single page of the newspaper, a two days old given that the paper only ran on Sundays, and that was if the paper ran at all…

Still, Garrett skimmed the page, gaze narrowing the closer to the bottom he got; “What’s the catch?” The thief asked.

“Eh…” Basso winged, “He’s dead.” Garrett gave the fence a very unimpressed look as he lowered the paper; “I’m a thief Basso, not a graverobber.”  

“Only recently deceased!” Basso assured, tapping against the date on the paper, one day before publishing, totaling three days. “My sources say he never took the ring off.” Basso finished the pitch with a grin.

“Doesn’t seem very challenging.” Garrett countered.

“Ah the challenge will be getting to him before the carters pick him over.” Basso said; “And besides, you haven’t been around for the past year, gig like this? Walk in the park for you.” With that, Basso took back the newspaper, folding it neatly to exchange it for a map of the city.

“Now, rumor has it that they’re taking bodies to that old uh, foundry near Cinderfall?” Basso hummed as he laid the map out on the workbench; “Crawling with the Baron’s guards for some reason”

Garrett peered over the larger man’s shoulder, keeping far enough back to deny Guinevere another opportunity to peck at the fence’s ear as he looked at the map.

“Now… Best way to that place…” Basso began as he set his finger on the map, trailing from where they were at the Crippled Burrick; “Is through the Old Chapel.”  

Garrett resisted the urge to shudder at the mere mention of the Old Chapel. His Indebtment to the Queen and her beggars as he was merely a fraction of his desire to avoid the place. The Queen was wise well beyond her years, and Garrett had little doubt that her blind eyes would somehow manage to peer through the glove he wore and the bandages he had woven to conceal the blasted mark still seeping ink on the back of his hand.

Still… Garrett nodded to Basso, pulling his hood back up as he stalked towards the door. It was no lead on Erin, but Basso always had his ear pressed to the social grapevine, and guards always had loose lips on patrol. So if Basso said the old foundry was crawling with the Baron’s guards, then, on the off chance that someone was feeling particularly chatty that night, to the old foundry Garrett would go.

“Oh and Garrett.” Basso called just as the thief reached the back door; “Don’t screw this up yea? Some of us need to pay our dues.”

Garrett huffed, rolling the shoulder Guinevere was sitting on, coaxing her to return to her perch as he offered the fence a wry little smile; “You can’t tax what you can’t catch.” Was all the thief replied.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” Basso muttered heatlessly as he waved the thief off; “Get outta here. And use the door? Please?”

Garrett pulled his mask up over the bridge of his nose as he cracked the open the window on the basement door.

Chapter Text

The Old Chapel was exactly as it had been when Garrett left with Artemus, if somehow worse.

The crumbling cathedral's stonework was as dilapidated as ever, a window had doubled in size as its frame fell apart, a wall had given way to a new door, yet all the same, the masonry still standing strong, weathered by time as it were, still bore the faint indentations of delicate chiseling, sculpted from devout hands long dead who's work still stubbornly refused to allow their masters to die.

The old grounds were cold and wet, hardly a field, more a mud pit better fit for swine yet instead, brimming with beggars huddled beneath frail shelters of cobbled together wood and whatever else they could scrounge up. Fires were few and far between, guarded fiercely against the storm by countless backs, all desperate for a flicker of warmth.

Garrett meant not to linger, and if he had his way, he would have passed through the courtyard as a shadow and nothing more, unseen and unheard. But of course, the Queen of Beggars saw all who passed through her territory, and when two of her rats came to him with word that the Queen was waiting, Garrett could not turn away.

Tucked away in the heart of her lonely empire, with nothing but a chess board for company and too few candles to keep her properly warm, sat the Queen of beggars. Eyes as pale as the full moon, skin paper-thin, hair white as snow, just as Garrett remembered upon their first meeting nearly a decade prior.

The City was not kind to its inhabitants, least of all the old and young, yet she remained where many others had died before.

She should have died ages ago, long, long before he or Artemus should have been born. So naturally, the thief was beyond grateful that she had clung to life so vehemently. Garrett would be lying if he claimed to not feel the slightest affection for the old woman, infuriating as she was. He would miss her bitterly when she finally passed, not that he believed she would.

The Queen of Beggars would outlive the City itself.

“It’s a lonely night.” The Queen said in lieu of a greeting as Garrett made his way down the steps to the still intact basement of the old church the Queen and her beggars had taken residence in.

“The best kind.” Garrett replied gently, the old woman hummed, unblinking as she reached out to the small table beside her chair, grasping the teapot's handle and spout with hands far steadier than her frailty should have allowed.

“Ah Garrett, you walk a path few would wish.” She mused calmly, pouring a cups of tea, tinged copper with dried leaves, steaming warm, smelling sweet. Someone had made quite a generous donation to the Queen it seemed, Garrett could guess who.

“It’s the only one I know.” Garrett hummed as he peered around the cathedral, candles flickered all around, casting soft light and long shadows across the alcove. They were at least shielded from the wind outside, the rain would inevitably crawl down the steps and pool along the floor, the cold however had slipped its way in all the same, and the candles did little to deter the chill.

“Quite.” The Queen quipped lightly, setting the pot back down as she plucked a saucer and held out the freshly poured cup to the thief. Garrett accepted the steaming cup without a word, drawing a huff from the old woman before him.

“You know what they say about me…” It was not a question, but Garrett knew the answer.

“That you know everything that happens in this city.”

The Queen actually laughed at that, pouring her own cup of tea, her hands jerked in time with her laughter, yet not a single drop of tea missed her cup;

“Not everything.” She assured as she took her own cup between her hands, simply holding it in her lap, enjoying the warmth; “Just the important things.”

Behind the Queen appeared one of her beggars, a gentleman, younger than herself, older than Garrett who, without a request or order given, offered his arm to the Queen, helping her rise from her chair.

“What brings you here?” The Queen asked as Garrett moved around her to set his cup and saucer back on the table, “Seeking my counsel?” She queried lightly, almost jokingly.

Garrett pursed his lips, turning away from the old woman to peer into the nearby shadows; “I have sought your counsel before.” Garrett murmured, “You offered me nothing.”

“Nothing?” The Queen repeated bemused as her beggar guided her over to a salvaged vanity, the mirror missing, “Or nothing that you wanted to hear?”

“Does it matter?” Garrett retorted coolly, the old woman merely hummed.

“The balance has shifted Garrett, you can feel it, we all can feel it. The city grows sickly, but it will tell you all in due time, if you choose to listen.” Garrett scowled at that. Among the most detestable things in the world, prophecies and riddle-speak were chief among the Queen of Beggars and the Keepers’ specialties.

Perhaps that was why Garrett avoid the two so insistantly.

“Careful Garrett…” The Queen called as the thief begam making his way back to the stairwell; “There are worse things in the shadows than you.”

As the bell tolled twice in the dead of night, the thief took to shadows as a raven did to flight.

Chapter Text

“Please, sir…” A commoner begged weakly, caked in grime, wearing clothes no better than the passengers upon his cart donned; “We’ve been hauling corpses since dawn… We just want this day to be done.”

The guard manning the door sneered, glancing over to his partner with vitriol in his words; “Do you hear this guttershite?” He asked snidely, the other guard merely nodded, taking a moment to spit at the cartman before him. “Consider yourself lucky you’re pulling that cart and not in it.”

“Now move it!” The first guard barked as he threw a poorly aimed kick at the commoner’s shin, said man scrambled to pick up his load of corpses, groaning along with his hastily crafted cart as he made his way past the two guards.

Garrett watched from across the Foundry market. What once could have been a bustling street, filled with goods and vendors, was now a shoddily constructed guard keep, complete with burning fires, barracks and a foul-smelling sloup stall.

Guards loitered about, hardly keeping the facade of ‘watching’ as they bickered and bantered, complaining about the sloup, the shift, the chill and anything else that irked them in the moment. Still, Garrett tread carefully, sloppy guardsmen were still guardsmen, armed with blades and crossbows, and more than eager to shoot anything that moved.

Still, while far from Garrett’s favorite thing to deal with, the city watch had their uses. Gossip and rumor were never perfect bases for belief, but they were decent starting points if one knew how to follow the trail of tongues, and guards often had very, very loose tongue, especially during the night.

And when one of the guards began complaining about a certain general being on the premises that very eve, Garrett listened.

Typically, Garrett was not one to tempt fate, and if he could be avoided, the Thief-Taker General was given a mile-wide margin, that man brought nothing but pain and misery wherever he went and Garrett had no interest in pissing the general off anymore than he already had.

But, Garrett was on a mission, and if anyone were to be a half-decent starting point for his hunt, unfortunately, it would be Thaddeus Harlan.

Getting inside of the foundry was a simple enough task, apparently the small gaggle of guards lazing about the exterior walls was deemed good enough defense by someone, and upon setting foot within the courtyard, Garrett was met with nothing but a vacant stone field.

And then it happened.

Garrett crossed over a would-have-been garden, dried dirt, little more than dust beneath the soles of his shoes. Up his leg, crawling like frost across a window, up, up, up his spine and into his head until silver and blue consumed his right eye and a faint whisper called out to him through the fog.

Garrett staggered back, off the patch of dead earth, clutching his eye with a silent hiss. Once he had finally collected himself, he took a moment to look around, properly.

The courtyard was still empty, the sky still blackened by smog and clouds, the air still rank with death and smoke, and standing there, in the center of the patch of ash-choked dirt, was a single flower…

Garrett approached cautiously, crouching low to appraise the small impossible thing before him… The flower was pale, petals milky-soft, its stem straight and without leaves. Strangest thing of all however was its coloration.

Blue.

A staggeringly luminant blue.

Garrett reached out without a second thought, feeling that same coldness settle into his palm, up his wrist, slowly along his arm. He plucked the bloom before the chill could reach his shoulder. It came away from the stem without hassle and the chill retreated.

Garrett pocketed the flower, it felt the best thing to do given the strangeness of it. 

Garrett offered the courtyard one last contemplation before he turned to the wall before him, a thick pipe ran from the ground up, snaking through the stone and wood struts, all but begging for a thief to use. And who was Garrett to deny himself such an invitation.

Clambering up along the pipe was a simple endeavor, Garrett of course remained careful, but without the immediate threat of being spotted by some meandering gaze, the thief allowed himself to relax, if only enough to enjoy the thrill of the climb.

That is until Garrett made it to the edge of the wall, where the courtyard ended and the entry junction began. Where two more guards stood appraising the newly cartered corpse before them.

“Look at this. A High-Born in with the low-lifes.” One of the guards mused sardonically as the corpse-cart came to a rattling halt before them, the two commoners tasked with the duty were accompanied by another man, finely dressed, more than likely a relative or beneficiary of the deceased, who stood to the side, well away from the two commoners.

“I wonder what he’s got…” The first guard mused loud enough for the second guard to dig his elbow into his side, hissing a curt; “Not out here sloup-for-brains!” As he jutted his chin towards the thief member of the corpse parade.

One of the cart-men fidgeted in place, anxiously glancing towards the finely dressed man and the guards before he spoke up with a stammered and softened; “We carted him gentle as we could.” Another glance back towards the third man.

“You are… Treating them with respect, aren’t you?” The commoner asked anxiously, head bowed, eyes downcast. The third man finally turned his attention to the guards, even at the distance he was, Garrett could tell that the man’s gaze was frigid.

“Respect?” The first guard began, almost as though he were about to tell a morbid joke of some sort, luckily for him, his partner was quick to cut him off with a heel to his toes.

“Yes. The dead are being treated with the due respect deserved.” The second guard interjected curtly as he all but dragged his partner to the side, the first guard still hissing and cursing under his breath as he hobbled along.

“Set the cart down inside and get back to your sackhouses.” He ordered as he hauled the door open, fully hiding his partner from view as he allowed the cart-men and the third man inside; “We’ll take it from here.”

No other words were exchanged, save for the rattling creak of rickety wheels and the baying cries of rusty door hinges.

Garrett moved on, climbing the rest of the way up the side of the building until he found an open vent, its grate long since fallen to the ground below and presumably looted by some desperate urchin. Still, an easy ticket into the actual foundry, and not one Garrett was keen on dismissing. 

The inside of the vents were stagnant and predictably foul, the stench of the dead hung heavy in the air, wafting up from deeper within the foundry, tinged with ash and soot along with the echoed conversations of guards and morgue workers, Garrett was more than a little relieved to escape from the vents and into the foundry proper.

Of course, the interior of the foundry was just as rickety and worn as the exterior suggested. The floors were hardly any cleaner than the streets beyond the walls, blood-mudded boot prints lined the halls, dried and were inevitably swept into corners and under rugs if a fresh-cut guard made enough of a fuss to be delegated to cleaning for cheek.

The guards within were likewise as lackluster as the guards meandering out in the courtyard, not that Garrett would complain. Afterall, it only made his job easier in the long run, and Garrett was not the sort of thief to look a gift-horse in the mouth.

Garrett only hoped that the morgue workers were as inattentive as the guards.

Chapter Text

The Foundry was an odd building.

A foreign design for one thing, constructed by some poor sap who thought they could cut costs by setting up shop in a backwater place like the City. Needless to say, the Foundry remained, but the original owner had long since cut ties with whatever prospect they had been expecting.

Honestly, Garrett found the fact that the Foundry had yet to collapse after years of trading hands and purpose quite impressive, especially considering the foundry was horrifically impractical by City standards.

With a wide, open floor plan for the actual would-be workspace, few support beams, and machinery poorly guarded against the temperamental and frequent weather of the city, many would assume that the foundry would not stand long, yet stand it did.

Thrive it did.

Like a buzzing hive, machinery purred and clanked along, men milled about like bees, and up high, above it all, crouched upon a jutting beam, Garrett watched it all.

“Up you go, you sorry bastard.” One man grunted from a elevated platform, hoisting a lifeless body up onto his shoulders while a co-worker held a meat-hook at the ready.

The corpse was heaved up, and then down. The ensuing noise was no doubt sickening, but the hurried bustling of the foundry choked the sound out before it reached Garrett’s ears. 

“Better you than me.” The first man huffed once the dead man was secured upon the hook. Thereafter, an alarm sounded, and whatever apparatus the hook was fashioned to began to move, taking the corpse with it.

Garrett grimaced at the display, he had seen more than his fair share of death through his life. Children starved dead in winter or snatched away by the cold. Senseless stabbings over scraps, guards letting what little power they had go to their heads.

But what Garrett saw before him, the dead being carted off so carelessly? Abattoirs had more respect for their pigs.

Still, if anything, the Foundry workers remained consistent in both the disrespect they showed to the deceased in their care, and the utter lack of regard for their jobs. And, to Garrett’s delight, their personal effects.

Coin pouches tossed down haphazardly across the shop, penknives and mechanical bits and pieces strewn about willy-nilly, all ripe for the picking, and who was Garrett to turn down such opportunities. 

Just as the thief was pocketing a very nice calligraphy pen from some desk, a bell began to chime from somewhere high above, followed by a foreman bellowing that; “Break’s over! Get that line moving!” A great mechanical beast groaned soon after, and the conveyor belt sparsely decorated with too many dead men began to sleepily shuffle forward.

Garrett took a moment to watch the grim parade, keeping himself well to the side of the marching path, if the slick smear of foul dark brown mud directly below the conveyor belt was any indication, the suffering of the perished was far from over.

Still… The sight of the many swaying meat hooks gave Garrett a convenient, if unpleasant, method of traversing the Foundry.

Scaling a stack of pallets was a breeze for the thief, making a short jump to grab hold of a vacant meat hook, easy. Playing dead above the heads of the foundry workers? Not quite as simple… For one, Garrett was fully clothed, for a second, Garrett was very much alive. The city watch was known to be notoriously blind, but surely not to such an extent. 

…

Who was Garrett kidding.

Of course the damn city watch in fact that blind.

Garrett made his way across the main floor of the foundry completely unaccosted, save for one instance where he was forced to drop down, two watchmen had decided to shirk work and hide away atop a maintenance walkway, bantering at corpse level. While Garrett was confident that the two would be too engrossed in their conversation to notice something amiss on the line, he had not survived as long as he had by taking risks.

Perhaps it was Lady Luck finally turning her gaze towards him, or more likely, a dead child’s lingering black gaze, but when Garrett dropped off the line, something behind his eye began to… Flutter?

It was a strange sensation, almost like a tremor, but not painful, not even inconvenient, just, there, present, growing more intense when Garrett looked in a particular direction.

It wasn’t curiosity per-say that drew Garrett to find the source of the disturbance, more of… A need to know… 

Finding the source was easy enough, Garrett didn’t even have to look, his eye guided him… Well, his eye, and to guards plotting some thievery of their own. 

“The two of us could force it.” The taller of the two suggested with a hushed whisper; “Split what we find between us?” The door in question was shoddily sealed, two crooked planks of wood nailed across the door, with a large enough window for someone to crawl through.

“What do you say?” The first guard asked his shorter companion, excitement bled into his words at the prospect of pinching himself some extra coin. His partner was far less amused.

“I say the General will ring our necks if we’re caught Blackhanded like this!” The taller guard scowled, making a move to retort, but his partner cut him off with a choking cough; “I need some air. I feel like shit.” 

Garrett clambered his way up into the rafters, out of sight, out of mind while the guards below continued bickering, one calling the other a spineless coward, the other calling the one a deluded mut. They both departed bitterly shortly after, leaving Garrett alone in the hall.

Now, Garrett could have easily forced his way through, but even easier than breaking a window was crawling through a vent shaft.

The room beyond the door was ill-kempt, but not messy, dusty, but not filthy. It had clearly once been a workshop of some sort, papers of mechanical jargon littered the desk, tools sat out, frozen in time, as though waiting for their master to return and resume work. 

And at the very back of the room, hidden behind soft velvet drapery, deep blue and royal purple, tucked into the wall, a safe.

The source of the strange disturbance…

Garrett wasted no time with cracking the code, the previous occupant had been kind enough to leave their would-be friend clues to open the safe, clues that Garrett had no issue deciphering. 

What resided within the safe however… Garrett would ponder for years to come.

Encased within a glass container, adorned with fine gold trim, sat a gentle pale light, spiraling into itself in an endless mesmerizing loop… But that shiny thing was not the source of Garrett’s curiosity [he pocketed it regardless]

No, what truly caught Garrett’s attention was stark white bone, dulled through the years, an inscription cut deep into the marrow, a familiar mark. Reaching out, Garrett’s own mark seemed to sing with the mark on the bone, burning cold life against the back of his palm as he plucked the trinket from its prison.

The world shifted, rippling outward from the point of contact before cold dead hands settled at his shoulders, a weight pressing against his hood so lips could brush against his cheek, teeth lined every word as the Leviathan spoke.

“A gift for my thief.” The dead child crooned as a hand trailed down Garrett’s shoulder, fingers dancing along his arm before moving to cradle the hand holding the long dead bone.

“A Rune. Bearing my mark. Meant to aid you on your endeavors.” That cold hand guided Garrett’s arm to his chest, until the slab of bone pressed against his beating heart.

The young god laughed, the sickening cacophony of a dying man’s last breath and far-away whalesong echoing through Garrett’s mind as the Leviathan turned the thief’s head towards him. A hand slipped beneath Garrett’s hood, drawing the article back just enough for dead, dead, dead fingers to run through his hair as water-logged lips pressed against his brow, directly over the mangled scar running across his eye.

“Be safe, my thief.” The dead god murmured.

“I will be watching.”

Chapter Text

Garrett watched the well dressed man mull about his makeshift office, consisting of three tables, a trunk, stacks on stacks of paper, and a lovely view of the marching dead.

One of the Baron’s high collared administrators had apparently been delegated to supervising corpses, no doubt to the man’s appall, still, whilst thoroughly distracted cataloging the causes of death floating by, Garrett was able to nik the man’s key from right under his nose. As well as his coin purse.

Garrett typically wasn’t one for keys, the City hadn’t seen any advancements past burning coal, what little there was, and neither had the doors, or specifically, the locks. Yet the key Garrett now held was undoubtedly a new key, one that Garrett had never seen before, broad and mechanical, teeth on four corners of a square rather than just along the base.

If given the time and resources, Garrett was sure he could figure out a way to pick a lock designed for such a strange key, but Garrett had neither the time or the resources to toy around, so, key it was.

The General had been kind enough to affix a note claiming that ‘all unauthorized persons beyond this point would be severely punished’ to a suspiciously well barricaded door, and if that wasn’t invitation enough, Garrett didn’t know what was.

The room beyond wasn’t much, if anything, given the stash of finer-than-average cutlery tucked away at the back, Garrett haphazard that it was the Thief-Taker General’s personal break room, not that it offered him much in the way trinkets to lift or documents to swipe.

The room did however offer him a ticket to the crematorium… Or the crudely constructed crematorium… Garrett doubted most crematoriums used blast furnaces to burn their bodies, but given the sorry state the City was in, if beggars couldn’t be choosy, neither could Barons. 

There were fewer guards loitering around the crematorium, but far, far more morgue workers, and after a short ride along the corpse trail, Garrett found himself needing to drop back down to the ground once again.

“Whoa hey.” A familiar voice called out from just out of sight, accompanied by a painfully familiar crack of cane that nearly had Garrett freezing in place.

“One at a time. No pushing.” The Thief-Taker General jeered sarcastically to the corpses drifting by, Garrett couldn’t see him, but the thief could imagine the General standing, leaning on his cane as he admired the macabre march above. Garrett slipped by below, unheard, unseen.

“Flames ain't going anywhere without you.” The General commented with a grim sort of glee; “No matter if you’re rich or ragged. Beggard or buttered up… You’re all gonna burn.” Truly, the man loved his job… A little too much perhaps…

Still, the General’s… Infatuation… With the bodies was all well and dandy by Garrett, if it kept him occupied for the time being. Even better was the fact that the converted crematorium kept the old foundry floors, granting Garrett ample room beneath the very shoes of the people above him.

It also, unfortunately, allowed Garrett to hear each and every bit of conversation happening above and around him…

“What was that about?” One of the workers murmured as quietly as he could to a nearby co-worker as the General cankered away, cane, false-foot, real foot creating a ‘clack, creek, thud’ rhythm.

“I’m not even going to guess.” The co-worker replied with a dour huff; “You don’t stick your nose out, it doesn’t get slit.”

“Still…” The first man mused, the further away the General got, the more confidence leached into his words; “Didn’t see many bodies with rings until then…” A pause followed, accompanied by the sound of scissors cutting through cloth and then skin before the first worker spoke again.

“Hey uh, you don’t suppose we should be checking for um, cock-rings and stuff, do you?” He asked, something akin to shame clinging to his words, worsened when the co-worked made a half-choked guffaw.

“What the bells is a cock-ring?” The second man asked, bafflement evident in his tone as he stopped his cutting to turn to the first man.

“It’s a ring…” The first man began, tripping over his own tongue as he made some vague hand-gesture; “For… You know. You’re Gentleman’s Finger?” He concluded sheepishly.

The second man stared at him for a solid pause; “Are you winding me up?” He asked.

“No, no!” The co-worker assured hastily; “Some people have stuff like that… Well, the rich anyhow. Didn’t you know? Helps with getting it up, or something.” Garrett watched through the grates as both men turned to a particular corpse across the room, sharing a grimace, before returning to their respective bodies.

“My brother, Daniel, knew a Blossom.” The first man continued just as the sounds of toil resumed from the other table; “She said if you were in a pinch, you could use a pig’s gut, tied in a knot.” 

If Garrett was hoping that the conversation would end, the co-worker was desperate for a conclusion.

“I’m here with my hands on a dead man’s ass!” The co-worker snapped; “And you’re telling me about your brother tying his dong in a knot?” The first man made some undignified sputter.

“The Pig gut! Not the…” His voice trailed off bitterly; “Don’t be having a go at my brother. He’s passed on.” He bit out curtly, the co-worker merely huffed.

“Yeah, I’m not surprised.”

Garrett moved along before the two could get into a row or an even worse topic of conversation. He still has a corpse to find and a ring to palm after all.

And Cornelius Greaves was proving to be a very difficult corpse to find…

Chapter Text

A shadow loomed overhead, accompanied by the familiar ‘clack, creek thud’ of the General’s footsteps as he returned.

The two morgue workers above Garrett paused to watch as the General approached another man further down the line. Carefully, Garrett crept closer, keeping low and snug against the support beams for better cover as he watched the General inspect the corpse through the gaps in the grated floor.

He must not have found what he was looking for because he soon turned to the morgue worker beside him; “What did this body have on it?” He asked in his typical rough drawl. 

The morgue worker blinked owlishly before he managed to stammer out a soft-spoken; “Uh, nothing.” The General pinned him in place with a cold look, the worker withered under the gaze.

He couldn’t have been older than seventeen.

“I was just about to grab another body before you came and took over.” The worker explained nervously. The General laughed at that, a dry, sarcastic sound as he turned away from the young boy, reaching out to the nearby table, plucking a butchers knife, already stained red.

“You know…” The General began with a huff; “I don’t ask for much..” Before he reached out, hand snapping around the boy’s wrist like a snake, nearly dragging the poor kid to his side as he pressed the hilt of the knife into the boy’s palm, guiding it to his whims like a living marionette.

“Respect.” The General grunted as he raised both the child’s hand and the knife up, bringing it down upon the corpse before them, Garrett did not need to see the violence to know that the blade dug deep into the body’s stomach.

The boy retched.

The General continued.

“A stiff drink… Gold.” 

The boy was outright sobbing as his hand was forced inside of the body, pressed into the jagged hold cleaved by the knife, pressed into meat and passed bone and through organs until the General finally pulled him free.

And there, sitting in the child’s palm was a bloodied ring.

“And for my men to do what they’re fucking told.” The General sneered as he plucked the ring from the boy’s palm, pocketing it.

Garrett closed his eyes as the Thief-Taker General drew his crossbow and shot the boy dead.

The General left after that, with nothing more than a curt order.

“Put his body in the furnace. And check it for coin!” He laughed to himself; “No point in wasting a bolt!” With that, the General sauntered off, ring in hand, whistling a far-too merry tune, leaving only two morgue workers remaining.

Garrett peered through the grates, watching the General disappear up the stairs before he turned, slipping through the shadowed space below and out from beneath the crematorium gallery. 

Trailing directly after the General would be no easy feat, wherever that mountain of a man went, his watchmen trained, paranoid and afraid of the monster they served. But Garrett was a thief, the direct path was seldom his first choice. Besides, if the General’s break room was locked tight, his actual office was its own fortress.

Or, so the General thought.

Honestly, for a man claiming himself to be The Thief-Taker General, he was piss-poor at defending his valuables from thieves. Case in point, the office door was locked down tighter than a nun’s chastity belt, meanwhile tucked under the desk sat an open vent shaft.

Garrett would have been suspicious had the General not been one to drink his own lies. Thieves were little more than animals, the General claimed, simple-minded creatures who could do no better than scrounge for scraps and take from their betters.

Perhaps that was why Garrett was the General’s favorite… Or most hated thief. Because Garrett was everything the General proclaimed impossible for a thief to be.

Case in point. The safe before him.

A mountain of machinery, moving parts, gears and switches. Intimidating in its construction. Baffling to the common man, incomprehensible to the incapable minds of thieves.

And all Garrett saw before him was a mechanical, and honestly quite simplistic bricklock, the same sort that the Haven used. 

Garrett would gleefully tell Basso about the lock upon his return, and the two would cackle, or, Basso would cackle about it until dawn.

Garrett watched as the mechanized bricklock came together, and once completed, the front panel slid down and out of sight, leaving room for the actual safe portion to rise. Had there been yet another combination guarding the treasures within, Garrett would have admitted that perhaps the Baron had finally made something practical for once, but alas, the safe rose, and exposed the ring Garrett had been hunting.

And just as Garrett plucked the ring from its resting place, from his fingers, a familiar cold, cold ripple crawled up along his arm, past his shoulder, up his neck, into his eye.

Hues of silver and blue bled into his vision, the ring pinched between thumb and index ignited a bright pale burning and beside him, a face, pale, dead, eyes black, infinite, lips pulled back into a smile, teeth, far too many teeth.

“The Primal sang to him.” The dead child whispered; “He could not understand its words, nor could he dance to its tune. But he could hear the psalms of the tides all the same.”

The Leviathan circled Garrett, appearing at his other side, hand already reaching to the ring, which he gently coaxed Garrett to curl his fingers around.

“He went mad with hunger, to listen, to understand. The Baron thought of his madness as wit and bid him to partake in that silly little ritual.” The Leviathan closed his dead hand around Garrett’s around the ring. “When the man-fools began their chanting, Cornelius sang the loudest. It cost him greatly.”

Garrett finally turned to look at the Leviathan at his side, still ethereal, otherworldly, wrong in too many ways to describe.

“Why are you telling me this…” Garrett whispered, his throat felt thick, as though he were choking on seawater.

“Because, thief mine.” The young god crooned as he gave Garrett’s hand a gentle squeeze; “This is the beginning of your hunt.”

With that, whatever figment of the dead child dispersed as the door to the office rattled open. There was a shocked pause as thief and thief-taker caught sight of one another.

The General was the first to move, snarling a dark “You!” as he raised his crossbow, Garrett, despite his mind floundering for reasons and answers, as quick to seize the chair at the nearby desk, using the piece of furniture as a makeshift shield, the bolt sunk deep into the leather and wood, the General spitting vitriol as Garrett tossed the chair to the wayside.

The General made to reach for his blade but Garrett beat him to it, grabbing the larger man’s arm, throwing his weight into the action, Garrett slammed the General’s forearm against the corner of the doorframe, earning himself a pained grunt from the larger man.

To follow up, Garrett struck out with a kick, his heel finding home against the apparatus surrounding the General’s right foot. This time, the man screamed as something popped free, forcing him to tumble to the ground in a heap. Giving Garrett just enough time to slam the office door in the General’s face and wedge the back of the chair beneath the door handle.

It wouldn’t take long for the General to break through, but it would be long enough for Garrett to make his escape.

Chapter Text

Garrett was hesitant to relinquish the ring.

It was the first inkling of a clue to the wordless riddle Garrett had only just discovered, the first step down the blind mystery he was hellbent to see through. The only thing he had to go off to find Erin… 

But he owed Basso much. His extended stay at the Haven had wounded not only their partnership but their friendship, and Basso was a far, far better ally than enemy. 

And if giving up the ring was the first step towards mending what Garrett had broken…

Well, it wasn’t as though Garrett couldn’t just take the ring back, he had done so before. Once a piece was out of Basso’s hands, it was free pickings, if the new owner was careless enough with it that is. The pay was decent at least. Whoever wanted the ring more than the General was prepared to spend the coin for it, and in times of strife, that was a rarity.

The Queen of Beggars was quite pleased to see such a generous donation.

“My beggars told me of your exploit to the Foundry.” She mused softly, her voice ever fragile with age, but alighted with a sort of grim mirth; “A horrible place… Half the dead the guard collects aren’t even passed when they heave them onto their carts.” Her words were accompanied by a young beggar, a woman, waifish and pale, delivering a teapot, hot and steaming.

“I recall when that foundry was just a foundry.” The Queen hummed as her beggar tilted the pop, the tea poured was a deep amber, strong and fragrant. Garrett took the cup offered to him by the beggar, holding it between his palms, basking in the fragile warmth while the Queen stared thoughtless and sightlessly into her own cup before she finally broke her silence.

“Foreign run by some family southward.” She began, bemused; “Said to be the safest place for work in all of the city. Not a single death from the day its doors opened until the owners up and abandoned it.”

Garrett huffed wryly at that; “A joke then isn’t it? That the once safest place in the city now hosts the majority of the dead.” The Queen of Beggars paused to blow steam from the surface of her tea, taking a ginger sip before replying.

“We are in a most vicious cycle Garrett.” She murmured against the rim of her teacup; “Life and death. Growth and decay. Between the two, the only certainty is suffering.”

The Queen lowered her cup, setting it back on the side tabe with steady hands; “Some named family seeks the city for a place to establish themselves. Life.” The old woman continued.

“They build themselves the foundry, for work, for profit. Growth.” With blind certainty, the Queen reached out to her chessboard, idly toying with the King before she pushed it to balance precariously at an angle.

“The family leaves. The Foundry abandoned to whomever may find use for it.” 

The king fell with a tiny wooden clunk, rolling along the stained checkered board until it came to rest at the foot of the enemy queen..

“One day, the foundry will fall, as all things do…” Garrett’s eyes lingered on the chess piece as the Queen’s teacup returned to her hands; “You found something at the Foundry, didn’t you Garrett?” 

“I did.” He replied simply, the old woman nodded, taking another sip of her tea. Garrett knew better than to question how the Queen of Beggars had come to know such things, he had known her for years, and in those years, she had never once let slip her secrets.

“You don’t intend to take part in the child’s communion I take?” The Queen hummed, not in accusation, but in simple fact.

“I do not.” Garrett replied firmly. The old woman sniffed at that, shaking her head in disappointment. 

“You would slight the child’s offer for such pettiness?” The Queen asked quietly, Garrett scoffed, his grip tightening, threatening to shatter the cup between his palms.

“I refuse to become a pawn upon his board.” A weathered hand shot out, faster than Garrett expected her able to as the Queen of Beggars gently, so very gently, took his hand in her own, thumb, paper white, river stone smoothed by time, running along the back of his knuckles.

“You are as much a pawn upon his board as I am a queen.” The old woman told the thief, giving his hand a frail little squeeze.

“I implore you Garrett… Do not squander the child’s boon. You were chosen for this task, not because you are fit for it, but because you are the only person capable.” The old woman said calmly, sure and sincere, her words held weight, weight which settled over Garrett’s shoulders.

“I have told you before… The balance has shifted.” The Queen of Beggars murmured as she peered up at the thief before her, eyes pale as moonlight; “Life and death are merely the beginning and end… Intertwined throughout are growth and decay.”

The old woman leaned closer, voice hardly above the wind which crept through the few remaining cracked and broken glass windows of the cathedral.

“The city is decaying Garrett… And I fear that finally, after so very long, we may all fall to the wayside of history.” She patted his hand once, twice, before releasing him, sitting back in her seat with a tired sigh.

“You may very well be able to save Erin without the aid of the dead child…” The Queen admitted softly, peering over to Garrett with pale eyes that finally matched her age; “But only that child can free her from the prison she has found herself within.”

Garrett grimaced at her words, knowing them to be true. But knowing the truth never made the truth any less bitter.

“Like it or not, you two are tied together in this mess. Unwillingly perhaps, but together all the same.” The Queen of Beggars hummed, her head turning towards one of the many doorless awnings surrounding them. Garrett followed her gaze, seeing and hearing nothing, yet feeling something, the same strange sensation he had back at the foundry…

Eventually, footfalls began approaching, a beggar, the same young woman from before, reappeared, carrying with her a bundle of fabric, upon which sat, nestled in the center of the folds like something precious, another slab of bone which she passed not to the Queen, but to the thief.

“Lady Luck has blinded herself to this city’s plight Garrett.” The Queen of Beggars mused, “And in her absence, another has affixed their gaze solely upon you.” She tilted her head towards the fabrics in the arms of her beggar.

“The very least you could do, if not for the city, then at least for your sister, is listen.”

Garrett sighed, setting his cup of tea back onto the small side table before he reached out to take the beggar's offering. The fabric was smooth to the touch, light, with just the faintest of shimmer to it. 

It could have easily fetched a pretty price on the market, enough at least to feed the whole congregation for a week. And yet they were gifting it to him. 

Garrett made sure to flip a loose corner over the Rune, shielding it from touch.

“You would have done the foundry a kindness to burn it to the ground.” The Queen sighed.

“I think the city has seen more than enough fire for a few lifetimes.” Garrett pointed out bluntly.

The Queen merely smiled; “I most certainly have.” She agreed.

Garrett drank his tea.

Chapter Text

It was some three nights later when Garrett finally put to use the fabrics gifted to him by the Queen of Beggars.

The shrine was nothing to marvel at, hidden away within the already emptied spare, spare, spare storage room of the clocktower, a shoddy cramped space made as an afterthought between the poorly plotted walls of winding stairs.

A prime location for a spiteful thief.

The fabric was strung up around a small crate, a messy array put together with little effort and no forethought. A monument befitting a god who so childishly demanded the thief’s attention.

Despite his reservations, and admitted reluctance to take part in the Leviathan's communion, as the Queen of Beggars put it. In its hasty construction, Garrett did what he could to emulate what he recalled from the Haven’s various texts regarding the worship of the Leviathan.

Of course, the majority of said texts were written with the same clinical emptiness which deprived history of colour and life. But what the texts had lacked in vibrancy, they had at least made up in sheer detail.

If possible, the curtains should all hang from a single given point, the outer-most corner of the fabric strung up and away from the center, in descending order depending on the number of sheets used during construction. 

Below the center hanging point of the curtains should be the offering table where one places their gifts to the Child. Gifts should always be accompanied by bargains of equal value to the offerings.

The space before the offering table should be delegated as the mantle of worship. To pray to the Leviathan is to directly address the Child’s involvement and thank the Child for intervening on your behalf.

Garrett would not see himself utilizing the mantle of worship he had made from a haphazardly placed bare-thread rug, but all other aspects of the shrine he constructed as best he could from his memories.

The fabrics were all strung from a single rafter, the ends nailed into the walls, creating the illusion of billowing winds caught in the moment. The small crate turned offering table was decorated with a single pillowcase, draped over the edges, and finally, on the offering table, Garrett intended to lay the two Runes. One he had found, the other he had been gifted.

He wasn't sure what he was expecting, from all the legends he had read the Leviathan was not known to be the most attentive god, even among those who bore the Child's Mark, accounts of the dead god appearing at alters were few and far between, though Garrett supposed that such events were more personal to the truly devout, and not likely to be shouted from the rooftops.

Still, Garrett was still expecting for his shoddy little shrine to go unnoticed and his summons unanswered. And perhaps had the fates of the lone thief and child god not been forced together, the Leviathan would have gladly ignored the thief's shoddy little shrine, and would have ignored the thief who refused to kneel at it's altar.

Alas, such was not the case. And upon placing the Runes upon the offering table did the Leviathan truly turn its gaze to Garrett.

The world shifted, skewed and twisted. Weightlessness settled in Garrett’s stomach as his clocktower fell apart. Floors, walls, ceiling and stone all racing outward into the vast pale emptiness that had replaced the storm outside.

Garrett stood before his shoddily constructed shrine, the fabric no longer tethered to surrounding walls, but floating freely in the absent wind.

“You kept me waiting.” The infant god nearly pouted just behind Garrett’s shoulder, the thief very nearly flinching at the unannounced arrival of the god.

“I must say, you, thief mine, are a wonderful surprise.” Garrett finally turned to face the Leviathan, finding the child as innocuously imposing as always. Eyes endless, face pulled taught into a crude imitation of a smile.

“Many men. Greater and lesser than yourself would have gladly killed or died to make my acquaintance.” The Leviathan began to slowly circle the thief before it, inspecting, appraising him even. Garrett made a point to remain still and not follow the predator in its dance.

“Yet you… Even after accepting my boon. You refuse me.” The Leviathan finally came to a stop just before Garrett, and when Garrett refused to meet its gaze, the dead child laughed.

Cold hands, clammy and wet like a drowned corpse guided Garrett’s head to tilt, to look up at the god before him, a god who smiled with too many teeth and an unfathomable darkness behind his eyes.

A god who looked down at him, not with malice or disdain… But with pity and penance.

“You spoke with The City.” The young god said knowingly. It took Garrett a moment to figure out what, or who, the child was talking about.

“She is rarely wrong… Though she is also rarely forthcoming with her wisdom.” The Leviathan mused as it released its gentle hold on Garrett’s head, opting to stand… Or hover more accurately, beside him. “In fact, I believe I have never seen her speak quite so plainly.”

The two remained silent for a while, each quiet in their compilation, respective gazes affixed to the humble shrine before them.

“Truthfully.” The Leviathan finally began, words echoing softly, spanning outward across the calm sea of nothing surrounding them. “I never would have chosen you to bear my mark.” The dead god said bluntly.

“You are frightfully dull, thief mine.” The child hummed, out of the corner of his eye Garrett could see the blackened eyes of the god beside him, staring, unblinking as teeth flashed between words spoken through an almost cheeky grin; “All you thieves are. While none of you are quite as bestial as the dear general proclaims you as, you are all creatures of habit.”

The Leviathan turned away then, face hidden from Garrett’s view, the words to follow were solemn; “Let it be known. I chose you not because of your character, nor due to any profound action you have or will take…”  

This time, it was Garrett who turned to face the god, the god who looked every bit the child he should have been… Younger than Garrett, younger than Erin, just a lad. A lad who had never been given the opportunity, the choice to be anything but a god.

And then those damn endless eyes met Garrett’s again, and the thief was bitterly reminded that there was nothing human about the creature before him.

“You are one of the few tethers I have to your world Garrett.” The dead child said quietly; “You and your sister…” Hovering closer, within arms reach of Garrett, head tilted to the side ever so slightly in contemplation.

“I cannot aid you from my domain, not as I am, not as things are, not unless the Primordial Sea is returned to me.” The dead child murmured softly as a cold, cold hand settled against Garrett’s cheek, a thumb brushing over the mangled scars rooted across his face.

“I have given you my mark Garrett…The tools and instruments at your disposal are designed to aid you, my Master Thief…”

That cold, cold hand trailed down Garrett’s cheek, to his shoulder and down to his hand where the Leviathan then intertwined their fingers in the palest facsimile to tenderness Garrett had ever experienced.

“As the City said. I chose you, Garrett the thief.” The dead child whispered. “Not out of malice or spite… But because you are the only one who I could choose.”

Chapter Text

Garrett tilted the dustpan over the railing, watching the plume of filth rain down into the blackened spire of the clocktower.

At the back of his mind, the tucked-away shrine sang whalesong and swaying tides in eerie harmony with the rhythmic turning of gears and the ever-present tick-tick-tock of the clock face.

The clocktower was never quiet, but it was peaceful, in its own cacophonous way. Add in the sound of fire dancing and ignore everything else, then Garrett found himself for once at ease.

A pot sat over the heart of the flames, the water at a steady rolling boil, strips of ancient jerky stained the water brown and vile, but Garrett knew the concoction was edible… Or at the very least, it wouldn’t kill him.

Adding to the meager meal was a stale slab of bread and a palmful of roasted corn cornels so dehydrated that they snapped to dust between the thief’s teeth. While Garrett was no beggar, he also could not afford to be a chooser, so jerky stew and chipped teeth it was.

From his seat beside the fire, Garrett carefully retrieved the pot, setting it aside to cool just enough to not burn on the way down, but warm enough to keep him comfortable for the night to come. 

The fire began to dwindle as the thief sipped gingerly at the mess of over-cooked strips of muscle fiber floating around in too-salty water. The meal was by no means good, or even pleasant, but it was warm and filling so Garrett refused to complain. At the very least, the poor excuse for stew softened the stale bread enough to be palatable.

By the time Garrett was done eating, a guest had arrived at his window.

The familiar ruffling of feathers shedding the rank evening smog announced Guinevere's arrival as she hopped from the windowsill and over to the nearby railing, in her beak she held a matchbox.

Garrett ran his finger over her chest gently in greeting before laying his hand flat, in his palm sat one of his dried kernels, which Guinevere eagerly exchanged for her matchbox. 

The bird busied herself with pecking the kernel to pieces while Garrett flipped the matchbox over.

Basso’s message was brief and to the point, so unlike the man in the flesh.

“Head to Black Alley. Got a client I want you to meet. -B”

Garrett tossed the matchbox into the fire, setting the empty pot into the coals as well before rising. Guinevere watched as the thief got dressed for the night, donning black armor and cloth, tying laces and buckling straps until finally, the familiar visage of The Master Thief stood before her.

Garrett offered the magpie a finger to step onto, which Guinevere obliged with a content little coo as she was brought to the thief’s shoulder.

“I’ll race you to Basso’s.” Garrett offered as he reached the open window. The wing to the face he got in response as Guinevere took flight had the thief grinning the whole way down the clocktower.

That grin soon faded as he reached the Stonemarket Courtyard.

“Beware all Blackhands!” The Stonemarket Magistrate called from his tolling balcony; “From this day forward, any citizen caught thieving will be hanged from the neck until dead!” Red banners lined the parapet, giving more to the illusion of grandeur, but Garrett knew well that the Stonemarket Magistrate was a laughingstock, both among his stately peers and the common folk.

Better testament to the magistrates lack of popularity was the fact that in the courtyard below mingled some five or seven guards, half of them asleep on the clock, the other half doing their best to ignore the bellowing drivel of their superior.

Basso had certainly set up shop at an opportune location, the Crippled Burrik sat just around the corner, unassuming and out of sight, perfectly within earshot of any and all goings on at and around the courtyard. Basso had fingers in every pot and ears at every window, second only to beggars when it came to catching the ever changing winds within the city.

The Boxman called it a gift, and in Garrett’s line of work, he was inclined to agree.

It seemed however that the courtyard wasn’t the only place where sermons were being made that night, unlike the magistrate however, the harrowed man standing atop a stack of long-forgotten timber, warped by rain and winter, had drawn himself quite the crowd of not only on-lookers, but listeners.

“Look around you!” The man yelled with a sweeping motion of his arm; “Look at what’s become of your home! One year ago, we had hope!” Garrett waded around the edge of onlookers, keeping to the back of the fray as he hugged the shadows against the walls

“But now the city’s rotten! With the Gloom! With famine! With the Baron’s empty promises!” The man lamented, vitriol and speckles of spit flying with his words as the crows jeered before him.

“What’s Northcrest given us, eh? An age of industry?” With a heavy metal pipe the harrowed man took a vicious swing at a thick pipe jutting from the wall to his right; “An age of progress at the price of the people?”

Years of rain had not been kind to the metal, rusting it nearly through, the hit from the pipe was more than enough to have the rust giving way and a vicious burst of steam leaping from its confines, up, up into the dark night, followed by the cheers of the crowd below.

“The Baron is holed up with his machines!” The man bellowed, his voice higher than the steam, higher even than the crowd as he pointed his metal pipe like a warrior leading charge into battle, towards the far-away Northcrest Manor, seated high above the rest of the city; “He doesn’t care about flesh and blood!”

A feverous rage swept through the people, fists clenched, held high over heads as people called for the death of the Baron.

“Orion warned us that our friends would be bloodied by the watch!” The man continued, fueled by the fury of the crowd; “He warned us that our families would be dragged off to the Gloom Pits!”

“The Baron stole my husband!” A woman cried from the sea of faces; “Worked him to death he did! For nothing but a measly few coins a fortnight! Not even enough to put food on our table!”

“The watch dragged my daughter to the pits!” A man shouted; “She wasn’t even sick! And they dragged her off for being lame!”

“Those damn pipes poisoned my sister!” A boy, too young, far too young, yelled from somewhere to Garrett’s left; “Shoddily shoved into our walls! A valve burst and my little sister died in her sleep because of the fumes!”

On and on, more and more stories of savagery and despair were cast out into the open, everyone had lost something, everyone had a little pit of bitterness, of loss and longing, of hate nestled in their chests which drew them together.

“Orion sees a city on the brink of death!” The harrowed man roared above the crowd, culling their chatter and chanting with nothing but his own fury and passion as he raised his fist before the mob.

“But the Graven won’t let it die, friends!” 

That finally earned Garrett’s attention.

“Orion won’t let you rot!”

Garrett watched from the back of the crowd, really watched, as the harrowed man, standing atop his podium of winter worn timber laced his message with elegant words, feeding into that furious fire shared among the lowest of peoples.

“Orion understands you! Orion can bring change. If only you would stand beside him!”

The crowd cheered.

Garrett slunk away.

Chapter Text

Black Alley was a short trip from the burrik, in the adjacent neighborhood of Blackfurrow, a newer block in the grand scheme of the city, not that that meant all that much.

At one point, the neighborhood was called Fernnrow, well before the Dark Ages when the city could still support life, specifically, gardens. Apparently it had once been quite a lovely place, boxguardens lining every window, vines growing across every wall available.

Now however, Blackfurrow was a far more fitting name for the dreary stretch of road.

Likewise, Black Alley was a far more fitting name for the meeting point than whatever it had been long ago.

Less of an actual alley, more of an open-secret underground tunnel connecting one end of Blackfurrow to the other, Black Alley was a hotbed for people down on their luck looking for a place to get out of the rain.

It was also often used by drug dealers, skin sellers and the occasional murderer. Hence why it was rare to see any of the Queen’s beggars lingering around, which on any other day would be considered a bad omen.

Why Basso had selected such a place for a client meeting was beyond Garrett. 

So to say Garrett was surprised but just how clean the Black Alley looked upon being ushered through the door by a scarecrow of a man, would be an understatement. 

Never before had Garrett recalled being able to see the stone brickwork of the alley floor, or torches lit along the stretch of tunnel, or people simply milling about, not dealing or doing drugs, or partaking in the vices of flesh.

Although Basso looked awfully tempted by a pretty younger woman idly chatting away with the Boxman. 

Garrett slipped between warm bodies without a word until he reached his Fence and Friend, who of course did not notice him until his lady-friend greeted him with a smile that did not reach her eyes. 

“Roarks Teeth Garrett!” Basso shouted upon finally noticing Garrett, hunching over in his seat to clasp his heart through his jacket, the younger woman looked between the thief and the fence before tentatively reaching out to pat Basso on the back.

“You’re lucky the lovely Miss Claire here has me in a good mood.” The Fence grumbled as he gently patted the back of the young lady’s hand before standing. The young lady, unsurprisingly, blushed a very pretty shade of pink as Basso pressed a deceptively delicate kiss to her knuckles as he bid her farewell.

“Come on then.” The Boxman huffed as he gestured for Garrett to follow, “Someone wants to meet you.”

Garrett offered the girl, because she really was just a girl, a courteous nod as he moved to catch up with Basso, fully aware of her lingering gaze as he made his way to Basso’s side.

“Why me?” Garrett asked his Fence calmly as they rounded a corner.

The Black Alley was most certainly no longer black. It was bright and warm, inviting, filled with whispered conversation and cookfires. The smell of coffee lingered, as did the stench of gruel, but spirits seemed high… Higher than Garrett had seen them in the longest time…

“Oh, your jolly nature? Your engaging conversations? I dunno!” Basso huffed wryly, taking a moment to peer for waiting ears before he leaned closer to Garrett, mumbling a softly spoke; “He’s the guy you stole the ring for.”

That caught the thief’s attention.

“You must’ve impressed him.” Basso carried on, oblivious to the maelstrom of thoughts his words kicked up in the thief’s head as they continued walking.

“Who is he?” Garrett found himself asking, Basso chuckled, looping an arm around the thief’s back to clap Garrett on the shoulder with a broad grin.

“He’s Orion!” The Boxman exclaimed boisterously, “The one guy standing up to the Baron. Sticking up for normal people like you and me… Well, me anyway.” Basso mused as he turned Garrett down a hall leading off of the Black Alley, into what would have been a house's basement. Someone had done some serious renovating out of sight from the City Watch.

“He speaks a lot of sense.” Basso continued as he neared a door; “Fucking rarity in this place!” With that, Basso raised his fist to knock the meat of his palm against the door. In no particular pattern, Garrett made note of the lack of security as an eye-level panel slid open, a stranger peered out at them, and without a word, slid the panel shut once more.

The door opened soon after, announced by a series of clicks and what sounded like a board being slid from across the door.

“He’s down here helping the poor sod’s who’ve come down with the Gloom.” Basso said as he guided Garrett into what was once a basement, now cleared of debris and just as bright and warm as the Black Alley had been; “It’s nice to see someone finally putting their money where their mouth is.” The Boxman sighed appreciatively as he took a moment to look around.

Garrett joined him in that. Looking between the many candles lit at bedsides, the makeshift cots lining the basement walls, the many people, so many people, some bedridden and sickly, but many more running to and fro, coaxing the sick to eat or drink, cleaning those too weak to move…

It was almost heartwarming to see.

“Oh and uh, try not to be, y’know… You.” Basso murmured with equal parts jest and terse, “We need this.” 

Garrett made a show of rolling his eyes, luckily for him, his Fence’s attention was pulled away by the call of his name.

“Basso!” Like bees in a hive, the milling people, ever moving, ever busy, managed to flow around the man as he walked towards them. He was a taller man, a bit taller than Basso, which put him an uncomfortable full head over Garrett.

He wore scavenged clothes, same as everyone else within the temporary hospital, but beneath his scraped together furs and cotton hid more strength than a diet of gruel and stale bread should have allowed.

Despite the discrepancy, he greeted Basso with a firm handshake and smile, clapping the Fence on the shoulder, his eyes crinkling around the edges before widening in surprise upon catching sight of Garrett.

Basso seemed almost showoffish as he boldly presented the thief to the leader of the little hole-in-the-wall hospital. For a moment, it looked as though the man wanted to hug Garrett. Garrett wanted to thank every star in the sky when he refrained, opting instead to delicately fold his hands in front of himself and offer the thief a humble greeting.

“It’s good that you came, Garrett.” Orion said softly.

“You’re paying me, aren’t you?” Garrett replied. Basso looked half a second away from knocking Garrett upside the head, Orion however merely laughed.

“With what little I have, yes.” He replied before a cough, sickly and wet drew his attention to the nearby cot he had been attending to. Garrett watched as Orion took a knee at the frail man’s bedside, aiding the man with turning to his side, holding the sick pot steady as he retched, and finally, wiping away a trickle of bile from the man’s chin once he lay back down.

“Apologies, Master Thief.” The man offered almost sheepishly as he wiped his hands down on a stained rag after he had handed off the sick pot to another worker, “Let us discuss business elsewhere, if only so I am not distracted by the needs of my patients.”

Garrett spared the hospital one last look before he was ushered back towards the Black Alley, before they even reached the door, Garrett found himself uttering; “You’ve bought my attention.”

Basso cocked a surprised brow at him, Orion however seemed thrilled.

“For now, at least.” Garrett backtracked with a huff. Still, Orion’s smile remained as he slowed his pace, allowing Garrett to reluctantly catch up. A firm, large hand settled at Garrett’s back, slightly below his shoulders, equal parts protective and possessive.

“Your attention is all I ask.” Orion replied assuringly before he took half a step forward, the hand at Garrett’s back guiding him along.

“Please.” Orion chimed lightly, “Walk with me.”

There Garrett stood, within the heart of the Haven’s most ancient enemy, a boon of information right at his fingertips. Information the Haven had killed and died for time and time again.

Information that First Keeper Orland would no doubt do anything to acquire.

“The Baron favors progress over pain.” Orion began softly once Garrett obliged his request for a walk through the sanctuary he had constructed beneath the streets.

“Metal and stone over flesh and blood.” The Black Alley had been expanded, not only into the neighboring houses, but to their neighboring houses as well, creating a network of interlocking halls and rooms and-

The hand on Garrett’s back slid slightly lower, fingers splaying out, a finger just curling around his side as some darker emotion crept into Orion’s words; “And look what’s happened.”

Garrett could see the taller man looking down at him out of the corner of his eye, he could not discern the look, but he knew he did not like it. As quickly as he dared, Garrett strode forward, out of Orion’s grasp.

“I don’t get involved in politics.” Was Garrett’s only answer.

“Ah yes.” Orion sighed heavily as he moved ahead of the thief, he hesitated for a moment as he passed Garrett, hand half-raised to slip and settle at Garrett’s back yet again, he aborted the attempt thankfully.

“You pride yourself on being a loner.” Orion instead mused as he guided the thief along with nothing but his voice. They entered another basement, another hospital, filled again to the brim with the sick and dying.

“But do you really think you have no stake in this?” Orion asked as he paused, watching as a man entered from the steps leading up into the house proper, at his side stumbled a woman, hair plastered to her skull, thick with sweat and oil.

“It works for me.” Garrett replied as he watched the two carefully make their way down, the woman all but limp in the man’s arms. A pair of volunteers swarmed the two once they finally reached the bottom, easing the woman off the man’s shoulders with well-practiced ease.

“But for how long?” Orion asked, not callously, if anything sadly, as though he pitied Garrett for believing himself so removed from the rest of the city that the ongoing crisis would not touch him; “This is your city too…”

A foolish assumption. Garrett was, after all, seeking the eye of the storm.

But then… Then it happened.

As the woman, aided by the volunteers, was passing by, Garrett heard something impossible. From the mouth of the sick woman she uttered in the voice of Erin the three words that would forever haunt the thief’s dreams.

“Garrett! Garrett I’m slipping!” 

Garrett’s heart pounded in both his chest and head as he staggered towards the woman, all but ripping one of the two peopling holding her upright away in a desperate bid to see-

A random woman… Sickly pale, with matted blonde hair, blonde, slick with sweat and oil, not soft and dark, cropped short like caged magpie wings. Brown eyes, like timber, not black like ash.

A hand, familiar this time, grabbed Garrett’s shoulder, pulling him away from the woman with a stern sort of roughness. Basso’s face appeared before Garrett, the Fence’s hands on the thief’s shoulders, not shaking, just gripping. Basso’s mouth was moving, but all Garrett could hear was a faint ringing

It took a few times of Basso repeating the same word for Garrett to understand why his friend appeared so anxious.

“Breathe Garrett! Damnit, breathe!”

It took even longer for Garrett to realize why Basso was shouting at him to breathe.

But by the time Garrett managed to choke in a stuttered breath, the pressure in his head erupted into cold numbness as everything went dark.

Chapter Text

Garrett didn’t exactly come to as though waking.

One moment, he was standing, the next, everything went dark, and then, he was staring at the underside of a top cot on a bunk bed. Beside him, he could hear Basso spitting curses and questions to the man currently placing a cool rag across his forehead.

Orion offered a gentle smile upon catching the thief’s bleary gaze.

“Welcome back, Master Thief.” He greeted softly, Basso was quick to usher Orion to the side and take his rightful place at Garrett’s bedside.

“The fuck was that Garrett?” Was the first thing to come out of Basso’s mouth. Garrett tried to reply, but whatever excuse or explanation he could think to offer got caught up at the back of his throat, and instead, he turned his head away to cough.

“A panic attack.” Orion answered in his stead as he offered a cup of something steaming to the thief; “Thankfully, not a symptom of the Gloom, but unfortunately just as common in this age.”

Garrett moved to sit, but Orion paused him by holding the cup of tea over him, reluctantly, Garrett accepted the beverage, rolling onto his side with a rough exhale. 

“Are you alright?” Orion asked calmly as he took a seat at the opposite end of the bed, near the thief’s feet. Garrett pulled his legs closer to his person and away from the man so casually sitting far too close for comfort. Garrett shot Orion a silent glare before swinging his legs off of the cot, hauling himself up to sit as he muttered a quiet; “I’m fine.” Before taking a swig of his tea. It burned pleasantly the whole way down.

Out of the corner of his eye, Garrett saw Orion shift, as though moving to speak. The thief turned to his Fence instead.

"What happened?" Garrett asked quietly to Basso who had lugged over a crate to sit on.

"Why don't you tell me." Basso huffed as he crossed his arms, looking down at his best thief and longtime friend; "One minute you're talking philosophy with Orion, next your going after that poor sick woman and then you drop like a sack of stone."

Garrett looked down into his mug, at his hazy, hardly-there reflection in the tea. Eventually he heaved a sigh and shook his head, Basso pursed his lips thoughtfully before clicking his tongue and turning to Orion.

“What do you need?” The fence not quite demanded, which earned him a almost baleful look from Orion.

"Are you sure your thief is well enough?" The older man asked with a sort of worry that had Garrett's chest tightening in a almost panicky sort of way.

"I'll be fine." Garrett snipped curtly, purposefully shuffling further from the larger man's reach, as though he were expecting some attempt from Orion to lay his hands on him again.

Orion however merely chuckled, shaking his head with a rueful smile; “Always business with you thieves.” He mused, raising his own cup of tea to his lips with a sigh.

“I require a book.” Orion finally admitted as he moved to rest the arm cradling his mug across his lap; “It’s the only one of its kind known to still exist…”

Garrett pursed his lips thoughtfully, such descriptions were commonplace within fairytales, but exceedingly rare in reality. Even the Haven and her vast treasure trove of ancient artifacts, had taken considerable time and effort to make copies of all texts they could…

“I am told it is hidden somewhere within the House of Blossoms.” Orion continued, some shade gathering at his cheeks as he peered into his mug; “That brothel is busy day and night with the rich and famous.” The man’s face hardened as he turned to Garrett again.

“Discretion is key.” Orion said with the most conviction Garrett had seen from the man that night. That is until a far more sheepish expression settled in his eye as he turned to face forward, large hands cupping the no-longer steaming mug in his lap. “I don’t normally hold with stealing, but… In times like these…” Orion confessed quietly.

 Garrett huffed at the statement  peering over to the supposedly pious man; “A man of politics stealing by proxy…” The thief shook his head; “Sounds about right.”

Truthfully, Garrett was not the slightest bit surprised. Corruption ran deep within the city, and Garrett knew his fare share of dirty secrets when it came to the blackhanded dealings of those in power, it wasn’t anything new to see someone with the tiniest shred of power immediately begin to use it to further themselves and leave those they swore to uplift alongside-

“As right as a thief who steals for a good cause.” 

Orion interjected into Garrett’s thought, drawing the thief from his spiral with a wry grin. Garrett hid his bafflement behind the rim of his mug, downing the rest of the tea in a hurry before hastily setting the mug aside.

“I’ll get you your book.” He finally muttered as he rose back to his feet, Orion was quick to join him.

“You will be helping to secure a better future for everyone.” The man swore, his tone holding more promise than his words could.

“I’ll remember that.” Garrett called over his shoulder as he slipped through a curtain doorway, out of Orion’s sight for just long enough to disappear from beneath the man’s nose.  

All the way back to the clocktower, Garrett’s head swam with thoughts. 

He was familiar with the House of Blossoms in name only, he had never stepped foot within the brothel, though he had heard more than his fair share of rumors about the place.

It was said that the prettiest whores in all of the city resided within the halls of the House of Blossoms. That for the right price you could buy a living doll and do anything your heart, or cock, desired. Garrett didn’t put much stock into such hearsay, if only because he had on good account that the Madame running the House would never allow such depravity to befall her Blossoms.

According to Erin, Madam Xiao-Xiao was a force of nature. She ran a tight ship within the House of Blossoms, dealing in both flesh and opium on the surface, and secrets under the table.

Erin never told Garrett much else, her stint within the house was short-lived, but she spoke of her brief co-workers fondly, and admitted at least once to taking a job for the Madam Xaio-Xaio.

Regardless, if the book Orion sought was being held within the brothel’s walls, Garrett doubted his simple connection to Erin would allow him entry alone.

Erin may have disappeared, but all of her old haunts remained.

And if anyone were to know how to sneak into the House of Blossoms, it would be an ex-Blossom.

Chapter Text

 The streets of the South Quarter were far quieter than Stonemarket. The City Watch patrolled far more regularly, and Garrett supposed the homeless rift-raft knew well enough to steer clear. Still, quiet as the street rats were, the people actually residing within the South Quarter had no qualms about voicing their complaints behind closed doors.

And many of them seemed to share similar stories.

“I met a man last night. He asked me what I thought of the Baron.” Someone whispered behind a window, oblivious to the crack running along the frame, allowing the chill of the night to creep in, and his words to spill out.

“What did you tell him?” His wife asked in reply, a touch of nerve clung to her voice. She was right to be afraid, speaking ill of the Baron had been deemed a criminal offence some time ago. It was difficult enough to make ends meet with a partner, Garrett could only assume it’d be near impossible by oneself.

“I told him that I’ve got bigger problems than the Baron.”  The man replied; “Like starving. Like those weeping sores on my back…” There was a pause, punctuated by the woman cooing something too soft for Garrett to catch.

“Then you know what he did?” The man asked, excitement, maybe disbelief bleeding into the edges of his voice; “This man- This stranger… He gave me food-And, and I wasn’t the only one he was showing kindness too.”

“I’ve been hearing rumors all week.” The wife interjected; “I thought them too good to be true, but this… His name, did he give you his name?”

“They call him Orion.”

Over and over, spoken with reverence, whispered with adoration, people all across the city, from Stonemarket to the South Quarter, every window, every corner, the name Orion was heard. 

Of course such hushed conversations would draw the suspicion of the watch, and while there was no true law dictating conversations on street corners were illegal, some too-cocky watchman decided to get his rocks off by harassing some poor sod.

“You! On your knees!” The watchman barked just as Garrett slunk into South Quarter from a desolate side alley. The guard, distracted by his target, was pitifully easy to slip around.

“Why?” The target asked before the guard reached him, a brief struggle ensued as the watchman grabbed the man by the shoulder and all but forced him to his knees; “What did I do!”

“Shut it bleater!” The watchman bellowed down at the man, giving his shoulder an extra shove for good measure; “Only Graven noosebait talk back to the watch. And you’re not Graven, are you?”

“No sir!” The man exclaimed quickly, panic seeping into his voice as he looked up at the watchmen before him, nearly pleading; “I’m a Northcrest man! Have been my whole life!”

The watchman loomed over the kneeling bleater, making a show of having a good long think at the other man’s expense before his nose crinkled in disgust.

“What’s that smell?” The watchman asked through a sneer as he took a whiff, back off a pace to fan a hand over his nose with a repulsed chuckle; “You’ve pissed yourself! Haven’t you!” The watchman cackled as heat gathered at the bleater’s cheeks, shame weighed on his shoulders and by the end, all he could muster was a stammered plea.

“Please… I didn’t do anything…”

“I’m watching you, bleater.” The watchman replied curtly before he spat a wad of phlegm between the two of them; “Now get out of here before I lock you up for loitering.”

The bleater didn’t need to be told twice, scrambling to his feet, he scurried off down the lane, the Watchman watched him run for a few moments before turning away to resume his post.

No sooner had the bleater disappeared did a patrolling duo wander into the courtyard.

“Docks are dead.” The older of the two commented in lieu of a proper greeting; “Not a boat in or out since the Baron declared lockdown.” He muttered as he slipped a flask from his breast pocket.

“They even shut down that carnival.” The younger watchman huffed as he moved to lean against a nearby crate.

“Shame” The first watchman mused without turning to face his younger colleague; “Captain Durham always said you should join it.” The older watchman choked on a surprised laugh and ended up spitting his whiskey across his boots, his partner merely scowled at the first watchman.

“Dandy Durham’s rotting under sackcloth and lye in a gloom pit. Who’s the sideshow now?” By then, the older watchman had recovered enough to cuff his subordinate across the back of his helmet, drawing a wince from the younger man.

“Captain Durham was a good man.” The older gentleman snapped gruffly; “Gloom takes no prisoners lad. Don’t let me hear you making a mockery of dead men again, you understand?” The young man saluted, offering his superior a firm; ‘Yes’sir!’

The two carried on, leaving the lone watchman to stand guard, and Garrett to slip past unnoticed.

The South Quarter wasn’t an unfamiliar corner of the city. It was once the home of merchants and tradesmen, folks who had managed to find themselves some form of footing and live, not comfortably, but live.

That was well before the riots however. Now, the only families to remain were those who could no longer escape. Well off by city means was still piss-poor by any other comparison.

Regardless, the people of Southquarter still had more than enough coin to toss to thieves from time to time, typically for petty reasons, ‘Lady Froarkins stole my engagement ring’ ‘Lord Trimbrun nicked my lucky cufflinks’

More commonly however, the money exchanged in Southquarter was dipped in blood.

It was little surprise that Erin had found her new home within Southquarter…

The old mill along Riverside hadn’t seen use since the fields had flooded some years ago, and with the river so choked full of bodies, even if there was grain to be milled, there was no water to turn the mill wheel.

The building was stout and stone, abandoned, forgotten. The sole surviving structure of a ravenous fire which had swept through Southquarter after a particularly violent riot.

Garrett had poked around the old mill before the failed heist at Northcrest Manor, it was a meager abode, nothing all that fancy, but it was enough for Erin at the time, and with the standing invitation to return to the clocktower, Garrett’s worry lessened.

Garrett doubted his sister would be at the mill, and he didn’t dare get his hopes up… But at the very least, he figured that Erin would have left… Something.

…Anything…

Garrett carried on. Weaving through the streets with practiced ease, dodging the guard and homeless alike. The former, unsurprisingly, more common than the latter.

Despite the carnival being closed, Riverside was crawling with the watch, stalking the streets, slavering like dogs, snapping at the heels of whatever stray homeless they stumbled across. Garrett took care to avoid them.

Prime examples being the two surly watchmen who had spent the past five minutes kicking out a fire just to ruin some urchin’s night.  

“I don’t like the way the commons flinch when you look at ‘em.” One of the watchmen muttered as he dragged his heel over a softly glowing coal, the ember spat and hissed at him weakly, like a dying animal before finally sputtering out for good. 

“You going soft?” His companion jeered crassly as he delivered a swift and final kick to the cage which had been holding the fire aloft.

“No.” The first man snorted as he turned to glower at the darkened alley where the urchin had scampered off to. “No, they don’t flinch enough.” He scowled, drawing a strangled sound from his co-worker as he threw his head back and laughed.

“Sets a bad- ah, what do you call it? A bad… Ah, bad omen.” The first watchman said as he turned away from the mess they had made to resume their patrol. 

“I’ll take your word for it.” The second man scoffed. 

The two watchmen carried on down the lane, and Garrett decided that the thieves highway was more than likely the safer route. 

Which only proved to be marginally true.

At the very least, the vantage point afforded Garrett some degree of separation from the would-be dangers of the street, but it also offered him an uncanny view of the City-Watch’s brutality. 

“Please! Please I- I’ll have the money!”

Case in point, occurring just below him was a very typical shake-down, some well-to-do commoner from a merchant family by the state of his better-than-rags clothing, was being pressed to the railing overlooking the river.

Garrett was well aware that, just as the General had his Black-Tax, the city watch also had their own little green-palm scheme. The better-off families, or anyone who could afford the cost, could pay the watch to actually do their jobs and watch, or turn a blind eye to the more illicit activities one may or may not be so inclined to commit.

“And I said yous gotta pay up!” 

There were of course catches when it came to paying off the guard. The city watch had a nasty habit of jaking prices, and an even worse habit of never taking ‘no’ for an answer.

It wasn’t uncommon for a customer to grow dissatisfied with the watch’s more ‘personalized’ services, nor was it rare for the guard to jack up their prices to unaffordable amounts. A customer dropping out of said services however was unheard of.

The man’s screams were cut off by a slick shcurrp as he was thrown head-first into the riverbed below, whatever water flowed through the canal was hidden beneath a thick slurry of congealed blood and meat.

Sounds of struggle echoed from below, accompanied by muffled screaming as the other guard moved to peer over the railing with a scowl; “What’d you go an’ do that for?” He asked snidely; “He can’t pay us if he’s dead!”

“Relax.” The first guard huffed as he turned to lean against the railing, the sounds of struggle steadily grew weaker, more sporadic; “He wasn’t any good fer it anyways. I just didn’t want ‘im to top ‘imself before I ‘ad the chance to rough ‘im up one last time.”

The second guard scoffed, readjusted his hold on his crossbow, took aim and fired.

“Waste of a bolt that…” The first guard muttered, the second guard rolled his eyes; “And you’re a waste of the uniform.” With that, the second guard stalked off, leaving the first to admire his grim handiwork. 

Garrett made a point to not look down into the river as he crossed a narrow gap bridged by scaffolding. The stench was bad enough, but the sight of the bloated bloodied corpses below could challenge the thief’s iron stomach.

Luckily, the rest of the way to Erin’s haunt allowed Garrett to stray from the river, and while the smell still lingered, it wasn’t quite so pungent. Unluckily, the roadside entrance to the mill where the workers would have entered, was sealed off by charred timber and other bits of debris from the fire, leaving only the wheel maintenance door around back.

Knowing Erin, her little abode was armed to the teeth with traps for the unsuspecting snoop, and Garrett wasn’t about to end up a living pin-cushion by cracking open a rigged window.

Sadly, the wooden dock fashioned around the mill wheel was long gone, either buried beneath the slurry of viscera floating around what remained of the wheel, or halfway to the sea. Regardless, it meant that Garrett found himself precariously scrambling along the cobblestone exterior of the mill to get to the back door, unless he fancied wading waist deep through the dead.

It was no easy feat…

Especially considering that Garrett could tell that he was the first to take such a tedious path in a long, long time…

Chapter Text

As promised by the exterior, the mill lay abandoned.

The old wheel, or what remained of it, some metal cogs and rotted strips of wood, hung limply above the fetted river, just out of reach of the dead floating below. Dust hung heavy in the air, the courtyard a thick mess of ash logged mud and charcoal.

The inner yard seemed normal enough, to any wayward snoop that is. Old crates and pallets lay strewn about, ropes and chains hung from the exposed gutters, windows and doors boarded up, in all, the mill looked as though her workers had fled in the middle of a typical day.

Erin had done well to make the place seem uninhabited to any onlooker stumbling by.

But Garrett knew better.

Across the courtyard, pressed between the wheel and the mill lay a small galley, used for maintenance back during the mill’s glory days, now carefully filled with crates to appear too cumbersome to cross, and on the other side, an entrance to the gearhouse.

The metal cogs shifted tiredly with the lazy tumbling of the wheel outside, the wind doing what little it could to coax the wheel, futily, to move. It was familiar, the clocktower had a constant whirring humm of turning gears and the ever-present tick, tick-tock of the clock.

More than once, Garrett wondered if Erin chose the old mill as her base of operations solely because it was a close facsimile to the clocktower…

It certainly didn’t feel like the clocktower however.

In the clocktower, Garrett had every creaky plank of wood memorized, every loose board. Garrett was near positive that Erin likewise knew her mill’s odds and ends by heart, he on the other hand certainly did not. Try as he could, Garrett could not avoid setting foot on a particularly whiny plank from time to time.

At the very least, he managed to navigate the plethora of traps his sister has fashioned around the place. Tripwhires strung up to percariously balanced pallets, designed to fall onto the unaware, a pressure panel set to tip a section of the upper floor off angle to cause whoever did not tread lightly to tumble back to the ground floor.

Erin had shown him many of her traps, all well placed, all well hidden to the average onlooker, all Garrett carefully avoided.

The only trap Garrett willingly triggered was one meant to be triggered. 

Erin had always been clever, remarkably so. When she was laying her traps, she knew exactly what she was doing to either frighten off interlopers, hurt them badly enough to force them to retreat, or bore them to tears and have them leave on their own.

The way to the heart of Erin’s hideout was through a trap itself. What used to be the sheut to drop sacks of freshly milled grain down into the packing garage became a pitfall trap leading to a large dilapidated room filled to the brim with nothing but horseless wagons and broken parts all stacked haphazardly together.

The idea was that by the time anyone stupid enough to keep exploring reached the drop, they would be too battered to want to continue going, and with no way back up, the only way to go was through the maze of junk and rubble, and Erin had not made the maze any walk in the mart.

Garrett had gotten lost trying to find his way out during one of his visits, and honestly, he would not be surprised if there was at least one dead body in his sister’s basement…

Regardless, the common rift-raft would wander through the maze on foot, Garrett however knew the trick to his sister’s maze. A seasoned thief would climb their way along the top, following the rafters to reach another gap in the floor above, hidden by loose boards, near invisible to the naked eye.

Garrett knew where to go, what to do. He was not worried about braving Erin’s hideout, he had done so enough times before to have  confidence.

But when he dropped down into the maze… 

It was just like when he held Cornelius’ ring, or gazed upon that pale flower. His vision erupted into pure silver-stained light. Instead of landing on solid ground it felt as though he had fallen into a frozen lake.

Somehow, despite there being no floor beneath his feet, Garrett managed to curl in on himself, tucking his head between his knees, pressing the meat of his thumbs against his eyes as his head swam beneath the mounting pressure.

And then, in an instant. 

It was still cold, very cold, but Garrett could feel the floor against his side… Slowly the thief unfurled from his position, setting his palms against the ground as he maneuvered himself back to his feet. 

What greeted him was not Erin’s maze.

Far from it…

It was still a maze, that was without question. But instead of teetering piles of wood and metal scrap, all around him were smooth stone walls, spanning high, high into the darkness above. Embossed at every corner were vines, or maybe roots, spanning from the floor, disappearing into the same dark as the walls.

Everything seemed to breathe that damn shade of silver blue, the vines dripped with it, the walls hummed its tune, even Garrett’s own hands seemed drenched in the light.

It wasn’t exactly like the Primordial Sea… But it was close…

Damn close.

Then, a noise, a pearl of laughter, familiar.

Garrett turnerd quickly, too quickly, the world swam before his eyes but still, he could see her, perched atop a beam above, bathed in light, staring down at him with that same, smug little grin she always wore whenever she proved him wrong…

Erin’s eyes were bright, bright blue.

“You’ve been here before, haven’t you?”

Her voice was wind through rafters, the echo of a distant storm and a hummed lullaby all at once. Not quite as etherial as the Leviathan’s, but certainly no longer human.

He couldn’t quite believe what… Who he was seeing, staring at her visage burned his eyes and made something at the back of his head churn but he couldn’t bring himself to tear his eyes away. He staggered forward, nearly tripping over the roots spreawling across the floor.

All too soon, she turned and darted away, running like morning mist on the breeze, across the thick wooden rafter that spanned the entire clocktower.

He called her name, his words not quite reaching his own ears as he took after her. Where she was swift as song, he felt as though he were running underwater.

“What’s the matter, Garrett?” She called, words overlapping tenfold, hundredfold, each variation a different tone, happy, sad, frustrated, excited, all things Erin had been and would be; “Did I finally get the drop on you?”

Garrett carried on, between him and his sister lay a tangled bramble, he took the long way, face tilted up towards that empty darkness above, desperate for a glimpse of his sister.

“Is it really you?” He heard himself calling as he finally rounded the corner, she peered down at him from her perch, crouched atop the jutting beam of a rooftop, eyes too bright, too blue, too silver; “Are you really here? Are you really alive?”

She cocked her head to the side, and it was then that Garrett realized that she did not need her mouth to speak.

“Maybe this is where the dead wait when they’ve got nowhere else to go.” She crooned into his head as her mouth pulled itself into a ghastly expression, a smile, one that did not reach her eyes but instead showed her teeth, a mocking smile, a spiteful little grin.

“And now you’re here…” She almost whispered, almost giggled.

“Are you dead, Garrett?”

Chapter Text

“Follow me to the truth.”

Garrett had been forced to grow up quickly, too quickly. His childhood had begun when Artemus had taken him, but by then he had already grown out of many childish things.

He did not run to Artemus to hide within his robes as he had seen children do their mother’s skirts. He did not whinge and whine about eating his vegetables, he did not do all he could to shirk his schoolwork.

When Erin first arrived, she had been much the same. 

Attached at the hip they may have been, but games they never played. 

They had both seen and lived through too much to be children, but they were not old enough to be anything but.

And yet there they were, together, apart, playing the most fucked up game of cat and mouse. Erin above, guiding Garrett along, always out of reach, rarely out of sight crooning horrible truths and bitterness to her brother as he ran in blind circles through her maze.

“I read your legend.” Erin whispered quietly into the darkness above, into Garrett’s head; “I wanted that… That purpose, that promise. I wanted to be you.”

She walked across a narrow strip of pipe, one foor infront of the other, without a care in the world while Garrett struggled not to trip over the cloying vines beneath his feet.

“We were so alike. I thought, maybe, we could share your story…” The pipe became a crumbling brick wall, the stones shifting beneath her feet.

“I never should have tried… The world already has a Garrett.”

“We read those legends together.” Garrett called as he gradually fell behind; “I never wanted the purpose. I was happy to share the burden with you.”

Erin’s figure paused at that, atop her crumbling pillar, Garrett struggled some few more paces towards her.

“Please- just, just tell me what I need to do to fix this.” Garrett pleaded as he reached out to the cobble wall, the roots at his feet tangled around his laces and suddenly, Garrett was once again a boy, running through the halls with undone shoes.

The world shifted then, starting from Erin, rippling outward, the stone beneath Garrett’s hand melting away until he found himself standing in the middle of a room from the mill, Erin’s room, choked blue and silver, vines bursting through the walls, roots tearing apart the floor, pale flowers, poppies not quite in bloom stared up at Erin, sat atop a beam of wood above, watching.

“I want you to steal a key to the truth.” Erin hummed from her seat, one leg crossed over the other, elbow resting on thigh, chin resting on knuckles.

“After I left home, before I became Erin, your Erin…”

“I don’t know what you mean.” Garrett confessed. Erin had not spoken a word about her time on the streets, not to himself, not to Artemus, he had long since believed that she had willingly forgotten as he had.

“You will.” Erin promised; “I’ll tell you when you’re close, but you have to find it yourself. Those are the rules.” Garrett stared up at his sister for a moment longer before finally turning away to give the strange place a proper look.

To his right was Erin’s bed, still unmade, the sheets a mess, pillows strewn about, it used to drive Artemus mad, but Garrett knew his sister’s madness had methods. Beyond the bed were a set of desks, lifted clean off the floor by the jutting roots erupting from beneath it.

Between the desks however was an oddity among the other impossible oddities.

A drawing, charcoal, bold blackened lines smudged to form soft shadows by delicate hands. Himself, peering down at a scroll, his Haven robe unmistakable. He moved to peer closer and in an instand, the paper disappeared, leaving the image of himself suspended in air for but a brief moment before the black dust fell to the floor at his feet.

“You’re close.” Erin chimed from above, her voice a sort of song, a sort of sarcasm.

It did not take Garrett long to find the next clue. Another picture, himself again, caught in the act of donning his attire, his focus on the lacing of his gloves, head bowed in concentration, in prayer. 

“A little further.” Erin almost chided as once again, the paper ceased to exist, leaving only a blackened pile of ash to remain.

The final portrait was one that Garrett recognised. A portrait, hood pulled over his head, expression sharp, neutral, Erin had told him not to bother smiling while he sat for her, she didn’t know how long it would take.

It was a fond memory, of them just sitting, together, quiet, comfortable in nothing but eachother’s company. And yet…

And yet…

He had sat for the portrait well before Erin had struck out on her own. 

Erin had finished the portrait well before the failed heist at Northcrest Manor…

So why did his portrait’s right eye share his current eye’s affliction.

Erin would have killed him if he dared touch her work. She loved her art, but she never passed on the opportunity to badmouth charcoal. How it stained her fingers black, how it was a pain to work with, how it was such an unforgiving medium.

The near blood-curdling howl Erin let loose as Garrett pressed his grubby little fingers against the eye of his portrait assured him that should he survive whatever storm was on his way, his sister would be the one to finally put him in the grave.

At the very least, he had escaped such a fate at the moment, as the strange blue-stained silver light retreated from every board and stone, the twisting vines and roots melting away like morning frost, leaving Garrett standing alone within Erin’s room… 

No Erin in sight.

Garrett may have choked on a sob, or on the newly created cloud of dust surrouding him, either way, he took to his knee, coughing harshly as he reoriented himself.

He was alone. He was in Erin’s hideout. He was alive.

Erin’s bed was still a mess, but her desks were where they belonged, solidly on the floor, papers strewn about them, quills and ink and that damn twig of charcoal. And on the wall beside the desk, that portrait.

No longer impossible. 

Garrett stared at himself, his rendition was finely done, his charcoal self was even smiling ever so slightly, Erin had made him smile once during the whole sitting, just so she could map out where his lips and cheeks creased.

His eyes were the same dark unber they had always been, his face unmarred by that night.

Erin had done a damn good job of hiding the smallest of pressure plates just behind his portrait’s eye, ironically enough, his portrait’s right eye…

Garrett used the dull handle of his lockpick to press the plate, hearing some hidden mechanism whirr to life and just beside the desk, a hidden door popped open.

A well hidden spot, fit for a fine treasure, but all Garrett found within was a strange medallion of sorts, a five edged shape hosting a rounded center, four jutting groves spiraling towards the middle. And from each point of the base, along the groves, sat Glyphs.

Keeper Glyphs…

The medalion was old, that went without say… But just what it was designed for, or more importantly, why Erin had it, Garrett could not even begin to guess.

Still, he pocketed it. If it was important, he would find its purpose, and if it wasn’t, he was sure Erin would be glad to see it returned.

He gave his sister’s home one last look over, finding nothing but dust…

Erin wasn’t there, hadn’t been there in quite some time, and evidently, wherever she was, she had taken her secrets with her.

Garrett would be hunting for the House of Bloosums the old fasioned way.