Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

1. When in the beginning only the empty Void stretched beyond sight and beyond thought, the Void was silent and cold. In its stillness, there existed no beginning and no end. 
2. From beyond the Void came the Flame, born of another realm and another plane, a force that had existed before all things.  

- Scriptures of the Risen, Book of Shaping

*****

"I called in the updated prescription to your pharmacy," Dr. Margrace says. "And I really think you should tell your brother."

Joshua looks at the pamphlets in his hands and tries to determine which one he wants to read the least. All of them, he decides, and stuffs them into his bag. Then he takes one back out, the one that lists the rare but possibly dangerous side effects of the new medication that he needs to watch for. He should probably read that one, and today. Looking at it makes him tired, though, on top of the tired he's already feeling, so he folds it and slots it more carefully out of sight, next to his laptop.

"Is that your professional medical opinion as a pulmonologist, Doc?" Joshua asks. His voice is still a little hoarse. His chest feels tight, too, but then, it often does.

He pulls on his coat, checking the exam table and the chair to make sure he hasn't left anything behind. Once, Joshua dropped his keys in this exact office and didn't realize it until he was standing in front of his building at night. He had to call Clive for help, and because Clive was at the firehouse at the time, he sent Gav instead, who cheerfully picked the lock to let Joshua into his own flat. It was literal months before his brother let him live it down.

"Insomuch as I'm invested in your health and not just the state of your lungs," the doctor is saying as Joshua pats his pockets to make sure he has everything this time, "yes, it is my professional opinion."

"You've known me for fifteen years," Joshua says, smiling wryly. "I would have thought you'd be glad Clive doesn't come with me to my appointments anymore, demanding to be told everything."

Dr. Margrace crosses his arms across his chest, making the front of his lab coat wrinkle. "Things have changed since you were a child, Joshua."

It's true. The test results in his file say that things have changed by six to nine percent.

"My brother hasn't," Joshua says. "He'd just make a fuss."

"We both know he'd want to know about this. Having the support of your family can—"

"I will tell him," Joshua interrupts, a little too sharply, and smiles at the doctor again in apology, "when I get the chance." He glances at the analog clock hanging on the wall above the exam table. Its second hand is ticking audibly, a regular beat, as his appointment winds down. "Unfortunately, my brother's busy today."

---

His brother is not busy today. Today is Clive's first day off after a forty-eight hour shift, so he's probably still sleeping, and when he wakes he will spend the rest of the day at home imitating a zombie until he inevitably gets bored and wanders to Joshua's place.

Joshua knows this, because of course he knows Clive's shift schedule, if for no other reason than to keep track of who's responsible for Torgal on any given day. Also, it behooves him to know who is on duty at the firehouse, as he's friends with Clive's squad and half of the other people there—or, well, he's a professional acquaintance of theirs, at least, and they're good enough to tell him about newsworthy incidents when he asks. This means that he needs to know whom to ask on any given day, as people are always more willing to give him information if he shows that he takes their busy schedules seriously.

Anyway. Clive is off-duty today.

There is, of course, a possibility that Clive is busy with something not related to work on his day off, but it's also possible that all of Twinside will break free from the earth and float up to the sky. When Clive's not at the firehouse, he spends every spare moment he has at the auto repair shop where he works part-time, which barely leaves him enough time to go home to eat and sleep.

Joshua is at the pharmacy when he receives the text. It's earlier than he was expecting, as Clive must have gotten home and fallen into bed only a handful of hours ago.

Clive [12:10 PM]
how were the tests?

Joshua [12:10 PM]
Good morning, brother

Clive [12:11 PM]
it's past noon already
how did it go

Joshua [12:11 PM]
You're so grumpy when you've just woken up 🥱
Why are you awake so early?

Clive [12:11 PM]
why are you avoiding my question

Joshua [12:11 PM]
I'm not, calm down
The results were fine 💪🙂

A thread of guilt crawls up Joshua's throat at the lie—nine percent—and makes him cough into his elbow. Alternatively, that's just his dilapidated lungs reminding him of why he's standing in line at a pharmacy. But the sudden motion makes him drop his phone, and trying to catch it as it falls makes him drop his bag, from which his keys fall out.

I am not getting locked out again, Joshua thinks in exasperation, eyeing the keys and his bag and his phone on the ground. It's embarrassing to feel like bending over is too much work, but bending over puts pressure on his lungs and often triggers his cough, and he's out of sight of his brother and Jill and his doctor, and he's tired, so he gives himself a few long seconds to stare at his belongings in betrayal and try to scrounge up the energy to pick them up.

This is, unfortunately, enough time for the man in front of him in the line to say, "Here, let me get that," and then Joshua is staring in mortification as someone gathers his things from the floor for him and kindly holds them out like he's an invalid.

The man is nearly as tall as Joshua and blonde-haired, with a perfectly symmetrical face that looks oddly familiar. The part of Joshua's mind that's always picking out details in case they turn out to be important to a story catalogues a high-quality but worn winter coat, an elegant scarf twisted casually around his neck, a tiny earring in the shape of a dagger dangling from one ear, and a gentle smile.

"Thanks, that's very nice of you," Joshua says as casually as he can manage over his embarrassment, trying not to sound like he's still working on catching his breath. He takes the phone and keys, plunging them into his pockets, and then his bag.

"Are you all right?" the stranger says. He's got one hand out, as if to make sure Joshua isn't about to keel over.

Joshua waves a hand dismissively. "Just getting over a cold," he says, which is not technically untrue, though he was cleared to return to work just earlier today.

He can't help staring at the man, who looks so familiar. Perhaps he's a celebrity, a movie star or something—and as soon as Joshua has the thought, he recognizes the face before him.

"Oh my god—you—Dion?" he says incredulously.

Dion Lesage's brow smooths, and his expression becomes pleasantly neutral, a look Joshua recognizes from photos and interviews. He starts to say something, and then his head cocks to the side, like he's just realized, too, and he drops the PR face. "It can't be—not Joshua Rosfield?"

"I can't believe it!" Joshua says, delighted, and throws his arms around the other man. He hasn't seen Dion since they were children.

...Not even, he remembers awkwardly while already embracing his childhood friend, at their parents' wedding fourteen years ago, which Joshua and Clive did not attend. Belatedly, he realizes he has no idea what Dion—who is, he supposes with an odd jolt of realization, their stepbrother—thinks about the fact that Anabella Rosfield's sons were absent from her wedding to Sylvestre Lesage. There must have been some story to explain it, some explanation Dion has been given. Joshua does not imagine it was flattering to them.

But if Dion bears them any ill will, he doesn't show it. Instead, he only makes a noise of surprise as he catches Joshua and then laughs. Full-grown now, no longer in the middle of puberty, Dion has a musical laugh, a voice that would not be out of place in a cartoon prince. "Goodness," Dion says when he pulls back, and smiles again, warmer this time with recognition.

"It’s been so long!" Joshua says, trying to remember the last time he’d seen Dion in person and not as the thumbnail of an article online.

It was at least fifteen years ago. That was when Clive moved Joshua away from Rosaria, and they certainly have not run in the old circles that were considered becoming of a Rosfield since then. Joshua doesn't miss much about the social engagements they had to participate in back then, but he does have fond memories of finding Dion at those gatherings and sneaking off with him to talk about anything that wasn't their stuffy old parents.

The queue ahead of them twitches, and they both take one step forward. Joshua puts his hands in his pockets as though he didn't just hug a near-stranger in the middle of a pharmacy like a complete nutter. What is the etiquette here? Do they ignore the fact that their parents are married, that one of them has been somewhat disowned and the other—presumably—has not? Do they acknowledge that they're stepbrothers? Do they pretend nothing's wrong because anything else would be embarrassing to their parents?

"Ten years, at least! You look...well," Dion says after looking Joshua up and down.

It's hard to know what the little hesitation means. Joshua grew up tall, even a touch taller than Clive, but while his brother is built like someone who hacks his way in and out of buildings with an axe and carries people through fire for a living, Joshua looks like a sapling that's one bad storm away from being uprooted. He's exhausted, and he's had to call out sick from work for the last couple of weeks, so he hasn't taken any care to hide it.

Everything is relative, though. The last time Joshua saw Dion—at thirteen years of age, give or take—he was two days out from being in the hospital for yet another bout of pneumonia and was on the verge of passing out the entire night.

"I didn't know you were in Twinside," Dion is saying.

"Yeah, we've been here since I was thirteen," Joshua says. There's a curious flicker in Dion's eyes. He wasn't told, then, where the Rosfield boys disappeared to, and the Rosfields and Lesages are both so stiff and formal that, apparently, he's too polite to ask even now. "But I thought you lived in Oriflamme? Or am I that far out of the loop?"

"No, we just moved here about a month ago for work. We're a mess—we're still in a temporary home, barely know our way around yet, and we had to move in the middle of the school year, which was a nightmare—"

Joshua feels his eyebrows rise. We, Dion said, and the school year. "Are you..." he starts, and then, "School year? Do you have a..."

Dion has a faint dimple on one cheek that shows when he smiles. "A daughter," he says. "Kihel. She's why I'm here." He gestures to the line in front of them. "Ear infection."

They're about the same age; Dion must be around twenty-eight, too. It's disorienting to look at this professional-looking man and realize that he's the same person as the thoughtful preteen Joshua knew half a lifetime ago. "Wow," Joshua says, and then, belatedly, "Congratulations! I didn't...realize," he adds, feeling awkward again at the reminder that he probably would have known if he and Clive weren't estranged from their family.

"Yes, thank you," Dion says, looking very pleased. "But you—a children's writer now! My daughter loves The Djinn and the Firebird."

"She does?" The Djinn and the Firebird is not not a success, in the sense that it has sold enough copies to overcome the cost of publishing, but while Joshua still receives royalty checks from sales of the book, they're only about enough to cover a cup of coffee most months. He's surprised that Dion has even heard of it. "That was just a story I wrote for a literature class in college. I haven't tried my hand at writing fiction again since then."

"Well, she's been thoroughly enjoying reading the—" Dion cuts himself off, pulling out his phone as it buzzes. "Damn." He glances at his watch.

"Everything all right?" Joshua asks.

"The elementary school's heat went out. They're closing early." He looks at his watch again. "She'll be home in less than an hour, and no one's there."

"Is anyone..." Joshua starts, trying not to sound like he's interrogating the man. "Is your, er..."

"My husband was supposed to be there by the time she got home," Dion says before he has to ask or guess. "He's a paramedic, and he was working an overtime shift until noon, but he got called out to the university just now and is stuck wrapping up there. I'm going to have to run."

In the background, Joshua's brain is trying to pick out the outlines of a story, even though he barely has any facts: child star Dion Lesage, standing in a pharmacy like a plebian. Joshua imagines Dion standing on a film set in downtown Twinside, grown and handsome and an experienced actor now. He imagines Dion quitting acting to focus on his daughter and husband. He imagines Dion standing next to their parents, or standing apart from them, or walking away from them. He can think of any number of reasons Dion might be here.

There are questions Joshua should ask in the spirit of being interested in his old friend's life, like when the hell he got married, what his husband's name is, how old his daughter is if she's already in elementary school, and what kind of work brought Dion to Twinside. Instead, what comes out is, "There was an incident at the university? Valisthea?"

"No, Kanver Tech, just now, I think," Dion says, distracted. The line moves forward again, and this time Dion has reached the counter. "Excuse me, Joshua, I have to—"

"Of course," Joshua says, waving him off, already plotting the route to Kanver in his head. "It was good to see you."

"We should catch up sometime," Dion says when the pharmacist is ringing him up. "I really have to run now, but..."

"Here, my number," Joshua says, handing over his business card. "Text me. I can tell you what's good around town."

"Sounds brilliant," Dion says, taking the card with his trademark bright smile. "I'll see you around."

---

Joshua [12:28 PM]
Anyone get sent out to Kanver Tech?

Jill [12:30 PM]
I don't think so
For what?

Joshua [12:30 PM]
Nvmd I'm not too far
Tell Ninetales I'm on it

Jill [12:30 PM]
What happened at Kanver?
Aren't you sick? What are you doing?

Jill [12:35 PM]
Joshua

---

It's not hard to find the center of the incident when Joshua makes it to Kanver Institute of Technology's small campus. One of his contacts from Fire Station 16 tells him that they sent out a truck, with one ambulance following behind. That isn't unusual, and it doesn't mean anything was burning; it's common for Fire to send out a company to provide first aid before EMS can arrive or to assist them once they do.

So, while both bus and truck are still there by the time Joshua arrives on campus, out of breath from the walk from the subway, he's not expecting the lingering smell of smoke that makes him halt in his tracks.

It's a strange thing; it's a little embarrassing. He's been to the firehouse where Clive works many times, and, in deference to the great number of contacts he's accumulated among first responders, Joshua is often sent to cover a variety of incidents, including fires and other emergencies.

Still, when he catches the distinct smell of smoke cutting through crisp air, his first instinct is always, always to freeze.

It's not for long. He's a professional, after all, and an adult, nearing thirty now. The fire—The Fire, Clive calls it grimly, with dramatic capital letters in his voice—was nearly two-thirds of his life ago. Besides, it's natural to freeze or flinch away from fire. Everyone does it. It's not strange.

Joshua shakes off the unease, brushes off some snow that's settled on his shoulders, and integrates himself into the crowd that has gathered in front of a dormitory building.

He has his phone out immediately to snap a couple of pictures of the building with the yellow barrier tape in front of the door. Joshua doesn't try to antagonize cops at a scene, but he's been ordered off premises more than once before he or a real photographer had the chance to grab a picture. It doesn't matter in the moment whether he's legally allowed to be there if an officer forces him to leave, and he doesn't want to miss his chance to get the minimum that he'll need for an article.

The crowd is mostly students, edging curiously toward the police line. By the time Joshua spots emergency personnel, the ambulance is already driving away. While a couple of firefighters are coming out of the building, none of the rest of the men on the truck seem to be worried or in a rush: it's a false alarm, or something already taken care of, presumably. He squints after the retreating ambulance and pulls out his phone to text a contact who might know more.

Joshua [12:58 PM]
Hey, I'm at Kanver, just saw a bus take off. Were you on shift? Anything you can tell me?

There's no immediate answer. The firetruck's about to depart, too—Joshua thinks he saw Ember, the probie on Truck Company 3, hopping back onto the truck, but Herman's the leader of that crew, and Herman, frankly, scares Joshua a little. He's a little bit like Clive on the job on his worst days, driven and single-minded and with a haunted look in his eyes after a long shift that makes Joshua wonder if he lost family to a fire during the formative years of his life, too.

So instead, Joshua sends a message to Desiree, who is in charge of media relations for the Twinside Fire Department:

Joshua [1:00 PM]
Hi Desiree, I just saw a truck leave from Kanver Tech and I can still smell the smoke. What happened?

TFD Desiree [1:03 PM]
Hi Joshua, thanks for reaching out. I'll have more information for you in a bit but for now I can confirm that the area was cleared and found safe for the public as far as we are concerned. Police are still in the area and can let you know when they have cleared the scene too.

Joshua [1:03 PM]
Thanks, appreciate it! I'll check in again later

That's something. While he waits for a response from his EMS contact, he turns his attention to the crowd of interested students. "Excuse me," Joshua says to the knot of people closest to him, pasting on a genial smile. "I'm a journalist with State of the Realm. Do you know what happened here?"

A young woman carrying a backpack on one shoulder glances around, and, when no one else speaks, says, "They evacuated all of us, and now they won't let us back in. It's really cold," she adds unhappily.

Joshua can't help but feel a deep sympathy about this as he plunges his gloved hands deeper into his pockets in a vain attempt at keeping his fingers warm. Snow is falling steadily around them. "The fire alarm went off, I assume?" he asks. He glances at the yellow barrier tape and officers behind it wearing shields on their breasts. This is not a response to a fire drill, or to a bag of popcorn left too long in a microwave. There's something else going on.

"Yeah, apparently someone tried to burn the building down."

"Really? Where did you hear that?"

She shrugs, waving a gloved hand vaguely at the crowd of shivering students. "The cops ran past us while we were evacuating, and I heard them yelling at someone upstairs."

That's not exactly proof of anything, but before Joshua can ask more, a uniformed officer walks out. In front of him, her hands in cuffs, is a young woman. She's wet, as though someone splashed her head to toe with water, and, though she's not struggling, she seems to be crying.

Genevieve, Joshua hears in whispers through the crowd. That's Genevieve— Did she do it— What happened— Genevieve—

"Genevieve," Joshua says aloud, turning back to the student he's been talking to. "That's her? Did you know her?"

There's a brief pause, and then someone else says, "Not really. She missed all of last year—her roommate Tatienne died. She's only been back since the start of term."

Joshua winces. He came here thinking someone might have partied too hard, or maybe been in a car crash. Both of those are potentially dangerous scenarios if an ambulance was called out, but they're a little more common and straightforward, too. This isn't the site of an accident; it's a crime scene. The young woman, Genevieve, is being driven away in a police cruiser, but there is still another cruiser nearby, along with an unmarked vehicle.

"I mean," the first student says suddenly, as if just realizing that this might be reported, "we don't actually know that Genevieve did it."

"They just arrested her," another points out. "She is kind of a freak."

"She's going through a lot—he's a reporter! If we're wrong, and—"

"Don't worry, we wouldn't publish mere rumor," Joshua tells them. He revives his smile, reassuring, and looks speculatively at the police line. There's a detective on the other side of the barrier, typing something into his phone. Joshua perks up in recognition.

He thanks the students and pushes his way to the edge of the barrier. "Wade!" he calls, waving at the officer. Then, louder, "Hey, Detective Biggs, can I—"

The effort proves a little too much with the winter wind nipping at his lungs, and he has to break off and turn into his arm to cough. He probably needs to start thinking about—

He's not about to start thinking about it.

"Joshua, take it easy there," Wade says, jogging toward him. "You all right?"

"Yeah," Joshua breathes. He coughs once more and clears his throat. "Sorry about that. How is everything?"

"You know I can't give you an official statement, kiddo," Wade says, a little apologetically, in the tone of a man who will always think of Joshua as a kid.

"Understood—nothing official," Joshua says. He lowers his voice. "You arrested a student named Genevieve earlier? They're saying she tried to burn the building down."

Wade glances at the crowd of curious onlookers and ducks out of the taped-off area, beckoning Joshua a few meters away. "Listen," he says, even more quiet, "be a little delicate with this one, eh? The girl's dorm room was doused with alcohol, and we had to fight her to get the lighter out of her hand."

Joshua can't help glancing up at the building in alarm. "Fire's already checked it out?" he asks to confirm, though he already has word from Desiree that they have. There was smoke, after all.

Wade shakes his head, though. "She used cheap wine, and not a strong one. The alcohol content wasn't high enough to be flammable, they said. Whatever managed to catch was put out easily, no damage to the building structure at all. Just don't..." Wade hesitates, looking around himself. "She was covered in wine, too. We think she might have been trying to—"

"Detective, what are you doing?" a new voice interrupts, even as Joshua feels a shudder of unease snake down his spine. "We're not supposed to talk to reporters."

Joshua turns to see a uniformed officer approaching, younger than himself and frowning in disapproval. Before he can decide what response will be most effective, though, Wade waves a hand and says, "It's all right, this one saved my life once. He's one of the good ones."

Joshua holds a hand out to the newcomer. "Joshua Rosfield, State of the Realm."

The young officer glances at Wade first, as if uncertain, and then takes the handshake and says, "Oscar Murdoch."

"Any relation to the captain?" Joshua asks.

"Er...he's my uncle," says Murdoch-the-younger.

"Ah," Joshua says brightly. "Your uncle's a good friend. Took my brother under his wing after we moved here—he's a firefighter; they met in the field back before Rodney made Captain." He knows from experience that a connection to a firefighter can sometimes help to thaw chilly relations with members of the police force. First responders tend to have an instinctive appreciation for each other, given how often their paths cross, and Joshua will take acceptance-by-nepotism if it means he doesn't get tossed from a crime scene.

Sure enough, Oscar Murdoch doesn't look quite as suspicious anymore, or at least he's willing to defer to the more experienced officer. "Detective Wedge said to tell you he needs you upstairs," he tells Wade. "They're in her room." He glances at Joshua, like he's not sure he should have said even that within earshot.

Joshua feels a little bad for the kid, who seems a little confused about what to do. He and Wade are old acquaintances, and Wade does take a few more liberties than he strictly should with him. In return, Joshua makes sure not to break news that would compromise a police investigation. As long as the cops are doing their jobs properly and Joshua is ethical and factual in his reporting, he generally maintains a good relationship with them.

"Genevieve's dorm room, you mean?" Joshua asks. "You wouldn't have her last name, would you?"

"You're going to have to talk to the PIO for that one," Wade says firmly, and Joshua knows he's pushed enough.

He's not always good at stopping just because he knows he should, though, so he says, "The other students say she took a leave of absence last year when her roommate died."

The look on Wade's honest face is enough to tell Joshua that he didn't know that. He and his partner probably haven't been here for much longer than Joshua, and they might not have even gotten hold of a university official yet for information.

"I'm on my way," Wade tells Oscar instead of answering Joshua's implied question. Pointedly, he adds, "I was just telling Joshua here to be sensitive about this one."

"I heard you," Joshua says. It seems a delicate enough situation that he certainly wants to make sure he has all of the facts first before putting a name or motive forward. If Wade is right about what happened, though, things will become public sooner or later. A case of attempted arson won't stay under wraps long, and, if she's been at university for over a year, it's unlikely this Genevieve is young enough to be protected from publicity by being a juvenile. "Is it fair to say that there is no ongoing danger to the other students or the public?"

"You can report that when the university sends out their 'All-Clear' alert," Wade says. "Talk to the public information officer, kid. And be nice to our rookie, eh?" he adds, clapping Oscar on the arm, and then disappears inside the building before either of them can answer.

Joshua puts a hand out to a lamppost that the barrier tape is affixed to, hoping he looks casual and not like he's leaning on it for support. He's never done well in the cold. "I don't suppose you know how much longer you'll be here?" he asks Oscar. Tilting his head back toward the crowd, he says, "The students want to go back inside. They're getting cold."

"I know," Oscar says, "we just have to clear the scene before—"

He breaks off, like he's just remembered he's not authorized to talk to journalists. Joshua smiles gently at him.

"How do you know Detective Biggs?" Oscar asks instead. "He said you saved his life?"

"Oh," Joshua says, rolling his eyes. "Hardly. One of the historic buildings in Old Twinside collapsed while he was patrolling, and he got pinned under some debris. I was walking past on my way home from school and just pulled him out of the way and called 909 for help."

He doesn't tell the rest of the story, mostly because it's embarrassing. Wade's leg was broken in the accident, and the effort of dragging him out of the way before the rest of the building crumbled left Joshua winded and coughing from exertion and the handful of dust he inhaled. Clive was a probie with a truck company back then, and he arrived on the scene first to find Joshua on the ground with Wade supporting him, unable to stop coughing long enough to take a proper breath.

They spent that night together in the hospital in adjoining beds, Joshua on bronchodilators and oxygen and Wade in a cast and on pain meds for the broken leg, chatting woozily across the curtain separating them, until Clive, Tyler Wedge—Wade's partner—and then-Detective Rodney Murdoch showed up to fuss over them as a group.

At the time, Joshua was mostly just mortified to have accidentally summoned his own brother to provide aid to someone else, only to need medical attention himself. He learned later that the incident made Rodney suspicious of them, as Joshua was fifteen at the time and three provinces away from his only surviving parent, living with a twenty-year-old brother who worked a forty-eight-hour shift every six days and squeezed in part-time jobs wherever he could the rest of the time. They had been on their own for less than two years by that point, and Clive was terrified of being under that sort of scrutiny.

But that's in the past. Rodney's been good to Clive ever since, and Wade and Tyler have been kind to Joshua's career.

"Huh," Oscar says now. He still looks a little suspicious, but he's not actively hostile, which Joshua considers a good start for a new officer he's just met. "Well, you ought to call our public information officer if you want more...er, information."

"I'll do that, thanks," Joshua says, holding up his hands to show he's not going to cause trouble. "I'll let you get back to work."

---

Tarja [1:26 PM]
No one was hurt

Joshua [1:27 PM]
Thanks, Tarja, I'm glad. Any insight into what happened?

Tarja [1:27 PM]
Young woman in psychological distress
If they arrest and charge her that better be reported too

Joshua [1:28 PM]
They arrested her

Tarja [1:28 PM]
...
She was in real distress Joshua she needs help

Joshua [1:29 PM]
I'm getting that
Ok thanks

---

Vivian [1:24 PM]
Warrick says you're at Kanver
Is this about the fire?

Vivian [1:30 PM]
?

Joshua [1:31 PM]
Yes, I'll have preliminary breaking to you ASAP

Joshua [1:55 PM]
Did you get it?

Vivian [1:55 PM]
Yes. Follow-up?
I could, for example, send someone who is actually working today

Joshua [1:56 PM]
No worries, I'll stay to get more statements and check in with the PD

---

Gav [2:01 PM]
heyyyyy
can u tell ur bother to txt me back

Joshua [2:04 PM]
Have you told Clive you call him my bother?

Gav [2.04 PM]
lmao BROTHER
im trying to get him to come out w us tonight
just drinks nothing wild i know he doesn't like crowds lol
ive got a single friend hed really like 😉

Joshua [2:07 PM]
I can't promise what he'll say, but I'll tell him

Gav [2.07 PM]
ty joshy ur the best!!!

---

The students are herded into another building full of classrooms while they wait for their dormitory to be cleared, which allows Joshua to stay mostly indoors, sitting on the staircase of the building with a horde of displaced students. He wears a mask this time—he's not contagious anymore, but his condition means he can't always stop a cough. Although the Blight is considered to have ended, people still get nervous about someone coughing in public in the wake of a global pandemic.

He alternates between interviewing students, calling an official at the university to get their response, and checking in with the PIO to ask what the police are willing to share. A picture slowly emerges of Genevieve Laurent, who ended a relationship with a classmate named Yannick, only for both her ex and her roommate Tatienne to be killed suddenly in a car accident about a year ago. Genevieve took nearly a year off school, regularly attending a trauma support group while staying with family in the area before returning to Kanver Tech only weeks ago.

It's hard to know what triggered her actions, but she returned from class today and tried to set her room on fire. An unnamed first responder—Joshua knows that Tarja was not authorized to tell him anything—is quoted saying that the student was in psychological distress at the time of her arrest.

The university asks for patience as they investigate and also sends an email to the students with mental health resources but little detail on the incident. The police clear the building for re-entry and do not comment on what Genevieve may or may not have said already while in their custody. No one was hurt. It is, ultimately, a very small incident, and there will not likely be much further news about it—nothing that Joshua's editors will consider newsworthy, anyway.

He sends an updated article to Vivian and remains sitting on the steps. The building is quickly emptying as students trudge their way back to their dorm; he just needs a second to catch his breath and summon the energy to rise.

He needs to stop thinking, too, about a young woman trying to set herself on fire. Joshua has a better idea than most what it would feel like to die in a fire. It's the heat he remembers most, and then the oppressive smoke, the searing burn of trying to breathe and only being able to suck in hot smoke—

It's not a good way to go. It's really not. Why choose fire?

Then again...why choose any method at all?

He slips his laptop back into his bag. As he does, something crinkles, and he has to pause to move the bag containing his new prescription. Another uneasy shiver tries to crawl up his spine to lodge in his throat before he shoves the pills into a corner and packs up to leave.

---

When Joshua's nearing the subway station, he feels his phone vibrate and takes it out with a sigh. He doesn't think it's Vivian, who has what she needs from him for the day. It's probably Clive again.

It's worse.

Jill [3:55 PM]
Your brother's asking if I've seen you at work

This is, no doubt, Clive trying not to be overbearing and yet somehow managing to circle all the way back around to being even more overbearing.

Jill [3:55 PM]
He must know you're not home
I feel like if I say I haven't seen you he'll assume you've fallen down a well or something
Will you please talk to him?
Are you still at Kanver?

Joshua [3:57 PM]
I just left
I'll handle it

---

Joshua [3:58 PM]
Clive
My dear brother
Are you in my flat rn?

Clive [4:00 PM]
just checking on torgal
where are you?

Joshua [4:00 PM]
On my way home

Clive [4:01 PM]
...
where did you go?

Joshua [4:01 PM]
I'll tell you when I get home
As I assume you will be there

Clive [4:01 PM]
see you soon

Chapter Text

3. A voice from within the Flame spoke, saying: "I come from the realm of fire, where all are born from my warmth, where I made and unmade the world. I am not of this place, but I shall burn the Void and shape it to my will."
4. The Void quivered before such power as it had never witnessed before. The Flame descended, and the Void warped and bent.
5. As the Flame burned, it forced aside the Void and shaped the first form. The Flame breathed, and thus were the first winds born.
6. With a touch from the Flame, waters surged to life. The earth rose from the depths of the waters, cracked and shaped by the heat of the Flame.

- Scriptures of the Risen, Book of Shaping

*****

The smell of food is wafting into the hallway when Joshua reaches the door of his flat. It smells like the lasagna that Jill insisted on teaching Clive to make after she moved to Twinside for school, because cooking wasn't something they learned growing up in a rich, old-fashioned family that employed a cook. For the first months after they left Rosaria, they survived on sandwiches, pasta that only needed boiling, cheap orange juice to avoid scurvy, and whatever Clive was able to bring home from his first part-time job waiting tables at The Fat Chocobo.

Joshua remembers that time fondly, though his brother probably doesn't. He knows things were difficult for a long while, especially for Clive, who worked too hard to keep him from seeing just how hard things were, between bills and work and doctor's visits. Still, Joshua's memories of that period are incongruously warm, just the two of them living and moving around each other in a tiny flat, depending on no one else and beholden to no one, either. He remembers both of them ignoring their mother's calls in favor of apportioning chores and learning how to make soup from the internet.

Now, he takes a minute to stand outside his door, savoring the familiar smell. He needs the time, anyway, to catch his breath, as the lift is broken and his flat on the fourth floor. Climbing the stairs probably doesn't even feel like exertion for Clive, but Joshua's had a long day and a tickle in his throat, and he's panting hard enough to feel a little lightheaded, which he needs to stop doing before his brother sees him and starts to ask questions about the results of his lung function tests.

Torgal ruins it for him, though. The dog must hear or smell him, and before Joshua has managed to sound like a normal person with normally functioning lungs, he hears the click of claws on the floor inside the flat and sees the shadow of a black nose sniffing at the crack under the door.

"What is it, boy?" Clive's voice says from inside. "Is your little brother home?" Joshua presses a hand to his chest and manages to gulp down two more breaths before the door is flung open.

"To be clear," Joshua says to his brother, still too breathless, as Torgal, tail wagging frantically, noses urgently at him and twines around his legs, "I am...twenty-three years older than Torgal. By no means am I his little brother."

Clive shrugs. He's wearing only sweatpants and a faded Valisthea University T-shirt—obviously stolen from Joshua, as it barely manages to stretch across his broad shoulders—and somehow is not freezing. "One dog year is seven human years," he reasons, bending to pat Torgal roughly on the flank, "so really, he's over thirty-five."

Joshua scratches Torgal behind his ears and maneuvers around the dog and his brother—both of whom are enormous and blocking the doorway—to squeeze into the flat and close the door behind himself. "Then you must be his little brother, too?"

"Of course not, I could never be, I'm his father," Clive says, smiling like a dork. The expression pulls at the scar tissue on his cheek, the one injury from the fire that left a physical mark on him. Joshua feels like he's covered in scars in comparison, although his own aren't visible, easy to hide under a shirt but making their presence known with every breath he takes. "You all right?" Clive says, his smile fading. "The lift's broken."

"Is it? I hadn't noticed," Joshua says glibly as he peels off his gloves and coat.

"You should complain. Building code requires working lifts for buildings this high. You can't be running up stairs all the time."

Sour resentment curdles in his chest. He turns to hang up his coat and imagines trapping the bitterness in a box that he can close securely and then stuff behind his ribcage before it leaks out all over people who don't deserve it. Clive has always been his greatest advocate; it's not his fault the lift's out.

"Yes, complaining about it always works," Joshua says, making himself smile so that Clive will be able to hear it in his voice. He takes a careful breath, clears his throat, and then, before his brother can respond, "You were here earlier than usual."

"I missed my dog too much," Clive says. He can't hold onto the pretense for even five seconds, though, because he's still hovering behind Joshua and adds, "What did Dr. Margrace say?"

Joshua hesitates as he carefully bends to unlace his boots, one hand on the door for balance. Clive left his entire life behind because of Joshua's defective body, and lying to him about it feels like a sort of terrible ingratitude.

Before he can decide how to answer, though, bending down to his laces finally triggers the cough that's been tickling at his throat. Immediately, Clive's hand is on his chest, pulling him upright. Clive's warm, heat seeping through the sweater Joshua is wearing, and his hand rubs up and down his chest, soothing. His other hand wraps around the arm Joshua has braced on the door. It's like being hugged by a radiator.

It's familiar. It's warm and comforting. It makes him feel guilty.

"I'm fine," Joshua gasps. He stands there for another few seconds, swallowing the last few coughs that want to bubble out. Torgal has positioned himself next to Joshua's leg, standing straight and still, ready to act as a furry brace should he be needed. Joshua pushes away from the door, reaching down to pat Torgal on the back, and Clive moves with him. He turns around and smiles, patting Clive on the chest, too, like that will reassure him. "It was just a cold, the doctor said. I'm back to baseline now."

This is not entirely a lie. Joshua fell ill some weeks ago and had a few worrying days of lying in bed, breathing oxygen through a cannula. Clive even took PTO and slept on the couch for part of that time to make sure he didn't unexpectedly expire in his sleep. But it was nothing more than a cold, in the end, exacerbated by how sensitive his lungs have been to the slightest irritation since the fire. The virus is gone now.

The cold isn't the problem. The problem is what he learned when he went to the doctor afterward and was told that his new baseline is six-to-nine percent worse than it was at his last checkup six months ago. It's just that Joshua isn't... He's not...

He doesn't want to say that part.

He will, obviously. He'll have to, but not now, not yet, not today. There are deep shadows under Clive's eyes tonight. He tends to crash immediately after his shift at the firehouse, but he sleeps like shit once he does, probably because he's a masochist who has chosen to professionally relive the worst night of their lives over and over.

The wrinkle between Clive's eyebrows says that he is not reassured, but he does back off and takes his warm hands along with him. "All right," he says after a moment. He scratches Torgal behind the ears and then reaches up to rudely muss Joshua's hair. "Go change. Dinner'll be ready in fifteen."

"Yes, Mother," Joshua says. The scratchiness of his voice stops him just short of achieving the singsong teasing tone he was going for. Clive throws a glove at his face anyway. It hits him gently on the forehead and plops gracelessly to the floor. "I'm not picking that up," he announces as he heads into his bedroom, Torgal padding along behind him.

---

When Joshua emerges in sweats and an enormous, well worn hoodie emblazoned with the shield that is the logo of the Twinside Fire Department, Clive is sprawled along the length of his couch, reading a book. "Budge over," Joshua says, swatting at his feet. Clive bends his legs enough to let Joshua sit down, then drops his feet back down on Joshua's lap.

Torgal puts his paws up on the cushion, sniffing at Clive, and then unceremoniously leaps up and lies down on top of him. "Oof, Torgal, you're too heavy for this," Clive complains, but he obligingly sets the book aside to pet the dog.

"Any plans for tonight?" Joshua asks.

"I made lasagna," Clive says.

Joshua leans his head back and turns to look at his brother. "I mean, Gav says he invited you out for drinks tonight with some of his friends. He says one of them is single."

A groan issues from somewhere under Torgal. "Joshua. Stop trying to set me up with people."

"Gav said it, not me! It doesn't have to be anything special; just go and have fun."

Clive sits up enough to scowl at him. "Leave me alone. I'm not going."

"Why not?" Joshua counters. "Meet a few people for once who aren't your coworkers."

"What's wrong with my coworkers? I like my coworkers. I put my literal life in the hands of my coworkers all the time."

"God, you're dramatic," Joshua complains, rolling his eyes. "Nothing's wrong with your coworkers."

"And I have friends I don't work with," Clive says.

Joshua raises his eyebrows in challenge. "Name one. Anyone."

"Jill," Clive says.

"Jill's my coworker," Joshua says in exasperation. "And Jill doesn't count."

"Oh, shall I tell her you don't think of her as a friend?"

"You're being ridiculous, Clive. What's the harm in having one friend—who isn't family—whom you don't work with?"

There's a long pause. Joshua lazily pets the part of Torgal's butt that he can reach without having to move. He's starting to warm up now that he's out of the cold, trapped under his brother's legs, his fingers buried in the winter fur of a dog that radiates heat. Even though he hasn't had much of an appetite since the last virus settled in his lungs a few weeks ago, dinner smells good, and he's looking forward to the first bite of a meal that's come to feel like comfort, like the memory of Clive and Jill giggling together over a pan in the kitchen while Joshua did his homework at the table.

At last, Clive repeats, "I like my coworkers, Joshua. And I'm really tired tonight."

Joshua looks over at him again. Clive does look tired. He always does, though—that's the problem. He comes here when he's especially tired, because being able to check on his little brother calms his nerves. And it's not that Joshua doesn't like it, coming home to his brother and his dog, as it's warm and there's dinner in the oven, and he'd have to be a fool or a monster to complain. But it would be nice to know that there's somewhere or someone else Clive could go to, if Joshua's not around. Because—

Because.

He glances at his bag, sitting on the coffee table. He hasn't taken out his new meds yet, though he'll have to soon.

"Okay," Joshua says. His chest is feeling tight again, and he doesn't want to argue anymore. He puts his free hand on Clive's calf and pats it. "You can stay in with me. I give you permission."

Clive snorts at him and picks up his book again, and Joshua scrolls through the news on his phone until it chirps an alarm in his hand. Clive starts up, patting his pockets.

"That's me, not you," Joshua says as he silences it. Clive checks the time again—Joshua's got a recurring alarm at this time to make sure he doesn't forget his medication even if his schedule gets thrown unexpectedly awry—and relaxes.

It's only another five minutes before Clive's alarm does go off. They both groan and prod at Torgal until he jumps down, shaking himself vigorously, and rise to their feet to turn off the oven. Torgal trots to his favorite squeaky toy and gnaws on it while they busy themselves in the kitchen.

Joshua is sitting on the couch again, balancing a plate on his knees with a steaming chunk of cheese and pasta and a small pile of vegetables, when Clive says, "What's that?"

He's looking at the bottle in Joshua's hand. "New meds," Joshua says. He's already got three oblong pills in the palm of his hand.

"That's not—" Clive starts. He reaches over and plucks the bottle out of Joshua's hand to study it more closely, then looks up at Joshua, frowning.

Joshua's heart falters for a second and then speeds up, a little too fast. "They switched me to a different anti-fibrotic," he says calmly. "The side effects were getting, you know. A lot."

"They were?" Clive asks. He's still wearing a deep frown, confused. "I thought all of that had been fine for years. Why didn't you ever tell me?"

Joshua shrugs. He swallows the pills, chasing them with a slug of water, so he doesn't have to look at his brother when he lies, "It just started getting worse." Clive is starting to look guilty, like he should have known, even though there was nothing to know. It's making Joshua feel guilty, too, but he can't make himself say the other thing, because that would make the look on Clive's face even worse. "It's fine, Clive. We're trying this one now."

Clive looks at the bottle again. His lips move, like he's memorizing the name of the new drug to look up later. "And this does the same thing?" he asks.

"There's a pamphlet," Joshua says, waving at his bag, and then he remembers that there are multiple pamphlets in there, some of which he wants Clive to see even less than he wants to look at them himself. He reaches in and pulls out the one he could stand to look at earlier and hands it over. "Here. Side effects are pretty similar, but Dr. Margrace said I'll probably tolerate them better, which is good."

The doctor didn't say that, exactly, but he was clear that Joshua will tolerate any side effects, because the alternative will be worse.

"Oh, by the way," Joshua says, gesturing insistently until the bottle of pills is finally handed back to him. "Guess who I met at the pharmacy today!" Clive gives the pamphlet in his hands one more suspicious glance, then shoves it into his pocket for later perusal and shovels a forkful of food into his mouth. He grunts once, which Joshua takes to mean he's not going to guess. "Dion."

Clive chews thoughtfully and then swallows. "Who?"

"Dion Lesage, Clive," Joshua says. He stabs his fork into the lasagna and pulls it apart. "Our mother's husband's son? Remember Sylvestre Lesage?"

"God, I try not to think about that prick," Clive says.

Joshua laughs. "Anyway, Dion's just moved to Twinside with his husband and daughter. He's married! Can you believe it? The husband's a paramedic. I think he must be on Tarja's crew, so you'll probably meet him at some point."

Clive does not react to the news of Dion's marriage or the fact that he and their stepbrother-in-law are now nearly colleagues. What he picks up on is: "Did you go chasing an ambulance today, Joshua? Is that why you were out?"

"Technically, the ambulance was gone by the time I got there," Joshua says.

"You're supposed to be resting," Clive says, kicking his foot lightly. His gaze flickers down. "Are you not hungry?"

Joshua looks down at his plate. He's not, really, now that he's looking at the steaming food on his plate, but he knows he has to eat, assuming the new pills will feel worse on an empty stomach the way the old ones did. He spears a bite and shoves it into his face. "Anyway," he says, "we should catch up with him."

"Really? Why?"

"Why not?"

Clive is giving him a strange look. "Right, you...were friendly with Dion when we were kids," he says slowly.

"What? Why are you saying it like that?" Joshua asks. Of course Clive is reluctant to socialize, as usual, but he's not normally wary about it, just uninterested.

"His father is Sylvestre Lesage."

"Correct," Joshua says.

"He's a prick," Clive repeats.

When they were children, Dion was both the oldest and the youngest son of Sylvestre Lesage, so, while he could sometimes be pulled into a back hallway with Joshua during their parents' events to get away from the boring adults, he also sometimes had to actually talk to the boring adults, like Clive. Dion was always good at putting on a professional face, so Clive's never seen Dion with a hand clapped over his mouth to stifle his giggles as they watched one of their parents' friends get too drunk and fall asleep, snoring loudly, in a chair in the corner of a ballroom.

"Are you, of all people, really going to hold a man's parents against him?" Joshua counters. "He was really nice to me today."

Immediately, Clive is defensive. "Why wouldn't he be? Was he not when you were children?"

Joshua rolls his eyes. "I just..." He sighs and takes another bite of his dinner. "Maybe I'm trying to set you up, did you think of that?"

Clive furrows his brow. "You just said he's married. And he's our...stepbrother?"

"As a friend, Clive, we were just talking about this."

"Ugh, Joshua," Clive groans. "Look, it's been fifteen years. He might not be the same person you remember."

"None of us are the same people we were back then," Joshua reminds him.

For a couple of minutes, Clive concentrates on scarfing down food. He's already eaten more than Joshua ever had on his plate. "Do you miss it?" he says abruptly.

"Miss what?"

"You know," Clive says. He looks up from his plate and stares Joshua directly in the eyes, pinning him in place with his gaze, because Clive's always been the brave one. He looks uncertain, because he's also never figured out how to hide what he's feeling. "The way things were, back home. Before we were—"

"Emancipated," Joshua interrupts teasingly, like he always does about this.

"—disowned," his brother finishes, like a dour grump. Neither term is technically correct, so Joshua feels he's allowed to use whichever one he prefers, and the first one is more fun.

"I'm not trying to recapture our childhoods, Clive, I just want to say 'hello' to an old friend, that's all."

It's not a lie. Joshua doesn't miss being paraded about like a symbol of resilience when he was still weak from illness and his legs shook just from the effort of standing. He doesn't miss the screaming fights between Clive and their mother—about Joshua, always about him and his health, the wedge that drove them apart until their words became cutting and cruel and made their mother hate the sight of both of them. He doesn't miss the way Clive went in Joshua's place to fundraising events where people talked about how bravely he survived the fire that killed their father and then came home and had nightmares. Joshua doesn't miss that time he insisted on going along for support, and then crawled, shaking, into Clive's bed later and gave them both nightmares anyway.

What he does miss is being able to run up three flights of stairs without being so winded and lightheaded that he needs to rest. He misses their father, and the way their mother used to care about both of them, really care, and not just because they were ruining the family image with weakness or defiance. He misses thinking that Clive has a future ahead of him, one where he can go to college and find a career he likes, where he'll be happy and well whether Joshua is there or not.

"I just don't want you to be let down if your friend's, you know, changed after all this time," Clive says, because it's not enough for him to be worried about Joshua's lungs; he's decided he needs to worry about Joshua's heart, too.

Joshua does miss Dion, too. Less than the rest of it, admittedly, but while the rest is unattainable, Dion is in town, and Joshua would like to know that his brother has at least one friend he can call on when he needs the kind of help that can't be solved with a firehose or a tire iron. Dion is arguably family, and while that's normally a red flag to them, Joshua likes to think his friend wouldn't have grown up to be like his father. He could be the kind of family that would be good for Clive, a connection that's not tied to his work or obligation.

He must stare at Clive for a little too long, because Clive frowns and says, "What?"

"Nothing," Joshua says, smiling. He eats a piece of broccoli so Clive won't fuss at him about his vegetables. "You worry too much."

"Are you going back to work tomorrow or will you actually take a day off to finish getting over this cold like you're supposed to?" Clive asks, like an enormous hypocrite.

"I don't know, what about you, are you actually going to take your time off for once?"

"I get four days off every six," Clive says, rolling his eyes, like a fifty-six hour work week in which he puts out literal fires is the height of laziness. "I'm not sitting around that whole time. I picked up a shift at Otto's tomorrow. Gav'll probably be hungover in the morning, so he'll need someone cover for him with Cid anyway."

Joshua shakes his head. Being a firefighter doesn't pay well, but it's enough for Clive to live on, especially now that Joshua is no longer a drain on his resources and earns an income of his own. But Clive seems to genuinely like working at Otto's Auto, and fixing cars isn't deeply traumatic for him, so Joshua doesn't argue with him about it much.

"Eat your vegetables," Clive orders.

"I literally just ate one!" Joshua protests.

Clive looks down at his feet where Torgal has curled up. "D'you hear that, Torgal?" The dog lifts his head at the sound of his name. "Is your little brother whining about eating his vegetables again?"

"God, Clive," Joshua complains, and pointedly eats a slice of carrot before holding another one down by his knee. "Here, Torgal, treat." Torgal turns, nibbles the carrot delicately out of his fingers, and then lies back down on Joshua's feet. "How dare you, trying to turn my dog on me."

"I prepared that carrot just for you, brat," Clive says.

"It was well appreciated by the consumer," Joshua tells him. He wriggles his toes under Torgal and rubs the dog between the ears.

---

The nausea from the new medication sets in before Clive leaves that night, taking Torgal home with him, but it doesn't get really bad until Joshua lies down to sleep. He hugs a pillow to himself, breathes slowly through his mouth, and wishes Torgal were still here. Then again, he really doesn't want to deal with the possibility of throwing up all over his dog tonight, and just the thought of having to walk him in the morning is exhausting, so he supposes it's a good thing Torgal will be with Clive for the next three days.

It was like this before, too, years ago, when he was first put on the other meds, but it got better eventually. He just needs to tough it out for a while. It's not going to be a fun time, but it's better than—

Well. He'll have to tough it out.

The next morning, the nausea has ebbed enough that he doesn't think he's going to be sick, but then his phone alarm goes off to remind him it's time for another dose. Joshua forces down a few spoonfuls of bland porridge before he gives up. He covers the bowl and leaves it in the refrigerator next to plastic containers full of leftover lasagna that Clive didn't take with him last night. At this rate, he won't have to cook for himself for days.

He needs to go to work. He's not contagious anymore, just tired, and the fact is that, even though he knows Vivian will allow him sick days when he needs them, he's sick often enough that he falls short of his unofficial quota of articles some months. Joshua likes his job, and it gives him the flexibility to work from home from time to time, which he really needs on some days. He doesn't want to take advantage of it.

He stuffs the bottle of his medication into his bag, swings the strap over his shoulder, and starts toward the bus.

*****

The State of the Realm offices are on the third through fifth floors of a building downtown. Most of the fifth floor is taken up by the bullpen, full of desks that spill into each other for the reporters, fact-checkers, and editors. In the corner is a conference room just big enough for the staff to squeeze into for morning meetings.

Joshua's desk is near the middle of the bullpen. Today, he stops by it just long enough to drop the bag that holds his laptop and take off his coat, then heads straight to Vivian.

Before he makes it more than two steps, however, a hand wraps around his bicep. "Joshua," Jill says as she pulls him to a stop. "Good morning."

"Morning, Jill," Joshua says, making sure that his smile is visible above his mask and trying to guess why her tone sounds like he's in trouble. "I need to talk to Ninetales."

"Do you ever call her by her real name?" Jill says.

"I'm pretty sure she likes being called 'Vivian Ninetales,' though," Joshua says. He gently tugs his arm out of her hand, but she holds onto tight and doesn't let him go. "Oh, no. What have I done?"

"You said you'd tell me how your doctor's appointment went yesterday," she says.

"Oh," he said. He blinks at her and looks at the hand on his arm. "Good. Fine."

She studies him, like she's waiting for him to start coughing, though, if she waits long enough, they both know it'll happen anyway. He doesn't have to have an active infection for his lungs to periodically act up throughout the day.

"Did you talk to Clive last night?" Jill asks.

"Did he keep bugging you?"

"Not after I texted you."

"Then yes, obviously."

"Hm," she says, frowning at him. Her grip loosens but doesn't quite let go.

"Didn't you have an interview this morning?" Joshua asks, glancing at the clock over the door. "With whathisface from Natalie Pustina's campaign?"

Jill makes an annoyed face and finally releases him. "All right, I wanted to talk to you about that, too. The interview was rescheduled for this afternoon, but it's at the same time as L'ubor Dalimil's town hall. Would you go to the town hall in my place? I'll give you all my prep and questions. Shared byline, your name first."

Joshua doesn't do a lot of reporting on political campaigns, so he's not an obvious choice for this. But he's a Rosfield, son of a governor of Rosaria who was a one-time candidate for president of Storm, and Jill knows he was raised around enough politicians to leave him with at least some residual understanding of politics. "Happy to, but that sounds like something I should clear with Ninetales herself," he says, gesturing toward their boss, "so..."

"Let me know before nine," she says, and Joshua makes his way to Vivian's door.

As the editor-in-chief, Vivian is the only one who has an actual office, where she spends much of her time standing before her desk, looking from one monitor to another. When Joshua clears his throat at her door, she looks like she's watching a live news broadcast on one screen while also scrolling through her Moogle feed on another. "Don't just stand there, Rosfield, come in," she says when she hears him. "Quick work yesterday on the Kanver fire."

"I was in the neighborhood when I got the tip," he says. "Do you want me to follow up on it?" Vivian's office is always a little intimidating, chaotically full of tip-offs and reports and story pitches that she somehow pulls together to form a picture of the day's news.

But she shakes her head. "It's a small story. I don't see us getting much more out of it."

There are times when the story turns into something larger that Joshua gets to pursue. It's why he became a journalist. He wants to know if the girl—Genevieve—is still under arrest and if she's been seen by a psychologist. He wants to know why her roommate Tatienne was with her ex-boyfriend the night they both died. He wants to know if she's said why she did it, why she thought setting herself on fire would be a good way to go, if she's going to prison or to get help or both.

There's no time for that, though, if Vivian's decided other stories should be prioritized. There's always too much news to be reported; they can't spend time on everything. He might want to investigate, but most of his work is really trawling for the fresh news of the day, not doing deep-dives into topics that seem interesting.

"Understood," Joshua says. "Is it all right if I take L'ubor Dalimil's town hall this afternoon? Jill has a conflict. I can track down other tips in the morning before then."

Vivian finally glances away from the monitors for long enough to give him a critical once-over. She won't ask him if he's up for a day of running around town chasing after leads; she'll just glare at him and make it clear that he's seriously inconvenienced her if he falls down on the job.

"Review her notes on L'ubor Dalimil and the mayoral campaign in general before you go," is all Vivian says. "Send Warrick your draft before you turn it over to the editors." She turns back to her monitors. It's a dismissal.

"Yes, boss," Joshua says.

By the time he leaves her office, the churning nausea has ramped up again. Jill's desk is next to his, so he tells her he'll go listen to Dalimil in her place and then slumps into his chair and tries not to look in her direction.

Within minutes, he has a folder of her research in his email that he'll need to skim through, and he also has a list of contacts to check in with before the morning meeting: official liaisons and other friends at Fire, EMS, and the PD; a bartender who relishes giving Joshua anonymous tips about rich pricks too drunk to realize that bartenders aren't legally bound by confidentiality to their clients; and the owner of an inn called the Golden Stables in a rundown area that's chronically over-patrolled by the police, a trusted figure in her neighborhood who lets him know when she hears reports of either local crimes or excessive responses to them.

He's on the phone with her now, jotting down notes on an incident she heard about second-hand from a neighbor, when he notices Jill frowning at him. "Thanks, Martha, text me his contact information," he says, and hangs up. He clears his throat. "What?"

"You still look sick," Jill says. She reaches over and touches his forehead before he can stop her.

"Get off, your hands are like ice," Joshua complains, pushing her hand away. He takes a small sip from his water bottle. He has a vague instinct that it will settle his stomach, though it hasn't worked yet. "I'm not. They started me on new meds yesterday, that's all."

Jill's eyes narrow. "Why?"

"Just trying it out, to see if the side effects will be easier," he says. He doesn't hesitate or blink or look away as he says it, because she's used to the way his brother has a hundred tells every time he tries to lie, and she'll notice immediately if he tries to avoid her gaze. Joshua's always been better than Clive at hiding things.

"Doesn't seem like they are," she says.

He shrugs. "It can take a bit to get used to a new medication."

"Have you eaten?" Jill asks after a moment. "The pills are always worse on an empty stomach."

The thought of eating makes his stomach twist so hard that, for a second, Joshua's worried he's going to need to run for the nearest wastebasket. He swallows hard and breathes through it. Jill tenses, like she's about to rise. "I've been taking these pills since I was eleven, I'm not stupid," he says when he's sure he's not going to spew. He did eat, technically. Some.

"Debatable," she says, with a smile to say she's joking, though he doesn't think she is. Jill's been around for so much of his life that she thinks nothing of treating him like her little brother, and her model of how older siblings are supposed to act has always been Clive. She has a better sense of boundaries than Clive does, but not by much, and she extracts truths from people for a living, which makes her harder to be around sometimes. "Did the doctor say—"

"Jill, can you stop, we're at work," Joshua snaps finally, cutting her off, and turns his chair so that he's facing away from her.

A few seconds later, he hears Jill get up without a word. The sound of her feet walking away makes him feel small and petulant and foolish, and he's also still nauseous. But Joshua's always sick, or he's never not sick. He doesn't have time to be constantly fussed over, especially not anymore.

He doesn't know if she timed it on purpose, somehow, but he's on the phone again and unable to say anything to Jill when she returns and puts a cup of tea and some toast on his desk, two pieces of bread slathered thickly in peanut butter and sandwiched together, because they discovered when he was a teenager that eating a spoonful of peanut butter—full of fat and protein—before taking his pills helped to keep the nausea at bay.

"...really appreciate your sharing this...information..." Joshua's saying, and he falters as he watches Jill sit back down and go back to her own work. He coughs once into his sleeve. "Sorry, um. Could you repeat the name of the officer you spoke to?"

By the time he's done, Jill's moved on to preparing for the staff meeting, sorting the list of stories she wants to put in front of Vivian and the other editors. She doesn't look at him. Joshua pulls down his mask and takes a tiny sip of the tea—full of honey, almost too sweet, just the way he likes it—and cautiously picks up the toast. It's warm, he notes guiltily.

"You don't have to eat all of it," Jill says coolly. She hasn't stopped working. "I know it's heavy. Just take a few bites. Did you eat at all this morning, Joshua?"

It feels like a reprimand, even though it's not phrased as one. "Not enough," Joshua mumbles, embarrassed now for snapping. He rips a corner off the toast and eats it quickly before the sight of it can make him feel more sick than he already does. He swallows it and chases it with another sip of his tea. "Thanks. Sorry. About..."

"You're right, we're at work," Jill says evenly, like she didn't just take time out of her busy morning to find him a breakfast that they both know he's not feeling well enough to finish. Joshua scrolls in his phone to the number of the PD's public information officer, peeking over at her as he does. "Will you be all right going downtown for me this afternoon?"

"Yes," Joshua says. He fires off a text to the PIO requesting a call-back to clarify details of the story he's just been told by a civilian and nibbles halfheartedly at his toast. "Thanks for sending me your background research."

Jill is looking at her phone, not at him. "Of course."

"Between you and Clive, I'll never need to cook for myself again," he jokes to see how she'll react. She finally glances at him and gives him a small smile, so he thinks she either wasn't very angry or has forgiven him. "You know I'm not a kid anymore, right?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," Jill says. "Torgal's older than you, and he's five."

Joshua blinks. "Rude," he says, and, "Have you been hanging out with Clive?"

"We got lunch together a few days ago. Why?"

There's an odd feeling in his chest that feels like his lungs have loosened a bit for once, like the nausea has paused its slow roil. He doesn't think Clive and Jill ever broke up; they just both sort of became caught up in their respective lives and seemed like they stopped remembering to find times to go out or stay in together. "You're not dating again, are you?" Joshua says, a little suspicious, though he thinks he would know. Clive would be cagey about it.

"We had lunch, Joshua," Jill says, rolling her eyes at him. "We text. He's my best friend."

"I thought I was your best friend," Joshua says.

"Not if you keep trying to wingman both me and your brother at the same time, you're not," she says, and he holds up his hands in surrender.

---

Joshua wraps up the rest of the toast and brings it with him for a quick lunch on the road, because he knows he'll feel worse if his stomach's completely empty by the time he needs to take his next dose at dinner. By the time mayoral candidate L'ubor Dalimil's wrapping up his townhall, Joshua's tired as hell but feeling less sick. He can't tell if it's the food that helped or if this is just the timing that he'll need to get used to: a few hours of building nausea, a few more at its peak, and then a handful of hours before the next pill.

Joshua [3:55 PM]
Town hall just ended
Do you want my notes or just the finished draft?

Jill [3:56 PM]
I just finished too
Send me both when you're done
You should WFH, no reason to come back to the office just to type unless you have something else you need to finish
I'll tell Vivian

Joshua [3:57 PM]
...
Sounds good, I will
I'll email it to you in an hour or two

Jill [3:57 PM]
❤️

He starts organizing his notes on his walk back to the subway, and he's got an outline jotted down on his phone, ready to be turned into prose as soon as he sits down with his computer, when a text flashes on his screen.

Unknown Number [4:05 PM]
Hi, Joshua, this is Dion Lesage

Part of Joshua didn't really think Dion would reach out to him. They were friendly as children: Sanbreque Studios is headquartered in Oriflamme, the largest city in Rosaria aside from Rosalith City itself, and their parents were political allies. There was a bond they shared then, the mutual understanding that their lives were different from those of other children their age: Joshua was the son of a politician from a family of politicians and Dion the heir to the CEO of the biggest movie studio on the planet.

But Dion became famous at the age of eleven, and Joshua ran away from home at thirteen. Or was kidnapped by his brother, or was sent away by his mother, depending whom one asked. They haven't run in the same circles in years, and, anxious to keep his distance from his mother, he never responded when Dion tentatively emailed him after their parents' wedding. They're both grown men now—Dion's a father—and Joshua really thought that Dion might have just been acting polite at the pharmacy.

Joshua [4:05 PM]
Hi, Dion! Nice to hear from you

Dion [4:06 PM]
Sorry I ran off last time
What would you say to meeting up for coffee?

Joshua [4:06 PM]
I would love to!
When are you free?

Dion [4:06 PM]
Great! I'm flexible anytime tomorrow?
I work at Valisthea U but can meet elsewhere if it's more convenient
Not sure where you're located

Joshua doesn't notice he's paused until someone jostles him from behind, and he hurries toward the escalator out of the station. Valisthea University's main campus is just down the street from the State of the Realm office.

What is Dion doing, working at a university? He hasn't acted in years—Joshua would have noticed, he thinks—but even so, Dion should have been a...a lawyer, or the head of a hedge fund or something by now. He might be collecting a degree, but he said he moved to Twinside for work, so that doesn't sound right.

Joshua's curiosity is peaked. He checks his calendar to make sure that he doesn't have anything urgent on for tomorrow, other than the usual staff meeting.

Joshua [4:09 PM]
How about The Crown & Tub on campus at 11 am?

Dion [4:10 PM]
Perfect, see you there!

---

Joshua's flat is dark and quiet when he gets back, broken only by the faint buzzing of his refrigerator, the hum of heat rising through the vents, and the sound of his own heavy breathing as he recovers from the trek up the stairs. He stands inside the door for a minute, almost disoriented by the stillness. He has Torgal during Clive's forty-eight-hour shift and the day after, and even on the other days, he and Clive find their way to each other's flats a lot of the time; he always needs a moment to adjust to the quiet.

For a second, he thinks about turning around and going to find his brother and his dog. Clive only lives two blocks away. It wouldn't take long.

Then he remembers that he's home early today, and Clive will still be at Otto's. Torgal's probably there, too, getting spoiled by Otto in the office and trying to lick grease off the mechanics' hands whenever they come out of the garage.

Shaking his head, Joshua turns on the light and unlaces his boots. He moved out for a reason, and not only because of that one time he started feeling sick in college and skipped class to come home early, only to see Fabien, one of the firefighters from Truck 3, coming out of the bathroom, fully naked.

Well. Sort of because of that. Not Fabien specifically, who—according to a red-faced Clive—wasn't anything serious, just a friend who'd come over after a long shift. But it made Joshua wonder if there were men or women Clive wasn't seeing because he was too worried about Joshua, or because a partner would feel uncomfortable coming home with Clive, knowing that some kid brother was in the bedroom next door. He still wonders if it was why Clive and Jill stopped seeing each other—if they were really too busy and their schedules incompatible, or if they decided they were better as friends, or if Joshua walked in on them canoodling too many times and they felt too awkward having sex where he might hear.

Clive should be able to have a life that doesn't revolve around his sick little brother, is the point. Otto's Auto is part of that. For all that Joshua pokes at him about his long hours, it means something that Clive and the staff at Otto's have become so comfortable that Torgal simply goes to work with him.

And besides, Joshua doesn't want to have to climb the stairs again now that he's gotten up them, and he has to finish that article for Jill anyway. He doesn't have time to go play with Torgal.

Still, he has his phone in his hand and is halfway to texting Clive 'Say hi to Torgal for me' before he deletes it and sends another email to his building manager about the lift instead.

---

That night, one article sent to Jill and another short report to Vivian, Joshua silences the alarm reminding him to take his pills before it can go off. He opens his refrigerator, stares unhappily at the cold leftover lasagna, and reaches for a jar of peanut butter instead.

He makes a face as he forces down a hefty, sticky spoonful and pulls on his Twinside FD hoodie. He waits ten minutes to let the dollop settle in his stomach, swallows his medication, and pulls out the remains of his porridge from breakfast, bland and easy and a little limp even for porridge after being microwaved back to life. From experience, he knows that he can survive on peanut butter and toast for quite a while, but he likes to think he's mature enough to at least try to achieve a slightly more varied diet. He'll try the lasagna again tomorrow.

He's congratulating himself for actually finishing a meal for the first time in a couple of days—even if it's leftover breakfast—when his brother texts him.

Clive [8:16 PM]
how are you feeling

Joshua [8:16 PM]
Great! 👍
How's Torgal?

Clive [8:17 PM]
[IMG172.jpg]
no side effects?

Joshua [8:17 PM]
A little nausea, nothing too bad
Pet my dog for me

In the picture, Torgal's lying on Clive's legs, and Joshua can see the edge of a tattered book lying facedown on the couch next to them. It's the Beowulf translation that Joshua bought from the used bookstore on campus for a literature course at Valisthea U. At least two literature classes were required for all writing majors, and Joshua remembers feeling guilty about taking an Old English poetry class that he enjoyed for the epic stories, rather than a course that would be more relevant for a career in journalism.

Clive would have loved that class, he thinks with a guilty pang. Clive loves fantasy stories about adventurous heroes and monsters. He's the one who encouraged Joshua to send The Djinn and the Firebird to a publisher, as it's exactly the kind of story he would have read to Joshua when they were small.

Clive [8:20 PM]
need anything?

Joshua sighs and puts his phone down on the desk next to him. They really can't seem to fall out of their old patterns. If Joshua says that he wants Torgal because he sleeps better with a bundle of warm fur at his side, Clive will walk the dog over through the snow. Clive sleeps better with Torgal, too. Torgal always used to sleep with Clive when they lived together, and he seemed to keep the nightmares at bay.

Joshua [8:21 PM]
I need you to stop telling people I'm Torgal's little brother

Clive [8:21 PM]
why

Joshua [8:22 PM]
🙄

Chapter Text

25. The people of the world saw God, and they trembled. They cried out: "Whence does comes this Flame come? Why does this fire, which is not of our world, burn so fiercely?"
26. And God answered them, saying: "I am from a realm where fire is the breath of all life. I have come to this world to set it ablaze, to bring it to life with my Flame. I burn to set you free, so that you may rise from the ashes of your old self and become pure as you were meant to be."

- Scriptures of the Risen, Book of Shaping

*****

The Crown & Tub is in the heart of Valisthea University, nestled between the history department and the building where Joshua took a statistics seminar in his junior year. He never used to come here when he was an actual student—money was tight then, and it seemed silly to spend anything on coffee or pastries when he was still living with Clive in a flat with a fully functional kitchen instead of paying for room and board in the dormitories.

He doesn't see Dion when he arrives, so he buys a cup of coffee and dumps in so much sugar it's almost unbearable, even for him—Jill and Clive both disapprove of the way he takes his tea and coffee, though he thinks they wouldn't if they knew how iffy his appetite is right now—before finding a seat at an empty table.

It's not long before a shadow falls over him. Joshua looks up from his phone to see Dion, smiling faintly, holding a cup in his hand. "Dion, hi," he says, standing.

To his surprise, Dion is the one who reaches out for a quick hug this time, a perfunctory arm  around his shoulders. "I'm glad you were able to meet," he says. He's wearing the charming smile that Joshua remembers from magazines when they were children—Dion Lesage became a media darling the moment he first looked into a camera.

"So am I," Joshua says as they take their seats. "You just moved to Twinside, you said? How are you settling in?"

"It's chaos!" Dion says with feeling. "We bought a house together—Terence and I, I don't know if I mentioned my husband's name—but the closing was delayed, and we've been renting a flat in the Deadlands until we can move in."

"And then you'll have to go through a move again," Joshua says sympathetically.

"And the winter term just started at Kihel's school," Dion says. For a second, he looks genuinely overwhelmed.

"Your daughter?" Joshua asks. "Kihel, you said?"

Dion's smile returns, brilliant and beaming. It strikes Joshua suddenly that this isn't an expression he recognizes—not that Dion didn't smile often as a kid, often professionally for interviews and such, but there's something brighter about him now. Because he's thinking about his daughter, presumably, and not being told to smile by a director. "Yes, that's right. Here, she's—" He pulls out his phone, scrolls for a few seconds, and then hands it to Joshua. "That's Kihel."

The child in the picture looks less than ten years old, although Joshua is not the best judge of children's ages. In the picture, Kihel is wearing a neat dress, a backpack, and a shy smile. Leaning down behind her is a tall, dark-haired man whose eyes crinkle with the force of his grin. "She's adorable," he says. The girl doesn't look much like Dion, he notices, and, aside from a similarity in the color of their hair, she doesn't look much like the other man, either. "Terence, I assume?"

"Yes, that's... Did you ever meet him when we were small?" Dion asks. Joshua shakes his head. "His parents worked for the studio. We went to school together for a while, and..." He waves a hand. He's blushing a little bit. He's still smiling.

"I'm happy for you," Joshua says. "You look good, Dion. You look happy." He regrets it a little once the words are out, because a strange look passes over Dion's face, some mixture of embarrassment and defiance as he takes a sip of his drink. "You...you're here for work, you said? Here, at the university?"

"Yes, ah...I...just started here, actually," Dion says. He sits a touch straighter. "As an assistant professor. Of history."

"Oh!" Joshua says, taken aback. "You—really? A history professor?"

Dion's smile has become fixed. It's more familiar, this look, the smile that he used to wear for cameras because he wasn't allowed to not smile. "Not what you expected, I'm sure."

"Well," Joshua says, trying to massage the surprise out of his tone, as it's apparently a bit of a sore point, "you did once go on for half an hour about your history tutor during a campaign fundraising gala—what was his name, it sounded like Hippocrates?—so I suppose it's not so strange."

This is the right answer. Dion's shoulders come down; his eyes light up. "Harpocrates. Professor Harpocrates Hyperboreos. The second."

"Oh my god," Joshua says, and laughs. "Yes, that was it! I could never remember his whole name."

"We call him Tomes—it's much easier," Dion says, laughing with him. "He's the one who recruited me to the university, actually. He moved away and started working at Valisthea around when I went to college, and he told me there was a position opening here when I was finishing graduate school, so..." He trails off. "Anyway."

"But that's wonderful!" Joshua says. Even as a child, even when he was winning awards for his performance in his debut movie, Dion was so quiet and studious when they were alone, and he looks genuinely pleased when he talks about his old history teacher. Joshua doesn't ask what Dion's father thinks of it; there must be a reason why Dion seems so defensive about it. Being a history professor is a lot less glamorous than the career Dion seemed destined for when they were young. "Congratulations, Professor—Valisthea has one of the best history programs in the nation."

He wants to ask about the acting, or business school, because he's pretty sure that was what Dion used to say he was studying for. He wants to know why Dion's coat has a button sewn onto the front that doesn't match the rest, why the scarf around his neck is frayed and faded at the ends. History professors probably don't earn a high salary, and EMS in Twinside pays even worse than the Fire Department, but Sanbreque Studios has been untouchable for decades. Has Dion really completely separated from his father's business? Being able to buy a house says that he is not without means, but that he's living temporarily in a rented flat in the Deadlands and not some sort of glamorous hotel says something, too.

"What about you, though?" Dion says before he can decide whether or not it would be too intrusive to ask any of that when they haven't talked for years. "Terence told me you're a journalist. Are you still writing books?"

Joshua feels his eyebrows rise. "Terence told you?"

"They assigned him to a senior paramedic's crew for re-training," Dion explains. "Apparently, he was told that you're their preferred media contact."

"That's flattering," Joshua says. He finds himself oddly hesitant as well, though he hasn't felt that way in years. There's something about being around someone who knew him as Joshua Rosfield, of the Rosalith Rosfields. "I've still only written the one book, but he's right, I work at State of the Realm, not far from here. I promise I'm not trying to wheedle a story out of you," he adds.

"Not much of a story to tell about me these days; I pretty well used up my minutes of fame when we were younger," Dion says, which cannot possibly be true; Dion Lesage's name is still synonymous with 'breakout child actor,' and he must still be recognized on occasion. "So...you've really been in Twinside this whole time?"

Joshua takes a sip of his coffee and nods. "Clive moved out the day he turned eighteen. As soon as he secured a job and a place to live, he came back, packed up my things, and brought me here with him. I think he mostly picked Twinside because it was about as far from Rosaria as we could get without hitting the Strait of Autha."

"Ah," Dion says. He still looks curious, but he doesn't ask why they wanted to get away from Rosaria; he's too polite. "And he's still in the area, too? What does he do?"

"Still here. He's a firefighter," Joshua says. Dion's eyes widen. "Yeah. I know. Speaking of 'unexpected.'"

"I, er," Dion says. He takes a drink. "A firef—well. That's...actually, quite in character, from what I remember of your brother."

"Right," Joshua says, though it makes his stomach twist. His brother hates fire; he's had nightmares about fire for nearly two decades now. It's only in character for Clive because Joshua's in those nightmares, too.

More interesting, though—or, at least, easier to think about—is that Dion didn't know. Sanbreque Studios released a congratulatory post a few months ago when it was announced that Clive was being awarded a Medal of Valor for particularly heroic heroics during a multi-story residential fire. It was even linked to their mother's official account, though she didn't post about it personally. First responders don't often gain celebrity status, but Clive has an interesting enough family history, a handsome enough face, and a popular enough entry in the fire department's charity calendar to have gained him a small but dedicated following on social media. He doesn't seem to be aware of it himself, but he might well be the best-known firefighter in the Crystalline Dominion at the moment.

But if Dion is unaware, even though Sanbreque tried to capitalize on the news and claim Clive as family for a day, it is indicative of how far removed Dion is from family business.

"How...how have you been, Joshua?" Dion asks tentatively. "I remember, after the fire at the governor's mansion, you were..." He hesitates.

"Mostly dead?" Joshua finishes for him bluntly. He smiles, easy and practiced, at the stricken look on Dion's face. "It's all right, it's only true. I'm not running any races, but I'm doing... I'm getting by."

"Good," Dion says with what looks like genuine relief. "I think you had pneumonia the last time I saw you. I thought..." He stops again, awkward.

"I'm not dead yet, never fear," Joshua says easily. "It's why Clive and I left—so that I would have a chance to recover."

There's a flicker in Dion's eyes, something unhappy. "Yes. I looked for you back then, after the fire. I remember all your appearances in the press."

Joshua feels his smile soften a little. "You looked for me?"

"Of course," Dion says earnestly. "You were my friend. That's why I noticed when your book came out." He doesn't look hesitant about this, or embarrassed. It reminds Joshua a little of Clive, how straightforward he is and how he says things like he means them. "They really kept you busy back then. It was... It seemed like a lot to handle."

"Not as busy as you," Joshua says, because he remembers a period when it seemed like Dion was on every television screen all the time, doing an interview, modeling, promoting his latest film. "It must have been a lot for you, too."

"It was. A bit too much, I suppose," Dion says.

They meet each other's eyes with understanding, and, all of a sudden, the awkward distance of fifteen years seems to melt away.

"I can understand that," Joshua says. He turns aside to cough into his sleeve and ignores the way Dion's eyebrows wrinkle, as if he can see that Joshua's not as well as he tries to make himself out to be. "Now I spend most of my days chasing 909 calls, and Clive spends his days responding to them. Not the jobs our mother wanted for the Rosfield scions, but they're ours."

Neither of them will say outright—not now, at least, not during their first conversation in a decade and a half—exactly what it was that drove them away from home. For Joshua, it wasn't jus the pressure from his mother; it was his health, too, the way his medication made him so sick and bleary as a child, the way exhaustion made him forget to take the drugs half the time and the way his mother didn't seem to care enough about fixing that for Clive's liking. It was the things she said to Clive.

For Dion, perhaps it was the way he always seemed to love talking about his history tutor's lessons more than he liked acting. Perhaps the darker rumors of the way Sanbreque Studios treats their talent aren't unfounded. It could be any of dozens of reasons, but it goes some way to explaining why Dion and his young family aren't living like billionaires.

"It's odd," Dion says, and he laughs quietly. "I almost didn't take the job here. I wasn't sure I wanted to come to Twinside when our parents are...you know. But it's funny, us meeting up again here, of all places. A little solidarity, perhaps, in the face of what's to come."

Joshua rolls this around in his mind and comes up with nothing but confusion. "Our parents? What do you mean—did they have something against you coming to Twinside?"

Dion stares at him. "Well, you know," he says, and then, slowly, "Do you...not know?"

"I'm sure you've guessed, but we don't keep in close touch with our mother," Joshua says, torn between curiosity and apprehension.

That's an understatement. Joshua spoke to their mother a few months ago. A year before that, she called him on his birthday to tell him that Oliver—the new son, the one who is both obedient and healthy—was in middle school. Sometimes, more than a year at a time passes in silence. Whenever they do speak, it's brief, stilted, like she's pretending to still think he's taking some sort of gap year that's gone on for too long and will come home again someday.

"Ah," Dion says. He's still staring, though he's beginning to look uncomfortable. "Terence and I were still in Rosaria until recently, so I saw them on occasion. It was decided a few months ago: Sanbreque Studios is moving its headquarters to Twinside, so...they're moving to Twinside. It won't be until summer, I think, but...soon."

Joshua takes a breath. It catches in his chest, and he turns aside to cough again. When the fit passes, he tries again, more carefully. "You're...you're serious."

Dion winces. Delicately, he asks, "Do they...know that you live here?"

"Oh, I'm sure my mother could have my exact address inside of an hour if she doesn't know it already," Joshua says lightly. "I really am out of touch, it seems." His mother, moving to Twinside. Was that why she called, last autumn? She didn't mention it then. "You've, er...seen her recently, then?"

"Not that recently; I didn't visit often," Dion says. He's studying Joshua, like he's trying to decide something. "She's. Well. She's a bit..."

Joshua feels like his smile is stuck fast to his face. "You don't have to mince words with me. I'm the one who ran away from home."

"You'll have to tell me more about that sometime," Dion says thoughtfully, but he doesn't press for now. And then, more quietly but no less blunt, "I won't tell them I've seen you, if you don't want me to."

"I'd appreciate that," Joshua says without thinking. Dion says he still visits his family, though—that he's still in contact—and it's hard to imagine they'll avoid their mother's notice entirely if they live in the same city. "Though I don't want to cause any...friction between you and your father."

But Dion holds up a hand. "I don't see him often. I doubt it will even come up. After all," he adds with a small smile, "the two of us haven't seen each other in years."

Tilting his head in acknowledgement, Joshua says, "Thank you."

"I didn't mean to drop that on you," Dion says apologetically.

Joshua takes a long pull of his coffee and shakes his head. "Not your fault. I'm glad I found out from you and not from the news. And...and it's not our business, really, is it?" he adds, because it seems that they've both taken pains now to make sure their parents' business is not theirs.

"No, I suppose not."

"Well," Joshua says, setting his cup down decisively. "No need to worry about our parents. What about you? Tell me...tell me about your work, then. History, you said?"

---

Both of them still have to work, so Joshua and Dion part ways with a promise to stay in touch.

"Are you busy next week?" Dion asks hopefully as he's standing up to go. "We could meet here again, if you'd like. It would be nice to get to know each other again."

Neither of them have mentioned directly that they're brothers by their parents' marriage now, but Joshua thinks he sees a bit of it in Dion, the same thing he feels sometimes—a little nostalgia for the people they used to be, curiosity about who they've both become.

"I'd like that," Joshua says. "Sure. Before work, maybe? Text me if there's anything you need to know about Twinside in the meantime."

Dion gives him one more smile and a wave as he strides away toward the history building. A professor, of all things. It's so different from what Joshua—and everyone else—expected of Dion, but, oddly, Joshua has no trouble picturing it. Dion has a way of speaking that makes people want to listen and absorb his every word. He's probably a great lecturer. Ironically, the acting background probably helps with that.

Joshua stays in The Crown & Tub. He has a call scheduled with the Twinside PD public information officer for clarification on a story—Martha's contact has accused a police officer of intimidation and excessive force, not the first such allegation in that neighborhood even in the last week—but there's no reason to return to the State offices just to speak on the phone with someone. Joshua can't walk as fast as most people for more than a few minutes without tiring, and every unnecessary trip to and fro is a waste of both time and energy.

After a while, in which he reminds the PIO that people are already demanding answers after the incident last week, he gets a statement on the issue. It's barely more than a rote platitude, but people will see it as a promise, and hopefully that will force the PD to release bodycam footage or conduct an official review of it, or at least force someone to address it more directly.

"Thanks, Philippe, appreciate the help," Joshua says, typing the PIO's statement word for word on his laptop to be quoted. Philippe's an honest man, though he's constrained by what he's allowed to say and do by his department. If he and Joshua sometimes butt heads, they are, for the most part, on the same side—they both want to get information about the PD's activities to the public, and they can be allies in that or enemies. "While I have you," he adds on a whim, "can I ask about a case from a couple of days ago? Genevieve Laurent."

It takes a moment for Philippe to even remember what he's talking about, by which time Joshua's wondering why he even asked. There was barely even a fire, and there are bigger stories that even he's covered in the day since.

But he can still see Genevieve's face as she was led into the back of a police cruiser, weeping. She was soaked, he remembers with an involuntary shiver, and he knows now it wasn't water but wine, a failed attempt to improvise an accelerant.

"The Kanver Tech incident," Joshua clarifies.

"Barely even an incident, I'd say," Philippe says, recognizing the name at last. "What about it?"

There will not be a follow-up on this. Joshua's wasting time that he should be spending on the next lead, but—

"What happened to the suspect?" he asks. "Is she getting help?"

There's a pause, like Philippe has to look up the case and remember what he can say about it. "She's being evaluated by a psychiatrist later today. The department's doing everything we can to ensure she isn't a danger to herself or anyone else."

"Is she being charged with a crime?"

As he speaks, Joshua's phone vibrates. A text from Vivian pops up on his laptop. He reads it, sends back a quick response, and starts to pack up his things.

"She admitted to trying to set a building full of innocent students on fire," Philippe says, but adds, "We're waiting on the psychiatric consult before any further decisions are made. The situation remains fluid, et cetera, you know the drill."

"I understand," Joshua says. He stands and starts to slide his laptop into his bag. "Also, I just got word of a fire at a block of flats at Times and 3rd. I'm about to head over now—anything you can give me on that?"

"Greagor, I don't even think that fire's been contained yet; the call only just came in. All I can tell you right now is that everyone's priority is working with the Fire Department to preserve life. Give us a minute to do our jobs, Joshua."

"Got it," Joshua says as he hurries out of The Crown & Tub. Philippe has his job, and Joshua has his own. "I'll be in touch."

---

The fire's not out by the time Joshua arrives on the scene. He braces himself for the expected moment of panic as the smell of smoke reaches him and he walks closer instead of away, and he adjusts his mask so that it's as secure as possible on his face.

Most of the police officers are occupied with redirecting traffic and keeping curious citizens—like Joshua himself—from getting too close. He can see a fire engine and a ladder truck both working, along with two ambulances standing by.

It's not long before he has an initial report sent off to Vivian—the location of the fire, the number of people living in the building, the homes and businesses surrounding it that have been affected, the response thus far, a shoddy cellphone snap of the fire from as close to it as he's allowed to get. A photographer should be here soon and will hopefully catch a better shot to replace it.

Then he pulls his coat tighter around himself and hunkers down to wait for emergency personnel to finish, sending off updates to the editorial team as he gets them.

Two hours later, the firefighters are winding down their systematic work through the building, making sure they haven't missed any hotspots and checking for structural damage. Joshua is freezing, but he's also made friends with the onsite superintendent by dint of trying not to freeze together.

"It started in Redouane's flat," she tells him anxiously.

"Redouane?" Joshua asks.

"Redouane Allard. He's lived here for years. An artist." The starting point of the fire hasn't been confirmed yet by any official source, but it does seem from the outside that the fire was largely contained to the floor where Allard lives.

Or lived, as it turns out. Most of the residents evacuated in time on their own upon hearing the smoke alarms, but Fire has pulled out half a dozen people, most of whom are being treated by medics. Two of them are declared dead; one of them is Redouane Allard.

Joshua can't help inching forward for a closer look, morbid and useless though the impulse might be. EMS doesn't make an onsite determination of death except in certain incontrovertible cases. One of them is incineration, and Joshua has seen enough of these types of scenes to know how extensive the damage must be for the EMTs to be making that call.

He regrets looking once he does. Joshua imagines he can feel his skin prickling, a half-remembered heat. Someone covers the body with a sheet before others on the street can see it.

"Such a shame," the super says sadly as Joshua shakes himself and tucks his hands into his pockets in an attempt to keep them warm. She's pale and worried, like everyone else here who lives in the building and probably won't be able to go back home tonight, but she's relaxed a little since hearing that the fire was largely contained. "He's such a nice man—was," she amends with a wince. "Quiet, but always so respectful."

Joshua nods and tries to stop his teeth from chattering. "I'm sorry to hear that," he says. He's still got his mask on, so he doesn't need to worry about forcing his frozen face into a sympathetic expression. "Did you know him well?"

"Not well," the super says, "but we talked from time to time. I was in his flat, oh, maybe a year ago, when his sink started leaking. Artwork all over the walls. You know, it's funny—it's not funny, not at all," she immediately corrects herself. "But he told me he moved here after his brother died in a house fire in Tabor. He was trying to get away from it all. And now..." She looks sorrowfully at the building.

Smoke still surrounds the area. Joshua shivers and tells himself it's from the cold and not the thought of his brother dying in a house fire. He's trying not to take too deep of a breath, because the smoke is threatening at his throat again, and also a little bit at his brain.

"That's tragic," he agrees, making a note to look up a fire in Tabor associated with a man or boy named Allard. "It's a terrible way to go. Do you know if he had friends—other residents, or people who came to visit him here?"

"He mostly kept to himself," she says, "but he did tell me about a group he was in that was helping him. Grief counseling, I think, something like that. He put flyers up at the entrance of the building—I had to take them down eventually, they were taking up too much space. It was called Children of...something. Something that started with a 'D,' some foreign word. Maybe someone there knew him."

Joshua reluctantly extracts his hands from his from his pockets and notes on his phone: Allard, Tabor fire, brother, artist, Children of D— The grief counseling group is probably a dead end, though he notes it anyway; most groups like that wouldn't give out information about attendees, either for legal reasons or for compassionate ones.

It's not long before an officer Joshua doesn't recognize tells them that occupants of the building need to find somewhere else to stay for the night, and perhaps longer than that, in order for the building to be overhauled and inspected.

The super suddenly looks far more daunted at the thought of all the fire and water damage, and someone in the crowd says, panicked, "Where are we supposed to stay until then?"

Hanging back, Joshua shivers and makes a note in his phone with numb fingers about the expected timing of the overhaul, with an additional request for confirmation from Desiree. Most people are on their phones with friends or family, looking for a place to stay the night, but a rising clamor of voices protests that they have nowhere to go. It's freezing out here, the dead of winter, and no one had time to pack a bag of warm clothes when they evacuated.

The police officer is beginning to look frustrated—it's a terrible situation, but there's not much he can do about it—and, hearing an edge start to creep into the man's words, Joshua gives up on remaining an observer and raises his voice. "There's the Glaidemond Home near the old abbey, and Bennumere Haven on 83rd. I have their contact information if anyone wants to call to ask if they have—have sp-space—"

A coughing fit interrupts the end of his sentence, so he's not sure he got the point across. But a few people near him heard, and the words are rippling through the crowd. Nearly everyone's got a phone on them, so if they need the phone numbers of the two shelters, they'll be able to find them. No one's paying attention to him anymore, and Joshua thinks he has all the information he's going to get standing out here, so, still coughing intermittently, he slips away.

---

Jill shoots him a look when she returns from another interview toward the end of the day to see him at his desk, still wrapped in his coat. Joshua doesn't turn toward her; he knows he looks a mess. Between the smoke and the dry cold, he's been coughing in fits and starts all afternoon. His throat feels ragged, and he knows his eyes are faintly red.

He sighs when she sets a steaming cup in front of him, but when she takes off her coat and shoves it into his lap, he takes the bundle gratefully, hugging it to his midsection to soak up her fading body heat. "You're shivering," she says, and touches his forehead. He doesn't bother swatting her away this time. "It's just hot water. Come on, Joshua, warm up, you're skin and bones."

Joshua wraps his hands around the paper cup, letting the warmth seep into his fingers. He was fifteen when Jill moved to Twinside, and, looking back on it all, he knows it was unfair to her, barely eighteen and Clive only twenty but both of them caring for Joshua as if they were the parents he didn't have anymore. She'd already lost her mother by then, too, and her father had been more interested in his work than in her, and she spent her first couple of years at university helping Clive raise Joshua instead of the normal things college students are meant to do. It's not only counterproductive to be annoyed at her; it's poor-spirited, too.

"Thanks, Jill," he says. He pulls his mask down to take a careful sip of the hot water. It feels good, heat sliding down the center of his body, though he's uncomfortably aware now that he never got a chance to eat lunch, and his stomach is feeling a little too delicate to pour much into it.

"What is that?" she asks, leaning over his shoulder to look at his screen with him.

Returning his hands to the warm cup, Joshua explains, "There was a fire. They think it started in the room of an artist. I've been looking into him a bit, and I found some of his work."

He scrolls through the gallery he's found with images of Redouane Allard's paintings. Over the last few months, most of the works share a striking and vivid theme: a wildfire, trees lit like torches on a burning landscape; a house collapsing, one wall half-consumed by fire; a dark figure in the sky, horned like a devil and winged like an angel, wreathed in flames and surrounded by other figures gazing upon it like a god; a man standing while fire licks up his legs, his face calm and peaceful, a small smile on his lips.

It's not peaceful, burning. Joshua thinks about Genevieve Laurent, who tried to set herself on fire, and now this painting, which he knows is just art, just the imaginings of one depressed artist, but the sight of the serenity on the man's face as he burns alive has burrowed into Joshua's mind.

What is it that makes people think it would be anything but an excruciating way to go? The skin blisters and cracks, flesh bubbles and melts together, and smoke burns from the inside like acid in the lungs. Joshua presses a hand to his chest and wonders with pity if Redouane Allard had a moment of realization, if he was surprised by how much it hurt right before the end.

Part of Joshua wants to be furious at these people who romanticize it, like they're spitting on the grave of every person who has ever died in a fire, but the rest of him knows it's not that simple. They are—were—people in pain, and pain like that is neither logical nor merciful.

"It's not just me, right?" Joshua asks when Jill has looked at some of it. "It's disturbing?"

Jill hums, taking his mouse and scrolling through the images. "It's beautiful, in a way," she says. She clicks on one, and it expands to show the same house, this time undamaged, standing under a moonlit night sky. "Or that's how he portrays it. Perhaps that's how he sees it. But, yes, it's a bit unnerving." She's looking between two paintings of the house, one pristine and the other burning. "He really captured the flicker and movement of the fire, the way it almost looks alive."

Joshua can't help a shudder as a chill sneaks up his spine. Jill notices. She closes the tab with the painting of the house on fire. "His brother died in a house fire," Joshua says. "Years ago—they were teenagers, I think. I don't know if that's the house; I haven't found a photograph of it."

His eyes keep being drawn back to the image of the creature—the god, or the angel or demon, whatever it's meant to be—resplendent in the sky like an embodiment of fire itself.

"That's horrible," Jill says. She steps back to her desk. "Clearly it's still preoccupying him after all that time."

"Was," Joshua corrects her. "The artist died today. It's...ironic." There's a thought in his head, and he's not sure he wants to say it, because it sounds terrible. "He saw his home burn to the ground, along with his brother. He's obsessed with fire—sees it as something beautiful—and then a fire starts in his room."

Jill's waking her computer, pulling out her notes, but she turns to look at him. She hears what he's not saying. "Is there any indication it wasn't an accident?"

Joshua shakes his head. "I have inquiries in with Fire and the PD, but none of them will even tell me if it's under investigation."

"You can't speculate if there's no evidence," she warns him.

He waves a hand. Of course not; it would be cruel, aside from unethical, to put an unfounded thought of that sort into the public consciousness. "They haven't even released the names of the victims yet. I'm just thinking aloud. His brother died—"

Died in a house fire, but he's already said that. He can't get it out of his head, and, from the look on Jill's face, she can tell.

"Stop looking at those if they disturb you," Jill says. She's working next to him, somehow managing to speak to him and type up her article at the same time. "Is that really necessary?"

It's not. Vivian will want an update by tomorrow, but Joshua only needs a bit of background information on Allard for when the police release his identity. There's another victim, too, whom Joshua hasn't started to look into yet because he's been distracted by the paintings of homes and people and gods on fire.

There's something here, Joshua's sure of it. Whether there was any foul play, there is, at the very least, a story of a man who was hurt, who sought help from strangers but was unable to move on from the trauma, who then tragically died surrounded by his own obsession. Joshua wants to know more—wants to understand why, and what drove him—but unless an investigation reveals something suspicious about the man, the editors will probably tell him to move on to the next piece of breaking news instead.

"You're right," Joshua says. "I'm getting too caught up in this." He checks the time; people are starting to trickle out of the office. He closes the tab he was looking at and pushes himself away from the desk. "Are you staying much longer?"

"Just need to finish this and send it to the editors," Jill says as he hangs her coat over the back of her chair, "and then I'm off. Have a good night, Joshua. Stay warm."

Joshua tips his cup of warm water to her as he goes. He still feels unsettled, and he's self-aware enough to realize it was probably not the smartest idea to have been staring at lovingly painted images of flames while thinking about a man whose brother died in a fire. His own brother survived the fire of their childhood, but that doesn't mean Joshua's never had nightmares of what might have happened.

Clive's working an evening shift at Otto's right now, which means he'll be there late into the night. Joshua turns and heads in that direction.

---

Joshua [5:45 PM]
Good evening, brother
Have you eaten?

Clive [5:53 PM]
about to take my break soon

Joshua [5:54 PM]
I can stop by in 10-15
Your usual from the Chocobo?

Clive [5:55 PM]
sure
thanks
anything wrong?

Joshua [5:55 PM]
Just visiting on my way home 🙂

---

Otto's Auto consists of a small office attached to an expansive garage with a lot in the back for cars. Joshua can hear the whir of a drill and the hum of a jack as he approaches, and, before he can even open the door to the office, he hears the sound of claws clicking rapidly on the floor from inside.

Torgal is sitting patiently in the doorway when he opens it, though his tail is wagging excitedly and his mouth open and panting. "Hello, my good boy," Joshua says, easing inside and closing the door on the cold behind him before he kneels to properly pet the dog, who promptly licks his nose. "Yes, I've missed you, too. You don't really think I'm younger than you, do you?"

The sound of a throat clearing interrupts him. "You're kneeling in a puddle of melting snow and mud, I hope you know," Otto says from behind the counter. He's sitting in front of a computer, typing something.

"What's a little snow," Joshua says, not stopping his ministrations. "You don't mind if I have snow on me, Torgal, do you?" Torgal has leaned forward to set his head on Joshua's shoulder, opening himself up maximally for pets. He does not appear to mind.

Otto makes a loud sighing noise, and Joshua doesn't have to look over to imagine the scowl on the man's face. "Are you here for business," he asks, "or just to pester your brother?"

This is an auto repair shop, and Joshua does not own a car. He looks at Otto and smiles apologetically. He holds up the larger of two bags of takeout. "I brought chips for everyone," he offers.

Otto sighs again and takes the offering, setting it on the counter before he points to the garage with the pen in his hand. "In there. He's due for a break. Most everyone else is out back already."

"Thanks, Otto," Joshua says. He pats Torgal once more and pushes himself to his feet, grimacing. It's been a long day of standing in the cold, and the muscles in his legs are starting to protest. "I'll be back in a bit, boy."

Torgal follows him to the garage but obediently stops at the threshold, mournfully watching him step through until Otto whistles and drops a rubber toy shaped like a bone, which Torgal immediately turns to pounce on.

In the garage, Joshua is greeted by the sound of metal banging loudly on metal. While many of the mechanics seem to have left, either for the day or for a dinner break, Blackthorne's still in the corner working on a wheel, trying to tap out a dent, from the looks of it.

"Joshy!" someone yells over the noise.

The space echoes, so it's hard at first to pinpoint where the voice is coming from, but there's only one person in the world who calls Joshua by a nickname, so he waves. Gav will know he's not answering because he doesn't want to try shouting too much while surrounded by oil fumes that are trying to tickle at his throat, and he'll also know who Joshua's looking for.

"Over that way," Gav calls. When Joshua finally locates him, Gav's stepping out of the driver's seat of a car, waving at him and pointing toward the other side. "Over by the white sedan. Oy, Clive!" he screams, exactly as Blackthorne stops hammering. The sound of his voice rings through the suddenly—if briefly—quiet garage. Gav makes a face like he's startled himself, but he grins and doesn't lower his volume as he shouts, "Visitor for you!"

Clive's head pops out from under a car. "Joshua," he says while pulling himself out from under it. The next thing he says is obscured by Blackthorne's hammering again, but Joshua doesn't need to hear it to see his mouth form the words, Are you all right?

"I'm fine," Joshua says when he's close enough to look straight down at his brother's head and Blackthorne's put aside whatever he was doing. "Just stopped by to see Torgal and figured I'd bring you something to eat." He holds up the paper bag in his hand. "I don't mean to distract you."

Clive props himself up on his elbows to give him a once-over, then smiles, apparently reassured, and lowers himself again to scoot back under the car. "Thanks," he says. "I'm just finishing an oil change, I can talk. I'll be done in a minute."

Joshua leans back against the wall and watches Clive's hand pull a pan under the car. "Long day?" he asks. Clive makes a grunting noise that could be from the effort of unscrewing whatever he just pulled from the undercarriage, or it could be an answer. Whether it means 'yes' or 'no' is unclear.

Clive peeks back out. He reaches for a gasket and disappears under the car again. "What about you?" he asks, his voice echoing from under the car. "You look pale."

"That's rude, brother, you shouldn't disparage the color of my skin like that," Joshua says.

A sigh emanates from somewhere near the floor where Clive's head presumably is, but he doesn't ask again. "Did you end up talking to Dion after all?"

"Yes, actually," Joshua says. "They're staying in the Deadlands for a while. Did you know Mum's moving to Twinside?"

The last slips out nearly without Joshua's notice. He hadn't decided yet how to bring it up to Clive. But it's out now, and in any case, he's curious about what Clive will say in answer.

For a while, there's no answer at all, though Joshua can see Clive moving, screwing something back into place, setting aside the pan of viscous black liquid. Finally, he slides back out and climbs to his feet. "What did you say?" he asks while wiping oil from his hands.

Gav waves from the other side of the garage as he finishes his task and steps back into the office; Joshua lifts a hand to him in return. "Our mother and her husband," Joshua clarifies. "Dion says they're relocating to Twinside. Apparently, Sanbreque Studios is moving their headquarters from Rosaria to the Crystalline Dominion."

Clive blinks, then tosses the rag aside once more and opens the hood. "Huh. So that's why Dion's around?"

"No, he... He has a job at Valisthea U. I don't think he's involved with the studio at all. He's just...not exactly estranged, either." Clive makes another noncommittal noise. "I wonder if we'll run into her. When's the last time you talked to her?"

Frowning, Clive looks back at him before picking up a bottle of oil. "Who, Mother?" he asks, as though there's someone else Joshua might have meant. "We don't talk, you know that."

"I know, but even just a few words," Joshua says. "A year ago? Two?" Clive was there when she called last year, though he left the room before Joshua could even ask her if she wanted to talk to him.

He waits for Clive to finish what he's doing and close the hood of the car. As he's lowering the jack, Clive repeats, "We don't talk, Joshua. I haven't spoken to her since you were fifteen."

Joshua's quiet while Clive finishes what he's doing, checks his work, runs the engine, tops off the oil, and resets the maintenance reminder light. As he's pasting a sticker on the car's windshield—Next Oil Change: 83,872 miles—Joshua says, "She knows we live here, right? She must know. She didn't mention anything about moving the last time she called."

Fifteen, he thinks. Clive hasn't talked to their mother in over ten years, but he remembers that Joshua was fifteen, like he counts time in Joshua's years and not his own. Joshua can guess why then: that was around when Rodney Murdoch became suspicious, and then sympathetic, about their living situation. It's also around when their mother married Sylvestre Lesage and announced her pregnancy with Olivier. Before then, Clive managed to squeeze the necessary signatures out of her by agreeing to keep any of their family drama quiet, but it wasn't until Joshua was fifteen that Clive quietly received legal temporary guardianship over him.

Was that really the last time—has Clive really not spoken a single word to their mother in thirteen years?

"Sure, she knows, but she's not going to come find us; she could've done anytime over the last decade if she'd wanted to," Clive says. He looks puzzled, like he can't understand why Joshua's even asking. "You're in your twenties. She doesn't have any power over you anymore. Are you worried she's going to hassle us now?"

"No," he says, and smiles so Clive will smooth away the wrinkle between his eyebrows. "Of course not. That's not what I..." He stops and shakes his head. He's not sure what he was going to say, but he's pretty sure that, if he were, he wouldn't want to say it to Clive, not if it involves their mother. "Anyway. I wanted to tell you, since I'm sure it'll be in the news if Sanbreque Studios picks up and moves."

Clive shrugs and nudges the jack stand away from the car he was working on. "Not like I was going to be looking for news about them, anyway."

"There you are, Clive!" a voice calls from across the garage. Cid, the head mechanic who co-owns Otto's Auto, is making his way toward them. "What's taking you so long? I'm not paying you to stand around looking pretty."

Joshua frowns and is about to apologize for the distraction when Clive answers: "Otto pays me, Cid. You don't know the back of your ledgers from the front."

Cid clutches a dramatic hand to his chest. "You wound me. I'll have you know I've always been excellent with numbers."

"And yet somehow terrible at business," Clive returns.

"This place is still standing, isn't it?" Cid says, spreading his arms to encompass the garage as he swaggers closer. Muchcloser to Clive. Joshua feels himself straighten, though Clive doesn't seem to notice.

"That's thanks to Otto, I'm sure," Clive said.

"Or maybe it is your handsome mug," Cid muses, peering into Clive's face from a hand's width away. "Perhaps we should be paying you more."

"This feels dangerously close to sexual harassment," Joshua comments, though he keeps his tone mild, light enough to be taken as a joke. He's met Cid before once or twice, and he doesn't know the man well, but he does know that men who say these kinds of things to their employees don't tend to respond well to being called out directly on their behavior. Clive's not bristling at it, but Cid is his boss—not that one could tell, from the way Clive is talking to him...

Joshua's a little unsure of how annoyed he should be, is the point.

As if just noticing him, Cid nods to him once. "Ah, the other Rosfield. Clive, are you feeling harassed?"

"Constantly," Clive says, rolling his eyes. "What do you want, Cid?"

Cid gestures to the back. "Take your break before you miss it," he says. "Our establishment adheres stringently to ethical labor laws, I assure you"—he says this last to Joshua—"and you've been working all afternoon."

"I wouldn't have to if you'd pull your weight around here," Clive says. Joshua feels his eyebrows shoot up.

Cid only smirks. "Funny, I was just about to take this car out for you so you can wash up. Here I was trying to be nice." He holds his hand out. "Go on, and drag Blackthorne out of here when you go, will you?"

Clive sighs and hands over a key. "I've got him. Come on, Joshua, we'll eat inside."

"Oh—I was on my way home," Joshua says. He looks between his brother and Cid again. Clive has been working at Otto's for a year now, but Joshua can't help being a bit uneasy about the way they're talking to each other. It doesn't seem malicious, but harassment often isn't overtly so. It's not like Joshua would let it pass if Vivian ever implied that Jill was being paid for her looks.

"No, stay and eat with us," Clive says, looking surprised, like Joshua hasn't just traipsed into a workplace where he's mostly tolerated because the dog likes him. Otto's is a close crew, and it feels like stepping into someone's home unannounced. Literally, in fact.

"I don't want to intrude. Here." He holds out the food he'd brought from The Fat Chocobo.

"Nonsense," Cid says breezily. "We've plenty of room in the hideaway for one more. Off you go, now, I need your brother back here when he's fed."

So that's decided.

On the way out of the garage, Clive first tries to cajole Blackthorne to leave, and then, losing patience, hauls him up with a hand around the other man's bicep. Blackthorne glares at Joshua as he's forced away from his work, like it's Joshua's fault and not Clive who is literally dragging him away.

"Here, Torgal," Joshua calls, clipping the leash back onto the dog and leading him toward the hideaway, following Clive and Blackthorne and trailed by Otto. Torgal sniffs eagerly at the bag of food in Joshua's hand, and he's obliged to hand the dog off to Clive before their dinner can be stolen.

The 'hideaway' is what they call the room in the house behind the shop where Cid and Otto live with their children, which the staff of the auto shop uses for breaks. Joshua's seen it once before: once, a few months ago, curious about his brother's new part-time employer, Joshua stole Clive's keys and pretended they'd simply been forgotten on his kitchen counter that morning, using it as a pretext for dropping by Otto's. He happened to run into Gav that day and was shown into the hideaway just long enough to hand the keys over.

The hideaway is a basement, furnished and comfortably spacious for the small crew that have gathered there. Joshua recognizes most of them: Gav's at the microwave and calls out a greeting as they enter; Geoffroy and Josselin are already eating sandwiches from the shop across the street, talking about someone Joshua doesn't recognize by name; and Glenn's sipping something from a mug, ignoring the plastic container of food at his elbow as he reads something on his phone, brows furrowed. Although there is a door separating the hideaway from the rest of the house, Cid and Otto's children are there, too, both hovering around Gav.

"I hope you don't mind my joining you," Joshua says as he claims a chair next to Clive at the table. He hands Clive a cardboard takeout container. Torgal stands for several seconds, looking around the table, but when it becomes clear he's not getting a second dinner himself, he settles himself down at Clive's feet, laying his front paws and snout on Joshua's.

"Thanks for the chips, Josh," says Glenn, immediately reaching for a handful, so apparently Gav is not the only one who uses a nickname for him.

"Where's Gaute?" Geoffroy asks.

"Early shift today and tomorrow," Gav answers.

Gav, Gaute, Glenn, Geoffroy, Joshua thinks idly, watching people settle in around him. Weird. Does Cid only hire people whose names start with the letter 'G?' There's Josselin, but a 'J' at least sounds like a 'G.'

Blackthorne slumps into a chair with a baleful glare at everyone who dares to make eye contact with him. Joshua chooses to ignore him, instead unenthusiastically pulling out the dinner he optimistically bought for himself. Blackthorne hates pretty much everyone, Joshua included, but he's the reason Clive found this job at all—his husband August is the driver of Clive's squad company.

Otto takes his turn at the microwave, tousling the hair of a boy who must be his son as he goes. He hasn't complained yet about Joshua being in his house among his staff, and Otto's not one to bite his tongue, so Joshua relaxes a little.

"Blackthorne's his last name, right?" Joshua asks Clive in an undertone.

"You really think his mother looked at her baby and named him Blackthorne?" Clive says, more curious than sarcastic, though he keeps his voice down, too. He's not immune to Blackthorne's sour moods.

"What's his first name?"

"What?"

"It's not, like, Greg, is it?"

Clive blinks at him. "What are you talking about, Joshua?"

"Everyone's name here starts with a 'G,'" Joshua explains.

"My name doesn't," Clive says, bemused.

True. Then again, a 'C' is as close to a 'G' as 'J.' "Maybe Cid thought your name was Glive when he hired you."

A wrinkle appears between Clive's brows, like he's not sure whether Joshua has gone 'round the twist. "Cid knows my name isn't Glive."

"Seriously, what's his name," Joshua says, because he's curious now. "Is it Greg?" Clive snorts a laugh and takes a bite of his food instead of answering. "Clive, is it Greg?"

"What're you two laughin' about?" Gav asks suddenly.

"Nothing," Clive says immediately when Blackthorne lifts his head, though he's still smiling.

Joshua keeps his mouth shut, too. He'll ask some other time, when the man isn't in earshot.

"Have you been eating all right?" Clive asks as Joshua stirs a plastic spoon in his cup of soup. It seemed like a good idea at the time—nothing too challenging on a mostly empty stomach but hearty enough to fill in some of the calories he needs for the day. Now that he's looking at it, he's not so sure. "You said you were having some nausea. That sheet you gave me says the new drug can cause lightheadedness."

But Clive's watching him, so Joshua smiles and swallows a spoonful before he can think too hard about it. "It's not all that bad. I think I'm getting used to the new pills." He tries to keep his voice low without sounding like he's whispering. It's no secret to any of their acquaintances that Joshua's health is poor, but it's hard not to be self-conscious while surrounded by his brother's coworkers, men and women used to lugging tires across the floor and wearing shirts stained with grease when Joshua sometimes struggles to breathe when standing too close to a car's exhaust.

"Have you taken it yet tonight? And is that all you're having?" Clive gestures pointedly at the soup with his fork.

It's a half hour, in fact, until Joshua's supposed to take his next dose, not that an hour or two in either direction will kill him, probably. He's found, anyway, that getting some food inside of himself first seems to be the best strategy to ease his stomach into the medication. "I will take it on time, brother," he says, threading in the playful cadence he uses whenever he's teasing Clive. "It's cold out. I thought a hot soup would help."

This does the job of redirecting Clive's attention, and Joshua tries not to squirm as his brother's eyes flit over his scarf, his the gloves he still hasn't taken off, his red ears. "Where's your hat?" he demands.

"I...didn't think I'd need it," Joshua says, simultaneously annoyed and embarrassed. "I have a hood. Oy," he protests as Clive pinches one of his ears.

"You're going to freeze these off," Clive says with his usual dramatics. "Just bring your hat next time."

It's irritating because he's right. "Yes, Dad," he mutters. Clive shoots him an exasperated look but returns to his meal.

"—thinks he's going to bring me back into his fold, he's crazier than she ever was," Cid's voice says as he steps inside and pulls the door shut behind himself. He's on the phone, and when a few heads turn toward him, he rolls his eyes at them, lowering his voice. "If you need my help, lad, you know where I am. But whatever it is he wants, you can tell him he's not getting it from me."

With this, Cid hangs up and saunters over to join them. "Brothers, eh?" he says to Joshua, who has no idea what he's talking about.

"Do not compare me to your brother," Clive says flatly.

"Ah, older brothers, you're all the same," Cid says, winking at Joshua like he's part of the joke. He claps Clive on the shoulder, dragging a chair to squeeze in next to him where there is clearly not enough space. "Move your gorgeous arse and let an old man sit down, will you?"

As Clive grumbles and shifts his chair closer to Joshua's, Joshua glances at Otto to see if he'll have anything to say to this, either as Cid's partner or as Clive's other boss. Otto's shaking his head, but he doesn't look jealous or angry. There are a couple of chuckles around the table.

Maybe this is just how they all act at Otto's. Joshua's gotten used to working under Vivian, who has zero tolerance for inappropriate workplace behavior, but no one here seems bothered by it.

"How come you've never called me arse gorgeous, Cid?" Gav complains from across the table, as though to prove the point.

"D'you even have an arse, Gav?" Josselin asks. "Never seen one on you myself." This must be more a challenge than any sort of true curiosity, as even Joshua has noticed that Gav does, in fact, have a generous backside.

"Oy!" Gav stands up and starts to turn around and actually has one hand on his waistband. "I'll fuckin' show you all the arse you—"

"Gav, for fuck's sake!" Otto snaps, though Josselin whoops in delight. "Not in front of the children."

"So later, then?" Gav asks with a wink, sitting back down.

"Never," Otto says, at the same time that Cid says, in an undertone that Joshua only hears because he's sitting so close, "Only if everyone else has to show theirs, too," and nudges Clive.

"You'd like that, would you?" Clive mutters around a spoonful of food.

Joshua sips his soup quietly. He can't help watching Cid out of the corner of his eye.

"Dad!" Cid's teenaged daughter has spotted him and is hurrying over. Joshua knows that she's some sort of prodigy, already taking some college courses and working in the garage after school alongside the grown men and women. "D'you see the old junker what came in today?"

"No insulting the hardware at the dinner table, Mid," Cid chides, which Joshua thinks is a joke, but, as with everything else about Cid, he's not sure. "What about it?"

"Gav says you're gonna scrap it," says Mid.

"Aye, that's the plan. Repairs'll be more expensive than it's worth."

Mid grips him by the shoulders. "Let me at it," she begs. "I took a look earlier—"

"And when did you do that?" Cid demands. "Weren't you at school until just now?"

She waves this off. "The TA canceled our afternoon section. Anyway, I could at least salvage the engine. It's an old model, but I think I can increase the efficiency two-fold, if not more, if I can just open 'er up and give 'er a look-over. Please, Dad, can I?"

Cid tugs on the long braid she wears over her shoulder. "Tie this up while you're working," he orders.

"'Course, I'm not thick," Mid says, nodding eagerly.

"And have someone help you with the heavy lifting," Cid continues. He turns to his side with a smirk. "Clive, you haven't done a full engine replacement yet, have you?"

"No," Clive says, looking wary.

"Then this'll be a good chance for you to get some hands-on experience," Cid says, slapping him on the arm. "It's a tricky job, but just do whatever Mid says."

Clive sighs. "I will do whatever you ask of me, Mid," he says.

"All right!" Mid crows. She transfers her hands from her father to Clive and shakes him heartily by the shoulders. "I knew I could count on you, Clive!"

Joshua eyes them askance between sips of rapidly cooling soup. Clive doesn't really mind, he can tell; there's a certain tension that his brother holds in his jaw when he's made to do things he doesn't want to. But Clive's a tolerant man. There are lots of things he doesn't mind that he probably should. Clive likes it here. He's friends—real friends, not just work friends—with Gav and friendly enough with Blackthorne to be able to drag him away from his work without being bashed with a hammer, and Joshua wonders if there are things he simply puts up with because there's not another option. It would be very like Clive.

"Oh!" Mid says suddenly, still holding onto one of Clive's arms. "I were goin' to ask you, Clive. There was a fire at school the other day! You were never there, were you?"

"Not me," Clive says, frowning. "A fire? Were you near it?"

"Nah, it were in my Thermo TA's dorm. Apparently they all got displaced for a bit, which is why she didn't have time to prepare for today's section."

"Was this at Kanver Tech?" Joshua speaks up.

Her eyes shoot to him, surprised. "Aye. I'm only there three times a week, though, so I only heard about it after."

"Herman's crew responded; you were off duty," Joshua tells Clive, who's looking curious now, too. "I told you about this the other day—that tip I got from Dion. There wasn't much of a fire to put out and no structural damage. They only had the building evacuated for the investigation."

"Are you a firefighter, too, then?" Mid asks, interested in him for the first time, though they've crossed paths before when Joshua's visited Clive here. He's always had the impression she thinks of him as an uninteresting accessory Clive sometimes brings to work. The expression on her face is dubious—even through his thick coat, he doubts he looks like he could hold onto a firehose or break through a window.

Joshua laughs. "No, I'm a writer. I'm the one who broke the story, though there wasn't much of it to tell."

Unfazed, she says with relish, "The other students were sayin' someone tried to set themselves on fire with wine! Izzat true?"

He shivers; even though any fire had long been extinguished by the time he was on the scene, he can almost feel the phantom heat. The police haven't charged Genevieve Laurent with anything yet, but some parts of the story will likely become public soon. Before he can answer, though, Clive says, "The alcohol content in most wine is too low to be flammable."

"Something to be grateful for," Cid says. He's still sitting in a relaxed sprawl, one knee knocking against Clive's, but he's got a grip around his left forearm, and his fingers are white with tension. Joshua can't help but wonder why—if Cid had a bad experience with fire, or if Otto or the children did—but he looks up and is startled to see Cid watching him. He doesn't jump, though he does avert his gaze. "Burning alive's a shit way to go."

"Some people are weird about fire; we see it sometimes," Clive says, a hilarious understatement given the context of people trying to set themselves ablaze.

Well, just one person. Joshua hasn't mentioned Allard to anyone other than Jill, so they're not thinking, like he is, of the second person in a week he's run into who may have had such an intention.

"Weird?" says the boy who is probably Otto's son, trotting toward them with Otto following after. Joshua doesn't remember the boy's name, if Clive's ever told him. "You'd have to be crazy!"

"Well, was she?" Mid asks. "Crazy?"

There are suddenly several pairs of eyes on Joshua. He sets his soup down and says carefully, "She seemed...troubled. I don't know the details. It's probably best not to speculate."

"Thomas," Otto chides warningly when the boy—younger than Mid, his voice not yet broken—starts to say something else. "Be nice, eh?" Thomas deflates, and Mid, glancing between Otto and her father, shrugs on a mask of nonchalance as well.

"So," Cid says, knocking the back of his knuckles against his daughter's shoulder, "what exactly are you planning to do to that engine?"

As the conversation moves on, Joshua rummages in his bag for his pills and swallows three. Clive's watching him as he does, but he says nothing. He does hand a piece of chicken down to Torgal, who perks up and laps it up eagerly, then looks up at him for more. When he doesn't oblige, Torgal looks to Joshua instead.

"Sorry, nothing you'll want in mine," Joshua tells him. Torgal whines. Joshua sighs and rubs the top of his head. "I'll bring treats next time."

"You'll spoil him," Clive says. He checks his phone for the time and starts to clean up to return to work.

"I'll spoil him?" Joshua echoes indignantly, because he's seen at least three different people tonight feeding Torgal treats or bits of dinner. Thomas is even now trying to unload a bit of meatloaf under the table. "Unlike some, I don't need to bribe my dog for his affection."

"Fortunately, he's my dog," Clive says. He's wearing a little smile again at the tired but comfortable routine, and for an instant, Joshua thinks about—

His brother died in a house fire.

Joshua bends to pick up his bag before Clive can see his face, and he thinks he's smoothed away the momentary flash of horror by the time he straightens. "Are you working late tomorrow, or shall I come to your flat for Torgal?"

"I'll be home early," Clive says. He claps Joshua on the shoulder, still smiling.

He seems happy here, Joshua thinks with twisting a feeling behind his sternum that's probably relief, despite getting pressured into indulging the boss's kid and having to put up with constant flirting. Maybe it's fine. If Cid's daughter has latched onto Clive, that's one point of connection he's not likely to lose easily, even aside from Gav and the others. Joshua glances at a clock on the wall, old and analog—suddenly, the sound of its second hand ticking sounds deafening.

"It was good to see you," Clive says as they walk out together into the cold, Clive in only his work shirt because he's about to go back to the garage. He tugs the hood up over Joshua's head. "'Til tomorrow?"

"I'll come by as soon as I'm done with work," Joshua promises. He smiles. "See you."

Chapter Text

1. In the days that followed the founding of the first great city, there arose a generation of the people of the Flame who grew strong in the warmth of the fire. They built a high tower which they called the Sagespire whose walls were lined with countless pyres, and their fields yielded abundance that had never been seen before.
2. But as their strength grew, so too did their pride. They began to believe that the Flame that had given them life was something that they themselves could control. 

- Scriptures of the Risen, Book of the Fallen

*****

About a week later, Joshua's on his way home when his phone buzzes.

SQ1 Off. Dorys [6:07 PM]
Have you heard from your brother?
He's not answering my texts

His steps slow, and then quicken.

Joshua [6:07 PM]
I'm on my way home
He's usually at my place now
Is something wrong?

SQ1 Off. Dorys [6:08 PM]
Probably not
We had a rough call last night, fire in a residential building
I was checking in with everyone

Joshua [6:08 PM]
Was he hurt?

SQ1 Off. Dorys [6:08 PM]
No but a section collapsed and Theo ended up with some bad bruises
Clive seemed a little disoriented afterward but he checked out ok

Joshua starts to type something and forces himself to delete it when he recognizes it will sound too angry. It's been ten whole hours since they got off-shift, but, in fairness, the whole squad must have been exhausted. Dorys is a good company officer. She doesn't have to check on her crew off-hours if they all cleared medical. Texting Joshua now is a kindness. Telling him that Theo, the firefighter who is most often paired with Clive for these sorts of rescues, was injured is a way of telling him how close Clive came to being hurt himself.

He picks up his pace. His flat is only a few blocks away.

Joshua [6:09 PM]
...

SQ1 Off. Dorys [6:11 PM]
We pulled out several residents. One didn't make it
A kid maybe college age

Joshua [6:12 PM]
Understood
If he's not at my flat, I'll go check on him

SQ1 Off. Dorys [6:12 PM]
Thanks Joshua
Take care

Halfway up the stairs, because the goddamned lift is still broken, Joshua has to pause for breath, leaning on the wall and coughing. His heart is racing, and he's a little dizzy from trying to run when he knows he can't. He can't catch his breath, which is—which is normal, and it's maddening.

Fucking maintenance. His stupid fucking lungs. Clive's fucking coworkers who are supposed to have his back, who knew something was wrong and just left him alone anyway with someone who can barely make it up the stairs under his own steam. This is why Joshua annoys him about friends who give a shit about him outside of uniform, because Clive won't call Gav if he needs help and Jill won't just barge into his flat if—

Joshua presses a hand to his chest like it will keep the anger from spilling out. Sometimes, he feels like there's something ugly trapped inside him, a frustration that lives behind his breastbone and festers with every breath he can't quite catch, every brush with harm his brother has. He's being unfair, and he knows it. It was a rough call. That means it was rough for all of them. One of them is hurt.

Belatedly, he realizes he should have asked:

Joshua [6:19 PM]
Is anyone else hurt?

SQ1 Off. Dorys [6:19 PM]
No all fine

Joshua [6:20 PM]
I'm sorry it was a hard night
Thanks for letting me know

Torgal bounds to the door when he finally makes it up, whining behind the door when Joshua is still pulling his keys out of his bag. As soon as he gets the door open, Torgal butts at Joshua's leg, then backs off and starts back into the flat. He looks back when no one immediately follows and returns.

Clive's shoes are inside, just to the side of the door. A surge of relief hits him: Clive is here, even if he's not answering his phone for some reason.

Throwing his coat onto the couch, Joshua calls, panting, "Clive? Are you here?"

There aren't a lot of places for a man to hide in here, and all Joshua has to do is follow Torgal, who trots immediately to his bedroom, where Clive has fallen asleep on top of the covers.

Joshua reaches for the doorframe for stability and leans against it. Clive doesn't stir. The nasal cannula that connects to Joshua's oxygen concentrator isn't hung over its hook as it normally is; it's neatly coiled in its tubing and lying on the bedside table, where Clive always puts it because he worries Torgal will try to chew on it if it's dangling, even though that's never happened. A closer look shows that the tubing has been newly replaced and neatly labeled with today's date on a piece of tape. Clive must have been upset when he came home, and this is how he worked it off.

Joshua never knows what he's supposed to say when this happens. He does know that Clive doesn't like seeing him upset, though, so he turns away, confusing Torgal, and sits on the couch for a few minutes, until he's caught his breath and no longer feels unsteady. Then he stands, presses back the frustration in his chest, smooths away any worry that might be written on his face, and flicks on the light.

"Morning, brother," he says. His voice comes out light and teasing. "Or, should I say, 'evening.'" Torgal leaps up onto the bed and sidles close to Clive, tail wagging. Joshua keeps an arm's distance away from the bed as Clive stirs. "Come on, Clive, wake up, you're going to ruin your sleep tonight."

It takes another few moments, but Clive finally opens his eyes blearily. As if suddenly realizing where he is, he sits up very fast, then winces and reaches for his shoulder.

Immediately, Joshua feels the smile fall off his face and a dart of fear stab into his chest. "What is it? Are you hurt?" He looks around—he didn't see it before, but there's a cold pack lying on the bed next to where Clive just was.

"Ugh," Clive says, rough with sleep, still grimacing. "I was just going to close my eyes for a minute."

Joshua steps up to the bed and picks up the cold pack. It's warm now. "Are you hurt?" he demands again.

"No, I must've strained something," Clive says, like he's not contradicting himself as he speaks. He's rolling his shoulder—gingerly, but it does move. He rubs a hand over his face. "What time is it? I was going to..." He trails off and looks down at Torgal, who lies next to his leg, looking up at him. "I walked and fed him earlier."

Joshua strokes Torgal's back and turns toward the kitchen. "I'll get dinner started."

"I was going to—" Clive starts.

"I've got it," Joshua interrupts.

He doesn't mean to sound short, but he's frustrated, and he's not sure he can keep it from leaking out if he keeps talking. He replaces the cold pack in the freezer and pulls out his phone, leaning against the counter.

Joshua [6:23 PM]
Hi, was Clive hurt on your call last night?

SQ1 Theo [6:25 PM]
i don't think so, why?

Joshua [6:25 PM]
Something's wrong with his shoulder

SQ1 Theo [6:26 PM]
...
shit i didn't notice
there was a collapse he had to pull me out
how bad?

Theo was hurt. It's not his fault Clive had to haul him to safety, Joshua reminds himself; it happens sometimes, and it's why they work in pairs or trios. Clive, if he felt the pain at all at the time, didn't mention it to the medical team or Dorys. It's not their fault.

Clive wouldn't mention it to Theo, of all people, unless it were unavoidable. Theo was raised by his older sister when their parents kicked him out of the house, and Clive will always see the younger man as someone to shield from harm, even if they're supposed to be equal partners. It would feel like a problem if it weren't for the fact that Joshua knows Theo is just as protective of Clive—no one is more familiar than Joshua and Theo with the guilt of knowing an older sibling has given up everything for them, and Theo would die before letting another pseudo-sibling be hurt.

Joshua [6:26 PM]
He says it's not bad
How are you doing?

SQ1 Theo [6:26 PM]
i'm ok now just sore
he ok otherwise? one of the men we pulled out said something weird to him
freaked us both out

Joshua [6:27 PM]
I didn't know that
Said what?

SQ1 Theo [6:27 PM]
i didn't hear all of it
something like
we've finally found you

Joshua stares at the words. We've finally found you. There's no way to make them sound anything but ominous, even a little threatening. But people get confused when they're panicking; the person probably meant 'you, a firefighter, have finally found us,' or something of the sort.

Joshua [6:27 PM]
That is odd
He's at my place rn
I'll keep an eye on him

SQ1 Theo [6:28 PM]
can you tell him i'm sorry

Joshua [6:28 PM]
Not your fault
Get some rest, thanks

The dishwater is open, and drying on the top rack is the filter for the oxygen concentrator. Joshua sighs. He imagines Clive trudging into the flat, realizing his shoulder is hurt, and deciding to do maintenance on all of Joshua's medical equipment instead of calling his doctor or treating himself. He closes the dishwasher so he won't trip over it, then pulls out a pan to start dinner.

The pan is heating on the stove when Joshua hears Torgal's claws on the cheap linoleum floor of the kitchen, followed by Clive's slower, heavier footsteps. "Hey," Joshua says without turning around. He's gathered food that's easy to prepare, a random variety of vegetables and meat he found in the refrigerator. Clive's leftover lasagna is warming in the oven as he works.

"Hi," Clive says. He stands behind Joshua and hovers, a little too close. Joshua doesn't try to make him back off.

"What happened to your shoulder?" he says instead. He holds a hand over the pan to test its warmth and finishes running a knife through the rest of an onion.

"I'm...not sure. I didn't notice anything until I got home."

Are you lying? Joshua wants to ask, but he doesn't. It's not unusual for adrenaline to mask injuries, and the last thing he wants to do is cast blame for being hurt. With what Dorys implied, he's certain Clive is doing enough of that himself. "You should call your doctor while you're off rotation," Joshua says.

"I think it's just strained," he says again, but he adds, "I'll take the day off tomorrow if it's not better," which means it hurts enough right now to be a problem. Most of the injuries Clive has come home with aren't dramatic burns but rather strains and bruises, injuries from falls or exertion under extreme pressure. "I'll tell Dorys if it doesn't."

He'll tell Dorys, not a doctor. Because if he's hurt, his squad leader needs to know so she can rearrange their duties, but god forbid Clive care about it for his own sake.

Joshua takes a breath and lets out a cough, stifled as fast as he can manage. He pulls a fresh cold pack from the freezer, wraps it in a hand towel, and passes it over. He's not angry at Clive.

Well, he is. But he's trying not to be. Mostly he's just angry that things are the way the are.

"Did you take anything?" he says calmly as he brushes a pile of onions into the pan. They land with a sizzle.

"No," Clive says, and does not elaborate, though he holds the ice pack to his shoulder. He knows where Joshua's first-aid supplies are—he's the one who stocked them—so if he hasn't taken any over-the-counter pain relievers, it's because he didn't choose to. He's shuffling from one foot to another, full of nervous energy. "Are you...are you feeling all right today?"

Joshua tries not to sigh aloud. "Yes, Clive. Relax. I'm fine."

When they finally sit down—on the couch, because neither of them wants to sit in the hard kitchen chairs when they can slouch into cushions instead—Clive watches unblinkingly as Joshua takes his pills and settles back with a chunk of lasagna that's been sitting in his refrigerator for almost a week because he hasn't been able to force himself to eat as much as he knows he should.

Joshua switches his television on to a news channel, leaving the volume low. "Rough call last night?" he asks.

There's no answer. Clive doesn't often want to talk about it when he comes back from a difficult shift, but sometimes he will, if he's not pushed into it, if he's upset enough that it spills out of him. Mostly, he hovers and watches Joshua. It's uncomfortable to be studied so intently, but there's not much else Joshua can offer, so he lets it happen. He keeps his attention on the screen, watching as a correspondent interviews L'ubor Dalimil, the young engineering graduate student campaigning for mayor against the incumbent Natalie Pustina.

Out of the corner of his eye, he watches as Clive picks listlessly at his food. Finally, his brother puts his plate down on the floor only half eaten and sinks one hand into the fur at Torgal's neck, stroking the dog along the back with his other. Torgal wriggles closer to him, the better to be pampered.

"Not hungry?" Joshua says.

Clive takes a breath and lets it out, slow and careful. He doesn't speak; he doesn't look like he can, so he focuses on petting Torgal instead.

Joshua glances worriedly at them but tries not to react otherwise. He knows this routine, and what his brother needs at the moment is a bit of quiet and his dog.

It's a few very long minutes before Clive speaks. "Who called you?"

"Dorys," Joshua says. No reason to feign confusion. "She said you seemed disoriented on the scene, and she couldn't get hold of you afterward. I've told her you're with me."

"I wasn't disoriented," Clive says.

"All right," Joshua agrees.

Clive throws him a look, sidelong. "It was..." He pauses. His hand keeps moving along Torgal's spine. "Things got out of control. Theo was hurt."

Joshua mutes the television and sets his own plate down on the coffee table. "I talked to Theo. He's okay, Clive."

"Yeah. There was a kid who didn't..." Clive takes a breath and rubs a hand over his mouth. "God, Joshua. He couldn't've been older than you."

They're old enough now that it doesn't really make sense to call Joshua a 'kid,' and he's not that much younger than Clive, either. But Clive will never stop seeing him that way, as a kid he wasn't able to save when they were younger. Every time he sees a young person badly hurt or worse, it's all he can say when he comes home: He couldn't have been older than you. She was younger than you were. For a second I thought he was—

There's nothing Joshua can say that will make something like this better. This is why he hates his brother's job, even though he knows Clive is good at it, that he's saved homes and lives. "I'm sorry," he says. He reaches over to pet Torgal, too, and lands with his hand on Clive's knee.

"Yeah," Clive says again. He shakes his head, fists his hand loosely in Torgal's fur. "I wasn't disoriented. Not like Dorys thought. I just..."

"I understand," Joshua says. He pats his brother's knee, uselessly. He can't hug him, because the dog's in the way, but Clive doesn't always want to be touched too much when he's this rattled, anyway. "Theo mentioned that one of the people you saved said something to you."

Clive glances at him. "Er. Yeah, when they were loading him onto the ambulance. He must have thought he recognized me."

Joshua nods. We've found you. "Did you know him?"

"I'd never seen him before in my life."

There are plenty of reasons why a stranger might recognize Clive. He's the son of the late Elwin Rosfield, and, unlike Joshua, he was fifteen when their father died, old enough to have been active on the campaign trail when their father was running to become president of Storm. After the fire, Clive was left strong and healthy enough for the scar on his face to look to the world like a badge of courage and not a mark of frailty, and when Joshua proved unable to live up to the role, Clive was made into their mother's symbol of the family's strength—like a phoenix rising from the ashes—when she began her own campaign in the wake of Elwin's.

Then, too, Clive is an exceptional firefighter, and the world knows it now, after last year, when the president awarded him a medal for helping to rescue over two dozen people and then pulling both Dorys and Cole to safety when they became trapped on the floor where the fire originated.

But Clive shrugs helplessly. "He said..." He stops. "It was so strange."

"What?" Joshua asks.

Clive looks up at him. "He grabbed me and said... 'We found you. This was for you.'" He shivers once, a whole-body shudder. Torgal raises his head, sensing something amiss.

"'This was for you,'" Joshua repeats, frowning. What was? The fire? Try as he might, he can't think of a good way to interpret that. It sounds like...

No wonder Clive seemed out of it at the scene, if he dragged his partner out of a burning building only to hear that.

"I can't get it out of my head," Clive says. He's stopped petting Torgal now; one of his hands is clenched in his lap. "If Theo hadn't heard him, too, I would have thought I'd imagined it. The look on his face—he had burns down his side and he'd eaten a lot of smoke, but he was smiling. Like he was happy." Clive shivers again. "Someone died."

It's an unsettling image. "Do you think he started it or something?"

"To, what, get our attention? Make some sort of a point? Founder, someone died. 'This was for you,'" he says again.

"Did you tell anyone? The police?"

Clive nods, and then shakes his head. "I...I think Theo told them. Or..." He stops. "Dorys must have?"

He doesn't sound sure; he was disoriented afterward. "Ask her," Joshua says. "Yes? It might be nothing, but if this person started it on purpose..."

"If he didn't start it, I don't know what he could have meant." Clive lets go of Torgal to rub his eyes. He looks exhausted.

Joshua squeezes his knee. "None of that's on you."

"I should have been able to save—" Clive starts, and then stops. He looks away.

"You did everything you could," Joshua says. "You saved everyone who could be saved."

"You don't know that."

"Yes," he says firmly, "I do. Whoever that person was, clearly, something was very wrong with him. They've got some obsession with firefighters, or with fire, or they mistook you for someone else. Hell, maybe they were just in shock. You can't control that."

An obsession with fire. The thought tickles at him until he remembers—that's what he said to Jill, a couple of weeks ago, while staring at the painting of a man being consumed by fire, and another of a flaming creature ruling dominant over the sky. This doesn't feel like the same thing; it doesn't feel entirely different, either.

"But twice in...a couple of weeks? That student Mid was talking about, from Kanver Tech, and now this?"

And Redouane Allard, Joshua thinks. He hasn't mentioned that case to Clive, but if they're right about this, then that makes three attempted or successful arsons—or perhaps suicides by fire—in two weeks. He guesses. None of this has been verified, and they haven't followed the same MO. But it feels a little too coincidental.

"It sounds weird to you, too," Clive says when Joshua's been silent for too long.

Joshua tilts his head. "Maybe. Let me look into it. You've already done your job."

"You don't have to get involved."

"I've been looking for an excuse to dig a little more into some of these," Joshua says honestly. He picks up his plate of food, though he's not hungry. "Come on, Clive, you need to eat. And then ice that shoulder. I can take care of Torgal for a bit if you need a break." At this, Clive curls an arm around Torgal, as if to stop anyone from taking the dog away from him. Joshua smiles fondly at the two of them and pointedly eats a carrot chunk.

Genevieve Laurent. Redouane Allard. Whoever was involved in last night's incident; Joshua will need to check with Desiree from the Fire Department and then look them up. But there's something there. He's not sure what it is, or if all of it is the same something, but someone either set a fire that put his brother's life in danger or, at the very least, unnerved him so much that his squad leader was worried about his mental state. If there's anything to be found, Joshua is going to find it before it reaches Clive again.

---

Joshua's texting Desiree to ask for more information about the call Clive was sent on—and also August, the friendliest member of Squad Company 1, and Philippe just in case the police have any information—when the plate disappears off his lap. "You don't have to do that," he says before looking up, but Clive has already carried it and his own back to the kitchen area. "Leave it, Clive, I'll take care of it."

"I've got it," Clive says, already starting to wash the dishes. "You've had a long day."

Incredible, that Clive can say that with a straight face when he's less than twelve hours off a forty-eight hour shift. It's true that Joshua's tired, because he's always tired at the end of the day, but all he's been doing is chasing sirens and reporting on robberies, a sinkhole, and one traffic stop. It's hard not to feel a little useless on days like these, when Clive has literally just spent the night running in and out of a house on fire and is now doing basic chores for Joshua, who had to pause for breath halfway up his stairs.

Knowing that this makes Clive feel better—taking care of him, even in small and unnecessary ways—doesn't really help. It only reminds Joshua of what his brother is willing to give up for him. Nothing Joshua does has ever been able to relieve the tension in his brother's shoulders or the worry in his face, except looking and acting as healthy as he possibly can.

Torgal is still lazing on Joshua, but he carefully eases himself out from under the dog to stand next to Clive. "Really," he says. "Let me do that."

"It's fine, Joshua," Clive said, nudging him bodily out of the way as he rinses off a plate. Joshua decides that this is a fight he's not going to win and picks up a towel to dry instead.

"I've been meaning to talk to you, actually," Joshua says, filling the silence between them before it can fill with tension. "Is there something going on with Cid, at Otto's?"

"Hm?" Clive says. He doesn't look up, but he scowls fiercely at the sponge in his hand before scrubbing emphatically at the tines of a fork. He's holding himself stiffly, not moving his strained shoulder more than he has to. "What do you mean? We work together."

"Right," Joshua says, giving Clive a meaningful look. His brother either doesn't notice or chooses to ignore it, so he's forced to be direct. "It's a little strange, isn't it, the way he treats you?"

"Strange?"

"You do know he's flirting with you," Joshua clarifies, just in case, because it wouldn't be the first time Clive has failed to notice someone trying to get his attention.

But Clive only smiles. "That's just how he is."

"He shouldn't be acting that way," Joshua says. "He's your boss."

"Look," Clive says, "he isn't, technically. Otto's my boss, and he's Cid's, too. Technically, Cid's only got seniority over me. He can't fire me or anything."

"I literally heard him talking about how he's paying you to look pretty."

"He said that he's not," Clive says, and thrusts a plate at him. "Paying me to look pretty, that is."

Joshua squints at his brother while he dries the plate. Whatever is technically written into Otto's Auto's bylaws, Clive is not a man who follows the letter of the law rather than its intent, which means that this technicality matters to him for some reason.

Also, he's blushing.

"Oh my god, do you have a thing for your boss?" Joshua blurts. He throws his towel at his brother, whapping him in the chest. "Are you serious?"

He thought he'd figured out his brother's type by now, and Cid doesn't seem to fit it. Both Jill and Fabien are a couple of years younger than Clive, both self-assured and confident in their own competence, sharp and serious about their work but with a wicked sense of humor when the mood strikes them—

All right, perhaps Cid's not not Clive's type. Just...a bit older than the other people he's dated. Joshua has not previously included men who look old enough to be their father in Clive's possible dating pool.

And now Clive is defensive. "What, he started it!" he says, flicking the towel back at him.

"That's not better!" Joshua says, exasperated. "He's your boss!"

"Otto's my boss," Clive says, and Joshua throws the towel again.

"What about Otto?"

"What about him?"

It's baffling; he wouldn't have thought that Clive would pursue a man already in a committed relationship. "Are you dating Cid?" Joshua asks.

"I..." Clive says. He scowls at Joshua. "We—I dunno, what do you count as dating?"

"Clive," Joshua groans, because that's enough of an answer. "Does Otto know?"

"Er, I'm pretty sure he knows," Clive says, looking puzzled.

"If you're going to split hairs about which one of them is your boss," Joshua says in disbelief, "then I need to point out that sleeping with your boss's partner is not better than sleeping with your actual boss. Arguably, it's worse for you."

"We're not—we haven't slept together, technically," Clive mutters, reddening further, which—what is he being technical about? "And why would it be Otto's business, anyway? They're business partners, not..." He waves a hand vaguely.

Joshua stares at him. "They live together," he says. "They're raising their children together."

"So?" Clive says, beginning to look defensive again. "Not everyone raises their children the same way." He glares at the sponge in his hand. "I thought you'd be happier about this, actually," he grumbles, and Joshua snaps his mouth shut, obediently taking a glass to dry. "You're the one who's always trying to get me to meet people."

The thing is, Clive raised Joshua from the age of thirteen, and perhaps to a degree even in the years before that. As much as they joke about it, Clive was his parent for all intents and purposes: Joshua has more memories of being raised by his brother than he does of their actual father. They've had their share of problems with people making hasty assumptions about their relationship and their living situation, and Clive was the one who always bore the brunt of people's nosy suspicion. The fact is that Joshua does not know why Cid and Otto are living together with their children, and he has never personally seen anything in their interactions that would suggest they are entangled in an other-than-platonic way, so maybe this isn't just Clive being oblivious to social cues.

And he has wanted Clive to find someone who will make him happy. Clive likes the crew at Otto's. That's a good thing, isn't it?

"And you're...interested," Joshua says, awkwardly. He does not need to know the details of his brother's romantic endeavors, but he does need to know that he isn't being forced into anything because he works for the man he's developed a crush on.

"I'm not talking about this with you," Clive declares, but, also, "Yes, I... I don't know, Joshua. We just get along, all right?"

"All right," Joshua says. He holds up his hands. "All right."

"Here—" Clive reaches past him to open a cupboard, then stops with a bitten-off grunt, pulling his arm close to himself.

"Stop it, Clive, just let me..." Joshua pushes at him until he backs away and puts away the last of the dishes himself. "Go, ice it if you're not going to call your doctor, for god's sake."

"Are we all right?" Clive says instead of listening to him.

Joshua sighs. He thinks about how relaxed Clive seemed sitting in Otto and Cid's basement with the other mechanics, how many hands reached under the table to sneak Torgal a snack, and how they all know Joshua's name and Gav's gotten them all to call him by a nickname even though he barely knows them. This is what he wanted, he supposes. He's still uneasy about it, because Clive can't possibly be naïve enough to think there are no complications about becoming entangled with a superior at work, even if it's not the job he considers his primary one.

But it's something other than sitting alone in his flat or at his little brother's.

"Don't be stupid," Joshua says. He reaches around the worry in his chest and drags out a smile. "I'm happy if you are. Go, sit down. I'll finish cleaning up."

---

It doesn't take long for Clive to fall asleep again on the couch. Joshua sneaks out from under his legs, taking care not to wake him. It's late enough that it probably won't do any harm to just leave him to his rest if he can manage to sleep through the night on a couch that's a bit too short for him.

Joshua pats Torgal on the flank, making the dog prick his ears up in question, but he doesn't follow. For all they joke about it, Torgal's always favored Clive, though Clive adopted him in large part because needing to walk a dog helps to ensure that Joshua does some minimum amount of exercise regularly, even on days when he doesn't have to walk around for work. He can't afford to lose more lung function than he's already losing.

"Come on, boy, walk," Joshua whispers now, and finally Torgal stands up to pad to the door.

He's as quiet as possible while fastening the harness onto Torgal, but Clive doesn't stir; he must be truly knackered. Torgal stands obediently, tail swaying gently from side to side, and waits patiently for Joshua to finish bundling himself into his coat before following him outside.

"Just a quick walk tonight," Joshua tells him as they're descending the stairs, Torgal running down three or four at a time and then pausing to wait for him. He loops the leash over his wrist, pulls on his gloves, and then tugs on a mask, mostly as a barrier against the cold air. "It's a bit too frigid for me out there."

Torgal doesn't seem to mind the weather, and he takes off down the sidewalk as soon as the door to the street is open. Joshua debates trying to keep his hands relatively warm inside his pockets for the entire walk before caving to curiosity to check his phone.

Cid's name is listed on the website for Otto's Auto as Cidolfus Telamon. Otto's doesn't give any more information about him: nothing about where he's from, what he's like, or, of course, what skeletons he may have in his closet. Armed with a full name, though, these are things Joshua can find out, and he will find them out, because what's the point of having a job in which he ferrets information out of people if he can't even make sure the first man his brother's wanted to date in years isn't some sort of psychopath?

That's a task for another time. For now, he opens his messages.

Desiree hasn't answered his text yet, but August has responded with concern. He doesn't tell Joshua the names of the kids who were injured—or killed—in the fire, but he's apologetic about it when he recommends speaking to Desiree.

SQ1 August [8:25]
I'll ask my husband to keep an eye on Clive at Otto's tomorrow!
If his shoulders still messed up im sure Cid will go easy on him

Joshua [8:26]
Thanks, I appreciate it
Sorry, I don't remember if I've met your husband, what was his name again?

SQ1 August [8:26]
Most ppl just call him Blackthorne
you’ve probably seen him, he's the grumpy one 🤣

Well, it was worth a shot. Joshua doesn't have a lot of faith in Blackthorne—whatever the hell the man's first name is—to pay attention to anyone who isn't a piece of metal in his hands, but it's a nice gesture.

Joshua considers texting Dorys again, then thinks better of it. Clive won't thank him for acting like an overanxious child or a new spouse not yet used to the realities of being married to a firefighter. They get enough jokes about that kind of thing as it is.

He could ask Theo to clarify the thing they heard the injured man say. Theo would understand. But Theo's hurt, worse than Clive, and it's not worth it to bother him just to scratch an itch.

Instead, as he pauses to wait for Torgal to do his business on a street corner, he starts composing an official email asking permission to interview Genevieve Laurent, who, as far as he's aware, is still in police custody. There's no way to talk to Redouane Allard anymore, of course, but he's cautiously optimistic that he'll be able to dig up the name of the injured man who spoke to Clive last night.

God, if it turns out that man started a fire in a residential building as a way of getting the attention of firefighters...

It's sick. Every time Clive walks into a burning building is a time he might not walk out. It makes the frustrated ball in Joshua's chest roil, enough to make him nauseous.

That's probably the pills he took, actually. This is about when the nausea starts to get worse each night.

"Good job," Joshua says when Torgal turns back to look at him. He crouches to scratch Torgal under the chin for a minute, breathing slow and shallow so that the cold air doesn't irritate his lungs, and lets his dog lick his forehead and chase away the anger that wants to spill free. "Good boy," he says again, cleans up after Torgal, blows on his fingers to warm them, and stands up.

---

Joshua stands in the hallway outside his door for an uncomfortable amount of time, catching his breath from the climb up the stairs. It's long enough for Torgal to become restless and start whining at the door, at which point he takes one more breath and goes back inside.

Clive is still asleep when Joshua creeps back in, pulling off his mask and trying to be quiet. A firm hold on Torgal's leash is enough to make him settle when he would otherwise run to Clive's side.

"Good boy," Joshua whispers when Torgal stands perfectly still, waiting to be unclipped from his harness. He gives Torgal a treat, then stays where he's kneeling and holds onto the dog a little longer, burying his fingers in the fur, feeling the warm flanks quivering under his hands as Torgal pants quietly. The nausea has come back in full force, his fingers are still half-frozen, and he doesn't want to move.

He must stay there a bit too long, though, because Torgal has misinterpreted this extra moment of cuddling as Joshua's inability to get up on his own. Torgal—who is, Joshua thinks with a swell of affection, the smartest, most wonderful boy—moves to stand in front of him, ducking so that Joshua's hands are on his back, and stiffens his limbs.

"Are you bracing for me?" Joshua whispers into Torgal's ear, kissing him on the snout. "What a good boy. Break, Torgal."

Perhaps Torgal doesn't understand the word clearly when it's whispered; he responds to their body language more than verbal commands when he's unsure, and Joshua's reluctant to speak more loudly and risk waking Clive. When Torgal doesn't move away or relax, Joshua relents and sets his hands on the dog's back, letting Torgal take just enough of his weight as he stands to signal to the dog that he's done his task.

"Thank you, that was very good," Joshua whispers, vigorously rubbing down the fur of his neck. Torgal sniffs at his hands, tail wagging eagerly, so Joshua pulls out another treat for him.

Torgal crunches on the snack, bending to lick up a piece that crumbled off, and trots away to Clive. He sniffs at Clive's face, as though checking to make sure he's really asleep, then sprawls on the floor beside the couch with a satisfied sigh.

Joshua lethargically hangs up his coat, checks Torgal's water bowl, and heads to the closet separating the main flat from his bedroom. "Stay," he whispers, raising a hand, when Torgal lifts his head to watch. He pulls down a blanket and a spare pillow and steps carefully back to the couch.

Clive doesn't wake when the blanket is spread over him, but he does when Joshua turns to stifle a cough. "Mmph...Joshua," Clive mumbles, still half-asleep. "You 'right?"

"Fine," Joshua says. He slides a hand under Clive's neck, and Clive raises his head to squint at him in confusion. Joshua takes the moment to slip the pillow in place. "Go back to sleep."

"'S it time to go?" Clive asks, still not quite awake.

"Just stay here tonight," Joshua says, patting him on the chest. "Go back to sleep."

Clive reaches down, finds Torgal, and gives him a token scratch on the head before settling. "Okay. 'Night."

*****

This is what Joshua learns about Cid that night:

He definitely attended Dominion Junior High School thirty-eight years ago. There's a mention of Cidolfus Telamon, aged 11, in an old school newsletter, for having won some schoolwide maths competition. With the year and school name, Joshua tracks down a picture of him in an old yearbook, where there's a picture of a twelve-year-old whom Joshua only recognizes as being the same person as the co-owner of Otto's Auto because of the shared name.

(Joshua tries not to fixate on the fact that that photo was taken before Clive was even born. Clive is a grown man and is allowed to date someone who is from the same generation as their parents. On reflection, it honestly wouldn't be the weirdest thing about Clive's personal life.)

There are no pictures of Cid in yearbooks for the high school; he might have moved away or somehow avoided having his photo taken for all that time. If there are college records or a marriage certificate or anything like that in Cid's name, Joshua doesn't find them.

What he does find, from thirteen years ago, is a deed to the property that's now Otto's Auto and the house where Cid and Otto live with their children. Five to seven years ago, Midadol Telamon's name began to appear in school competitions for robotics, maths, and physics, and she's got an Instagram and a Moogle account.

So, basically, Cidolfus Telamon is a man who lives in Twinside, and he was, at some point, a child who lived in Twinside.

That's what Joshua has concluded so far. It would be inappropriate to use his professional contacts to track down information about a romantic interest of his brother's, Joshua thinks, so he's being very respectful and only looking up things that could be found by anyone through a simple online search. If he creates a folder on his computer specifically to keep any and all information he learns about Cid, well, that's only good organization.

Cid does not have an account on Instagram, Moogle, or any other social media platform Joshua can think of. He also does not seem to have skeletons in the closet that are on public record, so Joshua carefully saves what information he's found and drops it for now.

Chapter Text

23. The great fires on the earth burned higher, cleansing the world of the sins of mankind, not a curse but a blessing. The Earth was reborn in the fire’s embrace, and those who had remained faithful would rise from the ashes, their souls cleansed, their bodies renewed.
24. The Flame consumed the wicked, but it harmed not the righteous. And the righteous, wreathed in the flames of rebirth, walked upon the Earth, and they rebuilt what was broken, guided by the sacred light of God.

- Scriptures of the Risen, Book of Eschaton

*****

In the morning, Clive leaves with Torgal before Joshua manages to get out the door himself. He eats a spoonful of peanut butter, takes his pills, and turns off his medication alarm. Then he makes himself some bland porridge and girds himself for the day ahead.

It's a busy day, as he's not really supposed to be investigating the fires. He doesn't even know the identity of the man involved in the last fire yet. Desiree sends him the name of the young man who perished, as his family has already been notified, but, citing the Health Information Privacy Law, does not tell him who the others were who survived with injuries. Joshua didn't really expect her to, as HIPL regulations prevent the disclosure of information about patients without their consent, but he does get from her the contact information for building management and the names of witnesses who spoke to emergency personnel on the scene.

Fortunately for Joshua, building management are not bound by HIPL, and, frankly, neither are they experienced in handling crises of this nature. Taking advantage of the flustered state of their office, he's able to wheedle the names of the victims out of them. He also extracts the name of one person, the roommate of one of the most seriously injured of the surviving victims, who was fortunate to be out of the building at the time of the fire.

"Thank you, that's extremely helpful," Joshua tells the manager, a harried and young-sounding man so anxious for information that he's perhaps a little too eager to share his own when Joshua tells him what little he knows. "Would you happen to know where she's staying until everyone's able to return to the building? Or if you have a phone number, I can reach out to her."

"I...I don't think I'm supposed to give you their numbers?" the manager says, and pauses, like he's hoping Joshua will confirm or deny this for him.

A name is enough to go on, Joshua decides as he thanks the manger and hangs up.

Edda Leifsdottir is the name of the roommate of Ivan Karlsson, one of the men who was injured and taken to the hospital. Joshua doesn't know for sure if Ivan was the one who spooked Clive so badly, but Edda is the owner of a small bakery, a family business passed down through two generations. It's easy to find its address, so he resolves to start there.

"Where are you going?" Jill asks when he starts packing his computer and notebook. "Another tip from Martha?"

"Not this time," he says, bundling himself in his coat.

She looks up. "Are you working on a story?"

"Maybe," Joshua says, and admits, "I don't really have an angle yet. Just a hunch. I need to talk to someone."

"Mm," she says.

She goes back to whatever she was typing, but she seems distracted. "What're you working on?" he asks, just as Jill turns to him and says, "Actually, Joshua—"

They both stop. "You first," he says.

Jill takes her hands off her keyboard and glances in the direction of Vivian's office. "The anniversary's coming up," she says.

For a moment, Joshua thinks the entire office has fallen silent. Just a moment, though, like those seconds of panic whenever he smells smoke—unavoidable, but not a problem. The sounds around him return within the space of a breath: people talking on phones, clacking on keys, walking across the floor.

The anniversary of the fire—of the death of Governor Elwin Rosfield—is in a week. It's not something they talk about often, but the successful assassination of a presidential candidate is a rare thing, and sometimes it comes up in the news, especially around this time of year. There are usually articles, ranging from The Rise and Fall of Elwin Rosfield to Top 10 Theories Behind the Phoenix-gate Assassination!

There's a reason why Joshua doesn't spend a lot of time covering political stories.

"Right, yes," he says. "It tends to do that, this time of year."

Grimacing, Jill stands so that she's not craning her neck to look up at him. "Vivian asked me to write a piece about Phoenix-gate," she says bluntly. "A longer one, an account of the campaign and all of the events leading up to the fire. People always become interested again around this time."

Joshua doesn't deal much with political stories, but Jill does. On the surface, it makes sense to assign this to her; in fact, it might be seen as a conflict of interest for Joshua to take on a story like this. Speaking of which... "Vivian doesn't think you're too close for it?" he asks.

But Jill shakes her head. "I told her that I am," she says. "Vivian knows you and I are close, but she didn't realize my dad shipped me off to live in your home when we were children. And," she adds, "I don't want to write this. So. Someone else will take the lead on it. I don't know who yet."

This is what she's trying to tell him, then: a warning, so that he's not blindsided when it comes out. It feels like something is pressing on his chest, the mass of resentment he can never seem to quell, or, maybe, the scar tissue crawling through his lungs that keeps them from filling all the way. He turns away from Jill to cough into his sleeve without looking her in the eyes.

"Thank you," he says.

She reaches for his hand, but he dodges her by picking up his mask and affixing it to his face. "I'm sorry this comes up year after year, Joshua."

Joshua pulls his lips into a smile so that she'll see it in the crinkle of his eyes. "Why? You didn't set the fire. Listen, Jill, I've got to run. I'll see you later?"

"Yeah," she says, and steps back to let him pass.

---

The Ash Leaf bakery is open today. Joshua wasn't sure it would be, given the events of the previous day, but a glimpse inside at the empty store and the tired, heavily pregnant woman sitting behind the counter—Edda Leifsdottir—makes him suspect she can't afford not to open. Business is not exactly hopping. He hopes for her sake that this is simply a slow time of day.

"Good afternoon!" she says, standing with an effort and pasting on a smile as soon as he enters. "How may I help you?"

"Hello, Ms. Leifsdottir," Joshua says. He pulls out his ID. "My name's Joshua Rosfield; I'm a journalist with State of the Realm. I heard about what happened to Ivan Karlsson, and I was hoping I could ask you a few questions."

Her customer-service smile slips off. "I'm not talking to any reporters. Can't you people even wait until he's out of the hospital?"

"I just need to clarify a few details," he says. "I know you and the other residents have been through a l—"

But Leifsdottir has drawn herself up to her full height, unimposing though it is. "Is this just a story to you people?" she demands. One hand is braced on her back and another on the apron covering her swollen belly. "We've lost our home. My partner is in the hospital being accused of arson. I have been questioned by police. And you want me to clarify details for your newspaper?"

Joshua winces behind his mask. Ivan Karlsson must be the one who spoke to Clive, then, and 'partner' means that they're more than just roommates. There's a decent chance he's the father of her unborn child. If Leifsdottir has been questioned by cops, then she must know by now how much suspicion there is on him, and she's not going to respond well to something that sounds like an interrogation.

So Joshua puts away his ID and his phone and holds up his hands. "Look," he says, "I'll be frank. I'm not really here for a story about the fire itself. There are some details that I think could link the incident at your flat to other fires that have been set recently, ones that have nothing to do with you or your partner. I just want to know what happened. Don't you want to know if there's something more going on?"

Edda's body language is still wary, but her glare fades to an unhappy frown. "What did you say your name was?"

"Joshua Rosfield," he repeats.

"Rosfield," she echoes. "Like Elwin Rosfield?"

Surprise makes his breath catch, and he turns to cough into his sleeve. It shouldn't take him by surprise anymore. It's been eighteen years, and not many people connect him, a grown man working at a normal salaried job, with the ten-year-old child who was only ever photographed in a suit and tie or in a hospital bed. But of course people do recognize his name sometimes. "The same," Joshua says, clearing his throat. "Elwin was my father."

"Oh! I didn't..." she says. "It's just that Ivan was obsessed with the Phoenix-gate fire... I'm sorry," she repeats. "After the fire the other night, I..."

"I understand, it must be on your mind," Joshua says with a smile, not because he doesn't find it creepy, the way some people are fascinated by the way his father was murdered, but because the way she phrases it—obsessed with the fire—reminds him again of Allard and his paintings, and he knows he has to press her on it. "I know what it's like for a fire to upend your life, Ms. Leifsdottir."

Joshua doesn't typically do this, introduce himself to the victim of a residential fire as someone who was, at one point, famously a victim of a house fire himself. It feels too manipulative, but Clive was injured the other night, and Joshua's standing in this bakery looking into something Vivian has not sanctioned, rather than sniffing out actual news like he should be. He will take any advantage he can get.

"I suppose you would," she says. She wrings the cloth of her apron between her hands, and, now that her hackles have come down, he can see that she's very young—old enough to own this establishment, apparently, so he hopes she's at least eighteen, but she can't be much older than that. "Er, call me Edda, please."

"Edda," Joshua acknowledges. He can't help but glance at her belly, though he tries not to make it obvious. "It must be hard, being displaced like this. I hope you've been able to find somewhere to go? I know of some places you might be able to stay if you need it."

There's a pause then. "Erm," she says, squeezing her apron in her fingers. "I...haven't been displaced. Not really. I've been staying in the studio above this shop. My name is still on the lease with Ivan, but I moved away from him about a month ago."

A dozen questions spring immediately to mind: why does she say that she moved away from Ivan and not that she moved out of the flat, are they still together, has she been in contact with him, is he the father of her unborn child—

"Are you all right?" is what comes out. "Did he hurt you?"

"No!" Edda says immediately, and touches her stomach again. More quietly, she says again, "No. He would never. He's just been...going through a bad time. He's never hurt me. But he's been so strange lately, and with the baby on the way, I thought..." She stops again, and Joshua feels suddenly like he's stepped into something he was entirely unprepared for.

"Strange?" Joshua prompts. "How so?"

Edda sighs tiredly. It sounds like a concession. "It started about a year ago," she says. She drops her apron and sets her hands on the counter, leaning on them. "There was an accident at the plant where his sister worked. Lax safety regulations; negligence on the part of the company. She didn't make it."

"That's terrible," he says, letting real sympathy color his tone. "I'm so sorry. Which company? Wait, no, sorry, that's not the—" He resets. He can ask about that later or look it up himself. "Go on, please."

"Ivan hasn't been the same since. It was...like he was being hollowed out, day by day. And then, for a while, I thought he was getting better. He was starting to seem happy again, I thought. He began talking about rebirth—about how the spirit lives on and will be born again. I thought that he believed he would see his sister again in the next life, but he said no, that he was being literal, that rebirth could only follow destruction, like the Phoenix-gate fire—ah. I don't mean..." She trailed off, biting her lip.

"Go on," Joshua says again, grateful for the mask he is still wearing, as it covers most of whatever expression he might be making. "You said he was obsessed with it."

Grimacing, Edda says, her tone apologetic, "Er, some of his friends convinced him that no one should have survived the fire. He found these charts showing that the temperatures inside the building were too high, it wasn't possible. But both of the children..." She winces again.

"We survived," Joshua finishes for her. "I hate to disappoint you, but those of us who survived the fire did not die first, I assure you. And those who died stayed dead."

"No, I didn't mean to suggest that," Edda says. She's wringing her hands now. "It's these stupid conspiracy forums. And the name...it happened in Phoenix Hall, you know—"

"I know where it happened," Joshua says sharply before he can stop himself. Pieces are beginning to fall into place now. Ivan wanted to believe in the possibility of resurrection. He believed the insane conspiracies floated by nutters who do not understand how real fires in real buildings work, who took Anabella's political metaphors about rising from the ashes as literal statements. He became fixated on the fire that killed Elwin Rosfield, and then, days ago, he spoke to Joshua's brother.

"It's so insensitive, I'm sorry," Edda says. "But he was certain. He was in such a bad place, emotionally, and his friends—his new friends, that is—they convinced him."

"He wanted to believe it," Joshua says, and she nods miserably.

"It was all he cared about. I think...I think he really believed she might come back to us somehow. And then he started talking about how this world is broken. I understand why; his sister died because her company couldn't be bothered to spend the tiny bit of money needed to keep her safe. I'm angry about it, too! But he said that it could be reborn into something new, something better. It just..." Her face crumpled. "It had to be burned down first."

Joshua exhales. He steps back from the counter and plunges his hands into his pockets. He takes a breath, and it doesn't fill his lungs. He tries again. "I see why the police are accusing him of arson," he says, and it doesn't quite sound casual, but at least his words are steady.

He's usually better at keeping distance from horrible stories. It's a necessary skill as a journalist working the crime beat. But most people's stories don't pull his own family's name into them.

Edda sighs. "'Fire destroys, but it can heal, too.' That's what he said to me once. It's what his friends told him, the ones who believed the Phoenix-gate rumors. I didn't think he actually meant it; I didn't think he would do it."

"But you do now," Joshua says. Edda sits back down on the chair behind the counter. She doesn't answer, but that's answer enough for him.

We have found you. Perhaps Ivan wasn't only delirious when the fire department found him; he might have really recognized Clive's face if he was so fixated on Phoenix-gate. He might have been...what, trying to recreate the event, like some sort of sick tribute? Did he think really Clive would thank him for it? Did he think one incident of arson would burn down the world and allow it to begin anew?

These are not exactly the right questions, though. The man was drowning in grief, and when he spoke to Clive, he was probably hypoxic from all the smoke. Joshua shouldn't be assuming logic in Ivan's reasoning for his actions or his words.

"These friends," he says. "Could you give me their names? Perhaps he spoke to them more about whatever he might have intended."

She shakes her head. "He didn't tell me. Confidentiality, I think? They were people he met at a support group—grief counseling."

This catches on the edge of his thoughts.

"Grief counseling?" Joshua echoes. Didn't Genevieve's classmates say she went to some sort of support group after losing her friend? And Redouane Allard's building supervisor mentioned something of the sort, too. Children of...something, starting with a D. "You don't happen to know the name of the group, or the counseling center, do you? It wasn't...Children of..."

"The Children of Dzemekys, yes, he mentioned them many times," Edda says, surprised. "How did you know?"

Joshua ducks his head under the guise of adjusting his mask. Children of Dzemekys. It isn't an answer yet, but finally, finally, it's a connection, a solid one that isn't speculation based on artwork and something said in a moment of crisis. If he can confirm the connection with Genevieve, too, then, suddenly, he has his angle.

"I've heard the name," Joshua says vaguely. He pulls out his notebook at last; he can't afford to lose the name. He can figure out exactly how it's spelled later. "Do you mind if I take a couple of notes?"

"Do you know something about them?" Edda asks hopefully.

"No, not really. But if I find out anything—"

"He's not evil," Edda interrupts. She's holding her belly again. Joshua's no expert, but she doesn't look more than a month from her delivery date, if that. She may not have been suddenly displaced by the fire, but that's only because she was displaced from her home long before that. With a baby on the way, an estranged partner in the hospital and possibly under arrest, and a slow business, she must be eager for any scrap of hope. "He's hurting, and he's been led astray, but he's not a bad man."

Joshua isn't sure yet if he cares whether or not Ivan Karlsson is a bad man. There's too much he doesn't know, and the man put Joshua's brother in danger. "If I find out anything," he says gently, "I will make sure it comes to light."

---

By the time he leaves the bakery, holding a box of Edda's biscuits that he'll leave at work for the taking, the Department of Corrections has denied his request to interview Genevieve Laurent. No reason is given.

That's not surprising, given that she has potentially been evaluated for psychiatric issues. The laws around journalists' access to incarcerated persons are murky, anyway, especially when it comes to those who have not yet been convicted of a crime. He'll keep trying.

In the meantime, it doesn't take long to track down Genevieve's parents. They're local, and her father answers the phone when Joshua calls. The man is suspicious but afraid for his daughter, and a few minutes of coaxing confirms that Genevieve, just like Redouane and Ivan, was a member of a group called the Children of Dzemekys.

That's enough to take back to his boss, at least.

Joshua makes a detour on his way back, enough for a quick report on a break-in at a small convenience store. He wants something to show Vivian later today before he asks her what he's about to ask.

He's standing at her office door at the end of the day, tucking his gloves back into his pocket and rubbing his chilled fingers together, when she calls, "Come in, Rosfield. I know what you're about to say."

Surprised, Joshua steps inside and waits for Vivian to turn away from her monitor, where she's reading through an article, making quick corrections and edits as she goes. "Really? Have you become psychic, boss?" he asks.

She finishes typing one comment and swivels around in her chair. "Warrick told you we're doing a piece on Phoenix-gate for the anniversary, I take it. "

Joshua blinks at her. "She did," he says, "but that's not what I wanted to talk to you about."

Vivian often looks like she's annoyed at him. He's learned not to take it personally. "I would have mentioned it to you first if I'd caught you in the morning," she says, which is nearly an apology by her standards.

"It's really fine," Joshua says, because there is nothing he wants to say on the topic and he does not want to be sidetracked from his actual point. "Do you have a few minutes to talk about a story I'd like to pursue?"

She gestures at him to go on, so he does He tells her about the three fires, the way all of them seemed just a little off to him, and the odd connection all of them have to a certain support group.

"They meet at a place called Dzemekys, and it's not a counseling center, per se," Joshua says as she scowls at him. "I've looked them up. They call themselves a"—he reads from his phone, still open to their home page—"'spiritual center for those seeking renewal,' and their followers are called the 'Children of Dzemekys.' They've been in Twinside for about two years. As far as I can tell, most of their programs are workshops and support groups for people who have experienced loss or survived trauma. All three of them—Laurent, Allard, Karlsson—fit the profile."

Vivian crosses her arms. "And you think...what, exactly? That this group colluded in some way to start these fires?"

"I don't know yet," Joshua admits. "All I have is this one connection, and I know, I know that's not enough, but doesn't it seem like too much of a coincidence? And even if that's all it is, at least if I look into this Dzemekys, then I might learn more about these three people and why they might have done what they did. Even if nothing pans out, the worst case scenario is that I end up writing a fluff piece on the organization."

This is not an argument she'll love. Vivian gained the nickname 'Ninetales' after the ninth major award she won for hard-hitting journalism, the kind of work that exposes corrupt politicians and saves lives. She tends to look down on fluff pieces, even if they get a lot of clicks. But she's the editor-in-chief now, not a trailblazing journalist working on individual stories, and news media is a business. Clicks do matter.

"Do you have a plan?" Vivian asks. "I'll do you the favor of assuming you're not reckless enough to just march up to their door and ask if they persuaded multiple people to commit arson."

An idea sparks suddenly. A flicker of excitement lights in his brain; a block of dread slips into his stomach.

Ivan Karlsson was fixated on the Phoenix-gate fire, after all. In the next couple of weeks, there will be countless new articles published nationwide that luridly detail the worst day of Joshua's life, just in time for its anniversary. One of those articles will be written by someone in this office.

Joshua squares his shoulders. This isn't just about a story; it's about people starting fires when his brother is one of the people who might be hurt or worse trying to deal with them. There's no approach he won't consider here.

"If I go to them," Joshua says, "I'll do it as just myself, Joshua, not as a journalist. There are some group counseling programs that I could join. After all, I lost my father in a traumatic childhood incident."

Vivian's eyes narrow as she turns this over. "That's risky, Rosfield," she says slowly. "If they look you up, they'll know in a minute who you are and that you work for the news. And all due respect to your father, but the fire was eighteen years ago. Are they going to believe you've chosen to try some sort of therapy now? It has too many holes."

Joshua takes a deep breath—too deep, and something catches in his chest and makes him pause to cough, adjusting his mask over his nose and mouth. The cough's gotten better since he's recovered from his cold, but it doesn't ever go away entirely.

"There's...something else," he says. "Something that might convince them more." His voice comes out hoarse, tight. Without asking, he spins and closes her office door. When he turns back, Vivian has stood up and is watching him warily. "I...you know that my lungs were damaged in the Phoenix-gate fire. The scarring—the fibrosis—is why I don't breathe very well."

The look on her face is unreadable. "I'm aware," she says.

"Fibrosis in the lungs is usually progressive," Joshua says. As he speaks, it's as though he can feel it, the places where his lungs have grown stiff and don't inflate like they should, like veins of stone creeping through the tissue. His next breath sounds like a gasp, and he takes a moment to calm down. He's at work; this is his boss he's speaking to. "I've been on anti-fibrotic medication since I was a child, and it's been well controlled. We thought I'd gotten...lucky, that it wouldn't spread once the initial injury healed. But I had some tests done a few weeks ago, and..."

Vivian unfolds her arms and lets them fall to her sides. She glances at the door he closed, giving them a bit a privacy. "It's spreading?" she asks quietly.

Joshua clasps his hands together behind his back and clenches them tight. "Yes," he says. "I've been losing a little bit of lung function every year for a while now, but they've measured a...quite a significant decline these last few months. They've put me on a stronger medication that they're hoping will work better at slowing the progression of the fibrosis. But we don't know if it will work, and even if it does, slowing it is the best they can do."

For once, Vivian's not looking at her many monitors or checking her phone or tapping her fingers impatiently on her arm. She takes a deep breath. "Joshua," she says.

"It's terminal," Joshua says, in case he hasn't been clear enough. It's the first time he's said it aloud since that day in his pulmonologist's office, and it rings sharp in his ears. He swallows and thinks about the pamphlets his doctor gave him, the ones he hasn't yet shown Clive. "Average survival is three to five years. I'm younger than the average patient at diagnosis, but my case has advanced quite a bit, and I'm already missing a lot of lung tissue from the initial injury, so..."

He clears his throat. He's shaking, a little bit. He can feel it in his hands where they're pressed together behind his back; he can feel it in his chest where his breath rattles through him.

"You just found out about this," Vivian says. It's not a question. "Does Warrick know?"

There's something trying to plug up his throat. It's not panic—not yet—but it might be if he lets it, so he pulls his lips into a small smile. She can't see it behind his mask, but he can feel it, and at least it means he's in control of the expression he's showing her. He shakes his head. "No one. Only my doctor. And you. And also, if you'll approve it, a group of people at a support group run by the Children of Dzemekys."

"Joshua," Vivian says again. "Your family—your brother—"

"He doesn't know yet," Joshua says, and the familiar frisson of guilt jangles through him again, amplified by the incredulous look she gives him. Vivian's only met Clive once or twice, but she knows who the Rosfields are, so perhaps she knows what Clive means to him. But Clive will be destroyed by the news, and it won't change anything. If a bit of temporary secrecy will let Joshua do this one thing that might protect him, even if only a little, then it's worth it. "Which is exactly why I'm looking for support elsewhere. That's what I'll tell them. It's a believable narrative, isn't it?"

Vivian folds her arms again and squints at the table, thinking.

"I hope," Joshua adds, realizing belatedly that there's a reason most people don't tell their boss before anyone else that they're...that their health is compromised, "that this won't affect my employment. I...I haven't deteriorated to the point—"

"Oh, stop it, Rosfield," Vivian snaps. "I'm not firing you, I'm trying to decide how stupid your idea is."

He swallows some mix of fear and relief. "Of course," he says.

"If you're right, and there's something rotten in that organization, then there's a chance you'd be walking into danger."

"There's a story here," Joshua says. "You know there is, Vivian, and if I'm right, it needs to be told. They're hardly going to brainwash me into setting my flat on fire, and it's not like they're actively kidnapping and murdering people at their headquarters."

I don't know how much time I have left, he leaves unsaid. He can't waste time being bothered about the incoming deluge of articles about how his father died, or afraid about...about anything. He doesn't have the time.

"Do you know that for sure?" Vivian says. "That there's nothing dangerous happening on their property you would be exposed to?"

Joshua pauses. "Well. I haven't come across any...any reports of—"

"Have you looked?"

"Not yet," he admits. "I just learned their name a few hours ago. But I'm not afraid of a little risk. Vivian, you've gone into combat zones—"

"Which I always knew before I walked in," she points out. She puts her fingers to her forehead, like he's given her a headache. She glares at him from under her hand, and it makes the atmosphere seem a little more solid, the way Vivian always seems annoyed at him—not worried, not pitying, just annoyed. "I want research on them in front of me, as thorough as you can get, before I allow you to take this on. You do not make your move until I approve it."

Joshua feels his eyes widen. He nods quickly.

"You will present me with a plan. I don't need to know exact personal details, but I want to know, in writing and on record, how you expect to gain their trust, what you are looking for, and what conditions will trigger an end to this assignment. That 'end' could mean an article revealing their activities; it could mean turning all of your research over to the police; it could mean deciding to abandon this investigation altogether. Are we clear?"

"As crystal," he agrees.

"You'll work on this on the side," she instructs. "I won't expect the same volume of work out of you as usual, but I still expect you to be doing your normal job whenever you're not actively working on this, and I want regular updates on your progress. If I say another story takes priority, then it does. If I tell you to drop it, then you do. Does that cover everything?"

"Yes, boss. Thank you." He unlaces his fingers and opens the door, then hesitates. He turns around once more. "Is there anything else you'd like from me today?"

Vivian picks up her phone. She glances around herself, as if deciding which of her monitors is displaying the most important information at the moment. She's quiet as she considers them.

Finally, she says, "I'm not your mother, Rosfield."

"Thank god," Joshua says with a startled laugh.

"It's not my place to tell you how to handle your medical affairs."

He doesn't answer. Past the door, he can see Jill at their workstation. He'll have to excuse himself to the loo or something—make sure his hands have stopped shaking—before he rejoins her at his desk. She'll know, and...and Joshua doesn't want her to know. Not yet, not when she's already been fussing over him since he was last ill. He can't ask her to keep this from Clive.

Still, he feels like a weight has disappeared from his chest, like he can breathe more easily than he could a week ago. Someone knows now. It's not any of the people who truly need to know, and he does need to tell them eventually. Soon. But it's still someone he trusts well enough, someone who understands why he has to do this.

And it's something he can use, too. Clive gave up everything for Joshua, and if Joshua...if he's...if he's getting worse, then at least he can use that to make Clive just a little bit safer.

"Dismissed," Vivian says, and Joshua hurries out before she can change her mind.

*****

Joshua's late to the Crown & Tub the next day. It's still early enough that he'll be able to get to State of the Realm before the work day starts, which makes it too early for many people to be lingering yet in a café patronized largely by students. He himself was out of his flat long before sunrise, chasing down a tip for another story in the pre-dawn gloom so that he'll have time later to find as much information as he can on Dzemekys.

He doesn't have much, yet. There's really nothing of substance about the place on their main web page. The man who runs most of their sessions is listed by name, but there's no biography given for Sleipnir Harbard aside from a note about his professional credentials as a therapist. There's not even a quaint story about how they were founded. Joshua has found some information on the building they're using as their headquarters, when it was bought and from whom, and their documentation of tax-exempt status as a religious organization. He's verified that Harbard's credentials are real and that no one has reported any violent crimes on their premises.

What he has found over the last couple of days, however, is a host of other fire-related deaths around the greater Twinside area over the last year. From publicly available information alone, he's isolated four in which the victim had previously suffered some sort of trauma that was mentioned along with the report of their death—an accident, a violent encounter, the loss of a loved one, and a major injury. Of the victims whose acquaintances he has been able to reach, two were confirmed to have sought counseling from the Children of Dzemekys.

That makes five people associated with the center who have perished—or tried to perish—in a fire. The parameters of Joshua's search have been narrow, too, and would exclude anyone who was rescued in time or whose friends or family he hasn't been able to reach in the last twenty-four hours. He also can't be sure that fire even has to be part of it, whatever it is, but if he searches too far outside of the parameters he has, he risks finding connections where there are none.

He's found five, though, and five seems like too much of a coincidence to ignore.

Through the window of the Crown & Tub, Joshua can see Dion's profile, but he stops outside first, trying to catch his breath after a brisk walk from the subway station. Rushing in will leave him gasping, and gasping will make him cough. Nothing gets him more dirty looks in public than coughing somewhere people are eating. Avoiding that is worth the few minutes of standing in the dark and the cold, leaning against the side of the building.

The door opens, and a hand on his shoulder makes him turn. "Are you all right?" Dion says, his brow furrowed. He's wearing only slacks and a neat button-down shirt with its sleeves rolled up; his coat is still inside the café.

Not quite trusting himself to speak yet, Joshua nods, panting as carefully as he can while it feels like his lungs are starving for oxygen. He holds up a finger. Give me a minute. Dion stops crowding him, though he leaves his hand on Joshua's shoulder.

"You—" Joshua starts, and has to break off to suck in more air, which makes him cough sharply. "You'll get cold," he manages at last, nudging Dion back toward the door.

"I can bring you some water," Dion offers, but Joshua shakes his head and forces himself to straighten.

"No, I...I'm fine," he says hoarsely. He's a little lightheaded from his rush across campus to get here, but it'll go away soon once he's out of the cold and he's got his breathing under control. "Let's get inside. You must be freezing in just that."

Dion holds the door for him as they walk into the blessedly warm café. "Sorry I'm a few minutes late," Joshua says. "Bit of a crazy morning."

"Already?" Dion says. He sits and offers a cup of coffee. "Here. It's the same as your order last time; I hope that's all right." He gestures to the seat, and Joshua slides in, leaving his own coat on. He hasn't warmed up enough to take it off yet.

"You didn't have to do that," he says, though it makes him smile. It's so very like Dion—the Dion he knew as a child, anyway—to remember such things about people. When they were younger, it was because remembering personal details was important for networking and cultivating a public image as a thoughtful, respectful young man. It seems the habit has held into adulthood. "Thank you, though."

"I may have an ulterior motive," Dion tells him. "It's payment in advance for some advice about Twinside."

"I'm not sure my advice is worth all this," he jokes, tipping the cup toward Dion, "but go ahead. What do you need?"

"We're getting ready to move into our house in a week or so, and I'm hoping you'll know a good furniture store in the area that isn't too terribly expensive." He gives Joshua a smile that's half a wince.

Joshua sips at his drink, stripping off his gloves to wrap his bare hands around the hot cup. The nausea's still lurking at the edge of his attention, but he finished his breakfast today without the urge to run for the nearest toilet, and he's hoping that means his body is becoming accustomed to the new pills. The first sip of his coffee hasn't made him want to gag, which is positive, he thinks.

"Clive and I have gotten most of our furniture from the Crimson Caravan," Joshua says. "They're a moving company, but they accumulate a lot of decent second-hand furniture that people don't end up being able to move with them. They sell for very reasonable prices."

Dion's got his phone out and has pulled up the Crimson Caravan's office on the map. "Is this it?" he asks, tilting it toward Joshua.

"That's the one. Or you could try Lady Charon's. You can find almost anything you could want from her, but you need to be willing to haggle, or she'll drive up your price. Spelled with a C-H, not a K."

"Charon's—ah, I see," Dion says. He beams at Joshua. "I'd say that's definitely worth the price of a coffee."

"Happy to be of service," Joshua laughs. It catches in his chest, and, despite his efforts, he has to turn aside again to cough. There's a group of students at the next table next to him who turn and glare in his direction, and he feels his face grow warm even as he presses a hand to his sternum. He's tried to do too much running about today in too little time. Even without the cold, he should have known it was more than he can handle. The old scar at the center of his chest aches on days like this.

God, it's only eight in the morning. He's going to be shattered by the end of the day.

When he catches his breath again, Dion's grin has faded back into concern. "Are you sure you're all right?"

"I'm not contagious," Joshua says, for the millionth time in his life. "I promise."

"That's not what I asked," Dion says, though Joshua can't help but look around uncomfortably. It's freezing out, so he can't ask Dion to sit outside with him; his only options are to apologize to Dion and leave or to stay, try to keep from coughing too much, and ignore the looks from people around him.

He can't be angry at people for being annoyed. He wouldn't be in public without a mask if he knew he had an infection he could pass on, but other people don't know that. Joshua was one of those who were particularly worried about strangers coughing in public at the peak of the Blight—hard not to be, when every respiratory infection has a chance of sending him to the hospital. It's just not something he can help, unless he stops leaving his home altogether.

That'll happen one day, he supposes, whether he wants it or not. But not yet.

At least there aren't a lot of people here at this hour, and when no one marches up to their table to chastise him, Joshua takes one more sip of his coffee, slips on his mask, and slouches back down in his chair. He can drink it later. "It's always like this," he tells Dion quietly with another self-conscious glance around. He taps his chest. "It has been since the fire."

"But is it..." Dion hesitates, long fingers curling around his cup. "Is it from the surgery, still? Can I ask?" he adds belatedly.

"I don't mind," Joshua tells him. "It's not just from that, though. When I was in the hospital, afterward, I kept getting sick—"

"I remember. They wouldn't let me see you for weeks."

Joshua doesn't remember much of the first month or so himself. He was ill for so long that his memories are mostly just vague impressions and possibly feverish hallucinations. He remembers seeing Dion, but not often, and never for very long before someone called him away. "My lungs were already in bad shape from the injury, and then, when the pneumonia cleared, it left them permanently scarred."

He doesn't go on. Dion was so busy back then, being nominated for award after award for his debut on-screen performance, and they weren't around each other enough to have been able to explain the details of it all to him, not that Joshua would have known how to explain it at that age in any case. It feels like it would make sense now to tell his old friend everything—more sense than blurting it out to his boss in her office, anyway. But he and Dion have only seen each other a handful of times as adults, and he's still unsure exactly what Dion's relationship is with his—their—family. He doesn't want rumors getting back to his mother just yet.

She'll have to know eventually. Even with all of the years and distance between them, it would be cruel to let her find out that her son was dying from an invitation to his funeral. Besides, if he doesn't tell her, that will leave Clive to do it, and that is unacceptable.

"Is there anything that helps?" Dion asks, his eyes warm and worried. "Anything I can do?"

The question makes Joshua remember how hard it was to get through college on days when he was particularly sick or tired and had to deal with the handful of professors who had absolutely no patience for it, even if he had a note from his doctor. Dion's students probably love him. Joshua only pats Dion fondly on the arm. "I was just running around a little too much today, that's all," he says. "It never feels like there's enough time."

Dion leans back and takes a sip of his drink. "I know the feeling," he says with a smile, and he doesn't, Joshua thinks, but the sympathetic sentiment is appreciated. "You did mention you were having a hectic morning. Is there something going on in the city I should know about?"

"Just the usual for breaking news, as far as I know," Joshua says. "I'm working on another story, though, and I'm having some trouble finding time to do any research. I don't suppose," he says, mostly joking, "that you've heard of the Children of Dzemekys?"

"Dzemekys?" Dion says. "It's not my area of expertise, but sure, I know of it."

Taken aback, Joshua can only say, "You...what?"

Dion looks at him strangely, surprised at Joshua's surprise. "My focus may be modern military and political history, but I did have to learn some ancient history for my degree. Dzemekys was a center of civilization before their fall."

By now, Joshua has taken out his phone. "Are we talking about the same thing? There's a spiritual center that opened a couple of years ago called Dzemekys..."

"Oh. Sorry, I thought you meant..." Dion leans over to peer at what Joshua has just typed into his phone. "A modern spiritual center, you said?"

Joshua shows him the Children of Dzemekys's website. "It's the same word?" he asks.

"I don't know," Dion says. "I think so." He takes the phone and scrolls through the page. "The phrase 'Children of Dzemekys' is definitely familiar. That's how some scholars translated the name of the people who came from there."

If they took their name from an ancient tribe, then perhaps Joshua can at least get an idea of what their ideals might be, or why they named themselves after it. "Could they be descended from the same people? Or philosophical descendants, perhaps? Wait, what do you know about them?"

"Not much, to be honest," Dion admits. "Dzemekys was somewhere in Ash, near modern-day Eistla, maybe...three thousand years Before the Year of the Realm. No one knows much about their civilization, though. They're most famous for their end: the Fall of Dzemekys, people call it, around 2000 BYR. I'm really not an expert on this," he adds as Joshua scrambles to take out his notebook.

"More expert than I," Joshua points out. "I don't remember learning about them at all in school."

"With how isolationist Waloed has been, I'm not surprised. We don't know very much about them—only anecdotes from a small handful of primary sources—so there's just not that much to teach at the high school level."

Joshua sets his pen to the page. "Most famous for their fall, you said. What caused it?"

"No one knows," Dion says, "but the people who survived the Fall became the Remnants or the Children of Dzemekys. They were known to outsiders for their berserker warriors, the Akashic Hordes of Stonhyrr. They were supposed to be an unstoppable force, as they fought with no regard for individuality or their own lives, loyal only to their god."

"They couldn't have been so unstoppable," Joshua comments as he scribbles down notes, "as they don't seem to be around today. Unless there are still bands of them roving around somewhere on Ash?"

Dion shrugs. "I don't think so. But I honestly don't remember learning much else about them. Oh, I know who you should talk to!" he says abruptly, and finally hands the phone back.

"Who?" Joshua says, bemused. This isn't what he was expecting when he came here today, but he'll take any advice he can get.

"My old tutor, Tomes. Professor Hyperboreos. He specializes in ancient cults and cultures and their influence on modern-day civilization."

"And you think he would know about Dzemekys?"

Dion swipes away the map from his own phone and opens his mail app. "I'm sure," he says confidently as he types. "Tomes has heard of just about everything. He'd certainly be able to tell you more about their religious practices. I'm emailing him now and cc'ing you—you should find a time to talk to him."

"Right," Joshua says. He shakes his head. "I mean...certainly, I will. Thank you, Dion! I owe you."

"Sent," Dion says, setting down his phone. "Not a problem at all. If I see him on campus today, I'll mention it to him. What are you looking into these people for, then? Or can't you tell me?"

It's not technically a secret. Still, Joshua hedges, "I've been able to connect them, indirectly, to a handful of unusual incidents. I just want to know if they're up to anything strange."

There's curiosity lingering in Dion's gaze, but he drops it and tips his cup toward Joshua. "Well, whatever it is, good luck."

---

On the walk back to State of the Realm, Joshua checks his email and sees:

From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
cc: [email protected]

Dear Tomes,

I hope you are doing well!

My stepbrother Joshua (cc'd) is a journalist, and he's working on a story involving a local organization that may have been influenced by the Dzemekys civilization. Would you be able to provide him with some expert advice on the topic?

All the best,
Dion

Stepbrother, it says. They still haven't really talked about it; they haven't mentioned either of their parents since that first time they met up. Joshua was starting to wonder if they should ignore it all completely, but, apparently, Dion isn't ignoring it; he's just too polite to bring up a sensitive topic directly to Joshua.

It's silly. There's no reason they need to tap dance around it. Before long, if Dion's right, their parents will be living close by, and it'll be impossible to ignore even if they try.

He hasn't decided yet whether he wants to try.

Joshua replies to the email, thanking Dion and asking Professor Hyperboreos if they can meet at his convenience.

---

Otto sighs when Joshua walks into the office of the auto repair shop at the end of the day, but there's a customer there, so he can't do anything but scowl. Joshua quietly nudges Torgal out of the doorway and crouches to pet him. "I missed you, too, boy," he whispers, trying not to disturb them. "Have you been looking after your dad?"

Torgal whines at him and does his best to push the mask off Joshua's face, knocking it askew.

"All right, all right," Joshua laughs, pulling it off before Torgal decides to try chewing at the loops. "Here I am, is that better?" Torgal smells faintly of oil today. The mechanics try not to rub grease all over him, but Joshua knows from experience that it is physically impossible not to pet the dog when he's butting pleadingly at one's hand. They're going to have to give him a bath soon.

The door to the garage opens. "It's all ready for you, Mr. Rowan," says a familiar voice, and Joshua turns to see Cid handing a set of keys to the customer. "A tip for the future: it's a lot easier to drive your car when rats haven't been chewing on its insides."

"But how am I supposed to stop them getting in?" Rowan complains as he takes the keys.

"I found snack bags inside," Cid says, holding up a plastic wrapper that looks half chewed apart. "It helps if you aren't luring them in with food."

The door flies open again, narrowly missing Cid as his daughter rushes through. "Otto, I've got Ms. Isabelle's done," Mid says, dangling a set of keys in her fingers.

"I'm with a customer; leave it here, I'll give it to her," Otto tells her as Rowan pays, still muttering.

"Hey, it's Clive's brother!" Mid says, spotting Joshua, and zooms toward them. She immediately begins to rub Torgal on the head. "Here, look, I've taught him a new trick. Torgal, go find Dad!"

Torgal looks up at Joshua, and then back at Mid. He does not move.

"Ugh, you're confusing him," she tells Joshua.

"Er," says Joshua, who has not done a thing.

She whistles, catching Torgal's attention. "Torgal, go find Dad."

"Not now, Mid, Clive's working," Cid says from where he's leaning against the counter, and, at the sound of his voice, Torgal finally stands and trots to Cid, sniffing at him. The customer grumpily takes his receipt from Otto before stomping out into the cold.

"No, Torgal, that's my dad, not yours," Mid groans. "Dad, no, don't reward him for that, he'll never learn that way!" she protests when Cid gives Torgal a treat from the bag Otto keeps at his desk before rubbing his ears fondly. As he does, his sleeve pulls up, and Joshua catches sight of the gnarled skin of Cid's forearm—scars of some sort. He looks away so as not to stare.

"Naw, he knows what he's doing, don't you, you fine hound?" Cid says, leaning down to talk to Torgal, who looks up at him, still crunching happily on his treat.

Joshua...feels weird about it. It's not jealousy, he doesn't think. He's always shared Torgal with Clive, and he knows the crew at Otto's Auto has been good to the dog, too. Clive doesn't have to bring him to work; he only does because they've encouraged him to, and they enjoy Torgal's company. Maybe it's just that Joshua doesn't know yet how he feels about Cid, who is now petting his dog while the dog wags his tail contentedly.

"You need your brother for something?" Cid asks him.

"I—" Joshua starts.

Suddenly, he's not sure exactly why he's here. He still wants to know if Cid is taking advantage of his brother, but he won't be able to keep an eye on that with Clive out of the room and Cid's attention on Joshua. He's been feeling a little sick all day, and he's exhausted, but not enough that he needs help from someone to get home. He's told someone the truth about the state of his health, but he's not ready to put that burden on Clive yet.

But now that he's said it aloud and it's on his mind—it's terminal—he can't help thinking: there's not enough time. What if he falls terribly ill tomorrow and never has another chance to spend time with his brother?

Realistically, it's unlikely to be so dramatic. The pamphlet in his room says that the average patient has three to five years, but Joshua's not an average patient. The average patient didn't have most of their lung removed at the age of ten. Most patients haven't spent over a decade taking pills that are preventing their lungs from hardening but are slowly destroying their liver in the process. There aren't enough data points on patients his age whose scarring was caused by physical trauma, so there's no guessing how fast things will progress now that it seems to have started accelerating—whether he'll have half a decade or half a year.

Whatever it is, it doesn't feel like enough.

"Everything all right?" Cid asks when he's silent for too long.

"Yes—no, I'm not here for anything in particular," Joshua says hastily, managing to feel a bit silly and a bit terrified at the same time. His hands are shaking, from the cold or something, and he puts them into his pockets. "I was in the neighborhood, and I thought I'd stop by and say 'hello' on the way home. I'll go if it's a bother."

"Not at all," Cid said, turning to see the clock behind Otto. Torgal looks up when the petting stops, then scurries back to Joshua to sit and beg for attention. "He's in the middle of something now, but he'll clock out in a bit if you'd like to wait. Have a seat."

He gestures at the handful of chairs around the periphery of the room for waiting customers. Joshua hesitates, but it's been a long day of trying to keep up with his usual workload while sneaking in a few minutes at a time to read about Dzemekys. He's not sure when Clive will be done, and he...he sort of wants to see his brother before he goes home. He sits and tries not to sigh in relief as he gets off his feet.

"Aw, wait, you should both stay a while longer, I were going to keep practicing Torgal's new trick," Mid says. "It's grand, Josh, you haven't seen, but I got Torgal to find Clive while he was hidden behind a random car all the way across the car park! It's like he just has this instinct; always knows the right way to go to find his dad."

Joshua feels himself smile. He's not sure Mid's actually taught Torgal anything; Torgal will always seek out Clive, given half a chance.

Also, his name is apparently 'Josh' to everyone here. It's entirely Gav's fault.

"He's in the garage right now, girl," Otto grumbles. "Torgal's not allowed in there."

"That's not true, Thomas and I take him through the garage all the time," Mid says blithely. She flings her arms around Torgal's neck, her knees hitting the floor with a soft thud that makes Joshua wince. "Isn't that right, boy? You're smart enough to avoid the power tools."

Otto rolls his eyes heavenward. "Mid, for the love all that's good—" he starts as Cid chuckles. "Don't laugh!" he snaps, pointing at Cid, who raises his hands in surrender. "Do not encourage them."

"Encourage who," Cid says, "the children or the dog?"

"Yes!"

"Is something wrong, boy?" Mid says, pulling back from Torgal to study him: he's sitting very straight and stiff, not snuggling back into her as he normally would. She frowns and pets down the side of his neck, but he doesn't respond. "Do you hear something? Do you want a treat?"

"Do not give him another—"

"He thinks you fell and need help getting up," Joshua tells her. She turns to him in surprise. "He's waiting for you to use him for leverage. Torgal, here," he commands, patting his leg. Torgal looks at him, then back at Mid. He waffles for a few breaths before rising to stand by Joshua. "Good job. Now break."

Torgal relaxes and immediately rises to set his front paws on Joshua's knees, tail swishing happily against the floor.

"Wait, is Torgal a service dog?" Mid asks. She tucks her arms against her chest. "Oh, shit! Were we not supposed to be petting him this whole time?"

"No, it's fine, he's not," Joshua says, rewarding Torgal with a kiss on the nose and a thorough skritching behind the ears. "But once we realized how intelligent he was, and that he was going to grow up big, Clive taught him a few commands and tasks that he felt were essential, just in case." He smiles at the curious look on her face. "Clive's a first responder. He thinks in emergencies."

When Joshua has custody of Torgal, it's because Clive is away at work for days at a time and might not be able to rush over to fuss at him directly. It makes him feel better to know Joshua won't fall abruptly ill and be unable to get to his feet or reach his phone to call for help. It's only been truly necessary a handful of times over the last few years, but as far as Clive is concerned, that's enough to justify it and to keep reminding Torgal of key commands.

Mid shuffles forward on her knees—Joshua winces again—and pats Torgal's flank, which is the signal for him to get off Joshua, flop onto the ground, and roll over to let her rub his belly. "There's a smart boy," she croons as he lies contentedly on the floor to be pampered. "Aren't you the best, Torgal?"

"Mid, love, did you leave the reminder sticker on the windshield this time?" Cid asks.

"Ah, shit, I knew I forgot something," she says, and does not move. "I'll get it in a minute. Just let me finish Torgal's belly rub first."

Joshua can't help but smile at the sight, even though it means someone's stolen his dog's attention from him again. Torgal's happy; his mouth is open and panting contentedly, the tip of his tongue protruding from between his teeth. Joshua bends to pat him one more time and takes out his phone to read as he waits.

He doesn't intend to nod off, but when next he blinks, Mid is gone, and Joshua's phone has fallen into his lap. Torgal is curled up next to his feet—he is going to need a bath after rolling around so much on the floor, streaked with melted snow from customers' shoes—and he can hear quiet voices.

"You-know-who called the desk earlier," Otto is saying.

"He's still trying to reach me?" Cid replies. "And on the work phone now. He's always been a persistent bastard, I'll give him that."

"Not your brother's shadow. Her."

Cid falls silent at this.

Joshua doesn't intend to eavesdrop any more than he intended to fall asleep, but it's not like he can close his ears. Besides, he's still curious about Cid. Is 'you-know-who' Mid's mother, perhaps? Whatever is between them, it must be personal for Otto to speak of her in such disapproving tones.

"And she..." Cid hesitates. "Did she sound all right?"

"Same as always, and spouting the same shit, too." Otto shifts in his chair, making it creak. "I hung up on her."

For a while, there's no answer. And then, "She's a grown woman. She made her choice."

Joshua has just decided that he should speak, or move, or do something make it clear that he's awake and listening when the door to the garage opens again. He takes the chance to sit up straight, focusing on gathering his phone so that he doesn't accidentally catch Cid or Otto's eye.

"Done—sticker, receipt, keys, and all!" Mid announces. Torgal's ears prick up. He raises his head and begins to turn onto his back before she even makes it all the way to him. "I'm back, boy, did you miss me? Here, Torgal: sit!" Torgal stares at her, looking betrayed, and begrudgingly rolls upright. "High five!"

Torgal obliges. As Joshua rubs his eyes, still a bit groggy from the short unexpected drowse, he sees Cid at the edge of his vision standing at the counter, wearing a soft smile as he watches his daughter play.

When the door opens again, Joshua looks up again to see Clive step through just as Mid is rewarding Torgal with a treat. "That's my last one for the day," Clive says, handing a keychain to Otto. "Mid, are you spoiling my dog again—" He breaks off when he sees Joshua and lights up. "What are you doing here?"

"Hi," Joshua says, and is suddenly embarrassed again at how relieved he feels to see his brother beam at him. Whatever dark mood Clive was in after his last shift has lifted, it seems. "Sorry. I, er. Just saying 'hi.'"

"You all right?" Clive says. His smile fades a little.

"Yeah," Joshua says. He should laugh it off, but he can't seem to make himself today.

Clive glances at Cid, and—what is that, what is that look that passes between them? "Get out of my shop," Cid said, making a shooing motion. "Rest that shoulder. And take your dog with you before he spoils my daughter rotten."

"Oh, all right," Mid says, leaning in for a last, vigorous rub of the ears before she gets up. "Torgal, go find Dad," she says. Torgal leaps to his feet and runs to Clive, snuffling loudly at his hip. "See, it worked!"

"We're going, we're going," Clive says, patting Torgal heartily on the flank. "Torgal, go and get your little brother so we can get out of here."

Joshua pushes himself to his feet, too, and reaches for the leash kept hanging at the side of the counter to clip onto Torgal, so he almost misses the way Clive sways toward Cid, just a little, before stopping and turning away with a nod. Otto's watching them, too, and he's frowning, but that might be just his neutral expression; it's hard to say.

"Put on your hat, Joshua," Clive scolds as he takes the leash from Joshua and starts leading the way out the door. "I'll walk you back to your place."

Joshua peeks back over his shoulder before they set off, and he sees Cid watching Clive for a second before their eyes meet. Cid raises an eyebrow at him and turns around to speak with Otto. Joshua puts on his mask and his hat.

"Is your shoulder still bothering you?" Joshua asks. It's nearly full dark already, and there's a dusting of frost on the sidewalk. Whatever mix of breeds Torgal is, he doesn't ever seem to mind the cold, which is fortunate, because Clive's walking more slowly than he normally would, conscious that breathing at baseline is already a little harder for Joshua in the cold.

"It's much better. I must've just pulled something. It'll be fine in a couple of days, I'm sure."

It's hard to tell how true that is. Clive's wearing a thick coat that would mask it if he were favoring the arm. He won't return to duty if he's badly enough hurt to put the rest of his company at risk, but that doesn't mean he's not in pain.

"Really, it wasn't a big deal," Clive says when he sees Joshua trying to assess him. He reaches over—with the arm he injured—and slings it around Joshua's shoulders, as if for proof. "Did something happen today?"

"Nothing happened," Joshua says. He drags out a smile, the kind that Clive will hear in his voice. "Can't I just want to visit my dog?"

"Understandable," Clive says, and Joshua can hear his smile, too.

They both know he wasn't there just for Torgal, and, perversely, Clive's happiness about it makes Joshua feel more guilty. He shouldn't have dropped by. Isn't he the one who's been telling Clive to find more friends who aren't him? If not for Joshua, he realizes, Clive might have stayed at Otto's for another a few minutes, or another hour, flirting with Cid or letting Mid try to train Torgal to find him.

"The...anniversary's next week," Clive says. He says it very gently, like he's probing a wound to see if it's reopened.

"I also have access to a calendar," Joshua says lightly. "Nothing happened today, Clive, I promise."

"All right," Clive says.

They pause at the intersection to let Torgal sniff a fire hydrant. Not for the first time, Joshua wonders idly how much dog piss Clive has touched in the line of duty. Most calls for firefighters don't actually require a hydrant, and if they do, Clive's usually inside the building and not the one connecting the hose, but things change depending on which company gets to the scene first and what needs to be done. It's probably not a thought that goes through one's mind, he supposes, when one is trying to put out a fire. Joshua can't imagine what goes through Clive's mind when he's running through fire.

"Do you ever think about going back to Rosaria?" Joshua asks.

The arm around him tenses. "Going back? Why?"

Joshua shrugs. "Just to visit. With Mother moving here soon, she won't even be anywhere near Rosaria anymore."

"Are you really that worried about her?" Clive asks.

"I'm not," Joshua says. "I just mean, don't you ever wonder if...if the playground across from the park is still there? Or if there are still snow daisies growing on that hill near Hawk's Cry Cliff?"

"Mann's Hill?" Clive says, sounding confused. "I dunno, are you... Do you miss the snow daisies?"

He's not explaining it right, and his chest is starting to feel tight the longer they stay out in the cold. "It's not the snow daisies, Clive. It's just...we used to run up to that hill and play all the time with Jill. It's been so long. I don't know. I think I'd like to see it again someday."

The tightness in his chest tries to choke him, and he's coughing again before he can stop it. Clive pauses along with him, rubbing his back until the fit passes. He's panting softly, shivering against his brother, when Clive says, "You're right. Why not? We should find a time we can go together—Jill, too. In the summer, maybe, when it's warm and the snow daisies are in bloom."

Summer's only a few months away. At the moment, it feels like it could be forever.

"Yeah," Joshua croaks. He clears his throat. "It's not about the snow daisies."

Clive chuckles. "All right. We'll make plans. Come on, keep moving. Let's get out of the cold before my dog freezes."

Chapter Text

1. When the world was still newly forged, the people lived apart from one another.
2. They were not one but many. They wandered the earth, pure and unburdened, their lives shaped only by the cycles of light and dark. Yet their hearts were restless.
3. In the land of the east, where the first sun rises, the people built great pyres. These were the children of the spark, the first to know God.
4. The people built no temples, for their altars were the open sky, their offerings the smoke of the pyre. And so they called the land Ash, for it was here that the remnants of God's first Flame still lingered.

- Scriptures of the Risen, Book of Ash

*****

From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
cc: [email protected]

Dear Mr. Rosfield,

It is always gratifying to find one who seeks greater knowledge of our world and the peoples from whom we originate. I heard all about you from Dion when you were children, of course, and it would be a pleasure to meet you in person at last!

I am intrigued to learn the circumstances that have led you to the Dzemekys civilization. It so happens that I have a graduate student who might be able to provide insight into your particular interest, if you wouldn't mind her joining our conversation (cc'd here).

If it is convenient to you, we can meet tomorrow afternoon at 1:00 P.M. in Lostwing Hall, room 208. Dion tells me that you are familiar with our institution, but if you find yourself lost, simply ask any passing student to point you in the direction of the stacks.

Warmest regards,
Harpocrates

Professor Emeritus
Dept. of History and Religious Studies
Valisthea University

---

Professor Hyberboreos's office is nestled in the back of Lostwing Hall, through the library, where Joshua passes dozens of students studying at long tables. It's been many years since he himself was a student here, though, and he underestimates the amount of time needed for him to find his way and then march slowly up the stairs. He ducks into a public toilet for a bit, waiting for a wave of nausea and lightheadedness to settle, and he arrives at the office five minutes after the hour.

There's a wizened-looking man inside who matches Harpocrates Hyperboreos's photo on the History department's webpage. Sitting to one side with a textbook on her lap is a woman, dressed casually in jeans and a hooded sweater, who looks up from the textbook she's reading when Joshua knocks on the open door.

"Professor?" he says. "Is this a good time?"

The professor lifts his head from the book he's reading. "Ah! You must be Joshua. Come in, and please, call me Harpocrates. Or Tomes, if you prefer."

"Thank you for taking the time to meet with me," Joshua says. He glances at the woman, unsure how to address her. She's younger than Joshua thought at first glance—Harpocrates's student, presumably—though she wears an expression of calm composure beneath her short-cropped hair that Joshua certainly doesn't remember having when he was a student.

"This is Jote Ondelas, a third-year PhD student in Anthropology," Harpocrates says, nodding to her. She rises and extends a hand.

"Joshua Rosfield, from State of the Realm," Joshua introduces himself, taking her hand. Her grip is strong, and the skin of her palm is rough with calluses, Joshua notes absently; this is not a woman who spends all of her time in the library. "Nice to meet you, Jote."

"Likewise," she says.

Harpocrates gestures. "Please, sit."

Joshua slides into a chair next to Jote and carefully shifts it back so that he's not disturbing anything on the overflowing desk. Harpocrates' desk is covered in books and notebooks, as well as what might be the oldest PC Joshua has ever seen in person. The walls of the office feel a little too close, as they are nearly entirely encircled by overflowing bookshelves. "I suppose this must be an unusual request."

"I admit it's not often that the media is interested in what we study," Harpocrates says. He marks his page with a weathered cloth bookmark and closes the book. "However, I find that unusual questions are often the ones with the most interesting answers! So. What is it you want to know?"

"I'm afraid I don't have a very clear picture myself," Joshua confesses. He reaches into his bag for his notebook and a pen. "In short, I've come across multiple separate fires over the last year that appear to have been set intentionally as an attempt at either arson or suicide, or both. In at least five that I've found, the person I suspect was responsible had suffered some sort of personal tragedy prior to that. They had all attended a support group or workshop at Dzemekys, that spiritual center on Reverie Avenue."

"Fascinating," Harpocrates murmurs, "and very dreadful. And you're interested in their connection to an ancient Ashen tribe?"

It sounds a bit absurd when it's put that way, but Harpocrates only sounds curious, not skeptical. Joshua glances at Jote again, but she's impassive, unreadable. If she thinks he's being silly, she's not saying anything.

"Truthfully, Professor, I don't know much about them yet," Joshua says. "I didn't even realize that there was an ancient city of the same name until Dion told me."

Harpocrates exchanges a look with Jote. "It's quite serendipitous, our paths crossing," he says. "As you may know, I study ancient cultures, with a focus on their religious beliefs. I serve as Jote's dissertation advisor, as she is studying NRMs—new religious movements—and their development from historical religious cults. I asked her to join us today for the same reason you came to me: the Children of Dzemekys is a perfect example of a modern-day NRM with clear roots in an ancient cult, and, as part of her independent field research, Jote has already been observing this group for the last couple of weeks."

Joshua blinks at Jote. "You study cults?"

"I study new religious movements," she corrects him. "The modern use of the term 'cult' carries connotations that are neither well-defined nor consistently applied."

"And you've been observing the Children of Dzemekys? Like—how? Did you find out the names of their members, or...?"

"They've consented to my sitting in on some of their sessions to observe their practices," Jote says.

"You what?" Joshua blurts. "And they just...let you do that?"

"There's no particular reason for them not to," Harpocrates puts in, "if they are simply spreading the word of their beliefs and helping people to deal with their trauma as part of that. More than one anthropologist has done something similar and published their findings on various groups."

Joshua boggles at the idea that he's been trying to figure out a way to convince Vivian to let him sneak in, while this graduate student simply walked up to them and asked if she could take notes. "So, are you saying that they mustn't be doing anything suspicious or they wouldn't let a researcher observe them?"

"Not necessarily," Jote says, and he looks back to her. "There are certain gatherings and even parts of the physical grounds that I've been barred from. They allow me in, so long as the people in the sessions agree to it, but they don't consider me part of the group. There are meetings I'm not invited to, and I think that's where they truly expound on their religious teachings. "

"Well," Joshua says, "I believe the Children are offering traumatized people the kind of counseling that somehow convinces them to try immolating themselves. If I'm right, then it's not surprising that they're not being entirely open with someone who is planning to publish a research paper on them."

"Ethically, Jote has to be forthright about her intentions," Harpocrates says. "She can't do a study on human research subjects without their informed consent. This is only a year-long study, and we always knew she might be locked out of some of their activities."

"And you don't find that suspicious," Joshua says.

"It's not so unusual," Jote says. "Many NRMs have some sort tiered membership structure, in which members are allowed to become more involved as they demonstrate greater commitment to the group."

"So what have you been able to learn about them, so far?" Joshua asks Jote.

She glances once at Harpocrates. "They've allowed me into their counseling sessions and a few workshops, as long as I agree in writing to confidentiality regarding anything the participants say about themselves, aside from those who have explicitly consented to the use of their information. The message they emphasize at those sessions is mostly that people must find peace with themselves and what happened to them."

Joshua thinks of Allard's painting again, the one of the man burning to death, wearing a smile and closing his eyes like he's going to sleep. One could interpret death as a sort of peace, he supposes.

"But there's definitely more that I'm missing," Jote says. "For one, I've only heard mention of the man who they refer to as their 'prophet.' I've never even heard his name or seen his face, so far as I know. They're very vague about everything they say in front of me."

"I see." Joshua leans back, tapping his pen on his notebook. "But you've verified that they named themselves after the ancient civilization of Dzemekys?" Jote nods. "I'm hoping that understanding ancient Dzemekys's beliefs might provide us with some insight—any at all—about what they're doing now."

"Well, it's not a bad place to start; I have always believed that where we come from is an important part of who we are today," Harpocrates says. "The first thing to know, Joshua, is that I am not an expert on the people of Dzemekys. I would go so far as to say that no one is, as we have very little in the way of written records of them."

"Are they from that long ago, then?" he asks.

"A few millennia," Harpocrates says, "but that's not so long a time as to be preliterate. We know that records existed at one point in time, but most of them have been destroyed—though whether by natural forces or deliberately is a matter of debate. Only one record has survived nearly intact, and that is a journal kept by a chronicler we know as Moss. The journal itself—or what's left of it—is kept in the Library of Rare Books in the Academy of Mikkelburg."

"Mikkelburg—in Waloed?" Joshua blurts, dismayed. It makes sense, he supposes, that an artifact describing a civilization from the continent of Ash would be kept there. "Surely it's been—digitized or something?" Then again, it's probably more complicated than someone just flipping through the pages and taking pictures if it's half burnt and over a thousand years old.

"Some of it has been, but much has not," Harpocrates tells him. "As you're surely aware, Waloed has traditionally been quite an insulated nation, and only in recent decades has it begun to open its borders to the rest of the world. The Academy of Mikkelburg has initiated a project of digitizing and translating much of their invaluable collection, but handling artifacts that old is slow, painstaking work."

"I've submitted a request to the library at Mikkelburg for access to scans of Moss the Chronicler's journal," Jote says. "I have a contact there who's helping us, so I'm hoping it'll come through soon."

"I admit," says Harpocrates, "that, aside from this line of inquiry, I would be eager for even a peek at the knowledge within that journal. Unfortunately, I am myself a bit too old these days to consider traveling halfway across the world to see such a priceless manuscript."

Joshua does not think about how old he'll be when he's no longer strong enough to board a plane to fly even across the nation, much less the world.

As though even not thinking about it is a trigger, he feels the tickle in his throat creep up too late to do anything but turn to the side and let the cough come out. "Sorry," he says, suppressing a new swell of nausea. Harpocrates is...well, he doesn't know exactly how old the man is, but if he's too old to fly around the world, he's probably as wary of infections as Joshua is. "I'm not sick, I—"

"You don't have to apologize," Harpocrates says, and slowly stands up to grab a cup and fill it with water from a jug kept behind his desk. He slides it toward Joshua and lowers himself back into his chair. "Dion's told me all about you."

That comes as a surprise, and not the most pleasant one. Dion's fond of his old mentor, certainly, but he's also seemed quite the paragon of discretion these days. "He did?" Joshua asks.

"All about you as a child, in any case," Harpocrates amends. "I hope you won't hold it against him; he was only a boy then, too, and I always had the impression he didn't have many people to talk to in those days about his friend." He gives Joshua a warm, gentle smile.

Oh.

That's different. Dion always did seem like he was lonely as a boy. It's nice, Joshua supposes, that he had someone to talk to about his fears, even if it's a little sad that the only person he had was his history tutor.

Joshua tugs his mask down takes a sip of the offered water, though he didn't manage to get anything down for lunch today and isn't confident enough to put too much into his vaguely roiling stomach. He was thinking that the side effects have been getting better. Apparently, he was wrong.

He darts a look at Jote, who looks curious enough that he knows she has not been told anything about him, by Dion or anyone else. She catches his glance and looks away.

"Thank you," he says. "Erm. So what do we know about ancient Dzemekys? Speaking of Dion, he said they're best known for their Fall, around 2000 BYR, and for the Akashic Warriors of Stonhyrr."

"That's not incorrect—but," Harpocrates says, folding his hands on top of his book and leaning forward, taking on a lecturing tone, "it will not do for us to start in the middle of the tale! The area of Dzemekys was home to an Iron Age civilization." He holds up a finger. "You may be wondering already if I have misspoken, as the Ashen Iron Age is generally not considered to have begun until nearly a millennium after that, perhaps around 1100 BYR."

"Er, right," Joshua says, as though he has the first clue when the Ashen Iron Age was.

"Ah, but that is one of the most intriguing and yet unexplained characteristics of the people of Dzemekys," Harpocrates says. "We have evidence of advanced, worked iron tools that we can date quite solidly to approximately 3000 BYR. How or why it is that they achieved these technological advances so far ahead of other civilizations in the region is unknown.

"From what we can piece together, there was some sort of armed conflict between two groups of people at Dzemekys. The human toll of this conflict is well documented from the battle-torn remains found there, though we do not know what spurred it. Most today believe there was a religious dispute that escalated to deadly proportions, carried out using the tools and weapons that they were so skilled in forging. The survivors went on to persist throughout the continent of Ash, if not quite flourish, for another thousand years."

"And that's where the modern-day Children of Dzemekys got their name, right. This religious dispute," Joshua prompts: "do we know what...what gods they worshipped, or what they believed?"

"With the caveat that there must have been at least two conflicting philosophies that we do not have enough evidence to discern," Harpocrates says, "we do know that at least some of them worshipped a deity composed of flame."

Joshua raises an eyebrow. "They worshipped a god of fire," he echoes. It certainly lines up with whatever half-baked theories he's come up with so far.

"One theory," Harpocrates explains, "is that this being was a god of of creation, of the forge or the furnace, the people of Dzemekys having been such masters of smelting and metalworking. Others believe He was a god of destruction."

"The god that the Children of Dzemekys worship today seems to be both," Jote puts in.

Joshua pauses in his notetaking. He needs to get Jote in a room to interview her about everything she's learned from them, he realizes—although she may be bound by confidentiality. Is there a way around that?

Harpocrates nods to her. "You've heard of the Akashic Warriors. The Children were said to be a fiercely warlike people—it would make sense that their deity had a destructive aspect. One thing that multiple accounts agree on is that their hordes were always commanded by the greatest of their warriors, men described by some to be monstrous—even inhuman—in size and strength. Whether such stories are true..." Harpocrates spreads his hands. "Unfortunately, we can only speculate. You're a writer, Joshua. You know the power of stories."

"This sounds more like fantasy, though," Joshua counters, since he hasn't written fiction since he was in school. "What I'm looking for is facts, and I find it hard to believe these Children had the ability to transform their greatest warriors into inhuman monsters."

"But what is a monster?" Harpocrates asks. "If the Akashics were truly as unfeeling as the sources say, does that not seem, in a way, inhuman? If a single man can kill hundreds on a battlefield without thought for who they were as people, could you not call him both great and monstrous? Historians in those days did not hold the same standard of factual accuracy that we do today, and many would have been writing—perhaps hyperbolically—from the perspective of people who fell victim to the Akashics. But even if something did not happen, that does not make it untrue to the people who read or heard the stories."

Joshua does understand what the professor means. The Djinn and the Firebird was, of course, a fantastical book, but it sold well enough because children found some kernel of truth in its fable about a friendship between two monsters searching for a place to belong in the world around them. A fiction can tell the truth as much as truths can be used to spin a lie.

Still, Joshua says, "I doubt that's an argument that my editor will accept."

Harpocrates chuckles. "And so they should not. What I mean to say is that sources like these must sometimes be taken with a grain of salt. What is written in them may not be literal fact so much as allegory or speculation."

Joshua smiles wryly. "If speculation were enough, then I wouldn't need to get inside this spiritual center to look for proof of what's going on."

Harpocrates's eyebrows rise at this. "Get inside? To what end—to interview them, like Jote does?"

"Not quite," Joshua says. "I'm planning to join them—or, at least, make them think I am. I've looked up statistics on fire-related deaths, arsons, and attempted suicides. There's no question in my mind that these are a statistical anomaly. I know there's something going on with the Children of Dzemekys. But I don't know if it's intentional or malicious, and I don't have any proof. I'm hoping I'll be able to find something from inside."

Jote narrows her eyes at him, tilting her head, as if realizing suddenly that Joshua is not bound to the same rules about research on human subjects that she is. There are journalistic ethics he has to follow, of course, but undercover investigations are, while uncommon, not necessarily unacceptable if there's no other way to get the information he needs, not when he already has good reason to believe something is not right.

"If these people are what you fear they are," Harpocrates says, "then that could be dangerous, could it not? Jote has been frank with them regarding her intentions. You will be lying."

"I don't actually intend to lie," Joshua says, "or, at least, not much. I won't need to, to get my foot in the door at one of their support groups. I'm optimistic about being able to convince them of my sincerity."

Suddenly, Jote speaks up. "If you do become a member of the Children of Dzemekys, would you be willing to be interviewed about your experience for my dissertation?"

Joshua opens his mouth, then pauses, staring at her.

If he's able to do what he's hoping, then this is her opportunity to gain access to information she's been barred from thus far: he can be her man on the inside, a loophole. If he can convince them of his sincerity, they might show him much more than they would be willing to show her, and what he learns would fall within the scope of her research project.

On the other hand, Jote has been in with them for weeks, and she studies cults, or NRMs or whatever they're called. She knows the kinds of tactics they use, and there are probably things she will notice that he will not, especially as he'll be focused on playing his part believably enough to be welcomed into the secret parts of Dzemekys that the Children don't want outsiders to see. She won't need to worry about breaking the confidentiality of support group sessions when talking to him, because he will have been at them, too.

They can help each other.

"I would be happy to share my experiences with you," Joshua says, holding her gaze. "And you—would you be willing to provide me with your expert advice as well?"

Jote's serious, stoic expression cracks for the first time, giving way to a tiny smile. "I would be happy to," she echoes. She looks at Harpocrates, but he only regards them thoughtfully.

"I suppose," Harpocrates says after a moment, "that, perhaps, having an ally you can trust inside the organization could be safer in any case, for both of you."

Joshua eyes Jote again. She is protected to a degree by the fact that the Children of Dzemekys know she's studying them with the full knowledge of Valisthea University's ethics board, but she is still a student. Perhaps her advisor means that he would prefer an additional set of friendly eyes on the situation, now that the group has been connected to multiple deaths.

"We should probably discuss our plans and how we we want to approach this, then," Joshua says.

"The student office is empty right now," Jote says. She starts to stand, then pauses. "Tomes, is there anything else?"

Harpocrates purses his lips, tapping one finger on his desk, as though he's thinking. "This must be carefully and scrupulously documented," he says, looking between them. "You understand, Jote? I want to be updated weekly at least, and I expect to be told if anything changes about the situation. And Joshua...be cautious," he adds. "Whether or not you are correct about their activities, it's not a simple thing, integrating oneself into a group's mindset thoroughly enough to be accepted as one of them."

"I'll admit I'm not the most practiced actor," Joshua says, "but I'll do my best."

There's a faint hint of excitement in the air. There's a way forward now; there are plans to make.

"That's not entirely what I mean," Harpocrates says, but he sits back. "I can see you're both eager to talk further. Go on. I wish you luck in your endeavors—and take care of each other, if you wouldn't mind."

---

Jote leads him to a shared student office. The desk space is entirely taken up by books, notes, and, in one corner, snacks, so she uses a bookshelf near the door as a writing surface instead.

"I need you sign this, please," she says, passing him a form. "It acknowledges that you're aware I'm observing you and are consenting to be observed and interviewed. Take whatever time you need to read through it. I can walk you through anything you're unsure about."

It's not the first informed consent form Joshua's had to sign. "This looks surprisingly similar to those forms they make you sign for medical clinical trials," he comments as he skims through the wording. There's less about side effects and risks to his physical health, of course, but the language is oddly familiar.

"I think many fields have borrowed from each other when developing ethical guidelines to protect human subjects," Jote says. She keeps a respectful distance away and holds herself motionless while he reads. "You have some familiarity with clinical trials?"

Joshua rubs his chest. There's a faint ache that's been gathering there all day, just from the strain of running around in cold weather. He really wants to finish the day and go home so that he can lie down, but first he's going to have to compile whatever Jote has learned about Dzemekys and make his final case to Vivian. "I was a sickly child," he says, giving her a small smile. "I was part of a trial approving the use of a drug for pediatric populations."

"I see," she says, and doesn't ask anything else.

He's not quite sure what to make of her. The way she's standing now reminds him of a soldier, still and ready, the way he remembers his father and Uncle Byron standing when faced with anyone who might challenge them. It seems incongruous with her youthful features, the smudge of ink on one knuckle of her hand where she's been holding a pen, the worn fabric at the elbows of the baggy sweater she wears.

But there's a look on her face that he recognizes from every person at work when they're curious about something and want to learn more. She has a question on her mind, though she's not asking—perhaps she's waiting for him to sign the form first.

Suddenly, as he's poised to do just that, he realizes something that should have been obvious already: if they are present at any of the same sessions, and if Joshua is going to use the state of his health as a way to convince the group that he belongs, then Jote, this student he's known for less than an hour, is going to become the second person to find out that his doctor thinks he should be getting his affairs in order.

Well, the second other than any number of the Children of Dzemekys who might be there, that is.

"To be clear," Joshua says, the pen hovering over the line, "how much of what I say about myself—personal things—would be made public?"

"Your actual name wouldn't be published at any point," Jote assures him. "I'm not aiming to cause harm to any individual. There...may be aspects of what you say that would be pertinent to my dissertation, if it's necessary to describe how Sleipnir responds to that."

"Sleipnir?" Joshua echoes absently.

He's not sure why he's hesitating. He doesn't enjoy talking about his poor health to everyone he meets, but it's not something he can hide, at least in a general sense. He has a chronic cough, and he gets tired and sick easily, especially with his new meds.

In a way, he's been dying ever since the fire. Well, everyone's dying, really; Joshua's just doing it faster. They've always known that. But knowing, vaguely, that his life expectancy is a bit lower than most people's isn't the same as counting down the years or months—of being able to glimpse the end of the road.

"Sleipnir's a minister of the Children of Dzemekys," Jote says, unaware of what he's thinking. "It seems like he's the one who runs everything, really. He leads most of their sessions that I've been able to attend, although I know there's a man he answers to."

"Yes, this 'prophet' you mentioned," Joshua says. "That's...that's interesting."

There is a long silence as Joshua stares at the form and Jote stares at him. "Is there something you're unsure about?" she finally asks, wary.

He isn't going to be able to keep his declining health a secret for much longer. Jill will notice, and, of course, Clive. After that, Joshua thinks, it doesn't really matter who else knows.

Fuck it all.

Joshua picks up the pen again, signs, and hands the forms back over without giving them another glance.

"Thank you," she says. She's still got a hint of curiosity in her gaze, but she refrains from asking. She meets his eyes, and then looks away. "Can you tell me more about the fires you're looking into?"

Joshua pulls out his laptop and sets it up next to the desk that seems to be hers, opening the files he's collected so far and explaining as succinctly as he can. Jote looks to him for permission and then begins scrolling through his research with interest, though she pauses here and there to write down something he says on her tablet, multitasking handily.

"Genevieve Laurent is in custody and under suspicion of arson," he finishes. "Ivan Karlsson, too, though he was badly injured and hasn't really been able to answer questions. I've sent requests to speak with Laurent, but the department of corrections is blocking me."

"You talked to Karlsson at one point, though, right?" Jote asks, skimming his notes. She's less shy when she's talking about research. "Just after the fire? You have a quote from him."

We've finally found you. This was for you.

"Oh, no, I wasn't there," Joshua explains. "My brother is a first responder, and Ivan Karlsson spoke to him. My brother and another firefighter both told me what they heard the man say. It really unsettled them; they both suffered injuries during the rescue."

She bends back over the tablet to scribble a note. "So that's why you're doing this?"

"Hm?"

"Your brother," Jote says, still writing. "He's a firefighter, you said? That's why you care so much about this."

Joshua frowns at her. She's not wrong, but it's...reductive. "I care about this because they seem to be exploiting people who are in pain, and if so, someone should expose them."

She looks up and seems to see something in his face. She drops her eyes again. "Sorry. I shouldn't... That's not my business."

When she glances up once more, Joshua offers her an amiable smile. No harm done. She blinks at him, then returns it, tentatively. He still hasn't figured out what to think of Jote, except that she's a little quiet and a little awkward, and he needs to learn how to interact with her if they're going to be working together.

"There's a meeting at Dzemekys tomorrow afternoon," Jote says. "A support group for anyone who has experienced grief, loss, or personal trauma. Do you need more time than that to prepare?"

Joshua pulls up the Children of Dzemekys's website, still open on his browser, and checks their calendar. "That's quite broad in focus. Is that normal for a support group?"

"They encourage their members to build bonds within their community in order to support each other through all of life's difficulties," Jote says. It sounds as though she's repeating something she's heard them say.

There's no reason to wait. "Sure, I'll attend the session. Even if it's just to listen, to see what's going on, it'll be a good start. We don't always need to be at the same sessions; we should decide on what—"

"I'll be at the one tomorrow," she interrupts. She tucks a strand of her dark hair behind an ear. "I'm only teaching one class this semester, so I'm flexible the rest of the time. It's better if you have someone watching your back if you're doing this."

Joshua feels his eyebrow twitch upward. "That's very noble of you," he says lightly, and then, thinking of what Harpocrates said—take care of each other—he adds more seriously, "Jote, I'm grateful for what advice you can give me, and I'm happy to help your research if I can. But you have no obligation to me."

She shifts her feet, looking uncomfortable. "You need them to want to recruit you, which means you need to act and think as though you're willing to be recruited. There's quite a bit of literature on how challenging that can be. I'd like to help, if I can."

He rubs a hand over his face, wishing he weren't so tired while having this rather important conversation. Every time he wants to yawn or slouch, he can't help but be self-conscious, knowing that he's now become part of this quiet young student's project. Knowing as he does, in his gut, that there's something not right at Dzemekys, he can't help but feel a bit guilty that he's using her as a resource rather than suggesting that she switch her research focus to something safer. It makes him feel responsible for her, a bit, and if they are going to be working together, he doesn't want to appear anything other than confident in front of her.

"Why are you doing this, Jote?" Joshua asks.

She frowns. "It's part of my dissertation," she says. "My original proposal was deemed too risky, so I've had to revise it last-minute. Getting a chance to observe a local organization like the Children of Dzemekys was a stroke of good fortune for me."

"What made your original proposal too risky?" he asks, as the current plan is to quietly observe people who might be pyromaniacs and have named themselves after a tribe known for their warlike tendencies.

Jote's mouth takes on a displeased slant. "I...identified a group that I was preparing to study from the inside. But because they require their initiates to abandon all personal connections and property to live on their compound with their leader, my committee rejected the idea."

Another piece in the puzzle of who this young woman is: she doesn't seem to have much respect for danger.

Why, though? She doesn't give the impression of being impulsive, or a thrill-seeker. Jote has seemed nothing but organized and professional thus far. But she's young. Perhaps she's simply naïve to risk?

"How old are you?" Joshua asks. "If you don't mind my asking."

"Twenty-four," Jote says. Not a child, then, but younger than Joshua.

"But why cults at all?" he wonders aloud. Harpocrates isn't even in her department; she must have sought him out specifically for his expertise in ancient cults and cultures. "Why is this what you've chosen to study?"

For a moment, she looks as though she's been caught off-guard. "Are you interviewing me?"

"Just wondering," he says.

Her gaze drops to his shoulder, and she says only, "I have an interest in the topic." Before he can ask further, she barrels on, "I don't think we should act as though we know each other when you go to meet them for the first time."

"I agree," he says, because associating himself with Jote would predispose the Children of Dzemekys to distrust him. "But we should still plan to talk afterward."

"Yes, to debrief. I don't want to disturb your normal routine, especially if we're worried they might become suspicious of you. Where would be a good place to meet after sessions?"

"My normal routine would be to go back to work most days," Joshua says. "The State of the Realm offices are not far from here. But I also have a friend who works here at the university, so it wouldn't be strange for me come to campus to meet you if you prefer that."

Jote hesitates, considering, but her curiosity overcomes her uncertainty. "Is your friend Professor Lesage?"

Joshua smiles. It's the first time he's heard Dion called that. "Yes, we were friends when we were children, back in his movie star days."

"Professor Lesage was a movie star?" she asks.

Her incredulity takes him by surprise. Who in the world hasn't heard of child star Dion Lesage? "You know," Joshua says, "he'd probably be ecstatic to hear that you know him as Professor Lesage and not as the Dragon Prince." When she continues to look blank, he says, "You've never seen Bahamut: Prince of Light?"

"Is that a movie?" she says. At Joshua's look of disbelief, she blushes, and her eyes drift away from his. "I, er. Sort of grew up under a rock."

"It sounds like it," he says, laughing, and it makes him have to stop and cough again. The nausea rears its head once more with the sudden movement, and he reaches out to steady himself on the doorframe—

His hand lands on cloth instead of wood. Before he can sputter out an apology, Jote's hand is suddenly against his shoulder, firm, while her other hovers like she's preparing to catch him if he should tip over.

"Sorry," Joshua says again, hastily taking his hand from the sleeve of her sweater. He presses it against his mask instead as another cough forces itself up his throat, closing his eyes. He's a little lightheaded, too, though that's only his own fault; he knows he hasn't been eating enough since he started on the new meds.

"It's fine," Jote says in her low, even voice. "Do you need to sit down?" There's a scraping noise along the floor.

"No," he says. He opens his eyes and sees Jote watching him from inches away, her expression now pinched with a hint of concern. One of her feet is hooked around the leg of a chair she just dragged closer. Gently, he pulls away from her. "Thank you, Jote. You have impressive reflexes," he jokes, trying to hide the embarrassment he can't fully suppress. "Anyway. We were discussing a meeting place?"

Jote continues to eye him warily, but she bites her lip, thinking. "I'll meet you at your workplace to begin with, if that's all right. It would make sense for me to meet you on your terms for an interview."

"That's fine," Joshua says. "My boss might want to meet you, anyway. Speaking of: I have some paperwork to finalize with her before tomorrow. But I'll pull together the information I have so far on the fires and send it to you tonight." He takes out a business card and hands it to her.

"Understood," Jote says. She hunts around on the desks for a scrap of paper to write her own contact information down. "I'll start sending you what I have, too, so you'll have some idea of what to expect tomorrow."

He takes the paper and extends a hand to her. She stares at it, then shakes for the second time. "It was nice to meet you, Jote," Joshua says. "I'm looking forward to working together."

Chapter Text

41. Then a voice sounded from out of the smoke, saying: "Fear not, children of dust, for the fire is but the will of My hand. In its blaze, I shape you. In its heat, I forge you."
42. And the people asked: "Why must we suffer such trials? Why must we endure the pain of the flame?"
43. And the voice answered: "What is suffering if not a teacher of wisdom? Through the flame, you shall learn to let go of that which binds you, that you may rise anew."

- Scriptures of the Risen, Book of Garuda

*****

By the end of the day, Vivian has approved Joshua's plans regarding the Children of Dzemekys. Joshua sends Jote all of the research he's done so far, including information on the victims of the first three fires, and receives an email in return with a link to a university-hosted cloud drive with all of her research—the parts that don't have other people's private information—from the past weeks. They spend some time that evening coordinating schedules over text and deciding which sessions they will both be able to attend in the coming weeks, as Jote is teaching a class this semester and Joshua is still trying to be productive with work outside of this project.

And then there's nothing left to do but show up at Dzemekys the next day.

It's early afternoon when Joshua arrives, and he's been up since the crack of dawn. The fatigue from the day—the days—before has continued to build over today, and he's starting to wish he'd found a morning session instead so he wouldn't feel like he's on the verge of falling asleep before it even begins.

He's early, deliberately so, giving him time to catch his breath after the walk from the subway and look around a bit. But for the lack of crosses or drakes, Dzemekys looks much like any of a dozen Christian or Greagorian churches Joshua has seen. He walks through an atrium, noting closed doors leading to some large central room and a few smaller ones that are mostly empty. They look almost like classrooms, and there are a couple of people sitting in one of them, reading.

He follows a sign to a meeting room, pulls open the doors, and steps inside.

There's a long couch inside, two soft-looking armchairs, and several other folding chairs that outline a wide circle. A table in the back is stocked with bottles of water, coffee, and a tray of snacks. It's a quiet room, soft and plain. It looks like a calm space.

A man greets Joshua when he enters. "Hello!" the man says, smiling. He's young, perhaps Joshua's age, and his hair is such a pale shade of blond that it's nearly white, long and tied back in a braid. "I don't recognize you. Is this your first time here?"

"Yes," Joshua says, and he doesn't bother with a smile, as it would be hidden behind his mask. No one else has arrived yet, other than Jote, whom he sees sitting with her laptop in a corner of the room, out of the way.

"Then I welcome you to Dzemekys," the man says, spreading his arms. He has a bit of an accent, though it's too faint for Joshua to pinpoint. Is it a Waloeder accent, or is Joshua just allowing Harpocrates's account of Dzemekys to bias him? "I am Sleipnir Harbard. I will be facilitating today's session."

"Is it all right for me to just walk in like this?" Joshua asks. He doesn't look at Jote again. She also remains silent, as they agreed.

"But of course!" Harbard says genially. "Everyone is welcome at our general group. There are closed sessions for our more dedicated initiates, but there is no commitment needed for this meeting."

"I'm not all that spiritual," Joshua says. "I wasn't sure... The sign outside says that this is a faith-based...thing."

"Have no worries," Harbard assures him. "God does not only help those who have already felt His presence. We are here today only to learn and to share our minds with each other."

"Er," Joshua says. "Okay."

"You weren't raised in the faith, I take it?"

"No," he says, as the Rosfields are—or were—largely not religious at all. "Honestly, I'm not even sure what your faith is. I feel like I've come to class without having done my homework," he jokes, wincing. "I'm just not sure where else to go."

"We all come to God by different paths," Harbard says, his cordial bearing never faltering. "He has led you here today; that is enough. You're not expected to be an expert in the teachings. You are welcome to learn more, if you'd like, but today is about healing, that's all."

Joshua has to suppress the urge to look at Jote to confirm that this is all going as expected. Even if he did, it probably wouldn't help. She's not very easy to read.

"May I ask how you heard of our services?" Harbard asks.

"I came across the name of this place on a flyer," Joshua says, a lie, though he knows that flyers must have existed at some point. Redouane Allard apparently put them up around his building, after all. "I...went through something, as a child. I thought I'd gotten past it, as much as it was possible to, but...it's becoming impossible to ignore what it did to me."

"Ignoring the things that have happened to us is often easier than thinking about them," Harbard says. "But we must all face our past if we are to build a new future."

Joshua lets out a huff. It catches in his chest, making him turn aside to cough. "That's sort of the problem," he says hoarsely. Automatically, he glances at the door, although there's no need for privacy when he might be called on to spill all of this in front of a group before long. "The 'future' part, that is. My, er... A couple of weeks ago, my doctor gave me..."

From his pocket, he pulls out one of the pamphlets he received at Dr. Margrace's office, the one with graceful lettering printed on the front that says, 'Coping With Life When You Are Dying.'

Harbard takes it—reads it. Looks at Joshua. He's still smiling, but it's smaller now, a gentle thing on his lips. "I see," he says.

"It says I should consider counseling," Joshua says, gesturing awkwardly at the pamphlet. He doesn't have to feign his discomfort. "I thought, perhaps, a place like this...could help me. Cope, that is." Harbard looks at the pamphlet once more and then hands it back.

"You're in the right place," Harbard tells him, and he grips Joshua by the upper arm, taking him by surprise. It's not threatening; it's just a hand on his arm, not so different from what Clive does all the time. If he hadn't come into this place with suspicions already in his head, he would have interpreted it as a friendly, welcoming gesture. "We are a community for all who seek help. Come, make yourself comfortable."

Joshua lowers himself into a chair, relieved when Harbard lets him go. "Thanks. I don't know who else to talk to."

"That's what groups like ours are meant for," Harbard says. "What's your name? I don't think you've said."

"Oh." Joshua shakes his head. "Sorry. I'm Joshua."

"Joshua...?" Harbard prompts.

"...Rosfield," Joshua says after a moment's hesitation. From what Jote said, Joshua assumed that this group operated on anonymity, a first-names-only sort of thing. He came prepared to give his full name, though, in case someone recognized him, as he can't say anything that wouldn't be verifiable if Harbard or someone else here looks into his story. Perhaps it's only Harbard who needs to know their full names; perhaps things will stay more anonymous among the rest of the group.

"Joshua Rosfield," Harbard repeats. There's recognition in his tone, and Joshua knows, immediately, that this man has heard his name before, his surname if not his first.

Deliberately, Joshua turns and nods to Jote, raising a hand in a wave. "Hi there," he says.

She blinks at him, and then stands to approach. "Mr. Rosfield," she says, her tone very professional, "my name is Jote Ondelas. I'm a graduate student at Valisthea University, and I've been observing the Children of Dzemekys to learn about their ways. Please rest assured that I am bound to the same expectations of confidentiality as anyone else here regarding what you may say in this room. I'm only here to learn. If you have any objections to my presence during the session, please let me know."

They agreed on this ahead of time, as well as his answer. "I guess I don't mind you being here," Joshua says after a pause, "as long as you don't tell anyone what I say. My family and coworkers don't know about...about this yet."

"Of course, I understand perfectly. If you are willing to speak with me afterward about what brought you here, I would appreciate that as well."

"I don't know," Joshua lies. "Maybe another time."

"Of course," she says again, completing their little pantomime. "Thank you for your understanding." She gives him a respectful nod and returns to her seat.

Harbard eyes her as she goes but turns back to Joshua. "Your family and friends haven't been helping you while you're ill, then? That's a pity. But I promise you will find support here with us."

Joshua feels his expression falter. "I... That's not—" he starts, but he's at a loss for to say in response to that. What would someone respond who wasn't overthinking every sentence that comes out of Harbard's mouth?

Before he can think of anything, though, the door opens. A woman steps inside, catching Harbard's attention. Harbard gives him one more smile and leaves to greet the newcomer.

While Harbard is distracted, Joshua meets Jote's eyes before looking away again. Whatever today will bring, there's a bit of comfort in knowing, as Harpocrates said, that he has an ally in the room.

It's another ten minutes before others finish trickling in. Joshua counts fourteen people. There's a range of genders and ages, from older teenagers to a couple who look like they're in their forties or fifties. One man walks with a cane; two come in together, holding hands.

"Welcome," Harbard says when most of the chairs are filled. He sits down himself. "It's two minutes past the hour, so we'll get started. There are a couple of new faces here today, so I want to start with some guidelines and introductions. Here at Dzemekys, we provide a space for those who are struggling or grieving a loss to speak openly and freely about the things that are troubling them. To do that, I must remind you that what you hear about your brothers and sisters in this room must not be repeated to others outside of these doors. Each person will have a chance to speak, and afterward, we will discuss how, in your troubles, you may find reflected the light of God, who will guide you to renewed peace in your life.

"To begin: as most of you already know, my name is Sleipnir. I have been a follower of the Children of Dzemekys for about twenty years. I lost both of my parents when I was very young and was brought into the circle to heal. I came to Storm to study and moved here permanently a few years ago in order to spread the word and the restorative work of the Children."

Joshua nods politely along with everyone else, trying to keep mental notes. He needs to look harder for background on Harbard—or Sleipnir, if that's what he prefers to be called. Most of Joshua's sources are local, but if Sleipnir is an immigrant, he might need to search further afield to find anything about the man prior to coming to Storm for school. Perhaps Sleipnir is from Ash, then, like the original Dzemekys civilization was.

"Shall we start with our newcomers?" Sleipnir says, and, before Joshua has a chance to become apprehensive, he says, "Clarke? How about you?"

A man on the opposite side of the circle of chairs jolts and looks around nervously. His fingers tense around the cane he holds; he was leaning heavily on it when he walked into the room. "Erm...er, I don't know what to say," Clarke says uncomfortably.

"Why don't you tell us why you're here today," Sleipnir suggests.

So Clarke explains, haltingly, that he and his boyfriend were in a car accident, one that left his boyfriend deceased and himself with a broken leg. "I don't know how to process it," he says, tapping his cane against his leg. "I survived, and it still feels like I never made it out of that car. Sometimes," he adds quietly, "I wish I'd never made it out of that car."

Joshua bites his lip. This feels voyeuristic—invasive. These people are here because they went through something terrible, and he's here because he's looking for proof that they're being conned. But Genevieve Laurent, Ivan Karlsson, and Redouane Allard all came here from help. Joshua needs to understand what happened to them before this man—or someone else—becomes the next in the line of people driven to seek out death.

"I'm so sorry for your loss," the woman next to Clarke says sympathetically. "I didn't know your boyfriend, but I can only think he would be glad that you survived."

"How is your leg?" another man asks. "Healing?"

"Slowly," Clarke says. His lips twist. "I mean, I guess. I've missed a few weeks of PT."

"It's difficult to lose someone you loved," Sleipnir says, "but that doesn't mean you should lose yourself. After all, are we not all of us acts of God? If He wills us to be healed, then who are we to argue?"

We are all acts of God. It's a startling turn of phrase, and one that Joshua finds rather pleasing, even if it's not an idea he was raised on.

There are murmurs of agreement around the circle. Joshua feels too new, too out of place to speak, but he tries to crinkle his eyes into what looks like a smile above his mask when Clarke's gaze lands briefly on him.

"Thank you, Clarke, for sharing," Sleipnir says. "Perhaps our other newcomer could introduce himself and tell us what he's experienced that brought him here. Joshua?"

Even expecting it, Joshua twitches a little and feels a stab of nerves in his gut. This is a performance. It's not a lie, which is what he's counting on to sell it. It's just part of his job. It's going to be fine.

He pulls down his mask to take a drink of water and then holds his bottle in his lap, running restless fingers around the lid. "Hi," he says, waves awkwardly at the circle. "I'm Joshua. Erm, when I was ten, there was a fire in my house. My brother and dad were there. Dad died. I..."

It occurs to him suddenly that he's never really had to explain this. It's not something he brings up, usually, and anyone who needs to know already does. Everyone else can find out about much of it online. Usually, Joshua simply doesn't talk about it, and now, he can feel the eyes of everyone in the room on him.

He hasn't even talked to Clive yet. What the hell is he doing?

He takes as deep a breath as he can manage.

"The whole house buckled under the heat. A broken support beam fell and punctured my chest," he says, touching the spot on his chest where he can still feel scarring under the fabric of his shirt. "I was rescued eventually, but they had to remove part of my lung. Between that and the smoke, I was ill for a long time afterward, and the inflammation left my lungs scarred—pulmonary fibrosis, it's called. I was stable for years, but I found out a few weeks ago that the fibrosis has started to spread. It...it's progressive, and when my lungs become too stiff with scar tissue to breathe, I'll..."

Joshua puts his hand back in his lap, gripping his water bottle. They're all looking at him. That's the point, but their gazes feel like they're stabbing into him. He clears his throat and says, very deliberately, "...I will die. It could be in the next year, or I might have a few years left. But my pulmonologist says I should start making sure I have...have my affairs in order."

He didn't notice running out of air as he spoke, but by the time he finishes, he's breathing a little too fast. His heart is pounding, and he's a little lightheaded. His hands are shaking. God, he needs to get a grip—panicking will impair his breathing, and that's the last thing his body can take. He needs to get used to saying it. This is going to be his reality for a long—

Well. Maybe not a long time. Just the rest of his life.

"Are you all right?" Sleipnir asks. His eyes are very concerned, and he has a hand on his chair, like he's ready to rise.

"Er," Joshua says, and ducks to cough. Unconsciously, he glances up, away from the people in the circle of chairs around him and sees—

Jote is staring at him, frozen. Her hands are on her keyboard, but she's not typing. As Joshua gulps down a breath and lets it out slowly, she presses her lips together and nods.

He doesn't really know what she means by it. Still, it loosens something in his chest, enough for him to finish, "Yes, sorry. Er, the fire destroyed my family; I haven't gone home or even seen my mum since I was thirteen. And now, with this... I haven't told anyone yet about the fibrosis. My family or friends, I mean. And the anniversary of the fire's coming up. I haven't been able to stop thinking about it." He raises a hand in a half-shrug. "So. That's why I'm here."

"I can't imagine how hard that must be," says a woman on the other side of the circle, and the woman next to him actually reaches out to pat him on the leg.

There's not much to say to someone in situations like this. It's one of many reasons why Joshua feels uncomfortable going on about it in public. It's been a while since he's been at the center of attention in this way, and it's a prickly, familiar feeling under his skin. His mother used to parade him in front of cameras and donors—look how brave he is, just like his father, unbroken like his family's legacy—but it's been a long time since then. Writing a story is easier thanbeing the story.

"Well, don't give up hope," says another woman with a kind, anxious sort of smile. "Who's to say your doctor's right? You could still get better. My boyfriend—they said he wouldn't make it after his accident, and he's getting better every day."

Joshua blinks at her.

He recognizes this reaction. His mother used to say things like this—what does the doctor know, they've never seen a case like you, you're going to be fine, keep your chin up—and he thinks she meant well. It must have been hard, he supposes, to deal with such a sick child, and hope is a powerful thing. It just seems unfair that Joshua has to be responsible for holding up that hope for other people, especially when he knows it's a losing game and that he's the one who is going to lose.

"Margot," Sleipnir says gently before he can answer, "I'm sure Joshua knows his own health better than we do. It's not for us to be able to change a man's fate."

"Of course," Margot says, ducking her head, and Joshua finds himself feeling bad for her when he sees her clasp shaking hands together in her lap. She's got someone at home who was in an accident, it seems, and she's clinging to hope, too. "I meant no offense."

Joshua presses his face into something that suggests a smile. "None taken," he says, and doesn't think he's lying. "Look, I should have died eighteen years ago. I shouldn't complain. It's just..." He's not sure how that sentence ends, so he lets it trail away.

"It is perfectly natural to mourn what you might have had," Sleipnir says. When no one else speaks, he adds, "Thank you for sharing with us, Joshua. Would anyone else like to share?"

It's a relief to sit back and let the others talk about what has brought them to this group. All of the rest have been here before, and Sleipnir knows them by name, addressing each one briefly after they've said their piece. Not everyone speaks; three of them seem content to listen and occasionally offer encouragement. Five of them have lost family members or friends; three were victims of violence; one is a college athlete who was recently diagnosed with a degenerative disease that has forced her to stop playing her sport; one ran away from home after the last time her uncle hit her, still in her teens and living in a shelter.

One man, Randal, is caring for a sister with end-stage brain cancer. He keeps glancing at Joshua as he speaks, and all of a sudden Joshua can't help thinking about it, too—about what end-of-life care will look like. When Randal finishes, he says, almost defiantly, looking at Joshua, "Yes, it's been hard. But I wouldn't give it up for anything. I'll take every day with her that I can."

Joshua has to swallow a knot that's risen into his throat. He averts his eyes, not looking at anyone.

"What makes you say it like that? Has someone told you that you should give up caring for your sister, Randal?" Sleipnir speaks up.

Randal's lips press together. "Not that...not exactly. My wife and brother both think it's too much for me to handle. They mean well, I know, it's just..."

"Just that they're not thinking of your wishes," Sleipnir finishes for him, nodding in agreement. He leans forward, elbows on his knees, friendly and concerned. "That must make this whole ordeal even harder. Does it happen often, that they don't support you?"

Joshua frowns, but Randal lets out an explosive breath and says, frustrated, "They've never understood! And she doesn't have that much time"—he glances at Joshua again, and then quickly away—"so is it so much to ask to be able to have what little I can get with her? God, it's so hard to be around them these days."

The man next to Randal puts a hand on his back. "That's rough. We're here for you, man," he says, and is immediately echoed by two others. Joshua keeps his peace and tries not to meet Randal's eyes again.

When everyone has had a chance to speak, Sleipnir says, "All of you have suffered something truly difficult to bear. But the first thing we all must do is accept what has happened to us. Only then, having accepted God's will, may we find peace—in whatever form that peace may take."

Sleipnir turns to Joshua while he says the last. He's probably just trying to make eye contact with everyone as he speaks, turning from one person to another, but Joshua can't help feeling a sudden thud of dread at the thought of that very final sort of peace.

He drops his gaze, looking at the legs of the chair across the circle from him, but he's quickly called back to attention.

"I wouldn't normally do this, but, Joshua, I have heard of you and your story—I hope you don't mind," Sleipnir says, bringing Joshua's eyes back up. "The fire that haunts you: it's reminiscent of something we find in the teachings."

"It...it is?" Joshua says. He can't help but glance at Jote; is this how things usually go? He was honestly planning to mostly observe for this first session; he hadn't expected to be called out quite so much.

"And lo, the inferno that sweeps across the earth shall consume all it touches, and the towers built by men shall crumble into dust," Sleipnir says. His voice has taken on an almost sing-song quality as he recites—for it must be a recitation, though of what book Joshua has no idea—and he doesn't look away.

"And God said: 'I am the spark of life and the consuming flames of destruction. Without me, there is no renewal. To know me is to know pain and joy. Walk with me, and you shall be made whole.'"

That's...

Okay.

Joshua takes a breath and is surprised to feel it tremble as it goes in. His heart is racing again. He's not afraid of fire—no more than anyone should be, anyway—at least, not outside of nightmares. The words are a little unnerving to hear so soon after he talked about how a fire killed his father and is slowly killing him now, but the sentiment is kind of beautiful, too, he supposes.

Or it would be, if he weren't wondering about people leaving these sessions and then going out to start fires in their homes.

"The scriptures teach us that there is duality in all that God touches," Sleipnir says. He's looking around the circle now. "So we should think thus of the other forces in our lives. The attack on your sister Martelle tore her from you," he says to a man named Cormac, "and yet in the wake of her loss, you have carried on her work and come to understand a part of her that you never did before. Randal, your sister's illness and your family's disregard for your wishes are painful, but they have led you to find brothers and sisters here who will support you in all aspects of your life. Blanche, if you had never been forced from your home, you would never have found a new home among people you can truly trust."

He spreads his arms, gesturing to the people in the circle. The young man sitting next to Blanche takes her hand, and though she doesn't look up, she does return his grip.

"When I walk through fire," says one of the other women, "I am not destroyed; I am revealed. For the imperfections of the body are seared away, and only the purity of the soul remains."

Joshua shudders, and the water bottle he was holding falls from his fingers. He bends to pick it up, coughing as the change in position squeezes at his lungs, and feeling his hands shake as he grasps the bottle.

The words are not unlovely, and there's probably a good message to take from them. It's just hard to listen to.

"It bothers you, hearing the scriptures," Sleipnir says, like a question.

Joshua feels his pulse spike again. He can't act like he's put off by these people if he's hoping to get a chance to see their inner workings. But before he can speak, the other newcomer, Clarke, answers, "No, it's...it's fine. I'd just never heard of any of that before."

"Neither have I," Joshua says, thinking quickly, "but it's beautiful. The words make me think of a phoenix rising from the ashes."

There's a quiet murmuring of agreement around him. Joshua makes sure his face remains impassive when Sleipnir turns to him. The man clearly knows who he is, which means he might know that the fire Joshua was talking about started in Phoenix Hall in the governor's mansion in Rosaria. He might be aware of the obsession some of the Children of Dzemekys had—or, perhaps, still have—about the assassination known as Phoenix-gate. Joshua is not here to lie, but he is telling a story, and it will help if the Children come to associate him with the language and symbols that they already agree with.

"Just so," Sleipnir says, nodding to him. To the whole group, he says, "We're running short on time. We've discussed today the need to accept what has befallen us, as well as the importance of recognizing how the destructive forces in our lives may also lead to our transformation—to our true selves. But that does not mean we shouldn't be wary of those destructive forces. At times, we may need to defend ourselves against those who wish to hold us back."

"How?" Joshua says without thinking. The words sound ominous. Despite what Jote said about the judgement inherent in calling a group a 'cult,' he can't help thinking of the stories he's heard of famous—or infamous—cults that ended in violence or death. "What do you mean—'defend ourselves?'"

Sleipnir smiles and spreads his hands. "The same way anyone would. If you know that your friends will hurt you, then perhaps it isn't in your best interest to spend a lot of time with them. If you know that certain places are dangerous at night, you stay away from those places when it's dark, do you not?"

"I just bring a weapon, personally," says one of the men who spoke earlier, named Gerulf. Two seats away, Margot nods in agreement, and Joshua wonders suddenly what she has in her purse, or Gerulf in the pockets of the bulky coat he wears. Pepper spray? A taser? A gun? It's not hard to become licensed for a firearm in the Crystalline Dominion. "If someone comes for me, they're not walking away."

Perhaps not pepper spray.

"Hard to be true to yourself if can't keep yourself safe," agrees Martin, the young man sitting with Blanche. Martin left his home, too, but the shelter where Blanche is staying doesn't allow men or boys. It sounds like he's squatting in an abandoned flat. He's got an old scar running up one of his arms, visible whenever his sleeve moves. "If you think anyone else will help you, I can tell you some stories."

"In the end, we are all that we have," Sleipnir says as one other man nods at Martin. "Not everyone will understand, but it's very simple: we are here to find inner peace, and no one can ensure that peace but ourselves.

"Let's all think on this until next we meet," he finishes. "I'd like to thank everyone for coming today and talking about what they've been going through. I will leave you with a saying from the the Scriptures, one that has brought me comfort over the years: Let not your fear of the fire blind you to its blessing, for in its heart lies the power to heal."

"So it was said," answer several voices around the circle.

As though that's the sign they were waiting for, the group begins to disperse. A few rise immediately; others bow their heads, as though in a moment of prayer, before doing the same. They congregate at the table in the back, reaching for water or coffee and biscuits, chatting quietly to one another.

"May I?" Sleipnir says. He's standing before Clarke, a hand extended as Clarke struggles to rise with the help of his cane.

"Thanks," Clarke says, taking the assistance. Belatedly, Joshua puts his water bottle back in the bag with his laptop and rises as well.

He doesn't really want to socialize right now; all the talk about how wonderful fire is has made him feel a bit off-balance, and also, he's concerned that if he tries to eat a biscuit it'll just come back up.

Still, the point is that he's supposed to be trying to integrate himself into the group enough that he'll be invited to learn more. Breaking bread—or biscuits—is generally a good starting point for community. Joshua looks back to see Sleipnir carefully letting go as Clarke finds his feet and then heads to the back.

Joshua lets his mask stand as an excuse for why he's not eating or drinking anything with the rest of them and picks out the closest person whose name he remembers. "Margot," he says, catching her attention, "thank you for what you said earlier. I do appreciate it."

Margot's eyes widen. "I'm sorry," she says immediately. "I didn't mean to... Of course you know your own health better than me. But it's just that they said the same kinds of things to my boyfriend and he's beaten the odds. I'm sure he will," she adds fretfully. "But you can't take everything the doctors say as gospel. Sometimes... Oh, no, I'm doing it again."

"It's all right," Joshua assures her, even as he suspects, with a pang of sympathy, that she's leaning a little heavy on hope in her situation the same way Joshua's mother used to. "I'm glad to hear your boyfriend is doing well."

"Are you on the lung transplant list?" another man asks him—Randal, the man who is caring for his sister. He glances at Joshua's chest, like he can see through it, and then hastily back up. "Would that...fix it?"

"Ah." Joshua looks down at his hands. "I'll be eligible to be on the list, yes, when my condition becomes bad enough. But even if they do find a match...well, I already had a significant lung surgery as a child, on top of the damage to my chest from the original injury. It makes the procedure quite risky, and that makes me a poor candidate. A lot of transplant centers wouldn't even consider me. So...it's very unlikely."

"That doesn't seem fair," Randal replies, a hint of heat in his voice.

Shrugging, Joshua says evenly, "It's not about fairness. There aren't many transplants available, so they need to go to patients who will...last."

"The world's not fair," Margot says in a tone of agreement, and she squeezes his arm. "But things will get better—they will. God says: As gold is refined in the crucible, so too are souls tested in flame. For though it burns, it also purifies; though it consumes, it also renews."

Joshua can't help but feel a tinge of horror at the words, but his curiosity is stronger. He tries not to sound overly keen when he asks, "What is that, what you and Sleipnir have been reciting from? I'm afraid I don't know much about the Children of Dzemekys."

"Oh, neither did I when I first started coming," says a man whose name Joshua has forgotten. "It's fine! We're a welcoming bunch. It's from the Scriptures of the Risen. They're a record of the Children's teachings."

"You don't know where I could find a copy of the Scriptures, do you?" Joshua asks.

A hand touches him on the back. "If you're interested in learning more," Sleipnir says, coming around to join them, "there are other meetings throughout the week you can attend." The group immediately reorients toward him. "Do you think today's session was helpful at all?"

"I...I think so," Joshua says, trying to achieve a tone that sounds hopeful without being too eager. "I'd like to come back. What I heard in there... It was very striking."

He doesn't mean to reach up and touch the spot on his chest where his scar lies, but Sleipnir sees it and smiles again. He seems to take it as a sign that Joshua was deeply affected by the passages he heard.

Affected is true. Not, perhaps, in the way Sleipnir may think, but Joshua will take it.

Sleipnir nods, his ever-present tiny smile still on his lips. "You're always welcome. There will be another session on Friday if you'd like to come?"

"I'll be here," Joshua says immediately.

Once he's got the next session marked on his calendar, he wanders through Dzemekys, careful not to intrude on anything that looks private; he doesn't want to be caught prying. The doors to the large room in the center of the building are now ajar. Joshua peeks in quietly and sees what must be a sort of chapel: there are—he counts—nine people inside now, all kneeling on a circle that's been etched into the floor. He can hear the sibilance of someone's whispered prayer, but it's too soft to make out any words.

He has no idea what they're praying for, or to whom. It seems so private, though, and when he feels a tickle in his chest, Joshua turns away and quickly walks back toward the exit before he can disturb them.

"Mr. Rosfield," Jote calls when he pauses by the exit to cough. She stops at his elbow. "Are you all right?"

Joshua summons a smile for her. "Yes, I'm fine."

"May I ask where you're headed?" she presses. "I was hoping to talk to you about an interview, as I mentioned earlier."

The plan was to go their separate ways and meet up at State of the Realm, so, unsure why she's changed course, Joshua does his best not to glance at at the people who are now in earshot, drifting toward the door and back to their lives. "I work near Dominion Square," he finally says. "I need to get back to my office."

"Oh, my university's at the Dominion stop on the Silver Line," Jote says. "Do you mind if I walk with you?"

"You don't have to, Joshua," says Randal from behind them. He gives Jote a suspicious look; being part of the circle has immediately given Joshua some measure of trust that Jote clearly hasn't earned even after weeks.

"No, it's okay, I don't mind," Joshua says hastily. "It seems we're going the same way, anyway."

---

It's still well before the end of most people's work day, so the subway car isn't packed to bursting. Schools have just let out for the day, though, and there's only one seat left when they step onboard.

"Go ahead," Jote says, gesturing at the seat and reaching out to grab a pole.

Joshua hesitates. "You can sit."

"I'm all right," she says.

With a lurch, the train begins to move. Joshua stumbles and feels a strong arm wrap around his waist, keeping him from falling. "Sorry," Jote says as the jolt makes him cough, though it's not her fault in the slightest. Her own feet haven't shifted, and she has no trouble holding him steady.

And Joshua...is being an idiot. Jote walks faster than he does, and their pace getting to the station was enough to leave him a bit short of breath; he should be sitting. He's being too sensitive and self-conscious about the fact that she just learned he's dying, and it's making him stupid. He drops into the seat, holding onto her arm briefly for balance.

"Thank you," he says, and lets go of her before he can think too much about how solidly muscled her arm is under the oversized, baggy coat she's wearing. "I thought I was going to text you?"

"I know," she says. "It's just, you seemed a bit shaken in there. Are...are you still sure this is a good idea?"

"Some of it took me by surprise," Joshua acknowledges. "But they seem quite welcoming. Do you have access to the Scriptures of the Risen?"

"No," she says. "I've only heard a few lines recited during sessions."

Joshua nods. "Well, then, if nothing else, if I keep working at them, perhaps I'll be able to bring you a few more passages for your dissertation. They seem like they'd be willing to share more with me, if I can show I'm committed."

Jote's fingers curl more tightly around the pole she's gripping. "When I asked you to help me, I...wasn't thinking about what participating in their group sessions would mean for you. Personally."

Joshua finds his hand creeping up to rub his chest and quickly drops it. "I'm doing this for my own purposes," he reminds her. "Being able to contribute to your study is only a bonus."

"Are you..." She bites her lip. "Is it true? What you said in group?"

A twinge of irritation fizzles through him. "I said I wasn't going to lie. I wouldn't, about something like that."

"Oh," she says, and then, clumsily, "I'm...sorry, Mr. Rosfield—Joshua."

She looks nervous as soon as she's said it, like she's not sure she should have. To be fair, Joshua's not sure what the proper etiquette is, either.

"I've been ill for a long time," he says, offering her a reassuring smile.

The words sit awkwardly between them, and he immediately regrets saying them. What is that supposed to mean—I've been ill for a long time, and I might stay ill for many more years? Or I've been ill for a long time, so it's all right if I go soon?

His next breath shivers a little going in. He sets his hands on his thighs and presses them flat. He doesn't want to scare this young woman.

"I mean, thank you," he says without looking at her. It's probably not the right answer, and he doesn't want her pity, but outside of Dzemekys, only three people in the world—his doctor, his boss, and now this student—know about it, and part of him is grateful that she sounds like she's at least a little sorry he'll be dead before thirty-five.

Jote takes her hand off the pole to check her phone when it buzzes. The train judders to a stop just then, and Joshua watches as she barely sways with the motion, as though she doesn't even notice, her legs bending gently to keep her balanced. Though Jote's no taller than his nose, he remembers the feeling of her arm holding him up until he found his feet, and he feels insubstantial in comparison. Joshua would have fallen in an instant if he'd been standing alone, and then he might have tumbled comically across the floor like an empty crisp bag. There's a grace about Jote that, oddly, reminds him of Clive, the unthinking physicality of an athlete.

"What is it?" she asks when she catches him staring at her.

He blinks and tries not to look at her, to the extent that that's possible when she's standing right in front of his seat and blocking his eyeline. Joshua shouldn't be thinking about her body like a creep; she's younger than he is, a student who is depending on him in part for her assignment and who has only ever invaded his space because he needed the support. "Spacing out a bit, I'm afraid. Where are you from?"

The question slips out because he can think. All right, so he is curious about this woman with a strong hand and quick reflexes, who is highly organized and doesn't seem to fear danger. He can't help it; it's an occupational hazard.

"Er," Jote says. Her eyes widen slightly. "I was born in Rosaria, like you, but my...the people I grew up with moved all over. I'm not sure where my parents were from originally."

"Ah," Joshua says, even more intrigued. She's starting to look uncomfortable, though, so he smiles and drops the topic. It's not his business. Jote looks away and seems content to spend the rest of the ride in silence.

---

She holds out a hand to help him up when they reach the Dominion stop and asks, "Do you want me to take your bag?"

"I'm not an invalid yet," Joshua says, annoyed, as he pushes himself to his feet.

Yet, he hears after he's already said it. He's not nauseous enough to be dizzy right now, but the feeling of illness is nipping at his heels, and he holds onto the pole for a little too long.

Jote clearly notices, but she doesn't comment as she lowers her hand. "Sorry," she says. "I don't mean any disrespect."

"It's this way," Joshua says, and leads the way out.

Jote is quiet as they walk into State of the Realm, though she remains a constant single step behind him and just to his right. It reminds him, unnervingly, of how a security guard used to tail Joshua's father when he was out in public. It didn't help any of them that night, when the fire—

Joshua shakes his head. He doesn't need to be thinking about that now.

Jill's away from her desk when they get there, so Joshua pulls an extra chair around to the side of his desk and gestures. Jote sits, still quiet, and oddly still. She looks like someone trying to avoid notice, and Joshua feels an abrupt pang of remorse.

"Sorry," he says as he sits, too. "I shouldn't have snapped."

"I didn't mean to presume," she replies, looking at his shoulder.

Sighing, Joshua pulls out his notebook and a pen. Jote always seems more relaxed when she's talking about her research, so he turns the conversation quickly in that direction. "Well, I guess I don't have much information for you that you wouldn't have seen yourself, but let's see what there is to review. I'm not sure what I expected, but it wasn't quite that."

"Have you ever been to another support group before?" Jote asks. Joshua shakes his head. "There are things Sleipnir tends to do that would generally be considered...unusual. Nearly always, when someone mentions their family, he guides them to the conclusion that their family is a destructive force of some sort."

"I noticed that," Joshua says. "Do you think he's doing it deliberately? Perhaps he believes what he's saying. It sounds as though he might have had a tumultuous upbringing himself, if his family died when he was a child."

"A lot of people have tumultuous upbringings and refrain from professionally trying to separate others from their loved ones," Jote says.

Joshua looks up from the haphazard notes he's just starting to take. Is he reading more into that than there is? The people I grew up with, Jote said, and, I grew up under a rock. "True," he says mildly. "Well, you know him better than I. What's your opinion?"

"I don't know for sure, but he's a licensed therapist with training in psychology. I tend to assume he knows what he's doing, and what he's doing is a tactic more in line with recruitment than an earnest attempt at providing help."

"So the support groups are just a means of recruiting new members, which we suspected," Joshua says. "They're targeting vulnerable people."

"And showering them with the love and support that they're missing from their lives outside the group," Jote says. "They're not just looking for vulnerable people; they're looking for useful ones. There's a CEO who attends one of the other sessions—I think he helps to fund them. Margot is a lawyer. Gerulf was a soldier."

Joshua taps a finger on his desk. It would seem a little worrying that 'soldier' is a useful profession in the eyes of a church. "Gerulf's the one who was talking about weapons?"

Jote nods. "I've never heard Sleipnir advocate violence. On occasion, though, someone will suggest it, and he doesn't exactly discourage it. Nothing reportable, anyway. But it's another way of keeping the group separate from 'outsiders.' If you don't trust anyone else, then the only people you can trust is the group."

"Have you attended other support groups?" Joshua asks. "This isn't how it usually goes, then?"

There's a long pause, and he realizes belatedly that could be a rather personal question.

"You don't have to answer that," he says, as Jote says over him, "Yes, I have."

"I shouldn't have asked; that was invasive of me," Joshua says.

"I asked you first," Jote points out, which is true. It simply didn't seem invasive when she asked because the answer for him was 'no.' "But there's no single way of leading a support group. There aren't exactly rules for how it must be done, so even if you suspect that he's intentionally giving people harmful advice, you'd be hard-pressed to force him to stop."

"Right," Joshua says. "That's the point of this, I suppose; something seems wrong here, but it's not anything one could bring to the police. But an article exposing unhealthy practices, if we conclude that that's what's happening, could at least bring attention to the issue."

Jote folds her hands in her lap. "Something else I wanted to mention: Sleipnir doesn't usually push people to talk about themselves the way he did today with you and the other first-timer. And I've never heard anyone there even share their last name during the session; he brought up your history, your personal history that you hadn't shared yourself. That's not normal. He must have already known who you were."

"It happens," Joshua says, though, at the time, it put him on edge, too. "The fire I mentioned—you might have been too young at the time, but my father was a rather well-known..." He trails off when Jote glances away from him, looking uneasy. "So you do know."

"I, er...looked you up after we met," Jote confesses. "Well, actually, I was curious about Professor Lesage, but there was a link in his wiki page to the Rosfields..." She gestures vaguely at him and grimaces. "I didn't mean to pry."

Joshua smiles faintly at her obvious embarrassment. "I don't know that it counts as prying if there's a wiki to be found. Anyway, Sleipnir must have recognized my name, and he was just using it as a way to transition to all of that about the Scriptures of the Risen. Which, by the way, if you have any more information on that for me..."

"It's their holy text, as you've probably guessed," Jote says, reaching down into her bag for her laptop. "I...probably should have warned you how much their worship seems to center on fire." She winces.

"You and Harpocrates told me they worshipped a god of fire," Joshua says. "I should have expected it myself."

"Well. I've written down all of the passages from it they've recited, or as much as I've been able to. What I've heard is mostly poetic metaphors of the sort you heard earlier today and a handful of prayers. But there may be more to their actual theology and practices in the Scriptures themselves."

"If they let me get my hands on it, I promise I'll share it with you," Joshua says. "Why aren't they making their holy text available, do you think? Does that suggest there's something to hide in it?"

"Perhaps, though not necessarily," she tells him. "It's not uncommon for these groups to be quite secretive until someone becomes a real initiate. They want to know people will be committed to them first."

"I see." He nods to her computer. "Do you mind showing me what you already have on the Scriptures?"

They spend the next while reviewing her notes on the Scriptures of the Risen, which she's organized by the date she heard each phrase, the person who mentioned it, and the content. Most of what she's managed to transcribe reads like a mythologized history, pieces of stories that might line up with what Harpocrates said about the fall of the Dzemekys civilization if one were to interpret events quite loosely and fantastically. The deification of the Flame does line up with both the god of fire Harpocrates described as well as the recent fires Joshua has been following.

She's just emailed him a copy of her notes for him to peruse in more detail when Joshua says, "There's nothing actually...wrong with anything I've read here." Jote's brow furrows as she's packing up her laptop. "I know we said Sleipnir's techniques were unconventional, and obviously, it looks as though some people have taken the fire metaphor too literally. But is it possible that's all it is?"

"You said that there were too many connections to arson for it to be a coincidence," she points out.

"But is it intentional? Or just people misinterpreting the words in this book to glorify a fiery end?"

"Does it matter if the fires are still being set and people are dying?"

"It changes the story," Joshua says, but she has a point. The effect is the same. "I just... I can't tell whether Sleipnir is being genuine or manipulative."

Jote zips her bag shut and holds it in her hands. She doesn't rise. After a moment, she says, "Joshua—"

"Joshua," Jill's voice says from next to him, "who's your friend?"

Without thinking, Joshua flips his notebook closed before turning to smile up at her. "Hi," he says, not entirely sure why the sight of her is making his heart race. He stands and gestures. "Er, this is Jote. Ondelas. We're working together on a...on something together. Jote, Jill Warrick, my...my colleague."

Jill turns to face him directly and raises an eyebrow. "I see," she says slowly. "What are you working on?"

Out of the corner of his eye, Joshua sees Jote open her mouth again, and he says quickly, "She's an anthropology student. She was just about to leave, actually. I think we're done for today, Jote, aren't we?"

Joshua can feel his face growing warm as both women stare at him—Jote in confusion and Jill with suspicion.

"Yes, I...I think that's all I need." Jote looks like a deer in headlights as she clears her throat. "I was just about to head back to school. It's nice to meet you, Ms. Warrick."

"I'll walk you out," Joshua says.

"Pleasure," Jill says as they pass. Joshua doesn't meet her eyes and ushers Jote away.

They don't speak on the way to the lift, though Jote is regarding him curiously. Joshua waits for the doors to close, leaving them alone in the lift, before he says, "Jill's like a sister to me. She doesn't know that I've been getting worse. I'd appreciate it if you didn't mention anything to her."

"I wasn't planning to," Jote says. "Wait, you meant that, about no one else knowing?"

"Well, you know. And my boss knows."

The doors open. They shuffle out into the lobby. "Oh," Jote says after a very long pause that feels judgmental. "Really?"

"Yes, really," Joshua says shortly.

"All right," she says.

"All right?"

Jote nods. She reaches up to grasp the strap of her bag, fiddling with a worn patch of fabric that's starting to fray and rip free. "Sleipnir will be more interested in you the more you go back to him," she says eventually. "Be careful next time. They're going to try to get into your head. I saw him get under your skin today already."

"You don't need to worry about me," Joshua assures her. The Children of Dzemekys will be trying to recruit him, not investigate him. "I'll text you after the next meeting."

---

Jill has doffed her coat and scarf and is sitting at her desk when he returns to the office. "So," she says as Joshua sidles back to his seat, feeling guilty and trying not to look it. "Jote, hm?"

"That's her name," Joshua says.

"Joshua," Jill says.

"Jill," he answers, busying himself by checking his email so he doesn't have to look at her.

It's for naught, as she slides her chair close enough to grab his by the arm and turn him around to face her. "So..." Jill says again, and this time, there's a teasing, suggestive tone to her voice that instantly tells Joshua she's drawn the wrong conclusion from his clumsy exit from the previous conversation. "She's very pretty."

"Do not, Jill, she's a student," Joshua says, and feels his face warm at the implication, which probably does not help. He gathers himself and a few strands of thoughts and finally meets Jill's gaze. "She's doing a project on the effect of journalism on the perception of certain groups, and she...wanted to talk to someone in news media. She goes to Valisthea," he adds when Jill frowns at this. "Dion connected us."

Joshua is used to hiding things from Jill and Clive. Little things: how tired he is at the end of the day; how sick he feels on his new medication; how well he sleeps when the anniversary inevitably rolls around each year. They know he's not telling the whole truth about those things, so it's not really lying when he does it. Everyone does it. It's normal.

But he's lying now. He could twist some truth out of his words if he really tries, but they're a lie. It feels ironic—and unpleasant—that he's telling the truth to a group of strangers he's suspicious of while lying to his best friend.

"Vivian approved it," Joshua says, "so you might see Jote around here once in a while."

That's true, at least.

"All right, all right," Jill says, and lets go of his chair, leaving him to scoot back into place. "How've you been? I've barely seen you at all today."

"Yes, I was out," he says.

When he doesn't elaborate, she prompts, "Doing what?"

"Just," Joshua starts, but he can't say that he went to seek help at a support group, because then she'll ask why. He can't say what he's actually doing, because then he'll still have to tell her he went to a support group, and it's the same problem. "Working," he says feebly.

He can feel her eyes on him as he skims through a message that she can probably tell from her desk is spam. "What are you doing for dinner tonight?" she asks after a moment.

"What?"

"Do you want to come over? You and Clive. It's been ages. I'll make something—that lasagna you like, maybe. You could use more meat on your bones."

Joshua tries not to sigh aloud. "I've been eating, Jill." He glances over in time to see her eyes snap away from his hands. He tugs his sleeves down to cover his wrist bones, clearing his throat into his mask. "It's the new meds. You know how it is at first."

"It took you months to adjust to the side effects last time. I'm not trying to...to berate you at work, Joshua..."

No; instead she's trying to get corner him outside of work, preferably with Clive helping, so she can berate him there.

It's unkind of him to think that way. She's practically his sister, and she loves him. He just isn't sure he can be alone with the two of them right now, because he'll have to lie to them all night. Or, worse, he won't be able to.

"Clive's on shift at the firehouse until tomorrow morning," Joshua says as a convenient excuse. "Maybe another time?"

Jill pulls up a calendar on her phone to check, like she doesn't believe him—she doesn't just have Clive's daily schedule memorized—but Joshua doesn't lie about things as easily verifiable as that. She draws in a breath and lets it out, very slowly, through her nose. There's a line between her eyebrows. "Do you have a follow-up appointment? You'll call Dr. Margrace if you don't feel better soon."

She doesn't say the last like a question, but he smiles at her anyway and agrees, "I promise. I've been a bit nauseous, that's all. That's really common at first."

"Yes, I know," she says pointedly. "That's what I'm worried about."

"Speaking of my brother," he says, reaching for a change in topic, "has he said anything to you about Cid?"

Jill's eyebrow twitches. "Cid," she says, and goes back to her own work. "Cid who?"

"Cid, his boss at the garage."

She tucks a lock of long hair behind her ear. "I...don't think Cid is technically his boss. What about them? I mean, what about him?"

Joshua's feels his mouth fall open, and he swivels back to look at her. "You knew about this?"

"Clive's a grown man, Joshua," Jill says, dropping the pretense. "He says he likes Cid."

"How did you even—why did he tell you and not me?"

Looking at him askance, she says, "You're his little brother. He's not discussing his sex life with you."

"You're his ex!" Joshua says indignantly, and, more quietly, "Wait, are they having sex? He said they weren't. He said they weren't sleeping together," he corrects himself, and then makes a face. Technically, Clive said. "Are they?"

"I'm not answering that," Jill tells him primly. "And we're not exes. Just because your brother and I played your mum and dad when you were growing up doesn't mean we were together."

Taken aback, Joshua turns back to his own computer and blinks in the direction of the screen. He's not sure what to do with that.

"We were young, and yes, we experimented a bit," she explains, "so—"

Joshua inhales wrong and chokes. For once, he's glad for the sound of his own coughs, as it drowns out anything else she might have said. "I don't need to know any more," he says hoarsely when he can breathe again.

"Then leave him be about Cid," Jill says, smug like she scored a point. "He hasn't tried to date anyone in years, Joshua. Don't you want him to be happy?"

"This is emotional blackmail," he informs her. "What do we know about Cid? He has no social media presence, did you know that? Literally none. Have you met him?"

"Yes, and he seems perfectly nice."

"Does he?"

She shrugs and saves a file—it looks like something about Eugen Havel's recent Presidential campaign rally in the nearby town—and flicks through her tablet, looking for notes. She's travelling to Dhalmekia in a few weeks to report on the debate between Havel and his leading opponent, Antoine de Cardinal, the senator from Rosaria. "Stop stalking your brother's boyfriend, Joshua."

Are they boyfriends now? he manages to refrain from asking.

"I looked into him a bit already," she adds. "He's fine. Just a bit private about his past, and no, we're not going to invade his privacy. Don't be such a baby about it."

Infuriating. Now Joshua's even more curious, while pride says that he absolutely cannot continue this line of conversation any further.

He looks up again when someone stops in front of his desk. "Hey, Joshua," says Edita. She's hugging a tablet to her chest and fidgeting with the stylus in her hand. "Er, I was wondering...well, I'm writing an article about Phoenix-gate, what with the anniversary coming up in a few days. Do you think I could ask you a couple of questions about it?"

A rock falls into Joshua's stomach with a thud. He stares at her, then glances at Jill, who has taken her hands off her keyboard. "No," he says.

It's too curt, but he can't summon the will for anything more. "Totally fine, I completely understand," Edita says quickly. Her gaze flickers to Jill. "I...I don't suppose...I know you grew up with..."

"No," Jill says. Her tone is glacial.

"Okay," Edita says. She backs away, still clutching her tablet. "Sorry. I..." She steps forward again. "I wouldn't, but Vivian asked me to... I'm sorry. It's coming out in a week, by the way. So you know. I'm doing my best to be...respectful of...it."

Joshua folds his hands into his pockets. "I appreciate that, Edita," he says. "I just don't have any comment for you."

Edita catches Jill's eye again. "I'll have a comment for you when Joshua does," Jill says.

"Right, sure," Edita says. She makes an expression that might be an attempt at a smile and flees back to her own desk.

No amount of staring at his computer screen is able to make Joshua focus on what he should be working on: a report for Vivian, probably, and looking more carefully at the passages in the Scriptures of the Risen that Jote emailed him from her notes. There are words in front of him, but they enter his eyes and fly immediately back out of his brain.

"You can talk to Edita if you want," Joshua says, not looking up. "About my dad, or whatever. I know you're friends."

"Why would I want to do that?" Jill returns, still cool.

He doesn't have a good answer for that, and he doesn't want to bullshit one. "I'm headed home," he finally says, giving up and starting to shrug on his coat.

"Joshua..." Jill says, sighing. She stands, too, and catches him by both arms before he can escape. "Don't skip dinner. Eat two small meals if you can."

"Sure."

"Take care of yourself, yes?" she insists.

"Always, Jill," he says, smiling, and grabs his bag to leave.

---

Wade Biggs [4:33]
Heard you were asking about Ivan Karlsson
He slipped into a coma this morning
Thought you'd want to know

Joshua [4:35]
I see
Has his partner been informed?

Wade Biggs [4:38]
Tyler and I are on our way

Joshua [4:38]
Is Genevieve Laurent still ok?

Wade Biggs [4:40]
...

Wade Biggs [4:44]
Why?
They're not connected

Joshua [4:44]
Are you sure?

Wade Biggs [4:44]
Do you know something?

Joshua [4:45]
Not for certain
But if you get me in to talk to her I could find out

Wade Biggs [5:11]
Let me talk to the captain

Chapter Text

25. The people fell on their faces, saying: "When I walk through fire, I am not destroyed; I am revealed. For the imperfections of the body are seared away, and only the purity of the soul remains."
26. And God said: "I am the spark of life and the consuming flames of destruction. Without me, there is no renewal. To know me is to know pain and joy. Walk with me, and you shall be made whole."

- Scriptures of the Risen, Book of Garuda

*****

Joshua has never been entirely certain about his memories of the fire. These are the things he sees when he dreams about it:

He's in Phoenix Hall in the governor's mansion with Clive and their dad when he first smells the smoke. Everyone else who came for the press conference is gone, escorted out by their mother at the head of a host of event personnel. There are no alarms. He looks up in confusion as Clive wrinkles his nose and says, Do you smell that.

They make their way down from the elevated platform where Elwin Rosfield was speaking just minutes ago and wend their way around tables and chairs to the main door leading out of Phoenix Hall. Dad tries to open the door. It's stuck. He pounds a fist on the door and yells, and then there's pounding in response on the other side: the rest of Dad's security who have just stepped out.

It's already getting hot. Joshua feels the surge in heat before the first flickers of fire appear in his vision. He doesn't understand why the door won't open, but something cracks above them, and then he's on the ground, and Dad is on top of him.

The heat becomes unbearable. He doesn't understand what's happening. He sucks in a lungful of ash.

The window, Clive yells. Joshua hears it as though from a distance, the words muffled by the body over him and the shock stinging his ears. This way. I'll get it open.

Then Joshua is swept up into Dad's strong arms, and a hand tucks his head against the stiff fabric of a suit jacket. Clive, he remembers crying, though he also remembers being too scared to speak.

It's hard to know how much of this is what he remembers and how much is something he's learned or invented after the fact. Joshua knows all about stories—the ones he tells the world, the ones he tells himself—and while this one is true enough, the facts might be askew.

Keep your head down, Joshua, hold onto me, Dad says, and then there's a a sudden cracking sound. Joshua is keeping his head down, so he doesn't know what makes the noise. Later, he will be told that the old, dry wood used to construct the entire building went up in flames like kindling, but in the moment, what he knows is that Dad has dropped him.

Joshua hits the floor in a heap, gasping. He doesn't know where he is. He looks in the direction he thinks Clive went, but all he can see is what looks like a wall of flames licking up the edges of scattered furniture and fallen timber.

When he turns back, he sees a pillar lying across Dad's back. As he stares, frozen, a piece of the ceiling falls, and he remembers, distinctly, thinking:

The sky is falling on us. The world is ending.

Dad is bleeding, blood down his face and dripping from the corner of his mouth, but he has one hand free, and the hand reaches, reaches, until it touches Joshua's foot.

Run, he remembers Dad saying, though he also remembers the smoke alarms finally beginning to wail loudly enough to drown out all of their voices. Mum is calling for him, too, and he knows that's only in his imagination, because she was outside during this part. It doesn't matter, though, because Joshua doesn't have time to run or even get up before he hears something above him shatter.

Pain like he's never felt slams into his chest. Joshua gasps, and it hurts, fire skewering him to the ground and smoke burning through his lungs like acid. His vision blurs. He doesn't have the breath to cry. He can't see anymore—everything around him is fire, raging and growing—but he can hear Dad coughing, coughing himself to death and Clive's voice—perhaps real, perhaps imagined—yelling his name.

And tonight, in his dream, Joshua thinks, When I walk through fire, I am not destroyed; I am revealed. For the imperfections of the body are seared away, and only the purity of the soul remains.

And he thinks, I'm dying, I'm dying, I'm dying—

Joshua wakes to the sound of the medication alarm on his phone, sick to his stomach and dizzy, gasping for air and coughing.

This should be enough to tell him he's imagining things. In real life, during the fire, he couldn't even gasp by the time he blacked out. But his chest hurts so much that he can't help but think for a minute that he's back in that bed in the ICU. If he touches his face he will feel an oxygen mask; if he turns his head he will see Mum sitting at his beside, and if he turns the other way he will find Clive curled around him on the mattress, asleep.

But his mother is not sitting in a chair; his brother is not lying beside him. What there is is his dog, standing on the mattress next to him, bending down over the nightstand and holding Joshua's phone in his teeth. He's been stymied by the charging cable.

Joshua tries to calm down and stop panting for air. He's scaring Torgal.

Torgal, he tries to say, and can't quite manage it. He thumps his hand on the mattress instead, brushing a back paw as he does. Torgal turns to look at him, yanks the phone off the cable, and drops it on Joshua's stomach. He sniffs anxiously at Joshua's face, then settles back down with his snout on Joshua's shoulder.

There's no real pain in Joshua's chest as he fumbles with the phone to stop it from chirping. The pain is psychosomatic or something, or else it's just strain in his chest muscles from coughing so hard at the remembered smell of smoke. He winds his arm around Torgal, and he holds on until all he can smell is the dog snuffling at his neck.

He's seen Clive have panic attacks. Joshua doesn't really get them. There's this flash of terror after a nightmare, but that's all. It's quick, and then it's over. He's always thought, privately, that it's because his body doesn't have the strength for it. If he worked himself up to a proper panic, the kind he saw Jill talk Clive down from when they were younger, his heart would probably give out and he'd fall over dead.

Joshua shivers and pets his dog.

As soon as he thinks standing up won't make him pass out, he gets up, staggers to the bathroom, and vomits into the toilet.

Torgal is sitting next to him when he finishes. "Sorry, boy," Joshua rasps as he flushes the toilet and lets his dog help him to his feet, reaching for his toothbrush. "It's okay. It's just the meds."

And then it's the usual morning routine. A spoonful of peanut butter; his pills; a bowl of porridge. It's a small bowl, but he finishes it—a victory—and he packs a sandwich and a snack in case he feels better later and manages to force something else down. Then it's time for Torgal's morning walk.

It's the stairs that do him in on the way back upstairs. He makes it to the top, but by the time he does, he's coughing from the exertion in the cold, dry air, and his chest hurts again. The effort of climbing the stairs has made him feel unsteady enough that the world doesn't feel quite real, like he's still dreaming, or perhaps about to pass out. It's when he's bent over at the sink for a full minute, fearing a reprise of his breakfast, that he almost reaches for his phone to call Dr. Margrace.

Shortness of breath is one thing, but there are drugs he could take for nausea. Most of them make him drowsy, though, and he doesn't need any help sleeping the days away, not when he's already counting down the days he has left in the back of his mind. And then there's the ache in his chest, right behind the scar where his chest was punctured, and the way he's still not sure he's caught his breath yet.

Maybe he's gotten worse again, already. Could he be deteriorating this fast?

It's most likely just a bad day, he decides, wrapping up the shivery, trembling thought and pressing it back into his chest. A single bad day isn't enough reason to call the doctor. Maybe it'll be better tomorrow.

Joshua lets out a shaky breath, pats Torgal on the head, and rubs his chest as he goes to work. It's a bad day, but it's fine. He'll get through it.

---

It's not fine.

Or, it is, he supposes, but it's not easy.

Joshua takes his seat around the circle at Dzemekys. As he does, he remembers being here last time, listening to a stranger tell him that walking through fire is good, actually, and will burn away his imperfections, as though fire isn't what burned most of the imperfections into him to begin with. He gets as far as introducing himself to the group—about half of them new faces and half ones he's met before—and telling them that the anniversary of the fire that killed his father is coming up before he finds himself saying, "I'm sorry. I'm not... Can someone else go?"

"Of course," Sleipnir says immediately. "Would someone else like to speak?"

Joshua feels like people are staring at him every time he coughs. They probably are. He's being distracting.

Or they aren't; perhaps he's only being self-centered, as everyone else is here because they have their own problems. He can't shake the self-consciousness, though. It's been a decade and a half since he's felt this way, and he's almost forgotten how much he hated being in the spotlight instead of in the background.

When everyone who volunteered to speak has done so, Sleipnir says, "Today, I'd like us to think on the subject of grief. Many of us are here because we lost someone close to us, but there are other things we may be mourning as well. For instance, I was old enough when my parents died to remember them and grieve their passing, but with them, I also lost my chance at a normal childhood. The world was no longer something I could understand. It was years before I spent more than a few months at a time at any school, and what friends I met were lost as soon as I was moved again.

"But grief also reveals to us our purest selves." Sleipnir puts a hand to his own chest. "It is isolating, to grieve. It's lonely. But God teaches us that, in that isolation—that separation from the consciousness of others—we may discover who we truly are. It was during that time in my life that I myself found my true calling. Joshua—"

Joshua looks up. Behind Sleipnir, he can see Jote watching him; the rest of the circle turns their attention to him, too.

"You began to speak earlier about what you're going through," Sleipnir says. "Would you like to try again and to reflect on what it is you're grieving?"

The answer is 'no.' Joshua does not want to try again. But that would defeat the point of this whole thing, so he sits up straight and takes a slow breath when his stomach stirs agitatedly at the motion. "Well, my dad," he says. "I haven't even been to his grave or seen my mum in fifteen years."

"Your mum?" Sleipnir asks.

Joshua pauses. He doesn't really talk to anyone about his mother, other than Clive and Jill, and their relationship with her was so miserable in those later years that he tries to avoid the topic even with them. He's not sure why he said it just now. "Yeah," he says, and changes the subject. "I guess...my brother's life."

"Your brother died in the fire, too?" says a familiar face—Margot. "I'm so sorry, I didn't realize."

"Oh, he didn't, he survived," Joshua says quickly.

Sleipnir leans forward. "Why do you say that, then? What happened to him?"

"Er..." Joshua says. He clears his throat. "Well, we were in a meeting hall that night. The door was locked. Electronic—something went wrong with the wires from the heat. My brother tried to open a window so we could escape. But the building was collapsing, and my dad and I got cut off. A firefighter found my brother first. They said later he was confused: he was running the wrong way, back into the building."

Joshua swallows and frowns down at his hands. His chest is growing tight again, and his throat is trying to constrict. He's been feeling unsteady since his nightmare last night, and his heart is starting to pound as he speaks. He's never really had to tell the whole story before, not since he was a child and reciting it to his mother's political allies.

"My brother wasn't confused," he says. "I know he was coming back for me. He...he still thinks it's his fault, that if that firefighter hadn't taken the time to save him, they might have gotten to me sooner."

Someone pats him on the knee. Joshua looks up at the woman next to him, and then at Sleipnir. He lets his gaze slide past and locks eyes with Jote, just for a second before he makes himself look away.

"Anyway, he's a firefighter himself now," Joshua tells the room. "He quit school to take care of me. He used to work himself to the bone to support us, and he's never had the chance to choose the life he wanted. He lost everything that day. And...and now that I only have a little time left..." He takes a breath, and it shakes. His eyes feel hot. "I-I don't know. Sometimes I think he'll be happier—freer, certainly, without me. But I know it'll hurt him. And I don't know how I can possibly tell him that I'm...dying."

He clears his throat again and steels himself to say what he would never allow his brother to hear. His feelings aren't important now. He's doing a job. "I guess I walked through fire," he says. "Or, at least, was carried through it. And it may have destroyed my body, but it's revealed to me the truth of who I am. I don't really feel like my father's son anymore, nor my mother's; that boy died in the fire. What I am now I owe to my brother, and in the time I have left, I want to do everything I can to leave his world a little better than what I gave him."

"So it was said," says Randal.

"So it was said," answer a scattering of others around the circle.

The woman next to Joshua holds out an open pack of tissues. He stares at it, his chest aching and his eyes burning, and then, embarrassed, takes one. He lowers his mask enough to swipe quickly at his nose, avoiding everyone's eyes.

"Take heed, O children of the earth," says a voice from the corner—a woman with a short blonde bob who has sat silent, looking at something on her phone, for the whole session, "for only the wise shall know how to walk through fire and emerge as the phoenix from the ashes."

Joshua sniffs and looks up at her. "Is that from the Scriptures?"

The woman raises an eyebrow. "It is," she says. She hasn't introduced herself or otherwise participated, but she has the same accent as Sleipnir, and Joshua can't help but wonder if she's from Waloed, too—if she might have been raised in the faith the way Sleipnir was. Does that make it more or less strange that she's seemed so bored with the whole affair until now? "Are you a phoenix, then—or are you only ash?"

Against his will, Joshua finds his eyes drawn toward Jote, though he looks away again quickly. "Erm," he says.

"Like the Children of old," Sleipnir speaks up, giving him an encouraging smile and throwing the woman a quelling look, "you have suffered through trials. You grieve what you've lost, but you have also gained new wisdom. Thank you for sharing with us, Joshua. Is there anyone else who would like to discuss a way in which their grief has revealed their true selves?"

---

Joshua lingers at the back table after the session, but only long enough to say that he did, to continue making his face known to the people here—and, especially, to Sleipnir.

He must be projecting his—rather unprofessional—desire to be left alone, though, because no one approaches him to try to make him socialize. No one, that is, except Randal, who claps him on the shoulder very gently and says, "Your brother didn't lose everything in that fire. As long as he has you..."

"As long as that lasts," Joshua says, and is immediately sorry when he sees it land on Randal—who is caring for his sick sister—like a blow. When he looks across the room, Jote is trying to catch his eye while helping Sleipnir and the blonde-haired woman put away the chairs. He excuses himself and ducks out, slipping into the loo before she can talk to him, taking advantage of a moment in which Sleipnir is speaking to her. He pulls out his phone to text her instead.

In his messages, he finds a text from Vivian with an assignment. Joshua checks his watch; it's something he'll be able to finish by the end of the day. He leaves Dzemekys without saying another word.

---

Joshua [2:16 PM]
I don't think there's much we need to discuss about today's session
Let's debrief next time

Jote [2:16 PM]
Ok
I'll be out in a minute, I can walk back with you

Joshua [2:16 PM]
No need 🙂
Was that a new passage from the Scriptures?

Jote [2:16 PM]
Yes it was new to me
That was Benedikta Harman who recited it btw. She runs some of the other sessions but I have only met her at a couple of the group meetings. She usually doesn't say anything.

Joshua [2:18 PM]
Did you get it down? I don't remember it word for word

Jote [2:18 PM]
I got it

Joshua [2:18 PM]
Great! 👍

Jote [2:18 PM]
Are you ok?

---

Vivian [1:31 PM]
Link
We need a follow-up/update on above
Statements etc. from responders
Very short, nothing elaborate
Ok to cover it by end of today?

Joshua [2:27 PM]
Sorry for the delay
No problem, I'll take care of it

---

Joshua [2:28 PM]
Ofc!
Have a good rest of the day, Jote

---

He's almost made it to the subway station when Jote suddenly pops into existence at his side.

Joshua jumps so hard he stumbles over his feet; his heart leaps into his throat and, naturally, chokes him until he's coughing. "Oh my god!" he gasps, clutching his chest with one hand and reaching for something to steady himself.

He's standing on the middle of the sidewalk, and Jote apparently materialized out of thin air, so there's nothing to grab. She catches his hand and steps closer, her other hand on his back and her eyes wide. "Are you okay? What happened?"

"What happened?" Joshua sputters incredulously, leaning on her arm until his feet find steady purchase. "How did you... Where did you even come from?"

Jote looks, unbelievably, like she's more shocked by his reaction than he was of her corporealizing from nothing without warning. "I've been following you," she says uncertainly. "I was worried."

"Wh—" Joshua closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and coughs when it makes his lungs itch. "I said I was all right."

She frowns, then digs out her phone with the hand that's not still flat against his back. "Oh. I didn't see your last text."

"Oh my god," he repeats.

Someone edges around them on the sidewalk, and he realizes suddenly how ridiculous they must look. He's still clutching his chest like a Victorian damsel who's just seen a ghost, Jote's practically wedged herself under his arm, and they're staring at each other in confusion from mere inches away.

Jote startles a bit when he laughs, and the furrow in her brow deepens. Laughing feels ridiculous, too, given that Joshua had to stand in the toilets just minutes ago, watching his face in the mirror until the red faded from his eyes, and the thought of that makes him laugh even harder, which makes him cough, and then Jote really does wedge herself against his side.

"Joshua?" she says, alarmed. He wonders if Harpocrates will mark her down if she's forced to report that someone who is technically one of her research subjects went mad. "Are...are you sure you're all right?"

"Fine," he manages through something that's part cough and part chortle.

"What do you need? I...I have a little first aid experience if—"

He waves her off. The brief, wild moment of hilarity has faded, and he's back to trying to keep his breathing under control. It's left him vaguely muzzy, and his chest is sore, but he thinks, paradoxically, that he's breathing a little easier than he was before.

"Why do you have first aid experience?" he asks when he's able to stop grinning like a madman.

Jote's eyes dart past him and then back. "Er."

"From your upbringing that you don't like to talk about," Joshua guesses. Her jaw tenses, and he realizes that she hasn't actually told him even that much about her past. All he knows about her is in the present, and in the present, Jote is polite and professional and concerned. Joshua should be trying harder at the first two of those. He shakes his head and pulls away from her. "I'm sorry. That's none of my business."

She swallows. "Okay," she says. "Why are you going this way? The Silver Line stop's back there."

Joshua holds up his phone. "My boss sent me to pick up a story. Go on back to school, Jote. Don't you have your class this afternoon?"

She hesitates. "Are you sure? It's just, you seemed really—"

"I know," Joshua interrupts, because he doesn't really want to hear what adjective she'll use. "I've been having a bad day, that's all. Thank you for coming all the way here to check on me, really—it was very kind of you. I'll text you the next time something happens with Sleipnir."

Jote steps back. "Okay," she says again. She's still hesitating, but he smiles and makes a shooing motion until she turns to walk back to their normal stop.

---

Rodney Murdoch [3:02 PM]
Why are you so interested in Genevieve Laurent?

Joshua [3:03 PM]
She should get to tell her side of the story
So far all I know is that police responded to a suicidal woman by arresting her

Rodney Murdoch [3:03 PM]
Do not do that Joshua.
They were responding to an arsonist with a lighter in her hand, as you know.
Why are you interested?

Joshua [3:03 PM]
I think there's a connection between her and another fire
Clive got hurt. There was something odd going on
Let me talk to her, Rodney
I think I can get her to talk to me

Rodney Murdoch [3:10 PM]
I will look into it.

Rodney Murdoch [3:14 PM]
Hanna wants to know if you and Clive are coming over for Friday lunch on the long weekend.

Joshua [3:14 PM]
Clive's on shift that weekend, sorry
Give her our love!
And you too I guess 😉

---

Joshua makes his way to the firehouse, his last task—hopefully—of the day before he can trudge back home. Vivian knows he was at Dzemekys today, but another building collapsed in Old Twinside last night, and Clive's squad responded, as they're the main heavy rescue company in the area. No one from State of the Realm was on the scene, so he's only supposed to follow up with the crew for a few details. This is the kind of assignment that's perfectly suited to Joshua.

It's also work he could have done over the phone from home, and, with fatigue weighing heavily on him, he supposes that he probably should have. Fire Station 16 is in the opposite direction from his flat, and he realizes as he makes his way there that he's also going to have to get a comment from the city about the dire state of the historic district's infrastructure. And when he gets home, he's going to have to let Torgal out, which means a trip up the stairs to get the dog and a second trip on the way back. Just thinking about it makes him feel short of breath.

It's been a long day. The bag slung over his shoulder could be made of lead for how much it seems to weigh him down.

But Clive's on shift, and this time of day tends to be more relaxed for the crew if they're not on a call, so it's a good time to visit and try to get some facts and statements.

When he arrives, though, he sees the whole of Squad 1 in the apparatus bay, gathered around the back of their rig. They're all in light duty uniform bearing the TFD shield logo, no protective gear in sight, so they're not on their way out to or back from a call...but then, what are they doing?

There's a woman looking on anxiously, just outside the bay. She's wringing her hands as she watches them, and from somewhere inside the knot of hovering firefighters, something is whimpering.

Cole catches sight of Joshua first and waves. Joshua takes this as a signal that he can approach without disturbing...whatever it is they're doing. "What's going on?" Joshua asks in an undertone when he's close enough.

Nodding at the woman, Cole says quietly, "Her puppy got itself stuck. She brought it over to us."

Confused, Joshua leans past Cole and sees August, ducked low over the truck bed, a tiny squirming puppy held securely in his hands. Clive is bent over them with a hammer.

The dog is tiny, small enough that August can wrap his hands entirely around its body, and its head is, in fact, stuck fast inside a glass jar, with a metal ring around the neck of the jar. It's making plaintive little cries that echo strangely from inside the container.

"Get rid of the glass first," Dorys is saying, hovering behind them. "Once his head's out, we can deal with the metal."

"Oh my god," the woman says nervously as Clive taps sharply on the glass with the claw of the hammer.

And Joshua realizes abruptly: this is gold. Who wouldn't want to look at pictures of a puppy being rescued? He reaches for his phone with freezing fingers and fumbles with it until he gets the camera open.

"Hold still, there's a good boy," August is murmuring as the dog cries pitifully. "Anytime now, Irons..."

"Don't rush me, I don't want to hurt him," Clive mutters back, and raps the jar again. There's a tinkling sound. "Almost there"—he changes his angle and strikes the glass one more time, twice, and then the jar is shattering and falling apart around the dog's head.

"There we are!" August coos, picking the puppy up in one hand and carefully brushing pieces of glass away from his face while Clive climbs back into the engine. The dog's crying has turned into frantic little yips as he paws at August's chest. Joshua raises his phone again and snaps a few pictures of August grinning down at its tiny head.

"It's not done yet, August," Corentin puts in from the side.

Clive emerges again with a wire cutter in his hand. "Hold him steady—if he moves—"

August holds the squirming puppy down firmly so Clive can carefully cut the metal band away from its neck. When the band pops free, August gives a happy shout and picks up the dog again, cradling him against his shoulder while Clive sets his tools aside. The rest of the company cheer, too, loud enough that the puppy startles and tries his best to burrow inside August's chest. Dorys has, for once, relaxed enough to smile and give the puppy a rub on its head.

It's very cute. The dog is even smaller than Torgal was when they first adopted him. Any one of these firefighters could pick up full-grown Torgal in their arms, and they're all milling around and grinning like children, making faces at the puppy and trying to get him to look at them.

Joshua lowers his phone. It has been a very weird day.

"Thank you, thank you so much!" the woman cries. Joshua shuffles aside so she can rush to the dog, who immediately squirms toward her, whining. "Come here, my baby, I'm here—"

"Hey, it's our favorite reporter!" Corentin calls. He's caught sight of Joshua, too, now that there's not a more interesting subject to hold their attention. Clive turns in the middle of returning the tools to their place. "You here to tell the world about this pup?" He leans in and chucks the dog under its chin. "Or just visiting?"

"I wish," Joshua laughs, ducking his head to stifle a cough in his scarf. "I'm here about the call you got last night."

"The building collapse," Dorys says.

Joshua takes out his notebook. "Just looking for basics: what happened, if anyone was hurt... No one was hurt, right?" He runs an eye over them, though they all seem fine.

"No, no one was hurt," she confirms.

"Aw, Joshua, you sure you don't want to just write about Brownie, here?" August teases. Somehow, he's gotten hold of the puppy again and is cradling him in his arms like an infant. The dog, tired from all the excitement, has settled down, curling up and laying his head on August's shoulder.

"His name is Brownie?" Joshua asks, distracted. The dog is a golden color, so light he's almost white.

"Because he's so sweet, I expect," says August, and someone—maybe Cole or Corentin—groans at him.

"I—" Joshua starts, and then looks back at the puppy's owner. The woman's smiling at August's antics, clutching her heart, relieved now that her dog is safe. He does need to write about the collapse. But...

Joshua writes about crimes and accidents all the time. The TFD is constantly responding to people in pain and in danger. He nearly lost his composure in front of a roomful of strangers only an hour ago while talking about how much he hates that his brother was pushed into this job that haunts his nightmares, so, in fact, he would rather write about this damn dog right now.

"Actually, if you don't mind," Joshua says, pointing at Brownie, "I would love to hear about how this happened."

The woman is happy to tell him all about it: how she adopted Brownie two weeks ago, how he got himself stuck sniffing for treats, how he dragged the jar with himself into her room to beg for help, and how she tried in vain to free him herself before plopping him into her tote bag and driving him to the fire station.

"And you pretty much saw the rest," Clive says.

"I knew they would be able to get him out, I just knew it," she says, eyes shining as August reluctantly hands Brownie back to her.

"Our most heroic rescue of the day," Corentin says, grinning and slapping August on the back. Clive rolls his eyes, but he smiles anyway. It's hard to be a grump about a happy, sleepy puppy.

Joshua's tired, and his head hurts, and he feels a little sick to his stomach, but he's smiling, too. It's not every day that there's a dog with his head stuck in a jar and everyone winds up happy and unhurt. Tonight, or likely later today, they'll be called out again to help at the scene of an accident, to plan a rescue, to provide first aid, or to put out another fire. It's harrowing and difficult, and sometimes someone goes home hurt or never goes home at all. Theo's still not back at work, he notices.

If there were a way to make it so that all of Clive's days were spent freeing baby animals from innocuous household objects instead of throwing himself at danger, Joshua would grab it in an instant. But that's not possible, and Clive would never choose it, so Joshua does the next best thing and tries to immortalize the moment.

He takes another few photos of Brownie, first in August's arms and then in his owner's with the whole company grinning behind her, and he makes sure he has the owner's contact information before she leaves. Vivian doesn't have much respect for fluff pieces, but the internet does, and so does the Fire Department, which puts a lot of effort into building trust with the community.

"I should get a dog," August says thoughtfully after the woman leaves.

"No," three people say at once.

One of them is Clive, who points out, "What would you do with the dog while you're on shift?"

"I've got a husband!" August protests. He thrusts a hand out at Joshua. "That would work, wouldn't it? You two manage your dog between you."

"I'm going to pretend you didn't just make it sound like I'm Clive's husband," Joshua says dryly. Clive throws him a horrified glance and comes over to roughly muss his hair, as though to remind everyone of Joshua's place—not that they need it, as most of them have known him since he was a teenager. "Ugh, Clive, I'm here for work," Joshua complains, pushing his hand away and finger-combing his hair back into place.

"You're in our house, little one," Dorys reminds him, and reaches up to muss his hair, too. "That means we make the rules. August, do you really think Blackthorne would stand for the mess a puppy would make?"

"Maybe, you don't know," August says, but he doesn't look optimistic.

"Hey," Joshua says, "August, what's Blackthorne's first name?"

"Ha!" Cole calls from where he's found a dustpan to clean up the broken glass. "His mum took one look at him when he came out and named him Grumpy Guts!"

There's a ripple of general laughter at this, even from August. It's a joke, but all Joshua can think of is that Grumpy Guts also starts with two Gs, which would fit in with everyone else's name at Otto's Auto. He still wants to know what the man's actual name is. Could it be Gus?

"All right, all right, let's get this place cleaned up, and then everyone back to workouts," Dorys calls, raising her voice. "Joshua, you hanging around today?"

"No, I really am here just for work," he says. He used to stay in the firehouse a lot when he was younger, after school or on the weekends when Clive was on shift and couldn't be at home. He feels out of place here now that he's an adult with a home of his own. This place really is the firefighters' house when they're on duty, and he doesn't like to intrude unless his job calls for it. "I do need to turn in a writeup on the collapse this morning. I've got the summary from Desiree, but my boss wants a quote or two from the first responders." He gives her the brightest smile he can manage. "Please?"

Dorys exchanges a look with Clive and checks her watch. "All right, your brother can give you whatever information you need," she says, and ushers the rest of her men out of the bay. "Bring him to the conference room, Rosfield. I'll give you fifteen minutes, and then I want you back in the gym, too," she calls back.

"Aye, Lieutenant," Clive answers. He loops an arm around Joshua's shoulders and leads him past the vehicles and into the station. "Came all the way here for a quote or two, eh?" he says, quiet and warm.

He still sounds happy. Clive loves dogs.

"And for pictures of that puppy, obviously," Joshua says. He lets out a short sigh of relief as they step inside, out of the cold.

Clive's hand squeezes his arm. "Have you lost weight?" he asks suddenly, his thumb rubbing across Joshua's bony shoulder through his coat. He pulls Joshua into the conference room, where Joshua flops gracelessly into a chair and has to resist the urge to let his eyes close.

"I don't know, Clive, I'm not weighing myself daily," Joshua says. He probably has, because he hasn't been able to eat much, but that's a temporary problem that will fix itself once he gets used to the meds and the side effects settle. "Will you sit down, brother?"

Clive sits, but this only puts his face level with Joshua's and allows him to peer more closely. "You're really pale," Clive says, frowning at him. "Are you getting sick?"

"No," Joshua says, exasperated. "I'm just tired. And the sooner you tell me about this building in Old Twinside that collapsed this morning, the sooner I can go home and let my dog out to wee."

This is the correct argument to make, as Clive squints suspiciously at him but finally settles to describe the scene they came across that morning when half of a convenience store crumbled through its own floor and brought the building down around itself. Joshua jots down what he says, simplifying the technical details that no one but other rescue workers will understand and asking questions on occasion to make sure he's understood it correctly himself.

Clive's clear and concise as he describes their operations. He's been on the job for fifteen years, and he's good with the tactical side of their work. The others listen to him under pressure; there's a reason why Dorys treats him like her second-in-command in practice, though he doesn't have any official rank other than his experience. In the Twinside FD, he would need a degree to be promoted into a position like Dorys's, much less a higher one, and Clive left home before he even finished high school. Between working two or more jobs all the time and trying to keep Joshua healthy, he barely passed his high school equivalency in time to finish fire training.

If Clive managed to get himself promoted, he would eventually stop being in danger so much. He's thirty-three now, which is still young, but he's already got a shoulder that he's wrenched multiple times and gives him some pain even when it's considered healed. Every time he gets hurt, that's another injury that will weigh on his body more and more as he gets older. If it weren't for having to care for Joshua—

Then again, if it weren't for Joshua, Clive probably wouldn't be a firefighter at all. He'd be...a writer, maybe, or a teacher. A politician, if he'd wanted to follow in their father's footsteps. Or anything—he would be whatever he wanted. Maybe a mechanic, full-time, like Gav and Cid and Grumpy Guts Blackthorne, and then Joshua wouldn't jolt awake every time he hears a siren at night, wondering if his brother's in danger, if this is the night his luck runs out.

"Is that it?" Clive asks when he's adding a final note.

"Yeah, I think that's all I need," Joshua says, and pulls his backpack over his shoulder. It feels like it's full of rocks, and his legs are sore when he pushes himself to his feet, like he's run a race instead of only walked around slowly all day. He hopes Clive can't tell.

No luck. Clive has a hand on his elbow before he makes it all the way upright. "Hey," he says as Joshua coughs into his arm, "your fingernails are a bit blue. You're really not looking good."

"Now you're just being mean," Joshua jokes. He sounds too breathless, and he clears his throat. "It's just freezing out." He puts his hand flat on his brother's face for emphasis and is rewarded with a disgruntled expression as Clive flinches away from his icy fingers.

"Fine," Clive says, and then picks up both of his hands and rubs them briskly to warm them. "Still...let me check your O-2 before you leave."

"Clive, no, I know what it feels like when I'm getting sick. I'm really, really tired," he admits. "That's all. It's been a long day."

Clive holds onto him a few seconds longer. He touches the back of his hand to Joshua's forehead, then lowers it when he doesn't feel a fever. "You need to take care of yourself, Joshua," he says quietly.

"I will. I am. I just need to...to get home." He summons a smile. "I'll stay in bed while I finish writing, all right? Although I'm afraid your heroics pulling people out of rubble are going to be overshadowed by Brownie's rescue when it comes out."

"I take all of my work equally seriously," Clive deadpans. But he finally lets go, and his eyes have brightened at the reminder of the simple delight of pulling a puppy out of jar. It's not an expression Joshua sees on him very often; it's a stark contrast to the way he came home a couple of weeks ago, lost and horrified. "Check your sats when you get home, though. Promise me. And then text me."

"Okay," Joshua says. "Promise."

He can't change the reality of his brother's career. But it's good to have a reminder of why he needs to keep going back to Dzemekys—why he can't get sucked into their nonsense and forget why he started all of this, no matter how uncomfortable it makes him. He needs to ensure the Children don't put Clive in danger ever again.

"Oh," he adds before he leaves, "maybe stay away from the news the next couple of days? I know we're publishing something on the fire—The Fire, you know. I'm sure other papers will, too."

Clive doesn't react outwardly, like it doesn't bother him at all, though of course it must. "All right," he says, and ruffles Joshua's hair again. "Be safe."

---

Joshua makes it up the stairs to his flat and drops to his knees on the floor with just enough deliberation that he can say he didn't actually collapse. It's fine, actually, because on his knees is a good position to get Torgal's harness on him, and then Torgal helps him up to his feet before they go back down and outside.

Torgal takes nearly a full minute to sniff at first one scraggly tree and then another before he deigns to do his business. Joshua should take him on a real walk, but he can't, he literally can't right now, he needs to not be on his feet, so they turn around as soon as the dog's bladder is empty and head back inside.

It's on the trip back up the stairs, his second trip in a few minutes, somewhere between the second and third floors, that Joshua hits a wall. His feet won't move any further, and he has to sit down, holding Torgal and panting desperately to keep dark spots from encroaching on his vision.

The lift is still out. Building management thanked him yesterday for his patience and assured him that they are looking into the issue.

Without instruction, Torgal positions himself one step below Joshua and leans close, trapping him against the wall, and Joshua unfortunately doesn't have enough breath to tell him that he's the best and brightest boy who has ever lived. He tries to stroke Torgal's flank but winds up only clutching at a fistful of fur in a shaking hand. He bends forward to press his forehead to the side of Torgal's skull.

The door opens on the landing above him, and he keeps his eyes closed, his arm wound tight around Torgal, as footsteps move quickly past him to the ground floor. He has no idea what the person must have thought of him. He hopes they thought he collapsed drunk or something, because that's probably the least humiliating option.

He stands eventually, leaning on Torgal and keeping one hand on the railing as he slowly—one laborious step at a time—climbs the rest of the stairs.

It's not even that many stairs. If he were any less tired, he might find the energy to be angry about the lift again.

"In," he says hoarsely when Torgal lingers at the threshold to the flat, looking back at him.

Joshua clears his throat, swallowing hard. He needs to sit down. He needs to drink water. He needs to eat, he needs to take his damn pills and try not to throw up again tonight. He needs to call his contact at the mayor's office to get a statement about foundations crumbling in Old Twinside and then finish his article.

"Sorry, boy," he huffs when they're inside. "We'll...we'll walk tonight. Promise I'll try."

He slips on his warm TFD hoodie and drops to sit heavily on his bed. The oxygen concentrator is next to the bed, and, for the first time in several weeks, he contemplates turning it on, just for a bit, just to help him catch his breath. No one's here, not even Clive or Jill, so no one will see him and make a fuss. Dr. Margrace prescribed it to him all those years ago for a reason, after that time dragging Wade away from a collapsing building was enough to send him to the hospital.

But it feels like it would be a turning point. Joshua's oxygen saturation doesn't usually drop low enough to be a real problem. It happens when he's sick, or if he's exerted himself too much or spent time in an area heavy with smoke or dust.

Stairs have been hard for him for a long time, but walking up three short flights shouldn't be enough for him to need oxygen therapy. If it is, then it might not be long before any sort of a walk is too much for him. It means he might not be able to do his job anymore, or he'll need to get one of the portable concentrators so he can have oxygen pumped straight into him while he walks, and then everyone around him will know something is wrong with him the moment they see him.

It feels like a threshold, one he's not ready to cross. As long as he doesn't have to use oxygen regularly, the fibrosis can still be considered early-stage.

He just...he's been sitting here for minutes now, and he still feels bone-tired and like he doesn't have enough air. His chest feels like he's being crushed.

Joshua reaches into the beside drawer for his pulse oximeter, powers it on, and tries to relax as much as he can while part of his brain is trying not to panic because the air doesn't feel like it's getting into his lungs. By the time he clips it onto his finger, Torgal has jumped up, sprawling over Joshua's thighs as though to keep him pinned to the bed, and Joshua rests his free hand on his neck as he waits for the reading to stabilize.

There's a chart in one of the pamphlets the doctor gave him. It says that, of people with the amount of lung function he has left, over seventy percent survive at least a year, and less than fifty percent live for three. Another chart says that people whose lung capacity has decreased six percent in six months have about a forty percent increase in the risk of death, though Joshua isn't entirely sure what that means in years. Neither chart says how to factor in the fact that he's only twenty-eight years old but has already lived for eighteen years with severely decreased lung capacity from having had part of his lung cut out.

Eventually, he will need oxygen support twenty-four hours a day. One day, he'll be too weak to walk at all. He wonders how long he still has before that happens, if Torgal will lie with him to keep him company. He thinks it would be comforting to close his eyes for the last time with his dog beside him.

Will Torgal understand? He'll know when Joshua's breaths slow to nothing, when his heart stops. Will he be upset? Will he try to call for help, the way he's been trained to do when Joshua can't get up?

Torgal should have another eight years in him—or ten, maybe a bit more if they're lucky. It's a kind of relief, knowing that Joshua will probably go before his dog. But it's cowardly, too, and cruel, because it means Clive will—

God, what will Clive do with Torgal when Joshua's gone? Will Jill help care for him? What would you do with the dog when you're on shift? Clive asked August.

Clive will be crushed, of course, even if Torgal doesn't understand. Or perhaps, Joshua can't help thinking—he might be relieved. Caring for someone at the end of their life is exhausting, and there is no way that Clive will do anything but care for Joshua when they reach that point. It's why Randal is at odds with his family, probably, if they can see what it's doing to him. Joshua has spent his adult life around first responders, advocating for them when he can and reporting on them when he can't, and he knows that everyone exhausts their ability to care eventually if they're not given time to recuperate their emotional reserves. He doesn't know whether it would be better for Clive to be devastated when Joshua dies or so tired by then that he's grateful for it to be over. Neither option sounds good.

He looks down at the meter on his finger. Now, after minutes of sitting at rest, it shows 89%, which means he probably dipped significantly lower than that while he was on the stairs. Below 88% is when he's supposed to be on supplemental oxygen. He's slowly starting to feel better, though, and as he watches nervously, the number flips to 90%. Two minutes later, it's flickering between 91 and 92.

Okay. It's trending up. It's fine.

That means...that's okay. He doesn't need more oxygen in his daily life. He's still fine. He's still got time. Joshua takes the pulse ox off and shoves it back in the drawer before it has the chance to fluctuate any more. He puts both of his hands on Torgal, who sighs contentedly, and breathes as deeply as he can.

If he eventually can't walk, he supposes Torgal probably won't be able to stay with him. That's...unpleasant, but understandable, of course. It wouldn't be responsible. He sits still and closes his eyes and pets his dog until his chest starts to feel looser.

---

Joshua [4:17 PM]
O2 in the 90s after stairs 💪

Clive [8:18 PM]
sorry things got crazy here
can you check again to get the resting number

Clive [9:42 PM]
you ok?

Joshua [5:54 AM]
Sorry, fell asleep 😅😴
Get some rest when you get home!

Chapter Text

26. The leader of the people saw the power of the Flame in his dreams and heard God's voice on the wind. He went up to the pyre and there, with his hands raised to the sky, called out to God.
27. God answered him, saying: "I am that which consumes, and I am that which renews. I am the shaper of all things. Do not fear Me, O Warrior of Light, for I burn only to purify, to make space for new life. Do not allow your people to stray from Me, for only in My light may they find truth."

- Scriptures of the Risen, Book of Ash

*****

Phoenix-Gate: Ashes of a Nation's Hope
The assassination of Elwin Rosfield and the questions that remain
Edita Vesely

Eighteen years ago, on January 17, citizens across the nation of Storm learned of an incident whose repercussions would ripple through the years. Known as "Phoenix-gate," this event remains shrouded in controversy even today. Although Elwin Rosfield, then-governor of Rosaria and a prominent candidate for the office of president of Storm, was one of the most powerful political figures in the nation, the circumstances surrounding his assassination continue to fuel debate among...

---

The anniversary of the fire falls on a Saturday. Joshua is woken by his alarm telling him to take his medicine. He silences it and goes back to sleep.

An hour later, he wakes again, looks at his phone, and finds that a larger royalty check than usual has been deposited into his account for The Djinn and the Firebird.

There's always a small bump this time of year as the news recycles stories about Phoenix-gate. Some of them inevitably mention that one of the children who survived the fire went on to publish a wholesome children's book about healing and friendship and courage. Sometimes an armchair psychologist on the internet will find it interesting that the main characters are both mythical creatures of fire. Whatever the reason, there are always a few people who become curious enough to pick up a copy, and Joshua makes a tiny profit.

There's nothing malicious in it. It still feels disgusting. It's not a lot of money, but it's hard to look at it on a day when his feed is full of articles about his dead father and speculation about the man who killed him.

He shouldn't read the articles. There's nothing in them he hasn't read or heard before in the last eighteen years, and most of them are peppered with errors, small things that are wrong but too private to correct publicly.

Clive has Torgal today, so the flat is quiet. Joshua's chest feels tighter than usual, and he's a little nauseous, but not enough to spew. It's like he just lives with the feeling now, constantly. It's not debilitating, exactly, though it is draining, and he doesn't really want to get up. He should take a short walk to make sure he's exercising his lungs even when he has no work to go to or dog to walk.

Instead, Joshua sits with his phone at the tiny table in his kitchen, still in his pyjamas, and forces toast and pills down his throat as he reads through several new articles about the so-called mysteries of the Phoenix-gate fire.

The fact is that there was no complicated conspiracy. Someone hated Elwin Rosfield and the party he represented and acted on that hatred. Every so-called inconsistency in the facts is explainable and has been proven in court. But it's hard to assassinate a prominent politician without a significant portion of the population thinking there must have been a deeper plan, so while Elwin was laid to rest nearly two decades ago, the story refuses to die.

Joshua washes his plate and listens to the silence in his flat. He takes out his phone.

Joshua [9:59 AM]
Good morning!

Clive [10:06 AM]
hi
you ok?

Joshua [10:06 AM]
🙂
How's my dog?

Clive [10:31 AM]
[IMG671.JPG]
mid says hi
she says torgal's getting better at her new trick
what trick?

Joshua [10:32 AM]
😉 It's a secret between me and Mid
Tell her hi back from me!

From the amount of time between texts, Joshua can tell Clive's working, and he's just being a bother. There's no dog to walk, and there's no schedule he has to keep for his own work. He doesn't have anything planned except to catch up on things he's fallen behind on—picking up a few stories if he can, or looking for more background on Sleipnir Harbard, or stalking Cid Telamon through his associates' social media accounts. He could even just keep scrolling through his feed.

Instead, he pokes at his phone for a bit more, and then goes back to bed and takes a nap.

By the time he wakes up, it's nearly three in the afternoon, and he has a moment of panic. Three hours feels like too much time to have spent doing nothing, and he's already done a lot of nothing today.

Next to him, his phone is silently lighting up with notifications that he missed while asleep. He sits up to read them.

Joshua's not a major part of the public speculation about Phoenix-gate, but he always gets a few mentions this time of year. Clive gets it worse: he makes a good hero for people's stories as a firefighter who was recognized just last year for his extraordinary courage, but luckily, he hasn't been on social media since he was a teenager.

Then he sees one more notification flash on the screen and pauses.

@TwinsideTimes: The Men Who Walked With Fire: Click here for our exclusive interview with Anabella Lesage (@Ana_Rosfield) about the tragedy that redefined her family—and the entire nation. #Resilience #Phoenix-Gate #SanbrequeStudios

The title's not a reference to the Scriptures of the Risen; Joshua's just spent a bit too much time thinking about the Children of Dzemekys, that's all, and that phrase has become lodged in his brain along with his memories of that night.

The fire happened eighteen years ago. He's an adult now, and there's no need to be dramatic about the fact that a reminder of it comes around every year on this day. It's just that, this year, it feels like the fire is still smoldering, nestled in his chest, eating away slowly at his lungs.

A skim of the article at the link shows that the title refers to Anabella's first husband as well as her sons. There's the usual well-worn pun about phoenixes, an old symbol of Rosarian pride. Anabella gushes about how proud she is of all of her children who bravely survived the fire, and there is no comment about why her oldest child took unofficial custody of her middle son years ago. The end of the interview announces what Joshua already knew: his mother is moving to Twinside in a few months' time.

She still hasn't told Joshua that herself. She hasn't called in months.

Then again, he hasn't told her anything, either—that the number of months he has left is probably in the low double digits.

Struck by an impulse, and the vague anxiety that he's wasting time just lying in bed, Joshua gets up, bundles himself into warm clothes, and walks out the door.

---

He doesn't think to check Dzemekys's hours of operation until he's already standing on Reverie Avenue. The door's unlocked, but he doesn't see anyone inside. The door to the chapel is closed, as are the doors leading into the meeting room where the support group sessions take place.

It's strange to feel disappointed. It's not as though this was on his schedule. For all he knows, someone just forgot to lock the doors and he's trespassing after hours or something. As he's trying to decide whether to leave or to try poking around to see if he stumbles across anything interesting, his phone buzzes.

Jill [3:23 PM]
What are you doing today?
Want to do dinner?

He grimaces at the screen. She's doing the same thing he did to Clive earlier—poking, checking to see if he seems all right.

Joshua [3:24 PM]
I'm actually running down a lead right now

Jill [3:24 PM]
...

Joshua [3:25 PM]
Have to go
Another time?

Jill [3:25 PM]
Ok
Take care
Don't read the articles, Joshua

As soon as she mentions it, it's impossible to stop himself.

He toggles back to the article he was looking at earlier, but before he can manage to get sucked into another one, he hears, in the distance, the sound of a door closing, a door to a room he's never been inside. Footsteps come toward him down the hallway, preceding a woman with an annoyed expression.

He's seen her before, at one of the support group meetings—Benedikta Harman, according to Jote, the one who barely spoke except to recite some scripture at him. She speaks again now, drawling, "You're late."

Joshua blinks. "I'm sorry?"

"The meeting has already started," she tells him. "I'm not interrupting the prophet now."

It's the first time anyone other than Jote has mentioned the prophet in front of Joshua. He suppresses a spike of interest, though he doesn't have to feign his general confusion, given that they haven't actually ever been introduced. "I'm not here for a meeting. Sorry, I didn't catch your name?"

Their voices must attract attention, because the door in the back of Dzemekys opens again with a soft creak. "Benedikta, let him in," says a familiar voice. "Joshua's still new here."

It's Sleipnir, and despite himself, Joshua can't help being relieved to see the man approaching from behind her.

"Are you losing track of your flock, Sleipnir?" Benedikta asks, a taunting lilt to her voice. She doesn't take her eyes off Joshua as she speaks, and he can't tell which of them she's mocking.

"Sorry," Joshua says again. "I didn't know I was interrupting something."

"Nonsense," Sleipnir says pleasantly, drawing even with Benedikta. "This is a house of prayer, after all. Were you looking for someone, Joshua?"

"Er, not exactly," Joshua admits. He looks down. He's still got the article—'The Men Who Walked With Fire'—open on his phone. "It's stupid..."

Sleipnir follows his eye. "The anniversary of the fire you survived as a child. That's today?" Joshua nods. "It's not stupid. I know you've been rather stressed about this day for a while."

"I'm not stressed," Joshua says, automatic.

"Oh, no, you don't seem stressed at all," Benedikta puts in.

"Joshua," Sleipnir says firmly, and takes him by the elbow, stepping between him and Benedikta. "Benedikta, perhaps you should go back to the study group."

There's a pause, something stretched and strained, like an argument he can't quite hear. He feels tense—the way he always felt when Clive and their mother glared at each other in silence over his head, as though he wouldn't know they were fighting as long as they only did it when he was out of the room. He looks back down at the phone in his hand, at her name—Anabella Lesage—and the family photo the Twinside Times published with the article. He's tiny in it, only nine or perhaps newly turned ten. Clive is still shorter than their mother, and their father's hand is on her shoulder. All of them are smiling. He thinks it might be one of the last photographs of all four of them together, and even though the article was only a pretext for coming here, now that he's here, he can't look away.

Then Benedikta laughs softly and says, "All right, brother, I'll leave the lost little lamb with you."

She returns the way they came and disappears behind the doors in the back again.

"Don't mind her," Sleipnir says, calling his attention back. "Talk to me, Joshua." He smiles—the small, quiet smile he so often wears—and says, "I know you prefer to hide it, but it's all right if you're upset. You came here for a reason. This is the one place where you never have to hide."

Joshua takes a deep breath, and it makes him cough, and the sound of it rings loud around the mostly empty building. For a second, it's like he's surrounded by his own frailty, feeling nauseous as he always is these days and listening to own ill-health echoing off the walls like desperate, mocking laughter.

When he catches his breath, Sleipnir is still watching him, his expression concerned. "I, er," Joshua says. "I saw this, and it felt like a sign." He gestures to the article again, at the picture of himself as a child, still healthy and surrounded by his family. "When I walk through fire, I am not destroyed—that's what your Scriptures say, right?" To his surprise, he feels his throat begin to grow tight as he returns a wobbly smile and says, "I dunno, Sleipnir. I...I feel like it did a pretty good job of destroying me."

Sleipnir's expression softens. His eyes are very kind. "I see," he says, tugging Joshua's arm gently. "It's all right, Joshua. Come with me."

Confused and more than a bit embarrassed at himself, Joshua follows Sleipnir down the hall. What is it about this place that makes him so emotional? Perhaps it's just that there doesn't seem to be anything to hide with Sleipnir, who already knows his worst secret and with whom Joshua doesn't have a real relationship. This is a farce for work, that's all. Is he really so close to cracking up that he keeps slipping the second he's around someone whose feelings he isn't trying to spare?

They step into a small room. It's an office, sparse, with no decorations Joshua can see on the walls or the desk. There is a small shelf of books on the back wall, holding what looks like psychology textbooks and books on ancient history.

There is also an entire row of copies of a book bearing the title: Scriptures of the Risen.

All right.

It's time for Joshua to screw his head back on straight.

He quickly reads a few of the other spines on the shelves, trying to burn titles and authors into his brain to ask Jote or Harpocrates about later, before looking away and taking the seat Sleipnir leads him to. "The woman back there—her name is Benedikta?" Joshua says. "I think I've seen her around before."

"Benedikta Harman," Sleipnir confirms. "She and I were the the prophet's first disciples."

"Prophet?" he prompts.

Sleipnir sits down next to Joshua rather than on the other side of the desk. "The one who has spoken to God. The prophet himself took us both in when we were children. Of course we are all Children in the eyes of God, but those of us who have been initiated into the faith speak with the prophet to be guided further into His light."

It's hard to gauge how much interest is appropriate and how much will feel like too much prying. The trick, Joshua thinks, is to give as much as he's asking. Whatever act he's trying to put on, Sleipnir's not really his friend or his minister, so it doesn't matter what the man knows. If feeding him information will let Joshua pull some out of him, then it's worth it.

"He raised you?" Joshua tries. "I suppose he came to Storm with you when you moved here. You must be close. Mymother didn't even tell me she was moving to my city after fifteen years of not seeing each other."

"Yes. The prophet was living in Waloed when my parents died, although he grew up in Storm, so it was something of a homecoming for him," Sleipnir says. "It would be more accurate to say that I immigrated with him, not the other way around. I take it your mother is not from the Crystalline Dominion originally. Your whole family is from Rosaria, is it not?"

"Yes, that's right. Did the prophet grow up near here, then?"

Sleipnir cocks his head to the side, studying Joshua. "You didn't come here today, of all days, because you wanted to ask about the prophet."

That's true, technically, but only because Joshua didn't know the prophet would be mentioned today. "I'm sorry, Sleipnir," he says, backing away from the topic before he starts to sound suspicious. "I guess I don't know what I'm looking for."

"Most of us don't," Sleipnir says easily, "but we know it when we find it. We can just talk for a bit. Is this always a difficult day for you?"

"Not usually," Joshua says. "It's been so long since it happened. I don't know why it's bothering me so much this year."

"Things are...different for you this year," Sleipnir reminds him delicately. "You've been thinking a lot about death lately."

Joshua presses his hands together in his lap. "Yes. I suppose."

"Do you remember it yourself?" Sleipnir asks.

"What?"

"The fire. You were young, weren't you? But old enough to remember what happened."

Joshua's brow furrows. He was ten, which is certainly old enough to remember the worst thing that has ever befallen him. "I remember it," he says, but has to admit, "Not clearly. The memories don't quite feel real."

Sleipnir nods. "It's not uncommon for memories of a traumatic incident to feel muddled," he says. "Does that make it harder, being unsure of what you remember?"

"I...I don't know," Joshua says uncomfortably. "Not especially, I suppose. It's...it is what it is. I do dream about it, sometimes."

It might be the first time he's ever said that aloud. Clive knows, of course, because they both had nightmares when they were children, and for a time after Joshua came home from the hospital, they snuck into each other's beds more often than either of them would have admitted to their mother. But they don't talk about it. Clive's nightmares left him agitated and withdrawn, and Joshua back then didn't have to words to describe how his own dreams made him feel.

"I'm not surprised," Sleipnir says. "How do the dreams make you feel?"

Sometimes, it seems as though Sleipnir can see straight through Joshua's head and into his brain, like he knows how to pluck out just the right thoughts. Or the wrong ones, maybe; it's hard to say.

But he doesn't yet know that Joshua is trying to investigate the Children of Dzemekys, and if Joshua is careful, he can still direct this conversation in a way that will further suggest his interest in this cult. Or new religious movement, whatever.

"I dreamed about it the other day," Joshua says. "As I was... I thought I was dying, and I heard the words from the Scriptures. The ones I keep thinking about. 'When I walk through fire...'" He doesn't feel the need to finish. Sleipnir knows how it goes.

"Perhaps God was with you even then, though you didn't know Him at the time. But you felt it, didn't you? Even as a child, you must have felt His presence that kept you from perishing."

With a wince, Joshua says, "I don't know." Mostly, what he remembers is feeling heat and pain and fear, but that's not the answer Sleipnir wants to hear, so he adds, "Maybe. I think I must have." And then, despite himself: "I...I'm sorry, can we stop talking about it?"

"It's hard, I know," Sleipnir says, gentle and sympathetic. "But I think you need to talk about it, a bit."

"It's just...today's been..." He rubs a hand over his mouth, not sure how to finish the sentence.

"You miss your father, I'm sure," Sleipnir says.

Joshua nods. He does miss his father, it's true, though it's a shapeless, indefinite thing. "It doesn't really bother me these days. It was so long ago, and I was so young. I don't really think about him very much anymore."

"But Joshua, you're not only grieving your father, are you? You told us it was your brother's choices as well—that your illness took away his free will, in a way."

It feels like Joshua's pulse has skipped a beat and stumbled. He's had this thought about Clive many times, though he's never put it in those exact words.

"And your mum," Sleipnir says. "You lost her, too, if I've understood correctly? Though not to the flames?"

"You could say that," Joshua says uneasily. "I...I suppose I have mentioned her to you."

"More than once. I can tell you miss her. What happened between the two of you, if I may ask?"

Joshua looks down to where his hands are curled around each other on his lap. "It's a long story. It's just...after the fire... She loved me, but I wasn't the strong son she needed, and she didn't know how to handle it. My brother was as strong as anyone could have wanted, but he...well..."

"He chose you over the rest of your family," Sleipnir finishes for him.

Joshua bites the inside of his cheek and tries once again to shift the conversation back. "My brother took me away from her. It's not the same as what you went through, not at all, but I know a little of what it's like to be uprooted from the life you knew. It must have been interesting, though, growing up with the prophet. Does he really speak to...you know..." Joshua rolls his eyes toward the ceiling.

"Growing up with him was fortunate, for me," Sleipnir says. He's still smiling, but he doesn't take the bait and elaborate. "He's a great man. It sounds like your brother is, too, in his way. He's walked through fire himself."

"And he's actually come out stronger, instead of"—Joshua touches his scarred chest—"this."

"It's not easy to cut oneself off from one's family and friends, but your brother has managed to separate both you and himself from the people who would hurt you. He's a firefighter, you said?"

"That's right."

Abruptly, Sleipnir takes both of his hands. His grip is firm, though not painful, and Joshua finds himself curling his fingers around Sleipnir's in return. "Joshua, grief is a burden. It's one we all carry, but we must ultimately sever our ties to the things we grieve if we want to heal. Our fathers, our mothers—you have cut your ties to them already."

Joshua nods, though he wouldn't have said that he cut his ties to his father. Fate cut those ties for him.

"That's good," Sleipnir says. He squeezes Joshua's hands gently. "The trials that life brings leave us with only the truest part of ourselves, until we are pure—until we are divine, as God intended us to be. Is that not what you seek, Joshua: to divest yourself of your burdens before the end?"

Before the end.

The answer is 'yes, and,' Joshua knows. He should be trying to keep Sleipnir talking to learn whatever he can, and to convince the man of how desperate he is.

He can't, in the moment, make himself do anything but nod in silence.

"Your brother stepped off his path for you," Sleipnir says. His smile is encouraging, like a teacher trying to impart a lesson to a student. "Perhaps, by severing the ties of consciousness that keep you from reaching your true self, you can also allow him to find his way back to his own path. Your own burdens can be lifted, and you can be at peace before...before you go."

Joshua pulls his hands back. His chest feels too tight.

He takes a breath, carefully, and thinks about what he knows. Jote believes Sleipnir is trying to isolate people from their loved ones outside of Dzemekys in order to draw them further into the circle. Joshua needs to get closer to the Children, and so he needs Sleipnir to believe that he's succeeding.

"You're right," Joshua says. "I haven't been able to tell my brother, or anyone but you—the people here, I mean. And I...I'm not ready to go." He has to stop to clear his throat before he can go on. "But I want to be. The way you say it... I like that. That God is with us, even if I don't really understand Him. From the things you've said, though, it feels like He understands me."

Sleipnir pats him on the knee. "I know this has been hard for you, Joshua. But a brighter day is coming—not just for you, but for all of us. Here—" He stands, walks to his bookshelf, and pulls down a copy of Scriptures of the Risen, holding it out. "I found comfort in these words when I was a child. I still do now. I hope they will bring you some comfort, too."

Joshua takes the book. It's non-descript; a simple cover with no particular design. It takes all his willpower not to immediately open it and start flipping through the pages. "I can take this with me?"

"It's yours," Sleipnir says, "although I caution you not to discuss it with others outside of these walls. Not everyone has shown themselves as receptive to His word as you have been."

"Right," he says. He runs a hand over the cover. It's not a small tome; it must be hundreds of pages long. "A brighter day? What does that mean?"

Sleipnir leans a hip against his desk, perching on the edge. "Haven't you ever felt that there is something...wrong with this world?"

The world is broken, Ivan Karlsson told his partner Edda, because his sister died for someone else's greed and carelessness. The world was no longer something I could understand, Sleipnir said of his parents' death. Joshua thinks about seeing other children playing outside when he was small, while he lay in bed struggling to breathe and watched from his window, all because one man had hated his father. He thinks about his brother falling asleep at the kitchen table because he had to work another job while Joshua went to school.

"I've always known something was wrong with the world," Joshua says, and is rewarded with an approving nod.

"God sees it, too," Sleipnir says, "and though we are flawed, we are still His creations, and He will see us returned to our proper forms."

"By 'us,'" Joshua can't help but say, "you mean 'people,' in general. I...don't suppose you think He will return me to my proper form."

Sleipnir stands again and puts a hand on Joshua's shoulder. "I don't speak for God," he says gently. "I can't tell you what His plans are for each of us. But there is a duality to all things, Joshua. There is no death without life—without rebirth. Where one leads, the other must follow."

Joshua looks down at the book. Death does sound a little nicer when put in those terms. "Thank you," he says. He takes one more breath, and then rises. "And...thank you for the talk. I shouldn't keep you any longer from your—from the prophet's meeting."

"Once you've learned a bit more," Sleipnir says, coming back around the desk to guide Joshua out, "I'll introduce you to him."

"I'm looking forward to it," Joshua says. He puts a smile on his face and holds it there until it no longer feels like a lie.

Sleipnir leaves him in the lobby and returns to whatever room he came out of earlier. Left alone, Joshua wraps his scarf around his neck and starts out of the building.

Before he can open the door, though, Benedikta's voice stops him. "Feeling better, lamb?"

Joshua tenses. She's leaning against the wall, like she was waiting for him. "A bit," he says, and, curious, "You called Sleipnir 'brother' earlier. You were both raised by the prophet?"

Her delicate eyebrows rise. "I suppose you could say that," she says. "You have a brother, too. You know what they're like."

Recalling the earlier, palpable tension between her and Sleipnir, Joshua doubts that his relationship with Clive is very much like theirs. "I do," he says anyway.

"I heard you at group the other day," she says, to his surprise. He didn't think she'd even remembered him; she didn't seem very interested in any of them at the time. "You've bound your consciousness to your brother's."

"I'm not sure I'd put it that way," Joshua says.

"The prophet would," Benedikta says. "So would my brother. So would yours, I think."

Joshua hefts his bag higher over his shoulder and slides his hands into his pockets. He's tired and feels stretched thin. He already did this with Sleipnir, and he doesn't want to do it again, not with someone who seems to so disdain him. "Have a good rest of your day, Benedikta," he says. He pushes the door open.

"Your brother was there with you, wasn't he?" she says, stopping him before he can take off. "He survived his trial, but you said he was stopped from reaching his life's full potential. What stopped him?"

She knows perfectly well what his answer is if she was listening to him in group, but whatever game he's playing with Sleipnir has to be maintained with her, too. He takes a breath and turns back around to her. "I did," he says.

"And your guilt over it weighs on you still," Benedikta says, "even though you know that you will be separated from him before long."

"Well—"

She smiles. Where her brother's smile always looks understanding, hers looks like a predator's grin. "We're all alone, in the end," she says. "You, me, your brother, all of us. Why fight it? You must know, on some level, that your bond with him can only hurt you both in the end. Why else have you not told him how ill you are?"

"I," Joshua says, and stops. He swallows.

"Perhaps your brother could reach his potential if you let him, lamb," Benedikta says. "Don't you think?"

She pushes away from the wall and walks past him without waiting for an answer. Joshua watches her saunter back to the room with the closed doors that she came out of before. He sighs, opens the front door again, and leaves.

---

Clive [3:53 PM]
I went by your place

Joshua [4:39 PM]
Sorry I missed you, I'm out today
Following up on something for work
Did you need something?

Clive [4:47 PM]
no it's ok, just saying hi

---

Out of some sense of paranoia, he doesn't take the Scriptures out of his bag on the bus ride home. Instead, he reaches for his phone and texts Jote that he has something to show her the next time they meet.

She doesn't answer immediately. It is the weekend, after all. Maybe he shouldn't be bothering her today.

In truth, he doesn't really want to go through hundreds of pages of someone's sacred text venerating fire at the moment. He feels out of sorts, though strangely less fatigued than he was when he left the flat—more wired than tired, somehow.

It's the same feeling he had after the first meeting he attended. Some of what Sleipnir says is completely true and probably even good advice. It's easy to agree with him; Joshua does agree with him on some of it. They both know he's been an anchor weighing down his brother, but, unlike Sleipnir and Benedikta, Joshua knows that Clive will never allow himself to be cut out of Joshua's life, not until the matter is taken out of both of their hands.

He'll stop by Clive's on the way home, Joshua decides. Benedikta has a point: it's weird that he's keeping secrets from his brother if he doesn't actually mean to pull away from him. And Joshua doesn't want to lie anymore to his brother and Jill. He didn't want to hurt them, but he's already waited so long that it'll only hurt them more if he doesn't do it now. Clive stopped by his flat earlier, so he mustn't be at Otto's anymore.

That settles it. He settles back in his seat.

---

Jote [5:12 PM]
It's fine, you're not bothering me
I'm at the library at Valisthea
I actually have something to show you, too
...

Joshua puts his phone in his pocket before Jote can finish typing. He'll answer her later. He's arrived at Clive's building, and the weight in his stomach has started to feel like horrible churning. He needs to focus: just go in, sit his brother down, tell him everything Dr. Margrace said, and get it over with. And later, maybe he'll text Jill back to ask her when she's free to have that dinner, and then he can tell her, too, and that will be that.

At Clive's door, Joshua takes out his key and gathers his courage to go in. As usual, before he can, he hears the distinct whump of Torgal putting his paws on the door.  

He's barely got his key into the lock when the door swings open. "Hey, I thought you were busy today," Clive says.

Joshua catches Torgal's enormous paws as they land lightly on his stomach, sending him back a couple of steps. "Hi, boy," he says, rubbing his dog's ears while Clive opens the door wider. "Clive, can we talk—"

A sound from inside the flat catches his attention, the distinctive rhythmic thud of a kitchen knife on a cutting board. "Is that Joshua?" Jill's voice says, and she comes to the door just as Joshua has stepped inside.

"Oh," Joshua says, thrown. He drops by Clive's place all the time, and it's been a while since anyone, even Jill, has been there at the same time.

"You made it! Did you make him come over after all?" she tsks, tapping Clive on the arm with a backhanded slap. "I told you not to bother him if he was busy. We're not trying to smother you," she adds to Joshua.

"I didn't!" Clive protests. "I went to check on him and then left him alone. But come in, where's your hat? You must be freezing."

"I..." Joshua starts, bemused. Torgal nudges at the back of his knees, and he takes a step forward to keep from losing his balance. "Am I interrupting something?"

"No, this is perfect!" Jill says, smiling. "After the other day, I started thinking: it really has been a while since we've all sat down together. Just a few of us, something quiet and at home. Here, give me your coat. Clive, do you have another chair?"

It is perfect, really. This way, he doesn't have to tell each of them separately. He doesn't want to ruin their evening, but he's self-aware enough to know that's only an excuse. There's never going to be a good time. At least this will be a convenient one, just the three of them, in private—their little family they've made with each other since leaving Rosaria.

Joshua's reaching for the buttons of his coat when he realizes something: Clive and Jill are both standing here with him, but he can still hear the sound of chopping from the kitchen.

He steps further inside, enough to crane his neck around the wall. Gav turns around from peering into Clive's cabinets and sees him. "Hey, it's Josh!" Gav says. "We thought you were busy—Clive, you fuckin' liar!"

"Er, hi," Joshua says, and then Cid puts down the knife and turns around from the chopping board.

"Joshua," Cid greets with a nod as Joshua stands frozen. He feels like he's...glitched or something, like he took a wrong turn somewhere and is now buffering while trying to recalibrate. "Glad you could make it after all! Clive here was starting to mope."

"I was not," Clive says. "Joshua, take off your shoes and sit down. Is it warm enough in here?"

"Sorry to disappoint," Joshua hears himself say. He lowers himself to the floor so he can busy himself petting Torgal instead of looking at them. Joshua likes Gav well enough, but he barely knows the younger man well enough to call him a friend. He still doesn't know what to make of Cid, who has apparently progressed from flirting with his brother at work to meeting his friends at his home. Does this mean they're dating openly now, or is Gav an exception?

What Joshua does know is that he does not want to talk about his own impending doom in front of either of them.

"I can't stay," he says, "I just came to pick something up from home. I shouldn't have just barged in here."

"What are you talking about?" Clive says, frowning down at him. "You always just barge in."

He does, doesn't he. Joshua's the one who thought they should start living separately once he was old enough. And this was the point, that Clive, who doesn't like to go out to socialize, should be able to invite over his friends and...and boyfriend or whatever without his little brother's mess getting in the way.

This is good. This is what Joshua wants for Clive—to have people who will keep him from getting lonely. The pain in Joshua's chest is psychosomatic, and selfish and also his own fault.

"Stay for dinner, Joshua," Clive says. He steps closer and nudges Joshua in the hip with a socked foot. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong," Joshua insists. "Just wanted to see my dog. I'm actually meeting someone, for work, so I need to go."

"Meeting who?"

Joshua gives Torgal one more scratch under the chin and then stands up before the dog can flop over to ask for belly rubs. "Jote," he says, deciding that very second.

"Who's Jote?" Clive asks. "You have to meet them on a Saturday night?"

"She's a grad student; I don't get the feeling their schedules are very nine-to-five," Joshua says. "Jill's met her before. I'm working with her on something."

"And she told you to meet her, for work, right now," Clive says. His voice has gone hard. "Tonight, of all nights. Does she know what today is to you?"

Beyond them, Cid and Gav exchange a look before going back to meal preparation.

"It's just a day," Joshua says. The lie is bitter on his tongue, like the taste of ash. "And I'm the one who texted her saying we should meet, that's my fault."

It's Clive and Jill's turn to look at each other. "Joshua—" Jill starts, possibly to ask him about the multiple different excuses he's given for coming and then not wanting to stay.

"Have a good evening," Joshua calls into the kitchen, waving at Cid and Gav. "Sorry to interrupt!" He kisses Jill on the cheek, leans in for a quick hug with Clive, and leaves before they can follow him.

Clive follows him anyway, of course. "Joshua, wait," he says as Joshua is pressing the button on the lift. "I know it's—it's today, you always get—"

"It's just a day," Joshua says again, willing the doors to open with a strange feeling nearly like panic in his chest. "It's not a big deal."

"It is," Clive says as he reaches the lift. "Didn't you say you wanted to talk?"

"Some other time," Joshua says, and, to his relief, the doors slide open with a ding. He holds up his phone with Jote's messages, like they're proof that he needs to get the hell out of here right now, as he steps in and jabs at the Door Close button. "Sorry, I need to run. Clive, just go back in, all right? I'll see you later."

---

Jote [5:12 PM]
It's fine, you're not bothering me
I'm at the library at Valisthea
I actually have something to show you, too
Mikkelburg finished scanning Moss's journal! I have images of all the pages as tifs. My contact in Waloed is still working on the translation, but he's sent me a draft
We need to talk about this

Jote [5:18 PM]
But it's not urgent at all, we can talk another time

Joshua [5:25 PM]
Are you still at the library? I can meet you there

---

"Hi," Joshua says breathlessly when he finds Jote in the stacks. "Sorry it took me...so long to get here."

She looks up at him and then pauses when she sees that he's still trying to catch his breath from the stairs up to the library study room. He tries not to feel offended when she scrambles solicitously to her feet to pull a chair out for him, and he largely succeeds, as most of his brain is occupied with thinking that he really does have to tell Dr. Margrace at his next appointment that he's been getting lightheaded every time he climbs stairs lately.

"You didn't have to come," she says as he drops into the seat. "I know it's not a good day."

"It's fine," he says, summoning a smile. Jote is still watching him anxiously, so he does his best to slow his breathing. It feels like there's a weight on his chest. He tries to ignore it. "So. You have the scans of Moss's journal?"

As though realizing she's been staring, Jote quickly turns back to her computer. "I've started looking through them. I emailed you a link."

"Yes, I got it. Do you mind if I look on with you?" Joshua asks. "I don't have my computer with me, and the files are taking too long to load on my phone. I was out," he explains when she looks surprised; she's never seen him without a laptop and notebook slung over his shoulder, "and I didn't think to bring much with me."

"I thought you'd be either at home or at work," Jote says as she shifts her chair and pulls her computer between them.

"I went to Dzemekys earlier," Joshua says. "I talked to Sleipnir. And Benedikta."

Jote has an enormous series of images up on her screen, but she abandons it to stare at Joshua. "You...you did? You didn't tell me you were going today."

"It was a late-minute decision." He reaches into his bag and drops the Scriptures of the Risen in front of her.

"What," she says, picking it up, delicately, like it's an artifact as fragile as Moss the Chronicler's journal rather than one of probably dozens of copies of a book printed no more than a few years ago. "Did you steal this?"

"No," Joshua says, amused at the assumption. "Like I said, I talked to Sleipnir. He thought I should read it. And he says that he'll introduce me to the prophet."

"What?" she says again, and picks up her tablet and stylus. "So soon? What did you say to him?"

So Joshua relays the conversation—both of them—to her. It's much easier, he finds, when the person he's telling it to is furiously taking notes and nodding in interest, not holding his hands and looking compassionately into his eyes or smirking at him.

"I don't know Harman well," Jote says. "I suppose there's a reason she's not the one running the support group sessions, if the way she's talked to you is any indication. I think she mostly works with the initiates once they're considered to have truly committed to the Children of Dzemekys."

"In that case, with any luck, I'll get to know her a bit better soon," Joshua says.

Jote hums a quiet agreement. She touches the Scriptures again, then goes back to her notes.

"I wonder why there's so much secrecy around this text," Joshua says as Jote swipes down to a free space on her tablet and continues writing. "What I've heard them recite from this book so far is...kind of nice, sometimes, and that's coming from someone who doesn't much like fire imagery."

"It separates the group from the rest of the world," Jote says without looking up. "They tell you you need to read this book in order to become a member, but you have to keep it a secret from others in your life. Then that secrecy becomes a wedge between you and your loved ones, and that reinforces the idea that your loved ones don't really understand you; only the cult understands you."

"They were talking about severing my ties to others," Joshua agrees. "About how I need to stop clinging to them and burdening them if I want to become pure before the end."

Jote stops writing. She's frowning at her page of notes. "They're manipulating you."

"You've been trying to get your hands on a copy of this book for months," Joshua points out, "and Sleipnir just handed it to me today. I think it's fair to say the manipulation is mutual."

She peeks up at him through her hair, tucking a lock behind her ear. "You're not a burden to your loved ones, Joshua," she says.

Joshua feels his face go still for a split second before he can pull on a smile. "That's not really your business," he tells her.

"I know how these people work," Jote says. She still won't look him straight in the eye. "They go after people like you—people who are smart and competent, and can help them spread their word. He clearly knows who you are. What if he knows you're a journalist, someone who could help them with PR? Of course he's going to say whatever he can to push you away from outside support and toward the cult."

"Weren't you the one who said 'cult' was a word of judgement?" Joshua says. "It's not just manipulation. I don't know about Benedikta, but I think Sleipnir is being sincere, at least about some of it. They were both raised by the prophet, whoever he is."

"You're the one who said there's definitely something that made so many of them go out to commit arson," Jote counters, and finally she lifts her head, her fist clenched around her stylus. "Maybe Sleipnir is sincere. Maybe neither of them had a choice at all in joining the Children of Dzemekys. But just because children aren't given a choice doesn't change the fact that they're easily indoctrinated, and that's not something that's easy to break away from."

Joshua opens his mouth to counter, but there's something in her expression that reminds him of the anger, the selfish possessiveness, the frustration in his chest that he tries to keep from spilling out into the world. Jote is so subdued and quiet most of the time that this must be important—really important—for her to sound so impassioned.

He takes a breath. She is his expert consultant on this, after all. "All right," he says in a conciliatory tone, holding up a hand. "Your point is well taken. I'm being careful, I promise."

Once he's described everything he can remember, they look indecisively from the Scriptures of the Risen to the images of Moss the Chronicler's journal. There are literally hundreds of pages worth of literature and data to sift through, and, clearly, they both want to read all of it, immediately, all at once.

"Let's start with yours," Joshua says after a few moments' consideration, gesturing to her laptop. "Can I look?"

Jote pushes the laptop toward him, letting him scroll through the images from the journal. Most of the pages are handwritten and full of cramped text; some of them have drawings, rough sketches of people or locations or the occasional artifact.

"There are some historical sources about Moss the Chronicler himself, as a person," Jote tells him as he peruses. "That's all that historians in most of the world have had access to for years. But part of the translation we have now describes the religion that the Dzemekys civilization followed."

"That's brilliant!" Joshua says, turning to smile at her before continuing to scroll. "That's exactly what we've been looking for. How did you manage to get this so quickly?"

"I know someone in Mikkelburg's Religious Studies department," she says. "I grew up with him. He left when I was a kid to study another sect in Waloed, and he just...stayed there. He's a chair professor at the university now, so he has a lot of sway." She glances at Joshua. "He's the one who encouraged me to start my own studies."

"Lucky for us."

Joshua doesn't look at her, because he's pretty sure it will make her skittish again. To study another sect, she said. What does 'another' mean? Did Jote grow up with a band of traveling anthropologists or something? Does it mean something that she mentioned it to him willingly? He doesn't want to make her uncomfortable, but he does want this to continue developing into a productive partnership, one in which they're both at ease sharing information with each other.

"I've only just started to read through it," Jote says, "but Moss refers to the religion as the 'Circle of Malius.' According to him, the people of Dzemekys split over time into two factions: one that revered the ancient ways and one that began to shun them. The latter became quite technologically advanced for their time—"

"Right, that thing about their Iron Age preceding others in the region."

"Yes, but when these two factions clashed, it was the ones who remained devout to the Circle of Malius that emerged victorious. They're the people who came to be known as the Children of Dzemekys. Moss claims they ultimately won by burning Dzemekys itself to the ground with their enemy still barricaded inside. A very 'scorched earth' sort of strategy."

Despite himself, Joshua can't help but shiver at the thought. "They certainly weren't afraid to use everything at their disposal," he agrees, continuing to page through pictures of the journal. "I don't suppose it...says..."

He stops, staring at the screen.

As he does, the alarm on his phone sounds, reminding him to take his pills. It's too loud in the library; Joshua silences it hastily.

"Says what?" Jote asks, and looks at his phone. "What happened?"

"Never mind that," Joshua says. He's looking at the scan of a page showing a detailed sketch done by hand. He inches the laptop closer to her. "Look at this."

In the drawing, several people—or creatures—are shown, not all of them distinct enough to make out: a woman wearing a crown and a cape flowing around her like wings; another with feathered wings and talons like a bird; a humanoid form, craggy like a mountain; a man in armor riding a rearing horse. They look like mythological creatures of some sort, or perhaps representations of nature.

But the figure in the center is what caught his attention. Joshua has seen it before, in Redouane Allard's painting: the beast made of fire, horns protruding from its head, wings holding it suspended in the air like a god. He wakes his phone and searches for the site where Allard posted his artwork before he died. Is it possible Joshua is remembering wrong?

Jote toggles away to a PDF she has open in the background, scrolling down to the same page in the translation. "It says this is Moss's sketch of a mural depicting the...oh! It's translated here as 'He Who Will Rise.'"

"The Risen," Joshua says, and glances at the book Sleipnir gave him. "Is that their god? Is it... Does 'He Who Will Rise' mean something about resurrection, then?"

"I...don't know," Jote says. She's turned the laptop back toward herself, skimming through the rough translation. "This is saying he...or it...is some sort of avatar or vessel for their god, I think. Why were you looking at that image specifically?"

Joshua finally finds the picture he was looking for and holds his phone out for her to see. "This was painted a few months ago by Redouane Allard, the man who I suspect set one of the fires from the last few weeks. It's a recreation of this drawing—more or less. Some of the other figures are different, but this one"—he points to the fiery winged creature in the center, the Risen—"looks exactly the same. He must have studied this drawing..."

"...or something this drawing was based on," Jote finishes. She takes the phone from him, pinching to zoom and studying it. "How is this possible? We could well be the first people on Storm to have seen the contents of Moss's journal, and archaeologists haven't found anything of this sort from the Dzemekys site."

"Archaeologists from Storm haven't found anything," Joshua guesses. "And they could have missed something, couldn't they? Waloed doesn't tend to love foreign interference in their cultural affairs."

"True," Jote says, "but they're not completely isolated. The entire country of Waloed isn't keeping this one ancient civilization a secret from the rest of the world. Obviously," she adds, gesturing to the detailed research materials she's just received from the Academy of Mikkelburg.

"It doesn't need to be their whole country. But there could be small pockets of people in Waloed—or elsewhere on Ash—who retain some...I don't know, cultural memory of them, legends passed down as folktales, that sort of thing."

Jote studies the painting on the phone, toggling back to Moss's sketch to compare them. "That's possible. Sleipnir's a Waloeder by birth, you said. If he grew up there with the prophet..."

"He said, at the first session I attended," Joshua remembers, "that he was brought into 'the circle' as a child, where he found God. Perhaps he meant the Circle of Malius. Are there still followers of that religion among modern-day Waloeders?"

"Not that I know of, but why not? All it would require is a bit of secrecy from tightly knit groups of people. Perhaps they're calling themselves the 'Children of Dzemekys' here because they see themselves as an offshoot carrying on the legacy. It could be the same religion, or whatever version of it has survived four thousand years of cultural drift."

They turn together to study Moss's drawing again. If the Risen is such an important figure to the Circle of Malius—to the Children of Dzemekys—then perhaps the prophet has a copy of this mural or other images of the Risen, the way some Christians keep images and statues of Jesus, or the way Greagorians wear an image of the Serpent of the Saint. Allard might have seen it at one of their study meetings, or whatever happens when one meets with the prophet, and been so struck by the image that he recreated it on his own.

"We need to read through everything in this journal," Joshua says, and glances at the Scriptures of the Risen. "And everything in that book."

Jote has a look on her face that Joshua remembers from his school days, the one that says she is going to find a way to finish the assigned reading even though it will mean not sleeping. "Yes," she says. "I sent you the PDF of the translation I received today. What about the Scriptures?"

Joshua flips to the last page of the book. 368. "Well, it's not short, but it's not an ancient artifact; it won't take weeks to painstakingly turn the pages to take pictures of them. I'll send you scans."

"I can handle that," Jote offers. "This should be my priority; it's part of my studies."

"Neither of us is going to have time to read both of these as carefully as they deserve and as quickly as we want to," Joshua points out. "You focus on Moss's journal. Let me take care of this part. We'll each take one text to start and exchange notes."

"All right," she agrees. "I'll also send you a copy of a paper on Moss. It summarizes what modern scholars know about him already from other sources so that you'll understand his background and biases. Hold on, let me find it—it should only take a few minutes."

It probably does only take her a few minutes, but the silence of the library, the comfortable rhythmic tapping of Jote's fingers on her keyboard, and the late hour are a combination potent enough to make Joshua's eyes droop. The anxious feeling that the conversations with Sleipnir and Benedikta left him with; the nerves about talking to Clive; the excitement of finding another solid connection between the Dzemekys and the fires... All of it is draining away and leaving him exhausted.

He rests his head on one hand and opens the Scriptures of the Risen, hoping to start reading it to keep from nodding off.

He fails. He wakes to the feeling of his head slipping off the hand that was holding it up. The jolt makes him gasp, and it turns into a cough. Blearily, he has just enough presence of mind to turn away from Jote until he's caught his breath.

"You should go home," Jote says. She's closing her laptop, gathering her things. "I shouldn't have made you come all the way out here."

He waves a hand and rubs the other over his face, like that will wipe the fatigue away. "You didn't make me do anything. I was actually glad for the excuse to get away from home."

"Is that why you decided to go to Dzemekys?"

Joshua sighs, closes his eyes, and presses the heels of his hands into them. He took a nap today, and he's only been up and about for a few hours. It's been a little more walking back and forth than he planned, what with the detour here, but it's no more than he often needs to do for work. It's less, even. It's demoralizing to be feeling so tired from only that.

Jote rises to her feet, hefting her backpack over her shoulders. "Never mind. I won't pry. I know what today is."

Everyone in his life does. "You go ahead," Joshua says. He feels oddly shaky. He slept through lunch, and he hasn't eaten anything since his slice of toast this morning. He's late taking his meds, too, and he has a thought, briefly, that he should just skip this dose and have one night's reprieve from the nausea and eat a good hearty meal that he won't feel like throwing up, before he remembers the CT scan of his lungs and the charts showing how likely he is to survive the year. He glumly sets a new reminder on his phone to take his pills when he gets home. "I think I need a minute."

She doesn't move. "Where do you live?"

Resisting the urge to sigh again, he says, "By the Eastpool stop. It's right on the Silver line."

"Can I wait with you?" Before Joshua can reply that he doesn't need a minder, she says, "I'm at the Rest. That's close by, isn't it? It's dark out, and I don't want to walk alone."

Joshua looks out the window and then checks his phone. They've been here longer than he realized; Jote must have let him be when he fell asleep, which is embarrassing. And he's being too sensitive again. It's not strange for a young woman to be wary about walking alone in the dark. No matter that he knows Jote probably weighs about as much as he does, Joshua, with his height and his bulky coat hiding how thin he is, is probably less of a target for opportunistic muggers, especially if they walk together.

"Right, of course," Joshua says, and clambers carefully to his feet. Jote hands him his bag, and they set off together.

It's a quiet ride back on the subway. Jote spends the time organizing her notes on her tablet, adding annotations, and seems content with the silence. Joshua cracks open the Scriptures of the Risen and starts reading its first section, the Book of Shaping.

It's after they arrive at the stop and begin to walk down the street that Jote finally speaks. "There are anthropologists who have joined cults in order to study them," she says. "Even if they were truthful about their intentions, they were still often pressured to join—truly join—if they wanted to learn more. A lot of them stopped eventually, because they were locked out and hit a limit to what they could learn."

"You shouldn't need to worry about that," Joshua says. "Your study is supposed to last...what, a semester? A year? The university can't be expecting you to learn all of their secrets in that time. And besides, you have an inside agent," he adds, smiling at her in the dark.

She doesn't smile back. Joshua hasn't quite figured out how to get her to do that. "I'm not worried about me," she clarifies. "The anthropologists who did advance quite far in the organizations they were studying have written about the toll it takes, trying to remain objective while dealing with...well, the kind of mind games you've described."

"Jote—" He bites off the rest of the words when his voice comes out sounding too annoyed. More mildly, he says, "At least I can count on you to keep my head on straight, then."

It's partly a joke, but her expression says she isn't taking it as such.

"I don't mean that you're obligated to look after me," he amends. "I'd help you in any case. You're helping me a lot already."

"It's just..." Jote says. She's looking at the ground as they walk. "You should talk to someone about what you're going through, with your...your health. Someone you're not investigating. I...I know it must be hard, and having support is...it's really important. Have you really not told anyone else what's going on?"

Joshua sighs. "I was going to tell my brother today," he admits quietly. "Right when you texted."

Jote looks up, appalled. "Did I interrupt you—"

"No. He... I didn't realize he was with people, and...I'm not sure I'm ready for everyone else to know yet. I haven't even told my mum."

The thought of his mother brings an unexpected ache rising in his chest, a sharp longing he doesn't usually let himself feel. It's been years since he's thought about his mother so much, and he's not thick; he knows why that is, and today of all days. He tightens his grip on the strap of his bag and on his emotions and pushes the feeling back.

"If...if you ever want to talk about it," Jote says, hesitant and unsure, "I'm here."

Joshua feels his lips curl into a genuine smile. "That's thoughtful of you. You barely even know me, Jote."

She turns to look at him again, and he realizes then: she's the only one in his life he's not keeping secrets from. Vivian knows, and Dr. Margrace has given him a pamphlet telling him he should do things like write a will—which, god, he needs to write a will—but neither of them has seen him nearly break down talking about it in front of a group of strangers. The group of strangers don't know that part of that's a lie, too. And Jote hasn't known him for long, but she knew enough to guess that the only places he would be on a Saturday evening were at home or at work, and...

...and they walked past the Rest two blocks ago, where Jote claimed she lived, because she wanted to walk home with him. Because she's worried about him, and she knows he doesn't want her to be.

It's too late to be angry at her for the deception when she's gone so far out of her way to help him. It's not like he hasn't given her reason to think he needs it.

"So. Where do you actually live?" Joshua asks as they reach his building.

Jote hitches her backpack higher on her shoulders, an almost defensive motion. "Not far," she says, vague enough to make him suspicious. She meets his eye and confesses, "Freemont. It's only a few more stops down."

"What about getting home? It's full dark now."

"I can take care of myself," Jote says, unconcerned. "I walk home after dark all the time."

Joshua feels a laugh tumble out of him before he can stop himself. Jote bites her lip, looking nervous, but he's not angry, he finds. She lied directly to his face because she's too stubborn to accept 'no' for an answer and too polite to say flat-out that she's worried he won't make it home on his own. It's weirdly charming, coming from this woman whom he'd thought of at first as being a little too quiet and straight-laced and who has, in fact, tricked him into letting her be chivalrous.

"All right," Joshua says, shaking his head. "Will you text me, though, when you get home safe?"

"I'll be fine. Besides..." Jote says, and hesitates. Something nervous passes over her face. "I was raised to be able to handle much worse than a mugger."

"You're a very interesting woman, Jote," Joshua says, keeping his tone light, because, for whatever reason, she doesn't want to talk directly about how she grew up. She shrugs, a tiny movement of one shoulder. "Still. Text me, please? For my peace of mind."

Jote's shoulders relax. There's a soft look on her face and a tiny smile on her lips as she backs away. "I can do that," she says quietly.

"It really was kind of you to escort me home," Joshua says, aiming for the cordial yet firm tone he remembers from from his favorite professors in college, "but I need you to understand you're not responsible for my wellbeing. We're partners in this. All right?"

"All right," she says, and takes another step back. "Good night, Joshua."

Joshua watches her turn around and start back the way they came before he goes inside. The lift is still out. He sighs and starts his slow way up the stairs.

---

Clive [5:29 PM]
are you ok?
did something happen?

Joshua [5:43 PM]
Fine! Enjoy your evening
Lmk if Cid harasses you too much 😉

---

Jote [9:04 PM]
Made it home safe

Joshua [9:04 PM]
Thank you for letting me know
I'll send you a copy of the book tomorrow
Have a good rest of the weekend!

Chapter Text

90. In time, others came to hear of the first people. They traveled across mountains, through forests, and over seas, to witness the power of God.
91. And the people of Ash welcomed them, saying: "The Flame is not for the few, but for all. Come, let the fire purify your hearts; let its light guide you. Together, we will walk the path of God as one, and in His fire, we shall be made whole."

- Scriptures of the Risen, Book of Ash.

---

Dion [4:22 PM]
I hear you're in Lostwing Hall a lot these days :)
Do you want to meet in my office instead of making an extra trip to C&T?
I'll just be in there grading all day tmrw so whenever
I'll pick up the coffee

Joshua [4:36 PM]
Actually that would be great!
I can stop by around 12:15 if that works for you
Where's your office?

---

It's hard not to wonder if Dion offered his office to save him a trip—even a very short one—because he knows Joshua gets tired easily or he's just trying to give them a more private place to talk. In their last few weeks of coffee dates, Joshua has had to put up his mask twice when his cough flared up, and it feels a little ridiculous to sit in a coffeeshop and be unable to drink from the cup in his hands.

Either way, Joshua isn't going to complain about having to walk a shorter distance to visit his friend, as he has been feeling poorly all day. It's the meds, as usual—they're still making him too nauseous to eat, and not eating enough is making him feel brittle and a little shaky, and that's making everything just a little harder to do, and the extra effort is making the nausea worse. He wasn't even annoyed when Jill fussed at him this morning, because she's right—it's becoming A Problem, and one that doesn't seem like it's going to fix itself.

He's going to deal with it. But he only has a couple of hours this morning to catch Jote and continue exchanging notes on the Scriptures of the Risen and Moss's journal before she has to leave to teach a class and then interview one of the Children of Dzemekys who has agreed to talk to her.

He'll deal with it soon. There's no time today. This next half hour block is the last time he'll have to sit down and relax for the rest of the day.

When he reaches the office, Dion has his head in one hand and a pen in the other as he stares down an enormous stack of papers. "Professor," Joshua greets at the doorway.

"Thank god," Dion says fervently, and immediately puts down his pen and stands. Joshua has to hide a grin; he's so used to Dion looking unruffled by everything. "Come in, sit down!"

Joshua lets his bag slide to the floor and takes his coffee order from Dion, who pulls out another chair and places it near the door. It leaves the chair close enough to a small bookshelf to use the top of it as an armrest, though it's far enough from the desk to make the distance between them seem awkward.

"One of the students has been sniffling a bit in class," Dion explains as he sits back down, more than two meters away, the desk between them. "It's that season, you know. They were wearing a mask, and I haven't caught anything yet, but I don't want to risk passing something to you. Terence said you might be on immunosuppressants? But better here than a busy coffeeshop, I figured."

Joshua really is glad to have met Dion again. Not many people understand what it means when Joshua tells them he has scar tissue causing problems with his lungs, but a paramedic like Terence might have encountered a patient or two with pulmonary fibrosis in the course of his work.

"I'm not on any immunosuppressants these days," Joshua tells him, "but I spend enough time around crowds that getting sick is kind of inevitable this time of year. I'm sure I'll catch something sooner or later."

"Let's make it 'later,' then," Dion says, wearing an easy smile as he keeps his distance.

Joshua nods at the papers on his desk. "Students keeping you busy?"

"Ah, it's not their fault, it's this...ugh," Dion says immediately, like he's been waiting for the chance to vent. "These aren't even my students' papers! I don't even teach this class!"

There is, Joshua learns, nodding along in bemusement, a senior professor in the department who teaches a class on global politics over the last hundred years who has convinced Dion to help him design and run the course. At the time, Dion says, sounding uncharacteristically despairing, it seemed like a good opportunity to learn the ropes from a more experienced professor and begin to build his own reputation in the department. In reality, he's just grading papers because the other man forgot to hire a teaching assistant in time for the semester.

"It's my own fault for agreeing, I shouldn't be complaining," Dion says when he winds down. "I should have asked more questions to start. I just didn't want people to think I'm nothing more than...well." He makes a face at his coffee cup. "I'd like to have a reputation one day that doesn't include the phrase 'former child actor.'"

Dion always used to be so eager to help, to please, to agree. It is, perhaps, what comes of being raised by a demanding man who never seems to be satisfied and then thrust into the public eye as a young boy.

"You'll be pleased to hear," Joshua says, "that I've been working with one of Harpocrates' students, and she had no idea you were ever an actor. Until I let it slip, that is, but she doesn't seem to care all that much."

Dion perks up a bit. "Really?"

Joshua chooses not to mention that Jote's knowledge of all pop culture more than a decade or so old is mostly nonexistent. "Really. I'm sure it'll fade the longer you're here."

"At the beginning of the year, people came to my office hours to ask for advice about getting into the film industry," Dion says, wincing. "As though I would have relevant advice for any of them whose parents weren't the heads of a major studio, anyway. I had to make an embarrassing announcement in class about staying on topic. The class size shrank nearly in half after that, which was...humbling. But, Greagor, what a thing to be moaning about! I've been more fortunate than most."

Joshua thinks about the robotic smile he used to see on Dion's face during interviews, the makeup he learned to use expertly at twelve to cover how tired he always looked. He thinks about the way Dion said once, when they were alone, perhaps nine or ten, watching their parents make polite conversation, that he thought his father would like him if only the movie did well. He has been fortunate, certainly—in some ways.

There's a picture on Dion's desk of his husband and their daughter. It's the one personal touch in the office among textbooks on the shelves and a diploma on the wall, but it's positioned with care, where he'll be able to see it any time. There are no photos of his father or Joshua's mother, nor of their half-brother Olivier, and Joshua wishes they were still as close as they were as children so that he could ask about what happened between them.

And then, abruptly, he decides that there's no reason he shouldn't ask. Dion has introduced him to a mentor as his stepbrother, and he's talked to his husband about how to avoid getting Joshua sick. Dion's keeping him at arm's length, but only physically; it's Joshua, really, who has been holding his cards close to his chest lately.

"Can I ask," Joshua says, "what made you stop acting?"

He's ready to take it back, to return to the casual and easy conversations they've been enjoying until now. His professional life sometimes requires him to be overly intrusive, and he knows it's an easy way to alienate people.

But Dion seems unbothered when he says, "It was Tomes. He's the one who convinced me."

"Really," Joshua says, intrigued. "How did that happen?"

"It was when I was...sixteen, I think," Dion says. "I was a minor, so legally, I had to take classes during the year until I finished school, even if I was working. Father said it was too much of a distraction to have tutors come to set with me, so they started having me do little promotional videos during my downtime during the day, and tutors began coming to the house after work to put me through my lessons."

"That sounds exhausting," Joshua says. He has an idea of what Dion's work schedule was like when they were children, and the thought of having to go home from that and still have to do all of his classes seems frankly insane.

"At some point, it just started to feel like...like I wasn't a real person, I suppose. Like I was a mannequin getting shuttled around from place to place, given a script, told how to stand and what to feel. I know—that's what acting is," Dion says, rolling his eyes at himself.

"I don't think that's how anyone is supposed to feel," Joshua says, wrapping his hands around his cup of coffee. Much less, he thinks, a child. "That's awful."

Dion shrugs. "Well, I came home one day, and my agent was there, talking to Father and Anabella about some project that would show fans that I was being 'true to myself.' He'd never come to the house before, and it was like...I don't know, like I couldn't figure out if I was still at work or if I was at home. You know?"

Joshua does not know, though he nods anyway. However hard things were growing up, Clive never made him compartmentalize himself into school-Joshua and home-Joshua and brother-Joshua. It probably is part of what actors do all the time, he supposes, and it occurs to him suddenly how strange of a career it seems for Dion, who has always seemed so straightforward and open, not at all the type of person who prefers to hide what he thinks or feels. He was good at it, though, and perhaps that was confusing to him as a young teenager.

"They asked me what I thought I should do for my next project, and I couldn't think of a single thing that was true to myself. Couldn't think what that would mean—I felt like an absolute idiot. When I went to meet Tomes for my history lesson, I still hadn't even figured out which Dion I was supposed to be right then—the actor or the son or the student—and when he said 'hello,' I froze." Dion smiles ruefully and waves a hand in front of his own face. "Just...completely shut down for a bit. Gave Tomes a bit of a fright."

Joshua doesn't know Harpocrates very well, but he finds he can imagine the old man—a bit younger than he is now—guiding a teenaged Dion to a seat and gently talking him out of his fugue. A bit of a fright. Dion always was one to downplay his problems. "I'm glad it was Tomes there," Joshua says.

"So am I. Anyway, the rest isn't that exciting. We talked about what I wanted and what I didn't, and he was the first person who told me I could simply decide not to be an actor. I mean, I'm sure someone else must have told me that at some point," he adds, though, privately, knowing their parents, Joshua thinks there's every chance that isn't true. "But it was the first time it stuck."

"I wish I'd been there for you," Joshua says quietly. If he and Clive had stayed, they wouldn't have been just friends who met occasionally at formal events; they would have lived together, at least when Dion wasn't traveling for work. Maybe someone would have noticed earlier that something was wrong.

But Dion shakes his head, still smiling. "I'm glad you weren't, if being away from all of that was necessary for your health."

"Are you going to be all right with them coming to Twinside?" Joshua asks, because it's not just their parents who are coming; it's the studio, the very thing Dion has been trying to distance himself from.

"It'll be fine, I think. They understand by now I'm not coming back to the business. At least, Father didn't drop any hints about it when he called last week to tell me they were announcing the move."

"Ah. Yes, I saw the interview when it came out."

Dion tilts his head to the side, curious. "Anabella still hasn't mentioned it to you?"

"No, we really don't talk much." Joshua looks at the cup in his hands. "How...how is she?" Not exactly a loving stepmother, apparently, given the delicate way Dion has spoken about her in the past. But... "Is she well?"

There's a long pause during which Joshua physically cannot look up at his friend. "She's well," Dion finally says. "The business of the studio suits her." He hesitates, and then says, tentatively, "She still speaks fondly of you."

Joshua rubs the scar on his chest. "Not my brother, though, I assume."

Dion doesn't answer. That's answer enough.

"I think I would have stayed with her, back then," Joshua says. He's never told anyone that before, not even Jill—certainly not his brother. "Even if it meant being put in front of cameras all the time while I was ill. But I couldn't forgive the things she used to say to Clive."

Sleipnir didn't have it quite right when he said that Clive chose Joshua over the rest of their family. Their mother didn't give Clive much of a choice in that. It was Joshua who chose Clive over their family, because Clive had already chosen Joshua over himself.

"And, like you said," Joshua adds, trying to bring the mood up a bit, "getting away from all of that was good for me, on the whole. Clive still cared about my health, even if she'd given up on me."

Something sad flickers over Dion's face. Joshua's not been doing a very good job with the mood lately.

Dion generously picks up his slack. "Yes, I hear your brother knows his work," he says lightly. "Terence says they've met a couple of times in the field. Apparently, they had a few minutes of downtime last week, waiting for the police to clear a scene, and they sat around on the back of the rig comparing their tools. I don't think that's a euphemism for dick-measuring, but..." He raises an eyebrow.

Laughing makes Joshua cough, but it's worth it. Clive is generally well liked among first responders, and it's nice to know he's met one more person he can befriend. "Clive is very particular about his stethoscope," he says.

"Terence actually carries the same model," Dion says, grinning. "Apparently, they're both appalled by the quality of the ones the city provides. It's their multitools they disagree on." Joshua snorts. It's an oddly charming image. "Speaking of Terence...he and I were wondering if you and Clive would like to come over sometime to the new house."

"You've finished moving in, then?" Joshua asks.

"Just about. Kihel keeps asking when she can meet her uncles."

Joshua feels his eyes widen.

Uncles. That is what the girl would call them, isn't it, if Dion's their stepbrother? Brother has always meant something so particular and enormous to Joshua that, even while sitting here and talking about their parents and their childhoods, it's not a term Joshua has associated with Dion, no matter that he's becoming familiar enough to feel like a good friend again.

But then, Joshua is not about to be the one to tell an adopted child that he and Dion aren't real family just because they aren't genetically related. And also...it's not a bad feeling. Joshua has never thought he would start his own family, even before he found out how little time he has left. If Clive decides to have children, there's a good chance Joshua won't live to see them grow old enough to call him 'uncle.'

"I can tell her not to call you that," Dion says when he doesn't answer right away.

"No," Joshua says quickly. "No, it's...it's nice." He smiles, trying to chase away the edge of apprehension in Dion's expression. "I'd love to see your home and meet them. Let me check with Clive and get back to you. Can you send me Terence's shift schedule?" Paramedics in Twinside work twenty-four hours on and seventy-two off, in contrast to firefighters' forty-eight on and ninety-six off, so they should be able to find some overlap.

Dion smiles back. "Definitely! It'll be good to have you over. Kihel gets excited about family things. Her parents died when she was just old enough to remember them, and they didn't have any kin or a will, so that's how she ended up with me and Terence to begin with. She's always rather curious about who else might be out there."

"That's understandable," Joshua says, though he can't help but hear the echo of the words: They didn't have a will.

Dion and Terence probably have wills written out. They'd want to make sure their daughter is taken care of, and Dion, even if he's not with Sanbreque Studios anymore, must still have enough money from his childhood stardom that he wouldn't be careless with it. Dion probably grew up around lawyers. He would have taken pains to ensure his daughter would be taken care of and his husband recognized in the case of...well, in case.

Joshua was young when he left home, and it's not like he has millions of gil now that will need to be dealt with when he's gone. But, he's realizing, he should have written a will as soon as he was old enough to do so legally. Unless something terrible happens, he was always going to die before his brother and Jill and everyone he cares about, and he doesn't have much, but what he has he wants to be left to them. It wouldn't be hard to figure out how to go about it—just an online search, probably, how does one write a will—but every time he starts to look it up, he stops before he can hit search.

Clive might have a will. No, of course he would, given the risks inherent in what he does, and given all of the legal loopholes he had to manage to make sure Joshua was taken care of when they were younger. He would have been responsible, the way Dion probably is about his daughter. Joshua's the one of them who has never had to be responsible for anyone else.

But there is no way Joshua can ask Clive for advice about writing his will. Nor Dion; that feels like a step too far on a day when they've just started talking about their shared families.

"I'm looking forward to meeting my niece," Joshua says simply, and Dion beams at him.

*****

Tyler Wedge [4:58 PM]
Genevieve Laurent confessed to attempted arson.

Joshua [5:04 PM]
...
You were there when they arrested her, weren't you?

Tyler Wedge [5:06 PM]
Yes
I know you've raised concerns about her mental state.

Wade Biggs [5:06 PM]
We think there's something we're missing
She's not talking to us
Capt says you know something?

Joshua [5:06 PM]
Possibly
Does this mean I'm allowed to interview her?

Tyler Wedge [5:07 PM]
Right now we have to approve anyone who wants to visit her.

Joshua [5:07 PM]
You have the authority to restrict her right to visitors?

Wade Biggs [5:08 PM]
This isn't about her rights or freedom of the press
Shes on suicide watch

Tyler Wedge [5:08 PM]
She is still being investigated.

Wade Biggs [5:08 PM]
And we don't want random ppl to upset her
Also the investigation

Joshua [5:09 PM]
...
Can I talk to her or not?

Tyler Wedge [5:09 PM]
You will need to sign an agreement not to publish what she tells you without our permission.

Joshua [5:09 PM]
You know I won't sign that
SOTR wouldn't allow that even if I wanted to
Trust me, I can get her to talk
This can benefit both of us

Tyler Wedge [5:09 PM]
Why do you think she will talk to you?

Joshua [5:16 PM]
Tell her I said this word for word
"I have walked through fire, and I was not destroyed, I was revealed"
Then decide if you think she'll talk to me

Wade Biggs [5:16 PM]
wtf

Tyler Wedge [5:16 PM]
Do you know her?

Wade Biggs [5:16 PM]
Joshua what the fuck

*****

"Consciousness," Sleipnir says during the next support group meeting, "binds us to those around us. We spend so much of our lives conforming ourselves to our friends, our parents"—he nods to Blanche—"our sisters and brothers"—he gestures first to Randal and then to Joshua—"that it can be easy to forget who we are beneath the ties that bind us.

"The world is not kind," he continues. He's smiling, like he always seems to be, but there's a sincerity in his eyes as he looks at each of them in turn. "You all know that; it's why you're here. The world is not fair. It does not judge right or wrong, and it does not care about our pain or our joy. God said: 'I burn not in vengeance, but to cleanse. I do not judge but I purify.'"

There are a few murmurs of agreement. A few faces—the newer ones—look puzzled, perhaps wondering, as Joshua did at the start, what exactly Sleipnir is quoting from.

Finally, however, Joshua has read enough of the Scriptures to recognize the quote himself. It's from the Book of the Fallen, in which a man named Omega leads a generation of people in building the Sagespire, a great tower filled with specialized pyres constructed to trap God and control His power. They fail, of course, and their entire city is razed to the ground.

Jote has posited that it's a mythologized retelling of the Fall of Dzemekys. They haven't found historical records that match Omega and the Sagespire by name, but, after consulting with Harpocrates, they've decided that that's probably what it's meant to depict.

"Every moment that we spend in this world changes us," Sleipnir continues. "The web of consciousnesses that surrounds each of us holds us—traps us like a fly caught in a web, keeping us from seeking the truth of who we are.

"But grief, like God's fire, brings clarity. It reveals to us who we are, beneath everything that the world has wrought upon us. Who are we, then? Who are we truly? That is what we must learn from the trials we have suffered."

Sleipnir glances at the clock on the wall. "We're running out of time today, so I would like to thank all of you for sharing your stories with us. Think about that question of who you are when all of your flaws and disguises have been stripped away. As the prophet Ramuh told his people, Through the fire, your wounds shall be healed. Your hearts, once weak like the reed, shall stand firm as the oak; your spirits, once brittle like dry wood, shall become strong as iron."

"So it was said," say about a half dozen voices around the circle, and then the session ends.

Joshua still can't help wondering about Sleipnir. The man doesn't spend a lot of time talking about himself, but he makes mention of his childhood as an orphan in Waloed once in a while, little tidbits that are probably intended to make the rest of the group feel more comfortable talking about themselves. It's impossible not to wonder what it must have been like to be passed from home to home as a boy, only to land on the doorstep of a man who claimed to know the truth of God. It must be a powerful thing to a child looking for somewhere to belong.

He doesn't realize how long he's been sitting there, taking slow, careful breaths, until Sleipnir sits back down next to him. Everyone else has migrated to the back for a bit of socializing before they all return to their lives.

"You've been quiet today, Joshua," Sleipnir says.

"Mm," Joshua says. His stomach is churning, and he's been worried all session that, if he tries to talk too much, he won't be able to keep down the lunch he managed to finish.

It must show on his face. "Do you feel unwell?" Sleipnir asks.

Joshua closes his eyes and takes a breath. Come on, Rosfield, he imagines Vivian's voice snapping. Do your job. "A bit. I just need a... Is it all right if I just sit here for a moment?"

"Of course," Sleipnir says. "Do you need anything? Some water?"

He keeps having to swallow, like his stomach will crawl up out of his throat if he doesn't keep forcing it down. He shakes his head, but a soft scraping sound makes him open his eyes to see Sleipnir picking up his water bottle and unscrewing it for him. Joshua takes it with a tight nod of thanks and washes down the feeling of his gorge trying to rise.

When the feeling ebbs a bit, Joshua says, "I, erm. I was reading about the prophet Garuda. Though your fire burns away all we have clung to, you do not leave us empty but make us whole," he recites. "That's what you mean, isn't it—that the pain we go through leaves us with nothing but the true self."

Sleipnir looks surprised but pleased, like Joshua is a student who has finally managed to do answer a question in class. "Exactly. You have been doing some reading, I see."

"And the Book of Ramuh," Joshua says. "I really liked that section—it spoke to me."

"Ah, the prophet Ramuh. I'm not surprised you connected with his words. He was said to be the wisest of God's chosen, one of the few who could see the true nature of the world."

Joshua has to swallow hard again. It's getting hard to concentrate on the conversation. "He... The true nature...?"

Sleipnir puts a hand on his shoulder. "Come to a study meeting," he says, and that's a step—it means Joshua has done enough to impress, or to show that he's sincere—but all Joshua can think is that he really doesn't feel good, and in a moment, he's actually going to be sick. "There, we discuss the writings in greater detail, and I think you would learn a lot from speaking to the prophet."

"Yeah, okay, er," Joshua says vaguely. "I think I... Is there a toilet I can use?"

Sleipnir's eyes widen slightly, and he rises to his feet. Joshua lets himself be helped upright.

He holds it together just long enough to reach a stall and rip off his mask. Vomiting in a public place is, he discovers, just as horrible as he remembers from his worst days in high school. He doesn't have time to close the door of the stall behind him, and he's too shaky to support himself while bent over or crouching, so he's just on his knees, retching into the toilet and hoping the floor and the bowl he's clutching are as clean as could be expected.

His vision is blurry when the wave of nausea eases enough for him to pause and breathe. He reaches out, pulls the door of the stall closed behind him, flushes the toilet, and sits back on his heels. He grabs a handful of toilet paper. The strain of throwing up has made his eyes water, and also—

He's so tired. He's been good about his medication schedule. He's been trying to eat—he managed a full bowl of porridge for breakfast today and choked down a bland sandwich for lunch even though he felt sick, because he knows he's been losing weight that he can't afford to lose, and now all it's like all of that effort has gone to waste, literally down the drain. Jill badgers him about eating, and Clive goes to his flat to cook him food, and Joshua knows it's because they love him, but it's hard. He feels awful so much of the time these days, and he knows it's only going to get worse, and it'll get worse faster if he can't tolerate the new meds.

He needs to keep up his strength or he'll only feel sicker, but he can't keep up his strength because he already feels so sick. It's like he's fallen into a ditch that he can't climb out of.

The door opens. "Are you all right?" Sleipnir's voice says as he's throwing a wad of toilet paper into the bowl.

Joshua coughs, feeling acid in his throat as he tries to clear it. "Yes, I'm fine," he answers, and is relieved that his voice doesn't shake. It's even true; clearing his stomach of its contents has appeased it for the moment, not that that solves his problem of what to do about not starving. But that's a problem for later, preferably when he's at home. "I'll be right out."

There's a pause, and then the door closes again. Joshua takes a breath, composing himself, and puts a hand on the wall of the stall for balance as he wobbles to his feet.

He rinses his mouth as well as he can and digs a fresh mask out of his bag. When he steps back out, Sleipnir is standing with a few stragglers, but he hurries over as soon as he sees Joshua step out.

"Do you need help?" Sleipnir asks quietly.

Joshua keeps a hand on the wall and shakes his head. "I'm all right. Thank you, Sleipnir." He clears his throat. "You...you said I could come back?"

He doesn't mean to sound quite as plaintive as he does, but at least it has the effect of making Sleipnir's face soften further. "You're always welcome here, Joshua, you know that by now. Here—will you give me your email? I'll send you some times when the prophet is leading a session. Come when you're able to."

"I really am all right," Joshua says, though he writes his email address on the paper Sleipnir hands him—his personal email, not his work one. He tries to smile. "It's not like I'm dying at this very moment," he jokes.

Sleipnir doesn't laugh. "Come when you can," he insists, "and if you need help, reach out to me. Yes?"

Joshua nods in thanks. He takes one look at the handful of people who are still chatting and decides there is no way he is doing anything else here today except leaving. "I'll be off."

Sleipnir squeezes his arm once more in comfort as he leaves.

---

It's not a surprise when he turns the corner four blocks later and finds Jote waiting for him.

They've never actually changed their default plan, which is to text after each meeting to decide whether to debrief at State of the Realm or in the stacks at Valisthea. Ever since the first session Joshua attended, however, unless one of them is pulled away for something else, Jote has always sought him out to walk back with him. He doesn't know how much she saw or heard today, but he did catch sight of himself in the mirror. He's paler and more drawn than usual, and turning his digestive tract inside-out hasn't really made him feel less lousy, except for feeling a bit less like it's going to turn itself inside-out again in the immediate future.

"Hey," he says. He sounds a bit hoarse, but not so much that it's out of the ordinary. "I got your text this morning. You finished going over Moss with Harpocrates, you said?"

Both of Jote's hands are clutching one strap of her backpack. "We can talk tomorrow, or whatever," she says, sounding uncomfortable, so she probably knows he spent the last several minutes being sick in the loo. "Can I please walk you home?"

"We need to finish going through the research we have," he says.

Jote falls in line beside him when he starts to walk toward the station. "We can do that another day."

"I don't have time for that," Joshua snaps, and then, with an effort, pulls back the frustration and stuffs it safely into his chest. More calmly, he explains, "Sleipnir invited me to a study session to meet the prophet. You won't be there—it'll be just me and them—so I'd like to have all the information I can get before I walk in."

"I..." She hesitates. "I just think maybe you should rest. For today. I don't mean to..." She wraps a hand around his arm, scurrying forward a couple of steps to look him in the eye. "Joshua, I thought you were going to pass out halfway through the session."

Joshua takes a deep breath of cold air and immediately loses it coughing. He looks at the sign ahead of them, marking the subway station. "I want to work, Jote," he says quietly. "It's not like I'm getting stronger."

There's no answer, though Jote lets go and continues to walk with him, matching his slow pace. They're at the station before she says, tentatively, "What if we went to your place and worked there? I have all my notes. There's no reason we need to be in the library."

It's...actually not an unreasonable suggestion as a compromise, and Joshua still feels fairly rubbish and like his head might float off his body if his heavy feet don't sink him into the ground first. Another time, he might have been indignant at the impertinence of someone's inviting herself into his home. The fact is, though, that he knows full well by now that Jote only ever has the best of intentions, and it's no more than what Joshua has come to expect from her.

"It won't do us any good if you go to their private session and then keel over before you meet the prophet," Jote says when he doesn't answer. She shrugs her backpack higher on her shoulders, a tell he's come to recognize from moments when she feels uncomfortable but is going to push through it and finish making her argument anyway. "I don't have to be on campus for the rest of the afternoon, so I can just go straight home from your place. If that's okay."

She watches him anxiously, as though afraid of how he'll answer. She's overstepping some boundaries, certainly, but they were never clear enough about where those boundaries should be from the start. It's not her fault that she's kind and that her kindness reminds him of how weak he feels.

All right. Fine. Joshua sighs. "Do you mind dogs?"

Her forehead crinkles in confusion. "I grew up with hunting dogs," she says, which sounds like a solid 'no.'

"Good," Joshua says. He smiles, making sure to crinkle his eyes so that she'll see the expression over his mask. "Anyone who enters my flat has to be friends with my dog."

---

Jote doesn't comment when a wave of dizziness swamps him briefly as they climb the stairs to his flat, only ducks under his arm and grips him tightly around the waist until he's steady again. Joshua wouldn't have fallen—he's got the railing in a death grip—but he finds himself leaning on her anyway. She's much smaller than Clive, though she feels almost as solid beside him. "Thanks," he breathes, trying to hold back the nausea that's beginning to rise again. "I'm okay, I—"

"I know," she interrupts. "It's fine. Take your time. Do you not have a lift in this building?"

He almost laughs. Instead, he coughs, panting, and explains, "It's been...down for...for over a month."

She frowns but remains silent as he takes another few moments to catch his breath and then continues upward. She stays plastered to his side, and he doesn't bother with the effort of trying to pull away.

He really hates these stairs.

Joshua's legs are burning when they reach the top; Jote must feel like she's following a snail. He can't pause there for long, though, as he can hear the sound of whining from three doors down the hallway. Torgal must hear or smell him and is scratching at the door.

Jote stays behind him while he unlocks the door, and then, almost before he can consciously decide to bend down, he's kneeling in the doorway, holding an armful of excited dog. "Hi, yes, I'm...home early, I missed you too," Joshua says. Torgal licks his cheek once, and then turns to the new person.

"Hello," Jote says, holding out a hand. Torgal sniffs it and allows her to pet his head while he investigates her legs, then checks her hand again. When he determines that she is not holding any sort of treat for him, he returns to Joshua to nose at his neck, snuffling at him with a suspicious air. He can probably tell that Joshua was sick earlier. "Shall we go inside?"

Instead, Joshua reaches around Torgal for the harness that he left beside the door this morning. "I should take him out for a bit," he says, and turns around to look again at the stairs. Just thinking about them makes him feel woozy, and he hasn't even regained his wind yet. He should probably check his blood oxygen, though he's not sure he wants to know.

"What? Right now?" Jote says. She's eyeing the stairs again, too.

"If not now, I'll have to in an hour or two anyway," Joshua says, buckling the harness around Torgal. He's still on his knees, leaning against the doorframe as discretely as he can. "He'll have to wee eventually. Go in and make yourself comfortable, I'll only be a..." He glances at the stairwell once more. "...a few minutes."

"Joshua," Jote says firmly, and then pulls the leash toward herself. Joshua tightens his grip for a moment before letting it slip through his fingers. "I'll take him out. You go in and rest."

Looping Torgal's leash around her arm, Jote reaches a hand down. Resigned, because the other option is a tug-of-war with her or an argument he doesn't have the breath for, Joshua takes her hand and lets her pull him to his feet.

It feels like some sort of horrible omen: this has been a particularly bad day, but it's also his future, one in which he can't take care of his dog.

"Can I have your keys?" she says when he's upright. "I'll be quick."

Joshua puts a hand on Torgal's head, making the dog look up at him. He smiles back—as though Torgal will understand a smile—hands Jote his keys, and forces himself to let go of his dog. Torgal turns around to look at him a few times as she leads him away, but he follows her out without a fight.

Joshua gives himself ten seconds to lean against the door when it's closed behind him before shuffling to his room and dropping to sit on the bed. He clips on his pulse oximeter, breathes as deeply as he can, and calls his doctor.

"Unfortunately, Dr. Margrace had to run to the hospital for an emergency," the receptionist tells him. "I can take a message to give him when he comes back in the morning, or I can transfer you to emergency services if this is an urgent situation."

His stomach is churning and he feels a little unsteady, but for someone like him, that's not really an emergency. What is he going to do tonight, anyway, run back out to the pharmacy when it would only mean having to come back up the stairs again? "It's not urgent," Joshua says. "Could you tell him that I've been having a lot of nausea with the new medication he prescribed me? I...I don't think I can handle it much longer."

She assures him that the message will be passed on, he assures her that he is not so dehydrated that he needs to go to urgent care, and then he hangs up. Jote isn't back yet. The pulse oximeter's reading has risen to 91%, which is good enough for now, though the nausea is cresting again.

He pushes himself to his feet and goes to the bathroom. He vomits again, quick and efficient and private, and then runs a toothbrush around his mouth, stomach aching from being squeezed out twice in a short period of time.

He flops into a seat at the kitchen table and sits with a mug of water, conscious that needing to go to the hospital because he can't handle the side effects of his medicine would be just about the worst possible end to this day. He's starting to pull his laptop and his copy of Scriptures of the Risen out of his bag when the door opens.

Torgal runs to him immediately, dragging his leash behind him on the floor. "Hi, boy," Joshua says, smoothing down the fur on the top of his head. "Were you a good boy for Jote?"

Torgal sneezes and rubs his face on Joshua's thigh. Joshua leans down to unfasten the buckles on his harness, coughing briefly when the position compresses his lungs. He looks up at Jote, who is closing the door and stepping out of her boots.

"He pissed at the corner," she says, sounding as serious as she does when she reports on things she's noticed about Dzemekys that Joshua missed. She peels off her scarf and coat, then tosses them neatly over the back of his couch before he can stand or offer to take them for her.

"Thank you," Joshua says. Torgal ducks his head to slip out of the last loop of his harness and puts his paws up on Joshua's leg. "I really appreciate your doing that. Can I get you something to drink before we start, or...?"

"No worries," Jote says, not looking at him as she slides into the seat opposite him. "Do you...think maybe you should call your doctor?"

He smiles at her as he strokes Torgal's ears, wishing she would look less nervous. He has been prickly about this sort of thing, but then, she's been listening to him unload his most personal problems to Sleipnir and then debriefing with him afterward for weeks now. No wonder she's unsure about where they stand. He's probably made it more confusing by signing a form consenting to her questions and then becoming cross whenever she tries to help him.

"I already did, while you were out with Torgal. He'll call me back tomorrow, they said," he says. There's no reason not to be truthful with her, as she knows everything else about him already. She looks up at him in surprise, and he explains, "The medication I was on to slow the fibrosis wasn't working anymore, so they switched me to a new one. The side effects have been worse than I expected, but it's my only hope of slowing the spread."

Jote's gaze follows his hand, then returns to his face. She nods. Torgal, having accepted enough pets for the moment, walks away to find a toy and deposits it at Joshua's feet. He lies down and gnaws lazily on it.

"We should talk about Moss's journal," Joshua prompts gently, ignoring the occasional squeaking noise from Torgal's toy, and Jote hurriedly reaches into her backpack for her notes.

"Right, so," she says, snapping back to business, and this turns out to be the way to brush away whatever awkwardness she feels. "Moss has several sections describing the Circle of Malius. I've organized my notes from all of them in an attempt to piece together a more complete view. There's no mention of the Scriptures of the Risen, which makes sense, since the Scriptures seem to reference events from after the Fall of Dzemekys, making it probably more recent than Moss's writings. What I did find is some more information about the Risen, or He Who Will Rise."

Despite the lingering, oppressive sense of fatigue and nausea, Joshua feels a prickle of excitement. The sketch of He Who Will Rise is such a striking yet strange connection between the fires he's been following and the Circle of Malius, not to mention the connection to the Children of Dzemekys through their holy book. "And?"

"The word they're translating as 'He Who Will Rise' is...I don't speak Ancient Waloedi, but it's something like 'Mythos' or 'Muethos,'" Jote says, pronouncing the word carefully. "He's a great warrior whom the Circle of Malius believed would one day save all of humanity."

"A warrior?" Joshua asks. "It looks more like some sort of demon." He pulls up the picture of the sketch again, as well as Redouane Allard's painting that was clearly inspired by it. If the figure in the center is this Mythos, it's certainly not human.

But Jote shakes her head. "Remember what Tomes said about the Akashic Hordes of Stonhyrr? They were always led by a single, so-called 'monstrous' warrior. According to Moss, this warrior was anointed the vessel of God and could wield His power over life and death."

"Well, I suppose you could call it that if you're really good at killing people."

"And Moss says that, at the end of a major campaign, the vessel would build a pyre and climb onto it to sacrifice himself to God."

Joshua pushes his laptop a few inches away and takes a drink of water. Better the feeling of cool water trickling into his churning stomach than the thought of lighting oneself on fire. "Why would they do that? If he was their greatest warrior, wouldn't it have made more sense to keep him alive?"

"If he was their greatest warrior," Jote suggests, "then he would have been the most meaningful sacrifice. A sacrifice that's easy to make isn't really a sacrifice, after all."

"I suppose," Joshua says, but it makes the back of his neck prickle nonetheless, imagining a tribe of warriors standing around and watching a man set himself on fire, listening to him scream until the smoke choked off all sound. He thinks about Allard's painting of a man smiling as he burned and has to clench his fist to hold back another shudder. "So, what, each vessel of God immolates himself and ascends to become...this creature?" He gestures at the sketch.

"Not quite," Jote says, scooting her chair closer to him so they can look on together. "The Circle believed that the final, perfect vessel would not burn at all, that the flames would reveal God in His true corporeal glory, bringing about the end of our world and allowing Him to reign over the next." She points to the central figure in the sketch—the Risen. "That is what Mythos, the final vessel, will become. According to Moss," she adds, "and of course we only have this one source, but..."

"But there may be other sources if Redouane Allard really did see some version of this painting and learn about the mythology behind it from the Children of Dzemekys," Joshua says.

It feels like things are finally starting to come together, like they're about to make a real breakthrough. Suddenly, the image of a warrior burning on a pyre tickles a memory, and he opens the Scriptures of the Risen.

"Listen to this," Joshua says, paging through until he finds when he's looking for. "This is from the Book of Ash, describing the first people to populate the continent. A leader rises among them, whom God calls the Warrior of Light. He goes to the pyre and...ah, here:

"The Warrior spoke to God, entreating: 'I am only a man, and the people are scattered far across the land. How will they know that the words I speak are Yours?' And God said: 'Go, and gather your brothers and your sisters. In those who are pure of heart, your people must see My will, and they must hear My voice, for to one who has seen the truth of the world, there is no other voice, and there is no other will.'

"Then the Warrior became so filled with the fire's heat that he appeared as a flaming colossus. He came down from the pyre and gathered his people, saying: 'God calls us to walk together in the light of His burning. Though we are many, we shall live as one, and in the warmth of the Flame, we shall find our truth.'"

Jote is scribbling notes, as usual, though she's looking at Joshua and not at her tablet. "The Warrior went up to the pyre, and he came down as a flaming colossus," she summarizes.

"I assumed that meant he went to...well, to stand in front of the pyre," Joshua says. He grimaces. "I suppose you could read it as actually climbing onto it."

"How better to commune with God, if you believe that fire is divine?" Jote muses. "So...this Warrior of Light is Mythos?"

Joshua shrugs. "Perhaps. It sort of sounds like it, doesn't it? But this whole book...it's all about this duality of being destroyed and remade." He pages back to the first chapter. "God came from beyond as a Flame, and in His burning, the world was shaped, forged ceaselessly and remade. He burns to renew and renews to burn again."

"It's a cycle," Jote says. She looks at the sketch again. "So there may have been a Mythos before, but another will eventually rise. At...what, the end of the world?"

"The end," Joshua guesses, "and the start of the next."

This world is broken, Edda Leifsdottir told him in the words of her partner, Ivan Karlsson. It could be reborn into something new, something better. It just had to be burned down first.

As though she's thinking the same thing, Jote says, "These fires you were investigating. Is that what they were? Do these people believe they're the next Mythos?"

"Perhaps. It fits."

"Are you ever going to ask Sleipnir about them directly?" Jote asks. "Or the prophet, when you meet him?"

Joshua shakes his head. "I wasn't planning on it. I don't want him suspicious of my motives. Speaking of, let's finish exchanging notes. I still have a few last chapters of the Scriptures to annotate, but I've read through all of it by now. It's curious—I wish we knew who wrote it."

She cocks her head to the side. "Curious?"

"The writing style changes from one chapter to another," Joshua explains. "It could be the translation, I suppose, something I'm missing from the original language. But the first parts—the Book of Shaping, the Book of Ash, the Book of the Fallen—put such emphasis on God's power and warnings about what will happen if humankind as a whole doesn't obey Him. And then the Books of Garuda, the Titan, Ramuh, and Odin are narratives about prophets, people who seem like they could be historical. Here, look."

Jote moves her chair all the way around to his side of the table, and Joshua nudges his laptop toward her. "Did you put all of this together?" she asks after a moment, and scrolls down his document. "How do you know when each of the books takes place—is there a date given in the text?"

"No, so this is just my best guess. Odin supposedly formed the Akashic Hordes himself, so that places him around the Fall of Dzemekys, which lines up with the mentions of the Sagespire. Ramuh lived during an epidemic whose description perfectly matches that of the Ashen Plague around 400 BYR. And so on. I listed the references I used for each of them, but of course I might have missed something."

"Impressive," Jote murmurs. "Can you send this to me? I'll go through it with Tomes and see if what he thinks of your research."

"Of course, I'll put it on your drive," Joshua says. She turns to give him a small smile, and a tiny, pleased zing darts through him. It's a bit of a thrill to work with someone who seems to be on the same page as him, and he finds he likes knowing now how to make her smile. "But the point is that they're more about the power of certain individuals, who—with the grace of God—accomplish great things for their people. It almost seems to contradict what the earlier books say about how everyone's collective will is to be an extension of God's will, and there's far less doom involved in most of them. And, stylistically, they couldn't have been written by the same person who wrote the first few chapters, I'm certain of it."

"That's very possible," Jote says. "It's not unusual for religions to be a bit of an agglomeration of beliefs from different sects, and of course beliefs and practices change across time. It wouldn't be surprising for there to have been multiple source texts that were eventually compiled together by a single editor."

"They just seem so different," Joshua says. "If I were to read only the prophets' books, I would see the Circle of Malius as a religion about solving problems through human strength and ingenuity. But the first few books and the Book of Eschaton suggest that humans really have no power at all, and the Book of Prayers is like a plea for help. How does one even reconcile these into a single text for a single religion?"

But Jote shrugs, unbothered by what seem to Joshua to be contradictions. "Religions aren't their sacred texts," she tells him. "Not all of them even have sacred texts. They're a mixture of traditions, practices, and social structures, which may be contained in text—or they may not. Different people might take different messages from the Scriptures, but what's important to the study of today's Children of Dzemekys is what they take from their text and how they put it into practice."

That makes sense. Joshua finds himself repelled by certain sections of the text, while others make him understand why Sleipnir says the Scriptures bring him comfort. If it weren't for all the arson, he'd find the religion quite compelling as a topic of research.

"How does it compare with what you've found in Moss?" Joshua asks, and Jote toggles to her own notes again.

The next hour is spent trading what Jote has learned from Moss's journal with what Joshua has read and tried his best to interpret from the Scriptures. She skips past anything that doesn't seem to be related to the Dzemekys civilization or the modern-day Children, and he apologizes for the illegible scrawl of his handwriting during the sections of the Scriptures that were so boring he nodded off reading them. They get a bit repetitive in parts, and he's pretty sure he hasn't missed anything too important, though he'll have to go back through at some point and fill in the gaps.

They're interrupted by Torgal lifting his head from his paws. His tail begins to wag, thumping gently against Joshua's ankle for a few beats, before he rises and hurries excitedly to the door.

Joshua checks the clock on his computer and realizes what day it is. He'd forgotten, somehow, that Clive was getting off-shift today.

"Shit," he mutters under his breath.

Jote looks in confusion between him and the door, but Joshua's busy combing down his hair with his fingers, hoping it doesn't look too rumpled after the afternoon he's had. He stands up—too fast; he has to hold onto the table when he wobbles. "What's wrong?" Jote asks with another suspicious look at the door, where Torgal is sniffing at floor.

"Nothing," Joshua says. He only has time to try to clear the hoarseness from his throat and say, "Sorry, give me a second—" before the lock turns and Clive opens the door.

Torgal leaps at him immediately, the kind of tackle that would have knocked Joshua to the ground. Clive catches him and laughs, setting a bag down out of the way before shoving the dog off and crouching to be at the right height to play when Torgal dives again.

"Did you miss me, boy? Eugh," Clive says, screwing up his face when Torgal licks him messily across his cheek. Torgal grabs his wrist in his teeth, then lets go, and then paws frantically at his shoulders and turns around in a happy circle when Clive playfully pushes his snout away, only to come back to be grabbed around the neck in a hug. He allows it for nearly five whole seconds, scrabbling closer, and then wriggles away, seemingly for no reason except to have enough momentum to knock Clive over onto his arse the next time he zooms in for another hug.

Torgal gets like this sometimes when he sees Clive, whom he can roughhouse with properly, and it takes a minute or two for him to calm down. Clive is always delighted to be able to play like this, too. Both of them are normally so careful around Joshua, who would probably break in half if Torgal didn't know how to control his strength.

Joshua finds himself smiling at them, which is good, because it's the expression he was hoping to be wearing when Clive finally turns to him.

"Joshua, I hope you're h—" Clive starts, and then, belatedly, notices Jote. Surprised, he scrambles up from under Torgal. "Oh, I didn't know you had... Is everything..." His eyes dart toward Jote, and then back. "Erm."

"Nice to know I'm finally worthy of your attention, brother," Joshua says, focusing on looking casually amused and not like standing up too fast has made him start to feel queasy again. "This is Jote. She's the grad student Dion connected me with. Jote, this is my brother, Clive."

Clive is still looking between the two of them. "Nice to meet you," he says. The playfulness is gone from his voice now, and he looks caught between curiosity and confusion.

"You, too," Jote says. She's sitting very straight again, her hands folded neatly in her lap, the same bearing Joshua remembers from the day they met.

Clive finally picks up the paper bag he put down earlier when Torgal starts to investigate it, lifting it out of the dog's reach. "I stopped by the Chocobo on the way over," he says. He hesitates, then steps into the kitchen area and sets the bag on the counter. "Thought we could..." He stops, glancing again at Jote. "I...didn't mean to interrupt."

What is he talking about? While the Fat Chocobo could be reasonably considered 'on the way home' on a day when Clive is working at Otto's Auto, it most certainly is not if Clive came here from his flat two blocks down. The day after a shift, he does nothing but sleep for hours; even he wouldn't try to work another job right after a forty-eight, and if he did, he certainly wouldn't be as alert as he is now.

But whatever his reason for going out of his way for takeaway, now that the bag of food is closer, Joshua can smell it, the savory flavors of the hearty meals that make up most of the Fat Chocobo's fare. He eyes the bag with trepidation and swallows hard. It's probably not the best day to be trying to down a meal the size of what the Chocobo normally serves, and Joshua doesn't particularly want to fail at it in front of both his brother and Jote, who has already seen him lose his lunch today.

His apprehension must be obvious in his expression, because Clive adds, "I brought soup, too, if you're not feeling up to Kenneth's special."

"Thanks," Joshua says, putting his hands in his pockets as he brightens his smile. He turns back to the kitchen table, covered with their notes, as he tries to decide how to get out of this without hurting anyone's feelings. Jote fixes her eyes on her tablet, staying very still like she's trying to avoid notice.

Clive opens the bag, starts to pull its contents out—as promised, a box that smells like Kenneth's special and a smaller container of soup—and sets them on the counter. "I'll leave these here for you and get out of your way," he says. "Just...eat something, all right? Whatever you can."

"Yeah," Joshua says, queasy and guilty and unsure what to do as Clive picks up what's left in the bag and whistles to Torgal. "You can stay, Clive, I'm not kicking you out."

Clive is at the door before he realizes Torgal's leash isn't there. Joshua still has it, next to his chair, so he scoops it up, holding onto the table for balance, and brings it over.

"You're not kicking me out, this is your home," Clive says quietly, fastening Torgal's harness. His eyes flick over Joshua's shoulder again at Jote. He stands up and lowers his voice even more. "I know I bother you a lot. I want you to have your space, with your friends and all. Just, Jill and I are worried, and... Promise me you'll eat as much as you can tonight, Joshua. Please."

He touches the back of a hand to Joshua's forehead, like he can't help himself, before stepping back, looking embarrassed. "Come on, Torgal, let's leave little brother alone," he says, and opens the door. He smiles at Joshua, and then steps out.

Joshua blinks at the door for one second before he steps outside, too. "Clive, wait," he says. Clive turns around and looks disapprovingly at his socked feet, which are definitely standing in a wet patch of carpet where snow melted off someone's shoes. "Come back, come here."

Clive obliges, frowning. "What?"

"You don't bother me," Joshua says. There's a feeling like guilt in his chest, mixed with something that feels electric, panicky. "You know that, right? I bother you all the time."

"I didn't mean it like that," Clive says, though Joshua worries that he did.

"I don't mind if you bother me," Joshua says.

Clive's brow furrows. "Look," he says, "you're an adult now, and you've been managing this"—he knocks the knuckles of one hand gently against Joshua's chest—"for years. I'm proud of you, Joshua. I don't say that enough. It's just hard to remember sometimes how well you handle yourself these days. You used to be so small." He ruffles Joshua's hair affectionately.

Joshua's chest is so tight he's not sure he's actually breathing at all. "Right," he says. "You can still... It's all right if you bother me."

Clive pats him on the shoulder. "Don't worry, I'll control myself. Hey, was there something you wanted to talk about, when you came over the other day?"

"Just wanted to see my dog," Joshua says. He dredges out a smile and coughs once, like that will clear the lump out of his throat. "Had a busy day."

"Well, it's good to see you with friends. Even," Clive adds, "if they're all academic historians, for some reason."

"Jote's studying to be an anthropologist, actually," Joshua says, and Clive smiles at him.

"Whatever. I'm just glad you're making friends these days."

"What do you mean?” Joshua folds his arms. “I have plenty of friends."

"You have a network, Joshua," Clive says. He bends to adjust the harness around Torgal. "I don't think anyone's ever stepped foot inside this flat other than us and Jill."

"That doesn't mean—just because—" Joshua starts, and frowns. "Gav's been here."

"Because you locked yourself out, and I called him because he has a lockpick." Clive smiles again. He seems happier these days, more willing to smile, to laugh, even to invite friends over instead of moping on the anniversary of the fire. Joshua wonders if that's because of Cid, or the people at Otto's, or the fact that he thinks Joshua's handling himself just fine without help. "Well, I'll leave you and Jote alone, then. I'll come by tomorrow, and we'll head over to Dion's together?"

"Yeah," Joshua says.

"Go back in and take off your socks," Clive orders.

"All right," he says, and does.

Jote looks up from the kitchen table when he returns. "Sorry about that," Joshua says as he holds onto the door to peel off his socks. The smell of food has begun to permeate the whole room now, and he has to take a careful breath to keep control over his stomach.

"You probably should eat now if you can," Jote says. As though in response to the thought, her stomach growls. Spots of pink brush her cheeks. "Sorry."

Joshua throws her an amused look, even as he checks the clock on his microwave and sees that it's later than he realized. "You saw him, right?" he says, pointing a thumb back toward the door where Clive just left. "I remember when he was your age and working out constantly for his job. Hungry all the time—there's no shame in that. Here, why don't we clear some space and we can both eat. There's enough for two."

"Oh, I can't—he brought that for you," Jote says, though her stomach growls again.

"Just finishing the soup will be a victory for me," Joshua tells her truthfully as he starts to clear the table. "But Kenneth's a good cook, and I'd rather his food not go to waste. Have you ever been to the Fat Chocobo?"

Jote bites her lip, but when he gently closes the textbook she's been referencing to help understand the Moss translation, she relents and shuffles her things away. "No," she says.

"They're very good," Joshua says, trying to put her at ease as he brings the food over with some spoons and forks, "and the staff there are good people. Excellent calorie-to-gil ratio. I wager loads of students would patronize them if they were in walking distance from the university..."

He trails off as the thought strikes him. The Chocobo is out near Otto's Auto, which is not just where Cid and Otto work; it's where they live. The restaurant wouldn't have been on Clive's way if he'd come from his own flat, but it would have been if he'd gone to Cid's to sleep off his shift before coming here.

"Oh god, he's really sleeping with his boss," Joshua says aloud.

Jote looks at him wide-eyed.

"Never mind," he sighs as he slips back into his chair. "Don't tell him I said that, please."

She takes the fork from him and, when he opens the container of soup, tentatively digs into the pile of steaming meat and vegetables in the other box. "So," she says carefully, "you still haven't told him anything?"

"I...not yet." He sighs. "Clive has already given up everything for me. And it seems like, for once, things are going well for him. I just want to see him be happy, just a little longer."

She glances at the door, as if she can still see an echo of Clive's presence there. "It doesn't seem like he'd want you to put his happiness before yours."

Joshua stirs his soup. "It's not his decision, is it? Maybe I just want to see my brother smile a little more, for once in our damned lives. Maybe I'm not ready to see how much more pain I can cause him. It feels like I should be allowed to be a little selfish about this, now of all times."

"That's not selfish," Jote says quietly.

"Cowardly, perhaps? I don't know."

"I don't think you're a coward, at all," she says. "I know that your brother—"

"No, you don't know," Joshua interrupts. When she falls silent again, he says, more gently, "You don't understand what things were like between us."

"Tell me, then," she says. "Explain it to me."

Joshua raises his eyebrows in surprise, but she doesn't take it back. "Well," he says. "When our dad died, our mum was appointed interim governor in his stead. To the public, overnight, she became a widow and the mother of an ailing son. There was no escaping it, no matter how she tried to build a new image for herself. So she leaned into it instead, and Clive supported her, until I turned out to be the more appealing symbol to voters." He quirks a bitter smile. "Everyone likes to see a victim beating the odds."

Jote picks up Joshua's mug, takes it to the sink to refill, and brings it back. She doesn't say anything.

Nodding to her in thanks, he continues, "Mum had me make appearances in front of donors, at political rallies and the like, but between the surgery and the drugs I was on, it was more than my body could take. That's when Clive started arguing with her over me, and she...didn't really have any use for sons who couldn't or wouldn't uphold our family's legacy."

Jote purses her lips. "Children shouldn't have to be useful," she says. "Not like that."

"That's what Clive thought. Never mind that he was a child, too," Joshua adds, "and he never hesitated to be involved when it was him. But when I tried to beg off a rally once and went to the hospital with pneumonia again the night after, it was the last straw for him. He'd already been angry with her for a long time, and things became truly vicious between them then. He accused her of trying to kill me herself, because a dead son would make her look more sympathetic to voters. And Mum told him that...that if the firefighters hadn't wasted time rescuing him first, they would have gotten to me sooner, and then maybe they would have saved me, too."

"That's...!" Jote starts, and bites off the end of her sentence. The spots of pink in her cheeks are back, like she's angry, even though she doesn't know Clive or their mother. "They did save you, though."

Joshua smiles wearily. He's not sure their mother thinks he was saved—or, at least, not enough of him to matter. "In any case, when Clive left, I thought at first it was my fault—that he assumed I agreed with her, that he was angry with me, too. But then he came back with a copy of my medical records and told Mum he'd send everything to a newspaper as proof of child abuse by an acting governor if she didn't let him take me away. I didn't think twice. I went with him.

"It was childish," he admits. "I was so terrified that he'd leave me forever, or that he'd believe I blamed him, that I ended up saddling him with me for the rest of my life. And now, to tell him that he gave all of that up and I'm not even going to last for...for much..."

He cuts himself off and goes back to the soup his brother brought for him. His chest is aching again, and there's a pressure in his throat.

"That...doesn't sound so complicated to me," Jote says eventually. "If I loved someone, I would want to know something like this. Even if it hurt. It would be worse not to know, I think."

Joshua scrubs a hand across his forehead. That doesn't make him feel any better, especially because it's nothing he doesn't already know. But saying it aloud to his family will make it undeniable, a thing that will then dominate every moment he has left with them. It is selfish, or cowardly or something, this desire to hold onto the façade of normalcy for just a bit longer. He's not ready for the look on Clive's face when he finally admits the truth. He almost did it, not long ago, but now that he's let the moment pass, it feels out of reach again.

The only thing he's ever been able to do for Clive is to appear as healthy as possible, because otherwise, everything Clive has given up for him was a waste. And now he doesn't have that, either.

When he doesn't answer, Jote says, "I'm sorry. I don't know what to say."

"You don't have to say anything. I will, Jote, I'll tell them. Soon. I just don't know if I'm ready." He doesn't say, I don't know if I'll ever be ready.

"That's understandable. You're allowed to conduct your affairs at your own pace." Something in her words or her tone reminds Joshua briefly of Sleipnir, of the way the minister speaks to his flock—validating their experiences, Jote labels it in a neat file on her drive—and Joshua wonders if this is something Jote learned from working with the Children, or perhaps from whatever other support groups she has attended before. She adds, though, "I think it would be helpful to talk to him, that's all. But I won't push any more."

"I...appreciate that." Joshua manages a smile. "It was nice of you to listen. There aren't many people I can talk about this with."

She gives him a pointed look, but, true to her word, she doesn't press him further on it. Instead, she takes another bite of her food and pushes another fork toward him. "You should try this," she says to his shoulder. "It's good."

"I know it is," Joshua says, and feels strangely like laughing at her valiant but awkward attempt to change the subject. When she nudges her food even closer, he relents and digs a forkful out of her portion, stuffing it into his mouth before he can think too hard about it. Clive would be proud. "You remind me of him, you know."

"I remind you of your brother?" Jote asks blankly.

"Not as tall, I'll grant you," he says. She gives him a skeptical look. "Though he's always been a bit of bookworm, too, and I get the impression you'd swing a mean axe."

"I prefer knives," she says, and Joshua does laugh. It might be the first joke he's ever heard from her.

"Shall we keep going?" Joshua says, and gestures to the notebooks they've pushed to the side.

Jote nods quickly. "Sorry. I can stop asking about your family. Erm...can we review that passage about the Warrior of Light? Where it says that God's will is the only will?"

"Sure," Joshua says with relief, and they slip back into their normal comfortable rhythm as they continue to eat. "It sounds a bit like what Sleipnir's always talking about, I thought..."

The portions that the Fat Chocobo gives are appropriate for a man of Clive's size, but it's too much food for Jote and Joshua. He manages to finish his soup and chases down his pills with a few more intermittent bites of the other meal, though he insists that Jote take the leftovers home with her. He's looked up what kind of stipend she gets paid as a graduate student, and he guesses she could use it more than he these days.

By the time they finish, it's late, the end of a long day, and Joshua is ready to drop. Before he can think, Jote is on her feet and clearing the table, taking the empty soup container from in front of him and collecting their used silverware.

"Jote, you don't always have to do things for me," Joshua protests when she starts washing them in the sink. "You're not my servant or—"

"I'm a person," Jote snaps, uncharacteristically sharp. "I'm allowed to care about whoever I want."

It's such an odd answer that Joshua puzzles over it in silence for a moment, watching her rinse his forks clean. It's strange to think, but even though Joshua feels like he knows Jote by now, he still doesn't actually know very much about her. He has a general sense of how she'll react to things; he knows what makes her excited and what puts her on edge. But other than the fact that she was born in Rosaria, he has almost no biographical information about her, and as he's not writing a story about her, it would feel invasive to try to find out more.

"Did someone tell you that you're not?" Joshua asks, though, because he likes to think they're friends by now. Clive thinks so, anyway.

She sets the clean forks carefully on the counter. "When I was a girl," she says, "we were told we weren't supposed to care about anyone who wasn't one of us. We weren't...individuals. We were just members of the group."

What group, Joshua wants to ask, and he remembers her saying that it's not easy to break away from childhood indoctrination. I know how these people work, she told him once, when talking about how cults recruit their members. She might not have grown up as a Child of Dzemekys, but he's learned from her that certain tactics are common to many groups. Cults are all just groups of people, in the end.

"People are allowed to care about you, Joshua," Jote says, still standing at the sink. "I'm allowed to. Aren't I?"

Joshua takes a breath. "I... If there's ever anything you want to talk about, Jote, I'm here. I hope you know that. You've certainly heard enough of my problems."

She doesn't answer. She wipes her hands on her trousers to dry them and turns around.

Joshua's phone buzzes. Automatically, he reaches for it and sees:

Tyler Wedge [7:03 PM]
You can talk to Laurent
Can you come to the jailhouse tomorrow at 10a?

"Jote," he says, "you have office hours tomorrow morning, yes?"

"Yes," she says. "Why?"

"I'm not sure," he says, while he's texting Tyler back. "Maybe something. I'll let you know."

"Joshua," she says.

"Hm?" When she doesn't go on, he looks up from his phone to see her watching him, hands clasped together in front of her body. She looks nervous, and Joshua, just moments ago, told her she could talk to him if she wanted. He puts his phone down and turns his full attention to her, concerned. "What is it, Jote? I'm listening."

But she must have changed her mind, because she swallows and shakes her head. "It's nothing," she says, and gives him a tight smile before returning to the sink to wash the mug she was using.

At your own pace, she told him earlier. He leaves his phone on the table and lets her be.

Chapter Text

128. The people of Ash lived in harmony with God, for they saw that His work was both creation and destruction. The people understood that through Him, they were made whole, and that through Him, they were broken only to be remade.
129. The people did not fear the Flame. They feared only its absence, for in darkness, there was no life. Without the Flame, the land would wither, the waters would freeze, and the people would be lost. The Flame was their life, and in its burning, they found their purpose.

- Scriptures of the Risen, Book of Ash

---

Joshua is nearly at the jailhouse when Dr. Margrace calls him back. Considering how long it's taken him to admit that the side effects of the new drug have become a problem, the solution the doctor suggests is quite simple: a prescription order for an anti-emetic is called in to his pharmacy, and he'll take it twice a day alongside his anti-fibrotic pills.

"I want you to take it like clockwork for now," Dr. Margrace says. "Once the nausea is under control, you can scale back and transition to only taking it as needed."

"And if it doesn't come under control?" Joshua says, very aware both of his unsettled stomach and of Tyler and Wade waiting for him, just out of earshot.

"You have a follow-up in a week. Let's try this, and we'll reassess then if we need to. The prescription should be ready by noon. Have you been vomiting at all?"

"A few times," Joshua admits.

"If it doesn't get better with the anti-emetic, either pause the anti-fibrotic or try taking one pill instead of three until we can reevaluate."

"But then, won't the fibrosis progress?"

There's a pause. In it, Joshua can hear his doctor's voice, telling him: It's progressing no matter what.

"Not overnight," is what Dr. Margrace tells him. "Wasting away because you're too nauseous to eat isn't going to help. And if you can't take the full dose in the long run, that's all right. It's no good if it makes you feel too ill to function. We need to consider your quality of life."

"Oh." Joshua stops on the sidewalk and breathes. If there's a choice between letting the disease take him more quickly and being constantly miserable for a bit of extra time...

"We're not there yet, Joshua. Try this with your pills first. How have you been otherwise?"

Wade sees him then and waves. "Good, fine," Joshua says quickly. He can wait a week to mention how hard stairs have been lately, he decides, as, technically, his oxygen levels have always been in the safe zone by the time he's checked. He thanks the doctor hurriedly and hangs up.

"Joshua," Tyler says shortly. Perhaps he's annoyed that their suspect is willing to talk to Joshua and not to them. "Thanks for meeting us."

"Anything for my favorite detectives," Joshua says, though he's the one who has been pushing for this meeting.

"This will have to be a short interview. Long visits tend to upset her."

"Then let's get started."

Wade stops him with a hand on Joshua's arm before he can walk in. "Ground rules first, Joshua."

It's not Joshua's first time interviewing someone at this very jailhouse, but he nods obediently as Wade recites for him the list of rules he must follow, given that Genevieve Laurent is still, technically, under investigation.

"...though the time we have to sort out any inconsistencies is running short," Tyler puts in. "She's confessed, so the DA wants to move forward with sentencing and put all of this behind us."

"Why don't you?" Joshua can't help but ask. Their jobs are done—or they could be. It would be easier for them to close the case and move on.

The two detectives exchange a glance. "The Department of Corrections sent psychologists to evaluate her," Tyler says. "She's refused to speak to them and has barely said a word to us, except to finally make her confession the other day. Her parents have tried to visit her, and she refuses to see them, too. We"—he jerks a thumb toward Wade—"are also concerned about her mental state. We want to make sure we're not missing anything important before they lock her up. If you can get anything out of her, I will consider that a step in the right direction."

After they sign in with the guards, they're shown to a private room. Genevieve is already there, sitting at the table in her drab jumpsuit. Her shoulder-length blonde hair looks clean, though it's messy, like she hasn't combed it. There are dark shadows under her eyes when she looks up at their entrance.

Joshua takes off his mask. He doesn't, usually, in public places like this where people sometimes share small spaces, but he wants to appear as human as possible to her. If this is his one opportunity to speak to Genevieve, he's not taking the chance that a mask will remind her of a doctor instead of a friendly face.

"Good morning, Genevieve," Wade greets her, smiling. She does not respond. "This is the reporter we told you about. His name is Joshua Rosfield."

Genevieve's eyes widen and flicker to him. "Joshua...Rosfield?" she echoes.

They must not have told her his name yesterday, Joshua notes as he sits down opposite her, but she does recognize it. Perhaps she heard the same conspiracy theories about Phoenix-gate that Ivan Karlsson did. "Hi, Genevieve," he says, smiling and trying to project a friendly air as he opens his notebook and sets an audio recorder next to it. It's shaped like a pen—the Crystalline Dominion only requires one party in a conversation to consent to recording, and sometimes it pays to be discreet—but he turns it on deliberately in front of her. "This is just so that I don't miss anything in my notes," he tells her, letting her see the light that shows it's recording. "Do you mind my using it?"

She shakes her head. Her gaze is intent as she studies him. She glances at Wade, sitting beside him, and Tyler, who is hovering somewhere behind them.

"The police are only here to make sure I follow the rules," Joshua tells her. "Have they been treating you well?"

Her eyes fix on him. "I already told them I did it," Genevieve says. She pulls her hands inside the sleeves of her jumpsuit. "Or...tried."

"I know that," Joshua says, nodding. "Would you mind telling me why?"

She stares at him, frowning, like she's confused. "I had to," she says finally.

"You did?" he asks. Genevieve nods. When it becomes clear she isn't going to say anything else, he tries, "Can you tell me what you mean by that? Did you have a specific goal, or did someone tell you to do it?"

She looks down at the table, shaking her head. "I just...I knew that I had to."

This isn't the right tack. Even if someone at Dzemekys did tell her directly to light her dorm room on fire, she's not going to say it outright, not if she's already confessed to it and is ready to take the fall herself. But the 'why' of it, Joshua suspects, goes back further than the night of the fire. There's a reason she went to the Children of Dzemekys to begin with.

He puts down his pen and folds his hands in front of him. "All right," he says. "Let's talk about something else, then. Will you tell me about Tatienne?"

Wade cuts him a sidelong look in question. Joshua ignores him and keeps his eyes on Genevieve when she glances up. "You knew Tatienne?" she asks.

"No, not personally. She was your roommate, wasn't she?" A nod. "I know she passed away last year. I'm so sorry." A tiny shrug. "Were you close?"

"She was my best friend," Genevieve says in a small voice.

"I heard from some of the other students," Joshua says, "that she was with Yannick Leroux the night she died."

It's more than rumor. Joshua looked up Tatienne Fleuret's death and verified that she was found in the passenger's seat of the car that another student, Yannick Leroux, was driving. Yannick was found to have been intoxicated the night of the accident that killed both him and Tatienne, but there is no indication of exactly what they were doing. According to other students in the dorm, Genevieve and Yannick had been an item and then broken up at some point prior to that, but no one seemed clear on whether he and Tatienne had ever been together.

It's probably safer to couch it as gossip rather than information gathered from official sources, though, if Genevieve hasn't been open to talking to cops so far. What the police reports from that time would not have shown is that Genevieve, in the wake of the accident, would become so overwhelmed by her grief that she would withdraw from school and seek support from the Children of Dzemekys. It's a piece of the story Joshua wondered about from the start, though when he first broke the news, he didn't have the context of other people also committing arson after seeking help from the Children.

"Yeah, I guess," is all she says now. She bunches up the fabric of her sleeves, like she's clenching her hands into fists inside the fabric. "I wasn't home that night."

"Were they dating?" Joshua asks.

"No."

She doesn't elaborate. Was there an acrimonious end to her relationship with Yannick, perhaps? Is she lying about Tatienne and Yannick seeing each other? It's not just nothing if Genevieve needed to seek out a group of strangers to talk about it with. Is there some problem at home, with her parents, that she felt more comfortable talking to Sleipnir? Sleipnir is, admittedly, pretty easy to talk to. Not all parents are.

Then again... Genevieve recognizes Joshua's name, and Wade and Tyler have passed her the message that would insinuate to her that Joshua has joined the Children of Dzemekys. What would Sleipnir say to her to draw out her words—what kinds of things has Joshua heard from the Children?

"Genevieve," Joshua says, "I know that's not all there is to it."

Her lips twist. "You know, do you?"

He takes a breath; clears his throat. "What I know is that the world is broken," he says softly. Finally, Genevieve raises her head to look at him. There's a quiet noise behind him, like Tyler is shifting from one foot to another. Joshua ignores him and wills both of the detectives to stay quiet. "I know that it isn't kind; it isn't fair. You know that, too, don't you?"

Genevieve nods once.

"You and Yannick were dating," Joshua tries again, keeping his tone gentle. "Yes?"

"For a few months," she confirms. After a short hesitation, she adds, "He was nice, at first."

A lump of dread settles in his stomach. Joshua pushes it aside and gives her a small smile. "Go on." Genevieve's eyes dart to Wade again, and then to Tyler. "Don't think about them, Genevieve," Joshua says firmly, and waits until she turns back to him. "Tell me. What happened?"

"Yannick bought me all these gifts," she says. Her shoulders rise, and she hunches in her chair. "I...I liked it, I guess. But then he starting getting angry anytime I talked to another boy—even classmates, people I only met with to work on homework together. He'd follow me around everywhere like a lost puppy. He always knew where I was, and...and this one time, he broke into our room when I didn't want to go out with him."

Joshua has to turn away to cough—he's been holding his breath without realizing it—but quells it as quickly as he can to turn back to her. He doesn't want to lose eye contact with her for long. "That sounds very frightening," he says.

"I probably should have been flattered that he wanted to be around me so much, right?"

"No, of course not," Joshua says, leaning forward, "that's not at all—"

"That's what the police said when I told them," Genevieve says.

Joshua doesn't turn his gaze away from her, but he can feel Wade go still next to him. The room is silent.

When she says 'police,' she doesn't mean Wade and Tyler, specifically. Joshua is fairly certain of that. If she walked into a police station, they are probably not the ones who would have been manning the desk when a civilian asked to report a crime, and they are not part of the unit that would generally investigate cases of that nature. They have seemed surprised by the direction of this interview thus far.

Still, Joshua can't look at them. He knows them well enough to think they're good men, but he's not close with them, personally; he doesn't know for sure what expressions they're wearing, and he can't be distracted by finding out right now. He needs to focus on keeping a tight cage around the ball of anger that wants to boil out of his chest, because he needs to know Genevieve's story.

"Did a report ever get filed, do you know?" Joshua asks evenly.

"I don't know. I told them what happened, but I left after they told me..." She rubs at one cheek with her hand, still fisted inside her sleeve, clearly uncomfortable.

"They were wrong, Genevieve," Joshua says. "I hope you know that. No amount of gifts or attention gave anyone permission to break into your room or make you afraid."

Genevieve sags in her chair another inch. "That's what Tatienne said. She told me to break up with him, and I did, the very next day. But Yannick had been following us, and he knew she was the one who'd encouraged me to do it. I thought he'd be angry at her, the way he got angry at men I talked to. But he only started following her around instead of me, and trying to talk to her, and one day, he bought her this...this really fancy-looking comb, one of the ones that's almost like a piece of jewelry, you know?"

"So when you gave him the boot, he just became obsessed with Tatienne instead."

She nods. "He asked her out a couple of times, too. Tatienne laughed it off. She could handle it, she told me; it wasn't like she cared about hurting his feelings by ignoring him or anything, and she said...she said that as long as he was fixated on her, it meant he wasn't bothering me."

Genevieve's eyes fill with tears. Joshua finds himself starting to reach a hand toward her before he catches himself—physical contact is not allowed here, nor would the gesture be appropriate in this situation. He pulls back and picks up his pen, not to write anything so much as to have something in his hand. "It's not your fault," he says.

"I told Tatienne she should give him the comb back," Genevieve says, sniffing. "I knew what he was like—I thought, if she kept it, he would read into that and think it meant she was willing to have him. She said she would give it back the next time she saw him, and I promised I'd be there with her, just...just in case he got mad."

Apprehension is gathering in Joshua's gut again. He breathes slowly in through his nose, trying to calm the feeling. "That was very brave, your trying to protect a friend," he tells her, but it only makes her expression crumple further.

"I wasn't there, though," she says miserably. "That night, I went to the library to study, and I got a text from Tatienne that he was at our room. That's the last I ever heard from her. She was gone when I got back. The next day, I heard the news—that he'd crashed his car with her in it."

From where he stands at the back of the room, Tyler speaks up for the first time: "Why would she have gotten in his car if she wasn't—?"

In a sudden burst of temper, Joshua slaps a palm on the table and snaps, "Tyler, we're not talking to you!"

His lungs seize, and in the quiet that falls over the room, the sound of his coughing seems deafening. Joshua is shaking a bit when he catches his breath, and he feels sick—he's not sure how much of that is his meds, how much his failing lungs, and how much an effect of sitting in this room with a pair of cops while listening to Genevieve's story.

"I didn't mean anything by it," Tyler says quietly. "I was—" He cuts himself off.

"You don't have to answer that, Genevieve," Joshua says hoarsely, because she already said she wasn't there. Tatienne might have felt threatened; she might have been forced; she might have been trying to calm the prick down. It's not hard to imagine why, and what the fuck right does the Twinside PD have to question Genevieve or her friend's motives, anyway, when they knew, they knew, they were supposed to stop it, and they just let it happen? Two people are dead; one is on suicide watch and about to be sentenced.

But Genevieve answers anyway. "I don't know," she says, her voice hollow. "I told the police about him again, that he'd been following us—her." Wade turns his head, looking to Tyler. She sees it and says, "Look, they still don't believe me!"

"Don't look at them, Genevieve, they're not important," Joshua says, and calmly resists the urge to shake the other two men. "Look at me. I believe you, and if they don't, I'll make them."

She turns back to him. "It doesn't matter. It's like you said. Everything's broken in this world."

Joshua closes his eyes for a second. God, he's...getting off-track. He needs to remember why the hell he's here. The fire—the fires. Genevieve tried to burn down a building. If she'd succeeded, she would be dead now, possibly along with other innocent young students, and a company of firefighters—people Joshua knows: Herman, with Fabien and Nazaire and Ember, the last of whom is only nineteen himself—would have been put in danger trying to save as many people as they could. More people could be dead, and it would be because someone took a woman who couldn't handle her grief and told her that there was something beautiful—purifying—in dying in a blaze of glory.

He takes another slow, careful breath and calls to mind Sleipnir's voice and Edda Leifsdottir's words. "In this world," Joshua echoes. "But the world can be reborn, hm?"

"It has to," Genevieve says. She clasps her hands together on the table, like she's praying, though she's still staring at Joshua. Her earlier reticence has faded into an earnestness that makes Joshua feel uneasy, though he tries not to show it on his face. "God will purify us—purify everything. He'll burn everything to its true form, and our time of testing will be over. That's why I had to."

Joshua holds himself still. The Warrior of Light in the Scriptures went to a pyre and came down filled with his god's light. Warriors of old among the Circle of Malius sacrificed themselves, as though each hoped that he would be the one who rose from the ashes and was revealed to be God incarnate.

"I know of others who wanted the same thing as you," Joshua says. "Redouane and Ivan. Did you know them?"

"Yes," Genevieve says, cautiously. "They're friends. They understand, too, what we have to do."

Present tense. She doesn't know, he realizes. Of course she wouldn't; she was arrested before the other two fires, but she's probably part of the circle of friends that Edda talked about, the conspiracy theorists.

"You all wanted to become one with the Flame," he says; "to become the vessel of God, to do His will and speak with His voice."

But at this, she looks blank. "No, that's... We couldn't," she says, sounding flustered. "We wouldn't presume, not ourselves."

Joshua tilts his head, studying her, but she seems entirely sincere in her confusion. "You...couldn't?" he asks.

"We're only His tool," Genevieve says. "He tests us to see if the way is ready for Him."

"Genevieve," Joshua says frankly, "Ivan is in a coma. Redouane's dead."

For a second, she looks shocked—devastated. And then, she takes a deep breath. "Then Redouane's testing is over. He's at peace. Maybe Ivan... He might still..." There are tears in her eyes, and her voice is shaking.

Joshua stares at her. These people didn't set those fires believing they were the next avatar of their God; they'd meant to die. Sacrifices, like the Akashic warriors of old.

She puts her hands flat on the table and leans forward, far enough that Wade tenses, though Joshua's not sure what he imagines she is going to do to them. Peering fixedly at Joshua through her tears, she says, "But you know. You walked through fire when you were only a boy, and you rose like the phoenix. You were tested. You know."

Joshua feels his throat clench. He's holding his pen too tight; the pressure of it against his knuckles is painful, but he can't make himself let go. His mouth fills with the remembered, sickening taste of smoke, and he swallows, once, and then again.

She's delusional. Or something. Someone—Sleipnir, or the prophet or someone—twisted what happened to her friend until she would believe that it was worth it to...what, to sacrifice herself on the altar of a god who, in the words of their own holy text, doesn't care about her? She and her group of friends became convinced that Joshua survived a deadly fire because of the intervention of God and not that of hardworking men. No one has told her that the fire Joshua walked through is killing him as they speak.

"I—" Joshua says, and then has to stop to draw in a shaky breath. "Genevieve, what happened to me wasn't a...a test. It was a fire in my house."

She draws back. "I...I know," she says, her breath hitching, "but I read about it—the alarms didn't sound because the heat was so high it m-melted the devices, no one could have survived the—"

"The alarms didn't go off because it was an old house with old wires and outdated systems, and it didn't take much for them to malfunction," Joshua corrects her. "Death by fire, what you or your friends tried—do you think that's peaceful?"

A tear spills over and courses down her cheek, followed by another and another. She ducks her head, wiping her face on her sleeve.

"Genevieve," Joshua says, "listen to me. Please. Killing yourself would serve nothing and no one. We can get justice for Tatienne—"

"Justice?" Genevieve says, and laughs, hiccupping and still wiping her tears. "What justice? She's dead! I burn not in vengeance but to cleanse. There's no justice. There's just..." She gestures around herself. "This. Fucking this!"

The sound of knocking on the door makes Joshua flinch. "Our time's up," Wade says. He pushes his chair back from the table.

Joshua doesn't. "Genevieve, who told you all of that about Phoenix-gate?" he asks. "Who told you this was the time to test yourselves?"

When she looks at him now, the intensity of her gaze has faded. Whatever trust he managed to gain, it's gone now. "No one," she says dully. She sits back in the chair, arms folded over her chest. "Ivan, Redouane, and I agreed to do it, the three of us. No one else."

The knocking sounds again, and the door opens. "We're coming out," Tyler says to whoever is at the door.

"Joshua," Wade says. He holds out a hand. Joshua looks at Genevieve again, pushes himself to his feet, and follows them.

---

"There's no report of harassment or stalking on file under her name," Tyler says when Genevieve has been led away and they've been banished back to the main visitors' area. Other people—ones who are not under active investigation or suicide watch—are sitting at tables with spouses, children, or friends, having hushed conversations under the eye of the guards posted at the door.

"We'll check again," Wade says, holding a hand up, when Joshua glowers at them. "But we did look into her. We would have come across it."

Joshua carefully takes the remnants of his temper, folds it up and stuffs it away behind his breastbone. Wade and Tyler are not the right target for it—at least, he hopes they aren't. "You're saying she's lying?"

"I said her name doesn't come up on any reports in our system," Tyler corrects him. "From what she described, it's...not impossible that her first report never got filed in the first place, if she walked away partway through speaking with an officer."

"What about the one she said she filed about Tatienne?"

"We weren't looking for reports about her roommate or her ex. Maybe it's there after all. We just didn't find anything under Genevieve's name, specifically."

"You think she filed the report anonymously," Joshua says.

Wade sighs, running a hand through his hair. "If she's telling the truth about what they said to her the first time, wouldn't you?"

Joshua sits down in a chair. "I'm not saying it justifies attempted arson," he says, "but these events are connected. Whatever happens with Genevieve now, at the very least, there are still crimes that were left unsolved—left completely unacknowledged by your department." He looks up and fixes each of them with a scowl. "If I find out you two knew anything about this..."

"We didn't," Tyler says, "but we'll look into the boyfriend and the roommate, now that we know there's something to find. We can at least get justice for her friend—"

"Justice," Joshua says, and he can hear the bitter edge in his voice, an echo of Genevieve's. The world is broken, he can hear her saying, and Edda and Sleipnir, too, then repeated today from his own lips. He can't really blame them for thinking that. That doesn't seem fair, Randal said to him once about how unlikely it is Joshua will be allowed to have a lung transplant because he was already injured too badly as a child. The world isn't fair, and sometimes people are hurt when they don't deserve to be.

It's just hard to imagine that burning it all down will fix anything. Joshua isn't one to have faith that something better would rise from the ashes.

Wade sits down next to him. "Joshua, what the hell was all that about in there?"

"That was me playing into her delusions to get answers out of her," he says, and rakes a hand through his hair in frustration. "So much for not upsetting her."

He'd been hoping she might say something that would flat-out implicate Sleipnir or something they're doing or saying at Dzemekys, but of course it's not that simple. She has mostly corroborated what he and Jote thought, that the Children believe in some sort of cyclical existence whose end is drawing close now. But Joshua still doesn't have confirmation either way of whether the Children of Dzemekys are just spreading a word that incidentally puts people into a destructive headspace or actively encouraging people to burn the world to ash.

"And you knew what she would believe...how?" Wade asks.

"She follows this religion..." Joshua starts.

"The Children of Dzemekys," Tyler says. Joshua looks up in surprise to find the older man raising his eyebrows. "We got the name of the church from her parents and spoke to the minister there."

Tyler and Wade are good detectives. Genevieve Laurent was not considered a high priority by anyone Joshua talked to, so they missed a few things that were not obviously connected to the incident. But if they talked to any number of the students in the dormitory who knew her, they would have found their way to the Dzemekys, too, the same way Joshua did, though they likely did not look very far into the religion itself.

"What did the minister say?" Joshua asks cautiously. That would have been Sleipnir, probably, the face of the Children.

"That the names of their members are confidential, as are the things they spoke to him about. They're a religious organization; they have a lot of leeway in the way they operate. There wasn't much we could do to press them for more information about what was going on in Genevieve's life. Not without a warrant, and we don't have the kind of probable cause to get a warrant to cross a church."

"But you're familiar with them, too," Wade says, his tone questioning.

The police's hands are tied when it comes to Dzemekys. By claiming that no one influenced her, Ivan, and Redouane's actions, Genevieve is signaling that she won't incriminate Sleipnir or the Children. All three of them could be tied back to Dzemekys, but without solid, actionable evidence, all that the police will be able to do is make them paranoid, which is not something that would be helpful with a group of people who are already convinced the world is so badly damaged that it needs to be wiped clean to start again.

Joshua has been making progress, though. He'll be able to get inside, soon, to find out what they're really up to. If he personally witnesses anything nefarious happening, or if he hears Sleipnir or Benedikta Harman or the prophet truly encouraging someone to harm themselves or others, then that's something he can take to the police and put down on the record. For any hope that the Children of Dzemekys will be caught doing something wrong, they'll need a gentler approach than what the police would try.

And even if Tyler and Wade find the connection themselves, it can't get back to Sleipnir that Joshua was the one who gave the information to them, or all of his progress will be lost. So Joshua has to hold these cards close to his chest, and he can only hope that he's not making the wrong call.

"You heard her," Joshua says. "There are insane conspiracy theories about Phoenix-gate. Er, that's the incident that killed my father."

"We know what Phoenix-gate is," Tyler says, giving him an odd look. "And you knew she'd bought into these theories?"

"I had a feeling after speaking to Ivan Karlsson's partner."

"Right, Karlsson—what is the connection to the others you mentioned?" Wade breaks in, and then, "Hey, are you all right, kiddo?"

Joshua realizes he's rubbing his chest, and he drops his hand. It doesn't even hurt much today. "Yeah, it... I don't like talking about it."

He gives them Ivan Karlsson and Redouane Allard's names and explains the circumstances under which he heard about them. Tyler is taking notes; Wade watches him while he talks, nodding.

"They knew each other, I'm realizing," Joshua finishes, though he's been light on the details of what he knows. "They must have traded conspiracy theories. I knew Genevieve believed in this god that manifests in fire, and..." He gestures vaguely in the direction of the room they just left. "I guess she was willing to speak to me if she thought I believed the same things she did."

"The incident with Karlsson was investigated as arson; we'll look into the other one, too," Tyler says, flipping his notebook closed. Wade stands back up. "Now that we have her word about them..."

Joshua nods. He probably hasn't done anything to affect Genevieve's case, per se, but the brief conversation has brought other potential crimes to light that may have otherwise gone uninvestigated. That's something, he supposes, and perhaps the two detectives really will be able to find evidence of the connection between Genevieve, Ivan, and Redouane. And at least now he knows for certain that the Children—at least some of them—are preparing for the end of the world in hopes that the next one will be better.

"What will happen to her?" he asks.

"That's not really in our hands," Wade says. "She's already confessed, but we'll talk to these other people and see if anything changes in her case. And, Joshua, give us a chance to do our jobs before you publish anything, eh?"

Joshua would not publish what Genevieve Laurent told them today, anyway, until he's sure that her family and Tatienne and Yannick's families know about it. "Sure," he sighs.

He accepts Wade's hand to help pull himself to his feet. It's not even eleven in the morning. It's time to get back to work.

*****

There's a traffic accident that afternoon, and then firetrucks are summoned to the local elementary school for what turns out to have been a false alarm. Joshua makes his way from one scene to another, feeling slow and tired as he talks to people, and also a little sick whenever he moves too fast.

He's at his desk at the end of the day, typing up a summary of his conversation with Genevieve and the detectives for Vivian's records when his phone buzzes in his pocket.

Clive [5:36 PM]
are you on your way home?

Shit. Joshua checks the time. He drops his head into his heads.

"What's wrong?" Jill asks from beside him. She's trying to finish up for the day, too, as she's leaving in the morning for Dhalmekia. President Eugen Havel and Senator Antoine de Cardinal are both holding a series of meetings in Zirnitra for the press and the public, and she's been assigned to interview them.

"Nothing," Joshua mumbles, and forces himself to lift his head enough to text back.

Joshua [5:37 PM]
Sorry, got caught up at work
Go without me, I'll leave ASAP and meet you there

Clive [5:37 PM]
I can swing by your work

Joshua [5:37 PM]
That will only make us both late
I'm leaving in less than 5m I promise
Are you at my place can you grab the bag on my kitchen counter and bring it please

"I was supposed to meet Clive and go over to Dion's with him," Joshua says. He wraps up his report, focusing on ensuring that he doesn't miss the important details—he'll follow up later with the conclusions he's drawn from the encounter—and sends it off to Vivian. Another check of his watch: it's been four minutes. At least he hasn't lied to Clive, who will be disgruntled to be left alone with their stepbrother and his family if Joshua stays any longer.

Clive [5:38 PM]
ok
do you have your pills on you

Joshua [5:41 PM]
yes
Leaving now sorry

Joshua stands. He feels strangely insubstantial—not dizzy, exactly, but as though he might blow away if there's too strong of a breeze outside. He likes spending time with Dion, and he wants to see what Dion's husband is like and meet the girl who thinks of herself as his niece. He's just so tired, more than he usually is by the end of the day. He wants to curl up on his bed and try to sleep until morning, when his stomach will feel more settled again.

He's almost glad that he lost track of time and didn't go home when he said he would, because he can't imagine making it up the stairs. He'll have to go home eventually, but that's a problem for later. What made him think he'd make it through a whole day of running around and still have energy for anything else?

"Good night," he says as he drags his bag over his shoulder.

"Night, Joshua," Jill replies, distracted, and Joshua leaves before she can look up and ask him how he's feeling.

---

Dion and his family live in a residential area dotted with houses. It's only a few blocks from the nearest bus stop, but by the time Joshua drags himself to the right address, he's breathing hard and very queasy again after the bus ride through stop-and-go traffic. It's a small house, built on a narrow lot of land to maximize the number of homes that can fit in the neighborhood.

Joshua intends to stand on their porch for a couple of minutes, just until he's caught his breath, but the porch light flickers on as soon as he approaches. He hears footsteps inside, and then Dion opens the door.

"You made it!" Dion says, grinning, and pulls him into a hug.

It's nice that this is where they are now, that they can see each other once a week and talk alternately about nothing and the worst parts of their childhoods and still hug whenever they see each other.

"Hi," is all Joshua manages to puff out, trying not to cough directly on Dion. From over Dion's shoulder, he can see Clive and the husband sitting at a table in the kitchen, looking on with a young girl at something that's spread out on its surface. Clive stands and throws him a relieved look. "Sorry, I..." He pulls back.

"Your brother's only been here for a little bit," Dion assures him. "Busy day?"

"Here, let me take your coat," an unfamiliar voice says, and Joshua turns to see Dion's husband standing at his elbow. "I'm Terence. It's so nice to finally meet you."

Joshua probably still sounds like he's just run a kilometer when he manages, "Likewise," but Terence keeps smiling as he takes the coat and scarf to a closet.

A part of Joshua thinks, absurdly, that he might be dreaming. He feels simultaneously weightless and too heavy, somehow. He can still hear Genevieve Laurent's voice in his mind telling him that he's a symbol of rebirth while he feels like he's inching closer to the grave every day, and it doesn't seem real that he could be standing here in a nice little house with his brother and his childhood friend, that they could have all escaped where they came from and ended up here.

Or maybe that's just a lack of oxygen. He'll probably settle back into his bones once he's caught his breath.

"Come in," Dion urges, and keeps a hand on his back while nudging him into the kitchen. Clive is still standing at the table, looking awkward, one large hand on the little girl's head—seven-year-old Kihel, Joshua knows from Dion's pictures—like he's not sure whether he's supposed to leave her unattended. Kihel is clutching his arm.

As they approach, Joshua sees why: open on the table is a first aid kit, unsurprisingly better stocked than what most people keep in their homes. Clive has a blood pressure cuff around his arm, and Kihel is wearing a stethoscope around her neck.

"And this is Kihel," Dion says, nodding to his daughter. Kihel smiles, though she shrinks back shyly until she's trapped more firmly under Clive's hand. "Kihel, this is your Uncle Joshua. Do you want to say 'hello?'"

"Hello, Uncle Joshua," Kihel says politely. She's still holding the diaphragm of the stethoscope on Clive's elbow.

"Hello," Joshua says, and, "What...?"

"Terence and I are teaching her how to take someone's blood pressure," Clive says with a completely straight face.

Kihel makes a surprised noise, as though reminded of what she was doing. She fumbles for the knob on the blood pressure cuff, releases the air, and sets down the stethoscope. "Sorry," she says nervously as Clive's hand, which has turned red, begins to fade back to its normal color. Clive pats her on the head like she's a puppy.

Joshua can't help but smile fondly, as much at his brother as at the little girl. He holds out a hand, and Kihel stares at it for a long moment before reaching out to shake solemnly. "It's very nice to meet you, Kihel," Joshua says. He clears his throat when his voice comes out sounding feeble, ignoring Clive's gaze. "And it's very kind of you to check Uncle Clive's blood pressure for him."

"He's supposed to be sitting down, though," she says. Clive immediately sits down. He's never been able to resist indulging a child.

"And how's it looking?" Terence asks, returning and grinning at Clive, who allows a twitch of his lips in return.

Kihel finally ducks away from Clive to reach for Terence's hand. "Good," she says vaguely, and then proclaims, "Dion says your blood pressure shouldn't go too high."

"That's right," says Dion, stepping around to comb his fingers through the hair on the back of her head and tuck a lock behind her ear. To Joshua, in very serious tones, he says, "Kihel's dad and her uncle both have very stressful jobs, so it's important that they stay healthy."

Cute.

"Thank you for the housewarming gifts," Terence says, gesturing to the basket of assorted teas and coffees that Clive brought from Joshua's flat. There's a stuffed bear on the table, too, wearing a firefighter's uniform and a hat that says 'TFD.' It's a copy of the toy that Clive's company keeps on board their rig in case they come across a child on a call who needs to be calmed down. "You didn't have to bring anything."

"It's not much," Joshua says. "We would've looked for something more useful, but we didn't know what you already had. Though I know this one"—he points a thumb at Dion—"likes to try a different drink every time he's at the café. You have a lovely home," he says, looking around.

While it's not large, just being able to afford a single-family house in a neighborhood like this says that Dion and Terence are in a different tax bracket than either Clive or Joshua. It's humble compared to the homes they all grew up in, but that's not saying much. Joshua doesn't have a lot of experience finding gifts for friends who may or may not quietly be millionaires.

"It's a bit of a mess," Dion says, his tone apologetic and, oddly, a little nervous as he gestures around them. The space is neat—other than the kitchen table—but it's bare, except for the furniture and essential supplies. "We still haven't unpacked all of Kihel's books and her warm-weather clothes, and we keep finding little things we're missing. We can't find her stuffed cat—although I'm certain it's in a box upstairs somewhere," he adds, stroking his daughter's hair again. He seems more concerned about the missing stuffed animal than his daughter is.

"The first few weeks after a move are always like that," Clive assures him. He seems surprised every time he looks at Dion, like he's having trouble reconciling this adult man who is anxious about showing his stepbrothers his new home with the preternaturally composed adolescent they knew as children and occasionally glimpsed on television in the years after they left. "You'll settle in."

"We can give you a tour if you'd like," Terence suggests, and then, with a glance at Joshua, "or you can take a load off and relax. It'll be a while before dinner's ready yet."

Joshua can smell something simmering on the stove, something that, another time, would smell delicious. "I think I'll sit down for a bit," he says, trying not to show his dread at having to put anything into his stomach.

"Kihel, why don't you take Uncle Joshua to the living room," Dion says, patting Joshua once on the shoulder. More quietly, he asks, "You all right?"

Joshua must look about as bad as he feels, then. "Fine," he says, making sure to include Clive in his smile. He turns to Kihel. "My lady?"

Kihel blushes, leads him timidly to the living room, and settles on a sofa with him while Dion tends the stove under Terence's strict instruction and Terence and Clive pack up the first aid kit on the table. Joshua sits with a sigh of relief; he feels guilty not helping with dinner or socializing, but he's starting to feel shaky again, and the thought of having to take his medication at some point tonight makes his stomach cramp in protest. If he wants to have a chance of making it through the evening, he needs a few minutes' breather. At least he can keep the girl entertained, he supposes.

"Thank you for my present," Kihel pipes up. She's holding the TFD teddy bear in her lap. "Uncle Clive said it was your idea."

Of all the adults in this house, Joshua is the only one who doesn't have experience raising children in some way or another. He's not sure how old is too old for a stuffed animal as a gift, but he didn't know what else she might like better. Next time, he'll look for a child-safe medical kit, perhaps. "Well, I thought, you have a paramedic watching over you at home," Joshua tells her, "and now you can have a firefighter, too."

This seems agreeable to her, as she pulls her bare feet up onto the couch and curls into a ball around the bear. "I have another one like this, but his hat says 'EMS.' It's from when we lived in Oriflamme."

"Maybe they can be friends," Joshua suggests.

"Yeah," Kihel agrees. "Like the djinn and the firebird!" She rises to clamber partway over the arm of the couch and picks up a book from the end table to hand it to him. "Did you really write this? Dion says you did."

Joshua runs his fingers over the familiar cover of The Djinn and the Firebird: a tale of friendship. The artwork is simple and depicts a spirit made of fire sitting on the ground, looking up at a phoenix perched on top of an iron gate. The cover is bent and cracked; the pages are well worn. "I did, a long time ago," Joshua says, secretly gratified to see evidence of use. Someone has flipped through this short book rather a lot. "Did you read it yourself?"

Kihel nods, smoothing down the fur on her bear's head. "Well, almost. My dads read it with me. I read the pages on the left, and they read the pages on the right."

It's not at all difficult to imagine this little girl sitting with one of her fathers, reading aloud with them. "You must be a very good reader," Joshua says. "Do you read a lot of books?"

"Sometimes," Kihel says. She takes the book back from him and puts it aside again. "Dion says you have to write stuff every day."

Joshua suppresses another smile at her incredulous expression. He shifts so that he's leaning more comfortably against the cushions. His legs are sore from the day's walking, and if he weren't talking to this curious little girl, he would be in danger of drifting off.  "I quite like writing. What do you want to be when you grow up?"

"I'm going to be a paramedic, like Terence," she says.

"You are?" Joshua says. "Wow! Then it's a good thing you're already getting practice."

Kihel looks back down at the bear. "My dads said that firefighters are so brave," she tells him. She leans forward, excited. "Dion said Uncle Clive rescued you from out of a castle when you were little. Is that because he's a firefighter?"

Joshua blinks at her. Through the doorway that leads to the kitchen, he can see Clive chatting with Terence at the stove while Dion peeks into a pot before being batted away. "He told you that, did he?"

"Mm-hm, when I was in kindergarten and we went to visit Grandfather Sylvestre and Grandmother Anabella."

Goodness. Grandmother. She probably hates being called that. Her youngest son can't be more than a few years older than Kihel. Joshua wonders if she calls the boy 'Uncle Olivier.'

That must have been a year or two ago, though, if Kihel is seven now. At that point, Dion and Joshua hadn't spoken in about a decade. The topic of her grandmother's other sons must have come up when they'd visited the Lesages, and Dion had to make up a story for her that was less complicated than the truth, even though he probably didn't know the truth himself at the time.

"Yes, he was able to rescue me because that's what firefighters do," Joshua says, though it's not quite right. It is true that Clive was in fire school by the time he moved Joshua away from home, so it's close enough.

"Dion said your dad died, too," Kihel says.

Joshua also isn't sure how old children are before they stop believing in fairy tales, but he does recognize her expression of anticipation, the look of someone who wants to be told a story. He used to do this with Clive, he recalls, sneaking into his brother's bedroom to beg him to read a chapter of some book or other. Most of the stories Joshua tells these days involve crimes or violent accidents and are fact-checked and edited, but frankly, he doesn't want to tell this little girl the exact, gruesome facts of what happened.

"I'll tell you a secret," Joshua says, playing along, lowering his voice so that she leans closer. Perhaps it's the sense of being half-asleep that's making him feel whimsical tonight, but, like Harpocrates said, stories don't always have to be entirely factual to be true. "Your dads were right. Even when he was little, Uncle Clive was the bravest boy in all of Rosaria."

She perks up at this, like she can sense that he's not just paying half-attention the way adults often do with children. "He was?"

"Mm-hm."

"Even braver than my dads?"

Oops. "Well..." Joshua hedges, "your Grandfather Sylvestre's studio has so much lobbying power and influence with important politicians, that, really, he's practically a king..." He cuts himself off at her bemused expression. "Sanbreque Studios is nearly as big as a state all by itself. So your dads were the bravest boys in Sanbreque, and Uncle Clive was the bravest boy in all the rest of Rosaria. He was always everyone's favorite between the two of us."

Kihel's little forehead wrinkles. "It's not nice to have favorites," she says.

"I didn't mind," Joshua tells her. "He was my favorite, too, you see. He was brave, and strong, and kind, and he always listened to our parents."

"Like a prince from the cartoons," Kihel says.

"Well...I suppose he was something like," Joshua allows. "Our dad was...do you know what a governor is?"

"Er..."

"Their dad was the democratically elected leader of Rosaria," says Dion, the nerd, coming back into the room and perching on the arm of the sofa next to Kihel, who immediately leans against his leg. "Do we know what that means?"

"It means people picked him," she says. Dion smiles down at her.

"That's right, sweetheart. He wasn't a king."

"But he lived in a castle," she points out.

Joshua raises his eyebrows at Dion, as he is the one who started this. Dion gives him a sheepish smile in return and shrugs. "It was quite a big house, I suppose," Joshua says. "One day, a...a man who was very angry and very sad..."

He pauses, searching for something more innocuous-sounding than assassination by fire to tell this child. Dion is watching him, but he doesn't interrupt, only threads his fingers through Kihel's hair again and combs through it, gently tugging out a knot.

"He...put a curse on everyone in the castle," Joshua says at last.

"A curse?" Kihel asks. There's a line between her tiny eyebrows. She's not small enough to simply believe that without question, but she doesn't outright reject the notion, so she may be willing to let it pass.

"That's right," Joshua says, doubling down. "That's how our father died. I was cursed by the angry man, too. Clive was the only one who didn't get cursed, so he had to help our...to help Grandmother Anabella run the castle."

Kihel thinks about this for a long moment. Joshua watches her curiously, wondering if she'll object, but she only says, "But then how did you get uncursed?"

"There...there is no way to lift the curse," he improvises, "but your Uncle Clive found a magic potion that would keep it from getting worse."

She looks up at Dion, who arranges his features into a solemn expression. It occurs to Joshua that he has no idea whether it's considered bad parenting to lie to one's children, but then, it also doesn't seem like it will do much harm. He's certainly not telling a small child that he was impaled through the chest and then listened to his father die.

"But there was someone who tried to stop your uncle from giving me the potion, a..." ...wicked witch, he almost says, before calling the words back at the last moment. It's an easy fairy tale trope to reach for, but Joshua doesn't want to call his mother that, even in a silly story he's making up. Moreover, when Kihel understands one day what all the parts of the story correspond to in reality, Joshua doesn't want her thinking of her grandmother in those terms. He doesn't know what her relationship with Anabella is like, but he's not aiming to be the one to sabotage it.

"...a person who didn't want me to take the potion," Joshua settles on, awkwardly. Not his greatest work, but he barely knows how to think of his mother in his own head on a good day. "And they were very mean to Clive and made him run away."

"But he was the bravest boy," Kihel protests, fully engaged now. "He wouldn't run away!"

"You're right!" Joshua says. "It turned out he was only hiding so that he could sneak me out of the house with him." He spreads his arms. "And here we are! Now we get to meet you."

There's a skeptical glint in Kihel's eye, but she's willing to suspend a bit of disbelief in favor of a good story. Most people are. "How come you never came to Rosaria for the holidays to see Grandmother Anabella?" she asks.

Joshua feels his smile droop and his stomach twist. They could have visited, especially in the last decade, when he was no longer legally a child. Well, not they, he supposes. Clive would never have gone back to visit their mother, and going without him would feel...disloyal, or something.

"Uncle Joshua had to stay here, close to the potion," Dion steps in quickly. The logic of it is far from airtight, but Kihel nods like that explains everything. "Which is lucky for us, because now he's our neighbor! Kihel, sweetheart, can you go check on Terence and Uncle Clive and see if they need any help?"

"Okay," Kihel says. She slides off the couch and trots away back to the kitchen, still clutching the TFD teddy bear. Joshua watches her go, smiling as she hugs Terence from behind with both arms around his waist, making her father laugh and twist around to see her.

"Have you ever considered going back to writing children's stories?" Dion asks.

"Not looking to change careers at the moment, no," Joshua says lightly. "But you started it. My brother rescued me from a castle, hm?"

Dion grimaces. "Anabella and my father aren't...exactly affectionate with her. She can tell that they don't love her like they do Olivier, and she gets self-conscious about not being blood-related. I suppose I thought she would be heartened to learned that Anabella doesn't dote on her other blood children any more than Kihel." He winces again. "Sorry. That sounds terrible."

"It's fine," Joshua murmurs. He doesn't ask why Dion guessed that Clive had rescued him; there must have been enough breadcrumbs over the years even if Anabella never told him the full story. He blinks heavily. Without Kihel watching him, the feeling of being half-awake is falling over him again. "I'm sorry, I showed up late and I'm being terrible company—"

Shifting to sit properly on the couch, Dion says, "No, no, you're not. You kept Kihel entertained, which is no small feat. Are you feeling all right?"

"Just tired, I'll be fine," Joshua says, forcing a smile, and jokes, "It's the curse, you know. The magic potion's a bit rough on the system."

One corner of Dion's lips curves up, though his eyes remain serious. "Did Anabella really try to stop you from taking your medicine?"

"No," Joshua says, and then, "Er, well, sometimes. The drugs were hard on me at first, and sometimes I'd need to sleep off the effects for a long while afterward. If it was a choice between that or skipping a dose to bustle me to some event or other, she'd usually choose the latter."

Dion's face goes blank.

"I think it was difficult for her, too," Joshua says after a moment, "seeing how hard the pills were on me."

"Don't make excuses for her, that's not—" Dion snaps, then visibly calms himself. "If she was so worried, she would have let you rest instead of putting you in front of a crowd."

Joshua shrugs, a little uncomfortable, though there's something about the force of Dion's disapproval that warms him, too. Dion probably knows his mother better than Joshua does himself at this point. "The doctors didn't think I'd make it," he says. "And when I did, the scar tissue began to spread, and they gave me a handful of years at most. The drugs were experimental at the time. It's sort of a miracle that I've been this stable for this long. I don't know how she was supposed to react to her child being on death's door."

Dion takes a breath and opens his mouth, like he's about to speak, then stops and smiles. It's a smile Joshua recognizes, the one that's for people Dion doesn't know well, and he turns around to see Clive hovering over his shoulder.

"Clive," Joshua says. Twisting around to face his brother makes him cough, and Clive walks around to face both of them. "Hey, sorry I was late today. I wasn't watching the time."

"Sure," Clive says, and steps close enough to touch the back of his hand to Joshua's forehead. "Are you—"

"We were talking about Mum," Joshua interrupts. "Apparently, she and Sylvestre aren't very nice to Kihel."

Clive looks back in to the kitchen, where Kihel is following Terence around while he sets the table, and then back to Dion. "I'm not surprised," he says. He puts a protective hand on Joshua's shoulder.

Dion lets his smile fade and admits, "Terence and I have been talking. We don't want her to be completely estranged from them—they're still family—but we also don't want them making her feel like she's less than...well, Olivier, mostly. He's closest to her age. You would've thought moving across the country would solve the problem, but with them coming here soon..."

Clive's answer is a noncommittal grunt. "Do they bother you a lot?" Joshua asks.

"No. I just worry..." Dion trails off and smiles at them, a real one this time. "Well, I'm glad she's met you two, at least. Thank you for indulging her earlier, Clive, she loves all of that stuff."

"She's very focused for her age," Clive says. "If you need anything, with her... I'm not always around, you know how it is. But if I am..."

"I appreciate that," Dion says. "And likewise, of course, if there's anything you two need. Joshua knows where to find me." He flashes a grin at Joshua, who can't help but smile back.

---

Dinner is very good, Joshua assumes. Kihel has decided that Uncle Clive, the bravest boy in all of Rosaria, needs to be interrogated about his favorite parts of his job, and Dion keeps having to remind her to eat, which she does with gusto every time she remembers. Clive is polite to Dion and friendly with Terence, complimenting both the food and the home, though he keeps shooting Joshua looks, as if to ask why he's being forced to carry the conversation.

Joshua spends the time guiltily pushing food around his plate, trying to stay awake and not to throw up. Clive loosens up after a few minutes of being questioned by Kihel, enough to tease Joshua about avoiding his vegetables, but it doesn't take long for him to notice that Joshua's not really eating anything at all.

It's Terence who first notices him nearly nod off in front of his plate and reaches over to steady him. "All right, there, mate?" he asks, and looks past him at Clive. The jolt of waking up makes the nausea come surging back, and Joshua reflexively claps a hand to his mouth.

"I think we need it call it a night," Clive says, and stands up.

Swallowing hard, Joshua protests weakly, "Wait, I'm all right, I..." and has to stop again. He hasn't even taken his meds yet. If this is what he feels like now, he's probably going to spend the whole night kneeling in the bathroom, trying not to throw up the pills.

He hasn't had a chance to pick up the nausea medication that he was prescribed today. Everything has been so busy, and it takes so much energy just to keep up with it all that making a detour for the pharmacy seemed like too much in the middle of the day, and then he was late, and now he's being rude, wasting food that Terence cooked and probably making a terrible first impression. Clive seems comfortable around Terence, who is approachable and casual, which means that Clive should spend more time chatting with his brother-in-law until they're friends. Kihel would want to keep talking to Clive, too, and Clive loves talking to children, except now he only has eyes for Joshua, who is not sure he can stand up.

"Of course, do you need anything?" Dion is saying, standing as well.

"No, I should just get him home," Clive says.

"I'm so sorry," Joshua mumbles, feeling like a sick and helpless child again, his brother—brothers, he supposes—talking over his head because he's barely keeping himself awake. "I didn't mean—"

"Hush, it's all right," Dion tells him. "What's your address? I can drive you back."

"I've already called a ride," Clive says, putting his phone away. "It's seven minutes out."

Joshua wants to protest, because that's a waste of money in a city with as good of a public transportation system as Twinside, but his legs ache and his hands are shaking, and even riding in a car long enough to get home is not going to be pleasant.

"What happened?" Kihel asks, confused.

"Uncle Joshua's not feeling well, baby, that's all," Terence says, and, leaning closer to Joshua, "Do you need to lie down for a bit?"

Yes, probably, but Clive already called a cab, and it'll be here soon. "No," Joshua says, and buries his face in his hands, feeling miserable. "I'm so sorry."

"Never mind that, it's fine," Terence says. "Let's just get you to the couch and you can wait for the cab there."

Joshua pushes himself to his feet, and Clive is there immediately to steady him. "Is it the curse?" Kihel asks, following them into the living room.

"What?" Clive asks as Joshua sits again, resisting the temptation to lie down.

"Yes, it's the curse," Dion tells her absently, to Clive's continued befuddlement. "He just needs to get home and take his potion."

"Dad says ginger makes you feel better when you're sick," Kihel says.

"Actually, that's an idea," Terence says. "Kihel gets carsick. We have some simple remedies that help with nausea. Clive, do you want to come with me and take a look?"

Clive checks the time, checks Joshua's pulse, and then lets himself be pulled away to the kitchen again, Kihel drifting along in their wake.

Dion sits beside Joshua and puts an empty rubbish bin on the floor as a precaution. "It's not usually this bad," Joshua murmurs, breathing carefully through his mouth.

"I shouldn't have pushed you to come," Dion says, which is not at all the conclusion Joshua wants him to draw.

"You didn't," Joshua says. He's frustrated, and uncomfortable, enough to make him want to cry. "I wanted us to. I miss having a big family sometimes, too."

Without another pause, Dion pulls him into a hug. "You have us now."

For now, Joshua thinks as he leans into his stepbrother. For how long? "Dion, I have to tell you something," he says.

Pulling back, Dion looks at him and then glances in the direction of the others. "Right now?"

Joshua shakes his head. "Just...sometime."

"Next week, when we get coffee," Dion says, and Joshua nods with the familiar feeling of mixed dread and relief.

Feet patter into the room. "Here," Kihel says, holding out a thermometer to her father.

"Oh, no, he's not that kind of sick, sweetheart," Dion says, taking it from her and putting it aside.

"Thank you, though," Joshua says when she looks disappointed.

"Will you come back to visit?" she asks. She stands with her hands behind her back, a little shy again. "Can you tell me more stories?"

"I would love to," he tells her.

---

It's miserable, feeling so unsteady, alternately chilled and sweating as his stomach churns. Clive clutches Joshua to his side the whole ride home. He's quiet; they've barely talked to each other all night, and Joshua can't help but wonder if he's angry. He's rubbing a soothing hand along Joshua's arm, though, so he's not angry enough for it to take precedence over the immediate challenge, which is getting home without vomiting.

Joshua has a plastic bag in his hands, a parting gift from Dion and Terence, but he doesn't need to use it until he's halfway up the stairs and heaving for breath, and then suddenly he's just heaving the little dinner he managed into the bag, sat on his arse in the middle of the stairwell.

Throwing up where anyone could see him is undoubtedly worse than a public toilet stall, and it's been years since Joshua's had the experience. Granted, the last time, he was in school and on his own, which was a particular sort of hell. But this, retching bile into a plastic bag while his brother rubs his back, is still not wonderful.

To his mortification, Clive takes the bag from him when he's done, ties it shut, and carries it himself as they continue upwards. Joshua has an arm over Clive's shoulders and is practically being carried up the stairs. It's no good trying to be stoic at this point.

Torgal is waiting for them at the door, but a sharp command keeps him from jumping on them. Clive peels the coat off Joshua and leaves it carelessly on the floor with his scarf, then crouches to untie his boots so Joshua doesn't have to bend over.

"Sit," Clive says when they reach the couch, and it takes Joshua a moment to realize that the order is directed at him and not the dog. He sits and leans back, panting for breath. "I'm calling your doctor."

"I did...this morning," Joshua says. Even through the feeling, tinged with panic, that he can't get enough air, he feels his cheeks warm. "He prescribed me...something for nausea. I haven't had a chance to...to pick it up from the pharmacy."

Clive stops, staring at Joshua. He presses his lips together; exhales through his nose. "Stay there," he orders, and walks to the kitchen to put down the things Dion and Terence sent home with them.

Joshua obeys. Torgal drops his head on Joshua's knee and stays, too, staring up at him.

"It's me. You're still in town, right?" Clive says. Joshua turns and sees him on his phone.

"Clive—" Joshua starts.

"Can you pick up a prescription for Joshua and bring it to his place?" Clive says to someone, who can only be one person. "His usual pharmacy—right?" he asks, directed to Joshua this time.

"Clive, don't make her—"

"His usual pharmacy," Clive says. "... Yeah. ... No, I'm here. ... Yeah. Thanks, Jill."

Joshua's phone sings out an alarm. It's time for his damned pills. He turns it off.

From the kitchen come the sounds of water being set to boil and a mug clinking on the counter. When Clive returns, he's carrying the first aid kit and an assortment of other supplies, and Joshua resigns himself to a full workup.

"What are your symptoms?" Clive asks as he takes Joshua's temperature and clips the oximeter to his finger.

"Nausea," Joshua says.

Clive frowns at him when he doesn't continue. "Shortness of breath? It seems worse than usual," he amends, because some shortness of breath is usual.

Joshua bites his lip. "The stairs are hard," he admits. He's still panting. "I have a follow-up next week. I'll mention it."

"Have you been vomiting?"

"No. I mean...not a lot."

Clive doesn't seem disapproving anymore; his tone is very calm, the way he talks when he's with a patient or a victim and doesn't want to scare them. "I'm pulling up your shirt," he says, and does. He presses gently on Joshua's stomach, fingers lingering on the sharp outlines of ribs. "Any blood when you vomit?"

Joshua breathes through the tiny spikes of nausea as he's prodded. Clive is worried about liver damage, probably, or bleeding in his stomach. "No. It's not anything dangerous, I would have said—"

"Not being able to eat because your medication makes you want to spew is dangerous, Joshua," Clive says. He lets the shirt fall back down and checks Joshua's oxygen saturation. He frowns. "You're too low."

"It's the stairs," Joshua says again, feeling oddly desperate for Clive to agree with him. He shivers. "It'll go up on its own."

The kettle beeps. Clive settles a blanket around him before going back to the kitchen.

"I don't know if I can get anything down," Joshua says, clutching the blanket around his shoulders.

"Let's try this," Clive says. He pours sugar into the mug, stirs, and takes a sip. He makes a face, adds a little more sugar, and then brings it back. "You have to stay hydrated, or we're going to the hospital."

It's not quite that dire yet, and both of them know it. Joshua can hear the stress in Clive's voice, though, and he doesn't argue as he takes the steaming mug. "Ginger?" he asks as the steam reaches his nose.

"Ginger lemon tea," Clive says, settling beside him and absently pulling the blanket higher around him. "It calms Kihel's stomach when she gets carsick, they said. You used to suck on ginger candies when you felt ill, do you remember? Here, I put in about a million grams of sugar."

"Just how I like it," Joshua says. Clive doesn't stop staring at him, so he takes a sip. It hasn't steeped long enough yet to be more than just a hint of flavor in sugar water.

"You're too thin, Joshua," Clive says bluntly. He puts a hand on Torgal's head, still resting on Joshua's knee. "You really are."

The tea sits uncomfortably in Joshua's stomach. He tries to drink a little more—mostly for the sugar, because he knows he needs every ounce of energy he can force down—but has to hold it back out. "I was handling it. Can you...?"

Clive takes the mug from him and sets it on the coffee table. Instead of sitting back down, he kneels in front of Joshua, forcing Torgal aside. "Give me your arm," he says, reaching for the blood pressure cuff.

A few minutes later, Joshua doesn't feel like he's on the cusp of suffocating anymore, his oxygen saturation has returned to a safe number, and Clive says that his blood pressure is a little high, though not enough to warrant any immediate action when he has an appointment with his doctor next week.

"We'll check again before you go to bed," Clive says, efficiently stowing everything away. Joshua nods and lets him take the pulse oximeter off. "Do you think you can drink any more?"

Before Joshua can answer, Torgal perks up and trots to the door. Clive rises to open it just as a knock sounds.

"Hey," Jill says, stepping in with a paper packet from the pharmacy in one hand and a plastic bag dangling from her wrist. She pacifies Torgal with a stroke down the side of his neck and hands Clive the prescription while she steps out of her shoes. She picks up Joshua's coat from the floor and hangs it on the hook on the wall. "How long has the lift been out?"

Joshua feels himself shrink back into his blanket, even though that part's not his fault.

Clive rips the paper bag open and quickly checks over what's inside. He's familiar with it—they went through a period like this when Joshua was finishing high school and the doctor decided to increase the dosage of his medication from what he'd been taking as a child. "Any special instructions from the doctor?" he asks.

"Just the normal," Joshua says.

Clive sits next to him again and holds out the blister pack. "On your tongue."

Jill stops in front of him, still holding her plastic bag. Through it, Joshua can see a pack of electrolyte drinks and another of nutrient-rich protein shakes. "Joshua," she says, and she sounds so disappointed that he has to close his eyes.

"You should be packing," he mumbles. The pill on his tongue is bitter. He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees.

He smells a faint whiff of her perfume when she squeezes in on the other side of him. "I'll finish packing later," Jill says. "I can sleep on the train." She puts her hand on his back and rubs gently. "How long does it take to kick in?"

"Thirty minutes, maybe an hour," Clive says over his head.

They're both pressed so close to him that it feels like they're the only things keeping his flimsy body from floating away or flopping off the couch. Torgal sniffs suspiciously at the sugary tea on the coffee table, then drops to the floor to lie on their feet. Joshua takes a breath and sits up, picking up the mug to try a few more sips.

He doesn't look away from the mug, but he doesn't have to to feel them exchanging looks at each other behind his head. "Joshua," Clive finally says, "we should talk to the doctor about switching back to the other anti-fibrotics. I...I know you said the side effects were bad, but if you can't tolerate these, then you can't. We'll find a way to manage the other ones."

"What was the problem with the other ones?" Jill asks. She has a hand on his knee. "Is it something embarrassing? It's fine, you know, it's just us."

Joshua wishes it were something like that, that he could say the other pills were giving him uncontrollable diarrhea or turning his skin purple or something. The fact is that he was used to the other pills, and they didn't even make him nauseous anymore if he was careful about eating before and after taking them.

"It wasn't the side effects," Joshua says. He leans back against the cushions, clutching the mug of tea. His heart is racing. He's too worn out for this, but he's also too worn out for anything else, and, finally, the truth simply tumbles out. "They just weren't working."

There's a pause. "What do you mean?" Clive says, leaning forward enough to look at him directly. "The fibrosis has been stable for—"

He stops.

Jill's hand tightens on his leg. Joshua feels heat prickle at his eyes. "They said it happens sometimes, especially for patients on medication," he says. "It seems like everything's all right for a while, even for a long time, and then it starts progressing again. They did a CT scan, and the whole gamut of respiratory function tests. There's no question. Everything's...down."

"What... By how much?" Jill asks. Her hand opens again, and her thumb rubs gently over his knee, like an apology for squeezing too hard.

Clive is quiet. He doesn't move; Joshua's not even sure he's breathing.

"I...I put the results with the rest of my records," Joshua says. "They're in—"

All at once, Clive stands up and walks to the bedroom. He knows where the records are kept. Joshua sips at his tea. Jill starts to say something, but she glances back toward the bedroom and stops.

When Clive returns, he's holding not only the test results but also the handful of pamphlets Joshua stuffed away so that he wouldn't have to look at them. He sits back down heavily, studying the paper in his hands. They're all measures that they've seen over and over through the years: FVC, TLC, Dlco, FEV. Clive knows what they should all look like for Joshua.

"FVC's down almost nine percent," Joshua says. "My total lung capacity is six percent lower than it was six—well, seven months ago now."

There's a spike of fear at the thought—is he declining by a percentage point every month? Is he now down seven percent from where he was—or more, perhaps? His baseline is already low, as he's missing most of one lung and the other has been covered in scars since childhood. Any amount of decline is too much.

"It might slow down," he offers feebly when no one speaks. "That's why I'm on these new pills..."

"Yes," Jill says. She cups a hand around his head and kisses him on the cheek. Her lips linger, and there's a whisper of a breath across his skin. "Yes. That's right. Right, Clive?"

Clive looks up from the pamphlets in his hand. He turns to Joshua and nods, though he still doesn't speak. He knows as well as Joshua does that, this long after the initial trauma has healed over, if the disease has started progressing again, it's not going to stop.

"Expected survival is less than five years," Joshua says into the strained silence.

"There are..." Clive says. He rubs a hand across his mouth. He's looking at the pamphlets again, staring at the charts. "These are all old statistics. The...the numbers are actually higher now for patients on anti-fibrotics. And you're younger than the average patient, and—"

"I have half the amount of lung tissue as the average patient, too," Joshua says, and he hears his voice shake. "I didn't know how to tell you—I don't know how long—" He takes a breath. "How long I'll be able to keep working. I don't know how fast it will go."

"Don't worry about working. If you wanted to quit today, it would be fine. I'm here."

"So am I," Jill says.

"I don't want to quit," Joshua says. He sniffs, blinking moisture from his eyes, but he feels a tear escape to trickle down his cheek. "I don't want to. But I'll have to, eventually, when I can't walk around so much. Some days I can't barely even take Torgal for his walk, and—"

He doesn't notice his hands are shaking until Jill takes the mug away from him. Clive folds him into a hug, holding him tight, one hand in his hair. "Don't be scared, Joshua," he says. Joshua's breath hitches, and he buries his face in his brother's shoulder. "It's going to be all right."

He is, he realizes—scared, though he's been trying not to let himself think it. The sense of impending doom—the uncertainty of how long he has left on his timer—has bored so deep into him that he feels it with every step he takes, like a barb he can't remove from his heart. If he can work, it means he still has time. Every tiny article he writes is a piece of him that he'll leave behind, something that will mean he survived and lived a life where he was useful, where he managed to do a bit of good, even if it was a short one.

It feels selfish to be scared when he's not the one who will have to deal with everything, after. Clive shouldn't have to comfort him when Clive is the only reason he's made it this far. But then, Joshua's brother has always been the brave one.

"I haven't told Mum," Joshua whispers to Clive's shoulder.

Clive's arms tighten. "Not tonight," he says, as though they could just pick up the phone and call their mother. "Tonight you need to eat something and rest."

Joshua swallows, sniffs once more, and pulls back. Clive lets him go only reluctantly, and he keeps a hand on Joshua's back when he does. "I'm so tired," Joshua says, closing his eyes. He still feels sick, and now his nose is stuffy and he has a headache from trying to keep from crying on top of what's probably low blood sugar.

Jill takes his hand. "Lie down until it kicks in," she says, and uses her other hand to wipe his face. "Just a quick nap, and if you feel better afterward, you can try to eat something."

He looks at the sheet of test results on the table. Clive flips it over, like the numbers won't be there if no one looks at them. "Okay," Joshua says.

---

Joshua wakes up with a cold nose on his neck and his hand buried in fur. It's only been couple of hours, according to his bedside clock. He's still tired, but the nausea, while still there, no longer seems so urgent. He can hear quiet voices outside his door.

When he steps out of his room, Clive and Jill are at the kitchen table. Clive's head is in his hands. Jill has an arm around his shoulders and her forehead pressed against his temple. "...don't know what's going to happen," she's saying softly. "Hm? You should talk to his doctor about a lung transplant. They talked about that as an option when he was younger, right, except he was too small?"

Clive shakes his head. "Jill—"

"I already asked," Joshua says hoarsely. Jill turns to see him as Torgal pads toward them, his claws clicking on the floor. Clive doesn't look up; he stands up and turns his back, facing the stove, taking the lid off a pot and turning on the burner. Joshua coughs to clear his throat. "They'll put me on the list, eventually, if there aren't other complications. But it's not going to happen."

The probability is not zero, though it's close. They won't give him someone else's lung when he has so many risk factors, not unless there's literally no one else on the transplant list who is more likely to recover from the operation, and there are always more people who need transplants than there are organs available. Clive knows that, too. Maybe that's why he won't look at Joshua now.

"Are you feeling better?" Jill asks.

"Yes, it's better," Joshua says. With his back turned, Clive quickly rubs a hand across his eyes as he stirs the pot with the other.

Joshua stares at his feet. It's like his chest is breaking open. All the careful effort he's put into keeping his frustration and the daily pain of living locked up inside, trying to keep it from hurting Clive—all of it has gone to ruin.

He knew this would happen. Jote warned him, and he knew she was right even then. He'd thought he was preparing for it. He's not prepared.

"Come here," Jill says, gesturing, and pulls him into the chair next to her. "He's just heating up something light to eat. Can you get this down while you wait? Either one."

She's holding out a protein drink, and there's a sports drink on the table. Joshua takes the former and drinks, slowly, letting the thick liquid settle in his stomach a sip at a time before he tries more. "I haven't taken my pills tonight," he says.

"Skip this dose," Clive says. His voice is rough, and he still hasn't turned around. "Timing's off now, anyway. Let's just get through this night. Tomorrow morning, try it again with the nausea pill. And food."

"Okay," Joshua says quietly. Jill takes his hand again and gives him a smile. Her eyes are pinched. "Jill, you should get home. You have to pack for tomorrow."

She squeezes his hand. "I'm thinking I should stay here for a bit instead of haring off," she says. "I'll talk to Vivian. I don't have to tell her why."

Joshua stares at her hand. It's too much—stifling. He understands why, that he scared them, but the last thing he wants is for everything to change all of a sudden when the most conservative of the charts Dr. Margrace showed him say that he should still have months, perhaps even a few years. He can still work, for now, and nothing would make him feel worse than knowing that Clive and Jill are sacrificing even more for him than they have already.

"Don't, Jill, I'll be fine by tomorrow," Joshua says. "And Vivian already knows. About this."

Jill darts a glance at the back of Clive's head. "She...does?"

"She's been supportive," Joshua says. He's not getting into the whole story with Dzemekys tonight.

"Then maybe it wouldn't be a bad idea to talk to her about...about shifting your work so that it's not so hard on you, physically," Jill says. "And if she gives you any trouble, I'll help you fight her on it."

Joshua eyes Clive, who has filled a bowl with porridge and is taking longer than he should to find a spoon in the drawer. He takes a breath and smiles back at her. "I don't think I'm there yet. Look, I'm sorry about earlier. You're right, Clive, it's...it's not something we need to worry about right now."

Finally, Clive turns around. His eyes are dry, though they're tinged with pink. "What?"

"I get worked up thinking about it sometimes," Joshua says, holding fast to his smile. "But you're right. It could be years. We should all go on as normal while I still can." Clive's eyes flick to Jill. "Please," Joshua adds quietly. "I don't want us acting like this is the end."

Clive carries the bowl to the table and sets it in front of Joshua. He sits, reaching down to Torgal like he needs the comfort.

"Please, Clive," Joshua says again, because he's not going to be able to take it if they're just going to sit here and cry with him about how he's going to die.

"All...all right," Clive finally says. He looks very lost, like he doesn't know what to do, and Joshua hates that. He hasn't had that look on his face since they were teenagers. "But no more hiding things from us. Every change, everything, you have to tell us. And tell the doctor, right away. The numbers you put up today..." He hesitates. "You should probably be on oxygen when you're walking around. Or afterward, at least, to help you recover. If the doctor tells you to start, then you do. Understood?"

"Yes, Dad," Joshua says, and, to his relief, Clive makes a face at him. If the subsequent obligatory hair-mussing is more of a gentle caress than usual, he doesn't mention it. Torgal sniffs at each of them in turn, then curls up under the table, chewing on a toy. "Has Torgal...?"

"I took him out earlier," Clive says. He pushes the bowl closer. "Eat, Joshua. If you can't finish, put it aside and eat the rest later."

Joshua sets to determinedly, self-conscious with both of them watching, and nods as they begin giving him a list of instructions. Carry a nutritional drink or two when he goes out; bring more snacks and small meals to eat whenever he feels well enough to; take the pill for nausea on schedule, every day. The priority right now is to keep the side effects of the medication under control and to regain the weight he's lost over the last few weeks.

Jill is finally convinced to leave—because what else is she going to do?—though she extracts a promise that Joshua will check in with her and keep her updated on how he's doing over the next couple of weeks while she's away.

"I'm sorry," Joshua tells Clive when they're alone with Torgal. He's finished half of the bowl in front of him, along with the protein shake Jill brought. He feels uncomfortably full, though he knows he hasn't eaten much—a telltale sign that he let things spin further out of control than intended.

Clive is studying Joshua's test results again, like he's trying to burn them into his memory, but at this, he looks up, incredulous. "You're sorry?"

"Sorry I was such mess today," Joshua says.

"Joshua," Clive says, and then stops. He scowls at the table.

"I should have told you sooner," Joshua says, and, "Look, you should go home, too. You have to be on your way by seven tomorrow."

There's a long silence. Joshua looks down at his bowl and reluctantly scoops out another spoonful. He can feel Clive watching him, but Joshua can out-stubborn his brother long enough for him to realize that there is, in fact, nothing else that can be done tonight.

Finally, Clive says, "Will you call me if something happens?"

"Nothing's going to happen."

"Promise me," Clive says. He takes Joshua's hands and holds them in both of his. "Tell me."

Joshua swallows. He smiles and pats Clive's fist. "I promise," he says.

Chapter Text

26. Then came upon them a sickness of spirit as the people defied the laws of the earth. The trees withered and fell as though stricken by a wildfire, and the air grew thick with poison. The waters, once teeming with life, became foul and lifeless.
27. Then great clouds of smoke blackened the heavens, covering the stars. Storms raged, flooding the land and filling the sky with fire.
28. And a plague was loosed upon the world, burning with fever and decay. Those who had turned away from the sacred Flame were consumed by an inferno fed by the sins of mankind.
29. Next came the burning of cities. The world burned in countless flames, and those who had turned away found themselves trapped in their own homes, consumed by the very things they had once coveted.
30. But lo, a great cry was heard, not of mourning but of longing. The people who remained true to God cried out their longing for renewal, for the return of the purity that had once been.

- Scriptures of the Risen, Book of Eschaton

*****

Jill [3:32 AM]
Who is the landlord for your building?
And how long has the lift been out?

Joshua [7:03 AM]
Good morning
I hope you're sleeping now
It's been about two months
I've already tried contacting them, but they're slow
Have a safe trip

Jill [10:14 AM]
Send me the name anyway

*****

Joshua's doctor's appointment is not exactly a disappointment. The nausea has abated enough to make it through the day, so they leave the dosage of his medication the same. Most of the measures of his lung function are about the same as they were a month ago, but it's taking him longer than last time to recover to his normal heartrate and oxygen saturation after a six-minute walking test.

"I recommend you start oxygen therapy whenever you're feeling like this," Dr. Margrace says as Joshua slumps in his chair, coughing and gulping for breath. Clive is standing to the side with his arms folded, glancing on occasion at the monitor. Even the suggestion that he might not come with this time made him so anxious that Joshua had no choice but to agree, but now that he's here, he's barely said a word, though he talked a bit to the doctor while Joshua was trundling around the track. "Or slow down and rest. The walking test isn't a race. Your resting oxygen saturation is still acceptable, but I don't like how much it dips when you're exercising."

He doesn't like it, sure. Joshua doesn't like it, either. "Got it, Doc," he says, as brightly as he can while still panting.

"I'm going to write you a prescription for a portable oxygen concentrator, too," the doctor says, typing something on his computer, and Joshua feels his heart sink. "If you ever find yourself becoming lightheaded while you're walking, I want you to start using it."

"I'm not really—"

"It's an adjustment, I know, especially in public," the doctor interrupts him, "but most patients find that it helps them stay less tired, and of course, it's not good for you to be hypoxic if you can avoid it. The trade-off is worth it. It means you can stay more active and continue to do light exercise, and that's important for keeping your lungs as healthy as you can."

Joshua doesn't look at Clive. "Will my insurance—"

"It should be covered," the doctor assures him. "And I'd like you to start going to respiratory therapy again, once a week. It's been a few years, but it helped before, didn't it?"

"Sure," Joshua says, and tries not to sound like all the changes are swamping him. Respiratory therapy made an enormous difference when he was a child and was relearning the most efficient ways to breathe and techniques to suppress his cough. But he thought he was past needing that now. It's a stark reminder of how much he's declined since then. "I'll make an appointment for a session with the therapist when I get home."

"Make an appointment while we're here," Clive says, speaking for perhaps the first time in a half hour. There are dark circles under his eyes. He hasn't even gone home yet after his last shift at the firehouse. It's clear he doesn't trust Joshua to make an appointment on his own. Worse—he's probably right.

"Sure," Joshua says again. He takes another breath, then holds up a hand to Clive, who pulls him to his feet. "Thanks. Then I've got to get back to work, and you go home, okay? I'm all right."

*****

It's strange how normal everything is—more normal than before, even, because he's not trying to hide it from Clive and Jill anytime he's not feeling up to par.

Not that it would be hard. Jill is in Dhalmekia for the next two weeks, and Clive seems to have decided the best thing to do is to work even longer hours than usual. They've both taken to heart Joshua's request to go on as usual. Jill pings him every morning to ask how he's handling his pills and how much he ate the day before, and Clive has asked him for a copy of all of his medical records from the last couple of months, but that's all.

In retrospect, Joshua's not sure what he thought would change. It's not like there's much any of them can do. He thought, perhaps, that Clive would come over even more often than before, but he's probably trying not to be overbearing. Or maybe Clive doesn't know what to say to Joshua, so he's staying away, favoring long shifts at Otto's on his days off.

At least the two of them know now, though. And once they know, telling other people doesn't seem as daunting.

Dion, unexpectedly, is not even surprised, as he has read about pulmonary fibrosis since learning that Joshua has it. He already had his suspicions, and he hasn't had eighteen years to grow complacent and accustomed to the thought that things might simply be fine.

"Should I not mention it around Kihel?" Joshua asks quietly. They're in Dion's office again with the door closed. "Or—should I stay away from her? You said her parents died..."

"No, please don't stay away," Dion says. He's wearing the blank and vaguely pleasant mask he perfected as a young actor who needed to avoid controversy when paparazzi caught him off-guard. "Greagor knows she has few enough people to call family who actually treat her as such."

"What about Terence's family?"

"They're good to her, and also on the other side of the country." Dion sighs. "I don't know how much she'll understand, but I don't want to lie to her about this, either. We'll find some way to explain everything."

"Pity she'll grow out of that silly fairytale," Joshua jokes. "If I gave up the ghost now, you could just tell her it was the curse—"

"Don't joke about that," Dion says sharply, and then, quieter, "Please."

Joshua curls his fingers around his cup. Tea again; it's not as good at keeping him awake as coffee, but it's a little easier on his stomach. He's not taking any chances until even Clive is satisfied that he's put enough weight back on.

Then Dion shakes his head. "No, I'm sorry. I'm not telling you how you should—"

"It's okay," Joshua says, and doesn't make another joke. "I'm only worried she'll be upset if I get to know her and then simply...disappear from her life one day."

Dion's expression flickers. He looks down at the surface of his desk. "Then you'll just have to tell her a few more fairytales," he says, bright with bravado. "She'll have those forever."

Joshua smiles faintly. "It would be my honor."

"You know how Tomes studies texts describing ancient cultures and religions?"

Curious at the abrupt change in subject, Joshua says, "I'm aware."

Dion traces his fingers over the cover of a notebook that sits at the corner of his desk. It looks old and worn, and every page seems to be filled. "He told me once that stories are steeped in the wishes, the thoughts, and the dreams of their writers—words that were just waiting to be poured onto the page. He likes to say that no one is ever completely lost to us so long as we can read what they left behind, because what they leave in their words is themselves."

Joshua's throat is slowly squeezing tight. He clears it gently. "That sounds nice," he says. "Thanks, Professor. I like that."

*****

The day he's supposed to meet the prophet, Joshua wakes to his alarm with a headache, shivering in the cold air and still tired despite sleeping most of the night through. He'll need to go straight to Dzemekys to get to this study meeting on time. He's already told Vivian he'll be missing from the morning staff meeting, but he can't help but wonder what others would do if they're not clearing all of their activities with the Children of Dzemekys with their boss.

"Perhaps it's a way of testing your commitment," Jote guessed when they discussed it. "If you're more concerned with keeping your job than joining the group, then they don't want you there, anyway."

She's not going to be with him this time, as she has never proven her commitment in their eyes. Usually, they can rely on each other to notice things the other missed: Joshua gets pulled aside for private conversations that Jote isn't privy to, while she can keep her distance and more easily monitor the group as a whole while he's distracted trying to convince Sleipnir and the other members of his sincerity.

He's surprised by how nervous he is to be in a private session at Dzemekys without her. There will be no one to rely on but himself to remember everything he sees and hears.

Slowly, he sits up in his bed. His chest feels tight but not enough to be a problem. He's cold, but he usually is in the winter. His head hurts and he's still drowsy, but that happened last time he was on this anti-emetic, too, and it will go away eventually. It's like he's just replacing one side effect for another until he lands on ones that will be mild enough to allow him to get through the day.

With a sigh, Joshua crawls out of bed. Torgal's with Clive today, so it's just him for his morning routine: the spoonful of peanut butter, half of his breakfast, then the anti-fibrotic pills and the anti-emetic at the same time, and then as much as he can manage of the rest of his food. It's not as much as it should be, so he packs a couple of the dense protein bars Clive left on his counter to take with him.

The day's barely begun, and his muscles are already aching. He hasn't been back to Dzemekys in a week, but the thought of listening to Sleipnir pull apart his words and trying not to let the rampant fire worship bother him is enough to make him tired already.

He wishes Jote were going to be there with him.

As if she can hear his thoughts, she messages him just as he's stepping out the door:

Jote [7:17 AM]
Text me when you're finished
Meet you in the library?
Don't let them get under your skin

Joshua [7:17 AM]
👍

---

The cold and the walk do not help. When Joshua opens the door to the prayer room that he's so far only glimpsed before, his headache hasn't faded, and the ache in his muscles has been exacerbated by shivering.

He barely notices the man standing next to Sleipnir at the front of the room until a voice behind him says, "The prophet. Barnabas."

Benedikta Harman stands by the door, holding out her hand. Next to her is a box that contains several phones.

"Leave it here," she says, wiggling her fingers. "It's to ensure that you're not distracted by outside disturbances. This is meant to be a time to focus on what truly matters."

For a long moment, it's as though Joshua can't compute what's being asked of him. His head hurts, and he can barely remember the last time someone tried to take his phone away from him. Not only does he rely on it for work now, but Clive had a strict rule when he was younger that it was to be on him at all times, in case of emergencies, and the instinct to hold onto it has stuck.

Benedikta raises her eyebrows. "Did you hear me?"

"Erm," Joshua says.

There's no particular reason to think someone here can or will hack his phone—he doesn't think that kind of thing just happens the way it does in movies—but his email is full of reports to Vivian and exchanged notes with Jote. His textsare full of messages with Jote, who is a worrywart. If she checks in with him and it pops up on the screen...

He glances at the prophet again. While Sleipnir wears his white-blond hair in a braid and is smiling faintly, as always, the other man is dark-haired and wears a somber expression. He's older, perhaps in his fifties, old enough to be Sleipnir's father, and is dressed entirely in black, like he's trying to fade into the shadows. They're a study in opposites, standing next to each other.

If there's someone who is truly behind everything going on here, it's this man. Joshua can't protest. If Jote thinks that skiving off work is their idea of a gentle test of commitment, then refusing to give up his phone will surely smack of a lack of trust.

In his pocket, he turns off his phone by touch and hands it over. "Right, yes," he says, coughing into his mask and rubbing his hands together in an attempt to warm them. "I'm not sure I'm entirely awake yet. It's Benedikta, right?"

"Yes," she drawls, and raises an eyebrow, gesturing until he hands her his bag, too, to keep in the closet at the front of the room with his coat. He keeps his notebook at work or at home, thankfully, and his laptop is locked. He'll just keep the closet in sight while he's in the room. "And you're Joshua." There's a lilt to her words, like she's mocking him, and Joshua feels his face warm for no particular reason.

For all that he was worried about how good Sleipnir is at finding his weaknesses and pressing on them, he can't help wishing that he were talking to Sleipnir now instead of Benedikta. At least Sleipnir's presence is familiar and, admittedly, even comforting at times.

"This is your first time, isn't it, Joshua?" Benedikta says. She's speaking quietly, nearly in a whisper. A few heads have turned to look at them—Joshua recognizes Randal and Margot—before turning back around. They're all kneeling in a semi-circle on the hard floor, though some of them are chatting softly as well. Is this some sort of prayer circle?

"Afraid so," he says, matching her volume. "I don't really know what I'm supposed to do here."

Benedikta curls a hand around his arm. "Not to worry, little lamb. We'll guide you."

Joshua eyes the hand on his arm. She has a very strong grip, not unlike Jote. "I've never seen the prophet around here before," Joshua says. "His name, you said, was Barnabas...?"

"The prophet severed all of his bonds of consciousness years ago," she says. She does not offer a surname. "He prefers to isolate himself from the outside world."

"Oh," Joshua says, bemused. "Okay."

"You understand, don't you?" Benedikta says. She steps abruptly closer, and her hand tightens around his arm. "The prophet guides us as we follow God's path. It is important that he be untainted by those who do not understand the teachings so that he may remain pure."

Joshua blinks. He's never understood why the prophet is so secretive—other than, perhaps, to create a division between those in the group and those without, as Jote would say—but it makes sense in light of the things Sleipnir talks about. If they truly believe one has to cut ties with others to allow the true self to be revealed, then the prophet would be no exception. It seems that he's even stricter than the rest of them about remaining 'pure.'

"I understand," he says. "Like Garuda said, isn't it? 'Let us be free of our bonds and open our hearts only to God.'" There's a twitch in her brow, like she's surprised but trying not to show it. "I don't have anyone to tell about..." He gestures around them. "...this, anyway."

Benedikta regards him curiously, then smiles, a tiny curl of her lips. "All right," she says, and finally lets go. "Go and join the circle."

Still uncertain, Joshua creeps toward the circle of kneeling people—these are the true Children of Dzemekys, he supposes, the ones who have really dedicated themselves to the religion—looking for an open space. He feels oddly like he's in school again, trying to find a seat at a table that won't disturb the wrong clique.

To his relief, Randal shifts to one side. "Joshua, join us," he says, gesturing.

Joshua nods gratefully and lowers himself carefully to the floor, coughing as bending over presses on his lungs. The floor is cement, hard and already uncomfortable on his knees, but then, he probably shouldn't have expected physical comfort from a cult that's obsessed with the idea that suffering is necessary for the true self to be revealed.

Only when he's on his knees does he finally take the time to look around. It's an austere room, all hard floor with nothing but a pattern of circles etched into it. There are no windows, and the walls are bare. There's a statue on a raised platform, a featureless humanoid figure with four arms, carved all over with the same pattern of circles that's etched into the floor.

"Is that...the form of God?" Joshua asks Randal in an undertone.

"It represents His dual nature," Randal explains. "With one set of hands, He gives life; with the other, death. But that's not His form."

"No?"

Randal shakes his head. "When mankind is ready, one will appear who can embody the light of God and speak with His voice. We call him Mythos—the one who will rise and save us all."

Joshua forces himself to turn back to study the statue. It's the first mention time he's heard the Children of Dzemekys speak of a savior. The messaging in the support groups has been about examining oneself and cutting off relationships that are deemed destructive. Salvation is something different.

Barnabas stands in front of the statue, gazing up at at it. Arrayed behind him are Sleipnir, Benedikta, and a man Joshua doesn't recognize who stands a head and shoulders taller than either of the other two. He's thick with muscle, the kind of physique that makes him look like a professional athlete. Joshua wonders if he is supposed to be a guard. He wonders if perhaps all three of them are.

Leaning close to Randal, Joshua asks quietly, "Who is that?"

"Benedikta," the other man tells him. "She often leads the discussion of the Scriptures. Hugo"—Randal nods to the tall, thickset man—"joins her, sometimes."

"Hugo...?" Joshua probes.

"Hugo Kupka," Randal fills in. He lowers his voice further. "He was a soldier—a prisoner of war. God came to him and showed him the way home, and he found his way to us."

Joshua's fingers twitch, itching for a pen and notebook.

There's no more time to ask more, though, because Barnabas steps forward until he's at the center of their semicircle.

"Welcome, Children," says Barnabas. His voice is not loud, but the room falls completely silent. "We gather here to show our devotion to God and to His message. We begin with a few minutes of silence so that each of us may pray."

Okay. So this is a worship meeting as much as a study session. Joshua looks surreptitiously around the circle and sees the others with their hands clasped and heads bowed. Benedikta, Sleipnir, and Hugo have closed their eyes and lowered their faces, too. Feeling silly—he's not really sure how one is meant to pray—Joshua imitates them.

A few minutes feels like an eternity when it passes in stillness and silence. He can hear the quiet sounds of breathing around him, of cloth as people shift minutely in place.

When he becomes bored, Joshua thinks, tentatively, experimentally: Hello? God?

To his mild relief, he receives no response. In any case, Joshua has no desire to be visited with a vision of talking flames or something—although, if he were visited thus, it would probably go some way to working his way up the ranks of the Children.

"Long ago," Barnabas says, which Joshua takes as a sign that he can open his eyes again, "God granted man the gift of fire, and with that gift he built great civilizations. But over time, man lost sight of the gift's true meaning, stepping from the path of shared prosperity to one of avarice."

"Omega," says one person, a man Joshua doesn't recognize.

"Omega was the first," the prophet says, "but not the last. Over and over—like the turning of a wheel, for men have always been weak. Ever seeking power, they turn time and again upon themselves—upon each other." Murmurs of agreement rise from the circle.

Joshua shivers. There's something almost hypnotic about Barnabas: the weight of his conviction is palpable in every word he speaks. They're talking about the Book of the Fallen, perhaps, or the Book of Eschaton, the ones that are most clearly about the failures of humanity.

"Yet there are some who refuse to turn their eyes from the heavens," Barnabas says. "We who see God's light pray that He might lead us back to righteousness, for the gates of Paradise shall open to the worthy." He gestures around the room. "We gave ourselves unto him, and in return, He has blessed us with an understanding of the world that those around us do not perceive. As a youth, the Lord spoke to me through the flames, and in His mercy, He pledged that He would take pity on His flawed creations and see us restored to our proper forms."

Margot murmurs, "So it was said," a sentiment echoed by a handful of other voices.

Joshua's bony knees are starting to feel like they'll bruise, if they haven't already. The room feels cold, an odd contrast to all of the talk about flames, and he can't stop shivering. It's making his headache worse, and listening to a man talk about how worthless all of humankind is... It's not very helpful.

Who is Barnabas? Sleipnir mentioned that the prophet was from Twinside originally, though he must have lived in Waloed for many years. When he says that God spoke to him through the flames, is he being literal? All of them came here because of something traumatic that happened to them. Surely Barnabas is no exception.

Joshua must zone out for a bit, because he's jolted back to attention when Benedikta steps forward to say, her voice clear and carrying, "As a child, I gave myself into God's service. I stood before Him in a storm, and through the wind, He showed me a vision of what was to pass. I saw a king order the deaths of his own people to serve his ambition. Brother betrayed brother for gold; children cried as their mothers and fathers turned from them."

A glance around the room shows that no one seems surprised by the idea that someone other than 'the prophet' has had divine visions. What sets Barnabas apart, then—is he the only one who speaks directly to God in some deeper way? Or do they put him above others because he founded the movement, or because he leads it now?

"The hearts of men grew proud, and their pride was as a flame that consumed their souls," Barnabas recites. "Greed swelled as a great fire, and love was cast aside like the dry wood of forgotten forests. We learn from the Book of Eschaton that these are among the signs of the coming end."

"There have been other signs, too," calls out another unfamiliar man, and Sleipnir nods approvingly at him. "The Blight: isn't that a plague that's covered the whole world with fever? And the earth's heating up—it's like the world itself is sick."

"Like the Blight has taken root in the earth itself," Benedikta chimes in.

"And the wildfires in Tabor last month," adds another member. "I've read the statistics. In the last few years, there have been almost five times as many uncontrolled wildfires in Storm as there were forty years ago, and it's still increasing. And two volcano eruptions in Haearann in the last five years? That's not normal."

Benedikta spreads her arms. "You have all seen the signs, have you not?"

As Joshua watches her, he becomes aware of eyes on him and glances to her side. For a second that becomes two, then five, then ten, Barnabas makes eye contact with him. Is he doing something wrong?

But around the circle, people begin to talk, and Joshua looks away again. "I work in the mayor's office," says a young woman. "Her office has been taken over completely by fear—fear of losing power in the upcoming election. The corruption among her people is exactly what's described in the Scriptures—and like what God showed you, Benedikta."

Another speaks up: "The destruction of Audhyl last year, and Glorieuse. No one has seen storms of that size in over two hundred years. These are cities full of people who worship a false god or who believe in nothing at all. Isn't this the God of creation showing His anger as the end approaches?"

Joshua has to stop himself from reacting visibly to this. He didn't cover either of those storms last year, but Audhyl is not far from where he grew up in Rosalith, and the whole-scale destruction of its docks and much of the rest of the city by a typhoon was a tragedy of a scale rarely seen before in the state. Even at the time, there were followers of the Greagorian church who proclaimed that it was caused by their own goddess displaying Her wrath against non-believers, until the city where a major Greagorian church was centered was hit by another devastating storm only a month later.

One person, though, says, "I was talking to my friend, who works in public health, and she said that they predicted the Blight years ago by, I dunno, tracking viruses or something. How do we know it wasn't just a natural phenomenon—maybe it wasn't God, but—"

"And God does not have power over viruses?" Beneditkta asks. There are a few titters of laughter from the Children in the circle.

"No, but I mean," the speaker says, "I feel that we should still have hope. Plagues have happened in the past, and they don't always mean that the end is coming. Maybe this is just a natural occurrence."

"Realizing that the end is approaching can be frightening," Sleipnir speaks up for the first time. His voice is bright, clear and ringing. "I'm not surprised that others, like your friend, are reluctant to accept the truth—though I admit I am disappointed to see the same fear in you, Elise. When God first appeared to the people of Gloer, they were afraid, too. It was Garuda who had the courage to see the truth of the world. We must follow examples like hers, Elise, not those of the fearful masses."

The woman, Elise, seems to shrink where she sits. "I...I am fearful, I guess, but it's not that," she says. "It's just, how do we know? Maybe—"

"Maybe," Benedikta says, "you haven't truly come to believe in our Lord's plan. Is that right, Elise?"

Elise visibly gulps. "No," she says weakly. "I just meant—"

"Let's talk outside," Sleipnir says and he steps toward her, his hand held out—pointing toward the door. "Perhaps I was hasty; perhaps when your faith is stronger, you will be able to see His hand. But we don't want to take the rest of our brothers and sisters' time."

Joshua follows the woman with his eyes as she stands and meekly lets Sleipnir escort her from the room. Is this some sort of exile, or a demotion? No one else watches her leave, as though they're trying to avoid looking at her. He tears his gaze away, too.

One by one, the Children of Dzemekys speak about what they've seen as signs that the end of the world is approaching. This is one of their core teachings, then: the broken world, the coming judgement and destruction. Joshua watches the attention in the room come closer and closer to him as each person in the circle speaks, until suddenly, all of them are looking at him, waiting.

"I," Joshua says, and coughs into his mask.

He's still freezing, cold seeping through the floor to his legs, but he can feel himself sweating, too, as he looks up and meets Barnabas's eyes again. Sleipnir, still standing quiet, gives him a small smile and nods. Maybe this is a test, too. From Elise's example, balking here will not bode well for his standing in the group.

Taking a breath, Joshua improvises, "I'm a journalist, and my brother's a firefighter, so I end up covering a lot of fires. There have been more in the last few months than in years past, and I've also covered two separate building collapses in Old Twinside recently. The Book of Eschaton talks about the burning of the cities, the crumbling of what man has built. Isn't that what's happening to us?"

"Indeed," Barnabas says approvingly, even though Joshua knows that the Children were directly responsible for at least some of those recent fires. Whether they were actively encouraged by Barnabas and his lieutenants or they were rogue members who took all the talk of doom and salvation too seriously, they're fulfilling their own prophecy.

That's the crux of it, perhaps. There's a prophecy they believe in, and they need it to be real, or else they've been believing a lie. There's a lot that people would do in order to believe that they're on the side of right.

When everyone gathered on the floor has spoken and no one else seems to have anything to add, Hugo Kupka speaks for the first time in a low, rumbling voice: "We've all seen a glimpse of our future. But we, like the Warrior of ancient Dzemekys, carry God's light. Through us, He will test His vessel."

"Mythos," someone murmurs.

Barnabas holds up a hand, and the whispers fall into silence. "It is the duty of every Child of Dzemekys to prepare Mythos for his ascension," he says. "We are the ones who must find him, guide him, and test him, that his immaculate aspect may reveal itself. Only then may God bring about the destruction of this world and the creation of His next. The end and the beginning; death and new life. Where one leads, the other must follow. This is the nature of Mythos."

Whispers ripple around the circle once more: Mythos, Mythos. A few of the Children bow their heads nearly to the floor. Joshua accidentally meets Barnabas's eyes again: the prophet is watching him. Mythos, he mouths, along with the rest, and fixes his eyes on the statue.

---

Joshua doesn't dare look at his watch, for fear he'll seem inattentive. He thinks there's about an hour more of listening to portents, prayers, and vague admonitions to prepare, to stand firm, to serve God, to resist those who fear the truth.

It's hard to know for sure, though, because after that amount of time shivering on his knees, coughing with increasing frequency the longer he kneels here, he's realizing the headache and the aching joints are not just the vague malaise that sometimes comes from the medication he's been taking for nausea. It's only been about two months since his last respiratory infection, but it's the season for colds and flus, and he's been spending a lot of time in crowded spaces.

He's not actually paying attention anymore by the time he notices people rising to their feet around him. He'll have to apologize to Jote for zoning out for the last bit; there was at least once when he thinks he was supposed to say something—offer a prayer, or comment on what the last person said—and only blinked blearily at Barnabas before Sleipnir smoothly moved things along. Fortunately, a few people have lingered, still praying with their heads lowered or silently contemplating the statue representing God, so Joshua doesn't stand out too much when he's left unsure of how to unfold his legs and stand back up without tipping over.

When a pair of shoes stops in front of him, he thinks, at first, that it's Sleipnir, who always makes it a point after support group meetings to check on members who struggled during the session. To his disappointment—though he should be thrilled—it's Barnabas.

"Hello," Joshua says. He cranes his head upward, but the angle irritates something in his throat and makes him cough. He's definitely getting sick. "Er...Prophet."

"Call me Barnabas," the man says, and drops into a crouch in front of him.

"Nice to meet you," Joshua says.

"And you," Barnabas says.

He's a terse man, it seems, outside of his sermons. "I'm sorry," Joshua says. His voice is beginning to sound raspy. "I know I lost focus at the end, there. I think I'm coming down with something. You might want to keep your distance."

Instead, to his surprise, Barnabas reaches out and cups a cool hand around his cheek. Joshua freezes. It's strange, and too intimate. Joshua has a lot of friends—or a large network, whatever, Clive—but no one except his brother and Jill touch him like this. Not since their father died and they left their mother, anyway.

"Yes," Barnabas says, which Joshua supposes, with a sinking feeling, is confirmation that he's already got a touch of fever. The prophet takes his hand away. "I know who you are, Joshua Rosfield. The fire has never truly left you, has it?"

Joshua shivers again. He likes to think it's just the fever. "I...suppose it hasn't," he says. Sleipnir must have told Barnabas about him.

He shifts uncomfortably, wincing as he drops to sit properly, relieving his knees. He lets out a breath, only for it to catch in his chest. It feels tight when he coughs. Barnabas watches him, unmoving.

"Do you know when?" he asks. Barnabas cocks his head to the side, questioning. "The end, from the Book of Eschaton. Do you know when it will come?"

"It won't be long," Barnabas says. "But the end is also another beginning, for all of us."

"What do you think happens," he asks before he can second-guess himself, "after the end? You spoke of Paradise. Is Paradise...is it here, on earth? Or...?"

"All bodies die; it's not our bodies that matter," Barnabas says bluntly. His gaze is unwavering, his voice flat. He doesn't claim to be some sort of minister, like Sleipnir, who counsels and comforts by turns; he is, as Benedikta said, a conduit to the divine. All he is is the truth—or, at least, his version of it. "Only the body of Mythos will remain at the end: the one true vessel of God."

Joshua nods, like he understands all of this and doesn't think it sounds crazy. "How will we know who Mythos is? I mean...do you think it's..." He gestures around them. "Someone here?"

The door to the room shuts with a soft thud. Without Joshua's having noticed, the rest of the Children have filed out. The prophet's full attention is now fixed on him alone, and it's more than a bit unnerving.

"All of us have lived through a trial, and though we may emerge from it, it has broken all of us—unmade us," Barnabas says. Joshua feels his own hand creep up to the scar on his chest. Barnabas's eyes flick down to his chest, too, and then back up. "Mythos alone may walk through the fire and remain unscathed: the phoenix emerging from the ashes. He will be tested and found true."

"Well, we know it's not me, then," Joshua jokes.

Barnabas smiles faintly. "Your suffering still has a purpose. This world will end, Joshua, and there is a balance. To some of us, the Flame brings death; to others, life. Mythos is the ultimate expression of life and death—the ultimate act of God."

"Right," he says, though he doesn't think that answered his question about how they're supposed to pick out who God's earthly vessel is.

Perhaps Barnabas can tell, because he explains, "When you're ready, you will know him. But for now, you're ill. You should rest."

Barnabas stands and holds out a hand. Joshua accepts it and lets himself be helped to his feet.

---

As soon as his phone is returned to him, Joshua powers it on, tapping through his apps and email and messages, as though he'd be able to tell if someone broke into it. He didn't see anyone lingering in the closet where all of their belongings were shoved before the session, other than to pick up their own things again. He'll just have to assume that taking his phone away was simply what it appears on the surface: a way to put aside distractions.

Jote [9:30 AM]
Is it still going?

Just in case, though, he changes Jote's name in his contacts to something innocuous that the Children wouldn't link to her. He doesn't want them to see her name pop up on his phone in a notification banner.

Joshua [9:47 AM]
Just walked out
Sorry can we debrief another time? Or remote
I'm not feeling well, going to WFH

Partner [9:48 AM]
Did something happen?

Joshua [9:48 AM]
No just caught a bug, don't want to spread a plague at work

Partner [9:48 AM]
Where are you? I can meet you
Let me at least see you up your stairs at home

Joshua [9:48 AM]
No need I'm ok prmise 🙂
I'll send you notes

Partner [9:51 AM]
Just take care of yourself
Feel better
Txt me if you need anything

Joshua [10:37 AM]
Update
My lift is fixed
🎉🎉
So don't worry about me

---

Joshua [10:42 AM]
Did you blackmail my landlord or something???

Jill [11:01 AM]
Does that mean your lift was repaired?

Joshua [11:02 AM]
Yes
Jill
Jill

Jill [11:05 AM]
Sometimes you just have to push people
Tell me next time

Joshua [11:05 AM]
🙏❤️🙏❤️🙏❤️🙏❤️

---

When Joshua gets home, he spends some time exporting a record of all his texts with Jote. He saves it to his computer and—after a quick scan to make sure there's nothing too personal in their exchanges—which there is not—adds it to the next update he'll send to Vivian. Then he deletes the conversation from his device and does the same with their emails. Maybe it's paranoid, but it's unnerving to put his phone into someone else's hands, especially when it's someone he's investigating. The next time he's at Dzemekys, he doesn't want there to be anything suspicious immediately available on his phone.

In any case, Joshua does manage to convince Jote by text that he'll survive on his own.

His brother takes more work.

Clive shows up with Torgal at half past three—earlier than he usually comes to drop off the dog—and immediately knows something is wrong. This is probably because Joshua is napping on the couch at the time, buried in two layers of blankets, instead of working.

"It's just a cold," Joshua croaks when he wakes to his brother's frowning face hovering over him. He frees an arm to bat at Clive.

"You don't know that," Clive says.

"It's very likely," Joshua says, and immediately ruins it by coughing. "That's a normal cough, I'm just trying to get up," he promises.

Clive finally backs away enough to let him sit up. "I can call out next shift," he says, pressing his wrist to Joshua's forehead.

Torgal squeezes between them to sniff at Joshua, who reaches down sluggishly to scratch his head. The ache is in his bones now. "Hi, boy," he says. "You're going to keep me company, right? So Dad doesn't have to?" He raises his eyebrows at Clive.

"Joshua..."

"Brother, I'm not going to die in two days," Joshua says, and Clive flinches.

He doesn't mean it in reference to the countdown that he can feel hovering over his own head; he just means that Clive can't upend his life every time Joshua feels sick. But it was careless of him, because every time he has an infection, Clive does worry, at least a little, that this will be the one that kills him. He must be worrying even more now.

"I mean," Joshua says apologetically, catching Clive by the arm. "I'm okay, Clive. You're my brother, not my nurse."

"I have PTO saved up," Clive says, like he didn't hear any of that.

"So save it for when you need it," Joshua says, and, when Clive opens his mouth, "or for when I actually need it. I'm still okay right now. Don't put your job at risk for a little cold."

Clive's eyes slip away from Joshua's; he glares at the kitchen. "We could...talk to Mother," he says reluctantly.

Joshua blinks at him. His eyes feel hot and dry; maybe his fever is already worse than he thought, because there's no way Clive just said what it sounded like. "What did you say?"

"I don't want you worrying about my job," Clive says to the space over Joshua's shoulder, "or yours, if...if you ever need to go to part-time. Or less. Mother...she would still support you, I think, financially, if...if she knew. I can talk to her."

"No," Joshua says.

Clive meets his eyes again. "What do you mean, 'no'?"

"I mean I don't want you talking to her."

"You don't want me talking to her," Clive echoes, brows drawing together in confusion.

Joshua squeezes his brother's arm. "I don't want you listening to her," he amends quietly.

With his free hand, Clive cups a hand around Joshua's too-warm cheek. "Joshua," he says, "have you not been calling her because of me?"

"No," Joshua says, and it's not entirely a lie. "No, I...I'll call her. Wait, that's not the point. Clive, I'm not worried about your job because I need you to support me. I haven't become a complete invalid in the last week just because you know..." He still doesn't really know how to say it without making Clive upset, so he presses a hand to his chest instead, shorthand. "Don't treat me like I'm going to break all of a sudden. Look, you stocked my medicine cabinet. You know I have everything I could need."

"Do you know what drugs you can take safely?" Clive asks. "You're on two new medications right now."

Joshua pauses at this. He hadn't considered that.

"Call your doctor," Clive says. He picks up Joshua's phone from the coffee table, hands it over, and crosses his arms. He waits.

Joshua calls Dr. Margrace's office, on speaker so Clive can hear it when the doctor tells him what drugs he can take for a fever or for pain when the coughing inevitably gets bad, then confirms that there's no reason for Joshua to do anything but stay home, hydrate, and rest, unless things take a turn.

"I want you on oxygen when you sleep, as a precaution," the doctor says, "and any other time you feel the slightest need for it. You can't get addicted to oxygen, Joshua. At your stage, the only real reason not to use it is that it's cumbersome to move the unit around with you, but you should be mostly resting while you're ill, anyway. Monitor your blood oxygen saturation frequently, and call immediately if you feel short of breath or it drops below ninety at rest."

The doctor sounds fairly calm otherwise, and when Joshua hangs up, he says, "See? It's fine."

Clive still doesn't look satisfied. "I don't like being away for so long," he says.

"What, at work, for forty-eight hours? It's been like this for fifteen years."

"I don't like it," Clive says again.

Joshua rubs his eyes. "Clive. Brother. I'm not a child. I don't need a minder."

At this, Clive sits down on the couch next to him. He covers his face with his hands, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees, and suddenly, Joshua can't find it in himself to be even a little bit annoyed. "I'm just," Clive says, and pauses, breathing deeply. "I'm really tired."

An alarm bell sounds in the back of Joshua's head. It's not the first time in the last few months he's heard Clive say that, and Clive wouldn't say it aloud unless he were really on the edge of burnout. It's a dangerous state for a firefighter to be in, not least because Joshua suspects it's not just physical fatigue that he means.

And now Joshua finds himself with an uncomfortable conundrum. He could suggest that Clive quit his other job, to take more time to rest in between shifts, but he knows better than he wants to admit that Clive is happier when he's at Otto's, with Cid and Gav and the rest.

Joshua's wished for years, silently, that Clive would quit being a firefighter for a profession—any profession—that's less likely to get him killed or trigger his anxieties. At the same time, he doesn't want Clive to quit doing a job he's objectively brilliant at just because he's worried about leaving his brother alone for two days at a time. He doesn't want to encourage Clive to keep doing a deeply dangerous and traumatizing job, and he also can't ask him to leave it.

"Have you talked to Dorys about it?" Joshua says finally.

Clive reacts to this the way Joshua expected. "Of course not. I can do my job." Mental health is not an easy topic for people in his profession, who can be taken off duty for their own safety and others' if they're deemed unfit for the work. "It's not that. Two days just feels like too long. I don't know if I want to keep doing this. Last time you were sick, you got worse really suddenly."

Joshua puts a hand on Clive's back. "I know," he says, as calmly as he can, "and two days really is too long. It's an unreasonable amount of time for a crew of people to be on alert. Trust me, I know that. But I don't want you doing anything rash because of me."

His brother laughs, a quick, incredulous sound, and Joshua remembers that all of the rashest decisions Clive has ever made have been because of him.

"I don't want to be a burden on you," Joshua says softly.

"God, Joshua," Clive says into his hands. "You don't understand."

"Listen," Joshua says. He rubs his hand across his brother's broad back. "Take time off if you need it. And if you're not going to take a break—a real break, where you rest—then you need to go home tonight and get some sleep before your shift tomorrow. But whatever you do, don't do it for me. The doctor's not worried; you heard him. I get sick sometimes, Clive. It happens. You can't make a big deal of it every time."

Clive stays where he is for another minute, then sits up. He doesn't look at Joshua. "Text me how you're doing while I'm gone," he demands, which means he's going to concede.

"I will," Joshua says. "I'll have Torgal with me. If something goes wrong, I'll call..." He hesitates.

Maybe he doesn't have that many friends, after all. He has a professional network, and he couldn't call most of them for help of a personal nature.

"Jill's out of town," Clive says.

"Dion, then, if it's an emergency."

This seems to mollify Clive a bit. Even if he didn't spend much time talking to Dion at their house, he does seem to trust Terence, who would, at least, know how to respond to someone in respiratory distress. "If he doesn't answer, call Hanna and Rodney," Clive insists. "Promise me."

"All right, I promise. Cli-ive," Joshua says, threading the best wheedling tone he can into his voice when it's already starting to sound scratchy, "since you're here, will you cook me dinner? And then go home after we eat so you can get up early." Being helpful—being asked for help—always makes Clive feel better.

Clive sighs, but he only delays long enough to find a thermometer and drop it in Joshua's lap before he goes to the kitchen to dig around in the refrigerator. Knowing him, he's going to prepare two whole days' worth of food. Joshua pats the couch, inviting Torgal up, and then hugs his dog as he obediently takes his temperature.

Chapter Text

1. And lo, the inferno that sweeps across the earth shall consume all it touches, and the towers built by men shall crumble into dust.
2. So it came to pass that the people saw the fire rise and trembled, for they had known only its wrath.

- Scriptures of the Risen, Book of Garuda

*****

The next day is shit. It's very shit.

Joshua's cough is no longer his normal cough when he wakes up in the morning; it's burrowed deep into his lungs and refuses to leave. Torgal lies next to him on the bed, a warm bulwark of solid muscle and fur. Joshua tries to press closer to share the body heat, but something pulls at his face and stops him.

It's the nasal canula. As soon as he remembers it, he feels it tugging on his ears and nose.

He hates it. It feels weird and constricting around his head. Oxygen doesn't smell like anything, but the plastic does, and it makes him feel like a person whose lungs are failing. Anytime someone sees him with it on, all possibility that they'll forget he's sick disappears.

Not that he has a choice. He can't deny that using oxygen after work, after walking from the subway and then struggling up the stairs, has helped over the last week or so. It means he's a tiny bit less tired afterward, and he can focus better on finishing an article or following up on some research without nodding off in the middle. Eventually it will become not just helpful but necessary, so it's probably for the best that he begin getting used to it now.

With a groan, he rolls over the other way and pulls the canula off, untangling it from around his face. Torgal doesn't stir.

There's a text from Clive—who must have just arrived at work—reminding him to check his oxygen and his temperature. Joshua pulls his blankets higher and coughs, wincing at the soreness in his throat as he does. He snakes a hand out from beneath the blankets to reach for the thermometer and the pulse oximeter, whose batteries Clive changed last night when he was here.

Joshua [8:02 AM]
38.2 and 95
👍

Torgal lifts his head at the disturbance, yawning widely. Joshua pats him on the neck, grateful that Torgal can't catch the kind of the illnesses Joshua picks up.

Torgal does, however, need to be walked, so Joshua slides himself reluctantly out of bed, drinks as much as he can stand from the glass of water on the nightstand without feeling too nauseous, and pats his leg. "Here, Torgal, walk," he rasps, and the dog leaps immediately off the bed to stand before him, tail wagging eagerly.

He puts his mask on, because it's going to be freezing outside, and bundles himself into a coat and gloves. It's not going to be a long walk. He just needs to give Torgal a chance to do his business and then come back inside.

Thank god the lift is working again—or, rather, thank Jill. Joshua has no clue what she did to get it fixed. Though she tends not to let on to people, her father has been the head of the Northern Territories' ruling council for years, and she still has family connections she can draw on, including quite a lot of high-powered lawyers. Maybe she did extort the landlord somehow. He's not going to ask.

It still takes several minutes in the frosty morning air, and even outside, Joshua is coughing enough to draw sideways glances from passersby. Torgal must realize that he's sick, because he keeps turning around and trying to walk back to the building.

"I'm waiting on you," Joshua tells him in exasperation, as though the dog can understand, and walks insistently down the sidewalk until Torgal finally finds a spot on the grass and squats.

There's a dicey moment in which Joshua bends down to pick up the droppings, only for the motion to trigger a coughing fit that makes him lightheaded, half-bent over. Torgal presses against his legs, taking some of his weight as he crumples slowly to the sidewalk. Crouching over a pile of dog shit is not the most appealing place to be when he's feeling the way he is, but by the time he has it cleaned up and bagged, his head has cleared enough to try standing again.

"Brace," Joshua commands, and leans on Torgal to find his way to his feet on wobbly legs. "Good boy, Torgal. That's all I've got. Let's go home."

Once inside his flat again, there's nothing Joshua wants more than to collapse on his couch—which is closer than his bed—and bury himself in blankets. He promised Clive he could take care of himself, though, so he drags himself to the kitchen first, pours Torgal his breakfast, and gives him a treat for being the best dog in the world. While Torgal eats and laps water messily out of his bowl, Joshua takes his pills. There's a collection of six now: three to slow the scar tissue in his lungs, one to fend off nausea, one for fever and another to ease the pain of coughing on his throat. He has a feeling that that number will only be increasing.

When he's finished most of one of the light, bland meals Clive left for him, he takes his computer and one of the electrolyte drinks Jill brought him back to his bedroom, eases back under the covers, and tries to finish typing out his notes on the session at Dzemekys yesterday: Barnabas, Benedikta, and the visions they professed to have; Hugo Kupka and the little Randal told him about the former soldier; the unshakeable belief that the end of the world is coming, not just someday but soon; the signs of the end times that the Children seem to be collecting; the way Sleipnir chastised the one woman, Elise, who raised an opposing view; the mention of Mythos.

Torgal flops down on the bed with him. He's a cuddler, Torgal is, but he becomes more so whenever Joshua is sick, like he's on guard or acting as a living blanket. Joshua takes a second to scratch fondly behind Torgal's ears before continuing.

He prioritizes jotting down details before he forgets them; he'll organize it all later and add additional thoughts. That's a good thing, because he doesn't last long before his head is pounding and the words swimming on the screen, and his whole body is nothing more than a network of sore joints. His eyes are trying to close.

That's fine. He knows this routine. He needs to rest. If he can sleep the whole day, it's probably for the best. He puts his computer aside, sets an alarm, turns on the oxygen concentrator, and fits the nasal canula to his face again before lying down.

---

Trying to sleep is like lying in a hot, muggy puddle of molasses. Every movement feels like it's dragging through something thicker than air, and every time he drops off for more than a few minutes, he wakes himself coughing. He's cold and also sweating; his head throbs and his chest and throat are sore, and, for a confused moment in either a dream or a half-waking state, he thinks he's pinned down by something stabbing through his ribcage.

He's pulled to full wakefulness when the weight on the bed shifts. The warmth at his side disappears, and Joshua turns his head. He frowns. Torgal's gone.

Claws click against the floor outside. Was Torgal disturbed by someone at the door? Did Clive come back after all?

But when he hears a voice, it's not from outside his flat. It's coming from just outside the bedroom door, and it's not Clive.

"Hello, you magnificent boy," whispers a voice that Joshua, still half-asleep, can't place. It certainly doesn't belong to anyone who should be in his home, though. "All right, all right, calm down. Where's your little brother?"

What?

Confused and alarmed, Joshua pushes himself as quietly as he can into a sitting position on arms that feel like limp noodles, although what he'll do when he finds the intruder in his flat, he has no earthly idea. The change in position makes his head feel like it's about to squeeze itself into a tiny ball and then float away, and something is pulling on his—

Dammit. The canula again. He tugs it away from his face and is still trying to unhook it from around his ears when he's seized by a deep, rattling cough that ruins any chance he had of somehow avoiding notice by whoever broke into his home.

Torgal trots back into the room and turns to look back, tail wagging. So much for being on guard, Joshua thinks as he presses a hand to his chest and pants for breath. He swings his legs over the side of the bed—but what is he going to do, run? He's still tangled in the thin plastic tubing, and he couldn't sprint down the hall on a good day—

A tall figure peeks around the doorframe. "Joshua?" says the man, no longer whispering.

Joshua stares, no less confused than he was ten seconds ago. It's Cid, Clive's boss or beau or whatever. He's wearing a T-shirt that says 'Otto's Auto,' and he is, for some reason, standing in Joshua's flat.

"What," Joshua says. He swallows. Is this some sort of weird fever dream? "What are you—"

It's enough to set off the coughing again. This time, Torgal steps close and licks the hand he has clenched weakly on the side of the bed before putting his paws up on the nightstand to get his jaws around Joshua's phone.

"Break, Torgal, relax," Cid says, and, to Joshua's dismay, his dog turns traitor and stops trying to bring him his phone. It doesn't matter that Joshua would have said the same thing if he weren't trying to hack up his remaining somewhat-functional lung. That's not the point. The point is that Torgal is not Cid's dog, and Cid doesn't get to tell him when Joshua does or doesn't need help.

Also, this room is not Cid's room, and the moment Joshua regains enough breath and finally frees himself of the canula, he gasps, "How did you...get in?"

"Clive's got a spare key in his flat," Cid says. He hasn't moved from the doorway, where he's leaning casually against the frame. "He said he hadn't heard from you all day and asked me to check on you and the dog."

Joshua blinks. There's...layers to all of that that he needs to peel through, but his brain doesn't want to do it just now, so he does the next best thing and grabs his phone.

It's late afternoon. He's sleep-coughed most of the day away, and he has a missed text from his brother at nine-thirty reminding him to stay hydrated, then another at eleven asking if the cough's gotten worse, and then two more from an hour ago asking him to check his oxygen levels. Clive's in the middle of a shift, so he can't do anything more than send increasingly anxious texts.

Groaning, Joshua mumbles, "I was sleeping."

"I can see that," Cid says easily. "Apologies for disturbing you." He doesn't move, though. "I'll talk to him. But text him back for now, will you? Put him out of his misery."

Joshua squeezes his eyes shut and opens them again. He feels like he's spent a whole day exercising instead of lying in bed. "He shouldn't've made you come," Joshua says. He unplugs the phone and stares at Clive's messages.

"It's no skin off my nose," Cid says, though he must have left work for this. He's allowed to, Joshua supposes, since he's one of the owners. Otto is probably going to be even more snippy with Joshua the next time they see each other. "I understand. It's hard to get an older brother off your back."

"You don't even like your brother," Joshua remembers, his thoughts jumbled. It's not a comparison that applies.

"Aye, my brother and I don't see eye to eye, but that hasn't stopped him from bothering me."

"I'm sorry Clive bothered you instead."

"Clive's just worried, lad. He's...having a rough week."

Guilt crashes over Joshua again, and he buries his face in his hands. He knows why his brother's been having a hard time, days after learning that Joshua's doctor thinks he should write a will soon, which he still hasn't done. Clive must have talked to Cid about it, during those long hours he's been spending at the garage, and Joshua doesn't know Cid well enough to guess whether that's a good thing. Does it mean Clive has someone he can open up to about these things, or will it sour their relationship by stacking burdens on top of it? Clive's making his boyfriend check on his little brother, and the dog, too, because if Joshua's not strong enough to get up and walk the dog, then the dog will not be walked.

Is that where he is now?

Joshua forces himself to raise his head. He might not know Cid well yet, but he knows his brother likes the man, and he doesn't want to be the reason for trouble between them, not unless it's deliberate. He holds onto Torgal as he makes it to his feet, catching the wall for balance. His legs don't particularly want to hold him, but they will. "Sorry for the trouble. I can text him and ask him not to bother you again."

"It's not a problem," Cid says. He straightens, too. "I don't mean to break in and then overstay my welcome, so I'll just take Torgal—"

"You're taking my dog away?" Joshua blurts, and, to his horror, he feels tears filling his eyes. If he focuses on staying upright, he'll be able to get Torgal downstairs long enough to piss, at least, surely. Not that that's enough exercise for a healthy dog in his prime, he supposes, but Torgal gets more exercise on the days Clive has him, when he can walk and run as far as he wants and play with the mechanics at Otto's sometimes.

God, maybe Joshua shouldn't be allowed to take care of the dog. Clive wants Torgal here to be able to help him, but Torgal's not a real service animal. Maybe that's not fair to him. Is Joshua a burden on his dog, too?

Cid holds up a hand. "I'm taking him on a walk," he says. "I'm not stealing him. I'll bring him right back. Unless you'd rather Otto and I take him off your hands for the—"

"No," Joshua says quietly, blinking rapidly. He always gets a bit soppy when he's sick. He sits back down on the bed and strokes the fur on the back of Torgal's neck.

As if on cue, his phone rings loudly in his lap.

Joshua silences it and holds it up, like it's proof that he's a responsible dog-father. "I set an alarm—I would have walked him."

"I believe you. May I?" Cid gestures toward him, and, upon receiving no protest, steps inside. Joshua can just manage to summon enough energy to be embarrassed about the pile of dirty laundry in the corner and the rumpled bed before Cid presses a hand to Joshua's forehead. It's quick, no-nonsense, not weird and lingering like when Barnabas touched him yesterday.

"You still have a fever," Cid says matter-of-factly, and crouches to pat Torgal on the flank. "I'm already here, so if I don't get a few minutes with this beautiful hound, it'll have been a wasted trip. I'll take him 'round the block, and in the meantime, you can take your temperature properly and text Clive. Drink some water; get some food in you if you can. Are you taking any meds?"

Reluctantly, Joshua lets Torgal go. "Yes. Did Clive give you a checklist of things to ask me, too?"

Cid smirks at him. "No, lad, but I've got children. I know a thing or two about colds. Come, Torgal. I won't be long," he calls back.

The door slams shut. Joshua stares at his bedroom wall. It was all so abrupt and strange that he would think he imagined it if it weren't for the fact that Torgal's gone.

On a walk. Just on a walk.

---

By the time Cid returns, Joshua has reported his temperature and blood oxygen saturation to Clive, who doesn't answer right away. He's probably saving someone's life at this very moment and stressed because his little brother didn't answer his texts.

Joshua does understand. Infections can hit him hard and fast, and he knows from the times it's happened that he's not very clear-headed when his oxygen levels drop too low. It's not actually unreasonable for Clive to be worried after he's failed to answer several texts. He's just not sure what to do about that.

He's better composed and settled onto the couch when the door opens again. Torgal lets Cid undo the harness and then leaps up onto the cushions. Joshua wraps an arm around him, stealing some of his warmth.

"I appreciate you doing this, Cid," Joshua says. His voice is still hoarse, but he's trickled some liquid down his throat and is hoping the cough will calm a bit and give his sore muscles a break. There's tea steeping on the table, one of the lemon ginger bags Dion and Terence gave him, already disgustingly sweet with honey. If that stays down, he'll try real food for dinner.

"Nothing to it," Cid says dismissively.

"I, er... It was very kind of you to come. If there's anything I can do..."

Cid's brow twitches. "I don't need a favor in return, if that's what you mean. Clive needed someone to stop by, and I had some time and access to his key. Simple as that."

Joshua presses a hand to his chest as a cough bubbles up despite his efforts. He closes his eyes, tired, but peels them open again quickly. Clive will ask Cid about him, so he has to look reasonably well.

"You doing all right?" Cid asks when he's done. To his credit, he's not inviting himself into Joshua's space now that the need for sneaking about is over, but looking at him standing in his coat at the door makes Joshua feel like a poor host, or like a child who doesn't know how to handle grown-up things in front of an adult.

Because, Joshua is reminded as he squints at Cid, the man is literally old enough to be his father. Clive's father, even, at a stretch, and Clive works for him.

"I'm fine," Joshua says, which is not a lie because the ways in which it's not true are obvious, and then, "Are you good to my brother?"

Cid's eyebrows rise. He kindly doesn't point out that he's only here as a favor to Clive. Instead, he says, "I try to be."

"Are you two serious?" Joshua presses. Perhaps it's the fever, or how completely awful he feels, or the fact that his O-2 saturation may have dipped between leaving the oxygen behind and doing his best to cough all of the air out of his chest. There was probably a better time to confront Cid, to really talk to him about this, but it's happening now, he supposes.

"If you have to ask me, perhaps it's not your business," Cid says.

"He's my brother."

"So ask him. I don't kiss and tell."

"But you're kissing?"

Cid folds his arms over his chest. "Do we have a problem?" he asks after a moment.

"It's just—he hasn't dated anyone in years," Joshua says, but that's not quite what he wants to say. "Does he talk to you about me?"

"I assure you: you're not the main topic of our conversations," Cid says with a smirk, but that's not a 'no.' The answer must be 'yes,' because Clive asked Cid to come here—Cid, not some other mutual acquaintance like Rodney or Hanna, or Gav—and Cid was able to do it because he had the keys to Clive's flat.

"And this past week?" Joshua asks. "Has the topic come up lately?"

The humor seeps away from Cid's face. They both know what he's asking. "Listen," he says, "don't blame him for it. He wasn't trying to betray your confidence or anything like—"

"I don't care about that," Joshua says. It's a good thing, he supposes, that Cid's reflex is to defend Clive's honor. "I mean. Does he let you comfort him?"

Cid is silent for a moment. "Sometimes," he says finally.

Joshua nods. His chest feels tight. "And you take care of him?"

"He's a grown man," Cid says. "He doesn't need someone to take care of him."

"He's thirty-three. That's still pretty young."

Too late, he realizes that this might sound like a jab at Cid's age. He does not at all want to imply that Cid should be taking care of Clive like he's a child, because that would be some sort of creepy.

But instead of offended, Cid looks suddenly sad. "Aye," he says. "You're both still young."

"He's been happier lately," Joshua says quietly. "He seems happier. That's because of you, I suppose."

"It's not that simple, lad," Cid says. "I do my best. He makes me happy, too."

Joshua sniffs and nods. "Does he let you take care of him?"

Cid sighs. "Sometimes," he says again. "We're...working on it."

"Clive is stubborn," Joshua says. His nose is running; he sniffs again. "It's the... Our parents, you know, they put all this pressure on him, and..." He shakes his head. He needs to focus. "You can't give up on him."

"The thought has never crossed my mind," Cid says.

The response is so immediate, so easy and assured, that Joshua's eyes sting with tears again. It's not ideal; he would have preferred to come off as being the slightest bit intimidating for this conversation, although this was, of course, the worst time for it if that was what he was hoping for.

But trying to intimidate his brother's boyfriend doesn't seem so important anymore. What's important is that he's going to be leaving Clive with Cid, and for all of Joshua's digging and suspicions, he hasn't found a thing to suggest Cid is anything but a man who will go out of his way for Clive. Perhaps Cid could be a good person to leave Clive with, after all.

"My doctor says I should prepare a will," Joshua hears himself say, because he's lost his mind, apparently, and can't stop thinking about everything and everyone he's going to leave behind.

And maybe a bit because Cid seems like a man who has his life together and who doesn't care much about Joshua personally, and thus he seems a safe person to ask. Cid uncrosses his arms but doesn't answer.

"You have a daughter," Joshua says. "You must have written one, in case...in case."

"I have," Cid says.

Joshua scrubs at his eyes. God, he's a mess; this is why he barricades himself in his flat when he's sick where no one but Clive and Jill can see him. "Do you... I don't know wh-where to start, but—"

It's too much for him, and he folds over again as his lungs try to expel whatever infection has settled into them.

He's a little bit lightheaded again when it passes, and his nose is too stuffed to breathe through. As a silver lining, though, his body doesn't understand how to start up a proper cry when he's struggling for breath, so the tears have been cut off at the pass.

A shadow falls over him. A box of tissues is set gently into his lap. Not wanting to look up, Joshua stares at it, following the box up to a hand, and then to a forearm etched with what looks like old burn scars. They even match, a bit, Joshua thinks, idiotic though the thought is. Clive has found himself a man who has scars to match the one he wears on his face.

"Here," Cid says. "Do you need your oxygen?"

Joshua shakes his head and tears his gaze away from Cid's scarred arm. "I'll use it when I go back to bed."

"Should you be there now?"

Rubbing his nose on a tissue, Joshua says, feeling ridiculous, "I want to try to eat something first."

"All right, that's good," Cid says, and he unceremoniously checks Joshua's temperature again. Joshua doesn't move except to stroke Torgal's head when the dog lies down on his lap. "You have food?"

Joshua nods. He wipes his eyes.

"You should go eat, then," Cid says. "There'll be a better time for the other conversation. It's better you just rest now. I can help you prepare something to eat, if you—"

"No," Joshua says. "I. I don't need it. You don't need to stay."

Cid looks down at him. "Do you want someone to stay?"

Joshua hates being treated like a child, but he feels very small right now, and Cid, for all that he's dating Joshua's brother, is a real adult where Joshua sometimes still feels like he's only playing pretend. Joshua earns a living and pays rent, but Cid has children and owns a house and also a business, and he knows things about fevers and wills. That's a higher level of adult that Joshua will never reach.

Collecting himself, Joshua clears his throat and says, "I'd rather be alone for now. I'm sorry. That was weird. I shouldn't have asked that. Don't tell Clive I asked you that—please."

In answer, Cid takes a business card out of his wallet, scribbles something on the back, and leaves it on the table. "I don't expect the subject will come up," he says. He puts a hand on Joshua's shoulder and squeezes gently. "My number, if you need anything while you're sick. It's fine, Joshua, you're just feeling shit right now. We can talk another time. Understand? Come and find me when you're better."

Joshua stares at the card and then looks up at Cid, who gives him a smile. "Okay."

"Call me if you get worse before Clive's back," he says again, like it needs repeating. "For him, if not for yourself. It'll make him feel better. The garage is closed tomorrow, so you won't be bothering me."

"Okay," Joshua says again, though he won't. As nice as Cid has been about all of this, it feels too awkward being so vulnerable in front of a man he barely knows.

Cid leans down and pats Torgal's flank, making the dog raise his head. "Take care of this one, eh?" he says. Then he winks at Joshua, turns around, and leaves.

*****

Joshua [8:35 AM]
Sorry I haven't gotten yiu the full summary yet
I sent you some quick notes I took
I'm try to finish today

Partner [8:35 AM]
It's fine, you should just rest
How are you feeling?
Do you need anything?

Joshua [8:35 AM]
I'm sitting at home, might a well work
I got word about Genevieve's case too so I need to get I article polished asap anyway

Partner [8:42 AM]
Do you need anything?

---

Joshua is in his pyjamas and encased in blankets when Torgal raises his head and runs to the door: someone he recognizes is approaching. He doesn't seem alarmed, but he's also not excited the way he is when it's someone he's close to, like Clive or Jill, or even—Joshua admits—Cid.

The early warning gives Joshua time to climb laboriously out of the cocoon he made for himself on the couch and shuffle to the door, coughing unhappily into his arm. He squints through the peephole, and somehow, he is not at all surprised to see Jote standing outside his door on a Sunday morning, one fist raised to knock.

He pulls the door open. "Oh," Jote says, lowering her fist. She's wearing a mask—at least she has some sense—and her backpack. She clutches at its shoulder straps now. "Erm. I brought you some soup?"

Eyeing her bulging backpack, Joshua says hoarsely, "And a small library?"

Torgal has started nosing at Jote's legs, so she reaches down absently to greet him. "I thought, if you're going to be working anyway, I could help. If that's okay. Easier than us emailing notes back and forth. I'm wearing a mask," she adds, pointing at her face, as though they both don't know from living through the Blight that masks aren't surefire protection from contagion, especially in a small space. Jote has the kind of youthful confidence in her health that Joshua doesn't remember ever having, though he thinks he probably did once, as a child.

Joshua leans against the door. He's beginning to wish he'd stayed under his blankets. He's not feeling well enough for an argument with Jote about this kind of thing. He's pretty sure his brain is only working at half-speed. "I'm not up for much, Jote," he says. "I keep falling asleep."

"That's okay," she says. "I can keep Torgal entertained or help you with chores or whatever when you're tired." She keeps inching closer, but she stops at the threshold.

"You don't have to do that just because I'm sick," Joshua says.

Jote clenches her hands in her backpack straps and stands very straight, though her cheeks have turned pink, and she won't meet his eyes. "Well...do you want the soup?" she asks.

Torgal puts his paws on her hip. Jote plants her feet to avoid being pushed back, then lets go of her backpack again to rub the spot between his ears and pat his neck.

Joshua sighs. He opens the door wider and steps back. Torgal runs back inside. Jote follows.

She doesn't waste any time before shedding her boots, coat, and scarf. She does pause when she sees the oxygen concentrator that Joshua dragged to the couch this morning so he can take naps during the day without having to relocate to his bed. Jote might not recognize what it is, but her eyes linger on the nasal canula looped over it, along with the thermometer and the pulse oximeter on the coffee table and the pillows he brought from his room.

"My blood oxygen always drops a bit when I sleep," he tells her, trying not to feel self-conscious. "It's just a precaution while I'm sick."

"That makes sense," she says, and heads to the kitchen. The soup in question is in a large thermos in her backpack, which she extracts and sets on the counter. "Have you been able to eat?" she asks. "Sit down, Joshua."

He dithers, debating whether crawling under his blankets to curl up on the couch would be any less professional than welcoming a student into his flat while wearing his pyjamas. A chill shivers through him, and he decides that hiding in his blankets is better, actually, and does accordingly. "Not very much," he admits, closing his eyes.

He can hear the sound of liquid being poured, and then Jote is in front of him with a mug. "It's mostly broth," she says. "My superior—my mother, I mean—used to make this for us when we were ill."

Joshua takes it from her, sniffing at it before he takes a careful sip. "You made this yourself?" he asks. "You cook?"

"We all had to learn, when we were children," she says, and sits down on the opposite end of the couch, pulling her feet onto the cushions. "Nothing fancy, just functional. I'm sure it's not the best soup you've ever tasted, but it's really nutritious, and it's meant to minimize nausea."

"Hm," Joshua says, curious, as he chances another sip. It's not bad; bland—though it might be that his nose is somewhat blocked—but warm, light on any seasoning except salt, and not particularly offensive to his stomach. "If you ever want to tell me how you grew up, Jote, I'll be all ears."

She's in the middle of pulling out her tablet and laptop, not looking at him. To his surprise, she says, in the direction of her backpack, "My parents joined a crazy survivalist cult before I was born. That's where I got part of my name."

Joshua stares at her.

Jote opens her laptop and begins reading something very intently.

"Which part?" Joshua asks after it becomes clear she isn't going to say anything else. Jote looks up. "Of your name."

"Ondelas," she says. "It means 'undying' in West Valisthic. A dead language, ironically. That's the name they gave to all of us who were born into the cult."

"Ah," Joshua says. He has a dozen questions in his head, but with his brain half-asleep and half-slush, they're all out of order in his head. He takes another sip of Jote's soup instead.

"It doesn't seem fair to keep it to myself any longer," she says. "I feel like I've eavesdropped on so many of your secrets. This isn't even a secret; I just don't talk about it very much."

"My secret's not a secret anymore, either," Joshua confesses. "I told Clive. And Jill, and D—Professor Lesage."

Her eyes flick up to him, and then away. She nods. "Good. It...it's better they know."

She still doesn't want to look at him—it's fine; sometimes she doesn't—but that doesn't stop her from reaching across and steadying his mug when he has to cough. "I'm getting germs all over you," Joshua rasps as she draws back. He feels disgusting, and his throat feels like it's been grated.

Jote shrugs. "I'll wash my hands before I lick them," she says, and she's so deadpan that he can't even tell if that's meant to be a joke, but he laughs anyway, which makes him cough again.

He makes it through most of his mug of broth before setting it down on the table and pulling his own computer onto his lap. "You don't have to tell me anything about yourself if you don't want to, though," Joshua says. "It's not a trade."

Shrugging again, she says, "Tomes says I shouldn't be ashamed of it. It's not really something that merits hiding." Glancing at him again, she adds, "The Order of the Undying. That's what we called ourselves."

Good old Tomes. Joshua should probably thank him in person for being a good mentor to his young students, sometime when he's less worried about coughing some horrible infection onto the old man.

"So, you met the prophet?" Jote says.

"Wait—wait wait," Joshua says. "What kind of cult did you say... The Order of the Undying?"

Jote finally looks up properly and takes her hands off the keyboard. "It's a paramilitary doomsday cult, based on the old Rosarian worship of the Founder. They believe the end of the world is coming, so we all had to prepare to be able to survive after civilization collapsed. We grew up learning to hunt, to build shelters and find water, to make clothing and treat injuries without doctors. Some of us were sent to study other sects and see what they knew of the end times. Some of us were taught to fight to defend the group. They were quite paranoid about being persecuted by the police, and we moved around a lot so that no one would track us down."

Joshua frowns. "I thought the Founder myth said that the people turned their backs on a migratory lifestyle and put down roots to start civilization. This sounds like the opposite."

"Cyril—the head of our sect—said that time had shown the people of old Rosaria must have misinterpreted the Founder's teachings," Jote says. "The growth of civilization and industry had only led to war and environmental ruin, and the only way for us to honor the Founder's true vision and escape disaster was to split up and stay on the move. And to be ready."

It's not actually the most insane thing Joshua has heard this week, given that he was on his knees at Dzemekys for over an hour talking about things like this. Everyone seems to think it's the end of the world. According to Jote, people have always thought that, as far back as records show through history. It's just hard to see Jote—organized Jote who wears soft jeans and hoodies and comfortable clothing that's too big for her—as one of them, a child born into a life where she was taught to fight and hunt instead of haunting a library all day.

"So," Joshua says, "when you said that you'd prefer knives to an axe..."

"Cyril chose me to be one of the protectors," she says. "We were like...like guards for the rest of the group. 'Knights,' they called us. They started pitting us against one another from a young age to weed out the weak. I wasn't one of the weaker ones, but I was smaller than a lot of them. Knives were more my specialty than larger weapons."

She reaches down to her backpack, like a reflex, and then stops, her lips thinning. Joshua eyes it curiously—does she carry a knife in there? "God, Jote. How long were you with them?"

"Until I was sixteen, when I realized every end date they'd predicted had passed and the world was still turning," Jote says.

Sixteen. Jote was a literal child when she was taught to fend off people bigger than she was, some of whom might have been using larger weapons. In Joshua's imagination, she's fighting a monster, or an army, with nothing more than a knife. He understands her nonchalance now when talking about not being afraid of a mugger. Whoever raised her—she calls her mother her superior, and someone gave her a name that marked her as part of the cult and not her parents' child—probably made her fight people all the time as a girl, and she must have been good at it, because if she hadn't been, she would have been weeded out. By sixteen.

"Are they still...around?" he asks. "Do you still talk to them?"

"There are still active sects of the Undying, I'm sure," she says, "but no, I don't talk to them anymore, except my Waloeder friend who left them, too—the one in Mikkelburg."

Joshua exhales. "Not even your parents?"

She shakes her head. "It's all right, though. I wasn't that close to any of them, personally."

That's not all right. That's worse, maybe. "Jote..."

"I know what you're thinking, but leaving them wasn't the same for me as it was for you and your mum. I don't miss them."

Joshua closes his mouth. She really does know everything about him, it seems.

"It's a pretty benign cult, all things considered," Jote says when he doesn't answer. "It was a hard life, but they really thought they were preparing us to survive the end. And it's not like they were killing people, or committing arson or anything."  

Joshua doesn't ask her what happened to members—children—who were weeded out. "They shouldn't have made you..." he starts, but he doesn't know enough details to finish the sentence. "I'm glad you're here now," he says instead.

Jote tilts her head, studying him. Something in her face relaxes. "It wasn't all bad. At least if I get stranded in the wilderness, I'll have a decent chance of surviving."

That's a terrible trade. Joshua thinks about Jote's big, curious eyes in the face of a sixteen-year-old girl made to learn how to fight for survival. That's how old Cid's daughter is, and though she works at Otto's, he's never seen any sign that it's a burden on her, or that she's anything other than an excitable teenager. That's how children are supposed to be, not worried about protecting other children and adults around them.

"And you just left?" Joshua asks. "Did someone help you, at least?"

She nods. "I had a social worker who helped me fill in my school records. There was an anthropology professor in college who introduced me to a support group to find people who could help me adjust. And I have Tomes, of course."

She doesn't mention any friends her own age. In all the time Joshua's known her, he doesn't remember seeing her chat casually with a peer or hearing about a night out with friends. She's cordial with people when they run into each other at the university, but no one seems to be a real friend.

"You have me, too," Joshua says. "You know that, right?"

Jote is still wearing her mask, but Joshua has become a bit of an expert on what expressions look like when only half of the face is visible. She's smiling now. "Yeah," she says. "I know."

"Is that why you study cults and NRMs now?"

"I suppose. I had a bit of a hard time adjusting, and it was...something familiar. Something I that could help me understand everything that had passed." She looks down. "I probably should have mentioned it earlier. It's relevant to what we're studying. But I...I didn't want you to think I was...I dunno, strange. Some sort of nutter."

Joshua does think she's a little strange, in fact, but it's never seemed like a bad thing. "I've actually always thought you were very sweet," he says.

Jote blushes. She gestures to the mug of cooling soup. "That's my...my mother's recipe."

"Thank you for sharing it with me," Joshua says, and makes himself pick it back up to finish off.

"Do you want more?" she asks. "Or I can make you something else?"

He smiles at her. "Maybe later," he says, not wanting to risk too much at a time. He clears his throat carefully. "So. Speaking of doomsday cults...we were right about the Children of Dzemekys. They think the end is coming, too."

"I didn't mean to actually make you work, Joshua," she says, looking guilty. "You should rest. I brought things I can do. Has Torgal been out this morning?"

She's not even bothering to pretend anymore that she's here for anything other than to...to give him soup and walk his dog or whatever. "I took him out a couple of hours ago," Joshua says. He pulls the blankets tighter around himself as he coughs again, rattling the laptop on his knees and ratcheting the pressure tighter around his head. "I at least have to finish this article on Laurent."

Jote sets the box of tissues next to him. "Then work on your article," she says. "We can talk about Dzemekys when you're done."

He's gotten the green light from Tyler to put out his article on Genevieve Laurent's account, as Yannick and Tatienne's families have been informed about the new details that have emerged. Wade found the anonymous report that Genevieve filed about Yannick's behavior, and although that case has been transferred to detectives from the Special Victims Unit, they've assured Joshua that the circumstances surrounding the car crash that took Tatienne and Yannick's lives will be investigated. Genevieve's arson case is being wrapped up, too; they've gathered all the information they're likely to get, and she's waiting to be sentenced.

It feels uncomfortable, releasing this part of the story when he's seen first-hand how troubled she is—what she's been through and the horrible crime she tried to commit—but that's often the reality of his job. Vivian agreed with him that what happened with Yannick and the PD's response to it, if nothing else, deserves to be known. Genevieve is right that the system is broken and rotten through in places, and failing to shine a light on the rot will only allow it to fester.

He doesn't notice falling asleep.

When the computer is pulled out of his hands, Joshua forces his eyes open to see Jote bending over him. "You'll be more comfortable if you lie down properly," she says quietly. "But tell me how to use this first. Do I just turn it on?" She has the tubing of the canula in her fingers.

Joshua hesitates; he's not used to people seeing him with a line pumping oxygen into him. But t's just Jote. She's seen him nearly at his worst already. "Power switch at the top," he mumbles. He takes the canula from her and puts it on. There's a quiet hum as the concentrator turns on, and he feels the gentle flow of air. "Jote," he says, coughing into his blanket. "You really don't have to stay."

"Lie down," she says again, this time with a hand on his back and the other adjusting the pillows to cushion him against the arm of the couch. Joshua pulls his legs onto the couch—god, his joints are so sore—to lie lengthwise along it. She presses a cool hand to his forehead, frowns, and says, "Can I take your temperature?"

Listlessly, Joshua accepts the thermometer from her and holds it under his tongue, closing his eyes. He opens them, confused, when he feels Jote take his hand, but she's only clipping the pulse oximeter onto his finger, so he lets his lids fall shut again.

He must drift off again for a few minutes, because he wakes to her taking the clip off his finger and setting the thermometer on the table. Her notebook is open, and she's recorded his readings, twice, five minutes apart, meticulously neat and labeled with the time and date. There's a note with the last one that he's on oxygen and asleep. She's such a little nerd, he thinks fondly. A nerd who might have a knife hidden in her bag somewhere, but that's fine. He ran away from home to live with his brother. Who is he to judge how someone grew up?

"38.8 and 94%, she says. "The second number was lower, but it went up after a few minutes on the oxygen. Is that all right?"

"Mm-hm," Joshua says. He shivers, and she pulls the blanket higher over his shoulders. "Thanks."

"Go to sleep," Jote whispers.

---

The day passes in blurry lumps. Jote sets up her laptop and books on the coffee table and sits on the carpet on a spare pillow from the closet, leaning back against the couch and letting Torgal rest his head in her lap. Like the previous day and night, Joshua doesn't sleep well, waking frequently as he coughs. Every so often, he drags himself into a sitting position and tries to finish some actual work.

"Have you talked much to Benedikta Harman?" Joshua asks. His voice is scratchy and halfway gone by now, but he's got a cough drop in his mouth that seems to be calming the coughs a bit and soothing his throat.

"Only rarely, when she comes to group," Jote says. She has her PDF copy of the Scriptures open and is reading the Book of Eschaton. "She wasn't much interested in conversation. You?"

Joshua shakes his head. "Just a couple of times. She was raised with Sleipnir, I think. I wonder how she met the prophet. And you've never met Hugo Kupka?"

"No. He must not be around as much as Benedikta and Sleipnir."

"Was a soldier, apparently," Joshua muses. "His accent sounds like he's from Storm."

"We should be able to find some information on him, then," Jote says. She jots down a note in her tablet.

Joshua's phone chimes. It's only on the table, but before he can lean over to reach for it, Torgal pricks up his ears and grabs it in his mouth, dropping it onto Joshua's lap with only a little bit of excess saliva. Joshua wipes it on his blanket and wraps an arm around Torgal's neck, scratching him under the chin. "Good job, you're such a good boy," he rasps. "You'll get a treat as soon as I get up, I promise."

Jote watches them, smiling.

"I know, he's very smart," Joshua tells her.

She blinks at him, and her eyes crinkle a bit as her smile grows larger behind the mask. "Yeah," she says, and reaches out to pet Torgal, stroking his silky ears. "I like dogs."

He can imagine she would. Dogs don't care if someone has trouble talking about their past or isn't very good with pop culture references. Torgal is already turning back to let her appreciate him some more.

With Torgal's attention redirected, Joshua looks down at his phone. "Can I see that?" Joshua asks, reaching for the log Jote has been diligently keeping of his temperature and oxygen saturation.

Handing it up, she asks, "Is something wrong?"

"My brother," he says simply, holding up his phone so she can see the last few messages: numbers and reassurances from Joshua, reminders and requests for updates from Clive. He takes a picture of Jote's log and sends it with the note, A friend came over, don't wory about me 🙂.

"He really cares about you," Jote observes.

"Almost too much," Joshua jokes, and then feels bad. That's not fair to Clive, and perhaps it's a slap in the face to someone who has separated from everyone she knew as a child. "I know. I'm very fortunate."

Jote is still watching him, though she turns away when he meets her eyes.

---

The one thing that makes Joshua feel a bit less guilty for letting Jote do so much for him all day is that he can feed her. These days, the food in his home is all fairly bland, in deference to his dubious appetite, but Jote has the food preferences of a student living on a meager stipend. Also, he realizes as he's heating up some of the excessive food that Clive prepared for him, she probably grew up eating...half-ripened berries and rabbits cooked over a campfire that she hunted down with her own hands. Or something. Joshua has never lived outside of a city and has no idea what paramilitary survivalist lunatics in the countryside eat, but it probably doesn't make for picky eaters.

He's got a plate for her and a bowl of dog food ready when she returns from walking Torgal. He's not proud of how shaky he feels from doing that alone, but he's spent enough time planted on the couch that he feels like he should take a few steps around his home if he doesn't want to begin to take root. Sticking something in the microwave is the least he can do.

Jote doesn't bother protesting this time before sitting down at the table with her dinner. Joshua brings his own food back to the couch, keeping distance between them while she takes her mask off. He's mostly been making do with the soup she brought him, but he's got a small pile of solid food for himself in a bowl, too, so that he can tell Clive without lying that he ate something.

"Barnabas isn't a very rare name," Jote says as they eat. "Sleipnir said the prophet grew up in Twinside, right, before he moved to Waloed and started his cult there?"

Joshua hums in agreement. "We can look for old records of boys named Barnabas in the right age range." The man seems to be in his fifties.

"That's if it's even his real name."

"Let's assume it is, or we're at square one."

Jote is quiet for a while, thinking while she eats. "I'm interested in what he said to you about Mythos, that he's someone who will walk through fire and emerge unscathed."

"Unlike the rest of us," Joshua agrees, and remembers suddenly that he hasn't taken his pills tonight. With a sigh, he levers himself up from the seat to retrieve them—one anti-emetic, three anti-fibrotic pills—and sits back down with a thump. He has to eat now, or they'll make him feel even sicker.

"The phoenix metaphor in the Scriptures," Jote says. "That's why people are setting themselves on fire?"

That's not right, though. Genevieve didn't believe she was Mythos—she seemed surprised at the suggestion. It sounded more like they thought of themselves as a sacrifice. It seems like the grand purpose of the Children of Dzemekys is to find whoever Mythos is and to bring him into the congregation.

But Joshua puts down his mug of soup and his fork, and all he can manage to assemble together into words is, "I don't think so. They're looking for him." He's missing something, something that feels like it's hovering just at the edge of his thoughts, but his thoughts are a bit mushy at the moment, and he can't grasp it. He turns his face into the couch to cough, groaning softly at the ache radiating through his chest.

Jote falls quiet again. Joshua leans back against the cushions and closes his eyes.

Barnabas was so vague about Mythos. Apparently, when Joshua is ready, he'll simply recognize their Lord's vessel. Perhaps if they're too specific about who Mythos is, then they can be proven wrong. If it's left vague, then the Children could keep looking for him forever, and if they didn't find him, it would be because they 'weren't ready.' Is it all a scam, or does Barnabas truly believe in it himself?

"Can you eat a little more?" Jote says from the kitchen, so Joshua sighs and sits up.

---

That evening, Jote rouses him from an exhausted daze with a hand on his shoulder and says, "It's late. You should go to bed."

It's not that late, really, but she's right; he's not getting anything else done today. "You stayed here all day," Joshua says as she offers a hand to help him up.

Her smile makes her eyes crinkle above her mask. "I got a lot of work done," she says, then bends to tickle Torgal on the head. "I don't know why you always think it's strange that I'd want to spend time with you. I'll take Torgal out once more before I leave."

"Jote," Joshua says.

She turns back to look at him.

"You stayed the whole day with me," he says. His fever might be worsening. He's feeling wobbly again, and a little bit like he might want to cry, which he definitely can't or there's a chance she'll think she needs to camp out here all night.

Jote's face softens. She steps close to him and, hesitantly, cups a hand around his cheek to check his temperature. "Do you want me to come back tomorrow?" she asks.

"Don't do that, I'm disgusting," Joshua says, ducking away before she has to touch his clammy skin any longer. He hasn't had the energy to shower in a couple of days. "I really can make it through the day on my own."

"I know," she says. "But if it'll be easier on you..."

"You have school," he says, and, when she still looks undecided, "My brother will be home tomorrow."

"Okay," she says at last. "Go wash up, Joshua. We'll be right back."

---

He's brushed his teeth and wheeled the oxygen concentrator back to the bedroom when the door opens again. Jote undoes the harness and feeds Torgal a treat, and she doesn't take her coat back off. "Take care of yourself," she says, standing at the door with her hands in her pockets. "Do you need anything?"

"You've done everything I could possibly need," he tells her. "You're too good to me, Jote."

She hunches her shoulders, like she doesn't know how to respond. "I'll let you know if anything comes up in support group at Dzemekys," she says.

"I'll keep looking into Barnabas," he says. "Text me when you get home? It's dark out."

Looking surprised, Jote says, "I told you I know how to defend myself, right?"

"Yes. But it's late. I just want to know you're safe."

She crinkles her eyes at him again. "Okay. Goodnight, Joshua."

---

The night passes fitfully. Joshua huddles close to Torgal and concentrates on breathing.

As embarrassing as it is to have people traipsing into his flat and trying to fuss over him, it's not actually better being left alone. Aside from the fact that he's weak in the limbs and that coughing sometimes leaves him dizzy, Joshua likes being around people. Perhaps he doesn't have a lot of close friends, the kind he can invite over to his home—perhaps it's just been Jote outside of his family, and perhaps that will only last until her research period ends—but even if Clive dismisses his acquaintances as only a professional network, Joshua likes working with them. He likes the process of tracking down leads, hunting for tips, and ferreting out a story. He likes knowing why things happened and how. He does not like feeling too tired to do anything but lie around and try, with moderate success, to sleep.

When morning comes, he rises just long enough to check in with Vivian—he's not going to be in person at work for at least a few more days—take Torgal outside to empty his bladder, and then stagger back to his bed, where he drifts for as long as he can between fits of coughing.

He wakes again when the bed dips to his right side. He thinks nothing of it at first—that Torgal heard something and got up to investigate—but then the bed dips again on his left as Torgal jumps up.

Joshua turns his head to the right and blinks at the sight of Clive sitting next to him. "Clive," he croaks. "You're home."

His brother gently adjusts the canula on Joshua's face. He looks exhausted; he's been working for two days straight. "Go back to sleep," he whispers.

"What are you doing here," Joshua mumbles. In answer, Clive lies down, stretching himself out on the bed. Joshua pushes weakly at his shoulder, then has to pause and turn the other way to cough. "No—I'm going to get you sick."

"It's all right," Clive says.

"Clive," Joshua groans, though he can't deny it's nice. Clive radiates heat, just like Torgal, and being between them keeps Joshua warmer than he's felt in the last couple of days. "Don't you stay with Cid after your shift now?"

Clive turns to look at him, frowning. "I... Not always. How are you feeling?"

"Fine," Joshua says. Clive stares at him, unblinking and unamused. "Could be worse," he amends. His voice won't rise above a whisper. "You don't have to be here. You can go to Cid's. I'm okay."

A hand brushes his fringe off his forehead and then snakes under his shoulders, tugging him close. Quietly, Clive says, "I won't disappear just because I'm seeing someone. I...I'm sorry I've been distant the last few days."

"I know you had a bad week," he says, because he still doesn't like to put words to exactly what he knows has been preoccupying his brother. "You don't have to—"

"Don't argue with me," Clive says. "I love you, Joshua, you know that, right?"

Joshua exhales. He blinks at the ceiling. "Don't be stupid. I love you, too."

"I'm going to stay with you today."

"You need to sleep," Joshua says.

"I'm sleeping," Clive says, and pats him on the chest.

Joshua starts to push the hand away, and then, instead, curls his fingers around his brother's. His eyes are burning. If Clive's determined to lie Joshua's germ-ridden bed, it's not like Joshua will be able to shove him out. He stops protesting and relaxes.

"How was your shift," Joshua says. "Did anything... You're feeling all right?"

"It was fine," Clive says, and then, "I...talked to Dorys."

Joshua turns to look at him, but it's too dark to see much more than the outline of his brother's face. "About?"

"About you."

His brother's crew are his brother's, just like Cid is, so it's natural he would talk to them. It's good they know, and it's a relief that Joshua won't have to have that awkward conversation with them himself. But Clive didn't say he talked to his crew, or even to Theo, the person he's closest to in Squad 1; he talked to Dorys, his squad officer, which means that he's worried it could affect his performance on the job.

"Are you..." Joshua says. "Did you—"

"I don't know," Clive says. "No. Nothing happened. I just...I have some things to think about."

Clive has always been driven by the knowledge that, on one terrible day when he was a boy, he wasn't able to save his brother. He doesn't seem to understand that he did save Joshua, for as long as anyone could have. Joshua wants him to have a job where he's not throwing himself into danger over and over, but he also knows that if Clive quits being a firefighter, it will be because he thinks he needs to take care of Joshua more than he already does.

"You can't save me, Clive," Joshua says, as gently as he can, even as he clenches his hand tighter around his brother's. "You can't save everyone. You shouldn't have to."

Clive breathes, deep and slow. "That's not the point."

Joshua can't ask him to clarify what the point is, because he's not sure he wants Clive to have to answer, and also because that would require him to move air past his vocal cords, which is a thing that doesn't seem possible at the moment. He turns to face Torgal, stroking his free hand through the thick fur and listening to the dog breathe until his throat loosens enough to speak.

"Cid came," Joshua says in the darkness. "You didn't have to send him. But he was nice."

"Joshua," Clive says, patting him again. "Go to sleep."

He closes his eyes and sleeps.

Chapter Text

40. As the generations passed, the ways of the Warrior were passed down. The elders taught the children to honor the Flame and to trust in its power to renew. The Flame would burn forever, and as long as it did, their civilization would endure.
41. Then God spoke again, saying: "You, my people, have seen the truth of my ways. You will grow and prosper, and you will live in my light. Do not forget me, for I will always be with you."

- Scriptures of the Risen, Book of Ash

*****

It's over a week before Joshua begins to feel human again. Clive stays with him for most of the first few days and, somehow, does not at any point get sick himself. It's mildly maddening, as Joshua probably inhaled a single virus particle and became essentially useless for several days.

Jote comes back over the weekend when Clive's back on shift. "I don't actually have to be in a library to work," she says the next time she sets up at the coffee table like it's her new desk. "They just have quiet study rooms. But your couch is much nicer."

"You could try taking a weekend off," Joshua suggests from the couch where he's sitting with his computer. He nudges a freshly laundered throw blanket toward her, which he's taken to leaving here because Jote seems to like curling up with soft things when she has the chance. "Have you considered relaxing or spending time with your friends?"

She shrugs and settles back against the cushions behind her, pulling the blanket into her lap. "What if I am?" she says, and pulls out a pile of exams to grade.

Joshua watches her work until she looks up again in question. He shakes his head, smiling, and turns back to his own notes.

"I looked up Hugo Kupka yesterday," she says while she works. "He's an Army veteran who disappeared three years ago in Haearann. He'd been sent there with the occupying forces after the Crusaders were repelled. About a year and a half ago, he showed back up on Storm and was court-martialed for dereliction of duty. He said that he'd been captured during one of the uprisings and held prisoner for all that time, and he escaped on his own and made it back to Storm, but his commanding officer claimed he'd turned on them and was aiding the Haearann insurgents. Kupka was other-than-honorably discharged." She looks up from her notes. "I guess we know now where he ended up."

"Can you tell from public resources which of them was telling the truth?" Joshua asks.

Shaking her head, Jote says, "I think it must be classified. Both of them would have motive to lie, though. If Kupka went AWOL, he would want to say it wasn't by choice; if he really was captured, his commander wouldn't want to admit that they left a man behind without a search."

Joshua grimaces. "But only one of them sought out a church to help cope with the trauma." Jote shrugs, then nods. "It's awful, if Kupka is telling the truth. It's not hard to understand how he would see the world as broken—something that needs to be ended and rebuilt."

Jote hums in agreement. "To be betrayed by the nation you sacrificed so much for... I might give up on the world, too, I think."

"I'll try to find more about him," Joshua says, making a note.

*****

The next days creep by slowly, broken by intermittent visits from Clive and Jote. Vivian has started sending him articles to fact-check and smaller assignments that need the kind of follow-up that can be done remotely. It's an important part of their work, Joshua knows, but it makes him impatient to return to his actual job where he has stories of his own he's actively working on.

At least, he supposes, it suggests there's still work he will be able to do when he eventually becomes unable to do his actual job.

Jill drops by after work once she's back from Dhalmekia. "I leave you alone for two weeks and you get the flu," she says when he opens the door.

"What do you mean, 'alone'—what is Clive, chopped liver?" he asks as Torgal butts at her hip, tail wagging excitedly. Joshua's voice has mostly recovered by now, fortunately. He's still coughing more than usual, but it doesn't leave him so drained afterward. "And it wasn't the flu, it was just a cold, I think."

"You know what I mean," Jill says. She pulls him into a hug and kisses him on the cheek before stepping out of her shoes and hanging up her coat by the door. She reaches up to smooth down the top of his hair—admittedly, he's a little more rumpled on the days when he's stuck at home—and then cups his chin in her hand, rubbing days of scruff on his face and frowning in distaste.

"Don't judge," Joshua says, pulling his face out of her hand and scratching self-consciously at his face. "It's been a long week."

"Hm," she says, and strides into the room, leaving her messenger bag on top of the coffee table.

"Er, are you staying?" he asks.

"I've been away for two weeks, Joshua," she says, and heads to the kitchen with a small canvas bag in her hand. "Don't tell me you're not going to feed me."

Joshua watches Torgal trot after her as she examines the contents of his refrigerator with a critical expression. She looks him up and down, like she's assessing him, before returning to her search. "I promise I'm eating, Jill."

She tuts, pulling out half an onion and a container of leftover broccoli and turning to search his cupboards. "Then you can eat with me for once," she says. "When's the last time you saw a fresh vegetable?"

"I've been sick," he protests. "I don't want to start the next wave of the Blight by walking into a grocer's."

From her bag, she extracts tomatoes and carrots, a loaf of bread, pre-made tomato sauce, a packet of what looks like some sort of ground meat, and a carton of eggs. "Pasta tonight?" she asks, stuffing most of it into the refrigerator while peering at a box from his cupboard.

"S...sure," Joshua says, though she's already pulling out a cutting board and knife, sniffing the wilted broccoli with an air of suspicion. Frankly, he wasn't planning on anything more than whatever he could simply boil or stick in the microwave. He's been trying to get back to a normal schedule, even if he's still staying home until he can be sure he's neither contagious nor about to have a relapse, but he's wilting by now about as much as the broccoli.

Perhaps Jill can tell, because she nudges him away as soon as he reaches over to help. "Sit down, I've seen you burn water trying to boil it," she says, an unfair exaggeration that hasn't been anywhere near true since he was a teenager. "I'll be quick, nothing complicated tonight. Have you been eating enough protein? You can't exist on just grains and peanut butter, you know."

Joshua sits at the table. "I don't just eat grains," he says, though to be fair, he does slip into a porridge-and-soup habit when he doesn't feel well. "Jote made me soup from...a chicken, I think."

"Yes, I heard Jote's been coming over. How's it going with her?"

"We're making progress on our project," he says, and then, impulsively, "I joined a cult, by the way."

Jill brushes a handful of chopped onions into a pan. She turns around. "Say that again?"

There's no real reason to hide it anymore, so Joshua tells her about the fires that made him suspicious, learning that Jote was studying the Children, too, and the sessions he's attended at Dzemekys. He's sparing with the names and details—he did agree to confidentiality, and he's not going to break that for the people attending the sessions—but he's able to explain the shape of it to her.

It's kind of nice.

"And Vivian's on board with this," Jill asks, hands on her hips, when sauce is bubbling in a pan while water heats in another pot.

"Approved it over a month ago. I'm trying to either find hard evidence of wrongdoing or, at least, figure out what their next steps are."

"That's a dangerous game you're playing."

"Jote watches my back," Joshua says, and Jill lifts her eyebrow. He doesn't feel the need to mention that he's started attending sessions where Jote is not invited. "And, to be honest, it seems no more dangerous than what you're doing. I watched the press conference in Zirnitra. I can't believe you said that to Antoine de Cardinal's face, right in front of Havel."

Jill smirks, stirs pasta into the pot, and then sits down across from him at the table. "Well, I had questions I needed answers to, and he was right there. Was I not supposed to ask? And don't change the subject."

"I'm being careful," Joshua promises her. He coughs once into his sleeve, grimacing—it's a dry cough now, basically back to normal, but his chest and throat still feel raw from over a week of continuous coughing. Jill slides him a glass of water. "I've been sending regular updates to Vivian, all fastidiously documented, and I have Jote to keep me from going off the rails. She'll insist on walking me home if she thinks the session got too intense."

"Is that her scarf?" Jill asks, pointing to the object in question folded on the coffee table. "I was wondering where you got it."

"Yes, she was here studying the other day and forgot it."

Tilting her head curiously, Jill asks, "You really are spending a lot of time with Jote. Do you like her?"

Joshua rolls his eyes, rubbing the sore spot on his chest. "Don't say it like that."

"Is it not like that?"

"Jill, no, she's a student."

"It's not like you're her professor."

True, though Joshua feels a bit responsible for her nonetheless, having entered her life with the intelligence that the subject of her research might be some sort of ticking time bomb. "She's still younger than I am."

Shrugging, Jill says, "By what, three years? Four, five? That's not so big of a gap at your age." At your age—as though Jill herself were more than a couple of years older than he is. "That's nothing compared to Clive and Cid."

"Jote and I are not like Clive and Cid," Joshua says indignantly, because he would never dream of speaking to her the way Cid speaks to Clive. Aside from the impropriety of it, Jote is too gentle. Perhaps that's not how she was raised, with knives and hunting dogs, but it's the way she is with him, and it would feel wrong to sully that with anything else.

Jill reaches out and grasps him by the hands, holding him fast. "I don't know that I've ever heard you talk about someone as much as you talk about Jote. If you're interested in this girl..."

"In my entire life," Joshua says, exasperated, "have you ever know me to be interested in a girl? Or anyone, for that matter."

"As a friend, though," Jill swerves smoothly. "She sounds like she's a good friend to you."

"She is. For now," he says. Jill frowns, and he adds hastily, "I mean, her fieldwork is supposed to last until the end of the year—and if we do find something sooner that disrupts the cult, it might end even sooner."

"And you can only spend time together if you're her research subject?" Jill says. Her tone makes it clear how stupid she thinks this.

"She comes over because we're working together, Jill," Joshua says, although no one else he works with camps out in his flat all day wearing a mask just to keep him company and walk his dog. He suspects that Jote is a bit lonely, if spending hours working in his living room, mostly in silence, is her best choice over studying alone in the library. She's talked about how important it is to have support—she could do with some more friends herself.

Jill is smiling at him, though there's something sad and quiet in her expression. Jill's always rather quiet about being sad. "All right," she says, and squeezes his hands before letting go.

"You'd like her," he offers. "I've never seen someone with a more organized system of notes than yours until I saw hers. She's a bit shy, at first, but I bet you'd get along."

Jill would be a good friend to Jote, Joshua thinks. It's not that Clive wouldn't, but Jote and Clive both tend to be the short end of the conversation, and the two of them together would be the very picture of social awkwardness. But it would be nice to know Jote had people who could be friends to her other than her elderly mentor, and Jill doesn't have many close friends, either, other than Clive. Clive will be—well. Jill will want to support Clive, after, and Joshua's not sure Clive will be in a place to be able to support her for a while, so it would be best for them all to have other people.

"Now you stop avoiding the topic," Joshua says before Jill can queue up any more questions. "Tell me about your trip, and tell me who's going to win the election."

---

Joshua finishes most of the food Jill put on his plate, though he can tell from her expression that it's not as much as she would like. "You should be eating throughout the day when you can," she says. "Especially when you're home—no reason to keep to a three-meal schedule."

"I know," says Joshua, who has indeed been dutifully nibbling on snacks whenever he can summon the will to get up.

"Are you out of the nutritional shakes?"

"Clive put more in the cupboard." It makes him uneasy, watching her pack leftovers away for him into small containers, each big enough for about half of what most people would consider a meal, just to make it a tiny bit easier to prepare small portions. He knows she's trying to help, and also, he knows she's right.

"You have some catching up to do," she says, still putting food away. "It's been a rough couple of months. You need to build your strength back up."

There's a tiny pulse of panic at the thought. She means that he needs to build back his strength, because that might slow down how fast he wastes away and dies. "I am trying, Jill," he says quietly.

She closes the refrigerator and turns around. She sighs. "Joshua," she says, and beckons. "Sit with me a moment."

He sits back down at the table with her, side by side. She reaches up to smooth down his hair again, although he's pretty sure it's lying about as flat as it's going to today, and she leaves her hand on his back when she's done.

"I know you don't want to talk about it..." Jill starts.

"I don't," Joshua interrupts.

"Five minutes," Jill says sharply, "and then we can play pretend and ignore it again."

Joshua winces. She sighs once more and rests her head on his shoulder, wrapping her arm around him. He takes a breath and leans back into her, too. "What do you want to talk about?"

"I think you should speak with Vivian about possible accommodations," Jill says promptly. "Not for now, nothing has to change right now. But this falls under disability, and you should know what your rights are, if you...if things progress."

If. It's not if. It's when.

But Jill is practical. She's not in denial; she's just trying to couch it kindly. Clive thinks with his heart, but Jill knows how to lock her feelings away when they interfere with more useful things. It's both easier and harder to be around.

"It's not a bad idea to think about contingencies," she says after a long moment in which he doesn't speak. "We don't have to bring it up with Vivian, even, but we should look into it."

"Sure, that sounds good," Joshua says, filing it away into the same corner in the back of his mind where he's keeping 'write a will.'

"And I think you should consider taking some time off," she goes on.

Joshua listens to the faint ticking of her wristwatch and manages a small laugh. "Why would I do that, now of all times?"

"Why didn't you tell us?"

It's like a splash of cold water, and Joshua thinks it's a slap to the face disguised in a non sequitur until he hears himself say, "I just needed some time to...to process it, Jill."

Her hand rubs his arm, up and down. "And you're done processing now?"

Joshua closes his eyes. His throat is slowly squeezing tight, and his heart has sped up at the thought. He still doesn't say it, except when he's at Dzemekys and has to. He barely thinks the words. Maybe he's not done processing. It doesn't feel like he could ever be done.

"No one is going to make you stop working," Jill says. "But I want you to consider what it would look like. All right? It might help to step back, to slow down for a bit and let yourself...I dunno, just give yourself a bit of time. To process. You haven't even taken a vacation in years, Joshua. You're due that, at least."

"I guess...it's not like my vacation days will roll over when I'm dead," Joshua says.

There's a tiny movement he can feel where they're pressed together—a flinch, caught just too late to hide. "That's one way of thinking about it," she says after a moment.

Joshua pillows his head on Jill's. "You've gone back to Rosaria, haven't you?"

She hums. "A few times. Only for work, though, and never for long." When he doesn't speak, she says, "Do you want to?"

Joshua swallows hard. His chest feels tight and heavy. "I'm...still quite mobile," he says, because he doesn't know how long that will last. "If I'm going to travel..."

"We should go," she says decisively, the way Clive did a few weeks ago, before he knew why, and Joshua turns his head to press a kiss to her hair. His breath shakes when he inhales the smell of her shampoo. Jill tugs him closer. "This spring, or in the summer, maybe—the three of us. Just like old times." He nods, feeling her hair slide against his cheek. "Do you remember, Joshua, that place behind Hawk's Cry Cliff where we used to play? Clive found those flowers, and we realized—"

"The snow daisies," Joshua says, and he laughs and laughs until he's coughing, and she keeps him in her arms until he's caught his breath. "Yeah," he says, when he can speak again. He peels himself away, though she catches his hand and holds it. "I'm sorry it took me so long to tell you."

"It's all right. I understand. I'm not angry." She gives him a small smile. "This is a bump in the road. We'll figure it out."

"I haven't told..." Joshua starts, and then stops. He's told Clive and Jill, Vivian, Dion, and Jote, and he realizes suddenly that there's really no one else around here he still needs to tell. The Murdochs, probably, who invite him and Clive to their home for holiday dinners. Everyone else is a colleague—part of his professional network. There's no one else he's really close enough to that it wouldn't feel like TMI.

Jill misunderstands his hesitation, though. "I'm sure it's daunting, thinking about telling all your friends one by one," she says, though mostly he's just thinking that it's a bit pathetic. "How about this: write what you want to say in an email and send it to everyone you don't want to go through all of it with personally. That way they know, but they won't ask you questions if you don't want to talk about it."

"Right," Joshua says, thinking that that sounds rather impersonal and perfect, and also that he doesn't know how to write something like that. He's thinking that, other than Rodney and Hanna, he should probably let Uncle Byron know, and then he's run out of people entirely. Except... "I should tell Mum in person, right?" he says. "Or at least over the phone."

Her expression pinches. "I...don't think I can give you advice about your mother," she says, and Joshua nods. Their mother was never particularly nice to Jill, even though she lived with them for years. "We can write it together," she offers.

Joshua falters. "You don't have to..." He stops again.

"I'll send you a draft, how about that," Jill says, no-nonsense and calm. "You get final edits and approval."

"Okay," Joshua says, and, "I love you, Jill."

She slides a thumb across his cheek and under his eye, brushing moisture away. "I love you, too," she says, and then looks at her ticking watch. "That was more than five minutes. I can keep talking if you want."

"No, thank you. Let's ignore it and play pretend," Joshua says, and smiles back so that she'll know he's all right.

*****

The search for Barnabas is slow. If the prophet is in his fifties now, then his childhood, which is the only time Joshua knows for certain he was in Twinside, took place during an era when social media didn't exist and not everything was on the internet. A lot of newspapers from that time have been digitized, but text recognition from scans of old newsprint is imperfect and makes any sort of search rather hit-or-miss.

There's no 'Barnabas' on any of the paperwork for Dzemekys. The property is owned by the Children of Dzemekys, as a religious organization. Sleipnir and a few others—including Benedikta Harman—are listed as the board.

Sleipnir's not a helpful lead, either. Joshua has already found records of his presence in Storm: two years working in Twinside at a career center as a translator, followed by a Bachelor's degree in Psychology from Ran'dellah University and then a Master's of Divinity from Oriflamme Theological College. Joshua combs through all of his previous research now, searching for any mention of an associate named Barnabas, but there's nothing there he can find.

He's had no luck searching for records from overseas, either. Sleipnir was an orphaned child, and it sounds like he was taken in by Barnabas as a foster or adopted son. Even if Waloed weren't as isolationist as it is, if Waloeder laws are anything like those of Storm, then those records would likely be unavailable to the public in order to protect the privacy of the child.

So, instead, Joshua focuses on Barnabas's name itself. He starts by searching for all boys in the Crystalline Dominion from sixty to thirty years ago, but that's too broad. He narrows the range a bit and tries to filter by location for Twinside and the surrounding cities and suburbs. He doesn't find faces to match all of the names, but the faces he does find are mostly too young—some of them very small children—to be able to positively match to the prophet's.

The answer, it turns out, is one he didn't want to jump to immediately. 'Fire' to the Children of Dzemekys is often figurative, and Joshua doesn't want to narrow his search too much by assuming Barnabas was involved with a literal fire.

When he finally looks, though, he finds a thirty-seven-year-old newspaper article:

Local Woman and Ward Killed in House Fire, Survived by Two Sons

It's a page of the Crystal Chronicle, the biggest newspaper in the state, scanned and archived, about a woman named Sophia Tharmr who was tragically killed along with her foster son, Athan Typhon, aged 17, in a house in Old Twinside. The article itself is nothing special. It's like any of a hundred Joshua has written about fires, break-ins, accidents, and unexpected disasters. From the dearth of detail, along with the vivid photo taken from the scene of the fire while the first responders were still there, he guesses it was written before the police and the fire departments had a chance to figure out exactly what happened.

But it's the photo that catches Joshua's attention.

It's a candid shot of two boys sitting in the back of an ambulance with smoke still visible in the background. The younger one is being tended by an EMT, who is dressing his arm in a bandage. The boy is leaning against an older teenager, and though his face is dry, he looks like he's in shock and not a little pain. The older one has an arm wrapped around the boy's shoulders to support him.

The caption is simple: it says, 'Sophia Tharmr's son Barnabas, 19, and foster son Cidolfus, 12, being treated by Emergency Medical Services in the wake of their mother's death.'

So now he's got a full name. Barnabas Tharmr, despite his youth in the photo, looks enough like the fifty-five-year-old man calling himself a prophet to all but confirm his identity.

But all Joshua can focus on is the younger boy in the picture: Cidolfus. He's seen that boy before.

Joshua opens the folder on his computer he was dedicating to stalking his brother's new boyfriend until Jill admonished him to stop. In the folder is a yearbook photo of a boy in the fifth grade. It's unquestionably the same boy, and his name is Cidolfus Telamon.

Cid Telamon, who has an older brother and scars down his left arm. Joshua checks the photo again, and it is, in fact, the boy's left arm the EMT is treating. It seems he walked through fire as a child, the way the prophet and Sleipnir and everyone at Dzemekys always talks about, and, like many of them, he emerged scarred.

Joshua gets up and reaches for his coat.

---

He's basically recovered from his cold, he tells himself when he steps out of his building, barely even coughing when he sucks in his first lungful of cold air. He's not particularly contagious anymore, and he's wearing a mask besides. Dr. Margrace did tell him to take another few days to rest, but it's not like he's going to work for a full day. He's making one visit, that's all. He can handle that.

It takes him longer than it should to get to Otto's Auto. He can't manage anything faster than a slow amble, and even then, he has to pause outside the subway station to sit at a bus shelter and rest before he starts down the street to the auto repair shop. When he finally makes it to the door, he must look ragged enough that Otto doesn't even scowl at him, just points him to a chair while talking to a customer. Joshua takes a seat and leans over, elbows on his knees, catching his breath.

So he's not completely recovered, all right. He's at the part of the recovery where he's mostly fine while sitting down and resting, but the slightest exertion is making him short of breath. It's fine. He's fine.

"Clive's not here today," Otto says when the customer leaves. He's tapping a pen impatiently on the counter like he often does.

"I know, he's on shift at the station," Joshua says.

Otto raises an eyebrow. "Are you...having car trouble?" he asks, as if they don't both know that Joshua doesn't have a car.

Joshua takes two more breaths and stands up. "I'm looking for Cid. Is he around?"

"He's in the garage," Otto says. "He's working."

"I can wait until he's free. I have some questions for him."

"If this is about your brother working here..." Otto starts.

"It's not about my brother," Joshua says. "It's about Cid's. Barnabas Tharmr, yes?"

At this, Otto's pen stops moving.

Joshua frowns. "What were you going to say about my brother?"

"Never you mind," Otto says. The trademark scowl finally makes its appearance, and he stands up. "Look here, Cid's not interested in anything Barnabas has to say, so you can fuck right off and tell him—"

"No, no," Joshua interrupts, taken aback by the vehemence. "You misunderstand. I'm not here on behalf of Barnabas. I'm investigating him. Sort of."

Otto folds his arms. "Sort of?"

Joshua considers, not for the first time, that he doesn't really know what Otto's relationship with Cid is like, except that they live together and Cid said that he has 'children,' plural, not just one daughter, though the other child is technically Otto's. It's not so unexpected, then, that Otto might know a lot more about Barnabas than Joshua does. Not that the curmudgeon seems likely to tell Joshua very much behind Cid's back.

Before Joshua can say anything, the door leading to the garage opens, and Cid himself steps into the office. "That's Mathieu's van done," Cid says cheerfully, holding out his keys to Otto and reaching for a clipboard behind the desk. He looks up and smiles widely. "Afternoon, Joshua! Feeling better?"

"I—" Joshua starts.

"He's not here for Clive," Otto cuts in.

Cid signs something on the form he's holding and sets it down. "Aye, I know what he's here for," he says to Otto.

This is a surprise to Joshua, and not a pleasant one. He's not sure how Cid could have found out about Barnabas or Dzemekys when Clive doesn't even know. Did Barnabas tell him? Cid did say that his older brother hasn't stopped bothering him, whether or not they get along. Is it possible Cid is one of the Children of Dzemekys, too—working behind the scenes for them, perhaps?

"Come with me, lad," Cid says. "I'll take my break now, Otto, I'll be back before long."

If Cid is working with Barnabas, then it's even more imperative that Joshua have a chance to speak to him. Joshua glances at Otto again and tries not to look like he's running away from the man's suspicious glare as he follows Cid out the door. Impulsively, he reaches into his bag and fumbles to turn on the audio recorder he carries with him, disguising the motion by pulling out a pen.

"We can talk in the hideaway," Cid says. It's only a few steps from the office to the house, so he hasn't bothered putting on a coat. Joshua plunges his free hand into his pocket and shivers just looking at him.

"I appreciate your time," Joshua says when Cid lets him into the basement of his house and gestures at the central table where the staff take their break. Joshua sits and reaches down to pull out his notebook, adjusting his mask on his face when the angle makes him cough.

When he surfaces, a business card is set down in front of him. Joshua blinks at it in confusion while Cid sits down as well.

"Quinten Wraec, Esquire," Joshua reads from the card. He picks it up, looks at the back—nothing else. "What...?"

"He's my lawyer," Cid says. He's leaning back in his chair, the picture of nonchalance, but his voice is very gentle. "He's handled the will and testament for both me and Otto. You don't have to go through a lawyer; a will's pretty simple, really. But Quinten's good. He'll make sure you don't miss anything. I took the liberty of speaking to him—told him I was sending you his way. He promised he wouldn't overcharge you for his services."

"Oh—my god," Joshua blurts, dropping the card, mortified. "You thought I came here for..."

First he was worried that Cid was inappropriately pressuring Clive; then Cid walked his dog for him while he was sick, and now the man is trying to help him with his last wishes, in private. And it's helpful, even though Joshua doesn't want to think about it right now; Cid is being helpful, and Joshua feels like he tricked him into this conversation.

"Apparently not," Cid says. His brow furrows, but his smile hasn't dimmed. "That'll teach me to make assumptions, I suppose."

Flustered, Joshua says, "It's—you're very kind, I..." He stares at the business card again. Quinten Wraec. He shakes himself. "No, I came to ask you about Barnabas."

For a long moment, it's silent, except for the sound of air hissing quietly though the vents, keeping the basement warm. Joshua is still holding his pen, and he can't seem to decide whether to look at Cid or at Quinten's business card.

Then Cid gives one, sharp bark of a laugh. "That's right," he says. He shakes his head. "Phoenix-gate—of course. Perhaps I shouldn't be surprised my brother's got his hooks into you."

"It's not like that," Joshua says.

"No?" Cid asks. "Did Barnabas tell you that the great Flame from beyond will purify your soul?" His voice has taken on a mocking edge, and the kind smile he was wearing before twists into a smirk. "That walking through fire is some sort of proof of your devotion to God? Because if that were true, your brother would be the most devout man I know." Joshua's grip tightens on his pen. "In fact, he's on shift—he could be worshipping God right now, for all we—"

"I know what my brother does!" Joshua snaps, and presses a hand to his sternum as a cough emerges on the heels of his words. He clears his throat, ignoring the ache in his chest that erupts with each spasm and forcing himself to box the annoyance back up. "You're not part of Barnabas's cult—not one of the Children of Dzemekys, then."

"Not a chance," Cid scoffs. "Is that what he's calling them now—the Children of Dzemekys?"

Joshua sets his pen to his notebook. "Did he used to call it something else? Was it the Circle of Malius?"

Cid narrows his eyes. His eyes flick to the notebook, questioning.

"There was a series of fires," Joshua explains as briefly as he can. "Do you remember, some weeks ago, when Clive hurt his shoulder? He was responding to a fire that had been set by one of the Children of Dzemekys." He's watching Cid carefully, so he sees the surprise as it blooms on the older man's face. Cid didn't know about that. "Then I came across a few others that I was also able to connect to Dzemekys, through the support group that they run. I needed to understand what was going on, so I joined them."

"Naturally, as one does," Cid says. He's frowning thoughtfully at Joshua as it becomes clear that neither of them is part of Barnabas's loyal flock.

"It was Sleipnir Harbard, actually, their minister, who told me all of those things you said, about purifying and fire and all," Joshua says. "No one meets the prophet—Barnabas—until they've proven their dedication. I only just met him the once before I fell ill, and I found your name from an article about..." He hesitates; he has no idea how close Cid was to his foster mother. "...about Sophia Tharmr's death."

Cid rubs his left arm, not seeming to notice he's doing it. Joshua tries not to let his eyes be drawn to the motion; the scars would be hidden under the sleeve, and it's not like he needs the confirmation that he has the right person. "You joined his cult," Cid says, "and now you're asking questions?"

"There's no solid evidence they intended for any of those fires to be set, so the police don't have enough to act, not against a registered church," Joshua says doggedly. "If the Children are being intentionally goaded into this, then I need to find proof of it. If there's not proof of a crime, then I can at least expose their methods—warn the world about how they prey on people who need help."

"And it has to be you, not a...a police officer trained for undercover work," Cid says, still skeptical.

Joshua glances involuntarily at the business card. Quinten Wraec, Esq. "I told them I was dying," he says, and Cid's lips tighten. "And, as you've guessed, a few of them have something of a fixation on the Phoenix-gate fire. I fit their profile. I was better positioned than most to gain their trust."

Cid sighs, scrubbing a hand over his mouth. "Well," he says after a moment, "this is not why I thought you were here today."

"I know," Joshua says, wincing. "I didn't intend to trick you into this or anything, and I..." His eyes drift to the card again. He flips it over so the words aren't boring into him. "I appreciate this"—he gestures to it—"very much. But I need to understand Barnabas. I need to understand why he's doing what he does and what he's trying to achieve."

"I haven't seen him in a decade and a half," Cid says.

"But he's called you since then," Joshua presses.

"Sleipnir calls me," Cid says, and Joshua makes a note that the two of them do know each other. "Barnabas wouldn't do his own dirty work. Sometimes one of his others will call."

She's a grown woman, Joshua remembers hearing Cid say once to Otto. She made her own choice. "Others? Benedikta?" he guesses.

Cid narrows his eyes, considering. "Aye. But I moved to a different continent to get away from him. I'm not getting sucked into whatever nonsense he's started."

Joshua sets his pen down and leans closer. "Well, he's here now. Cid, people have died. That's not an exaggeration. This has been happening over and over in the last year or so, and it's not just the Children of Dzemekys getting hurt; it's innocent people who live in the same block of flats they're burning down. And not just them. Every time it happens, first responders are put at risk. Clive is put at risk. Do you understand?"

Cid's jaw is tense. "Look, I'm not involved with him and his people. If I could tell you what you're looking for, I would, but I don't know."

"Then tell me about the man," Joshua prods. "He was your foster brother?"

Finally, Cid sighs. "God, I could use a cigarette," he mutters. He gets up, heading for the kitchenette, and Joshua tries to be surreptitious as he presses his mask closer to his face. "Don't worry, I quit years ago," Cid says over his shoulder. He reaches for a coffee pot instead of a smoke, filling it with water and agitatedly dumping coffee grounds into a filter. "Coffee? Tea?"

"Er," Joshua says, uncertain.

"I don't intend to be a poor host," Cid says. "Clive says caffeine is good for you, anyway—slows the scarring or something like that." He raises his eyebrows.

So Clive does talk to Cid about Joshua, and Cid doesn't seem annoyed about it. "Coffee would be great, thanks," Joshua says. He watches Cid putter about and doesn't interrupt. He recognizes the sight of a man trying to gather his thoughts.

When Cid returns with two steaming mugs, he sits and says, like there was no break in the conversation, "My parents died when I was six, and Sophia Tharmr took me in when I was...eight or nine. Barnabas is her biological son."

Relieved, Joshua eagerly picks up his pen again to take notes and, at the same time, reaches into his bag again to extract his audio recorder. No reason to hide it if he doesn't have to. "Do you mind if I record this, just so I don't miss anything?"

"Why not," Cid says, eyeing the pen-shaped recorder. "It's not a secret. A lot of it just stayed out of the news because there were children involved."

Setting recorder carefully down, Joshua asks, "Were you close? To Barnabas?"

"Not particularly; not at first. He was older—perhaps sixteen at the time. He was closer to the other foster son in the house, Athan Typhon. They were...I dunno, a year or two apart."

Joshua pulls his mask down enough to take a sip from the mug Cid put in front of him. It's black and too bitter for his tastes, but he takes a few swallows anyway. He'd rather be as awake as possible for this. "Was he religious back then?"

"Aye—well, more that Sophia was. She was born in Waloed and had been brought up following the Circle of Malius." Cid takes a sip of coffee and raises an eyebrow at him over the mug. "I didn't realize when I was young, but their following is somewhat secretive, even on Ash. How much do you know about the Circle?"

"We'd guessed it was some sort of secret society," Joshua says. "We know the people of ancient Dzemekys thousands of years ago followed the cult of Malius. As far as we've been able to piece together, they believed in the divinity of fire and that the world will be destroyed and reborn, probably in cycles."

"That's part of it," Cid agrees. "I learned later that Sophia had been part of a particularly extremist sect, and the more dominant religion in Waloed forced her and hers out of the country when she was young. That's why she came to Storm, and she continued practicing her faith here. This was all before Barnabas was born."

He doesn't say whether there really was something objectionable about Sophia Tharmr's sect, but being forced from her home over it would certainly have only reinforced the idea that members of the Circle would be persecuted for their beliefs. Joshua thinks about Gerulf and his words about weapons and defending himself, as well as the general understanding among the members that they will not be understood by outsiders. That didn't come from nowhere, it seems.

"Do you recognize this book?" Joshua asks. He takes out his copy of Scriptures of the Risen. "Sleipnir gave it to me. This is what the Children of Dzemekys study."

Cid picks it up and pages through it. "Never thought I'd see one of these again," he says, setting it back down and eyeing it askance. "It's supposed to be thousands of years old. Sophia said some of it was written before Dzemekys fell. She worked as a translator—translating from Ancient Ashen dialects to English—and she'd translated the Scriptures of the Risen on her own time. We all had to read it as children, and she would read parts of it at morning worship or at the dinner table."

Joshua looks at the Scriptures anew. It was Barnabas's own mother who wrote the translation he was reading, most likely. "So you were raised following the Circle of Malius as well."

"All of us were," Cid confirms. "I'd lived in enough homes by then to know that you did what the rest of the family did. I prayed with them, I read the book. But I was young. I didn't really understand much of it, or care to. Barnabas was a true believer, though. He always has been."

"And the other child—Athan Typhon?"

"Typhon." Cid stares down into his coffee. "He was..."

When he stops, Joshua looks up from his notebook. On reflection, he should have perhaps spared a bit more attention for Typhon when he read the article, but he was so focused on Barnabas and the connection to Cid. "He died in the same fire as Sophia Tharmr," Joshua remembers. "Did you live with him for long?"

"A couple of years," Cid says. He sighs. "Everything started with Typhon, I suppose. He was...troubled. I don't know what he'd been through before Sophia took him in, or if there was something else the matter, but he used to have horrific nightmares. He'd wake the house screaming, crying, terrified of whatever it was he saw in his dreams."

Joshua winces behind his mask as he writes. There are many reasons why a teenaged boy would need to be placed in a foster home, and none of them are good. If Cid doesn't know, then it's probably not productive to speculate, but Joshua's brain can't stop from flicking through the possibilities: perhaps Typhon witnessed something traumatic; perhaps he saw his biological family die; perhaps he was abused by his previous carers; perhaps he suffered from some illness that his blood family didn't know how to handle. "And how did Sophia respond to his nightmares?"

Grimacing, Cid says, "That's just it: she didn't think they were nightmares. She believed Typhon was being sent visions from God about the end times. She told him that his dreams were prophecies—told him to be grateful that God was speaking directly to him."

"That's horrible," Joshua mutters.

Cid tilts his mug in acknowledgement. "And then, eventually, she came to believe he was more than that. If his visions were showing him the end of the world, she thought, then that meant we were due for the arrival of..." Cid pauses. "A savior, essentially. She believed that someone would be born who would embody God, or...I don't bloody know, who would be able to play host to God in his own body. Typhon, she thought, was that person."

Looking up, Joshua asks, "Mythos? Is that what you mean? She thought Typhon was Mythos."

Cid stares at him, and then glances at the Scriptures. "You're not joking when you say you've joined them. Aye, that's right. She started testing him. To prepare him, she told us."

A frisson of apprehension shoots down Joshua's spine. "Dare I ask how?"

"You can ask," Cid says, "but I don't know myself. She had a place up on Drake's Tail, halfway up the mountain, an isolated little cabin she'd built herself that she took us to on occasion for worship. The Apodytery, she called it: a place where people's souls were stripped bare and prepared for the next step."

"The next step," Joshua repeats. "Of what? Like a...a spiritual journey?"

"Something like that, I reckon. She starting taking Typhon there for days at a time, leaving me at home with Barnabas. Whatever she did to him, it didn't leave a mark, though he was always distant and agitated when he came home." Cid rubs the back of his neck. "In retrospect, I can see it wasn't right, whatever she was doing to him. You don't put a child through testing like that. But back then...well, Typhon scared me, a bit. He could be erratic at times, and I didn't understand why. I was glad to have him out of the house for a few days. Barnabas was good to me, no one was screaming in the night..." He sighs. "I should have reported it at the time. If I had..."

He reaches to the side, like he's grasping for something, and then makes a face and detours to pick up his coffee cup instead. A cigarette, maybe. Habits don't always break easily.

The Children of Dzemekys talk about the most traumatic moments of their lives as though that is how God tests them. Genevieve heard of Redouane Allard's suicide and called it a test. Joshua suspects rather strongly that Sophia's 'tests' for Typhon might indeed have been the kind of thing someone should have reported to Child Protective Services.

"You were a child yourself; it's not your fault," Joshua says, however, because Cid was only twelve in the newspaper photo on the day of Typhon's death.

Cid shrugs. "Perhaps," he says, noncommittal. "But eventually, Typhon started going to stay with friends from school instead of coming home. Can't say I blame him. Sophia and Barnabas weren't pleased, though. One day, I came home from school to find Typhon and Sophia yelling at each other—he said she was crazy, she called him ungrateful. It was the only time I'd ever heard him talk back to her. Perhaps his friends had finally pointed out how fucked it was, whatever she was doing to him."

Joshua nods encouragingly and tries not to think about all of the times he used to lie in bed or hide behind a door, listening to Clive and their mother arguing. Cid would have been about the same age Joshua was when Clive began to think about leaving home.

"Whatever it was, it came to a head that day," Cid says. "There was a shrine in the center of the house for morning worship, and Sophia kept candles burning there day and night. Typhon grabbed the candles and set fire to everything within reach: the curtains, the furniture. Sophia herself, even—Typhon was seventeen then, and big. He grabbed her, held her until her clothing caught."

God.

"You were there?" Joshua says. "You saw it happen?"

Cid picks up his mug, then sets it back down again, holding it in both hands. "Me and Barnabas both. The fire spread faster than I could comprehend. Barnabas went to try to help Sophia; I tried to run, but I wasn't fast enough. Earned myself a souvenir." He holds up his left arm, rolling up the sleeve. As Joshua has glimpsed before, the skin of his forearm is puckered with the distinctive look of a burn scar from his wrist to nearly his elbow, still shinier than the skin around it.

I know the feeling, Joshua stops himself from saying. He presses a hand to the scar on his chest. It was so many years ago, and the scent of smoke still makes him freeze. Not that that's irrational; everyone flinches from fire when they're not expecting it, and often even when they are. That's fairly rational, actually. Joshua wonders how Cid ever started smoking—but then, the things people use to cope aren't always entirely rational, either.

"Eventually, Barnabas grabbed me and carried me out," Cid says. "Typhon and Sophia didn't make it."

"I'm sorry," Joshua offers. "That must have been horrifying. But...you stayed close to Barnabas, even after his mother died?"

This time, Cid takes a long drink of his coffee. "He was nineteen, and he became my legal guardian. He changed after that. Not that he was ever the most cheerful bloke, but it was like he completely shut down—like he was just empty inside."

"Hollowed out," Joshua says, thinking of how Edda Leifsdottir described her partner Ivan. He thinks of the way Barnabas dresses even today, like he would rather fade into the dark than live in the light. "Grief will do that, I suppose."

"He was always close to his mother. He blamed Typhon's friends for leading him astray—as though staying with us, with the family, would have done him any better. He thought that becoming close with others was what poisoned Typhon's mind against us."

"That's why he doesn't interact with the outside world," Joshua guesses, and, when Cid looks quizzical, explains, "Barnabas. He doesn't speak to anyone except the more devoted of the Children. It's Sleipnir—and Benedikta, maybe some others—who talk to everyone else."

Cid frowns. "Then he's become more extreme than when I was young," he says. "That's what happens when you think you speak to God, I reckon. People following him, calling him their prophet, probably didn't help."

"No, I imagine it wouldn't," Joshua says. "So. Barnabas was living in Waloed, as far as I can tell, until the last few years. Did he move with you to Waloed straight away?"

"Aye, soon after Sophia died," Cid says. "To her hometown, where the Circle of Malius still had a fair presence. He was trying to follow in her footsteps, I think. His mother died trying to find Mythos, so he became obsessed with it, too. She wasn't wrong about the end of the world, he thought; she'd just picked the wrong savior. After all, the Scriptures say that the arrival of Mythos will be heralded by the appearance of God's servants—those who have so devoted themselves to Him that they can hear His voice."

Joshua thinks of Barnabas, of Benedikta and Hugo. "Prophets, like Garuda and Ramuh and the others in the writings. Barnabas thought Typhon was just one of them, then, that it was only a sign that Mythos would be found soon."

"I reckon he must have. I stayed with him and the Circle until I aged out. And for a bit after that, too, long enough for him to ask me to help him rebuild their following."

"But you broke from him instead," Joshua prompts.

"Not...right away," Cid confesses. "Not all at once. It was habit more than anything, at first. Morning prayers, evening prayers, readings—no big deal. It was just how I'd been raised, and I didn't have anything else. I didn't know anything else. But when people started joining him, looking for help and finding only that bollocks about"—he gestures to the Scriptures—"about being grateful for their pain, and that it was a sign of God's will..." He shakes his head. "I realized he was doing to them what Sophia had done to Typhon."

"When was that, would you say?" Joshua asks. He'll want to try to piece together an approximate timeline later. "Was there a particular incident that changed your mind, or was it more of a gradual shift?"

There's a pause. "A bit of both," Cid finally says. "I'd...known for a while. But there was a day when law enforcement came to our doorstep, after three missing persons reports had been filed." Joshua looks up at that. "No one had been kidnapped. A few people had run away, or left home, to stay at the compound we lived on back then. Their parents or wives or"—he waves a hand—"whoever had become concerned. But when the police came, Barnabas told us to arm ourselves, just in case, and I realized—I was damn well not going to die in a hail of bullets for this shit."

He never advocates for violence, Jote said of Sleipnir. But he doesn't discourage it. "Were there altercations with law enforcement in Waloed, then?" he asks.

"It never came to that, as far as I know," Cid says, "but he was ready for it. Barnabas doesn't trust anyone outside the Circle, especially after Typhon. He made sure there were always some of us who knew how to fight, or to shoot. The ones closest to him, certainly. Some of them took to it—a little too eagerly, I thought."

"But you didn't," Joshua says, thinking about Gerulf and Hugo Kupka, men who are useful to the Children because they were fighters. "And that's when you left."

"Didn't go far, mind. Barnabas wasn't much for schooling, or really anything that could influence me, so I didn't have the kind of qualifications that would make it easy to move back to Storm to start a new life. I stayed in Waloed—studied where I could, worked until I had enough experience to hold down a decent job away from Barnabas's church. I must have been nearly thirty by the time Barnabas took in his first foster child: Sleipnir. And then his second, Benedikta, a few years later." Cid grimaces. "He always did want to be just like his mother."

"So that's how you know those two," Joshua says. "What about Hugo?"

Cid raises his eyebrows. "I don't know who Hugo is. I never met him."

That makes sense; Cid had long left the cult by the time Hugo Kupka was discharged from the military. "Never mind. So you weren't associating with Barnabas anymore by the time he took in Sleipnir."

But at this, Cid hesitates. "I wasn't one of his flock," he says eventually. "But. I saw what happened to Typhon—what happened to Barnabas when his mother died. I tried to talk to the younger ones sometimes, tried to show them another path. One of them, Benedikta—she had a knack with tools, and she... We had a rapport. I thought I might convince her to come work with me."

Like Gav, Joshua can't help thinking. Like Clive. "But she chose to stay with Barnabas. Why is that? Is she a true believer, too? Is Sleipnir?"

"Sleipnir, certainly. He was so young; he grew up with Barnabas's obsession. The first time he called me, a couple of years ago, I thought perhaps he'd changed his mind, that he wanted my help to get out. But he'll never leave Barnabas. He's practically an extension of my brother himself by now.

"Benedikta..." Cid sighs. "I don't know. Like Sophia, Barnabas sees visions in his followers'—his children's—fears and their dreams. I know Barnabas thinks she's a prophet herself, that she's been shown a vision of the future. He thought the same of me once, after a..." He hesitates, turning the mug around in his hands. "A nightmare," he says, and does not elaborate. Joshua doesn't ask him to. "But Benna was older when he took her in, fifteen or so. I don't know how much of it she ever came to believe herself. Sometimes I thought she was just playing along, appeasing him. It's what you do," he explains, "when you're dropped onto a stranger's doorstep as a child and told they control you now."

It's not so far from what Jote has said about her own life. Children are easily indoctrinated, because they don't have much of a choice about it. But sometimes they break free. Joshua thinks about the way it always sounds like Benedikta's mocking him, unlike the reverent tones he hears from most of the Children when they speak of scripture. Is she only playing a part? If so, is that a weakness in the organization that Joshua can exploit?

"So it's not an act for Barnabas," Joshua says. "Benedikta told us about her vision of signs of the end. Whether or not she believes it, Barnabas does."

Cid nods and rubs a hand across his mouth. "That's all I can really tell you. I adopted Midadol, my daughter, and that was the last straw. I didn't want her growing up the way I had—the way Sleipnir and Benedikta were growing up—so I moved back here. I can't tell you what Barnabas has done since then." He snorts. "Though, if I'd known my dear brother was going to come back, too, I could have saved myself the trouble and stayed in Waloed."

"Do you think he followed you?" Joshua asks. "Clearly, he still wants you back in the fold."

But Cid exhales heavily and shakes his head. "More likely, he came for the same reason I did: Twinside was our home. It's the only place either of us knew in Storm. I'm only one person. He wouldn't have uprooted his life just for me."

That's a rather depressing view, Joshua thinks. Barnabas was Cid's brother and something like a father. Clive would have—and did—uproot everything for Joshua. "I'm sure people here are glad you wound up in this city, though," he offers, trying not to sound too pitying. "I know my brother must be."

Cid shoots him a sharp look and manages a thin smile. "Still. I wish I knew what mine was up to."

"He's still searching for Mythos," Joshua tells him. "He's told us—the Children, that is—that finding Mythos and preparing him is our duty."

"Barnabas is insane," Cid says bluntly. "Did you know, he told me that Typhon's death was proof that he wasn't strong enough to be our savior. A sixteen-year-old boy, one who should have been seeing a therapist, not being groomed to be the savior of mankind. Do you know what Mythos is supposed to do?"

"Throw himself on a pyre, I think, and be revealed as God," Joshua says. He winces. "I was hoping that part was metaphorical."

Cid shakes his head. "Barnabas takes the Scriptures as literal fact. The way he sees it, Mythos will be a person, someone who has literally walked through fire and come out unscathed. Typhon only sealed it in his mind: the fire was a test, as he sees it, and Typhon failed. Whoever his new Mythos is, Barnabas will want to see them tested, again and again, until they've proven they're somehow immune to fire and all the ills of the world—or until they're dead. And since people aren't generally immune to fire, I reckon the latter will happen first."

Joshua nods. His heart begins to race as an awful thought strikes him.

Clive is on shift at the firehouse. He could be worshipping God right now, Cid said earlier, sarcastically, but...  

We found you, Ivan Karlsson said to Clive, after burning his building down and before falling into a coma. This was for you. Karlsson was obsessed with Phoenix-gate; he would have known who Clive was already.

"Do you have any proof of this?" Joshua asks very calmly. There's something roiling in his chest—the old anger, the fear and frustration, all of the ugly things he can't afford to let out, because they're not useful. What's useful now is to stay calm, to gather the facts, and to come up with a plan.

"Do I have proof?" Cid echoes. "I can tell you about the teachings he follows, but unless you think you can get a registered church declared illegal, I doubt that will hold much water."

"It's not just that there are teachings to be read in a book, though," Joshua says. "He—or his followers, Sleipnir, at least—is positioning himself as a counselor, as someone who can help people through their grief. I talked to someone who tried to set a building on fire because she thought it was a test from God. You know Barnabas better than I do. Do you think he's just waiting for someone to test himself and declare himself our savior? Or do you think he'd take a more...active role in the testing?"

Before Cid can answer, the door to the hideaway bangs open. Joshua flips his notebook shut, more as a reflex than for any real reason, as Mid enters, walking backwards.

"—patched it up twice already," she's saying, looking up at Blackthorne as he stomps in after her. "D'you think he's lookin' for potholes? Hey, Dad, I'm goin' up, I swear, I just stopped in the shop for a second."

Cid has uncurled himself, too, sitting back up in his usual sprawl, as though they haven't just been talking about a man he wants to stay far away from his daughter. "See that you do," Cid says. "Finish your homework before closing and you can come back to help."

"All right, all right, I'm off," Mid says. "Hi, Josh, feelin' better?" she adds, and runs up the stairs and into the main house before he can answer.

Blackthorne's still at the door. "Can you come to the floor," he says to Cid. "Need a second opinion on this tire." He glances at Joshua and scowls. "Rosfield," he says, which is the friendliest greeting Joshua's ever gotten from the man.

"Afternoon," Joshua says, and then tries, "...Gus?"

"What?" Blackthorne says.

Joshua shakes his head. "Nothing. Er, nice to see you."

Cid gives him a strange look but says, "I'll be there in five."

Without answering, Blackthorne turns around and leaves. The door slams shut behind him, leaving Joshua and Cid alone once more.

"His name's Blackthorne," Cid says.

"No, I know, I..." Joshua coughs into his mask. "It's not important. What is your opinion on Barnabas? His mother tormented your foster brother in the belief that he was their savior. How closely do you think Barnabas will follow in her footsteps?"

Cid stares at him. "I didn't think he would..." he starts, and then shakes his head. "It's been a long time. I don't know him anymore. I don't think he'd set a man on fire, no, but..."

"But would he set fires," Joshua says, "and wait for a man to walk through them? Over and over? There are people who do that for a living, you know."

Finally, Cid seems to hear what he's saying. "You think he's looking for the savior of the world among firefighters."

Joshua spreads his hands. "You're the one who said he takes the Scriptures literally. Who do we both know who famously survived a fire practically unscathed as a child, and then was awarded a medal last year for doing it professionally?"

The expression on Cid's face is skeptical—because it's crazy—but it's beginning to fade into alarm as he considers it. Cid isn't on social media, but he has children who know Clive and are at the right age to know that there are fan accounts that share sightings of the man who has become the face of the Twinside Fire Department. If Joshua's story made it easy for him to slip into the Children's circle, Clive's story would make him stand out even more.

"Has he mentioned Clive to you?" Cid demands.

"Not exactly," Joshua says, "but they know who I am—they knew before I walked in—which means they know who he is, too. What if they really do think they're testing him? What if that's what all of the fires have been about? Is that possible?"

"Fuck me," Cid groans. He stands up. "I...I suppose it's possible. But I don't have proof; did you think he left signed confessions about his intent to convince a man to set himself on fire?"

"Would he keep...notes, or records of his followers, anything like that?" Joshua asks. "I already know some of them were obsessed with Phoenix-gate. If I could find evidence that he's feeding the conspiracy theories, or establish a correlation between Children he pushed the hardest and the ones who committed crimes..."

Cid grimaces. "It's possible. He did used to keep track of everyone, to know who could be trusted. He wouldn't keep that sort of thing out in the open, though, where anyone could get to it."

Joshua tries to imagine the prophet—the strangely still and serious man he met—doing paperwork. It's hard to picture him anywhere except in that prayer room. Barnabas Tharmr barely seems to exist on paper; it's not even clear where he lives. Joshua's best guess is that Sleipnir has arranged somewhere for him.

"So I need to get closer to him," Joshua says. "The more they trust me, the more they'll let their guard down and I can take a look around. Maybe they'll even tell me directly what's going on."

Cid stares down at him. "Clive doesn't know about any of this," he says. It's not a question. "He'd never approve."

Joshua clenches his jaw. He closes his notebook and stands up. It takes more effort than he was expecting; the weakness from his recent illness is trying to weigh him down now that he's been sitting for a bit. "If anything is to be done about this cult, we're going to need evidence. I'm the best chance to get it in a hurry. If they become suspicious and close ranks, then we lose our chance. At worst, perhaps they take up arms. What would he do if he knew the police were coming for them?"

Clive can't find out, because he would make a fuss, or possibly make a noise that the Children will hear about. He's reckless enough to try to confront Sleipnir, or even Barnabas himself, especially if he realizes how upset Barnabas makes Cid. He's close enough with the captain of the TPD's Major Crimes division that Rodney might even be convinced to act on his word, but ultimately, that won't do any good without proof.

Cid must know this, too, because he doesn't answer immediately.

"You care about Clive, don't you?" Joshua says. It's cheap, a line designed to be emotional rather than logical. "If he finds out about this, he'll try to stop me, and we both know that letting me find the proof we need is the best way to keep him safe. Can I trust that you want him to be safe as much as I do?"

Finally, Cid chuckles. It's not an amused sound; rather, disbelieving. "Rosfields," he says. "You're both the same." Before Joshua can ask what he means by that—if there's something Clive's keeping from him, too—Cid says, "Keep me in the loop. If there's anything I can tell you about their operations, I'll help."

Joshua can't help but glance at the door Mid disappeared through. "I wouldn't want Barnabas's attention to be drawn back to you," he says.

"He's been trying to get my attention for the last year," Cid says.

Perhaps this is why, Joshua guesses. Cid may have left the Children—or the Circle, if that's what they called themselves back then—but Barnabas is still his brother and has been reaching out to him since long before he met Clive. Barnabas thinks the end is nigh, and, for all his talk about severing connections and leaving oneself pure, he wants to bring his little brother back into the fold before the end.

It's almost sweet.

"But if you suddenly start catching his attention," Joshua says gently, "then it'll lead him back to Clive, too. I have your number," he adds before Cid can protest. "I'll call you if I have any questions. Here, I'll text you now so you have mine, too."

Cid sighs. "I won't lie to your brother."

It's a noncommittal statement, not quite a threat. It could mean Cid isn't going to bring it up to Clive directly—at least not yet—but if things drag on much longer, then he'll feel he has to. Clive isn't the kind of person who would forgive a lie of omission because it's not technically a falsehood. Joshua will need to hope that Cid's concern for Clive holds long enough for Joshua to do what he needs to do. "Who would you say Barnabas's inner circle is?" Joshua asks.

"Sleipnir and Benna—Benedikta."

And Hugo Kupka, Joshua thinks, because Randal said that Hugo and Benedikta work together, and that Hugo had some sort of revelatory experience himself. "Hm," Joshua says, considering. "His host of God's servants." He changes Cid's name in his phone to Auto Repair—he's become paranoid—and arranges his face so that it looks like he's smiling above his mask. "All right. I've taken enough of your time. Thank you, Cid, really. This has been very helpful. I think I've got an idea."

When he hefts his bag over his shoulder and begins to leave, however, Cid says, "Joshua."

Prepared for yet another round of cautions, Joshua turns around, forcing his expression to remain pleasant. He opens his mouth to cut off whatever Cid would say—and then stops.

Cid is holding out the business card. Quinten Wraec, Esq. "You forgot this," he says.

Joshua doesn't move. "That's not why I came here," he says again.

Cid doesn't drop his hand. "You should still take it."

"Right," he says.

After a moment, Cid says, "While you're here, allow me to give you the benefit of my timeless wisdom: this doesn't mean anything on its own, lad."

"It does," Joshua says.

"Your brother has a will," Cid says, making him twitch. "A lot of people your age do. I have a will—and a living will, too. None of us will live forever, and this"—he waggles the card in his hand—"isn't just about what we leave behind. It's about ensuring, as much as we can, that when we go, it will be on our own terms."

"I know that," Joshua says, and neither of them points out that he, especially, really should have an advance directive in place. It's something he needs to think about, and it's something he doesn't want to think about.

As though Cid can hear his thoughts, he says, "It doesn't have to be now. I'm not trying to push you. But it's on your mind already. Filing these documents just means it's all taken care of, and then you're not thinking about it all the time. That's all." Joshua nods. He puts his hands into his pockets. "Do you want someone to go with you? Or help preparing? I can talk you though it, if you want."

It's so generous, after Joshua's just spent a half hour grilling the man, that his eyes grow suddenly hot. He blinks hard. "No," he says. "I'll...I'll handle it. I don't have time to... I'll get to it. It's..." He swallows. "You should..." He gestures to the door and hurries to pull it open himself. "Blackthorne was asking for you."

"Joshua," Cid says, "I won't lie to your brother about Barnabas. But this"—he holds up the business card—"stays between us as long as you'd like."

"Okay," Joshua says. "Thank you. I'll let you go back to work."

*****

Jote frowns the whole time Joshua explains what he's learned and what his plan is. "Are you allowed to record conversations without their knowing?" she asks. She pulls her feet up onto Joshua's couch and wedges them under Torgal's warm body. Torgal adjusts his head in Joshua's lap and then settles again under his fingers. "I mean, is it legal?"

It wouldn't be allowed for her, as she's operating under strict regulations on informed consent. Joshua, however, is not. "The Crystalline Dominion has a one-party consent law," he says, "so as long as I'm only recording my own conversations, I'm in the clear. I don't record group sessions, but if I can corner someone one-on-one..."

"What if they catch you?" Jote says. "Or if they take away your phone and your belongings again?"

Joshua shrugs. "If they take away my phone, it's probably because we're going into the prayer room or something like, so it'll be a step forward anyway. I'll be able to get closer and ask questions. Even if Barnabas doesn't talk to me directly, I could ask the others more questions. Randal, maybe."

"Randal would talk to you," Jote agrees, though she still doesn't look convinced. "What if they find out what you're doing?"

"Then we're back to where we started," Joshua says. He turns away from her to cough—he's not supposed to be very contagious anymore, but that means Jote's stopped wearing her mask to his place, and it makes him nervous he'll manage to get her sick anyway. "The worst they could do is kick me out, and then I turn what I have over to the police and hope it's enough to make a difference."

"What if they..." she starts. She bites her lip. "Some of them died. That's what started all this, remember?"

"By their own hand," Joshua says. He throws her a smile. "I'll try not to be convinced to set myself alight. If I'm right about Clive, then they must know that having me on their side will only help them."

Jote takes a deep breath and snuggles closer to Torgal. The dog looks at her out of the corner of his eye, then shifts a little, exposing his flank to her. Jote pets him, long, firm strokes over his thick fur. "Can't you at least wait until you're better?" she says. "I don't think you should be out and about so much while you're still feeling weak."

Joshua's been on his couch for two hours straight now, and he's exhausted from the short jaunt to Otto's Auto and back. It was bad enough that he pulled out the thermometer when he came home, worried that the fever was making a comeback, but it was only his tired limbs being shaky and sore. It's getting hard to tell what's a side effect from one of the drugs he's on and what's actually sickness.

"I'll take another day," he says as a compromise, because the next session he's supposed to be at isn't until the day after tomorrow. Jote doesn't seem pleased, but Clive will be back from his shift tomorrow morning, and he'll talk to Cid the day after, if not the same day. If Joshua wants to do anything drastic, he has to do it soon, before Clive finds out and tries to stop him. "And I'll come straight home after."

She's fiddling with the fur on Torgal's back. She looks like she still has misgivings, but before she can speak, Joshua's phone vibrates on the coffee table. Torgal's ears prick up. Joshua soothes him while reaching over to grab the phone.

"They won't hurt me directly," Joshua assures her, trying to make Jote look less worried. "I'm not the one they think is Mythos. It's not like I've come through fire unscathed, after all.." He smiles at her as he answers the phone without looking. "Hello?"

"Joshua, darling!" says the voice on the other line. "How are you?"

Joshua's smile freezes. "Mum?"

He looks at the phone. There's no mistake. It's her.

He pushes Torgal's head off his lap. The dog huffs at him in annoyance, then gets up entirely, shakes himself, and turns around to lie back down on Jote. Joshua pushes himself slowly to his feet. Jote's not exactly wrong; he still feels far too wobbly from his recent illness.

"...so good to hear your voice!" his mother is saying over the phone.

"I—" Joshua starts, and something catches in his chest. He holds the back of the sofa with a hand and lowers the phone as he coughs. Jote is watching him, wide-eyed and pinned to her seat by the dog. Joshua gathers himself, clears his throat, and turns away to walk into his bedroom. He closes the door behind himself and drops to sit on the edge of the mattress.

"...all right, darling?" Mum asks. "Are you ill?"

"Er, no," Joshua says, though that's a lie, probably twice over. Of course he's ill; when is he not? But they don't talk about that when she calls. They only talk about things that don't matter, that won't make either of them angry. He swallows. "Sorry, I must have...stood up wrong. How...how have you been, Mum?"

"Oh, busy, you know, preparing for the move in a few months," she says breezily. "But it'll be exciting! There'll so much more opportunity for the studio in Twinside. We have plans to rebuild the historic district—revitalize it, you might say. And it's close to the capital, of course, so it will open new doors for us among policymakers."

She's never told him herself that the business—that she—is moving to Twinside, but she must be aware he'd already know. She already announced it to the world, after all. "That's wonderful," Joshua tells her. "I'm sure you'll handle the transition admirably."

There's a long silence. With anyone else, Joshua would move to fill it. He knows how to keep a conversation flowing. With his mother, though, he's never sure if he wants her to keep talking to him or to hang up. Then again, she's usually happy to fill the space between them herself with small talk, mostly the kind of thing he could read from the news about the studio or little tidbits about Olivier, the half-brother he's never met.

This time, his mother says, sounding oddly tentative, "Is everything all right with you, Joshua?"

Joshua smiles so that she'll hear it. "Certainly. Clive and I are both well. Why do you ask?"

Another pause, shorter this time. And then, "He...called. Your brother. He wanted me to call you."

He closes his eyes. Clive hasn't spoken to their mother in over a decade. But he heard Joshua mention her, more than once, and he picked up the phone and called her, while Joshua has been too afraid to himself. Clive really has always been the brave one.

Joshua has wanted to tell her for weeks—or, at least, has wanted her to know. This is his chance. She might not even care all that much; she hasn't seen him in years, either. She probably only calls him when something reminds her that he exists, like that time last year after Clive was awarded the Medal of Valor and the studio congratulated him on social media on behalf of the family.

But she might care. She used to. Even when she made him cry, she still loved him, in her way. And there is part of him that wants to see her again, the way he wants to see Rosaria, to see if the stars are still visible from Hawk's Cry Cliff at night. It would be a shame to never see her again, now that he doesn't know how much time he has left.

"I'm...okay, right now," Joshua says quietly. He's aware of Jote just outside, huddled with Torgal. "Actually, there is something I've wanted to tell you."

"Has he done something?" their mother asks. There's an edge in her voice—something sharp, almost protective. "I always knew it was reckless, going to live with him. If he's hurt you, Joshua, I'll..."

Joshua laughs aloud.

And that's the reason, he remembers all over again, why he doesn't talk to her more than he has to. It's why he left, not because she didn't know how to handle his illness or because she always looked at him like he already had one foot in the grave when he was fighting so hard to survive. Because of this.

And to think that the only thing she would want to protect him from is the one person who would always keep him safe.

"What are you laughing at?" she asks. She still sounds concerned, but there's irritation in her voice, too. His mother doesn't like feeling like she's being mocked.

"After all these years," Joshua says bitterly, "you'll still never admit it, will you? I didn't come to Twinside because the doctors here are better, or because I couldn't bear to be around all the reminders of Dad, or whatever excuses you've given the press over the years. Clive brought me here to protect me from you."

"Joshua," Mum chides, like he's forgotten to tie his shoes or tuck in his shirt. "Don't be ridiculous! I know things were hard, but you're grown now. There's no need to exaggerate. Your brother didn't handle the fire well, you know that. It was generous of you to want to keep him company, but I always worried about you going off with him. He was never quite right afterward—you remember the nightmares he had—"

"Of course he had nightmares," Joshua says angrily. "I had nightmares. We both did."

"So did I!" she snaps. "But not like his. You know how your brother is."

Joshua sighs tiredly. The thing is, he does know how Clive is, better than anyone, and yet he has no idea what shemeans by it. His brother sometimes had terrible nightmares when they were younger, and he gets sad or anxious when something reminds him of the fire. But Joshua understood that, even when he was ten, or twelve. It shouldn't have been asking too much for their mother to have understood, too. None of it is any excuse for what their mother said to him.

"It was simply unacceptable, the way he began acting out. And to take you with him..."

Joshua hangs up before either of them can say anything else.

After a few seconds, the phone vibrates again—his mother calling back. He declines the call, puts it on the mattress, and bends over to rest his head in his hands.

He can always send her the same email he's going to send to Uncle Byron and the Murdochs, about the diagnosis. That's fine. It will work just as well. If he wants a hug over it, Hanna is more likely to give him one, anyway, and he's got Clive and Jill. And Dion, now, and even Jote, who doesn't really hug him, but they could both hug Torgal together and it would mean about as much. He hasn't needed his mother in years.

He looks at the phone, dark and silent on his bed. The psychosomatic pain in his chest is back, and he stays in his room for too long, willing it to go away.

Eventually, there's a soft tapping on the door. "Joshua?" Jote says, almost whispering, like she's afraid to disturb him. "Are you all right?"

Joshua clears his throat. He touches his face, making sure it's dry. It's been a strange day. "Sorry, I'm coming out," he says, and pushes himself to his feet.

She's waiting for him on the other side of the door. Torgal is curled up on his own on the couch now, perhaps tired of his pillows getting up and walking away. "What happened?" Jote asks.

He smiles at her. "Nothing," he says. He puts his phone away and takes a breath, and he lets her take his arm as they return to the couch to continue talking. "Come on. Help me figure out what questions I should ask them when I go to the next session."

Chapter Text

25. Omega stood before the great pyre and raised his voice to the heavens, saying, "We have mastered the Flame. We have conquered the earth, and we shall now make the fire serve us. The Flame has given us life, but now we will shape it, for we are the children of fire, and we are its true heirs."
26. The people of the Sagespire cheered, for they took pride in their mastery over the Flame. But they did not understand that Flame was not to be controlled; it was to be revered.

- Scriptures of the Risen, Book of the Fallen

*****

Joshua makes his move at the the Children of Dzemekys's next study session.

Well. It's not really a move so much as a slow slide toward the floor, and he's not sure he makes it so much as fails to stop it from happening. In fairness, he was going to make some sort of a move anyway, but it was going to be more of an move toward conversation. Since he last fell ill, he hasn't made it through a whole day without having to stop for a nap. The nausea medication makes him a bit drowsy on top of that, and kneeling on the concrete floor has made his legs go numb, and, before he realizes what's happening, Joshua is listing sideways into Randal.

"Hey, hey," Randal says in alarm, catching him before he hits the floor. Joshua blinks his eyes open. "What's wrong?"

The struggle to sit back up makes him cough, and Joshua has a second to see Randal's stricken face and feel guilty: Randal's sister is dying, and Joshua knows he's reminded of it every time they look at each other. "Sorry," he manages, flailing his way back upright. God, his knees hurt. The whole room is staring at him now, and Sleipnir is already hurrying toward them. "I...fell asleep, I guess. How embarrassing."

"Geez, Joshua," Randal says. He doesn't look relieved by this, and he hasn't let go of Joshua's arm, either. "Maybe you should lie down for a bit."

"An excellent idea," Sleipnir says, dropping to a crouch beside them.

"I want to be here," Joshua protests as Sleipnir grasps him firmly by the arm and Randal lets go. "I want to learn, I do—"

"You won't learn much if you're asleep," Benedikta's voice says from above them. She crouches, too, and takes Joshua by the other arm. They pull him to his feet, and Joshua has no choice but to do as they say, unless he wants to make a disruptive and probably humiliating scene by trying to fight them off.

"I... You're right," Joshua says. He feels himself tilt involuntarily into her—he really is more tired than he thought—before she steadies him. He's trying to wake his sluggish mind to come up with another plan, because this was not one of the contingencies he discussed with Jote, when Sleipnir says:

"Can you take him to the meeting room?" He's speaking to Benedikta, though he offers Joshua a smile when he looks over. "You can rest there for a while, Joshua. We can talk after the session's over."

"Oh," Joshua says, a bit muzzy. "Okay." He looks back at Barnabas to see if the prophet will say anything, but, as usual, he seems content to let his lieutenants take the lead for him. Kupka remains silent at his side.

"Take a nap," Sleipnir suggests as they leave. "We wouldn't want you collapsing on the way home."

Benedikta keeps a hand on his arm, leading him out of the prayer room to the now-familiar meeting room. "You're not doing very well, are you, little lamb," Benedikta says as they walk.

She's called him that several times now. He can't tell yet if it's just how she refers to everyone or if she thinks of Joshua as particularly lamb-like, for some reason. He doesn't see himself as being especially fluffy or adorable.

"I've been ill recently," Joshua explains. "And I've started a new medication—still getting used to the side effects. I didn't mean to cause a disruption."

"I wonder," she says, "what is it you're hoping to find here?" A flash of fear flickers through Joshua—does she know he's been hoping for an opportunity to snoop around? But she continues, "None of us can heal you. Life and death lie in the hands of God alone."

Ah. Joshua lets out a quiet breath of relief. "Just a bit of peace," he tells her, and he smiles to cover the sharp tinge of panic he can't entirely eliminate whenever someone mentions...that. "Like the prophet said: our bodies don't matter, in the end. It's enough to know my place in the world—and in the next, I hope."

Benedikta is still watching him, curious, as she pulls open the door to the meeting room. Chairs are neatly stacked in one corner, and she leads him to the long couch where he has sat many times beside Randal or Clarke or the others he's met. "You can rest here for a while," she says, and Joshua lets himself drop onto the soft cushions. "Do you need to call someone to help you?"

"I'm not quite there yet," Joshua says, summoning another smile and suppressing a flash of irritation at her oddly impassionate yet intrusive concern. "I'll be all right."

She looks him over once more, like she still wants to ask him something, and then, instead, steps away. "If you say so," she says.

Before she can go, Joshua says, "Benedikta." He reaches into his pocket to turn on the recording app on his phone...and then remembers that he doesn't have it on him. Like before, he had to leave everything outside the prayer room before the session.

Well. That's inconvenient. He was hoping to talk to one of them after the session, once he had his phone back. He's got another recorder in his bag, which is, of course, in locked away in the closet with his phone.

Time to improvise a bit.

"...Could I trouble you to bring me my bag?" he asks. "I left my medication in there."

He doesn't specify what kind of medication, and, as he hoped, Benedikta doesn't ask. Most people don't. "Give me a moment," she says.

Joshua eases himself back in the seat. There's no point in poking around in this room now when she'll be back quickly. Instead, he closes his eyes and breathes as steadily and deeply as he can, trying to imagine oxygen saturating his veins, as though imagining will help it to come true.

Sure enough, Benedikta returns barely a minute later and sets his bag by his feet. "Thank you," Joshua says, opening it and reaching inside. He fumbles for a moment before he manages to turn on the recorder and emerges holding his water bottle.

"Sleep well, lamb," Benedikta says, and turns to go again.

"How did you meet the prophet, Benedikta?" Joshua asks before she can leave.

She pauses and raises her chin. "I ran away from home, and he saved me. He gave me everything."

That's not the same thing as believing in all of this, though. That's a child clinging to a life raft. "And Mythos," Joshua presses. "You really believe he'll save us—that God will work through him to rebuild the world?"

"I believe in the prophet," Benedikta says.

"Does he know who Mythos is?" Joshua asks. "Has he told you how you would know if you met him?"

"Those of us who are ready will know him when we see him."

Joshua nods, clenching his hands together. "Will he know us, do you think? What if he himself doesn't know that he's God's vessel? How do we bring him into the fold?"

The corner of her lips lifts minutely. "He doesn't have to be in the fold," she says. "If he's truly Mythos, then God will provide the spark."

A chill wends down Joshua's spine, and he has to resist the temptation to reach back into his bag, to make sure the recorder is on and its microphone unobstructed. Cid might believe that his brother wouldn't set a man on fire himself, but Joshua's not so sure that Benedikta wouldn't, and Cid hasn't known Barnabas for years. Who knows what they would be willing to do? It certainly doesn't sound like she's overly concerned about their savior's consent.

"I want to help," he says, hoping she'll be more explicit if she thinks he's willing to participate. "I'd like to be useful. If you know who he is—if you've seen him already—I can help to find him. Tracking people down is part of my job."

Say it, he wills her. If someone says Clive's name directly, he'll have something more than just a hunch and the vague appeals to find this savior figure. A name would mean they have a target, not just some nebulous dogma that could be passed off as only literary imagery.

But Benedikta abruptly bends down over him, looking into his eyes. "What about you?" she asks, instead of taking his bait. "Do you think Mythos will save us?"

Joshua wants to ask again, to find the right question. He wants to know if Cid was right, that she's only in this because it was how she was brought up and because she doesn't see another path. But he doesn't know, so there's only one way he can answer that won't risk her becoming suspicious. "I do," Joshua says. He puts a hand to his chest, over his scar. She glances down, drawn by the movement. "I can't explain it. But I know it."

Something flickers over Benedikta's face, too quick for him to catch it. "Maybe my dear brother was right about you," she says, before she straightens and turns back toward the door.

"What do you mean?" Joshua asks, but she doesn't look back. A moment later, she's gone.

Joshua counts to ten, slowly, and then pushes himself to his feet.

There's nothing in this room that he hasn't seen before. He walks around anyway, because he'd feel like the worst kind of idiot later if he missed something in the very place where he was put. This is a room where people meet publicly, though, not just their initiates or their inner circle. There's not anything incriminating in here.

Carefully, Joshua pushes the door open. He's got about an hour before the session will end, but there's no telling whether someone will come and look in on him, or get up to use the toilet and see him walking about. He knows where Sleipnir's office is, but he finds it locked. There are a few other doors near it, which he supposes might be spaces used by Benedikta or even Barnabas himself, but they're all locked, too.

Worth a try.

Beyond them are study rooms, places he's seen small groups of Children huddled together over their copies of the Scriptures. Joshua glances once over his shoulder, then peeks inside one of them.

The first one is empty but for a table and three chairs. There's a woman in the next one, bent over her book, and Joshua hurries past as quickly and unobtrusively as he can. The third is open and unoccupied, but someone has left behind a copy of the Scriptures, bookmarked in the middle with a scrap of folded paper.

Joshua flips it open, glances at the bookmark, and freezes. He unfolds it.

It's a printout of an article from the Crystal Chronicle. He recognizes the picture:

President Havel awards Presidential Medal of Valor to two firefighters for extraordinary courage

The picture is from the ceremony last November when Clive and seven other public safety officers from across the nation stood in front of the president and were recognized for their bravery in the line of duty. Joshua was there, somewhere in the crowd, invited along with Jill as Clive's family, and the photo shows a clear image of Clive, in the formal uniform that he almost never wears, shaking hands with President Eugen Havel.

Joshua carefully folds the rage back into his chest. He folds the paper up, too, and slips it back into the book. If he'd had any doubts before, he doesn't anymore. It's not just firefighters they're targeting; it's Clive.

All the more reason to move as quickly as he can.

Before he closes the book again, his eyes catch on a passage:

'But take heed, O children of the earth,' it reads, 'for only the wise shall know how to walk through fire and emerge as the phoenix from the ashes.'

The phoenix. The word has dogged Joshua since he was ten: journalists were unable to resist the wordplay when it was in Phoenix Hall that their father died, and even now, it's one of the Children's favorite pieces of imagery. A phoenix represents life as well as death—

He pauses, looking at the words. It's from the Book of Ramuh, describing the life and deeds of the prophet of old who sought a cure for a plague and was led to it by the light of a flaming torch. Ramuh warned the unfaithful when he returned that they would be judged, that God would strike them down with a bolt of fire from the sky, because he'd seen it in a vision.

Quickly, Joshua pages back to the Book of Ash, to the description of the first Warrior of Light, the first prophet:

'The leader of the children of the spark saw the power of the Flame in his dreams and heard God's voice on the wind. He went up to the pyre and there, with his hands raised to the sky, called out to God.'

If Cid is right, then Barnabas believes that a host of God's servants will pave the way for the coming of the next Mythos—servants like the prophets of old.

Joshua has an idea.

---

Despite everything, Joshua is still worn out, and adrenaline can only ward off the drowsiness from his medication for so long. By the time the door to the meeting room opens again, he's dozed off on the couch. He peels his eyelids open with an effort at the sound of footsteps.

When he blinks his eyes open, though, it's not Sleipnir he sees standing before him, or even Benedikta.

It's Barnabas.

"Prophet," Joshua croaks, and pushes himself upright. His mask is beside him on the arm of the couch. He reaches reflexively for it, and then stops. Now is perhaps not the time to be hiding his face. He wants to seem as open as possible.

The audio recorder is still on, and, in the time since Benedikta left him, he's transferred it into the pocket of his trousers. He's not risking being separated from his bag again.

Barnabas sits down before him on one of the wooden chairs they use to fill in the circle during group sessions. Like he always seems to be, he's dressed entirely in black. He looks, Joshua thinks abruptly, like he's in mourning. "Joshua," he says, and, as before, it's impossible to read his expression. "Are you well?"

Joshua takes a breath. He needs to play this right.

"I was having the strangest dream," Joshua says. "I thought I saw..." He clears his throat; shakes his head. "Sorry. I...I think I might not be as recovered as I thought." He adds a self-deprecating laugh and then is taken by surprise by the cough that crawls out of him. He closes his eyes. There's no need to feign his exhaustion.

"Dreams can hold meaning," Barnabas says, because that's what his mother taught him, through his poor foster brother.

Joshua opens his eyes again to see the prophet regarding him impassively. He was preparing a story for Sleipnir, but he might need a different tack with Barnabas. Fortunately, he has a few hints from Cid that he suspects will catch the man's attention.

"Well, unless there's a good reason for dreaming about a beacon of light shining from Drake's Tail," Joshua says, pasting on a wry smile, "I doubt there's much meaning to be found in mine."

Barnabas's usually inscrutable eyes narrow. "Drake's Tail," he echoes.

"Silly, isn't it," Joshua says. He scoffs, like it's a thought to be dismissed. "I don't even know why I think it's Drake's Tail. I've never been up that mountain. It just... I just knew, when I saw it. I guess dreams aren't logical, though." He shakes his head again. "I don't know why I can't stop thinking about it."

But Barnabas has been hooked. He leans forward now, and for the first time, Joshua sees something in his eyes that looks like excitement. "What did you see?" he asks. When Joshua hesitates, still scrambling to pull together the threads of a new story, he repeats, more sharply, "What did you see, Joshua?"

"Er," Joshua says. If only Kihel were here, he thinks inanely, he'd be able to weave her a story, one that's a fantasy but will feel like the truth to someone who is looking for it. The thought of Kihel makes him think of Dion—the Dragon Prince turned professor of history, who reads his daughter Joshua's silly book about a demon and a firebird becoming friends—and, struck by sudden inspiration, Joshua blurts, "There was a phoenix. And a...a rampaging monster, both wreathed in fire. But they were working together, merged into one, like twin flames, one of destruction and one of rebirth. I think they were fighting something—a dragon that flew over world and tore it apart."

There's something hungry in Barnabas's eyes. It's unnerving, the weight of the whole of the man's attention. Joshua swallows nervously as he continues.

"Erm, they were over the city," he says. "I recognized the bell tower, and the abandoned buildings in Old Twinside. The dragon was laying waste to...to everything in sight, and the twin flames followed in its wake, until they reached as far as Drake's Tail. There was something on the mountain—a bright light. And in its heart, I saw a woman."

Barnabas flinches, and, for the first time, Joshua falters. He regards Barnabas, dressed in perpetual mourning, who rescued his little brother from a fire while his mother died in flames, and wonders if he himself is now doing what he's been accusing the Children of Dzemekys of: taking advantage of a man's grief and twisting it until it fits the right delusion that will serve his purpose.

And then Joshua thinks about the article he saw tucked away in a book of the Scriptures, about the look on Clive's face when he came home from a fire that one of Barnabas's followers started. Joshua finds that he does not care if he's being cruel, or even whether what he's doing is right or wrong.

"I don't know who she was," Joshua says. "Long, dark hair. I don't recognize her. But she was beckoning to the twin flames, like she was welcoming them home."

He stops, hands in his lap.

"Is that all?" Barnabas asks.

What more do you want, Joshua thinks, but he forces himself to only shrug. "They were still battling the dragon? I don't know who won, but." He wrinkles his brow. "It was just a dream. Wasn't it?"

Barnabas is studying him so intently now that it's not difficult to act like he's becoming alarmed. Joshua leans back, as though there's a way to escape the prophet's attention.

"The dragon," Barnabas says after a long moment's contemplation. "It represents the sin that has overtaken this world."

"Does it?" Joshua says, because to him, it represents the first thing he thought of.

"All the wrongs in this world arise from the malice in men's hearts," Barnabas says. "The world is broken. Even the Almighty cannot change this, and so instead will He paint it in tongues of fire."

"That's the phoenix, and the monster, then," he says.

"The twin flames," Barnabas says. It sounds like agreement. "One to burn down the ruins of this world; the other to forge it anew. Where one leads, the other follows." He reaches out and takes Joshua by the shoulders. His grip is too tight, enough to hurt where his fingers dig into Joshua's skin, and his unwavering gaze is fervent. "God has shown you what lies ahead. You are blessed, Joshua, by His glory."

"You're saying...that it's real, what I saw?" Joshua asks, tamping down a surge of triumph. He can feel his heart galloping in his chest. Blessed by His glory. Joshua thinks, nearly amused, about the time he told his niece he was cursed. The God of Dzemekys is supposed to have dual aspects; perhaps his two fictions—a Blessing and a Curse—are not incompatible, after all. "What about the light on the mountain?"

For a while, Barnabas doesn't answer, and Joshua worries that he's overplayed his hand. Perhaps he should have let it lie for a minute, rather than seeming so interested in Drake's Tail.

But given how quickly Genevieve decided to take the fall for her crimes rather than implicate the Children at all, Joshua has to assume that they know better than to leave incriminating evidence somewhere as public as Dzemekys, at least nothing more obvious than the article Joshua found. If Sophia Tharmr built a temple on the mountain like Cid said, a sacred Apodytery where she took Typhon to test him as her chosen Mythos, then surely it would be the most likely place for Joshua to find anything that might be hidden.

"There is a place of worship on Drake's Tail," Barnabas says, and the sudden candor makes Joshua's eyebrows rise. He doesn't bother to hide his surprise; he should be surprised, after all, about receiving messages from God. "We call it the Apodytery. Would you like to see it?"

Joshua stares at him, and then, trying to restrain his eagerness, "Yes—yes, I would!" And then, thinking again, "Er, I'm not sure if I'll...be able to climb up a mountain. I'll try," he adds hastily, nervously, "but—"

Barnabas smiles faintly. "We have a car. We'll drive you." He stands, pulling the chair back into place. "Once the others have gone, we can leave."

"Wh...what, now?" Joshua says, taken aback, but he's not about to complain. He did want to move things along, after all. He glances down—his bag is still on the floor next to the couch where he left it, and he's got his notebook and computer, and his copy of the Scriptures, but that's all. It's only three in the afternoon, although, for this, he thinks Vivian would forgive him for missing the rest of the workday without checking in.

"The session has only just ended," Barnabas says. "Many of the Children are still in their study or their prayers. I would allow them to finish before closing our doors for the day."

"Oh, of course," Joshua says, simultaneously impatient and nervous.

Barnabas cocks his head to the side, studying Joshua. "Would you like to rejoin them, if you're feeling better?"

Joshua thinks about the hard concrete floor, about the bruises he's going to have on his knees and the way he's going to know now that at least some of them are reading about their savior and thinking of Joshua's brother. Then he thinks about the recorder in his pocket and how he's been hoping to try to pry more information out of someone, and he nods. "I'd like that."

---

It's quiet in the prayer room. Barnabas leads him inside and, without another word, takes his normal place in the front of the room, looking up at the statue of God's nature.

Benedikta and Hugo are gone, but several of the other Children remain. Randal is still in the room—deep in prayer, hands clasped and head bowed low—and doesn't seem to notice them enter. Joshua sees Blanche, too, and a few others he knows. There's a small knot of Children sitting with their heads together, bent over their books and speaking softly, animatedly, like they're debating something in the Scriptures.

Joshua doesn't recognize them, but he hefts his bag over his shoulder, making sure the pocket where his recorder lies is unobstructed, and makes his way toward them, hoping to join in their conversation. He deliberately smooths his face into something friendly—

A hand takes him by the elbow. "Joshua," Sleipnir says quietly, "come, sit down."

"Oh—I'm all right," Joshua says, looking back toward the group, but Sleipnir tugs him to the side of the room and urges him into a seat on the floor there, then joins him.

"You're still rather pale," Sleipnir says. "The prophet says you're joining us on Drake's Tail tonight. You're certain you're prepared?"

There's a new twinge of nerves. Perhaps there's something Joshua's missing. "For what?"

Sleipnir is wearing his familiar, amiable smile. His voice is low so as not to disturb the others in the room. "The prophet doesn't invite many to the Apodytery. Only those who are truly open to God's message—those who are ready to devote themselves to Him, body and soul."

Joshua swallows. That sounds...ominous, vague as it is. He thinks about what Cid said, about Typhon and how he always left the Temple more shaken than when he entered, about how Sophia Tharmr took the boy there to test him.

It can't be that bad, though. Sleipnir said 'with us,' so he's been there, at least. "There are others who have gone to the Apodytery, then?" Joshua asks.

"A few," Sleipnir says, and does not do Joshua the favor of listing their names. Perhaps Genevieve, or Ivan or Redouane. "He thinks you're ready."

"What about Benedikta and Hugo?" Joshua asks.

Sleipnir nods. "They're on an errand for the prophet, but they'll join us there."

"Do you always call him that?" Joshua asks. Sleipnir raises his eyebrows in question. Joshua lowers his voice further, glancing at Barnabas. The rest of them might not even be there, for all the man seems to notice the people around him. "The prophet."

"What else would I call him?"

"Well, isn't he... I mean, he raised you, didn't he?" Joshua asks.

Sleipnir's smile doesn't waver. "God commands us to purify ourselves of all that would taint us," he says simply. His voice has taken on the tranquil, instructional tone he uses during support group sessions. "Clinging to our early attachments hinders us from reaching true understanding. Barnabas is the prophet. That is what matters."

"Not the only prophet, though," Joshua says. "You, Benedikta, and Hugo—you've all been granted visions by...by God, haven't you?"

"Glimpses, only," Sleipnir says easily. He nods to Barnabas. "He has spoken directly to the Almighty. The prophet alone knows His plan."

Joshua nods like he understands. He clears his throat, looking around to see whether anyone is paying attention to them. He dearly hopes the recorder is picking up their voices. "That's how he knows it's time for us to find Mythos," he guesses.

"Precisely. Only Benedikta and Hugo," Sleipnir says, and then, while Joshua is trying to figure out what he means, adds, "and, I suppose, yourself. There have been a handful of others as well, but I myself haven't been blessed with the gift of prophecy." To the surprise that Joshua fails to hide, he says, "I do what I can to follow in my...in the prophet's footsteps. If God wills it, I will be ready to accept whatever glimpse He may allow me. But not all of us serve in the same way. If that is not my place, then I will accept that, as well."

There's something powerful, almost alluring, about how comfortable—how unbothered—Sleipnir looks as he says this. Joshua feels, by comparison, like a complete fraud. Sleipnir believes in his God; he believes in the prophet. He believes what he's doing is right.

"We are all a means to an end," Sleipnir says when Joshua doesn't answer. "If I serve only by bringing as many souls as I can to God, then I will have fulfilled my purpose in His plan."

"I could help with that," Joshua suggests. "I work in media, you know. I could help you spread the word." He is not unaware that, if they're targeting his brother, they may not be perfectly forthright to him, either, but he has to try. "Or," he adds, hoping Sleipnir will give him more than Benedikta, "I could help you find Mythos, if you know who he is."

But all Sleipnir says is, "Yes, I think you could be very helpful in guiding Mythos home."

Is he saying... Does that mean what Joshua thinks it does? "What do you mean? How can I help?"

"You will know when it's time," Sleipnir says.

"Sleipnir," Joshua says bluntly, "I don't know how much time I have. I..." He swallows. "I'd like to see it. The end, and the new world. I'd like to know things will be better, after."

"I know," Slepnir says, and takes his hand. "I know, Joshua. But you must trust in God. If this is your purpose, then He will show you."

"Do you think we all have a purpose, then?"

Sleipnir cocks his head, curious. "Do you not?" he asks. "Why do you think you survived?"

Joshua draws in a startled breath and has to swallow a cough. "What?"

"The fire," Sleipnir says with his kind smile. "You were ten years old. Your father was a strong man in his prime, and he died. You were only a boy, and you were injured, nearly fatally. And yet you lived. Why do you think that is?"

Joshua's heart pounds. "I..."

Its not like he's never thought about it before—how they said his father died breathing in too much smoke, while Joshua was trapped and could barely breathe at all. Ironically, the doctor speculated later that having impaired breathing in the moment actually protected him a bit from inhaling as much of the carbon monoxide and superheated chemicals as his father must have. A blessing and a curse, indeed. He rubs his hands on his trousers, wiping away sweat.

"I was saved by a team of firefighters," he says.

"But why?" Sleipnir presses. Joshua's hands curl into fists where they rest on his thighs. What the hell is he supposed to say to that? "God spared you for a reason, do you not see?"

The right answer is 'yes,' of course. Whatever Sleipnir says, Joshua should agree.

His tongue freezes in his mouth and refuses to speak.

"You and your brother both survived," Sleipnir says, and Joshua can almost feel his pulse skip a beat. Will he actually say it now—admit who their target is? "But I see your fear of it. Even now, the mention of it makes you afraid—because you know you can't run from it forever."

"I'm not afraid of it," Joshua says.

"Good," Sleipnir says. He puts a hand on Joshua's shoulder, like he's offering encouragement. "Acceptance is important."

Against his will, Joshua shudders. He takes a breath, and it shivers going in.

"Your brother, however, runs into fire, over and over," Sleipnir says. "Why do you think that is?"

Because he's Mythos, is probably what Joshua should say, but it will hold more weight if he can catch one of them saying it unprompted.

What he says instead is the truth: "Because he's still trying to save me." He lets out a breath. "It's what he does. It's what he's always done—even when he can't."

Sleipnir pats his arm, still smiling, as always the teacher proud of his student for answering a question correctly. "Yes," he says, very gently. "Your brother loves you very much." His smile softens at the edges. "I admit I envy you, a bit. How must it feel to be the center of another person's universe?"

Against his will, Joshua feels his eyes sting. He blinks the feeling away, coughing into his arm. "You seem to care a lot about my brother," he says hoarsely, probing.

"We've known each other for many weeks, now, Joshua," Sleipnir says. "I like to think we know each other rather well by now. I know you are not a man with many connections to the world—not ones you care about," he adds when Joshua feels his brow furrow. "You know that your place is to shine a light on the truth, not to stand in the light yourself. Your place is in the shadows, and so the need to sever your ties to those around you has not bothered you."

Sleipnir takes his hands again, holding them in his own. "Except one," Sleipnir says. "Your brother's is the only consciousness you have refused to relinquish. I have been thinking about you, Joshua, about how to help you find the purity of your true self when I know you are still so attached to your brother."

"You...have?" Joshua asks uncertainly.

"As his consciousness binds you," Sleipnir says, "so does yours bind him. Neither of you can be truly free while you still cling to each other in this life. Do you want him to be free?"

God, this is crazy. Part of Joshua wants to get up, walk away right now, and then simply write his article on the terrible bits of advice he's heard while here at Dzemekys.

But he's come this far. This is for Clive. And for the other people who might be hurt by the Children's words and their quest for salvation, but Jote was right when she said, back on the first day they met, that he's doing this for Clive.

"He will be, before too long," Joshua says. He takes his hands back and presses one to his chest, suppressing the urge to cough again. "Whether he wants that or not."

"On reflection," Sleipnir says, "I have come to believe that what you find in the Apodytery will bring you some comfort."

It will be very comforting, Joshua thinks, if he can find evidence that the Children have been inciting arson and deliberately putting a firefighter—and, by association, all firefighters—in danger. That's not what Sleipnir means, though, so he can't help asking, "What is it I'll find there?"

Sleipnir smiles and says, "What you've been looking for: peace."

---

It takes another two hours for Dzemekys to empty. Most of the Children trickle out of the prayer room before long, but there are a few stragglers. Randal stays with his head bowed for nearly an hour after the session has ended, and there's another woman Joshua only vaguely recognizes, too, still on her knees.

By then, Joshua has been drawn into a small group, consisting of Blanche, Martin, and another boy. They all look like teenagers. Joshua knows Blanche and Martin both are. They're unbothered by the hard floor under them, and they're bright-eyed and excited and reverent as they read the Book of Ramuh.

He tries to smile with them when they wonder aloud about how the world will end, but all he can see is that they're so young. Martin is squatting in in abandoned flat, Blanche lives with him, and the new boy Joshua hasn't met before is going to be joining them. One more body to share heat with, they say, joking, laughing, because it may not be the bitter heart of winter anymore, but it's still cold out.

Martin has been coughing intermittently all afternoon. Joshua has been, too, and feels like he's playing some sort of macabre duet with the boy while the other two watch and pretend they're not worried about their friend.

But they do leave eventually, all three of them hand in hand, back to the little space they're warming with each other. Joshua watches them go with a deep pang of sympathy. Even if they can be convinced to leave the cult, they don't have anywhere else to go. That's why they're here in the first place. Joshua thinks even he might start worshipping fire if he spent a whole winter as cold as they must have been.

Sleipnir taps him on the shoulder then. "We're going to close up for the night," he says, and Joshua looks over to see that Benedikta has returned. She's talking to Barnabas, too quietly for Joshua to hear, and then, suddenly, both of them look at him.

Joshua picks up his bag, hefting it over his shoulder. Barnabas and Benedikta make their way to the doors to meet them. "Are we going to the Apodytery now?" he asks.

"Our car is parked just down the street," Benedikta says. She pauses, studying his face as they pass. "Are you sure you're feeling all right? It's a long drive, and the road isn't smooth."

"Thanks for the warning," he says. "I'll manage." He pulls opens his bag and reaches inside for the medication he's been using to stave off nausea. He doesn't want to be drowsy while he's visiting the place where Sophia Tharmr brought the boy she thought would be their savior, but it's probably more important to not be throwing up all over himself while being driven up a mountain. If he drifts off, he'll still have audio from his recorder. It won't technically be legal if he's asleep, but perhaps he can manage to stay just awake enough for plausibility.

He tries not to feel self-conscious as they watch him pull down his mask and gulp down a few swallows of water before putting the pill on his tongue to let it dissolve.

"Oh, I almost forgot," Joshua lies around the bitter taste of the pill, "do you know where my phone is?"

"You cannot bring it inside the Apodytery," Barnabas says. He's already pulling out his coat. Joshua hurriedly shrugs his own on. A rainstorm last week washed away most of the snow, but it's still bitterly cold at night. "Better just to leave it with us."

Joshua puts his mask back on and hopes the motion covered his frown. If they trust him, then there's no reason to keep his phone away from him rather than simply making him turn it off. Being taken somewhere he doesn't know without his phone or any other way to call for help if he should get lost is an uncomfortable proposition.

Besides, if he doesn't tell Jote that he's going to be late, she'll worry. Not that he can tell them he wants to call Jote, but perhaps...

"I need to ask someone to let my dog out for me," he says, trying to sound apologetic and not like he's wondering whether he's making a really terrible decision. "And I was supposed to meet with my research partner. She doesn't know I've been coming to Dzemekys."

Benedikta and Sleipnir look at each other, like they're communicating silently.

"I don't want her getting suspicious about where I've been," Joshua adds, and it's this last that finally makes Benedikta open the cupboard where she put away everyone's phone before the session.

"Come," Barnabas says, impatient, and gestures toward the door. "There's no reason to delay."

They walk out into the chill, late-winter evening as a group. Joshua pulls his scarf higher to cover his mouth when the first breath of cold air hits his lungs.

He powers on his phone. Benedikta stays next to his shoulder as they walk, and she's looking unashamedly at the screen, so Joshua has a thumb poised and ready to swipe away all of his notifications as soon as they appear. Jote knows better than to put anything in writing that could raise their suspicion, but others might not. Wade or Tyler or even Rodney could text him to ask about Genevieve again, and Benedikta or Sleipnir might recognize her name. Clive might text and make it obvious that Joshua does not, in fact, have custody of his dog today.

But when notification banners do pop up, they're all innocuous and unremarkable, except one that says: Missed Call - Auto Repair.

He stares at his home screen. Why would Cid be calling him? There are only two reasons Joshua can think of: either Cid remembered something important pertaining to Barnabas and the Circle of Malius, or it's something to do with Clive.

But Benedikta is watching him, and Joshua's still not sure about her, so, thinking fast, he opens his messages and finds Jote's contact.

Joshua [5:32 PM]
I won't be able to make our meeting tonight
Would you ask Jill to check on the dog for me?

Partner [5:32 PM]
Is everything ok?
...

Joshua trips over the kerb, and Benedikta's hand closes around his arm. "Careful, lamb," she says, steadying him with an uncomfortably tight grip. "Aren't you going to answer your friend?"

She's not even bothering to pretend she's not watching him and reading his texts. Joshua responds quickly before Jote can finish typing:

Joshua [5:33 PM]
Just having some car trouble
Everything's fine 🙂

They've reached the car now. Joshua is shivering already. His legs are stiff from kneeling or sitting on a hard floor for hours, and his chest hurts; he hasn't had enough time to fully recover from all the coughing he's done in the last couple of weeks.

Barnabas is already inside, in the passenger's seat, and Sleipnir is climbing up behind the steering wheel. Benedikta reaches past Joshua and pulls open the door. "After you," she says, gesturing. "And I'll take your phone. No need for any more distractions."

The phone vibrates in Joshua's hand. He glances down.

Partner [5:33 PM]
ok

"Turn off location sharing," Benedikta adds, and the lump of disquietude thuds more heavily into Joshua's belly. "The Apodytery is a sacred place."

"Sacred and secret, I see," Joshua replies lightly, but there's nothing he can say or do to answer that. He does as she says, letting her see what he's doing, and then powers it off before handing it over. If it turns out later that he's being kidnapped into the wilderness, he's going to feel very stupid. He brushes a hand over his pocket as he reaches for the seatbelt, a comforting reminder that his audio recorder is still there.

"Traffic will be slow at this hour," Sleipnir says as he starts the engine. "I suggest you rest, if you can. It'll be more than an hour before we arrive."

---

Joshua fully intends to stay awake during the drive to try to remember where they're going. It's not strictly necessary; if he needs to know later how to find the place again, he's already located the old property records associated with Sophia Tharmr, and he can always ask Cid.

But all three of the others are quiet, and he's tired, and he drifts off into a light doze before they reach the base of Drake's Tail.

He rouses to the sound of a car door slamming shut. His head is resting against the window, and there's the weird, syrupy feeling of reality moving a touch too slowly around him. He's a bit nauseous despite the medication, and there's a tickle in his throat that he always gets when the air is too cold and dry.

"Joshua," Sleipnir's voice says, and he finally peels his eyelids apart. They're alone in the car; Benedikta and Barnabas are both gone. "We're here."

"I'm awake," Joshua mumbles. He feels sluggish, and even though he's only been sitting for the last hour or so, he's breathing hard and still feels like air isn't managing to fill his lungs.

"We're a few kilometers up," Sleipnir says. He turns around in his seat. "Take some time to adjust to the air."

At the reminder, Joshua looks around. He's never been up Drake's Tail, though the mountain is known for trails that are popular among hikers and campers during the warmer months. The sun has long set, and it's dark, but what he can see of the area they're in now is mostly rock with tufts of grass struggling to sprout. It looks mostly barren but for a few trees and bushes dotting the landscape in the distance. If there are any hiking trails or roads leading here, Joshua can't see them.

What he does see is another car parked beside theirs. Beyond them is a set of stairs leading up to a small clearing, inaccessible by car, and in the clearing is the cabin that must be what they call the Apodytery.

"Are you having trouble breathing?" Sleipnir asks worriedly. "I didn't consider how the altitude would affect you."

"I...guess so," Joshua admits, coughing as he struggles to take in enough oxygen. He has no idea whether his body will adjust to thin air the way other people's might be able to, but if the way he currently feels is any indication, he's not banking on it. He should have brought his portable oxygen concentrator, he supposes, though he hasn't even begun to use it, except to check that it works. This would have been a good time to have it on hand.

Sleipnir slides out of his seat and opens Joshua's door, bending down. Cool air rushes in—it's colder up here, too. "Can you walk?" he asks. "We're almost there."

Joshua unbuckles himself with hands that feel worryingly weak. "Yeah," he says, and pushes himself out. His legs hold, though his head is spinning slightly, and he stays leaning against the car for a moment. "Where's the prophet?"

"Inside," Sleipnir says. "They've gone to prepare."

"What does that mean?" Joshua asks.

"All in good time."

"Sleipnir," Joshua says, vexed and breathing hard, "there's a chance I'll pass out if I have to walk up those stairs. Just...tell me what we're doing here."

Then Sleipnir steps close and takes his arm. "I know this is hard," he says quietly. "This is a difficult step for anyone, and we are asking a lot of you. But we're here. You're almost done. We just need to go inside."

They make their way to the stairs. Joshua leans hard on the railing as they climb, not objecting when Sleipnir keeps hold of his other arm and helps him. He has to stop and sit down at the top, dark spots appearing at the edges of his vision, before they go on. Sleipnir waits patiently at his side.

The Apodytery is small. It's a single-story house built of wood, left unpainted and unadorned. There's a door at the front, but all of the windows Joshua can see have been boarded shut. That's a code violation, Joshua's pretty sure. He can only guess it's for privacy. A chimney extends from the roof, and from it, Joshua can see smoke rising in wisps: something is burning inside.

Not surprising. Cid said that Sophia Tharmr kept candles burning for worship even in their house in the city. Joshua wouldn't be surprised to see perhaps a fireplace that's kept lit whenever people are here. At least it will be warmer inside, he supposes.

Benedikta meets them at the door. "You're taking your time," she says, eyeing Sleipnir with some displeasure, but her annoyance ebbs when she sees Joshua, who is pretty sure he'd need about an hour lying down to have a chance of catching his breath. Hopefully, whatever they're doing here will be finished quickly and he can go back to where the oxygen pressure is higher.

"Is he ready?" Sleipnir asks her.

"We'll see," Benedikta says.

Do they mean Barnabas? What does Barnabas need to be ready for? Joshua remembers, absurdly, hearing stories of secret societies at Valisthea University, full of scions of the rich and influential or the reckless and desperate, and the stupid and sometimes dangerous hazing rituals new members had to undergo. Is some version of that happening here?

The inside of the house is dark, lit only by a series of candles and torches—actual, flickering torches that run on wood and fire and not electricity—that line the walls. There are no adornments on the walls except one: a tapestry, delicately woven, and though its colors are faded, he recognizes it:

It's the sketch from Moss's journal; it's the painting that Redouane Allard made. It's a portrait of Mythos in his monstrous form.

No need to wonder any longer whether Redouane was ever brought here. This must be where those deemed the most faithful are brought and fed the idea that the Phoenix-gate fire was their god's way of testing Mythos. Maybe it's where they're told that their purpose in life is to set fire to their homes in hopes of testing him further.

Perhaps that's what they're about to tell Joshua.

He tears his eyes away from the tapestry to look around at the rest of the house. There's a door at the far end, a back exit. To each side is a closed door, leading to what Joshua assumes are shrines or prayer rooms like the one in Dzemekys. The rest of the space is left empty, except for a fireplace to one side and what must be used for worship in the middle: the same pattern of circles that Joshua has seen in the prayer room at Dzemekys has been carved into the floor here.

In the middle is a raised platform surrounded on two sides by walls made of wooden slabs, as tall as a man, like a short hallway. Cut into the platform is another wide circle, perhaps a meter wide and a few centimeters deep. There are planks of wood stacked neatly inside it and piled knee-high, and the entire platform is surrounded by a loose circle of eight burning torches.

The wood glistens wetly, and, as they walk closer, Joshua smells something that might be petrol, or perhaps kerosene.

It's a pyre.

"That..." Joshua stares. The chimney is right above it. The torches flicker ominously around it, the sources of the smoke he saw outside. "That doesn't look safe," he says, because this looks like a very good way to accidentally burn one's house to the ground. For the sake of his audio recorder, he says aloud, "Is that a pyre soaked with accelerants? In..." He has to pause to take a breath. "...in the middle of a...wooden cabin in the mountains."

"In the land of the east, where the first sun rises, the people built great pyres," Sleipnir says. He smiles at Joshua, like this is all completely fine. He takes Joshua's bag away and puts it aside, and, without asking, peels Joshua's coat off his shoulders as well.

It is a lot warmer in here. Suddenly, that doesn't seem like a good thing.

"And the...the painting?" Joshua says, and, realizing his mistake, quickly corrects himself, "The...tapestry, I mean. The monster with the...the wings of fire. What is that?"

If he had his phone, he could take a picture of it, a connection between this place—and its pyre, god, there's a literal sacrificial pyre in here—and Redouane Allard. In the absence of a camera, he needs enough description on record to be able to link the image to the Circle of Malius and one of the arsonists.

And then, while he's talking, because he knows it's a depiction of He Who Will Rise and because he's pretending to be a prophet of some sort, he improvises, "It looks like the twin flames from my dream."

A shadow peels itself away from the wall and makes him jump—it's Barnabas. "Precisely," Barnabas says. "That is Mythos, in all His glory."

Benedikta comes around to Joshua's other side as Sleipnir steps away. Joshua's legs are burning with the exertion of walking around where the oxygen is thin, and he has to put a hand on her back to steady himself. It's just for a moment—he doesn't want to have to be leaning on someone the whole time—but as he does, his fingers brush something resting at the small of her back. It's small and hard, and it's about the right size to hold in a hand.

Joshua swallows and deliberately pulls his hand away. He can't see her back from where he's standing, but he looks more closely at Sleipnir as he walks away, and now that Joshua's looking, he can see the shape just barely visible under his shirt, above the waistband of his trousers.

A handgun. Benedikta has one, too, and perhaps Barnabas.

He made sure some of us knew how to fight, Cid said.

Oh, god, Joshua thinks in exasperation. His heart is pounding, and his breathing picks up, making him dizzy enough that Benedikta tightens her hand around his arm. He properly let himself be kidnapped and now he's going to be murdered or something. Now that he knows she's armed, Benedikta's grip feels less like support than restraint.

He considers whether to try to back away and...well, do what, run down the side of a mountain? He probably wouldn't even get away from Benedikta to begin with.

There's no time to consider it, though, as Barnabas says, "It's time."

"For?" Joshua asks, and then one of the side doors opens.

Hugo Kupka steps out. Joshua tenses. He's never been so aware of how much bigger a person is than he. "He's awake," Hugo says.

It's dark in the room beyond Hugo, but, in the flickering light of candles and torches, Joshua sees a space bare of furniture, bare of anything but the wooden boards over the windows. There's a shape in the back—a person, huddled on the floor, who stirs when the door opens. The person stands, stumbles and catches himself on the wall, and then looks up.

"Joshua," Clive says. His voice is hoarse. "You're here! Are you hurt?"

The world stops.

For a moment, all Joshua can hear is his own labored breaths; all he can see is his brother, eyes wide, leaning on a wall. His pulse is a rapid drumbeat in his own ears.

"What," Joshua breathes. "What are you...doing...?"

With an odd, entirely irrational sense of betrayal, Joshua turns to Sleipnir, who is already looking back. Anticipation glitters in his eyes, and he does not move to help. "This is what we've been preparing for," Sleipnir says. "This is why we brought you here."

"Let him go," Clive demands angrily. He starts toward them and staggers, like he's dizzy, too.

"Clive!" Joshua cries, alarmed, and is overtaken by a fit of coughing. There's not enough oxygen here; his head is beginning to pound, and he can't catch his breath, can't stop coughing long enough to pull in the air he needs. His legs shake and then buckle. He reaches a hand out, but no one is there to catch him, and he falls to his knees. His vision is turning gray at the edges.

"No—no, don't, please," Clive pleads.

The tenor of his voice has shifted from anger to fear, and Joshua blinks an encroaching gray fog out of his eyes, fighting to focus on his brother. Clive is at the threshold of the room, and he's on his knees, too, so close Joshua could reach him if only he could get to his fucking feet and walk across the room. Both of Clive's hands are in the air.

Joshua follows his brother's gaze and freezes when he sees the muzzle of Benedikta's gun pointing at himself.

"Sleipnir," Joshua says. His eyes can't decide where to look: Benedikta, pointing a gun at Joshua; Hugo Kupka standing to the side with Sleipnir, a looming threat; Barnabas, unmoving, apart from it all, watching everything; or Clive, Clive, on his knees, scared and looking in bewilderment between Joshua and the pyre. "Let's...let's talk about this. Think about this. It...it's not..."

"Joshua, don't make them angry," Clive is saying. "Stay calm. Breathe, all right? God, just keep breathing."

Clive has no idea what's happening. Joshua doesn't know how they got him here; he doesn't look hurt, but even someone Hugo's size couldn't have gotten him all the way up here by force without some signs of a fight. He must have been lured here—or, perhaps, Joshua thinks when Clive puts a hand out on the doorframe, shaking his head as though to clear it, drugged, somehow.

"Look," Joshua says, forcing himself to turn away from Clive. He looks at Sleipnir, the one he knows the best. Sleipnir once brought Joshua to his office and comforted him; now, he wants to—oh, god, he wants to set Joshua's brother on fire. "This isn't the way. He... The Warrior went to the pyre, hm? He wasn't forced."

What could he possibly say? They've been fixated on Phoenix-gate; they must have thought Clive Mythos for months, if not longer. It was nearly five months ago that Clive became the most famous firefighter in the state. Even Joshua never intended to change their minds, only to collect enough evidence of it to take to the police.

"He...he's not ready," Joshua tries. "Sleipnir, give me a...a chance to convince him—"

"What—" Clive starts.

"He'll go willingly," Barnabas speaks up, "if you do. As the Scriptures say: where one leads, the other will follow."

Joshua opens his mouth. He closes it.

"Come, little lamb," Benedikta says. With the hand not holding a gun, she gestures to the raised platform. "To the pyre, now."

"No—no, leave him alone!" Clive shouts. He leaps to his feet, and then Hugo grasps Joshua by the upper arm and yanks him roughly upright. Joshua gasps in pain as the motion pulls at his shoulder and sags, dizzy from the sudden change in position. Clive stops, hands in the air again.

"He's not well," Clive says, begging. "Please. Look at him, he can't even breathe! Whatever you want, I'll do it, just let him go."

This is why they brought Joshua here. Clive would do anything to protect him, and as long as they have Joshua, they might as well as Clive in shackles. They think Clive is their savior; Joshua is their sacrifice. They can't let either of them go now, not after this.

"He's not Mythos!" Joshua says desperately as Hugo drags him toward the pyre. He flinches as they pass by one of the torches, its heat flaring bright near his cheek as they brush almost close enough to touch. His feet stumble as they reach the raised platform, but when he would have fallen, Hugo's unbreakable grip keeps him standing and moving. "It's not him. Don't do this—don't do this!" He looks at Barnabas. "It'll just be... It's Typhon all over again!"

Barnabas takes a step toward him. "What did you say?" His voice is low, and there's something Joshua has never heard it in before: a threat, a hint of anger.

"I know...about Typhon," Joshua pants. Terror is zipping frantically through his body, as is the worrying tingling feeling of fingers and toes beginning to go numb. Barnabas stares at him, eyes narrowed. "It'll be the same. A false...false Mythos."

"How do you know about Typhon?" Barnabas says.

Joshua reaches out for balance again. This time, his hand touches something solid—wood. It feels colder than the rest of the room, and when he leans closer to it, he can almost taste the sweet, chemical scent. It's the pyre; the oil—kerosene, or petrol, or whatever it is—is smearing on his hand. From here, the smell is overwhelming.

"How do you know," Barnabas snaps again.

Abruptly, Sleipnir says, "Benedikta, where's his phone?"

"It's off," she says.

"Give it to me," he insists. Her lip curls, but she reaches into her pocket and tosses it to him.

They're all watching him now, except Sleipnir, who is has his phone and is waiting for it to power on. Even Benedikta is fixated on Joshua, still holding her gun but not paying attention to Clive. In Joshua's periphery, Clive scrubs a hand over his eyes, shaking his head, and edges closer.

"I...I saw it!" Joshua improvises. He forces himself not to look at Clive. "The woman from my dream. She brought a boy here! That's what I was trying to tell you. You're being fooled, like she was—"

To his surprise, Barnabas agrees, "Yes, she was mistaken. She didn't understand what we know now. God is the destroyer, and He is the renewer. No one man can be all of these things. Typhon couldn't be Mythos alone. But together..."

He turns to look at Clive, skulking behind them. Benedikta sees him, too. She steps closer to Joshua, her gun raised, close enough that she couldn't possibly miss. Joshua stiffens and tries to keep breathing.

And Clive stops—held back, like Sleipnir always says, by the bond of brotherhood. Hugo steps down from the platform to stand near him. Even compared to Clive, he's enormous, and he folds his arms, staring Clive down as though daring him to try moving again.

"What are...what are you talking about?" Joshua says faintly as the room settles again.

Barnabas smiles. "Fire has brought you death," he says, "and through fire, your brother gives life. We weren't certain until you walked through our door, but God has delivered you both to us. No, Joshua. He's not Mythos. You both are—together."

Joshua blinks.

"The twin flames," Barnabas says, and he extends one hand toward Clive and the other to Joshua. "You've seen it."

"I was making that up," Joshua protests.

"Don't falter in your faith now," Barnabas says over him. He looks up at the tapestry of the Risen. "I've seen it, too. We've known it for years."

This is...not what Joshua was expecting.

But so what if Barnabas has had a dream about an image he's spent his whole life worshipping? Perhaps they really do believe both Joshua and Clive have to be sacrificed together on the pyre of their faith, not just Clive alone. It doesn't matter. The end result is the same—both of them will be dead.

He locks eyes with his brother over Benedikta's shoulder: Clive is still wild-eyed with panic and confusion. Joshua's been close to death before, but Clive has always been strong, and now these lunatics want to kill him—both of them—and Joshua has never been so terrified in his life. The thin air is making his head thick, and he can't think of anything to do, except—

He looks at the torches surrounding the pyre. They're dazzlingly bright in the dim room. It's dangerous; it must hurt Clive professionally to be standing in this fire hazard of a cabin.

"Do not be afraid," Barnabas says. "Is this not what you want: to be with your brother for eternity?"

"Joshua," Clive says frantically, and, "Joshua—"

"I know this number," Sleipnir suddenly says.

Sleipnir holds up Joshua's phone. He's got his own in his other hand, looking between the two. He's too far away for Joshua to see, but though the phone is still locked, he can see Sleipnir flicking through the notifications that have pushed through.

"You named his contact 'Auto Repair,'" Sleipnir says, and Joshua feels yet another knot of dread fall into his stomach. "His cell, not his office phone. Why is Cidolfus Telamon calling you?"

"Cid?" Benedikta spits.

"What the fuck is happening," Clive says.

Barnabas's eyes narrow. He turns back to Joshua.

Joshua looks at the pyre, at the wood under his hand and near his feet, stinking of flammable chemicals. He has a recorder in his pocket. It's cheap, nothing that will survive a real conflagration, but if he can...can toss it to Clive, perhaps Clive can run, and there will be evidence—

He's kidding himself. Clive won't run while Joshua's still here.

"Did he send you?" Benedikta demands. "Are you working for him?"

A sound escapes from Joshua that's almost a laugh. "Cid wants nothing to do with you," he says. Her face darkens.

"No matter," Barnabas says.

Benedikta makes a noise of annoyance in the back of her throat. "But if he's lying—you said that his vision—"

"We knew our way long before he joined us," Barnabas says. He's regained his usual composure again. "It doesn't matter why he believes he's here. By one path or another, God has brought Mythos to us. No more stalling: Clive, join your brother."

"Don't, don't move, Clive," Joshua says as Clive looks between them. "What is wrong with you all—are you actually going to burn two people to death?"

Benedikta presses the gun to Joshua's throat. His breath stutters. "Do it," she says to Clive.

"Fuck, all right, I...I'm coming," Clive says. He glances at Hugo, keeps his hands up, and walks toward the pyre.

"Don't!" Joshua chokes out, because what's the plan? What could he possibly do once he's standing on a pyre about to be lit? "Clive, I—"

An alarm blares from Sleipnir's hand—Joshua's phone, reminding him to take his medicine.

Benedikta turns in surprise at the noise. Her hand drifts, just a bit, and Joshua summons all of his strength to tear past her, scrambling to the edge of the platform.

A gunshot sounds as Joshua stumbles off and onto the floor. "You fucking—!" she snarls, and lunges at him.

Joshua grabs desperately for the nearest torch, unable to feel the usual fear of coming so near open flame. He fumbles, and his hand flares bright with pain, but there's no time—he's gasping for breath, he doesn't know how much longer he can stay upright—and he turns and throws it in the direction of the pyre.

He misses.

It hits the nearest person to him—Benedikta. She shrieks and backs away, toward Sleipnir and Barnabas, her clothes already starting to smolder. The torch rolls, landing on the wood planks of the floor. Flickers of flame jump to life as sparks land on remnant drops of whatever accelerant they used to soak the pyre. With his way clear, Joshua lurches toward the next torch within reach.

"Oh, no you don't," Hugo's voice says.

Joshua's struggling for air; his head spins, and then, suddenly, he's falling. He hits the floor, landing hard on his hands and knees. He looks blearily over his shoulder to see Hugo's arm reaching for him.

With a roar, Clive snatches another torch and hurtles toward them. Hugo turns, and Clive swings the torch into his face like a club. In the distraction, Joshua puts his hands on the platform, heaves himself up, enough to grab one more torch. Hugo howls, and Joshua throws it—

The room bursts into flame.

The pyre before him catches, flames racing up the wooden structure, and there's a torch on the floor, and candles have fallen in the commotion, and the house is built out of wood. The burst of heat is unbearable, suffocating. And Joshua...

Joshua freezes, like he always does. Voices shout around him, and even though they think fire is divine, they flinch, too. It's normal; everyone flinches from fire, just for a second.

Clive does not. Clive has nightmares about fire, but he's always been the brave one.

As Joshua stares at the flames rising higher and beginning to lick up the walls, smoke already beginning to fill the room, Clive is suddenly before him. "Come on!" Clive yells, and then he grabs Joshua by the arms and hauls him to his feet, pushing him in the direction of the back door. "Run!"

Another gunshot sounds behind them. Joshua flinches, but they keep moving. Then Clive disappears, and Joshua staggers, disoriented, his legs shaking and lungs burning. There's a shout of effort, and he turns to see Clive kick at the pyre, once, and then twice, and again, sending the flaming, oil-soaked logs skittering toward the prophet and his Children. The room isn't dark anymore; it's bright orange and black, filling with smoke, a column of angry fire separating them from the others.

Clive, Joshua wants to call, but coughs rip through him, harsh and desperate, and he doubles over, gasping. Before he can fall, an arm clamps around him like iron. "Joshua," Clive says, his voice choked, dragging him forward, and Joshua follows blindly, dizzy, pressing close and reaching to grasp his brother's shirt.

Then they're out, clear of the heat. The air is cold and crisp around them. There's shouting behind them; there's a mountain ahead.

Joshua turns around. The others will have evacuated, too. They'll have gone out the way they came in, and they'll be in pursuit, they know this mountain—

"Don't look back, just run," Clive says, pulling him along. Joshua sucks in a breath that doesn't fill his lungs. He holds tight to his brother, and they run.

Chapter Text

In the lands where the Akashic swept across the earth, those who dared to meet them in battle tell of a monstrous Leader, a Warrior whose strength is said to have surpassed that of any mortal man. I confess I find it difficult to believe the prowess that such tales ascribe to this Warrior, for is it not already known that the Akashic are naught but mindless Beasts with no thought but for battle? Yet, and I write truthfully: these Stories are not rare in the regions where the Hordes march. Indeed, they are spoken of often, as though they were mere fact...

...Through long hours of study, I have come to believe that this Warrior is the same as the one spoken of by the Circle of Malius, whom they call 'He Who Will Rise,' or Mythos. But it must be said: though many a Warrior has laid his Life upon the altar of his God, I have yet to see any rise from Death to prove worthy of such an appellation. 

- Chronicles of the Civilizations of Ash, by Moss

*****

Jote sits with her hands folded in her lap as Tomes pages through the report she prepared for him and tries her best not to look bored or nervous. This meeting would have been more efficient if he had simply read the documents she emailed to him yesterday, but he was very apologetic when he responded to say that he couldn't figure out how to open them, as his computer had recently been updated by university IT.

It's fine. Tomes is pretty old, but he's a good man. If Jote has to print out a few pages and help him reset his email password on occasion, that's a small price to pay for his guidance.

Finally, he sets down the papers and sighs. "I see," Tomes says. "I understand what you mean."

She schools her expression. It does no good to let one's anxieties show.

Not that Tomes would mind. Or anyone else who's still in her life, she supposes. Joshua seems to prefer it when she's not trying to hide her feelings, for instance. But old habits are slow to break.

"You think it's going to be a problem, then," she says.

"Yes and no," Tomes says. "Things are rarely so simple as one or the other, Jote. I do not doubt that you will be able to write a paper from your findings that will be well worth publication."

Jote nods, feeling the burn of disappointment down her chest. She can hear the other half of his thought already. "But it's not going to be enough for my dissertation," she says.

"It's hard to say for certain," Tomes says, though he doesn't look optimistic. "For one, this is all predicated on the assumption that our friend will obtain actionable proof of criminal activity by the Children of Dzemekys and, further, that they either will be forced to close their doors or will ask you to stop observing them."

Jote nods. She doesn't say anything, although, looking at all of the notes they've collected between them, she and Joshua have both become fairly certain that whatever is going on with the Children of Dzemekys is not something they will be able to walk away from without involving the police. He's there now, and, though it may be optimistic of them to think it, they're hoping he'll obtain the evidence he needs soon, if not today. Jote has already been preparing a well-organized set of records she can hand over to the police without violating the regulations of the ethics committee that manages human subjects research at Valisthea University.

Cyril would be aghast at the thought of helping the police. Truthfully, Jote herself is a bit uneasy at the idea—old habits and all—but Joshua has friends among the PD whom he trusts, a pair of detectives who already have suspicions about Dzemekys. That will have to be good enough for her.

"It may depend on the timing," Tomes offers. "The fact is that your program requires a year of independent field study. Shortening that by a few months could be argued, if it were a consequence of a natural conclusion to your topic of study. However..."

"I only started observing them two or three months ago," Jote finishes.

"It will be up to your dissertation committee to decide," Tomes says, "but however fruitful the research you have done in that time, I suspect they will contend that it does not fulfill the technical requirements of your program. If, however, it takes more time before our Joshua collects his evidence, or at least before any action is taken, then I believe there is a good chance your committee will consider it an acceptable curtailment of the project, under the circumstances."

She can't simply allow it to drag out, though. People are getting hurt, and if Joshua's right—and she thinks he is—then the Children are specifically targeting his brother.

"Right," she says.

Tomes folds his hands on the desk. "Jote, as you may recall, I had concerns when you first came to me with this proposal."

"Perhaps you should have let me join that other group, the one that wanted me to live on their compound," Jote says. "They might have been less dangerous, actually."

Tomes raises his eyebrows at her, surprised. She blushes. It feels like something Joshua might have said. His sense of humor is rubbing off on her.

"Sorry," she says.

"My concerns were not only for physical dangers," Tomes says, as though she never tried to make a terrible joke, "but that the subject might be a bit too personal for you, given your history."

Jote holds her expression still and calm. "They're not that kind of cult," she says.

"Yes," Tomes says, though his tone is still skeptical. "What I'm trying to say, Jote, is that, if you found yourself in the position of needing to change your dissertation topic, I do not believe that that would be disadvantageous to you, in the long run."

"But I..." Jote says. She takes a breath. "I asked you to be my advisor because you're an expert in ancient cults."

Tomes smiles. "If you change topics, you may need to find someone else with more congruous expertise, it's true," he says gently, "but there's no reason I can't continue to advise you, formally or not."

She looks down. "Do you think—" she starts, and then her phone chimes.

Both of them look at it where it lies on the desk. Jote reaches for it and nearly silences it before she sees Joshua on the notification banner. She swipes to her messages.

Joshua [5:32 PM]
I won't be able to make our meeting tonight
Would you ask Jill to check on the dog for me?

Jote frowns. They weren't certain when he would be finished at Dzemekys, so they were planning to meet later over dinner to discuss whatever he managed to uncover today. But Jill doesn't normally watch Torgal. If Joshua were busy for some innocent reason, he would have given more explanation than just that. No; something is wrong, and he doesn't want to say what.

Jote [5:32 PM]
Is everything ok?

Are you safe, she wants to ask. She deletes it as soon as she types it. If he's not, then asking won't make him any safer. Where are you... No, that's still too much. That's not something one just asks. Is it? Jote doesn't have a lot of people who would text her if they were in danger. What's Jill's phone number, would be a better question.

Before she can send anything, though, he responds:

Joshua [5:33 PM]
Just having some car trouble
Everything's fine 🙂

"Is something more important happening?" Tomes says archly.

Jote looks up. Of course, she shouldn't be on her phone in the middle of a meeting with her advisor, but...

"Something's wrong with Joshua," she says. She shows him the texts. "Jill is his colleague at the paper. And he doesn't have a car. He was at Dzemekys this afternoon."

"Are you certain?" Tomes asks, squinting at the screen, but Jote is already on her feet, her mind whirring. Her pulse is racing and adrenaline singing through her veins in a way it hasn't in years—not since before, when she was still with Cyril and the rest of them. It feels familiar, like home. It feels awful.

She slips her tablet into her bag; a pen; her textbook. She leaves the folder of notes on Tomes's desk. "I'm sorry," she says. "I have to go."

Alarmed now, Tomes says, "Jote, what are you going to do?"

"I...I don't know," she says, and plucks the phone back out of his hand. "But I have to go."

---

There can have been only one reason for mentioning Jill by name in his text: Joshua wants Jote to talk to her. If nothing else, Jill is his best friend and will be better able to guess what he was trying to say.

Why text Jote, then, and not Jill directly?

Because, of course, it has something to do with Dzemekys. If he's being monitored or coerced, then he can't text Jill and tell her to contact Jote, whose name the Children would recognize.

It's past five. Jote doesn't know a better way to contact Jill, so she hopes the other woman is still at work and runs down the street to State of the Realm. She's been here enough times by now that no one stops her when she pushes through the door and rushes to the lift.

To her relief, Jill Warrick is still at her desk. "Jill!" Jote calls, hurrying toward her.

Jill looks up, surprised at her sudden entrance. "Jote? Are you looking for Joshua? He hasn't come back to work yet. He's still recovering from his cold. It always takes him a while to regain his strength after an illness."

If only that were true. He should still be at home, resting. Joshua is a sweet, wonderful man, but he is also sometimes an idiot.

"Are you all right?" Jill asks. "What's wrong?"

"Joshua," Jote says, and holds out her phone. "He sent me this."

"He doesn't have a car," Jill says, frowning as she reads.

"I know—something's wrong," Jote says. "But I don't know what. I don't know what he wants me to do."

Jill takes one breath.

Then she pulls out her own phone and holds Jote's out without looking. Jote takes it back, unsure, while Jill scrolls through her calendar app. "Clive's not at the firehouse today," she says. It sounds like a change in subject until she continues, "He'll be at Otto's. It's a auto repair shop. He works there part-time, and he brings Torgal with him on his shifts."

Check on the dog. Car trouble.

"That's Cid's shop, right?" Jote clarifies. When Jill raises her eyebrows in surprise, she explains, "The cult Joshua and I are studying—Cid's foster brother is their leader."

"I..." Jill says. "Oh." She blinks, twice. Then she stands, pulls on her coat, and grabs her keys. "Come with me. We're going to pay a visit, and you're going to answer some questions."

---

Jote was under the impression that Jill knew nearly everything already, but she finds that Joshua was rather vague and short on details when he told her about his investigation.

"Typical," Jill mutters, shaking her head. Her hands are clenched tight on the steering wheel. "Does he do this to you, too?"

Jote stays as still as she can in the passenger seat. She's not sure what to do about the anger she can feel buzzing about the older woman. Jote's backpack is in her lap, and her fingers keep straying to the pocket where she keeps her knife, as though it will help her in any way. Old habits. "Do what?" she asks.

"Tell you half the story and conveniently forget to mention the parts where he could be in actual, physical danger," Jill says.

"Erm," Jote says, awkward. Her fingers tighten around her backpack. She forces them to loosen. "We've been pretty open with each other about...things. I think."

Jill lets out a sharp exhale. She sounds annoyed. Jote shrinks back into her seat.

They pause at a stoplight. Jill glances over at her. "I'm not angry at you, Jote," she says. "I know how closely you've been working together. I'm...glad he's had someone with him."

Not this time, Jote thinks, guilty. She wasn't there this time, and Joshua is sending her texts in code that she doesn't understand. She might not be a knight of the Undying anymore, but if there's one thing Jote is supposed to be good at, it's protecting people—protecting the people she cares about.

Tomes was right. The Dzemekys project has become too personal, but it's not because she's unable to separate her childhood from what she's learning. It's because she's become too close to one of her study subjects, who offered her his ear and has learned to lean on her, who worries about her when she walks home alone at night even though they both know she can take care of herself.

"I...think I'm going to need a new research topic soon," Jote says.

The light turns green. Jill steps on the gas. "You think it's gone that badly wrong?"

Jote shrugs. If it hasn't yet, it will soon.

"What was your story when I first met you? That you were studying how the media influences the perception of certain groups?"

Jote has no recollection of this at all. It sounds like the sort of thing Joshua might have made up.

"I don't know how much of that was a lie," Jill says, "but I can think of at least one journalist who would be willing to let you shadow him if you wanted."

It's embarrassing how quickly Jote feels her face warm. Yes, she wants to say, immediately and without question. The thought of continuing to spend her afternoons reading and talking with Joshua is appealing. Media is not precisely what she set out to study...but then, maybe Tomes was right. She didn't have much or know much about the world after she left the Undying, and it seemed natural at the time to study something that she actually understood, for once, better than any of her classmates ever would.

She's not the same person she was when she left them. Maybe chasing after cults will only lead her back to where she started.

If there was one thing Jote learned from the Undying, it's that nothing is undying. Everything ends, or changes, or breaks, and that's normal—to be accepted. She spent so long living with other people's obsession over the future that she's no longer interested in trying to predict what disaster will befall her or the world. Her life is her own now, and she's safe and unafraid and about as happy as anyone ever is. She has her studies and mentors whom she trusts. She has a friend who has started to leave a pillow and a soft blanket for her on his couch, just in case she stops by and wants to curl up in the corner.

That part won't last forever, either, so Jote tries not to think too much about the future when it comes to Joshua. Right now, Joshua is kind to her, he listens to her even when he doesn't like what she's saying, and he's very handsome when he smiles at his dog. She likes working with him, she likes taking care of him, and she likes that he tries to take of her, too. It's nice, and that's enough.

What's not nice, however, is sitting in a car, staring at texts on her phone that look like they were sent by someone under coercion, and wondering if he's in danger at this very moment. They should have come up with code phrases, something she would have understood immediately. Cyril would have made sure they did.

But that's not who she is anymore, and Jote isn't always sure whether that's a good thing.

Instead of answering, she says, "Could I please have your phone number?"

Jill glances at her again. "Of course," she says. She unlocks her phone without looking, swiping it open by muscle memory, and then holds it out. "Put yours in mine, too, all right?"

Jote does instructed. When she hands the phone back, Jill drops it into the cupholder and then reaches out to curl her fingers around Jote's. Jote tenses—habit—and then forces herself to relax instead of twisting to break the grip.

"Don't worry, Jote," Jill says. She turns, just long enough to smile. "There's no reason to worry before we know there's something to worry about."

"But—"

"Joshua's always getting himself into things," Jill says. She squeezes Jote's hand, then lets go. "He's probably fine."

Jote nods, even though Jill is looking at the road again and not at her. She doesn't know what to say. She feels like a child next to Jill, who has a car and probably parents and records of her childhood, and who seems to know exactly what to do. At times like this, Jote feels lost again, like she did when she ran away from Cyril's sect and everything was new.

Otto's Auto is closed when they pull up, but there's a man still at the desk when they peer through the window. He looks up when Jill knocks.

"Hi, Otto," Jill says when he opens the door for them. "Is Cid here? I'm afraid it's urgent."

So she's not not worried, it seems.

"He's walking Torgal with Mid," Otto says. He glances over his shoulder, then steps out to join them, locking the door behind himself. "He should be back soon. How's Joshua? We haven't heard from Clive."

Jote frowns. How does Otto know they're here about Joshua?

Jill is more direct. "What do you mean, you haven't heard from Clive? Was he not working today?"

Otto's brow furrows deeply. "What do you mean? Clive left hours ago."

"And he left Torgal behind?" Jote blurts, because she grew up with hunting dogs, and there's a part of her that can't help but trust in the bond between a dog and his person. She doesn't know Clive personally, but she knows that he loves his dog.

"Aye, he did," Otto says, sounding annoyed, "and we're not sure what we're supposed to do about the dog, either. Who the hell are you?"

"Jill!"

Jote turns. A teenaged girl is jogging toward them, hands in gloves and her nose pink. Behind her, a man who must be Cid is holding Torgal's leash. Cid raises a hand in greeting and speeds up, too, as Torgal recognizes them and rushes in their direction.

The teenager reaches them first. "Are you here for Torgal? Is Josh all right?"

Jill meets Jote's eyes in confusion. "How do you all know something's happened to Joshua?" she asks.

"Because he called Clive," Otto says as Cid finally comes close enough to hear. Torgal rises excitedly on his hind legs, though he stops short of jumping on Jill. Jote brushes a hand over his ears, hoping to distract and calm him. Torgal swivels and butts his snout happily into her hip. "He was sick and needed Clive to pick him up. Must have been bad—I'm not sure I've ever seen Clive turn so pale. Ran out of here before he could even hang up the phone."

"What's going on?" Cid asks. Torgal turns in a circle and rubs against his legs, pleased by all the attention, before the teenager sits down on the stoop and dedicates herself to petting him.

"We're looking for Joshua," Jill says.

"Well, he's not here, I'm afraid. He was feeling poorly earlier, and Clive left to take care of him."

"And you haven't heard from either of them since," Jill says.

"No, have you?" he says. "I texted Clive, but none of the messages were being delivered. I thought his phone might have died, so I tried calling Joshua, too, and no one answered. I reckon they must be busy dealing with whatever happened."

"He really said that?" Jote asks. When eyes turn to her, she clarifies, "Joshua. He actually told his brother he was sick and needed help?"

Jill hums low in her throat in agreement. For Joshua to have called someone for help, he would have had to be so sick that he literally collapsed and was unable to rise, and Jote's not entirely convinced even that would be enough.

Cid's eyebrows draw together. "I didn't hear him speak, granted, but I was there when Clive got the call. I saw Joshua's name on caller ID."

"Why would you ask that?" Otto says suspiciously.

Jote swallows. "Because he was with Barnabas Tharmr this afternoon," she says, looking at Cid. His face tenses; his hands tighten into fists. "He was expecting them to take his phone away. And he texted me, not long ago..." She starts to show them, but Cid's voice interrupts her.

"Mid, go inside," Cid says.

"What d'you mean?" the teenager says, full of indignation. "Who's Barnabas Tharmr? I'm not goin' anywh—"

"Now, Midadol!" Cid snaps. Jote's hand tightens on the strap of her backpack, though Mid doesn't seem fazed.

"You heard him," Otto says. He's staring at Jote, and he doesn't look away. "Go and check on your brother. Don't make us ask again," he adds when she opens her mouth. Mid scowls at him, spots of anger in her cheeks, and then at Cid, before she finally turns and runs into the house next door.

"Show me," Cid says as soon as she's out of earshot. Jote hurries to hand him her phone. "And who might you be?"

"This is Jote," Jill says before Jote can answer herself. "She's been working with Joshua, regarding the cult."

"He's been sick recently," Jote says, "but he wasn't feeling so poorly today that he would have called his brother about it, and he certainly doesn't sound sick in these texts."

"He doesn't have a car," Otto grumbles, looking on with Cid. He huffs. "Could he just be pretending he's feeling better than he is? Clive says he does that."

Jote shakes her head. "Joshua's better at lying than this."

"But the call came from his phone," Otto says. "What are you suggesting—someone forced him to dial?"

The thing is: if someone tried to convince Joshua to make a phone call to his brother against his will, Jote can't imagine a scenario in which he obeyed. He would have found a way to call Jote, or someone else in his list of contacts that includes law enforcement officials and emergency services. If Joshua has a line that he will not cross, it's in front of his brother. They would have had to force him, physically, or hurt him badly enough that he couldn't fight them.

Jote's heart tripped and stumbled over a beat. Would they do that—the prophet or Sleipnir or Benedikta? Would Joshua have sounded so calm in his texts to her if he'd been hurt? But no, that's not right, either. If he'd been hurt, there's no reason he would have been allowed to reach out to her at all. But then...

"Oh," Jill says. Her eyes widen. "Clive and I are emergency contacts in his phone. You can call either of us from his lock screen—it's a safety feature, in case something happens and an EMT or doctor needs information in hurry."

Jote adds that to the puzzle, and now, it all begins to make a horrible sort of sense. "Joshua thinks Barnabas is targeting his brother," she says. "He went there today to try to get proof."

Cid lets out a breath. "Damn. I should have seen this coming," he mutters. He turns to Otto. "Watch the children tonight? Lock the doors."

"Cid," Otto says, warning in his tone, "what are you thinking?"

Tightening his grip on Torgal's leash, Cid says, "I'm thinking that it's long past time I paid my brother a visit."

---

Jote and Jill arrive at Dzemekys first, but it's dark inside.

"They're usually open later than this," Jote says as Jill squints in through the windows. "People come in at all hours to pray, or to seek counsel from Slei—from their minister."

Jill tries the door. It's locked. "Back entrance?"

Jote shakes her head. "The back entrance is locked from the inside at all times."

Cid pulls up to the kerb as Jote is debating the wisdom of circling around to the back, anyway, and trying her luck with the other door. She hasn't had to pick a lock in years, but it's muscle memory—or so she assumes.

"Call your brother," Jill says as soon as Cid steps out. He opens the back door, grabs a leash, and lets Torgal jump down. Perhaps Cid didn't even want to take the time to bring the dog inside the house before leaping into his car.

"I don't know that Barnabas even has a phone," Cid says, "but I've been trying Sleipnir, to no avail. Even Benedikta's not answering me."

Even Benedikta. Later, when she knows where Joshua is and that no one is luring any firefighters into burning buildings, Jote will think that's interesting.  

She starts to reach back into her bag. "I could get the lock open," she offers.

Cid turns to her, tracking her hand, and raises an eyebrow. "It's broad daylight, lass, I don't reckon that'll go well."

"Let's think about this logically," Jill says. "Joshua was at this location and gave his phone to someone here—as expected," she adds, turning to Jote, who nods in confirmation. "That someone must have called Clive with his phone; Clive left work. Some time after that, Joshua had possession of his phone again and was able to text Jote, but someone must have been watching him. Were they luring Clive here? For what?"

Torgal whines and trots a few steps toward Jote, sniffing at her and lifting his head, as though asking to be scratched under the chin. Poor dog, Jote thinks absently as she rubs his throat and pats his neck to placate him. He accepts her ministrations, then turns to Jill until she runs a hand unthinkingly over his head, stroking his muzzle. He whines again, quietly, before he settles.

With a loud whuff that sounds like a human sighing, Torgal lowers his head to the ground, sniffing. He walks in a circle, tangling his leash around Cid's legs. Cid steps free, letting him sniff his way toward the entrance of the building, and then away. He wanders a short distance down the street, like he thinks he's going on a walk.

"Torgal, easy, boy," Cid says as the dog makes an attempt to tug him down the sidewalk. He curls the leash more securely around his hand.

No one has told Torgal that Joshua and Clive are missing. Perhaps he can feel the tension in the air—all of them are coiled tight like springs, and dogs can tell these things—but he doesn't understand why. He's flitting between the three of them, looking for reassurance, because he doesn't know what's going on, and all he knows is that they're familiar to him—

Jote looks speculatively at the building.

"Torgal always runs to the door when Joshua's coming," she says. "Once, he started trying to get through the door when we were still on the stairs, not yet even on the same floor."

"He does that to Clive, too," Jill says, and then follows her gaze. She turns to watch Torgal, who is still sniffing curiously at something in the opposite direction.

"This is where they recruit people," Jote says. "It's where they hold support group meetings, right in the middle of the city. It's what the public sees of them."

"They're not kidnapping public safety officers and holding them hostage here in plain view, you mean," Jill says. Jote shrugs helplessly.

Dzemekys looks empty. Because it is empty.

"Torgal," Cid says suddenly, "find Dad."

Torgal looks up at him.

"Find Dad," Cid repeats.

"Does that...work?" Jill says, as Torgal cocks his head, thinking.

"Hard to say," Cid admits. "My daughter insists it does. I don't think he always knows who—"

Torgal rises on his hind legs, plants his front paws on Cid's chest, and licks his cheek.

Cid sighs, ducking away from the dog's tongue. "Worth a try," he said.

"Wait," Jill says. She snaps her fingers sharply. "Torgal." The dog drops back to the ground and sits at attention, watching her closely. "Go to Clive." Torgal rises to his feet and turns in a circle, searching, taking a few steps in one direction and then another.

Cid gives him more slack in the leash. "Does that work if he doesn't know where he is?"

Jote has known dogs who could find a person from miles away. Torgal's not trained to hunt that way, but he has been trained to look for Joshua and protect him, and from what she understands of their relationship, that means that he has been trained to seek out Clive for help when needed. Will that be enough?

"No idea, we've never really tested that," Jill says. "But if he can't find them, he'll go to the nearest person he knows to get—oh." The dog has returned to her, nosing at her and springing away, over and over, in short agitated bursts. "Torgal, go to Joshua. Go to Joshua."

This time, Torgal turns and runs down the sidewalk. They follow. He pauses, sniffing at the kerb. Then he turns around and starts walking back the way he came and begins pushing insistently at Jill again.

"Well," Jill says, rubbing a calming hand over Torgal's ears.

"Wait," Jote says. She scans the street, squinting into the dark. "I don't see Sleipnir's car."

Jill searches around, too, though she wouldn't know what she's looking for. "Are you sure?"

"I'm sure that I don't see it," Jote says. "I...I mean, it could just be parked farther away. But whether or not Clive was here, Joshua definitely was, I know that much. If he left on his own, he would have told me, so..."

"So he left with my brother, or one of my brother's people," Cid says. "You'd think that Clive would have taught that lad not to get into cars with strange men, but..."

Jill takes out her phone. "This is crazy," she says. "What are we doing? We're not going to chase them down ourselves. I'm going to report them missing."

"It's been...what, three hours? An hour since you last heard from Joshua?" Cid says. "You think the police will consider two grown men 'missing' after a few hours of not answering their phones?"

She makes a face. "I'll call our boss first, then. Joshua says that she has all of his research. If we can show the police that these people were after Clive, perhaps we can convince them to treat it seriously."

"I've also prepared a data package to hand over to the police," Jote offers, logging into the university's cloud drive. "I'll text you the link, Jill, and my advisor's contact information—he's been logging my reports. And I have the names of Joshua's detective friends who were investigating the fires, Tyler Wedge and Wade Biggs. Perhaps they'd believe us if we explained."

"He does have a deep network among first responders, that's true," Jill mutters. "They both do. Send me their contacts, Jote."

Jote bites the inside of her lip while she does as asked. If they call the police, even if they get all of their evidence together, who knows how long it will take to convince the proper authorities to begin a search? They have no idea where Joshua and Clive are. It's late winter—it still gets cold at night, and Joshua gets cold so easily, and he hasn't regained his strength yet since his last illness.

The police don't know about Dzemekys, not like Jote does, and not like Cid does. By the time they explain the situation, anything might have happened. Fear finds her again, trembling and sharp, like a shard of glass hanging over her.

"The Warrior went up to the pyre," Jote says, calling Cid's attention to her. "They think it's Clive. What did you tell Joshua, about your other foster brother..."

"What?" Jill says as she types into her phone.

But Cid knows what she means. "They wouldn't—"

"Are you sure?" Jote presses. "You told Joshua that Barnabas takes the Scriptures literally. What is it you think they're going to do to Clive?"

"What?" Jill says. "What?"

Cid rubs a hand over his face. "Fuck me," he groans. "Barnabas's mother had a cabin on Drake's Tail. That's where she took us to worship—it's where she took people she thought were 'chosen.' Fuck," he says again, and then, heartily, "Fuck."

"Where else could they have gone?" Jote asks.

"Nowhere," Cid says. "If Barnabas really thinks he's got his Mythos, that's where he'd go. I'm sure of it."

Jill takes a deep breath. "What's the address," she demands.

"It's a cabin she built on the side of a mountain, I'm not sure it has an address," Cid says. He tugs once on Torgal's leash. "It doesn't matter. We went there so often when I was young, I think I still remember how to get there. I'm going, and I'm not waiting for the cops to come."

"Don't you dare!" Jill snaps, catching him by the sleeve of his coat when he starts back toward his car. "What do you expect to do when you get there?"

"I don't bloody know!" Cid snaps back. He pulls away from her. His face is ashen, gray. He looks like Jote feels. "Stop my bastard of a brother from committing murder, I reckon!"

"Murder?" Jill echoes. "You think—"

"I'm not waiting to find out!"

"So you're going to go after them—alone?"

Cid whistles to Torgal, who stands and starts to follow him. "I'll take the dog. I imagine it's a bit harder for a man to be brave when he's faced with an angry hound the size of this one."

That's why he brought Torgal here, Jote guesses. He was expecting to find his brother here, perhaps threatening his partner, and bringing a dog to a meeting would probably not count—legally—as bringing a weapon.

"Wait—wait!" Jill grabs Torgal's collar and steps into Cid's path. Jote glances around them. They're not being loud enough to attract a crowd, but a few heads have swiveled around to look at them before turning away. If they keep arguing, people are going to start taking note. "Do you have a plan at all, or are you just going to rush in and see what happens?" Jill hisses, low. "I know you're worried about Clive, but think about this, Cid, with your head and not your cock!"

Cid flushes. He takes one step closer to Jill, and, before she can stop herself, Jote steps between them, one hand on Cid's chest. "Don't," she says sharply, and then feels immediately foolish when he seems bemused rather than angry or thwarted. Torgal growls, though it's undirected, only an instinctive response to the tension around him.

A gloved hand curls around Jote's arm. Jill gently pushes her aside but keeps her gaze on Cid when she says, "Her name will be on the land deed. There are ways of tracking the property down, properly, and if someone goes there with a badge, they'll actually be able to do something about your bastard of a brother. Do you think Clive went there by choice? What if they're threatening him—or Joshua? What are you going to do that he couldn't?"

"Do you think you can find the location of the property, then?" Jote asks her. "Sophia Tharmr. That's her name."

"Certainly I can," Jill says evenly, "given a little time."

"Time," Cid repeats incredulously. "You do understand what they want to happen to their damned savior? How long are we going to stand here waiting—"

"We'll go," Jote interrupts loudly. She curls her fingers around Torgal's leash, tugging Jill's hand free. "I'll go with Cid. The two of us will go ahead, and you can call for help in the meantime, Jill. You have all the right contacts. You know how to go about it. Properly."

Jill presses her lips together, looking torn. She's the Rosfields' best friend—practically their sister, from the way Joshua speaks about her—and she doesn't want anything to happen to them, either. "You could be putting yourselves in danger," she says.

But Jill doesn't know who Jote was before she was a graduate student who spends most of her time in the library. She doesn't know about the knife in Jote's bag and the hours of training that made up most of her days until she was sixteen.

That's not who Jote is anymore. But if she's not one of the Undying, then that means she's allowed to care about who she wants. She doesn't always know what to do with that, but she does know she doesn't want to lose the people who matter to her.

Cid opens his mouth, like he's about to say something. Jote raises her chin and stares him down, like they did the hunting dogs back home. He pauses and cocks his head to the side, eyeing her curiously.

"If we're in danger," Cid says at last, pointing at himself and Jote, "it should be easier to convince them we need backup, whoever they are that you're going to call. So—we're making your job easier."

Jote nods quickly. She turns to Jill, feeling oddly like she's begging her superior for permission.

"Is that a joke," Jill says flatly.

"If we go on ahead, they can always track us by GPS—that'll be the more efficient route, in fact," Cid adds, as though struck by sudden inspiration. Jote hurriedly takes out her phone and shares her location with Jill. Cid swipes his phone open, and Jote grabs it to enter Jill's number and begin sharing his location, too. She enters her own while she's got it and texts herself, keeping them all connected.

"Will you have signal up there?" Jill asks, though at least she's asking for logistics now instead of protesting.

"It'll be spotty but enough," Cid says. "Too many people hike and camp on Drake's Tail for them not to have built a few cell towers for businesses that want to make a gil or two from tourists."

"We haven't heard from Joshua in over an hour now," Jote says. It's been even longer since Clive went dark. "They could be there already."

Finally, Jill exhales through her nose and nods. "All right," she says tensely, and begins scrolling through her contacts. "All right. Go. Stay in touch. And be careful."

"Always," Cid says, and, without another word, jogs back to his car.

Jote glances back once at Jill—the other woman is watching her anxiously, but she has her phone to her ear and doesn't speak—and then follows and climbs into the backseat with Torgal at her feet. Jote doesn't know Cid, other than the things she knows about him, but she knows Torgal, and the weight of the dog's paws on her leg is a familiar comfort.

"They must be on Drake's Tail," Jote says as Cid starts the engine and peels hurriedly away from the sidewalk. "Mustn't they?"

"Can't think of another place Barnabas would go," Cid says.

"Do you keep emergency supplies here?" she asks. She opens her bag and unceremoniously dumps out everything inside, leaving textbooks, notebooks, and pens strewn on the seat beside her. At the bottom, she finds a small first-aid kit and the sheathed knife that's lain there, dormant, for years, taken out only on occasion to check for rust. After a moment's thought, she picks up the pens—the ones with a sharpish point—and puts them back. "Blankets, water, medical supplies? Satellite phones, radios?"

Cid looks over his shoulder at the noise, eyeing the mess she's making, before turning back to the road. "A few bottles of water and a first aid kit in the trunk," he says. "Some tools, electric torches. A blanket—it won't be enough for this weather, but better than nothing. There are some chemical heating packs in the glove compartment, the ones you can fit in your gloves or your boots. Mid's hands get cold in the winter."

"Joshua gets cold, too," Jote says.

Cid glances at her again. "We'll find them," he says. "Where exactly did you come from, Jote?"

Jote tucks the knife into her pocket, checking carefully to make sure she won't lose it and can draw it easily. "It's a long story," she says.

"One I'd be interested in hearing, once this is over," Cid says.

Once this is over, if it all ends well, Jote will gather the courage to tell whatever story anyone wants to hear from her. "We should decide what we're going to do when we get there," she says. There's anticipation thrumming through her now.

This is familiar. This is something Jote knows.

In the rearview mirror, Cid meets her eyes for a brief second. His expression is grim, but his lips quirk up briefly in a tiny smirk. "Don't worry," he says. "I have an idea."

Chapter Text

29. They spoke, saying: "In His Flame, we are reborn. In His Flame, we are forged anew. We are the children of fire."
30. And God did not cease. He spread His Flame across the land, through the hearts of all people and into all corners of the earth. The mark of the Flame would remain upon the earth for all of time and live in the hearts of those who embraced it.

- Scriptures of the Risen, Book of Shaping

*****

It doesn't take long for Joshua's legs to falter. He can barely see, between the dark and the black spots speckling his vision, and he's not sure he can feel his legs. When they buckle, he doesn't have the breath to cry out as he falls. He feels the skin of his knee split when one lands on rock. His palms scrape against hard dirt or loose gravel; he's not sure which. His right hand screams and burns with pain.

Joshua hasn't run in years. He can't even walk fast without becoming lightheaded. Of course he could never keep up with his brother.

Clive barely pauses. He crouches, scoops Joshua roughly into his arms, and keeps running. Joshua presses his face into his brother's collarbone and gasps for air. His chest aches; his head is spinning. When he peeks over Clive's shoulder, all he can see is the flare of fire as the cabin continues to burn, a bright spot growing smaller as Clive spirits them away.

He doesn't think they're running in the same direction they were when they left. It's hard to know if Clive is deliberately trying to confuse their trail, or if the path is too unreliable to keep moving in a straight line, or if Clive is still disoriented from whatever they did to him.

And Joshua can't tell if anyone's following, either. They must be following—they must have run, too—but there's no moon tonight, and it's too dark to see. All he can hope is that he and Clive got enough of a head start and that the others are just as dazzled by the darkness as they are.

That's not quite true. What he hopes is that they're burning, the way they wanted to burn him and his brother.

The thought takes him suddenly and by surprise, but his brain is full of spiky panic, and he's spending too much effort trying to breathe to stuff the thought back into his chest.

They stop at last when they've dropped behind some sort of ledge, and the cabin is no longer visible except as a faint glow and a haze of smoke over the rocky ridge. Clive is gasping for breath now, too, and he crumples unsteadily to his knees, letting Joshua slip down to sit against the low wall behind them. He curls over Joshua, panting, leaning hard against the rock wall.

As though by agreement, neither of them move or speak, straining to hear any hint of voices or footsteps beyond their own labored breaths. They're both covered in a layer of sweat, though it's cold enough that the patches of grass Joshua can feel beneath himself crunch with frost. Neither of them is dressed for the weather; they've only got the shirts on their backs. Wind drifts over them, icy on Joshua's skin even with Clive shielding him. He can already feel the sweat growing cold on his face, and he's shivering.

Clive is shuddering, too. Joshua reaches up wordlessly to press against his chest, feeling the frantic pounding of his brother's heart under his hand. Clive pulls him closer, an arm around his back, a hand cradling the back of his head. Joshua sags against him, letting his forehead drop to Clive's shoulder. His brother smells of motor oil and sweat and smoke, that awful and familiar scent that clings to clothing.

A minute passes. No one has chased them down yet or shot at them again. Clive's breathing slows.

Joshua's does not. Another minute later, and then another, and he's still puffing desperately for air, coughing intermittently and trying to muffle the sound.

Clive presses two fingers to the the pulse at Joshua's neck and smooths a hand over his chest, as though searching for an injury. "Are you hurt?" Clive whispers, bent close. He helps Joshua to sit more upright, trying to make it easier to breathe.

Joshua's knees are scraped, and his hand hurts. He thinks it might be burned. None of that is relevant right now, though, so he shakes his head. He closes his eyes for a few seconds, concentrating on the feeling of his chest, moving like a feeble bellows, and then manages, "Think it's...the altitude."

"Altitude?" Clive echoes blankly, like he didn't notice the difference in the air. Maybe he didn't; they might not be high enough for people in good health to notice. He looks around them, bewildered. "Where the hell are we?"

"Drake's Tail," Joshua whispers, a ping of concern reverberating through him at Clive's confusion. He curls his freezing fingers in his brother's shirt, feeling for the heartbeat again. His teeth are chattering. "You—did they...hurt you? How did you get here?"

Clive glances around, worried that their voices will attract attention. "They called me from your phone," he whispers. "Said they had you, where to meet them, and not to tell anyone what was happening or they'd hurt you. That man—the big one—I...I think he injected me with something." He rubs the muscle at the base of his neck. "I don't remember much after that, until I woke up."

Horrified guilt slides down into Joshua's stomach. "Oh god," he breathes, and, "Oh, god, Clive, I'm sorry."

Clive is staring at him. It's too dark to see his expression, but Joshua can imagine it—the frown, the narrowed eyes, the line between his eyebrows. "You know them," he whispers. He shivers. "How do you know them?"

"It's...a long story," Joshua says. His voice is shaking. His whole body is trembling. Clive crowds close again, as though they can share enough body heat to stave off the cold. "I think they've been targeting you for ages. I've been trying to gain their trust. Trying to...r-record them admitting it. I f-finally got close enough. Too close. They used me to...to g-get to you. I'm so sorry."

"Joshua," Clive says. The word is drenched in dismay. "How long have you... They were going to set you on fire!"

"That...was a surprise to me, too," Joshua admits. Fire has brought you death, Sleipnir said, staring at him with eyes that have seemed so sympathetic before—so understanding. Perhaps Sleipnir really believed it would somehow be a relief, dying beside his brother, which means he never understood at all. He shudders.

Clive rubs his hands briskly up and down Joshua's arms. He cups his palms around Joshua's cheeks, like he can warm every part of Joshua with his own hands. "And they were targeting me? Why me?"

"Yeah. We just realized," Joshua says. He closes his eyes. "It's a long story. But we think...f-for months, at least."

And they were targeting Joshua, in a way, too, whether they think him a piece of their savior or only a sacrificial lamb to lure in Clive. Even if Barnabas hadn't resorted to kidnapping, there would have been more fires, ones where innocent people died and firefighters were called into danger, but it was Joshua professing to be one of his precious prophets, claiming his devotion, that made them decide to pull the trigger. God, he's so stupid.

"Fuck," Clive says, stunned. "This was because of me?"

"No, no!" Joshua says, peeling his eyes back open. "They're out of their m-minds—they want to...to s-sacrifice us to their God or something. That's what that was. It's not your f-fault."

"And who's 'we?' How is Cid..." Clive hesitates. His hands tighten, just a little, before loosening, and he sounds nervous when he asks, "Is Cid part of this? Did he...?"

"No," Joshua says quickly. "The prophet's his brother. It's not his fault. He gave me...his number. And the card—"

He stops. He's getting off-track; it's hard to focus, between the cold and the thin air. Quinten Wraec's card doesn't matter. Clive doesn't need to know about that.

Joshua should have taken the lawyer's card, after all. He should have called the man yesterday and gotten it done. He's been delaying for so long, and—

"Okay," Clive says. His breath is warm on Joshua's cheek, where they're almost touching. He's still warm. Everything else is cold. "It doesn't matter. We got away." Abruptly, he straightens. "We have to go. Keep ourselves warm."

Joshua tips his head back against the ledge. He's not sure he can stand up. "Where? Go where?"

"Shit, I don't know," Clive says. He looks around again, frustrated, but it's no good; even if they could see more than a meter or two in front of themselves, neither of them knows this mountain. "Just...down. We'll make our way down. We need to get you to lower elevation."

They're a few kilometers up, Sleipnir said. At the doctor's office, well rested and with oxygen ready if he needs it, Joshua hasn't managed more than three hundred meters during the six-minute walking test in over a year, and that distance is enough to just about do him in.

"I...I don't think..." he starts.

Clive wraps an arm around his back and stands, bringing Joshua with him. Joshua closes his eyes against a wave of lightheadedness, plants his feet, and manages not to collapse again immediately. They stagger together for a precarious moment—whatever they gave Clive, he's not entirely steady on his feet, and for several worrying seconds, Joshua thinks his brother is going to spew. Finally, they stabilize against each other, propped up by fear and adrenaline.

"Try...try to walk," Clive says, and hitches Joshua closer. "Just get your body temp up a bit, and we'll find somewhere to rest again."

---

They don't hear or see anyone coming after them, for now, so they walk, carefully, quietly, as fast as Joshua can manage. The ground is uneven, and they don't know where they're going; it takes a few false starts before they're even certain they're headed downward. Both of them are shivering, enough that it's starting to hurt, and Joshua's eyes are drooping, even as he struggles to keep his increasingly numb limbs moving.

It's painful, knowing that Clive is being forced to walk at this tortoise-like pace when he could run down to the base of the mountain on his own. A few kilometers is a distance Clive could cover in no time at all—an hour or two, perhaps, even if he was picking his way carefully around the uneven ground, even if he got lost a few times in between.

The third time they stop to rest, after a woefully short distance, Joshua has to say it. There's a truth neither of them has spoken yet, though they both must be thinking it.

"I'm not...going to m-make it," he gasps.

Clive is sitting behind him. Joshua's legs are bent at the knees, and Clive's arms wrap around them from behind, making both of them as small as possible, trying to hold in heat. Joshua can feel Clive shaking.

"Don't say that," Clive says. He hooks his chin over Joshua's shoulder, pressing cheek to cheek. "I know it's hard. We...we're making progress."

"I c-can't feel my legs," Joshua says.

That's not true. He can feel Clive's hands close tight around his knees. He just can't get them to move very much when he wants them to. Too tired, too cold, too weak, too dizzy. He's not breathing as hard anymore, but it doesn't feel like it's because he has enough oxygen, as the world has begun to feel slippery and hazy.

If Clive stays here much longer, he'll get colder and colder until he doesn't have enough heat or oxygen, either. Clive is strong, but he's not dressed for this weather, and the slow pace is keeping him from staying as warm as he could be if he were moving on his own. Neither of them has ever lived anywhere that's not the middle of a big city, and they don't know what they're doing out here. Clive would know how to deal with hypothermia, probably, but he's usually got a crew and an engine full of medical supplies with him.

Jote would probably know what to do.

"I wish Jote were here," Joshua mumbles.

"What?" Clive shifts. "Jote?"

Joshua's brain is running syrupy slow, and he can't think of an efficient way to explain that Jote was raised like a hunting dog and not like a girl. Or something. She'd probably know what to do if she were cold in the wilderness and lost. "Yeah," is what he manages.

Clive exhales a trembling breath. His teeth are chattering. Joshua's aren't anymore, which makes it a little easier to speak. "Hey," he says, and his hands rub Joshua's legs, "we're going to get you back to her, all right?"

That's not what he means, though Joshua does wonder what she'll do if he never comes home. He hopes she knows to find Vivian, who will be able to pull the story together from the reports he's been sending. "Clive..." Joshua says, but he doesn't manage any more before Clive hauls Joshua up and into his arms again.

"Come on," Clive grunts, and pushes himself to his feet.

---

Joshua's cheek stings.

"Wake up, Joshua, wake up," someone says. A hand pats his cheek again. He turns his head away. "No, stay awake—stay with me, Joshua—"

It takes some time, but he forces his eyes open. There's a shadow leaning over him, breathing hard. He can't make out its features, but he would know his brother anywhere.

"Okay," Clive pants, and, "Okay...okay." He seems unsteady. He lies down beside Joshua, crawling closer, holding him tight. He's shaking hard enough that the tremors jostle Joshua through him. "I had to stop, or I was g-going to drop you. Just f-for a minute, I promise, and then w-we'll go on."

They're on Drake's Tail. It doesn't feel as cold as it was earlier. Winter turning to spring, maybe.

"Can you hear me, Joshua?" Clive says. He sounds scared.

"Yeah," Joshua hears himself say, faintly. Sounds are a little strange, like he's dipped his head into a pool of water and is listening through the waves. His face is pressed against his brother's shoulder. Perhaps that's why.

"Can you f-feel my hands?" Clive says. "Are you having trouble breathing?"

Joshua has no idea where his brother's hands are, but, after a moment, he feels his own hands being brought together and rubbed vigorously. Clive breathes on them. Joshua can feel it, a bit less than he should, but allowances must be made for the circumstances. "Yes," he says, and then, confused, because he thinks there was another question, "What?"

"You're too cold," Clive says, which is obvious, and also not as true as it was a while ago. Joshua's not sure how long ago, but the cold is like an ache in his bones now—it's there, but it doesn't bother him so much as before. He's mostly stopped shivering, at least. Clive's the one who's too cold. They drugged him, and neither of them know what with, and even if he weren't still feeling the effects, he's too cold. He's wearing the T-shirt he always wears to the garage, and his trousers are torn at the leg.

"I bet..." Joshua says, and then has to stop to take a breath. He can only manage a few words at a time, it seems. His lungs aren't big enough, or full enough. "Bet you wish...I still had a fever."

"What?" Clive pulls back to look at him, and then crushes him close again. "You're talking nonsense, Joshua. Try to m-move a little, all right? You have to k-keep moving if you can."

Joshua's being half-smothered by a large man, so there's not a lot of moving he can do. But his hands are free now, so he tries to hug Clive back. His hand brushes by something hard in his pocket. And—

Clive needs to go. That is the only thing Joshua is sure of right now, with the cold nestled in his bones and his toes numb and his head full of slushed ice. He blinks hard, drawing as deep a breath as he can, trying to wake up further from this odd state that feels like he's dreaming.

"Here," Joshua says. Reaches into his pocket—or tries, at least. His arm doesn't want to move, and his fingers aren't feeling enough to help navigate by feel in the dark. One of his hands stings and throbs when he tries to close it. He gives up. Clive can do it. Clive can do anything. "In my pocket. I've been recording. Everything today."

Clive takes his hands, but instead of helping, he only holds them again. "What?" he says again.

"Take it," Joshua says. He tips his head forward to rest against Clive's shoulder. "I think they said it."

"Said what?"

Joshua's too tired to explain. "Enough. You should... Jote will know what to do."

That's not it. It's jumbled. Jote would know what to do here on the mountain. She might not know what to do with recording. She would know to find Jill, though, and Jill will know what to do. Joshua's told Jote about Jill, hasn't he? Or did he tell Jill about Jote? No, they've met, that's for certain, so they definitely know about each other.

A hand buries itself in Joshua's hair. Clive's breath trembles out of him. "I told you, I promise, I'll get you back to her—"

Joshua hears himself laugh, a quiet huff that turns into a weak cough. The hand tightens, pulls his head closer. "No, Clive, that's...that's not. Can you tell her...I'm sorry for...for scaring her?"

"What are you talking about," Clive says, whispering into Joshua's ear. "Joshua, wh-why are you t-talking like this."

"Jill can have the story," Joshua says. He's not sure Clive can hear him, muffled as he is in the space between them.

Stories are steeped in the dreams of their writers, Dion said once. What they leave in their words is themselves. Or was that Harpocrates?

"Tell Jill to...write it for me," Joshua murmurs.

It would be nice to fall asleep now. There are worse ways to fall asleep. He's not feeling so cold as before, and even though he's not a child anymore, he's still never felt as safe as he does in his brother's arms. It's almost warm here.

Almost, but not quite. Clive is too cold for that. Clive can't stay here hugging Joshua until he falls asleep. Clive has to go, and that means that Joshua has to help him leave. The recording's not important. They can worry about that later. Clive should go, and after the battery's died, someone can come back up here and collect it and give it to Jill and Jote.

Reluctantly, Joshua gets an arm between them and pushes as hard as he can. It's not much, but at least Clive can feel what he's doing and shifts back, confused. "Go," Joshua says. He grasps at Clive's shirt with fingers that respond only sluggishly, and then he remembers that's the opposite of what he needs to do and lets go. "Down. Run."

"Stop, Joshua," Clive says, and tries to pull him close again.

Joshua gathers all of his trembling strength; he takes all of the years of anger he doesn't let out of his chest, the frustration about the way his fragile body threw their lives into disarray, the fear of what's to come that he can't predict. It's all of the things he doesn't want Clive to see, because he doesn't want Clive to hurt more than he already does.

It's not really anger, though, or frustration or fear—not anymore. When he shoves his brother away—not far, only enough for the chill to seep back in between them—it feels like love, like the one gift Joshua can give him.

He doesn't want to leave his brother alone, but Clive's not alone. He has Jill and Torgal, and the Murdochs, and Dorys and the rest of Squad 1 from the station. He has Cid, and Gav and Blackthorne, whatever his name is. Joshua doesn't want to leave his brother behind, but far more than that, he doesn't want to take his brother with him when he goes.

"You have to run," Joshua tells him, coughing from the effort of trying to get him to move, even if only a little bit. "It's too cold. Go. Stay warm."

Clive has only rocked back a short distance. He's staring at Joshua, though the night casts shadows on his face. "Stop it," he says again, and his voice is thick. He has to know that Joshua is right. There is simply no way Joshua will make it down the mountain. Even if they stay hidden, it's too cold, too far, too hard a walk. "You're being stupid."

It's cruel. Joshua knows it is, but he has to. His brother is counting on Joshua to let him go. Joshua strains his frozen face until he feels his lips curl up at the corners. He doesn't know if it's too dark to see, so he reaches for his brother's hand, pulls it closer, and presses it to his lips, hoping Clive can feel him smiling. He doesn't want Clive to think he was sad or scared. The only thing he's ever really been able to do for Clive is to let his brother take care of him.

"Brother," Joshua says. "You saved me, from the fire." He smiles as brightly as he can and strains his eyes to keep his brother in his blurring sight for as long as he can. "So. Go and...bring back help for me. Please. Do it for me."

There's a watery, shaking inhale, and then Clive is pulling Joshua to himself, shivering hard and moving too slowly, working to sling an arm and a leg over his shoulders.

"Clive," Joshua begs. He tries to fight, to stay on the ground, but he's not strong enough to overcome his brother.

"You can't," Clive says. "You can't, Joshua, you can't—"

There's a sound in the distance, like rustling. At first, Joshua thinks he's imagining it. It's the muffled, underwater sound of the sea sloshing in his ears, or the wind, or his heart rattling or something.

But then Clive says, "Do you hear that," and suddenly, Joshua can see his expression, because a beam of light slashes over his face. He ducks his head instinctively away from the light. There's a shout. The rustling sound becomes thumping—feet, pounding on dirt—and the light sweeps over them again, coming closer.

They're lying in the open, where Clive collapsed. Nothing is hiding them but shadows that are even now peeling away from them. Clive looks up again. His eyes widen. "Shit!"

Then Joshua's hoisted up onto his brother's shoulders. They lurch unsteadily upright and begin moving, an awkward, staggering pace. Joshua wonders hazily if his body is so cold that he's not even helping to keep his brother warm like this, draped helplessly over his back.

"Rosfield!" Hugo Kupka's voice roars. He makes a loud, groaning noise, like he's in pain. "I'm going to kill you!"

Joshua lifts his head from where he's lying limp over Clive's back and squints past the shining flashlight. Hugo is coming closer, silhouetted against the glare, though he's limping badly.

Clive staggers and falls to one knee. He kneels there for a moment, shivering and panting, and then, with a resolute look on his face, carefully lowers Joshua to the ground.

"Run," Joshua gasps. He turns his head—tries to roll over onto his hands and knees. He makes it onto his side before he starts to become lightheaded again and can do nothing but pluck uselessly at Clive's trouser leg as his brother stands up on his own and walks toward the other man. "Clive..."

"Leave us alone," Clive says. His voice is too low. He raises it to a hoarse shout. "Do you hear me? We haven't done anything to you! I don't even know who the hell you are!"

"Not done anything?" Hugo demands. He stumbles, then rights himself with an angry growl. He must have been injured in the chaos in the Apodytery. "You have no idea what you've done!"

His breathing is labored, like he's been running, but he doesn't look as cold as he should be if he's been out searching this whole time. He has a car, Joshua remembers. There are at least two cars, actually—the one Joshua rode in and the one Hugo must have driven here first, with Clive. The terrain is too uncertain in parts to drive, but they would know the places where a car could pass. Hugo could have been keeping warm while driving around in circles to search. If Barnabas, Benedikta, and Sleipnir made it out of the burning cabin, they might be in the other car.

It's probably too much to hope the other three ran. They're probably searching the mountain, too, and warm.

Clive takes another step toward Hugo. "I won't ask again," he calls. "If you take one more step, it'll be the last thing you do!"

It's bravado, pure and simple, and Hugo knows it: he laughs. Clive is shaking and half-frozen, and he's spent his entire adult life becoming practiced at preserving life. Hugo was a trained soldier and outweighs him by a few stone, and, judging from Benedikta and Sleipnir, he's probably armed.

Hugo spreads his hands. "Somehow," he says, sounding almost amused despite the undercurrent of rage, "I doubt that is God's will. It certainly isn't mine."

Clive shifts to stand between him and Joshua. "I...I thought you needed us to burn on your fucking altar," he spits. Joshua makes it to his hands and knees and then has to stop, panting, as dark spots threaten to merge and block out his vision. He can't really feel his wrists, and one of his hands flares with dull pain when his weight lands on it. "You won't kill—"

In one smooth motion, Hugo steps to the side, draws a gun from behind his back, aims, and squeezes the trigger.

The gunshot rings in Joshua's ears. Clive staggers back with a cry, clutching his arm, and suddenly Joshua is scared enough for adrenaline to flood his system and shock him awake and able to think properly again.

In a moment, he takes in the facts, and the facts are these: the injury is to Clive's arm, not his head or his chest or even his leg, which means it didn't hit any major internal organs that will immediately kill him or make him unable to walk. Clive is panting through his teeth; he's in pain. And—

Hugo Kupka shot Joshua's brother.

The fact is that if Joshua had a gun, he would kill the man without a second thought.

"It's too late for rituals," Hugo growls. "Maybe the prophet was right about you; maybe he was wrong. I don't care any longer. I want you gone. I will end this obsession of his. The next one," he adds, louder, as Clive dares to take one more step forward, "goes through your brother's leg. Or perhaps his stomach. How long do you think it will take him to bleed dry?"

In the glow of the flashlight, Joshua can see that Hugo's clothes are ragged, singed in places. His cheek is red and already bruising badly.

Joshua is unarmed; the only weapon he has is what he knows. Clive has always protected him, but they can't win in a fight with an armed soldier. It's Joshua's turn to fight the only way he can.

"The prophet might want you alive," Hugo is saying, "but I don't imagine even he could blame us if we were to be forced to kill you."

"He will," Joshua says as loudly as he can, and a weak cough forces itself through his lips from the effort. His voice is quieter than he wants it to be, but their eyes flick to him.

"I'm not talking to you," says Hugo, because he doesn't think anything of Joshua.

Joshua raises his head. He's not a fucking lamb. He's not as strong as his brother or Hugo Kupka, but he can be as vicious as he needs to be.

"Do you think...I went to Dzemekys in earnest?" Joshua asks. "I've been investigating them—investigating you. The whole time. It's why I've been...in contact with...the prophet's brother."

Now, Hugo's attention turns to him.

He makes sure not to make any movements toward his pocket, where the recorder is. "Whatever happens to us...my research is...is with my boss. I'm a journalist. Clive's the most...famous firefighter east of the Belt. What do you think happens...when all of this comes out? And then we're found dead?"

"You're lying," Hugo says.

"I never lie," Joshua lies. Clive is still clutching his arm, trying to edge sideways so that he's between them. Joshua tries not to look at him. "Barnabas knows. He knew as...as soon as he saw...that Cid called me. Where is the prophet now?"

Silence answers him. Joshua lets his head droop, breathing hard, battling away the fuzziness in his vision. Even speaking feels like too much work for him to handle. His lips are so cold they're numb. His chest aches from struggling to breathe.

And then, "Safe," says Hugo.

Joshua feels his face trying to smile, though he might just be baring his teeth. "Gone, you mean," he says breathlessly. What did Jote dig up about Hugo Kupka? A soldier: abandoned by his nation, resentful of being punished for it. "He's abandoned you. You're going to take...to take the fall for him. Did he take the others with him?"

Hugo grits his teeth, but his bearing is suddenly less certain. "Benedikta's still here," he says, which means that Sleipnir is not. "I've already called her."

So Benedikta is alive, and she's on her way.

Perhaps there is no way out of this, after all. Sleipnir must have driven Tharmr away, down the mountain, but they've got another car somewhere, and Hugo and Benedikta both have phones and warm clothing. They can just call each other, while Joshua and Clive are staggering about blindly in the dark. It seems like cheating. It feels like checkmate.

"That's why th...they recruited you," Joshua says. "To leave you. Just like everyone else. If you kill us, there's no one to blame...but you. Let us go, and...and we'll testify you saved us."

Clive shifts uneasily on his feet. He's angry and wounded, and he won't want to testify anything on behalf of a man who drugged and kidnapped him, but he must know that if they are to have any chance of escaping alive, it will not be by force.

Joshua doesn't care. Joshua's promises are not binding, and he has an audio recorder in his pocket that should have picked up this whole confrontation, with how loudly Hugo's been yelling. Unless they somehow convince Hugo to drive them back to the city, it's hard to imagine how Joshua could possibly survive, but Clive could, if the bleeding is stopped. Jote knows that Joshua has a recorder on him; Jill will know what to do with it. As long as Clive lives, then Joshua can still bring the whole fucking lot of them down from the grave.

But Hugo firms his stance. He adjusts his grip, settling back into a stable shooting stance, aiming straight at Joshua's head. "We all know now what your word is worth," he says. "Better to finish a job myself, I've found."

"Wait—" Clive chokes out, lurching forward.

The rustling sound comes again—someone is coming toward them. Benedikta, perhaps; the footsteps sound like they're running, and running fast...

Really fast.

Joshua shakes his head slowly, wondering if his hearing is failing. It doesn't sound right. The footfalls are far too fast, far too light to be a person, no more than the sound of a body brushing past pebbles and dry branches. A growl echoes through the dark.

God. The Curse Joshua made up for Kihel might as well be real for how terrible their luck has been tonight. It's probably a mountain lion or a wolf something. Do mountain lions growl? Are there wolves on this mountain? After all this, is Joshua really going to spend his last moments watching his injured brother try to tackle a soldier with a firearm while a wolf decides he's a convenient meal on the ground?

The growl turns into a bark, deep and loud. It's not a small animal, and it's closer than Joshua thought. It almost sounds like...

Hugo whirls around as a shadow suddenly barrels at him. Squinting into the unreliable glare of his flashlight, Joshua thinks for a moment of insanity that it's his dog before Clive takes the opening and throws himself at Hugo.

The wolf—the dog, is it a dog?—launches itself at them as Hugo grabs at Clive by the shoulder to fend him off. Hugo yells in shock as jaws close around his arm and he's borne to the ground. There's one stray gunshot.

"Clive!" Joshua calls in horror. He pulls himself forward, one freezing and pitiful step at a time. The dog barks again—not a wolf, then, but a dog. "...Clive?" Joshua pants, confused. The flashlight has been cast aside, and he can't see what's happening. There's only a pile of shifting shadows—a barking, growling dog and two men and the sound of one of them roaring. No one else shoots. Joshua can only hope the gun was lost in the grappling.

And then Clive rises to his feet, stumbling away from them and back to Joshua, still holding his arm. "Come on, come on!" he calls frantically, jerking Joshua back up to his feet. Joshua sways heavily into him and tries not to pass out.

"Is...is that...?" Joshua whispers, bewildered, glancing back.

Hugo is on the ground, shouting; he's cradling his hand, and the dog's teeth are buried in his leg. He's kicking with the other, but that's his already injured leg, and the dog lunges and knocks him back down again, jaws open and snarling.

"Yeah," Clive gasps, and, "Go!" and then they're moving, awkward and stumbling.

Joshua collapses before long. Clive catches him on the way down, wincing, and hefts him over his shoulders with an effort. But panic alone isn't enough to sustain either of them much longer. Clive doesn't make it very far, either, before they hear the barking again.

He staggers to a tree and leans there, panting, bracing Joshua against the trunk. He's trembling all over, and one of his legs starts to buckle before he can catch himself.

Then the dog bursts into view. It barks at them and whines loudly, desperately, rising on its back legs to press its paws to Clive's hip. For the first time, Joshua notices that the dog is wearing a very familiar leash, which drags along the ground as he runs, as well as a very familiar collar. It's too dark to see clearly, but Joshua can just make out a marking on the dog's forehead that looks nearly like a diamond.

It's Torgal. It doesn't make sense, but it is. Either that, or Joshua's started hallucinating.

"Torgal," Clive says, heaving for breath. "What...?"

"Torgal?" Joshua whispers. He reaches out with the arm that Clive isn't holding onto. Torgal licks at his fingers, sparking shivers of muted pain through his hand.

They can still hear Hugo in the distance, howling in rage or pain. "Keep going—keep going," Clive mutters, as though to himself, and pushes himself away from the tree to continue his staggering, desperate run, retreating further down the mountain, their dog at their side.

---

By the time Clive stumbles to his knees and sets him clumsily down again, Joshua doesn't hear Hugo anymore. He wonders how badly Hugo is hurt—if he's dead. He wonders if Benedikta will find them and what she'll do when she does.

Torgal is on him immediately. Joshua can barely keep his eyes open, but he feels the wet stripe of his dog's tongue swiping his cheek over and over, the puffs of warm breath. It's hot, almost painful on his skin. It's hard to see in the dark, but Joshua thinks he can catch the faint scent of blood lingering on Torgal. He turns his face away, forcing down a brief surge of nausea, but Torgal only moves to Clive, licking at his arm.

Clive makes a pained noise and pushes the dog away, clutching his forearm. "Down," Clive breathes, his chest heaving. He puts a hand on Torgal's head when the dog doesn't calm immediately. "Torgal, down."

Torgal sniffs his hand, then lies down, open mouthed and panting. "You're hurt," Joshua mumbles. He reaches out. His arm is so heavy, but he feels something wet coating his brother's skin. It's not so bad of an injury that it stopped Clive from picking him up and running, but his vision keeps drifting out of focus, and in the dark, he can't tell how bad it really is.

"It's all right," Clive says, even though it's not. His teeth are chattering so hard they clack audibly against one another. He pushes Joshua's hand away and drags him, one-handed, so that he's lying on the slope with his head and chest elevated against a shelf—any little bit to make breathing easier.

"You're...you have to stop...the bleeding," Joshua says. His words come out indistinct; there's not enough air in the air, or something. He reaches up again, but Clive only pushes at him, arranging him until he's curled around Torgal. Something wet and hot is leaking onto Joshua's hand. It's blood—it must be—and it feels like he's stealing the warmth straight out of his brother's veins. "Clive—"

"It's all right," Clive says again, shuddering with the cold. "It's not bad. P-put your hands..." He gives up speaking and slides behind Joshua himself, blocking him in from the other side. He takes Joshua's numb hands and presses them against the dog's body.

"Is this real?" Joshua wonders aloud, because he's on a mountain, and his thoughts feel like they're frozen solid. He can't possibly be hugging his dog right now. Torgal is the warmest thing he has ever felt. He tips his head forward, pressing his face to the thick fur. It smells like Torgal—real, and almost like home, except with the metallic tang of blood.

Clive is shivering behind him and doesn't feel nearly as warm as he should. His arms cage Joshua in, trapping him against the dog, one hand cradling Joshua's and the other buried in the fur at Torgal's neck while the dog sighs.

Suddenly, a light turns on, right in front of Joshua's eyes, drilling bright spots into his vision. He squints and sees...

A phone? It must be—it's a phone, wrapped securely in a makeshift pouch made of shoelaces and tied down tight to Torgal's harness with a complicated network of knots. Clive must have touched the screen by accident, and now the display shows a picture of Midadol Telamon standing with her arm around the shoulders of Otto's son. There's a smeared, bloody fingerprint on the screen.

Clive shifts. "What is that?" he levers himself up, reaching clumsily for it. "Is that—that's Cid's phone. How..."

Joshua thinks he knows. He doesn't have all of the pieces, but he knows that Jote must have done something after he alerted her. He doesn't know how she knew he was up here and how Torgal found them, but he thinks with a leap of hope: she's here, somewhere.

"It's Jote," Joshua says, as Clive says, "Cid must have come for us."

But neither of them knows what to do with that. Whether Jote or Cid was holding Torgal's leash, they've let it slip from between their fingers, and it doesn't solve their problem of needing to get down the mountain before one or both—or all—of them freeze to death.

They do have a phone now, but they don't know the passcode to unlock it, and Joshua doesn't have Jote's number memorized. Clive tries Jill, his fingers shaking and sticky with blood, but they barely have the chance to hear a garbled, intermittent voice before the call drops.

Another try, and it drops after a single ring. 9-0-9—which should have been their first call; they're really not thinking straight—gets them the same result, and they give up after two more attempts. There must not be a good enough signal out here even for that, and whatever phone Cid has isn't new enough for satellite messaging. They'll have to move and try again somewhere else.

"Someone must know we're here," Clive says at last when they've exhausted their list of ideas and their fingers stop wanting to work. "Maybe it m-means help is on the way."

On the way—but not here, Joshua thinks as Clive lies down again, sandwiching Joshua between himself and Torgal. Even if someone finds them, it might be too late. Clive was drugged, and he's bleeding and tired and becoming hypothermic. Joshua can feel himself fading.

"Keep moving," Joshua says. The words slur in his mouth—he can't quite make his lips move the way they should. "Until... Clive, your arm..."

"We will," Clive says. He still hasn't caught his breath. He shudders violently as the wind sweeps over them, and then stills, like he doesn't have enough strength left to keep shivering continuously. "We'll k-keep going down, until we get a better signal. Just. Just a minute. Give me a minute."

"I can't help," Joshua mumbles. "You have to go."

"One minute," Clive whispers back. "Just need...to rest for..."

---

When Joshua drifts back to awareness, there's a low rumbling sound that feels like it's rattling into his chest. He's holding something soft and warm, but it shifts, and one of his arms falls to the side. The rumbling noise becomes louder, a warning growl that Joshua recognizes. There's a weight behind him, too, pinning him in place.

"How precious," Benedikta Harman's voice says, hoarse and furious. "Tired, are we, Mythos?"

The wall behind Joshua moves. It lets out a soft groan—

Joshua pries open his eyes. It's Clive behind him. Benedikta stands before them, a wary distance away. The side of her face is red, cracked and oozing blood down her cheek. She's wearing a warm coat that's far too big for her—Hugo's, perhaps—and it's impossible to see if she's hurt otherwise.

"Get up," Benedikta says.

"Fuck," Clive moans, slow and too lethargic. He starts to pull away and groans. "What do you want?"

He sounds so annoyed. It would be funny if Joshua weren't looking at a gun pointed at him.

"Keep your dog under control," Benedikta says through gritted teeth, "or I shoot your brother in front of you."

Joshua wants to be annoyed, too. He's tired of people waving guns in his face. He sighs. Think—think. What does he know about Benedikta?

His vision is blurry; thinking has become a chore. He's probably going to have to make something up. Are there any thoughts at all left in his head?

Torgal's growling is louder now. He lets out a series of sharp barks and rises to his feet, muscles bunched and ready to spring.

"Torgal, no," Clive says. He reaches for the dog, and then, when he can't get a firm grip, for the leash. He's just looped it around his arm when Torgal lunges.

Benedikta takes several steps back, but Torgal is pulled up short by the leash. Clive, fumbling for control, is pulled off his knees by the momentum. His hands land on the hard-packed dirt, and he lets out a cry of pain. Torgal strains at the end of his leash, barking furiously. Then he circles back around, nosing anxiously at Clive, before Clive gathers more of the leash and holds the dog close.

"Where the fuck did that beast come from?" Benedikta says.

"Search and rescue," Joshua mumbles. His voice is weak, barely more than a whisper.

"What was that, lamb?" Benedikta asks.

Joshua sees Clive throw him an anguished look as he gathers the tattered bits of his strength and says, a little louder, "Search and rescue. Someone must've called...called the police. They're coming."

She looks more closely at the dog, as if only belatedly registering the leash. "How did you—"

"Torgal!" shouts a voice. A man's voice, deep and familiar. "Torgal!"

It's Cid.

Cid is here, and he's looking for Torgal, and he's on his way. If Joshua weren't so tired, he might have cried in relief.

Torgal's ears prick up. He runs to the end of his short tether again and then back to press against Clive when he's restrained to no more than a meter. He whines, and then snaps out a stream of loud barks.

Benedikta steps back again. "It is him," she hisses, and then spits at Joshua, "You brought Cid here? Is this what you were planning the whole time?"

Joshua shakes his head, though he doesn't know why he's denying it. It doesn't matter. After a moment's thought, he realizes it might have been better to agree with her, to make her think they have some sort of coordinated plan, rather than only some half-coordinated thoughts.

"Torgal!" Cid calls again, breathless. This time, he's close enough that Benedikta turns and shifts her aim to the next ridge, just in time for him to come into view.

"Cidolfus," Benedikta snarls. Torgal barks and whines uncertainly, stepping forward and back, looking between Clive and Cid. "If I'd known this was what it took to make you return my calls..."

"What, did you do this for me, Benedikta?" Cid asks. His hands are raised, held out placatingly. He steps closer cautiously, eyes flicking over Clive and Torgal, then landing on Joshua and returning to Benedikta. "I've told you before I'm not interested. What exactly is it you're planning to accomplish here?"

"I have a friend nearby," Benedikta says, though, even armed, she looks more nervous now that someone else has entered the picture who is not injured and mostly frozen. "I'm sure he'll find me soon, and the two of us will—"

"You didn't see him?" Clive rasps. Cid's eyes are immediately drawn back to him. "He's hurt. Or dead, I don't know. Torgal took care of him." He rubs a hand over Torgal's ears as he speaks.

Her eyes widen. Her flashlight beam sweeps over Torgal, illuminating the blood that mats the fur around his bared teeth. There's blood all over him, really, streaks left from their hands, and when Joshua squints, he can see a messy wound, still weeping red, on Clive's forearm.

"Saw him ourselves, following Torgal's trail," Cid agrees. "He's still down. I didn't check if he was alive, but I confess it wasn't high on my list of priorities. Put the gun down."

"I don't think so," Benedikta says.

"Do you really think I came up here unarmed?" Cid says. He reaches a hand behind his back, under his coat, and Benedikta stiffens. "Barnabas raised me, too, after all. Put it down, Benedikta. You don't want to be seen threatening these innocent men when they catch up."

"They?" Benedikta echoes. Her gaze flickers past him.

"The police are right behind me," he says. He gestures toward Torgal. "That hound there is from their K-9 unit. They'll be here any minute. I'd leave them be and start running if I were you."

That's entirely nonsense, which means that everything Cid is saying is probably nonsense. Certainly, if Cid had come with police officers, they wouldn't have let him run ahead of them. There are no police coming, and he might only be reaching for air under his coat.

As good as it is to see someone here who is not trying to kill them, Joshua finds himself confused. What is Cid planning to do—does he have a plan at all? The fact that he tied a phone to their dog's harness suggests that some sort of thought went into it, but in this instance, Joshua would not have been opposed to seeing people with badges and handcuffs here with him.

And, also...

He was thinking that it was surely Jote who had alerted Cid that they needed help—Jote, who would know what to do if she were stranded on a mountain and who is always there when he needs her, even when he tries to deny it. But perhaps he was wrong. Cid called him, after all, and that was even before he texted Jote at all.

It's not that Joshua wants her to be here, where she'll be in danger. He just doesn't know what Cid is going to do on his own, except perhaps get shot along with him and Clive.

"Where's Barnabas?" Cid asks.

"Gone," Clive says.

Cid looks at him. "Dead?"

Clive shakes his head. He shifts and winces, pulling his arm closer to himself. "They said he was safe."

Benedikta doesn't move. This is not news to her. They discussed it, and they got the prophet to safety, while his Children stayed. Sleipnir is probably with him—the prophet's shadow; the favorite son who has never abandoned him, who sometimes gives Benedikta orders that she seems to resent.

"Ah," Cid says. "So he's left you here to clean up his mess."

"You would know all about leaving, wouldn't you," Benedikta says, full of venom.

"I asked you to come with me when I left," Cid says. He's still coming closer, though he's moving toward Clive, and that means Benedikta's aim is swinging slowly around to Clive, too. What the hell is he doing? "We could have both left all of this behind fourteen years ago."

"And done what?" she says. "You didn't even have any place to go!"

"So I found one!" Cid snaps back. "It could have been yours, too. Better than what he gave us!"

"It's so easy to say now," Benedikta sneers. "You, with your perfect house, and your husband and your children." No one corrects her about Otto—it doesn't seem the right time—though Cid tenses at the mention of their children. "Easy to leave, isn't it, Cid? Easier than staying, and helping, and building a new world with him, one that's better than this wretched—"

"And what has he built?" Cid asks. "Barnabas is gone, Benna. The police know everything he does." He gestures to Joshua. Benedikta's eyes flick to him and then back. She's never trusted Joshua the way Sleipnir might have. "If you kill these two now, you're a murderer, and all for a man who fucked off as soon as he realized something was getting in the way of his vision. Benna. Put it down and come with—"

"Come with me," she speaks over him. Her face is twisted in anger. "Is that what you were going to say? Like last time? Are you going to pretend you won't turn me straight over to the police? Don't come any closer!" she barks suddenly as he shuffles another step.

Cid raises his hands again. He's not armed, after all—only a bluff, some sort of stalling tactic. "What's your other option?" he asks. "Look at your 'Mythos!' He's going to freeze to death here, and no one is coming to help you. Do you think he'll revive and turn into God if you set his corpse on fire?"

She makes a frustrated noise, halfway between a scream and a growl. She can't win here, not anymore, but as long as she has a gun, the rest of them can still lose.

"I read the Scriptures, too," Cid says, and takes another step toward them. "We all walk through fire. It burns us; it reveals us. This is who I am, Benna. Barnabas is who he is." He holds out a hand toward her. "And who are you? A killer? A sacrifice on the altar of his faith?"

"He..." she says. She tightens her grip around the gun. "I know where he is. He'll know I stayed loyal to him, and we'll start over—"

"Genevieve Laurent," Joshua croaks. Benedikta turns to him in surprise, as if she'd forgotten he was there. "Did you know her? Did the prophet...bring her here, too? To worship?"

"You shut up," Benedikta hisses.

"She tested Mythos," Joshua forces out between frozen teeth. He coughs weakly, chest burning. "She went to prison...confessed to a felony...to test him."

Her voice rises in pitch. "Shut up, I said—shut up!"

"Joshua..." Clive says warningly.

"She did what he wanted," Joshua says, ignoring both of them. "Covered for him. And he left her...to rot in prison. You had his Mythos...and failed." He strains for breath. He's getting dizzy from the effort of speaking. "What do...do you think...he'll do..."

"He's right," Cid says when Joshua trails off, closing his eyes briefly before forcing them back open. Cid is inching closer again, glancing at him worriedly. "Barnabas isn't going to save you. But if you help me save these two, at least—"

"Stop moving!" she shrieks. She no longer has to turn to keep all of them in her sight, and she adjusts her feet, falling into a more stable position to shoot.

Cid crouches very slowly. "I'm just taking hold of the dog," he says placatingly, reaching for the leash in Clive's hand. Benedikta tenses, clearly wary of Torgal, the only one of them who has a chance of hurting her before she can get a shot off. She's shifted her aim to him. "Look at the man. He's hurt. He's too weak to hold the dog if it really wants to come after you."

Joshua hopes that's not true. He has to hope Cid has a real reason for wanting to get close to them.

And then something moves behind the ridge where Cid appeared. It's hard to see—it's like a shadow carefully separating itself from the darkness. It stalks silently toward Benedikta, who has turned away to keep Cid in her line of sight, and then—

Jote grabs Benedikta's arm from behind and shoves it upward. There's a sharp retort of gunfire—Cid and Clive both flinch, but it passes harmlessly over their heads. Benedikta whirls around to see her attacker.

Joshua feels his heart stutter as the gun swings toward Jote, but there's not enough time for Benedikta to find her target before Jote ducks low, her hand flashing up as she kicks hard at Benedikta's knees to drive her to the ground.

Benedikta cries out. Blood sprays from her arm, and Jote grabs the wounded limb, twisting sharply until the gun falls from her hand.

"Clive," Cid calls, throwing the leash back, and he scrambles to his feet. Clive fumbles, unable to get a good grip, and finally throws his arms around Torgal's chest just in time to keep Torgal from running into the fray, too.

Jote grunts and stumbles to the ground, holding her shoulder. Benedikta raises the flashlight again, and Jote rises just enough to dive at her, catching her around the waist. She hooks an arm around Benedikta's, twisting it backward until Benedikta screams and falls to her knees.

There's a knife in Jote's hand, Joshua sees now. A long slash has opened in the sleeve of Benedikta's coat, and blood is spreading over the material. Jote steps behind her, one arm holding her immobilized and the edge of the knife at her neck—

"Stop!" Cid shouts. He points the gun at the sky and shoots.

The sound makes all of them freeze.

"It's over, Benna!" he calls. "Just stop."

Benedikta grips Jote's wrist, trying in vain to pull the knife away from her throat. "Then call off your dog and let me go," she says. Jote twitches, but she doesn't move. "I thought you wanted to save them." She glares at Clive, Joshua, and Torgal. "Are you going to kill me? Do it, or stop wasting time!"

Cid lets out a breath. "Jote," he says. "She's right. We don't have time for this."

Jote looks at him. There's blood spattered across her face like a slash, and her eyes are wide. The blade is still at Benedikta's throat. For a second, she looks like a stranger, like someone Joshua's never met before, who learned to fight because otherwise the people who raised her would weed her out.

'We don't have time' could mean a lot of things. It wouldn't take long, Joshua guesses, for Jote to kill the other woman now.

"Jote," he whispers to the girl who reminds him of his brother, who likes to be helpful and to know that she has a purpose that's good. When she doesn't seem to hear, he repeats, as loudly as he can, "Jote! Please. Help me."

She turns to Joshua. Abruptly, she lets go, shoves Benedikta to the ground, and runs to him.

"Go," Cid says, and, quietly, "Goodbye, Benna."

But Joshua can't watch to see if Benedikta leaves, because Jote has fallen to her knees next to him. She drops the knife on the ground. She's breathing hard—harder now than when she'd been fighting—and she looks wild and scared in a way he's never seen her. She starts to reach for him, and then stops, looking at her hand. It's red with blood.

"Jote," Joshua breathes again. He's confused and freezing and rather faint, but above it all, there's a sense of overwhelming relief that seems disproportionate to their circumstances, as he has not become any less confused or freezing or faint.

He reaches for her hands. His right hand doesn't hurt anymore, but it also doesn't feel much of anything else. With his left, he can feel the sticky wet of blood on her fingers, already cooling, and he pulls her hands to his chest, wiping them off on his already bloodied shirt as well as he can, a task made clumsy by his numb fingers.

She stares at him. Benedikta's blood is still on her face, a few drops above her eyebrow and crossing down the bridge of her nose to her cheek.

"You okay?" he asks, and tries to wipe her face clean with his fingers, but he only manages to smear the blood across her cheek before he loses the strength in his arm and has to let it fall again.

Jote's lips quiver, and she throws herself over him, arms bracketing him at the shoulders and her face pressed to his chest. She's almost as warm as Torgal was, and she's trembling.

Joshua doesn't have a chance to muster the strength to hug her back. She pulls away, hastily strips off her coat, and drapes it over him. There's no time for Joshua to protest before she says, "Wait here," and runs back into the shadows, over the ridge that she and Cid came over.

A hand touches his face—Clive, on his hands and knees. Joshua's not sure when he got there. There's a flashlight shining, and in its light, Clive's lips look blue and his arm is slick with red. Torgal stands next to him, dancing agitatedly, and ducks once in a while to lick at him.

"Clive!" Cid's voice says.

Then the older man is falling to his knees, arms flung around Clive, who closes his eyes and melts against him like all of his strength has seeped away. Torgal growls and snaps at Cid, and then, as though confused, turns to rub against him, whining.

"Thank god. Are you hurt?" Cid takes off his coat, too, and wraps it around Clive, before taking Clive's injured arm and peering at it in the dark.

"You'll get too cold," Clive protests weakly, though he pulls the coat closer, like he can't help himself. "Cid, what—"

He bites off the end of the sentence with a sharp inhale as Cid clamps a hand against his arm. "Jote's gone to get some supplies," Cid says. He's barely finished saying it before Jote comes running back, her familiar backpack slung over her shoulder.

Joshua rolls his head to the other side. Benedikta is gone.

"Cid," he croaks as Jote skids to a stop next to him and drops the bag, tossing a first aid kit to Cid. "Clive has to go. He's cold."

"Stop it," Clive says. He sounds like he's going to cry. "Joshua, stop—"

Cid doesn't pause what he's doing, but he does look over, squinting at Joshua. He's wrapping a bandage hastily around Clive's arm. "We're going, lad. Let us get you both as warm as we can before we start moving."

Jote hands Cid something else, then tears open a handful of packages with her teeth, revealing small pouches inside. She twists them sharply—the way she twisted Benedikta's arm, Joshua can't help but think in a muddled rush of fondness—and sets them on Joshua's stomach under his shirt, setting her coat aside. "They'll heat up in a bit," she says as he blinks dully. Instead of putting her coat back on, she levers him off the ground enough to wrap it around his back. She doesn't bother trying to work his arms through the sleeves; Jote's coat is large on her, like the rest of her baggy clothes, but his limbs are much longer than hers. She simply folds his arms over his chest and zips the coat closed with his arms still trapped inside.

On his other side, Cid is zipping up his own coat for Clive. "...let him take off once he had your scent, and then we followed the signal," he's saying quietly. "Can you walk?"

"I don't think I c-can carry him," Clive rasps. He lets his head fall against Cid's, exhausted, the last dregs of adrenaline draining away. "He can't breathe. Not enough oxygen."

Cid looks at Joshua, and then Jote. "I'll carry him," Cid says.

"But—"

"I've got him, Clive. We had to leave the car a ways back, but it's not far. We'll meet police or emergency services on the way down. They're tracking us, too."

"How?" Clive mumbles. Jote steps back as Cid comes closer and works his arms under Joshua's back and legs. Joshua closes his eyes against a fresh wave of dizziness as the older man stands with a grunt of effort, hefting him in his arms. It's a good time to be underweight, Joshua thinks idly.

"This all right?" Cid asks him.

Joshua lets his head fall against Cid's shoulder. He thinks he nods.

"We're sharing our location with Jill," Jote says. She takes a blanket out of the backpack and drapes it over Joshua, tucking in the edges between him and Cid's chest. She takes her hat off, too, and tugs it on over Joshua's head.

"Clive," Joshua mumbles.

He must lose a few seconds, though, because Jote says, "Lean on me," and he looks over to see her standing with an arm around Clive's waist, Clive's arm draped over her shoulders. Torgal's leash is looped around Jote's free arm.

"I'll go on ahead," Cid says.

"We're right behind you," Jote says. Joshua meets Clive's gaze one more time and then closes his eyes and lets the heavy darkness drag him away.

---

"In my pocket," Cid says, out of breath. "Just grab it."

Pocket. Joshua feels his head loll to the side, landing against something warm. There's something about his pocket. Not Cid's pocket; his own. He's not sure what.

Something jostles them, and then Joshua hears the clunk of car doors unlocking. "You first," Jote says, "and turn the heat on." Her voice is shaking. It sounds like her teeth are chattering.

"Give me a hand with him," Cid grunts. Joshua lands on something soft.

"I've got it, you go," Jote says. There's the sound of a car door opening and then slamming shut again. The engine hums to life, and there's a whooshing sound of flowing air. "Clive, in the front, it'll be warmer right next to the air vents."

"But Joshua..." Clive protests.

"Someone needs to stay with him," Jote says, very firm. "It'd be harder for me to get to him in the passenger seat. Torgal, up." Someone pats the floor. A gentle thump. "Up. There's a good boy."

"Is he conscious?"

Joshua tries to say yes. He manages a hum.

"We're all in, Cid, just go!" Jote says.

"Any word?" Cid says.

"Her last message says they're coming up the Lazarus. I'll keep trying to get through. Can you turn it up any higher?"

"It's on as high as it'll go. It'll warm up in a minute."

"Where's your charging cable, I—thanks."

They're moving now. Something warm and wet touches Joshua's face, and there's hot breath on his skin. Joshua tries to reach out to pet his dog, but his arms are stuck. "Torgal," he mumbles.

"Hey, Joshua," Jote says. Joshua opens his eyes to see the shape of her hovering over him. She has blood smeared on her forehead. She looks like an angel, he thinks muzzily, one of the ones from old paintings that carry swords and who can dole out death as easily as life. She's sitting next to him, but she leans down over him now, covering him as much as she can without crushing him, then pulls the blanket over them both. "Help's on the way. Your brother's safe. We'll all be home soon."

My pocket, Joshua tries to say, but instead he says, "Mm...my...."

"Don't try to talk," Jote whispers. Her breath brushes past his cheek like a caress, and then her hand does, too. "You just need to keep breathing."

"My pocket," he insists. His voice is barely audible even to himself, and what comes out is cracked and slurred.

She lifts her head. "What? What is it?"

Joshua doesn't remember. But he knows it's important. He told Clive about it, and Clive got upset, but Joshua's arms are trapped, and even trying to move them makes him so tired he worries he's going to pass out again before he can tell her...whatever it is he needs to tell her. "My pocket," he says again, and then again, "My pocket, pocket," until he starts to cough.

"Joshua?" Clive says. He sounds frightened. A rustling noise comes from the front. "What's wrong?"

"Easy, Clive, settle down," Cid says.

"Shh, shh," Jote says. She rubs Joshua's chest, like she can tell it hurts. "Okay, give me a second."

She rises on her elbows and digs a hand into the pocket of his jeans. She frowns, and then tries the other one. She emerges with a pen.

"What..." she says. Her fingers run along the side. She reaches for her phone and uses it to illuminate the object in her hand. She looks to Joshua. "Have you been recording the whole time? Is it still going?"

He remembers what it is now, though he doesn't know the answer to the last. He never turned it off, but he also doesn't know how long it's been. The battery might have run out.

"Do I... Should I do something with it?" Jote asks uncertainly. She holds it delicately in her hands like she's worried she'll push the wrong button or break it.

And Joshua isn't sure. He doesn't know what's coming next, but he does remember thinking it was important. It's not Jote's job to take care of it, but he thinks that she'll figure it out. Ask Jill, he tries to say, but his eyes are slipping shut once more.

When he doesn't speak, Jote lies down by him again. She pillows her head on his shoulder and wraps an arm around his waist, keeping him warm as he drifts off.

Chapter Text

25. And thus it was written that the End was not a final destruction but a beginning. For the fire that burned the world clean would also ignite the hearts of men, reminding them of their pledge to build the world anew.

- Scriptures of the Risen, Book of Eschaton

*****

The sirens are a relief. Joshua grew up around sirens. The ones he hears now are from an ambulance, with its long, familiar wails.

When he opens his eyes, he's already inside the bus with no memory of how he got there. He's reclining on a gurney, wrapped in blankets, swaying gently as they speed down the street. A mask is being held over his face, and air is puffing gently into his lungs with every shallow breath he takes. Someone he doesn't recognize in an EMS uniform is bent over his hand, wrapping it in a bandage. It prickles uncomfortably, spiking occasionally into pain.

"Joshua," Clive says. Joshua turns his head. Clive is sitting on the bench seat, draped in a blanket and shivering. His eyes are red, and his left arm is wrapped in white. "He's awake!"

The EMT at his side looks up. "Hey, there, Joshua," the man says with the professionally friendly smile that emergency responders wear as part of their uniform. "Nice to see those eyes of yours. Can you hear me?"

Joshua dips his head in a nod. He can feel dry air flowing through the mask, and it makes him cough, more a weak spasm of the tired muscles in his chest than any real expulsion of air.

"Sorry about that, love, I know it feels odd," the person next to him says. She's still holding the mask and tucking something under Joshua's arm, something that feels so warm it's uncomfortably hot, and she smiles when he blinks at her.

"How is his oxygen?" Clive asks anxiously.

The man finishes bandaging Joshua's hand and tucks it under the blanket. He reaches back and pats Clive on the knee. "We've got this, big brother. You just keep yourself as warm as you can, eh?" He winks at Joshua and leans close. "EMTs are terrible patients," he says in a loud whisper.

Joshua looks blearily about the space. Something feels like it's missing. "Where's Torgal?" he tries to say, but the mask on his face obscures his words.

"What was that?" the male EMT asks. He's behind Joshua now, adjusting something out of sight, but he bends closer.

"Torgal," Joshua rasps again. Torgal was with them earlier. He's sure of that. Almost sure. Unless he was hallucinating.

The EMT turns to Clive. "Torgo?" he asks.

Clive's eyes dart back to Joshua. "Our dog," he says.

"Oh, yeah, I saw him," the other EMT says cheerfully. She rubs Joshua's knee. "Beautiful creature. Didn't want to let you two out of his sight, poor thing."

"He went with Cid and your friend, Joshua," Clive tells him. "Otto's going to pick him up from the police station."

Joshua's eyebrows scrunch. Why is Torgal at the police station?

"Can you check his oxygen sats," Clive says when he doesn't answer.

"We have an eye on it," the EMT says. "I need you to stay calm for us. We are doing everything we can to bring it up. Is he on any medications?"

Joshua's eyes close again.

*****

The next time he wakes, he's in the hospital.

It's a little silly to feel like an ambulance is comforting while a hospital room is to be detested, but there it is. Joshua sees ambulances all the time at work, and he knows many of the people who operate them. The hospital is different. Usually it means he fell ill and Clive had to take him to the emergency room. It's always awful. He feels terrible whenever he's here, and Clive sits in the visitors' chair for hours and worries and worries.

He's in the ICU. He recognizes the little cubicle he's in with its clear door and clear wall that allows staff to look in on him every time they pass. It looks so familiar he wonders if he's been in this exact room before, though that's not very likely. They all just look the same from the inside.

There's a thick blanket on top of him. He's still cold, but, weirdly, he feels too hot at the same time. It's like he's got bones made of ice inside of flesh that's trying to melt, and instead of reaching equilibrium, they both keep burning cold and hot at once.

A beep sounds. Most of the chirps he hears in these rooms are false alarms, just fluctuations in his oxygen levels or his heartbeat or temperature that trip some sensor, but he can't help the frisson of unease that moves through him every time. He turns to look—

Something pulls on his face. He drags a hand free from the blanket to touch it. It's an oxygen mask, of course—what did he expect—but what catches his attention is the bandage that covers his hand.

"Joshua," a voice says, and takes his arm carefully, holding him by the wrist and setting it back down on the bed. "Be careful—you burned your hand."

It's not Clive's voice, or Jill's, which is so disorienting that Joshua lies blinking at the ceiling for a full five seconds before he turns to see who is holding his arm.

Dion is standing by the visitor's chair, eyebrows knitted in worry, but he smiles when he sees Joshua looking at him. "You're awake. How are you feeling?"

Bad, mostly. He still can't tell if he's too cold or too hot, but the ice in his bones hurts, and breathing hurts, and his head hurts, and, now that he's noticed it, his hand hurts. He tries to lift it again to look at it, but it shakes and falls back to the bed, already fatigued from just the tiny motion he managed.

"Stupid question, I suppose," Dion says. He cups a hand around Joshua's head. It's not Clive, and it's not Jill, but it's gentle, and Joshua closes his eyes, turning into his stepbrother's touch. At least he doesn't feel frozen solid anymore. "You're in the ICU at Ark Isle Hospital. They said you were quite hypothermic when you arrived, so they had to warm your blood, or...something like that, they didn't tell me the details. But you spiked a fever afterward, so they're keeping you in here until they can be sure you're stable."

Confused, Joshua touches the mask on his face.

"And your blood oxygen's been low," Dion adds. "Do you remember what happened?"

Joshua thinks of the cabin, and the pyre, and the mountain. He nods. "What time is it?" he croaks, and grimaces. His throat feels like it's been sandpapered.

His words are muffled by the mask, but they must be clear enough to understand. Dion pushes a button by the bed. "It's nearly midnight. It's been about a day since you were admitted. I'll ask if you can have something to drink—you've been out all day."

Where's Clive, he wants to ask. The more he thinks about it, the more confused he is. Midnight is past normal visiting hours, but Clive wouldn't let him wake up on his own. If Clive weren't here, Jill would be, unless something was very wrong. Is something wrong? Clive was in the ambulance with him, and he was bleeding, and the EMTs weren't paying attention to him because they were focused on Joshua, and what if—

His worry must be obvious, because Dion strokes his hair once, not unlike the way he does to his little daughter. "Your brother's all right. Everyone's all right. They released him this afternoon, but he was a mess—could barely keep himself upright. They were only letting family in here, and the police needed to speak with Jill, so Clive contacted Terence's station and got a message to me. His partner took him home for the night after I got here—Cid, I think?"

A wave of relief sweeps over Joshua, so strong he thinks he might just fall right asleep again. It's not just that Clive is all right—that all of them are—but also that Clive has someone who will take him home to rest. It's that he called Dion when he needed help and Dion rushed to answer, like it was a family emergency.

"I met Jill, finally," Dion says, a gentle stream of reassurance. "She said to tell you she'd come by tomorrow after she talks to your boss, and that Jote would help her." He hesitates. "Tomes told me a bit of what was going on, but he didn't have the full story. Jill said you would understand, though."

Joshua closes his eyes. He hopes Jill and Jote get along. He hopes they can be friends. Jote could use a few friends, and if she becomes friends with Jill, she can't not get to know Clive, and then they can be friends, too. He wishes they were all here. He knows it's not reasonable and that they were all awake for nearly two days straight, but he's tired and breathing hurts, and he wants to see them all, anyway, badly.

A wet trail drips from the corner of his eye. Dion's thumb swipes it away immediately. "Are you all right? Are you in pain?"

He shakes his head, breath hitching. He coughs into the mask, and it feels like something is ripping up through his chest. He reaches blindly with his uninjured hand and feels it grasped tight. He squeezes back as hard as he can.

The door slides open. "You're awake," says the night shift nurse, and, "How has he been?"

"Tired," Dion says, and he lets go. "I think it hurts him to cough."

"Hi, lovey," the nurse says, rubbing his arm. "You're feeling a little dry, are you?" Joshua nods. He can't make himself open his eyes, and he's starting to feel lightheaded. "I'm going to help you drink something, and then we'll see if we can't give you something to ease the pain. Your temperature's been unstable, so we haven't wanted to overload your system with too much if you didn't need it."

As she speaks, she lifts the oxygen mask away. There's a rattling noise and a spoon at his lips. He opens his mouth. The ice chips make him shiver as they're dropped onto his tongue, but they're soothing on his throat. He takes two more spoonfuls, and then...

"...let him sleep whenever he can," the nurse whispers. Joshua manages to open his eyes again to see her talking to Dion by the door. The mask is back on his face. "He can have ice chips or water if he wants. Just make sure the mask doesn't stay off for too long. The doctor's worried about his breathing."

"Shouldn't someone call his pulmonologist?" Dion asks.

"We already did," the nurse says. She glances over and sees Joshua watching them sleepily. "I gave you something for your throat, love," she says, still whispering. "It should kick in soon, and it'll help with that fever, too. Try to sleep. Your brother's right here."

Dion doesn't correct her as she leaves. He does give Joshua another smile and takes his uninjured hand, settling once again in the chair. "You heard her," he whispers. "Go to sleep."

*****

When he opens his eyes again, Dion is gone, and, to Joshua's continued confusion, Cid is in the chair at his bedside. The hallway outside is brighter than before—it must be daytime. He aches horribly all over, and when he moves, there's a sharp pain at his thigh, where, after a moment's careful exploration, he finds a strip of medical tape. There's an IV line running into his left wrist that he must not have been quite awake enough to notice the night before. The mask is still on his face, and his upper body is elevated to make it easier to breathe, which probably means his oxygen levels are still not back to normal.

Clive's not there.

Cid sees him stir and says quietly even before he can ask, "The police needed to talk to him; he was in no shape to give his statement yesterday. He asked me to sit with you until he can get here."

With an effort, Joshua clears his throat and says, "You don't have to stay." The mask jumbles his words.

"Well, at least your sense of humor is intact," Cid says. "You still feeling cold?"

Joshua considers the question. He's not sure. He does feel cold, but he also feels warm and weirdly sensitive along most of his skin, like he's been ill.

Cid places a hand on Joshua's forehead, because this is apparently a thing he does now, and then withdraws. He looks up at the monitor, searching. "You still have a fever, but it hasn't gone up, so that's good, they're saying. I can ask for another blanket if you need it."

He shakes his head and pulls down the mask to speak more clearly. "They're just getting his statement?" he asks. He can't speak much louder than a whisper, and it feels like he's gargled sand.

"Just a statement," Cid assures him. "It's shouldn't be long now. And Otto's with him, never fear. If anything starts to look or sound wrong, Otto will complain until they fall into line."

Joshua has seen Otto catch people doing something wrong, so he can believe it. "And Barnabas? And Sleipnir, and..." A cough sneaks up throat and trips him as he speaks. His body jerks feebly with the force of it, like he's a ragdoll lying limp on the sheets. He leans back against the pillow behind him.

Cid moves the mask back over his face. His face is grim. "Jill called the police down on Dzemekys before Jote and I even reached the Apodytery, and they caught Barnabas and Sleipnir trying to return. They found the other man, too, the big one, on the mountain. I know he's alive, but they haven't told us any more than that."

There are more questions, more things Joshua wants to know, and his curiosity is too strong to resist taking the mask off again and asking: "What happened? How did you know?"

In answer, Cid says, "Stop taking that off, do you want your brother angry at me," and firmly puts the mask back on his face.

Then Cid draws the chair closer to the bed and explains: the call from Joshua's phone that so rattled Clive; becoming worried when Clive wasn't receiving texts and Joshua wasn't answering calls; Joshua's cryptic message to Jote that sent her to Jill and then both of the women to Cid; the realization that they must be at the Apodytery; and then the hour-long drive during which Jote stuffed her backpack full of anything useful she could find in his car and Cid told her to secure his phone to the dog.

"Mid has a theory," Cid says as Joshua tumbles all of this around his head, "that Torgal can always find Clive, no matter where he is. I reckon Torgal's got a nose for both of you. Either way, by the time we reached the Apodytery, it was nothing but smoldering logs. Jote guessed which way you went based on footprints in the ground, and Torgal got excited when he found a scrap of Clive's trouser leg. We gave him his head and followed in the car—"

"You let my dog run off on a mountain," Joshua says through the mask, aghast. "You could have lost him."

"We had a tracker on him," Cid says nonchalantly, like Joshua didn't hear them talking about how spotty cell signal was on the mountain, like Joshua doesn't know that phones can run out of battery. "Worked, didn't it?"

It's hard to argue with the result, but it makes him want to hug his dog. He really wants to hug his dog. For a few seconds, Joshua looks at his hands and wishes more than he's ever wished anything in his life that he could be hugging his dog.

He blames the fever. It always makes him soppy.

"Benedikta?" he asks.

A muscle twitches in Cid's jaw. "In the wind," he says shortly. "If they haven't found her yet...well, I wouldn't count on any of us seeing her again."

It's hard to know what Cid is thinking. Joshua didn't see exactly what happened at the end, but he thinks Benedikta Harman walked away and Cid allowed her to. There was nothing else to do, practically. But Cid knew Benedikta once, well enough to be able to distract her and get under her skin.

Joshua does not ask anything further.

Cid folds his hands and sets them on the edge of the mattress. "I...want to apologize to you," he says, suddenly very serious. "I didn't think Barnabas had become so...that he would go so far. If I had, I would have done something sooner. This shouldn't have spilled over onto you and Clive."

It's not Cid who needs to apologize. Joshua's the one who was investigating, who should have seen what was going on sooner and instead became the bait in a trap for his brother.

But when the trap was sprung, Cid came for them—for Clive. And some of that night is a bit hazy in his memory, but he remembers waking up to Benedikta's voice and hearing Clive wake up beside him. If she hadn't come, Clive might not have woken then—he might never have woken at all.

"You saved him," Joshua says. When Cid frowns and leans closer to hear, he says again, louder, as clearly as he can, "You saved him."

"I would say the dog did most of the work, and your friend, Jote." Then Cid's frown grows deeper. "We went looking for both of you," he says.

Joshua furrows his brow.

"Not just Clive," Cid clarifies. "Both of you, Joshua, and you...you're going to be all right, too. All of this"—he waves at the critical-care room around him—"is just a precaution. Once you've had a chance to rest, they think you'll make a full recovery."

The words settle between them like wet cement, heavy and dirty and impossible to wipe away. Joshua's not going to make a miraculous full recovery. Maybe he'll be back on his feet soon, but within three to five years, he'll probably be...

...Well. The point is that Clive could live to be three times as old as he is now. The important part is that Clive survived.

Cid is watching him. Cid is forty-nine, if Joshua did his sums correctly while piecing together the timeline of the Circle of Malius. Forty-nine isn't that old. Joshua doesn't know the man very well, but he knows that Cid loves his brother. They could have a whole lifetime together. If Cid and Jote hadn't chased Clive and Joshua up Drake's Tail, then Clive might have stayed wrapped around Joshua, bleeding, like he could shield his little brother from the elements, until both of them fell asleep forever. He might have given up sixty years of life for another hour with his dying brother.

A shudder moves through Joshua, and he takes a deep breath that catches in his chest. He imagines he can feel his lungs turning stiffer with every cough, and even with the mask on, even with oxygen flowing, he starts to grow dizzy before he can bring it under control.

When the spasm calms, Joshua opens eyes that he doesn't remember closing to see Cid waiting patiently for him to catch his breath. Cid is holding his injured hand gingerly, keeping him from trying to use it to grip the blanket.

"I should have called that lawyer," Joshua says. His eyes feel hot.

He must be mumbling too much to be heard through the mask, because Cid leans closer and asks, "What was that?"

Joshua doesn't repeat it. His eyes are already drooping again. He pulls the mask down to say, "You'll take care of my brother, won't you?"

"Joshua—"

"Won't you?"

Cid frowns. "I plan to," he says, his tone cautious.

Joshua nods. That could be nothing but words, but Cid has more than proven through his actions how far he's willing to go for Clive. "Do you know what's wrong with me?" he asks instead. "I'm so tired."

Cid's grip tightens on Joshua's wrist, just for a second, before he relaxes again. "I don't know if you realize how cold you were by the time we crossed paths with the ambulance. You were already having trouble breathing, and when you passed out, Jote nearly started breathing for you in the backseat of my car. They were pumping your blood out of your body so they could warm it up and send it back, that's how worried they were. And," he adds, gesturing at the monitor Joshua can barely see, "you've had a low fever for most of a day. Your being tired is just about the most normal thing that's happened to any of us lately."

Joshua tips his head back against his pillow. He hates being in the hospital.

"Have you seen Jote?" he asks.

"Yesterday," Cid says. "I'm hoping she's asleep at home now. She and Jill were still talking to the police with your boss when Clive and I left. I think they were there late into the night."

At least she was with Jill and Vivian, which is comforting. Joshua knows that Jote wasn't raised with a particularly kind view of the police, and she probably doesn't know how best to handle being interrogated by them. Vivian will know. "Did someone take her home?" he asks.

"She doesn't seem like she needs an escort," Cid says dryly, which is true, but that doesn't mean she shouldn't get one. "She left quite an impression. Where did you meet that girl?"

Joshua has neither the inclination nor the breath to tell Cid about the Order of the Undying behind Jote's back, but it reminds him that Cid, like Jote, left the cult he was raised in and built a new life outside of it. Jote doesn't have a lot of people to rely on, other than Tomes. Perhaps Jill, now, a bit.

"You'd like her," Joshua says sleepily. "She's a bit shy, but you have more in common than you'd think. You could be friends."

Cid cocks his head to the side, frowning again. "What are you doing, Joshua?" he asks quietly.

Joshua's not sure he wants to answer, because Cid always seems to see through him, somehow. Instead, he puts the mask back on and closes his eyes. Cid sighs and lets him rest.

---

The next time he wakes, it's to the feeling of a nurse changing the bandage on his hand. It's starting to really hurt now, a constant throbbing that worsens whenever he moves it. Clive is in the chair at his bedside, watching the nurse as she works.

It's a comfort, having Clive there, though it should make Joshua feel guilty to see him in that uncomfortable chair, looking like he hasn't slept in a week. Perhaps he still hasn't fully recovered from freezing half to death, either, because he's wearing an old, very worn hoodie that's a little too small for him and says Boklad University.

Joshua puzzles over that. None of their friends went to Boklad. None that Joshua know about, anyway.

Then again, Cid took Clive home last night, and unless Clive has started keeping clothes at Cid's place, he wouldn't have had a change of clothes to put on this morning. Cid didn't go to university, as Barnabas didn't let him, but perhaps Otto is a Boklad alum.

Joshua flinches when the nurse secures a piece of medical tape on his hand. The movement catches Clive's attention, and he stares at Joshua blankly for two seconds before he's out of the chair.

"Joshua," he breathes, and then his arms are around Joshua's shoulders, wrapping around him and pulling him close. Joshua finds enough strength to lift his arms and return the hug. Behind Clive's back, Joshua sees the nurse smile and point a thumb out the door before leaving.

Joshua drops his chin onto his brother's shoulder. Clive is shaking. "What's wrong," he tries to say, but it's too garbled behind the mask. He's getting very sick of the stupid mask.

Eventually, Clive pulls back, hands on his shoulders and eyes searching his face. He rubs Joshua's arms.

"Didn't you get shot," Joshua says, eyeing his brother's arms. He's not even sure if he remembers which one.

"Just a couple of stitches," Clive says dismissively. "It's fine." He's not moving his left arm as  much as his right, but there's no cast or splint in sight, and he doesn't look like it pains him too much. Any bandages he's got on are light enough to be hidden under the loose sleeve of the hoodie. "How are you feeling?"

Joshua shrugs, but he tries to smile. Clive's face softens. He sits on the edge of the bed and cups both of his hands over Joshua's ears, the way he used to when they were younger and their ears became cold in the winter. It's so small and silly of a gesture that Joshua's eyes fill with tears.

"No, it's okay," Clive says, taking his hands off Joshua's ears so he can wipe at the tears instead. "It's okay, Joshua, I'm here. We made it. You're going to be all right."

Joshua nods and sniffles and coughs, feeling entirely wrung out. Coughing still hurts and brings more tears to his eyes. Clive puts a hand over the scar on his chest, rubbing gently. Eventually, he lifts the mask away to wipe Joshua's nose for him. Mortified, Joshua takes the tissue and manages to finish the job himself before Clive pushes his hand away and replaces his mask. He takes Joshua's uninjured hand and rubs it between his palms.

"What did the police say," Joshua asks.

"It's all right," Clive says, which is not an answer. When Joshua struggles to push himself more upright, he adds, "I'm telling the truth, Joshua, everything is fine. The...the big one, what was his name?" He doesn't wait for an answer. "He's being treated for his injuries, but he's under arrest. Torgal did a number on him."

Joshua nods, relieved, and then he remembers, vaguely, that someone said Torgal was at the police station. He might have been confused at the time, but he pulls the mask down and asks, "Are we in trouble? Is Torgal?"

"No," Clive says. "It's not... Jote gave them the audio recording, and it caught enough for them to hear what was going on. It's all over now." He tries to smile again. He's still shivering a bit. He puts the mask back on over Joshua's face. "We're just waiting for you to get your strength back, and then we can put all of this behind us."

Joshua does his very best to look like he's not feeling like a wisp of crumbled rubbish. He doesn't think he's very successful. "Cid?" he asks.

"He's still around. Just taking a break for a bit. He said..." Clive hesitates. He puts a hand on Joshua's forehead, then pulls the blanket back up over Joshua's shoulders and smooths its wrinkles away. "He thinks that... He...he said he talked to you."

Unsure about what's in Clive's tone, Joshua nods. Even if he could think of a joke to lighten the mood, the damned mask would muffle it. He hates wearing an oxygen mask.

"All those times you tried to set me up," Clive says slowly, "or wanted me to make nice with your friends..."

Joshua can only think of one time the latter has happened recently, so he takes the mask off again and says, "Dion's not just a friend, he's our stepbrother."

"I know," Clive says.

"He sat with me all night," Joshua says. His heart is beating faster; his nose feels warm and tingly, like he's going to cry again. He's been doing nothing but trying not to cry since he woke up here.

To his alarm, Clive takes his left hand and sandwiches it between his own warm palms, then looks Joshua directly in the eyes, his expression very serious. "I know, Joshua. What I mean is... Cid thinks you're trying to make sure none of us are going to be lonely without you."

This should not be a revelation. Joshua thinks Clive must have known this years ago, as he's never been very subtle about it. Perhaps Clive has simply never thought very hard before about the 'without you' part of it.

"We left everything behind in Rosaria," Joshua says. He does his best to squeeze Clive's hand with his own. "I want you to have family, that's all."

Clive's eyebrows draw low, making him look angry, though his hands remain gentle. "You're my family, Joshua," he says.

Joshua smiles at him as his throat squeezes tight. He breathes as deep as he can, looking away from Clive's eyes. He sees the hoodie Clive is wearing again and asks, "Did Otto go to Boklad University?"

There's a pause. "Yes?" Clive says, sounding confused. After a moment, he looks down at himself and then back up. "Joshua..."

"Are they good to you?" Joshua asks. His eyes are starting to burn, but he holds onto his smile, because he's happy about this, he really is. It's a better outcome than he could have engineered if he'd tried. Cid is willing to literally risk his life for Clive; Otto went along with him to make sure the police didn't step out of line while interrogating him.

Clive takes him by the shoulders. "I'm not leaving you," he says firmly. "Not for Cid—not for anyone. Do you understand? I will never leave you."

"You can't stay with me forever," Joshua says.

"You—on Drake's Tail, you tried to make me leave." Clive takes a breath, and it trembles. "Do you understand that's the worst thing you could have asked of me?"

Joshua blinks hard. "I didn't want you to die," he says. A tear slips down his cheek. "I don't...want you to have to watch me die."

He sees it land on Clive like a blow. His brother's expression crumples.

"If I could spare you that," Joshua says—his voice is starting to shake—"I would, but I can't. I wish I had something I could give you, but I don't. So. Please, Clive." He rubs an arm across his eyes. "Just tell me someone will be there for you, afterward. I could...could die in peace, if I knew—"

"Don't," Clive interrupts. His eyes are wet. "Don't do that. We don't know... People live for years after they're diagnosed. Three to five years is an average. That means some people go on for longer—seven years, ten, or more."

It also means some don't last one, and many of those people are far fitter at the time of diagnosis than Joshua has ever been in his adult life. Joshua swallows and feels another tear fall, and then another, and another.

"You've already made it far longer than anyone thought you would," Clive says. He cups his hands around Joshua's face, wiping away the tears with his palms. "It could...it could be five years, or ten, or another twenty—"

Joshua laughs incredulously and gasps in a sob. "I'm not going to live twenty years, Clive," he says.

But Clive looks stubborn, and like he's going to cry, too. Joshua hasn't done enough to prepare him for this, and he needs to be prepared. "You don't know that," Clive says.

"I do," Joshua whispers, and it hurts to say, because it's not like he doesn't want another twenty years; he's just realistic enough to understand how impossibly miniscule the chances are that he'll even make it even a fraction of that time. "I know. Dr. Margrace knows. Everyone knows that, Clive."

"No, Joshua—" Clive says, and now he's crying, too.

"It won't be twenty years," Joshua says, as gently as he can while he's weeping. "You have to be ready. You can't put your life on hold; you have to be ready—"

"Joshua," Clive says thickly, and pulls him close, until their foreheads are touching. Clive exhales a shaking breath. "Tomorrow, or in twenty years—I won't be ready. I am never going to be ready to lose you."

Joshua closes his eyes. It feels like there's a hole in his chest again, like when he was a child and every breath was pain, and a fit of coughing rips through him. Instead of backing away, Clive wraps his strong arms around Joshua and pulls him close again. Joshua brings his hand up, curling his fingers in his brother's borrowed sweater, clinging, like a child.

"We don't know what will happen, or when," Clive murmurs into his ear, rubbing his back. "But right now, you're alive. We both are. Nothing else matters."

"I'm sorry," Joshua says between gasps, because at the end of it, he'll still be the one who leaves.

Clive's embrace tightens. "I'm not," he says fiercely. "If you live ten years, or one, or a day, I will never be sorry for a moment I have with you."

"I love you," Joshua says helplessly.

"I love you, too," Clive says. He sniffs, then exhales slowly. "I...I know I didn't handle it well, when you...when you told us."

If this is true, Joshua is not aware of it. He knows that Clive got quieter than usual for a while, that he got tired and Cid said he wasn't sleeping, but Joshua doesn't think that really counts as not handling things well, all things considered.

"You said you didn't want us to act like this is the end," Clive says. Joshua closes his eyes and trembles. "So don't. All right? I'm not watching you die, Joshua. I'm watching you live, however you want—however you can, for as long as we both have."

And there's nothing else Joshua has to give, so he nods and lets himself sag in his brother's arms, where it's warm and safe. He can't speak. He's shaking too hard, and there's barely space in his throat to breathe, between the tears and the spiky fear that tries to strike at him whenever he doesn't have the energy to stuff it back behind his ribs.

Clive pulls back just long enough to put the oxygen mask back on, even though it's going to get covered with tears and snot, and Joshua closes his eyes for few moments just to breathe.

"I know you're scared," Clive says, and Joshua breathes, and breathes, and breathes, and feels his own tears trickling past the mask and Clive's trickling into his hair. Clive holds Joshua's head to his shoulder. "Shh, Joshua. It's all right. You don't have to be brave. You're already the bravest person I know."

At that, Joshua manages a wet laugh. "Half of your friends are basically professional heroes," he mumbles into Otto's sweater.

Clive is stubborn, though, and he says, "They've never been through what you have. And all of this—this nonsense with this stupid cult. God, Joshua, you idiot. You've been trying to protect me."

"Not just you, don't exaggerate," Joshua protests, but that only makes Clive chuckle.

"I should be angry at you for putting yourself in that position," Clive says. "But I don't know how I'm supposed to be. I know this is who you are, and I'm so proud of who you are."

Joshua hides his face in his brother's neck. He doesn't have to be brave; Clive can be brave for both of them, for now. Clive would rescue him from a castle, he thinks, a little giddily, and maybe he was off the oxygen for too long, but he can't help but imagine his brother dressed in armor, like a knight, like a fairytale prince, shielding him from the world.

"Where's Torgal," Joshua asks after a minute. "Is he okay?"

"He's with Otto. Gav said he'd walk him later today."

Joshua wants to hug his dog so badly, but it'll have to be enough, for now, to know that Torgal's getting hugs from other people. "Okay," he says.

Eventually, when he's become entirely boneless, Clive pulls back again to lift the mask away, brush at his face, and hand him a tissue. Then he pulls the mask securely back onto Joshua's face and settles him back against the bed.

"You don't have to save me anymore," Joshua says as clearly as he can through the plastic. To his dismay, Clive looks crushed at this, so he clarifies, "You already did. I'm a grown man now, because of you."

In answer, Clive doesn't speak but only bends over him and presses cracked lips to his temple, lingering until Joshua's eyes begin to close. Then he sits back down in the chair and drags it close so he can lean his head against the mattress, too, pressed against Joshua's ribcage as though listening for a heartbeat.

Exhausted, Joshua buries a hand in his brother's hair, holding him close, and falls asleep again.

---

Joshua's blood oxygen saturation begins to stabilize at something closer to normal, and his fever, continues not to worsen. The cough is still worse than usual, but the bacterial cultures come back clean, and they're cautiously optimistic that, for once, he's avoided catching pneumonia again.

(Cid returns while he's dozing. Joshua watches, eyes barely cracked open, as Cid rouses Clive, brushes a thumb over the tear tracks on his cheeks, and then draws him close and kisses him, soft and quiet and gentle, and cradles his injured arm between them. Clive leans on him, shoulders hitching silently under the borrowed sweater.

Joshua closes his eyes again. He's tired, and he doesn't want to disturb them.)

By late afternoon, after he stays awake for an hour and manages to eat and drink something approaching a full meal, they switch him from the mask to a canula and transfer him to the inpatient floor with a promise to let him go home once he's able to get up and walk to the loo without help. Even though he's not the one doing most of the work of transporting him from one room to another, Joshua's drooping again by the time he's resettled into a new space. It's not new, this feeling of being so weak he can barely stay awake, but it's always disquieting. He floats, half-awake, listening to Cid and Clive murmur quietly to each other at his side.

He hears it when someone else comes in and holds a whispered conference with the two men, but he's too sleepy to pry open his eyes to see who it is. Their voices remain low, a calm murmur, and they soothe him back to sleep.

When he finally drifts back to muzzy wakefulness, it's to the sight of his mother.

She's typing on her laptop and wearing a pair of earbuds, her hair twisted up in a messy bun. Joshua watches her through bleary eyes, uncomprehending, wondering if she heard about all of this somehow and flew out here to check on him. He blinks at her and stares and stares until the dreamy film of sleep fades from his vision—

It's not his mother. It's Jill.

That makes more sense. He's been thinking too much about his mother lately, that's all.

Joshua waves. Jill lifts her head and pulls out the earbuds. "Joshua," she says with relief. She sets the laptop on the floor so she can lean closer. "I was about to wake you in a few minutes to see if you can eat something for dinner."

He blinks again and looks around the room. Clive and Cid are gone—good; they were here for hours, just watching Joshua nap, and Clive still needs much more rest himself. "How long have you been here?" Joshua croaks. He winces, and Jill picks up a cup from the bedside table with a straw.

"Drink," she says, holding it to his lips with one hand and cupping her other around the back of his head. Joshua sips slowly and carefully. After the first few swallows, the liquid feels good easing down his throat. "A couple of hours."

He turns away from the straw, and she takes the cup away. "Have you seen Jote?" Joshua asks, because Cid said that the two women were with the police late into the night.

"I drove her home last night," Jill says. "She texted earlier to say the police called her in again. Aside from you, she's been more involved with all of this than anyone."

'Involved' seems like too mild of a word to use for what happened the other night. Jote had blood on her hands, and she looked like a frightened angel. "Was she upset?"

Jill tilts her head. "I suppose," she says after a moment. "We all are, a bit."

At that, Joshua reaches up for her hand. She lets him tangle his fingers with hers. "I'm sorry," he says.

"You're not," she says. "You'd do the same thing again if you could."

She's wrong, and she's not. He doesn't regret what he did—he didn't know what would happen, and he made the best choice he could at the time—but that doesn't mean he's not sorry about how things ultimately went. "Jill..." Joshua says.

Jill sighs. "I'm not angry at you. It's just been a...an upsetting couple of days."

"I hear you're the reason an ambulance got to us in time," Joshua says. She inhales sharply.

"Yes," she says, very calmly. "Yes, I suppose."

"Thank you," he says.

She takes a breath, like she's going to say something, and then only cradles his hand between both of hers, rubbing his fingers to warm them, even though hers are cold, too, as usual. He has to turn aside to cough—being on this high of an oxygen flow always makes him feel like his lungs are being slowly desiccated, even if they try their best to humidify the air—and she holds onto him until it eases again.  

"I sent Clive home," Jill says at last. "He wanted to stay."

"I know," Joshua says, clearing his throat. "Cid says you and Jote handled most of the police's questions."

"As well as we could. I...also might have stolen your story," she says. She grimaces. "They arrested Barnabas Tharmr and Sleipnir Harbard at the spiritual center. Plenty of people saw, but we were the only ones with the scoop. Clive said you'd want me to write it for you..."

Joshua pats her hand, only to realize he's using the one that was burned. He hisses in pain.

"Why would you do that," Jill scolds, though she rubs his arm comfortingly. "You had second-degree burns on your hand. Did you put your hand in a fire? Clive wasn't sure how it happened."

Joshua's not entirely sure, either; the whole thing was so chaotic. "I wanted you to write it," he rasps, gingerly resting his hand on the blanket.

"It's just the initial story, about the arrests and some of the background," Jill says. "Not a lot of names have been made public, including yours and Clive's. But Vivian wants a deep-dive on what you went through with them, which will take a bit more time to put together." She hesitates then. "She gave me your research. I told her you weren't going to be well enough to work for a while, but..."

Vivian won't want to wait long enough for him to recover to start working on this. He doesn't think she would force the issue, given how personal some of it is, but people must have seen two men being arrested at a church, and if the police knew that a first responder was in danger, they were probably quite enthusiastic in their efforts to capture the people responsible. The scene was likely rather exciting. The sooner State of the Realm can get the whole story out, the more they will be able to capitalize on the public's curiosity. If there's anyone Joshua would have wanted to write about his time with the cult of Dzemekys, it's Jill.

But, given the choice, he doesn't want to simply have it taken out of his hands. He met a lot of people there, some of whom he never named in his notes to preserve their anonymity, but he doesn't want things to be misinterpreted. Most or all of the people he met were only there looking for help. Many of them were kind to him. Sleipnir was kind to him, and Joshua thinks—he does, he really believes—that Sleipnir wasn't lying about all of it. Sleipnir believed in what he said and did, and he did try to help Joshua, in his way.

"Do you want to write it?" Joshua asks. "It's not your usual beat."

She shrugs. "It's going to be a big story. Things like this catch people's attention, and it's a dramatic tale. Of course I wouldn't say 'no' to writing credit on it. But it's yours. I won't steal it from you." She pauses, studying him. "Do youwant to write it?"

Yes, he should say, and he does. But he didn't know at the start that he would somehow play a central role in it, and he's not sure how he feels about that. Part of the appeal of the things Joshua writes—whether a silly children's story or a serious article about a local disaster—is that he doesn't have to be part of the story the way he so often was as a child. Moreover, given how involved he ended up being, he's not even sure if he can be counted on to be really objective about it.

"I want it to be written right," Joshua says finally, and raises his bandaged right hand, as though that's the only reason he doesn't want to do it alone. "Could we write it together?"

To his relief, Jill nods immediately. "I was hoping you would say that," she says. She touches the earbuds she was wearing. "I was listening to the audio recording of the other night. I'm missing a lot of context, and it didn't catch everything, so you'll need to fill in some of it."

Joshua eyes the earbuds with sudden trepidation. That's what she was listening to?

"I'll put together an outline from your notes to start, and we'll go from there," Jill says, practical as always. "We'll see how you're doing in the next few days, and I'll say if you need to rest instead."

"Why do you have say over that?" he says, though he's almost more amused than offended.

"Because I said so," Jill says.

Joshua doesn't try to argue. Lying in a hospital bed would probably weaken any argument he could make.

Jill takes a breath. Carefully, she says, "I told Vivian that, after this, we're taking some time off."

"You did," Joshua says. She doesn't have a right to decide that for him with their boss, but...well. Jill is not in the mood to be questioned, and he's not really in the mood to disagree with her about much of anything.

She nods. "Maybe not right away, but when you're fully recovered and everything settles back down. I don't know if the police will want us to stay close until the case is closed."

When she suggested time off to him before, he didn't know what to think. Now, Joshua finds himself thinking that he wouldn't really mind it at all. "How long?" he says.

"Two weeks," Jill says. She relaxes a bit when he doesn't argue outright. "A month, maybe. I don't know. We can decide together."

A month is definitely too long a time for a vacation. Jill doesn't take vacations from work, and Joshua only does when he gets sick enough that he can't leave his home. But that's something they can figure out once he's out of the hospital.

"I...have been wanting to go back home," he says.

"That's what I was thinking," Jill says immediately. "Rosaria will be beautiful in the springtime. Torgal's too big to fly with, but I'm sure we could find someone to watch him, and it would be simpler, anyway; we don't know if everywhere will be pet-safe." She taps the pulse oximeter clipped to Joshua's finger. "We'll just need to watch the air pressure on the plane. We'll pack spare batteries for your portable oxygen concentrator, and...what?"

Joshua smiles wider. "Have you already planned it all?"

"Not all of it," she says, but then adds, "Clive and I have been talking. He's been wanting to take a trip back, too. We just need to work out the details, that's all."

"Okay," Joshua says. "Okay, let's do it."

There's no anxiety in his gut about it, he finds, no thought about whether Vivian will be annoyed or whether he's going to be away from work for too long after he's just been sick and is now probably going to be out for at least another few days again. Maybe Jill was right. Maybe it wouldn't be such a terrible thing to slow down, just a bit.

Jill nods decisively once more. "Good. Now, Dr. Margrace was here earlier. He thinks your body's just been too worn out, and your oxygen saturation will go back to your baseline after you've rested some. But if it's still low without supplemental oxygen in the morning, they're going to have a respiratory therapist come in to work with you and see what's going on."

Joshua's heart seems to tick faster for a few beats. He does still feel so sore that it hurts a little to breathe, lending credence to the theory that he's just too tired to function properly, but that's not exactly an optimistic thought. He tries not to let it show on his face. "Sounds good," he says.

Turning back to the table, Jill picks up a standard hospital tray with what Joshua recognizes as tea, a cup of soup, and a sandwich. "When your nurse comes back tonight, she's going to start giving you your pills again. The anti-fibrotic," she adds when he opens his mouth to ask.

Joshua winces. He hasn't even had time to think about the fact that he's missed...how many doses? Four? Five? "Oh," he says, already bracing himself for the nausea.

"They're starting you on a lower dose this time," Jill says.

"Oh," he says again. It feels a bit like failing—like he wasn't able to keep up a stoic façade well enough, and now he has to admit he can't even handle something that's supposed to help him. It feels like he's doing the same thing his mother used to do to him, the very thing Clive ran away from home to change.

"Dr. Margrace says titrating your dose up over a few weeks might help you tolerate the side effects better," Jill clarifies. "The first priority is making sure it doesn't make you so sick you can't eat. And, Joshua, you don't weigh very much. The full dose may end up being too high for you anyway. We're going to take it one day at a time and follow your doctor's instructions to the letter."

Joshua puts on another smile for her. He nods.

"So that means you need to something in your stomach," Jill says. She takes the lid off the cup of soup first. From experience, he knows that it will be bland and watery and not very appetizing, but it's also the thing he's most likely to be able to get down after a couple of days of barely any solid food. "And as much of the sandwich as you can manage. I told them that you love carrots and asked them to add extra into the soup just for you."

Reflexively, Joshua looks at the soup, which he's not sure actually contains anything other than a bit of salt. "You're very funny," he tells her, but he takes a spoon from her awkwardly with his left hand.

"I think so," Jill says, and she stays with him until visiting hours are over.

*****

The next morning, Joshua makes a couple of circuits around the small room on foot, which, while not much, is still a mild relief. He's been allowed to leave the oxygen canula off while he's in bed, though the pulse oximeter stays on.

He's still sore in muscles that are entirely unused to the amount of work they did in thin atmosphere, but he's not so bone-tired anymore that he feels like he can't summon the energy to breathe, which, in turn, makes him significantly less tired, enough that he's starting to feel boredom creep in around the edges. His oxygen saturation is still not quite where it should be at rest, but he reminds himself to breathe deeply and returns to the old exercises his respiratory therapist gave him when he was a teenager, hoping things will go back to his previous baseline.

It used to surprise Joshua, how much of a difference a tiny upward tick in his oxygen levels made in the amount of energy he had. It's why his doctor wants him to be using supportive oxygen more often now. The thought of walking around in public wearing a canula is still nerve-wracking in a way that he knows is impractical, but the idea of being able to walk up a flight of stairs without growing dizzy is appealing enough that it's probably going to start outweighing his reluctance soon enough.

He doesn't know if it will affect how people respond to him when he interviews them. He doesn't know if it means he really will have to start scaling back the amount of work he does that requires him to walk around the city.

For now, though, he's sitting sideways on the edge of the bed, warm socks on his feet and wrapped in a blanket over his thin hospital gown. He's making his way slowly through a tray of food under Clive's watchful eye when Hanna and Rodney Murdoch appear at the door to the room.

"Oh, my dear," Hanna says as soon as they're inside. She kisses Clive on the forehead and holds Joshua's hand and sits next to him on the mattress. "What happened to your other hand?"

"Just a few burns," Joshua says, embarrassed and a little pleased, the way he always feels when Hanna decides to mother them. "It'll be better in a few weeks, they said. Clive got shot."

"I heard!" she says, and reaches up to brush a bit of Clive's hair out of his face. "You poor thing."

Rodney's arms are crossed, and he makes Clive pull up his sleeve so he can inspect the bandage himself. He doesn't comment other than to make a tutting noise with his tongue. "Joshua, you're going to need to give a statement at some point, too," he says.

"I was wondering how I'd escaped that part," Joshua says.

"We're going to have a lot of questions for you," Rodney says, fixing him with a stern look that makes it clear he's not pleased about how the situation was handled, "so we should wait until you're feeling well again. Detectives Biggs and Wedge are handling the case. They were already looking into this cult before but"—he glares at Joshua—"hadn't been able to find enough evidence for a warrant."

Joshua gives Rodney his most innocent smile. "Well, I brought them back some evidence," he says. "I hope it helped."

Rodney grunts and scowls at him.

"I can give a statement today if they have time," Joshua adds in a conciliatory tone, "though they'd have to come here, as I'm afraid I'm not up to a trip to the station just yet."

"Let the boy rest, Rodney," Hanna says, patting his hand, and Joshua can't help but smile a little brighter at the police captain behind his wife's back. "He's in the hospital, for god's sake!"

Rodney sighs, but he doesn't argue. He could have made Joshua give a statement yesterday if he'd really wanted, so the fact that he hasn't—and that he came with his wife and not with Tyler and Wade—says that he's not really planning to push the issue.

"And when are you boys coming back to the house?" Rodney demands. "I never see you anymore unless someone's committed a crime."

Clive exchanges a look—half amused and half apprehensive—with Joshua. The Murdochs don't have children of their own, so they seem to gather every bit of parenting instinct in their beings and expel it all onto Clive and Joshua whenever they visit.

"Sorry," Clive says, looking guilty. They were at the Murdochs' for Christmas dinner, but they haven't been back since. "It's been really busy lately."

Hanna clicks her tongue. "There's always something keeping you busy," she says. "That's no excuse. Remembrance is coming up, what are you doing then? And why didn't you call us the other night, for god's sake? We could have helped!"

"I lost my phone—I got kidnapped!" Clive protests. "I got shot!" He's much taller and broader than Hanna Murdoch, but he looks like an indignant teenager again when he holds up his stitches like proof. "I mean..." he amends when Rodney scowls disapprovingly at him, "sure, Remembrance, we could probably do that." He shrugs helplessly at Joshua.

The Murdochs don't stay long; both of them still have to go to work. Joshua lets Hanna kiss him on the cheek and remembers that he still has an email sitting in his drafts with the subject line 'Update on my health.'

He'll need to send that. Before Remembrance; before they visit Rosaria.

Clive is off-duty for a while, on account of having been kidnapped and shot, but he and Cid have been talking about how to deal with the practical problems of having been brought to a cabin in the woods as a sacrifice to a god of fire. Both Clive and Joshua have lost their phones and their keys, for one, so neither of them has any means of getting into their flats, other than using Cid's spare key to Clive's place, where there is a spare key to Joshua's, where there is another spare key to Clive's. Or they could ask Gav to break in.

"I'll be fine," Joshua promises, shifting to lie back properly in the bed when Clive seems like he might just stay the rest of the day and night planted in the chair. "I don't need to be watched every moment. They said I can even go home later today if everything checks out."

Just as Clive seems to be searching for another excuse to stay, Cid pokes his head in the door. "Look who I found lurking outside," Cid says.

He has a hand on Jote's back, and she lets him usher her in, looking sheepish. "I didn't want to interrupt," she says.

"Jote!" Joshua blurts. She's dressed in her sweatshirt and soft jeans, as she always does, and she's carrying her backpack over one shoulder. It's hard to reconcile this image of her with the person who used a knife to disarm a woman with a gun. He sits up straighter. "Hi."

"Hi," Jote says, and stands just inside the room, holding the strap of her backpack in both hands.

Cid pats her on the back. "And...that's our cue," he says. "Come on, let's give them a bit of privacy." He takes Clive by the arm and pulls him to his feet. "Be good," he adds, pointing at Joshua and Jote.

Jote's face turns pink, and she stands very still near the door as the two men leave. She seems so unsure. "You can come in," Joshua says fondly.

She does, slowly. Then, all at once, she rushes to the bedside, drops her backpack, and bends down to pull him into a hug.

Joshua makes a muffled noise of surprise, but he returns the gesture. She looked so scared that night, he remembers, and she had Benedikta's blood on her hands and her face and a knife in her hand. "It's nice of you to come and see me," he says gently, because she looks a little bit scared again now.

"I'm glad you're okay," she says. She pulls back. "They said you're doing better today." She swallows. "You really scared us, Joshua."

"I know. I'm sorry. But you came for me," he says, and feels himself smile before he can even make the conscious decision to. "Thank you, Jote."

Jote looks up at the monitor, and then back down at the sheets covering him. She traces them with her fingers. She huddled under the blanket with him in the car, Joshua remembers dimly, trying to keep him warm.

"Did you get hurt at all?" Joshua asks.

"Erm." She rolls her shoulder. "Harman got me with her torch, but it only left a bruise."

Joshua has lived with Clive for most of his life, so asks, suspiciously, "Are you sure?"

"I'm sure, I really am." She bends to open her backpack. "Have you eaten yet? I brought you soup. I figured that was probably okay for you to eat."

"Your mother's soup?" he asks, touched by the gesture, as it's probably been a very hectic few days for her. But he was given an anti-emetic with his anti-fibrotic this morning, and although he's already managed food once today, he can probably handle some more. "I would love some."

Jote pours from her thermos into a mug she brought and sets it on the tray. It's a familiar smell now, still warm, this time with flecks of pasta and vegetables in it. She glances up at the monitor again, anxiously studying the numbers above his head.

"Stop worrying, Jote," Joshua says, calling her attention back. He takes the mug from her hands and tries not to let it shake. He is recovering, though it's slow-going.

"You were barely breathing," she says. She's twisting her fingers together in her lap. "I was...afraid we wouldn't make it to the ambulance in time. We didn't have time to gather supplies before we left, and—"

"You did more than enough," Joshua says firmly. "I'm fine. I've been more worried about you. How are you handling all of this?"

Jote carefully pulls the chair closer to the bed and sits. "Cid asked me that, too. He texted me this morning—just checking in, he said."

"Oh," Joshua says, surprised, though perhaps he shouldn't be. He knows Cid tried to help Benedikta when she was younger, even if it didn't take. He knows it did take with Gav, who still works for Cid now. The man looks out for his people, and perhaps driving up a mountain on a rescue mission has made Jote one of his.

It's a comforting thought. At this point, Joshua figures he really can delete the folder reserved for stalking his brother's boyfriend. Or he would, anyway, if his computer weren't—presumably—a smoking ruin somewhere on Drake's Tail.

"And Jill called last night, too." Jote eyes him sideways. "Did you tell them to check on me?"

"No," Joshua says. He has to stop and think back, but he's pretty sure that's the truth. "I hoped they would, though. I know it must have been hard on you. I didn't want you to feel alone after all of that. If I'd had my phone, I would have called you earlier, but I'm fairly certain it's a puddle of melted plastic now."

For a while, she doesn't speak, and Joshua patiently sips the soup she brought him, waiting. Jote likes to be careful about choosing her words.

Eventually, she asks, "Do you think Benedikta Harman's alive? I didn't want to ask Cid. I think they must have been close."

"I don't know," Joshua says, and admits, "I've just been relieved that we got away from them. But they said Hugo Kupka survived." He doesn't know if Hugo is conscious or how badly he's hurt, but he doesn't mention that to her. "Benedikta seemed to know the area well enough. I imagine she could have gotten away."

Jote nods, looking relieved. If Benedikta died from blood loss or something, Joshua realizes, then Jote would be the one who dealt the killing blow. "So...I guess you were right about the Children of Dzemekys all along," she says.

"Not quite," Joshua says. "I didn't have any idea how far they would go. And we weren't quite right about their Mythos being my brother—"

"I know. Jill made a copy of your audio recording before we had to hand it to the police as evidence. I've been helping her with the article for your paper."

"Have the police given you a hard time?" Joshua says.

Shaking her head, Jote says, "Not really. It's just, a lot of my notes have confidential information on people, so I had to have a meeting with the general counsel's office at school so that I'd know what I'm allowed to say or what I had to hand over as evidence. The police are worried about other people taking violent action. But no one gave me more trouble than they had to, I guess."

That still sounds like an ordeal, but Joshua only nods. If it is Tyler and Wade taking point on the investigation, at least he can trust that the officers in charge are decent people.

At the mention of school, Joshua winces. "What about your dissertation?"

Jote shrugs halfheartedly. "I mean, I sort of stabbed my research topic, so..."

Her odd sense of humor always takes Joshua by surprise. He tries not to laugh, because this is a serious subject for her education. "My brother and my dog and I are grateful for your sacrifice," he says, and at least it makes her smile a little.

"I have a meeting with my full dissertation committee in a couple of weeks so I can present the situation to them. I think I might have to switch to a new topic. But I'm hoping, if I can show them how much I've gathered, I'll sill be able to get something out of it, even if it's not enough for a full dissertation."

"Oh, Jote, you worked so hard on this," Joshua says. He can't quite say that he's sorry it went the way it did, but it must have derailed her progress on her degree. "Is there anything I can do to help? I assume my laptop went the way of my phone—the whole structure was burning when we—"

He stops, his breath leaving him in a whoosh. There hasn't really been time to think about the Apodytery burning around him. In the immediate aftermath, his mind was occupied with thinking about how he'd inadvertently given the Children a way to lure his brother to Drake's Tail, and then it was hard to think about anything other than the cold and the people chasing them.

Jote puts a hand on the blanket over his knee, watching him with concern. Joshua gives her a smile and covers her hand with his own. "Anyway," he says, clearing his throat. "I was pretty careful about backing up my data. I might have lost a day or so of work, but all my notes are on either your drive or the one at work, if there's anything you need in there."

"I...could use some information to fill in my notes about your last study group meeting," Jote says, and she pulls out her laptop. She hesitates. "Do...you want to..."

"I have literally nothing else to do right now," Joshua says, and he shifts over in the bed. She puts her laptop down between them on the mattress and pulls her chair even closer, leaning one elbow on the bed.

As she logs onto the hospital's guest WiFi, she says to her monitor, "I'm glad you're okay. I care about you a lot."

A burst of warmth cracks and spills into Joshua's chest. "I'm honored," he says. There's a lock of her short hair that's grown long enough to hang down in front of her face, blocking him from seeing her eyes. Before he can second-guess himself, Joshua tucks it behind her ear. "I care about you a lot, too, Jote."

She peeks up at him, smiling faintly, and then goes back to trying to get online. "You don't mind if I still...email you, or text you sometimes? About my project," she adds hurriedly.

"Jote," Joshua says frankly, "you're one of my best friends. You can call me for anything."

Her smile is brighter now, and, finally, she's starting to look a bit more like the girl who sat on his couch with his dog for hours at a time so they could keep each other company. "Okay," she says, and turns back to her computer. Joshua settles in for the familiar rhythm of working together.

Chapter Text

18. So it was that Ramuh, guided by the eternal flame within his heart and the flickering torch in his hand, ventured forth across the land, seeking not to conquer but to understand.
19. One night, he came upon a hidden crevice. With his torch held high, he entered into a cavern, and within its depths, he found a spring that emanated warmth from within.
20. As Ramuh knelt to drink, his weariness vanished. A pall of peace settled over him, and his doubts were silenced.
21. He filled his flask with the miraculous water. He knew with a certainty that transcended words that this was the truth: not of fire, but of life itself.

- Scriptures of the Risen, Book of Ramuh

*****

From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
cc: [email protected]
Subject: Re: Update on my health

Dearest Joshua,

We love you very much.

Whatever you need, we are here for you.

Love from,
Hanna and Rodney

*****

From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Subject: Re: Update on my health

Dear Joshua,

Thank you for telling me, and of course we need not speak of this any more than you wish. I hope you know that you need never hesitate to ask me for anything.

On a happier note, I am eager to see you and your brother soon! I replied to his email with more details. If there is anything in particular you will need during your upcoming stay in Rosaria, do inform me and it will be here waiting for you when you arrive.

Love always,
Byron Rosfield

*****

Dion is standing at the entrance to Joshua's building, one cup of coffee in each hand, when Joshua returns from walking Torgal.

"Oh, no, have you been waiting long?" Joshua asks, checking his watch and trying to slow his breathing.

"I've only just arrived," Dion assures him. "I'm a little early; I didn't want to get lost. I've never been to this neighborhood before. Why, hello there," he adds when Torgal inspects his knees suspiciously.

"Torgal, behave," Joshua says, holding onto the leash firmly, just in case. Perhaps it's only Joshua's imagination, but Torgal has seemed particularly territorial about him and Clive ever since Drake's Tail, and Dion's hands are too full to be able to offer him a friendly hand for scenting.

"He's fine," Dion says, letting Torgal sniff around until he's satisfied. "I understand we have him to thank for bringing you and your brother home."

That's giving a bit less credit than deserved to Jote, Cid, Jill, and any number of first responders, but Joshua reaches down to ruffle the fur on Torgal's neck thoroughly. "He is a very good boy," Joshua agrees. He gives one more pat and then reaches awkwardly into his pocket for his keys. His right hand is still wrapped, and although he can move it now, it's still uncomfortable to do so. "This way. Thanks for coming; I really could have gone to Valisthea. I can manage a walk, as you can see."

Joshua sees Dion's eyes trace over the nasal canula he's wearing and the portable oxygen concentrator he's carrying over his shoulder. Instead of commenting directly, though, he only says, "I don't mind a break from my office for once. It's good to see you on your feet again, though. You're feeling better, I trust?"

"Much. And," he adds as they step into the lift, because he doesn't want to go back to letting everything about his health be some sort of secret everyone knows but can't talk about, "the extra oxygen does help a lot, as it turns out. Torgal and I took a longer walk today than I've managed in months—didn't we, boy?" Torgal looks up at him, ears pricking up and then relaxing again when nothing interesting follows.

"That's good!" Dion says.

His tone is encouraging, like a walk with one's dog without getting dizzy is some major feat. It's not nothing, given that Joshua was bedridden two weeks ago, but it still feels silly. "I appreciate the sentiment," Joshua says wryly, leading the way into his flat. "This is me—er, hold on, give me a second—"

"Let me," Dion says. He shifts one cup into the crook of his elbow and holds out his hand for the keys.

Joshua grimaces, then hands them over and lets Dion open his door for him. "Thanks. Make yourself comfortable."

Dion takes off his jacket, hanging it next to Joshua's and watching Joshua take off his shoes before he does the same, every action one step behind. Part of Dion is still the boy who was trained to fit in with whatever society in which he found himself.

"By the way," Dion says as Joshua unfastens Torgal's harness, "I saw your article come out yesterday. Everyone's been talking about it. Congratulations!"

Joshua takes off his canula and coils it carefully beside him—he doesn't need it when he's at rest—and takes the cup Dion's holding out to him. "Thank you. We worked hard on it, and you're the one who put me on the path toward it. It's a relief to have it off our hands at last."

It was a perfect storm of factors that made the story as high-profile as it has become. Crime tends to catch people's attention, as do human-interest stories, and the tale of the Children of Dzemekys ended up being a bit of both. On top of that, it was only weeks ago that there was a spate of articles about the Phoenix-gate fire, and Clive's low-level celebrity in Twinside as a particularly heroic firefighter has caught metaphorical fire in the days since it came out that he was targeted by a cult for being too much of a hero.

Clive remains oblivious to it all, as far as Joshua can tell, which is for the best. He's happier that way. He also hasn't been able to return to work at the firehouse yet, as his arm is still healing, so he's been able to stay somewhat isolated from it all, unless they're teasing him about it at Otto's.

"But now that that's all over, it's back to the grind for me," Joshua says, dropping to sit on his couch. He takes a moment to breathe carefully; he wants to make sure he gives Torgal as much exercise as he can, but though he can manage a decent walk for now, it's taking him a bit to recover his wind afterward. "How about you—how has your class been going?"

"My students are used to me now," Dion says in a sort of bracing tone, "which is good. I like talking to them about things relevant to my courses during office hours. I just didn't realize they'd be coming to office hours quite so often. It's nice having a break once in a while." He tips his own cup toward Joshua.

"You can't help being popular, even as a professor," Joshua teases. He takes a sip of his coffee, bright with sugar. It feels a little silly to be drinking coffee from a shop in his own home, where he has his own coffeemaker, but it's a tradition by now. Not a very old one, granted, but it feels nice to have a new tradition with family. "Happy to oblige whenever you need to hide from your admiring hordes."

Dion chuckles. He lowers himself to the couch, reaching a hand out to Torgal when the dog comes to investigate him again.

"Joshua," Dion says as he cautiously strokes a hand over Torgal's head, "there's something I've been meaning to ask you."

That sounds a bit ominous. Dion is normally quite forthright when he's decided to say something. "Of course," Joshua says.

Dion turns his cup around in his hand, then says, "You're going back to Rosaria in a few weeks." Joshua nods, trying not to look too wary. Rosaria tends to be a difficult topic for both of them. "We were thinking of doing the same. A short trip. Kihel and I both have spring break around then, and we thought she might like to go back for a bit and see her old friends."

"Maybe we can meet up, then," Joshua says. "We're probably going to spend most of our time near Rosalith and Port Isolde, but Oriflamme's not too far from there."

"We should, yeah," Dion says, but it sounds mostly polite—it's not exactly what he was trying to say. "We're going to visit Terence's parents for most of the week."

"That sounds nice. And...our parents?"

Grimacing, Dion says, "That was my question."

Sanbreque Studios is officially moving to Twinside in two months. Soon, it will be impossible to ignore their parents, whether or not they want to, and Joshua still does not know whether or not he wants to.

"I think I have to stop by," Dion says. "It would be too much of a slight not to visit Father if we were already on the west coast. And if it were just Terence and I, then if we couldn't stand being around them, we could just leave. But we'll have Kihel with us, and..." He sighs.

There's no need to explain further.

"We haven't really talked about whether we're going to see Mum," Joshua says. He hasn't talked to her in weeks, since he hung up on her, a thing he's never done before in his life. She called him back shortly after, just once, but didn't leave a message. She hasn't tried to contact him since. She hasn't replied to his email, either, the one that Jill helped him draft. He doesn't know what that means—or if it means anything at all, other than that she's trying to respect his wishes, as his email made it clear he'd rather not spend a lot of time talking about it. He should appreciate that, really.

But...she's his mother. It's probably not fair to resent her for not trying harder to talk to him when he's the one who ran away years ago and is asking for privacy now.

It's just. She's his mother.

"If you decide not to, we won't mention to them that you're in the state," Dion says, which is sweet, but Clive has already been in touch with Uncle Byron, so it seems unlikely the rumor of their trip to Rosaria could stay a secret even if they wanted it to.

Joshua shakes his head. "I...I'd like to visit, I think," he says slowly, the decision solidifying as he speaks. "It would feel strange not to. I don't know if Clive will, but..."

Dion nods. "We could plan a day to go together," he says. "All of us—or just you and us, if Clive and Jill don't want to. For solidarity."

"That's an idea," Joshua says thoughtfully. "The more people are there, the more likely they are to stay away from fraught topics to avoid making things awkward in front of each other's stepchildren."

"I did want to check on Olivier, anyway," Dion says. "He booked his first acting role recently. I'd like to talk to him."

To ask if it makes him as miserable as it made me, he doesn't have to say.

"It's about time I met my younger brother, I suppose," Joshua thinks aloud. He wonders what Olivier thinks about Joshua and Clive—he must know they exist. Jill's trying to plan the whole trip, and Joshua has largely left her to it, but this is one thing Joshua thinks he wants to do. "Tell me when you're going to visit them. I'll go with you."

*****

It's a bit of a relief to see Otto scowling at him when he walks into the shop. Joshua feels like he and the older man have come to something of an understanding by now: Joshua doesn't bother the shop's customers, and Otto doesn't ever change. It's a comfortable state of existence.

"Joshua," Otto says, sounding cautious. He checks a calendar hanging on his wall. "If you're here to tell me your idiot brother's been kidnapped again, you can fuck right off."

He barely seems to notice the oxygen canula, though Joshua has spent enough time in this office to know that there's very little Otto doesn't see. Either way, he doesn't comment on it.

"Not that I'm aware of; he's just at PT," Joshua assures him. "I texted Cid. He said I could swing by this afternoon to talk about something."

Otto's pen stops tapping on the desk. "Is this about Barnabas again?" he demands. "Did something happen with the case?"

"No, nothing to do with that. It's a bit private, though."

There's no time for Otto to ask anything else, because the door to the garage bangs open and spits out Gav. "Joshy, I thought that were you comin' down the street!" he bellows, and grabs Joshua by the arms. "We were worried sick about you, man!"

Gav is a bigger man than Clive, and his enthusiasm pushes Joshua back a few steps, though his grip strength keeps them from toppling over. "Gav, go easy on him," Otto says, and Gav lets him go with an apologetic grimace.

"Sorry. You alreet, though?" Gav asks, looking him up and down, and Joshua has to resist the urge to rip the nasal canula out as fast as he can. He's just going to have to get used to it. He feels less short of breath than he normally would be after walking to and from the subway to get here, enough that he feels a bit stupid to have taken so long to start using the portable oxygen concentrator. It's just still uncomfortable to see people clock it and wonder. It's almost worse around Clive's friends, all of whom are strong and athletic and already tend to act like Joshua will crumble into dust if they jostle him too hard.

"I'm all right," Joshua tells him, patting him on the arm. He doesn't know Gav very well, but the younger man is friendly, and his personality seems to vacillate between enormous, overexcited puppy and embarrassed teenager. "Sorry to cause all the trouble. Is Cid busy, do you know? I can wait if—"

"I'll go tell 'im you're here!" Gav says, and hurtles back through the door.

Joshua winces apologetically at Otto, who sighs and asks, "Does your brother know you're up and about?"

"I'm cleared for all of my normal activities," Joshua tells him, which is basically the same thing, because Clive knew he would be up and about as soon as he was allowed to be. "I'm going back to work on Monday."

"Well," Otto says. "All right."

Remembering the Boklad University sweatshirt Clive was wearing, Joshua says, "Otto, I...I really appreciate you and Cid being there for Clive these last few weeks. Longer than that, really," he amends, because if Clive stays over with Cid sometimes, it means he's staying over with Otto and the children, too. "It means a lot to me that he can come here."

Otto frowns for another moment, and then says gruffly, "He's always welcome here. He knows that."

That's probably the most small talk Joshua's ever had with the man. He puts on an amiable smile and clasps his hands behind his back to wait.

It only takes a few minutes for Cid to come to the door, wiping his hands on a rag. Before he can open his mouth, Mid peeks out from behind him. "Hey," she says, waving. She's oddly shy for a moment, and then she runs out and throws her arms around Joshua's waist.

Reflex makes Joshua hug her back, but he says, confused, "Erm?"

Mid backs away as quickly as she approached. "Glad you're all right," she mumbles. "Clive was proper scared; I'd never seen him like that."

Cid cups a hand around her head. "All right, lass, back to work," he says. He kisses her hair and nudges her back toward the garage. Mid sidles away again before Joshua can decide how he's supposed to answer her. "This time, I really do know why you're here," Cid tells Joshua with a wry smile. "Come to the house."

Joshua follows him out the door. They don't go to the hideaway, this time, but rather to the front door that leads into the rest of the house. Joshua doesn't ask why—of course Cid wouldn't keep things so personal in the basement where his employees take their break—and tries not to be obvious about how nervous he feels.

He doesn't really need to be here. It's nice, what Cid offered him, but they could have exchanged a contact by email or text. He just wants a chance to talk to Cid while he's not ill or hypoxic.

"Come in and sit. I saw your article," Cid says as he closes the door behind them, waiting patiently for Joshua to slip off his shoes. "It's been all over the news—you must be proud."

"It all did spin a bit out of control," Joshua says. Once he's sitting at the kitchen table, he takes the canula off, tucking it away. "I knew it might be big, but I wasn't thinking of that when I started this. I mostly just wanted to know who'd put my brother and his crew in danger."

In the days since the article has come out, Joshua has received emails from two publishers offering a book deal on the exclusive story, to include all of the juicy personal details—including ones from his childhood—that he and Jill judiciously left out of the article. He hasn't answered any of them and isn't planning to. For one, it doesn't feel fair that Jill did so much of the writing on the article and is getting far less recognition for it. For another, that article was autobiographical enough for him to never want to write about his real life ever again.

"Bit of an overachiever, you," Cid says and, to Joshua's relief, still does not seem particularly annoyed about the fact that things spiraled so far that he had to step in to save the day. If the investigation felt personal to Joshua, it must have been quite a shock indeed to Cid.

Joshua shrugs. "What can I say—it's how we were raised."

Cid returns his smile. "Now that I can believe," he says. "Give me a second—" He disappears briefly into an office next to the kitchen and opens a drawer, extracting a thick folder and a small, innocent-looking business card before returning to the table. "So, what are you doing next, other than your holiday in Rosaria?"

Work, of course, as usual. But that's not simple, either. On Monday—or soon—he'll need to talk to Vivian about what work will look like for him in the future. He might have to move to a role that's even less physically demanding; he might have to scale back to part-time. He needs to know what insurance plans he's eligible for through his job or the state if he can no longer work full-time, and even if he loves his career, he's starting to wonder whether he should be looking for an occupation that he'll be able to sustain for longer.

Because he'll still be around for longer. He doesn't know how long, but he's not dead yet, and today, he feels well enough that he thinks he could be around for a while yet. Not nearly as long as Clive hopes, but enough that he needs to think about the future.

That's what he's doing now, Joshua tells himself, unable to take his eyes off the folder. It seems intimidatingly long for something Cid assured him was a fairly simple document. He's just thinking about the future.

When he doesn't answer immediately, Cid says, "You're not dying yet, Joshua. You have time, and you can do anything you want in that time. This"—he taps the folder—"doesn't signify the end. But once the end has been taken care of, you can focus on living in the meantime."

"I know. I know," Joshua says. "That's why I'm..." He makes a face.

"Good," Cid says, and this time, when he holds out Quinten Wraec's business card, Joshua takes it. "Out of the way for what? To go on doing your work like before? Nothing wrong with that, if it's what you want to do," he adds. "Is it?"

"Yes," Joshua says, and, "Maybe. I don't want to stop. I just...haven't really thought about anything else I could do instead." Time never seemed quite so short until recently.

"That's all right," Cid says, patting him on the back. "Think about it, eh?" Joshua nods again, and Cid flips open the folder. Joshua takes out a notebook and tries not to look too closely at the man's will, so as not to accidentally read what it says. "Now, these things follow a pretty standard form. Quinten won't steer you wrong. But there were a couple of things that took me off-guard at first, things I hadn't thought about, so we'll make sure you're prepared when you meet with him."

"I admit," Joshua says in a fit of complete honesty, "I mostly want to know who I'm leaving my brother to. I know I don't own him," he says when Cid's eyebrow twitches.

"You might not own him, but that doesn't mean you don't have him," Cid says. "If Clive had his way, you'd move back in with him. Eventually, anyway."

Joshua stares at the business card. Eventually, he'll need help, if not from his brother then from someone else. "Has he said anything about that to you?"

"Aye," Cid says easily, taking Joshua a bit by surprise. "He can't force you, of course, you're your own man. But we've talked about it."

Of course Clive will want him to move in, and of course it would be just when he's finally in a relationship that seems to be getting rather serious. He shouldn't be forced to worry about his little brother getting in his way. "And...what do you think about that?" Joshua asks, because he can't tell from Cid's expression.

With a laugh, Cid says, "It's not my decision, lad; it's yours, and his."

"I'd like to know what you think, anyway," Joshua says.

For a while, Cid doesn't reply—only studies him, like he can see every thought in Joshua's head. Finally, he says, "I think that if this were... If something ever happened to Mid, I would want to be at her side every moment I could, and no one could change my mind—not Otto, not your brother. I wouldn't have it any other way."

"That's different," Joshua says.

"No two things are the same," Cid says, shrugging. "But it's not so different."

It feels different. "I don't want him to burn himself out caring for me when that's all he's done our whole lives. He has friends—he has Gav, and...you now, and the others, and I hate that he's been so happy recently, and that now he'll think he has to put everything on hold—"

Cid chuckles. "Don't think of it like that. It's prioritizing, that's all. Do you think he'd be happier, after, if he were to regret any time he missed with you?"

Joshua's throat tightens at the blunt words. He blinks rapidly at the business card and flips it over. Then, he flips it again. Not looking at it won't do anyone any good. "He likes it here," he says. "It's been a long time since he's cared—really cared—about anything outside of the firehouse and...well." And me, he can't quite say, because it feels too self-centered, even for this conversation, even if it's true.

"Even if you decide to move back in with him," Cid says, "or if you don't and he just pops around to your home sometimes, either way—that doesn't mean he'll be hovering over you all day. He'll still have his job, if he wants it. He'll still have us. We"—he waves a hand toward the door, in the direction of the shop—"aren't going anywhere. I'm not going anywhere. We can make sure he takes care of himself, but I'll not take him away from you."

"And if...when priorities change? He gets...consumed. By this kind of thing. It's not because he doesn't care about other—"

"Joshua," Cid breaks in, and leans forward to clap a hand on his shoulder. "I'm not going anywhere."

"What do you mean, 'if he wants it?'" Joshua asks, the words catching up to him belatedly. "He's not thinking about quitting his job here?"

Cid squints at him. After a moment, he says, "He's been thinking about a lot of things. But he'll always have a place here if he wants it. Otto and I will make sure of it."

Running his fingers along the edge of the card, Joshua says, smiling so that it will be a joke if Cid chooses to take it so, "Seems like I'm leaving him to you, then."

"So leave him to me," Cid says. "Everyone will be taken care of."

"'Everyone' is a tall order," Joshua says with a short laugh.

"If there's someone else you're worried about, tell us," Cid says simply. "Tell me. Is it Jill? Jote?"

Joshua takes a breath. He nods. "And...Torgal," he says quietly, and, "I can't actually will all my friends to you. That's not fair to...anyone, really. I couldn't ask that of you."

"You have interesting friends," Cid answers without pause. "I wouldn't mind getting to know them a bit better myself." The hand on Joshua's shoulder squeezes gently. "Everyone will be taken care of, lad. I promise."

Cid seems like a man who takes care of his people. Joshua did hope his friends and family would all become friends with each other, and he supposes that's what it means, that they'll take care of each other when he's gone. Joshua nods again. "Those are the only terms I really care about."

"Leave them to me, then," Cid says. He sits back, taking his hand away and setting it down on the folder in front of him. "You just leave that to us. Now. Let's go over some of the more technical bits."

*****

He's not sure why he goes to visit Sleipnir, nor why the other man agrees to see him.

Sleipnir is pale—even more than usual—and gaunt. His hair is lose from its usual braid and hangs around his face like a curtain. There's a guard who leads him into the room, but he's allowed to sit down on his own behind the plastic divider.

Joshua picks up the phone on his side of the divider. Sleipnir does the same on the other.

"Joshua," Sleipnir says.

"Are you doing all right?" Joshua asks, and then feels stupid. The man's in prison.

But Sleipnir smiles at him, though it's a pale ghost of his usual expression. "I'm not ill or injured, if that's what you mean."

"Good," Joshua says, and wonders at himself as soon as he says it. But it's honest; he doesn't wish for Sleipnir to have been hurt, even though he knows the man manipulated him and would have watched both him and Clive die. "We weren't sure what happened in the fire."

"The prophet and I both escaped unscathed, I'm afraid," Sleipnir says. His smile remains steady; he doesn't elaborate. "It's kind of you to ask after me, Joshua. Are you here in a professional capacity? Then again," he adds, pointedly, "I suppose you always came to me in a professional capacity."

Sleipnir has always been able to make Joshua feel a little off-balance. The manipulation between them was always mutual, and of the two of them, only Joshua knew that the whole time. Sleipnir was at least honest in his beliefs. Of the two of them, Joshua is the liar.

"I'm not here to interview you, if that's what you mean," Joshua says. "I heard you pled guilty. You're not fighting the charges?"

"I do not deny anything I have done," Sleipnir says, and then, "When the time comes, God will not find that I was unfaithful."

It's hard to know how to answer that. Joshua doesn't mean to try to convince him to plead his own innocence. Barnabas Tharmr may have been the head of their church, but Genevieve, Redouane, Ivan, and others he doesn't know about—they all must have gone to Sleipnir first. Joshua knows how good Sleipnir is at making people listen to him.

He just wants to understand, and perhaps to make Sleipnir understand, too.

"You don't regret anything, then?" Joshua asks.

"To one who has seen the truth of the world," Sleipnir recites, "there is no other voice, and there is no other will. We are all only agents of His will. I did my part."

"Sleipnir," Joshua says, "you were planning for months to kill my brother. He's not your savior. Neither of us is."

"Perhaps," Sleipnir says.

"No, not perhaps," he insists. "I was lying to you from the start. You know that, right?"

"You were lying about your motives, yes, I do understand," Sleipnir says. "Very clever of you, to wield your pain as a weapon against others."

Joshua tries not to react to that. The man's not wrong.

"You lied about why you came to us at Dzemekys," Sleipnir says, "but you weren't lying about wanting us to help you. I don't blame you," he goes on, and he leans forward. "It is a difficult thing, what you face. I'm not a prophet, Joshua. I can't see God's will. Perhaps I am wrong about Mythos. But I do not think I'm not wrong about you."

"What do you mean?" Joshua asks.

"You spoke about the burden that you fear you will become on your brother," Sleipnir says, "and yet, you still refuse to sever the bonds that connect you to him. And when I offered you an alternative, you refused that as well."

"The alternative was to convince my brother to hold still while you set us both on fire," Joshua says flatly. "I think I'm well justified in refusing that."

Sleipnir puts his free hand down on the table, close to the divider, like he would take Joshua by the hand as he's done in the past. "And so instead, he will have to watch you die."

Joshua leans back. "Yes," he says after a moment. He clears his throat. "Yes, he will."

"It doesn't seem to me a kinder fate for the man you've described. You would accept that?"

"Yes," he says again. "Because first he'll watch me live, and that's all I can give him."

"If you love him..." Sleipnir starts, and then stops. For the first time, he looks puzzled, and a little disappointed, like Joshua has failed a test that he should have been able to pass. "The pain I saw in you was real. I wanted to help you find the peace you were looking for. Could you really be at peace, knowing what he will suffer for you?"

The thing is, Joshua thinks with a pang of pity, that Sleipnir might not be able to fathom the kind of love that Joshua has never in his life had reason to doubt. Barnabas Tharmr drowned in his grief and taught his children that that loyalty and faith were the same thing as love. He made them dedicate their lives to him, and those who did not were cast out of his circle. Clive put aside his own pain to shield Joshua from harm, and he would walk through a hundred fires for one more day with Joshua.

It's a terrifying thought, this odd power that his brother's love grants him. It's a sad one, too, realizing that Sleipnir doesn't seem able to comprehend it.

"Have you heard from Barnabas?" Joshua asks, rather than answering him directly.

Sleipnir blinks. "I am somewhat limited in my ability to contact anyone," he points out, which Joshua takes to mean 'no.' Both of them pled guilty to the crimes they were charged with, and there's no reason why they would be allowed to conspire together. "But I have faith that he will rise again, as he has done before."

"Only the wise shall know how to walk through fire and emerge as the phoenix from the ashes," Joshua recites. "That's what Ramuh said."

"I know the Scriptures," Sleipnir says.

"You've believed your whole life that Barnabas rose from the tragedy of his youth, like a phoenix," Joshua says. "But grief doesn't make us strong; it makes us brittle."

"Steel is brittle when it's first forged," Sleipnir counters swiftly. "By tempering it in the flames, we make it strong."

Joshua holds up his hand, no longer bandaged but still tender and shiny with new skin. "We're not metal. You don't treat a burn by plunging back into the fire. You get away from the heat. You have to heal first. Otherwise, it's not your true self that's revealed; it's only your wounds and your darkest shadows. Barnabas walked through fire, and it plunged him into the dark, and he brought the rest of you there with him. Our deaths wouldn't have brought about new life. It would only have been more death."

When he finishes speaking, he has to put the phone down and turn to cough into his arm and catch his breath. He shouldn't be trying for long speeches. Sleipnir tilts his head, regarding him. "You believe that," he says, curious. "About the prophet."

"I do," Joshua says.

"What if you're wrong?" Sleipnir asks. "What if he was right about you and your brother?"

"I suppose if your god truly wills it," Joshua offers, "surely He'll find a way to murder us without you."

Sleipnir's smile slips. "I was trying to help you," he says. "To help all of us."

Joshua's never truly been able to read Sleipnir. The man's face is earnest, still friendly and concerned, even wearing a faded jumpsuit, even after what's happened between them. He acts like he means what he says, and part of Joshua can't help but believe that that's the case.

"I know," Joshua says. "But I'm at peace, Sleipnir, knowing that I did everything I could for the ones I love."

Sleipnir studies Joshua for a long moment. "I'm happy for you," he says at last. "Perhaps one day I'll find my peace, too."

Before Joshua can decide how to answer that, Sleipnir hangs up the phone and stands. The same guards who led him into the room escort him out again. He doesn't look back.

*****

Jote visits later that night and immediately drops to her haunches to greet Torgal, who has decided by now that Jote is a human he's allowed to jump on. Joshua waits indulgently for them to finish wrestling in the doorway so he can shoo them both inside and close his door.

"Did you have your meeting?" Joshua asks as she migrates to her usual spot on the couch and grabs a pillow to hold. Torgal starts to follow her, then turns around and tries to wriggle in between Joshua's legs, almost tripping him. "All right, boy, I'm coming."

Torgal climbs up onto the couch after them, his entire upper body in Joshua's lap.

"He's been on top of me all the time this last week or so," Joshua says, shifting with a wince to a more comfortable position under Torgal's bulk. Torgal snuffles and readjusts himself. "My legs are going to go numb," he tells Torgal, but the dog gives him one very judgmental sideways look and ignores him.

Joshua pets his head fondly. Pins and needles are a small price to pay for the best boy in the world.

"He missed you while you were in the hospital," Jote says, coming to Torgal's defense. Torgal's tail bats gently against her arm as he wags it lazily, but she doesn't seem to mind. "Yes, I had my meeting."

"What'd they say?"

"They're not counting the couple of months with Dzemekys as enough to fulfill my degree requirements," Jote says with no ado. "They're giving me the rest of the semester to write up whatever I have to be published, but I'll be expected to have a new research proposal after that. They said they would be lenient—six months, perhaps, if I can gather enough for a solid thesis in that time—but it has to be more than what I already have."

Joshua grimaces sympathetically. That's going to be a lot of work, but they were expecting this, more or less. This is one of the better scenarios they've imagined. "You have enough for a paper, surely?"

"For more than one, really. Having Moss's writings alone will be huge, not to mention the Scriptures of the Risen. And Tomes was really impressed with your research mapping the writings in the Scriptures to historical events."

"I'd be happy to work with you on it, if you'd like," he offers.

"He thinks we should include you as an author in any case," Jote says. She tilts her head, curious. "Did you ever consider going into research?"

He shrugs. "I get to do some research in my own work. In another life, maybe I would have. A bit late to start now. I'm not ready to switch careers, and I don't fancy starting a degree I won't finish."

She opens her mouth, pauses, and then closes it.

"Do you know what the paper will be on?" he asks before she can think too hard about it.

"I want to focus on their connection with the historical cult," she replies.

"What about the work you were doing on their methods of recruitment?"

"Tomes thinks it would be too unfocused a paper if we tried to include everything. I..." She hesitates. "I've reached out to some of the members, though. The ones who were willing to speak to me before."

Although some of them knew each other's names or were friends outside of Dzemekys, Joshua has never tried to establish a real relationship with the other members of the group while he was there. He doesn't suppose they would want to hear from him, after learning that he was only ever there to expose them, but he's thought about them: whether Martin and Blanche and their friend have somewhere to sleep at night; whether Clarke has stopped going to physical therapy again; whether Margot's boyfriend is really getting better; whether Randal's with his sister.

"Tyler said they're being offered counseling," Joshua says, though he doesn't know what that looks like to a group of people who must feel like they were just told that their last therapist was not to be trusted.

"I thought I might be able to help," Jote says, because, of course, she knows better than Joshua what form that kind of counseling might take, "but not all of them want anything to do with me."

"I hope they're all right," Joshua says, and not thinking about committing arson, he doesn't add. Shutting down the Children of Dzemekys doesn't solve any of the problems that drove the members toward the group to begin with.

"Randal asked if I'd heard from you," Jote tells him. "He wanted to know how you were."

He does want to reach out to Randal, who was kind to him in group even though Joshua reminded him of his sister, but he doesn't know what he could say. An apology, perhaps, for hiding his intentions. Still, the one thing he didn't lie about is the part that would hurt the other man most. The arrests won't stop Randal's sister from dying any more than they'll stop Joshua.

"He doesn't believe what's been reported about Tharmr, though," Jote says. "I tried to show him the snippets of the audio recording that State of the Realm published, the one where they're threatening to kill you and your brother, but he won't even listen to it."

Joshua nods, resigned. "Barnabas gave people a community and a purpose when they felt like the outside world was failing them. I don't blame them for preferring Dzemekys and the teachings about rising from tragedy when their alternative is just a withered, godless world."

"It's the freedom," Jote says. When Joshua raises his eyebrows in question, she explains, "The Children of Dzemekys didn't operate like the Undying, but there's a structure to it, whether we agree with it or not; there's a mission, a goal. And without it, there's just freedom, and it's so frightening it feels like a chain in itself."

Jote is so competent at what she does that Joshua finds it easy to forget at times how much she must have struggled to break free of her past. "But a chain can be broken," he says. "You did it. So did Cid. Some of them will, too. Some of them will find another way."

"Right," she agrees. She traces her fingers along Torgal's tail. "I guess the alternative was to let them keep lighting buildings on fire."

Joshua nods. They might both be confident that this was the best outcome, but on the whole, the world hasn't become any less broken as a result. People are still hurt, and they'll keep being hurt, and now they'll all have to find some other way to deal with it. Not all of them will.

But the world continues turning. Life goes on, or it doesn't, no matter what they all might wish.

"Do you have any idea what you're going to do for your dissertation research instead?" he asks.

Jote glances at him. "I was talking to Tomes. And to Jill. I need to think about it a bit more, but I...I think I might shift the direction of my studies."

"Oh?"

"Just a bit. I'm still figuring it out. Maybe...I could run it by you sometime, later?"

"I owe you that and a lot more," Joshua says, "though I'm not sure how much help I'll be."

"More than you might expect," Jote says. "I think there's a way I could integrate what I learned of the Children's recruitment methods. Jill thinks it could be part of a larger study on the role of different types of media on the dissemination of information. If," she adds, "you would be willing to let me shadow you and your work sometimes?"

Joshua feels himself grin with something that feels like relief. He's not ready to put an end to his study sessions with Jote. "I would be honored," he says, and Jote returns the smile. "Do you know what you're going to do? Afterward, I mean, after you earn your PhD. Will you stay in Twinside and become a professor, like Tomes?"

Jote pulls her socked feet onto the cushions and tucks them under Torgal. "I don't know," she says. Grimacing, she adds, "I know that I should know by now. But...after I left the Undying, I was so focused on trying to have a normal life—to go to school, and all of the things I couldn't do with them. I..."

When she stops, he fills in, "You were still in survival mode, in a way—just trying to make it through one step at a time."

She nods. "And now, I've made it so far that I never even considered what could come next. I didn't really know who I was when I first came here. There's what Cyril made me, and there's..." She gestures half-heartedly at her ever-present backpack.

"I don't imagine that a lot of people really know who they are at your age," Joshua says, and then, because it makes him roll his eyes when Jill and Clive do that to him, amends, "At our age. Or, rather, we might know, but life keeps changing on us."

Or it ends, he thinks, but he can't say that aloud. He's not dead yet, and he'll at least have enough time to keep writing for a bit—working with Jote on her paper, and then perhaps on her thesis, though he'll need to talk to Jill or Vivian about contingencies. If something goes wrong with him, he doesn't want that to interrupt her dissertation yet again.

"I don't think I'm very good at standing back and just observing," Jote says quietly, like she's admitted to some great personal flaw. "Tomes thinks I get too involved in the...the research. Personally."

"I can't deny I'm grateful for that," Joshua says, smiling at her. "I don't know what to tell you, Jote. It's one of the advantages of my job. I'm not in the story, most of the time, but I get to be in the thick of it once in a while. I get to do something about what I learn."

She sighs, hugging her knees to her chest. "Maybe I'm the one who should be switching careers."

"There's probably someone better qualified than I am to give you advice about that," Joshua says, though he thinks about how focused and comfortable she seems when she's deep into her work. She went through a frightening experience not so long ago, one that probably brought back memories of what she's worked so hard to leave behind. Of course she's questioning things right now. "You've walked through fire," he says.

Jote throws him a dubious, sideways look that reminds him a bit of Torgal.

He holds up a hand. "I just mean...there's some truth to what it says in those Scriptures. We all go through trials, and we're not the same when we come out the other side." He turns his hand over, looking at the sensitive new tissue knitting together on his palm. "And sometimes, if we're allowed to heal, we can see more clearly who we really are. So take a bit of a break while you're searching for your new thesis, and see who you are once you've had some time to think."

It will be interesting, he thinks, picking idly at the healing skin of his hand. For once, he'll have a few scars that aren't hidden on the inside. It makes everything feel more real, in a way.

"Stop that." Jote leans over and pulls his hand away. "And I thought the one good thing to come out of the fire on Drake's Tail was that your copy of the Scriptures got burned with everything else."

Joshua shrugs. He's not glad about that, actually, but he does still have the PDF he sent her. "I don't know. I think I liked parts of it. Don't set anyone on fire, obviously, but some of it is kind of nice."

"If you say so," Jote says. She doesn't sound convinced, understandably, and he doesn't feel the need to explain how deeply some of the words struck him when he read them, even if he doesn't agree with what the Children of Dzemekys did with those words. Even the parts he didn't like as spiritual guidance were interesting to read as literature.

"What I mean is that I'm not sure what exactly my future holds, either," Joshua says. She looks up at him, uncertain. "But we have at least a semester to work on this, and maybe more after that. Maybe we can figure it out together."

Jote smiles. "Yes," she says. "I'd like that very much."