A Dyad in Time

by D. D. Prideaux

  I did everything as normal, feeling the tingling and bliss, but at a crucial moment I let dark feelings in and I blacked out. When I woke, dismay spread through me. I was face down, again. I was stuck to the concrete, again. I was in pain, again. Control came to me quickly though and I got up to see what I’d done. My cheek was stuck to the floor, hampering me momentarily before I saw the damage. All the furniture in the room was in tatters. Feathers from the pillow scattered about the room. Mattress pieces torn and strewn about. Scraps of wood littered the floor, mixed with chunks of black. My guts bottomed out on me. My heart followed, sinking to the floor. I fell to my knees, pulling away black from my face. My sick had little pieces of black in it. I cried hard. Sobbing and shuddering. I’d killed Tchook.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO - WHY?

  Gerard walked away from Parod after both his eyes had returned to their unpredictable, swirling, milky grey state from before. He didn’t know how Parod would mask him leaving the room or how he would keep the conversation from the network, but he trusted the Orc nonetheless. They’d developed a kinship in the years they’d worked together. His predecessors were stuffy, by the book Orcs that were only interested in doing their job. Parod had an inquisitive mind, partnered with a sharp intellect and balanced with an extremely dry sense of humour that came out on special occasions. Gerard was very fond of him. He didn’t know what his family or social life was like before becoming an Eye, but he hoped there was love there.

  Gerard reached the door, took a sip from his grey mug and reached down for the grey door handle. The grey door swung open and he made his way back down the grey corridor to the other grey door Sylvane was behind. The grey was only broken by a white line of paint that ran along the corridor about a third of the way up both walls. Maddening grey and white monotony infused with The Protectorate safe houses and workstations. The corridors and rooms were illuminated by cheap lighting strips, broken lights and the occasional pocket of darkness to break up the boring vistas. The pattern of the stuttering monotony seemed to be on purpose, but Gerard knew his mind wanted to see the pattern, so he would find it in any place. Another grey sip. Another grey handle. Another grey door. Another prisoner.

  He took in the sight again, almost unchanged from earlier. Why was he staring at the dark stain on the wall again? It was still as dreary as before and it still shouldn’t be there. He could feel the dirt and mess carrying memories this time. The confusing mix of sounds, feelings and images disrupted him, and he thought something lurked behind the mess, knowing that wasn’t possible. What the skell was that energy though? Still penetrating and invasive it made Gerard’s skill crawl. The handsome and tall Sylvane was still slumped forward in the chair, his skin pockmarked and damaged from his Sløv’s attempts to garner intel. He was slowly healing, nowhere near as fast as he could under normal circumstances, but the cuts and burn marks looked more like abrasions and bruises now. Mostly small, mostly not weeping.

  “Mr Stroud.” Peaceful and warming tones in his voice just like before. Fatherly and concerned. Patient. “I apologise for that little interruption earlier. I am afraid you telling me where Obed Rumaliza is, will have to wait.” Gerard was sitting again, cross-legged, with his wrists casually laid across his knee. Looking at those striking eyes again, rimmed with gold he felt an unfamiliar sensation. Guilt. He found the state of the man in the chair made him uncomfortable. Like he was watching someone he knew take a beating before he could intervene.

  “As you can see, my assistant is currently indisposed, and he is particularly talented at asking questions when I am in the room.” He waved towards the empty space Fortune occupied earlier. “He tries to impress me I think. Like a son trying to impress a father. It is rather sweet don’t you think?”

  “Are my family safe?” Sylvane said calmly.

  “They are. For now.” The lingering threat hung in the air. Patience Gerard. Patience. Let the man stew on that for a while. “I was thinking about our little chat earlier and I wonder if asked too much of you since we only just met.” Gerard felt like he had known the man for years though. Ten years of hunting a person and you start to think like him. Imagine yourself spending time with him. Like an old friend you’d share a drink with. “I asked to see what was behind the curtain before we had even got on the yellow brick road. So, let us start with something simple for now. Why?”

  “Why what?” Sylvane’s eyes didn’t waver.

  “Why do you fight? Why do you resist? Why is The Protectorate evil?”

  Sylvane took a deep breath and then sat up straight in his chair. “Very well, Gerard. We believe in the old ways. Like our ancestors, we think the Lucids and Naïves should be closer to each other. Magiks shared. Knowledge received. Exchange in both directions will benefit us all.”

  “We believe in that too, Sylvane.” The prince looked at the Våpen with incredulity.

  “You believe in control, Elias.” Gerard didn’t like that he knew his first name, or that he was using it. “I know more about you than you think.” Sylvane was pleased at Gerard’s reaction, annoyance from your interrogator was a small victory, but a victory nonetheless. “The Protectorate goes too far to control the flow. Brutality is rife, and punishment harsh for anyone who resists or breaks a new bylaw no one has heard of.

  “The rules are there for everyone’s protection. Lucidfolk and Naïve’s.” There were no traces of passion or belief in what Gerard just said.

  “So you see it, don’t you Elias? The restrictions on magik. The restrictions on movement. More and more of the crossing points are being closed with ruthless and unjust ramifications if anyone were to object. The rules are not there to protect. They are there so The Protectorate can have complete, unquestionable and absolute authority. Power for the powerful.” There was belief and earnest faith in what he was saying, the words trying to manifest as evidence for all to see. Irrefutable and tragic.

  Gerard was silent at this. He’d seen it alright and Sylvane let him fester with his own thoughts for now, letting him come to his own conclusions. The silence he had used earlier to threaten the Werewolf prince was now oppressing itself upon him instead. Gerard had been warned by The Hammer too, and now he was seeing it everywhere. A massive power shift from the Lucids, to the few who ran The Protectorate. An introverted organisation at first, wanting to magnify and accelerate its own agenda. He noticed how the new recruits who joined them were all of similar attitudes and values, un-diverse and misguided. Barren Sun practitioners were favoured over the other casts. ‘Impure’ blood rejected, claims of conflicted interests marring their records. Gerard saw the patterns like he saw the broken lights, finding more and more reasons to believe in what his captor was saying. Severe punishments for the smallest infringements, a corrupt bureaucracy concerned with wounding their ‘enemies’ in the organisation rather than protecting the light. Working with cursed creatures and manipulating Lucids.

  “How can you follow a system that uses Reapers, Elias? How can you make peace with that?” Gerard thoughts were mirrored by the man’s words and he fell silent again, more of his own mistrust echoed by the restrained man. “You even experiment on them. Find ways to use their power for your own machinations. You kill them so that you can become strong. Upsetting the natural order.”

  “You think we should just let the Reapers run loose?” Some anger flowed into Gerard’s voice, a strange want to defend his employer rising to the surface.

  “Of course not.” Sylvane admitted. “Why use them though? Why not be rid of them?” Gerard was feeling like he was getting interrogated now, unsaid answers strengthening his opponent's position.

  “We’ve even seen the practice of very dark magik too, Elias. Long dead and buried arts, resurfaced.” His eyes darkened and lowered as he thought about things Gerard couldn’t see.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Necromancy.” Sylvane’s voice was filled with sorrow.

  “No.” Gerard said defiantly. “Those arts died with The Barren Sun.”


  “We found bodies.” Sylvane carried on, not wanting to address his captor’s objection. “A mass grave of Lucidfolk.” A tear rolled down his dirty, bloodied cheek and into his matted, filthy beard. “We wanted to bury them all properly, but there were too many.” His eyes looked up at Gerard, watery and disarming, a few curls of hair dropping across his frown. He was in pain, in all its forms. He wanted to let it all out and he wanted this Våpen to feel it too. To see it all through his eyes. “They were all marked with a strange symbol… The sign of Necromancy.”

  “Where? Where did you find the grave?” Gerard asked softly.

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  Gerard could see that this part of the conversation was done for now. Rumours and whispers had made their way to his ears of this sort of thing. His own eyes had seen some of the atrocities through sharing his mind with others or seeing images in files he should not be seeing. For now, he needed to move it on to the other reason why he was here, so he sat back in his chair as nonchalant as possible before proceeding.

  “What do you know about a Nahgwal called Tor?” Sylvane’s eyes sharpened, recognition flooding his pupils.

  “Torbjorn?” He said excitedly.

  “Yes, I think that’s what he is called.” His mind mirroring the excitement in Sylvane’s voice but staying patient and calm on the outside.

  “He is legend. Well, they are legend.”

  “Who are?” Gerard pressed as casually as he could manage.

  “Torbjorn and Evelyn Manston, the Dyad that trapped The Thousand Curses, ending her rampage of death and destruction.” Sylvane didn’t know why Gerard didn’t already know this.

  “Take a step back, please?” Gerard asked, frustrated by the dark he was being kept in.

  “You should really read up on our histories Elias. The old ways of doing things are the true way of doing things.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You should not force Nahgwal to ascend before they’re ready. We know about your special rooms and what you force our kin to do. How you make slaves of them.” Again, Gerard was caught off guard by how much the royal Werewolf knew.

  “The ones you lose control of Elias. We rehabilitate them. We bring them back from the madness and sorrow. At least. We try.” The loss had returned to Sylvane.

  “Your majesty, you are beginning to frustrate me. Please explain yourself.” Gerard was disappointed at how churlish he’d just been, but the wolf prince obliged him his request.

  “The ceremonies and time we take to ascend are essential for the mind, body and soul to adjust to the changes. Allowing a Nahgwal to naturally progress through his or her own stages of development brings them greater control and peace with their animal selves.” He paused to think. “Your most recent loss, what happened?” Gerard knew who he was talking about. A Werelioness recruit from the Sub-Saharan region who successfully completed her rooms and then turned on her own team.

  “Alika. She spent years with us, working together, carrying out many missions without incident. Then one day, without explanation, she lost it, killing her entire team. Her friends.” It was unlike Gerard to share this much, the free exchange of each other’s information flowing a little too easily for him.

  “They were not her friends Elias. They were her keepers. People there to keep an eye on her. People she was forced to work with.” Sylvane was struggling to contain himself, muscles bulging and veins popping where they shouldn’t.

  Gerard was angry at this outburst and angry for showing his emotions. “People died, Sylvane.”

  “Yes, and we mourn their passing as you do. However, she broke, because you forced her to ascend against her natural will. Her sanity was trapped inside a tool of The Protectorate. Her soul was being tortured from the moment she passed through The Pilgrim door. She faced revelations and gained powers she wasn’t properly prepared for. It was just a matter of the clock ticking endlessly onwards to her breaking. Time was always going to be hers, and her keeper's undoing.” Sylvane delivered the statement with a princely, royal air. Dignified and respectful, the words came from him as easily as breathing, almost as if rehearsed. He had rehearsed these words, running them over and over in his mind in case he got the chance to tear a chunk out of The Protectorate. Years, decades even, of being oppressed came out in how he delivered those words to Gerard, who, knew there to be truth coming from the man. He’d witnessed first-hand when potential recruits failed the rooms, often considering what unseen damage was being done to the ones that prevailed.

  “When we found her and broke through the conditioning.” Sylvane was struggling. “I could see it, Elias. I could see the moment when sanity finally won, when the realisations dawned.” He paused to re-live the moment with Alika, respecting the gravity of that experience. “Her eyes lost their harshness and I saw a child’s eyes. Untainted innocence cutting through the trauma. Eye’s that had seen the atrocities carried out by her hand and The Protectorate.” The darkness in his own eyes returned and the sorrow overwhelmed him.

  “All she said was, ‘kill me.’ That’s all she says.” Gerard didn’t have to try hard to empathise with Sylvane, understanding dawning on him, even against his desire to remain neutral.

  “Tell me more about Torbjorn and Evelyn Manston, the Dyad that trapped The Thousand Curses.” He finally offered up to the space between the two men, equally trapped in their own pasts.

  Grateful for the change in subject, Sylvane brightened somewhat at the recollections he had of the Dyad lost to time, “Tor was an exceptional warrior. Gifted. So was his betrothed, Eve. Equally gifted in magik as he was in fighting, they were destined to become a great and powerful Dyad. One for the histories.”

  “There has not been a new Dyad since before the Reapers.” Gerard said to no one.

  “The Reapers changed everything. So did the Thousand Curses.

  Gerard’s eyebrows raised in question, wanting Sylvane to continue.

  “Another gifted wytch, like Eve. I don’t know all the details, but she killed her own Dyad, going on to do a lot more evil.”

  “But Tor and Eve stopped her?” Gerard asked, enthralled by the romance of the Dyad’s and what was sacrificed to stop a dark wytch.

  “Yes. Giving up their right to become a Dyad and losing themselves in the process.”

  “What do you mean by that?” Gerard probed.

  “They both lost their memories, cast adrift in time.”

  Gerard cursed to himself, furious that none of this was common knowledge. Why had someone like the Thousand Curses been struck from the records? Why were Tor and Eve complete mysteries? Why does no one know anything?

  Sylvane was watching Gerard closely now, his opportunity to turn the screw evident. “You should join us.”

  Gerard looked Sylvane in the eye all of a sudden, rage, frustration and conflict binding to his soul, but the Wereprince pressed on, excited.

  “I know we’re alone in here. I know that your Eye will’ve turned theirs away, so we can talk. I can see it on you. I can smell it. I can sense it. Join us.” He wove yearning emotions to what he said, trying to hook his interrogator and turn him to the light.

  Gerard stayed motionless, the possibilities flying through his mind were overwhelming and he couldn’t admit he’d not thought of it before.

  “You know something is wrong in The Protectorate. You know it is getting worse. You know there is nothing you can do to stop it.”

  Gerard didn’t move, thinking that he wasn’t powerless. The Hammer having requested his assistance all those moons ago.

  “Let me out, and we can leave this place. We can find my people and we can fight.” Something about Sylvane asking to be let out stuck in Gerard’s ribs. Uncomfortable and unwelcome. That cheap request returned his senses to him and he got up from his chair without warning to walk across a grey floor, to a grey handle with a grey door attached to it.

  “In another life, Mr. Stroud. In another time.” The grey latch clicked, and a grey corridor
welcomed his feet.

  * * *

  “The perimeter is clear Hältia.” A gruff voice issued from just behind where Vaughn was crouching. The Våpen was concentrating on the scene just beyond the fence so didn’t respond, trusting in his Sløv to keep watch, as they kept watch on the black site they’d been directed to.

  “How did you know where to find this place?” The gruff voice asked after a few minutes of inactivity on the horizon.

  “Did I ever tell you about the Marionettist, Ransom?” Vaughn stayed completely still whilst he spoke, not daring to take an eye away from their task.

  “No.” Ransom was used to his master answering a question with another question.

  “She was an incredibly talented wytch. So talented in fact, that she felt she was above the law.” He was talking without passion, simply relaying facts like he was reading a report. “A narcissist, sociopath and master manipulator she turned from The Bleeding Heart in favour of controlling others to do her bidding. When she did, we were notified, and I was assigned to the case.” Vaughn paused, thinking he saw movement in the distance but realised there wasn’t anything there. “It took years to catch up with her. Every witness’ mind was corrupted, every victim’s statements changed each time they were asked to recall their interactions with her. What never changed however, was how they were completely unaware they had been hijacked. Without exception, they all thought they were carrying out actions that they wanted to carry out. Puppets on invisible strings, being pulled by her.” Ransom listened patiently, as he always did. “We are the puppets this time, Ransom. We are the ones being manipulated.” He took a deep breath and dropped his head slightly before returning his gaze to beyond the fence. “However, we are not blind to our actions and the strings are not invisible.” Two sets of footsteps approached, two more black forms crouching to join the two black statues already there.