She had never walked these broken streets before, here on the other side of the continent, but the ache they drew from her heart reminded her of home. The dignified faces of Imperial buildings lay shattered and fallen on the pavement, cars by the roadside crushed or aflame. A flag tumbled by her feet, a rough circle torn from its centre like a still-beating heart. There were no silent, contemplative spaces left in this old and bloodied city, and the air carried a constant reek of gunpowder-smoke and burning rubber.
It brought Jacqueline back to her childhood, coming back to Antwerp from a relative’s country home after the war - coming back to a city of streets with bomb craters in place of potholes, of churches and museums and houses of art streaked black like old fireplaces, of homes where every brick had its own bullet hole. This was before she got her eyes, she remembered; in 1945 she was still an ordinary girl. When she asked why their neighbour Mr. Leiberg and his family hadn’t come back home yet her mother shushed her; Jacqueline frowned and sensed something wasn’t right, but vented a frustration she couldn’t put to words by kicking a dusty, cracked milk bottle into the middle of the road.
Here in Budapest the scattered young men holding their fathers’ rifles, peering around street corners and listening for the low rumble of tanks gave life and colour to what she could only have imagined her home to have looked like during the war.
“Wait, Cas!” She realised she was falling behind, and she caught his offered hand. He, too, had been too young to have bled for his country - so instead he stood and fought for his friends and a brighter future in a foreign country. Amidst the smoke and rubble and shouting, Jacqueline couldn’t help but admire the handsome figure he cut in a makeshift uniform with a rifle’s stock pulled up under his arm. It felt romantic: her and him and her sister, against the world. She was the youngest of the three and hadn’t yet imbibed the heady, revolutionary air of leftist student clubs, but they were her role models. It was early days yet, but already her mind was drawing pictures of her brave sister Corinne, leader of the vanguard of justice and equality in Belgium, tearing down the country’s age-old divisions to build something new and beautiful.
Casimir gripped her hand more tightly and kissed her lips. “Jacqueline, just a moment here - Corinne is up ahead waiting for us. I’ll rendezvous with her and clear the park of any Russians, then we will be back for you, yeah? Stay here and hide.”
He pointed up and in front of them, at a grand ferris wheel that towered over even the most magnificent and tall buildings of the city square. “In a week’s time, we’ll all ride that together, I promise you.” He caressed her cheek as her brows knitted in frustration. “And we’ll sail up the river together and bring Vienna the good news, too.”
For all the helplessness she felt in her heart, his smile melted it all away. Casimir had such a soft and gentle voice, not at all that of a fighter, and it had never failed to set her at ease. When he looked back to his comrades-in-arms who were gesturing for him to come along, Jacqueline stole off his glasses and turned him to stare into her eyes.
“You promise me?”
His smile said everything she wanted to hear, and he settled it with a nod.
Taking his dusty face in her hands she pressed her lips to hers for a moment that hung in the air like the final note of a sombre melody. She returned his glasses, and with a few others who stayed back watched him and a squad of student-soldiers like him march off into the park.
The next time she saw him he was sprawled on the ground in his own blood, two holes in his heart. His face was composed, still retaining that tender and reassuring expression she’d seen so many times. Her heart emptied itself out onto the pavement as the future she envisioned vanished before her eyes, and it took all her strength to force a despondent cry back into her throat.
Corinne was nowhere to be found, never anywhere to be found again. Jacqueline walked the banks of the cold, brown Danube and watched as bodies floated along in the current face-down, wondering if her lost sister shared their fate. For all Corinne’s hopes and ideals, the very same that had drawn Jacqueline to Casimir, they could not overcome the brutality of tyranny. The revolutionary spirit could never be broken, but its body was only so strong.
Oh well, she began to think. It was inevitable that this would happen, given the insurmountable odds that faced them. It was in the past now, and there was no sense dwelling in the past. It was them who were at fault, not her - she was no idealist at heart, and that had saved her.
A hulking metal tank crawled around the corner of a street, its long cannon a hideous eye that stared Jacqueline down; her body twisted away by instinct, drawing her unconscious mind with it down an alley as the sounds faded away and drowned into nothing, and the smell of smoke went with it as though she’d fallen into the dark immersion of a great abyssal sea.
She awoke in darkness, but it was no longer the darkness of a dream.
Before her was a long, stone table surrounded by chairs, at which sat a dozen lords in rich dress and adorned with jewelry of gold, their heads shrouded in their robes. The only light came from dim blue candles hung from the walls and set on the tables, illuminating a great feast. Yet, to her eyes none of the food on the table seemed to have a definite shape, twisting one moment to look like meat, another like long, narrow fruits, shifting each time she blinked. The cups, too, spilled over with some dark liquid which never touched the stone table or even the fingers of the lords who grasped their goblets and in silence drank their endless fill into blank voids of faces.
Before her was the only empty seat, a low bench with rows of grooves carved across its length; the empty faces turned to her and she sensed from them all mocking, sneering smiles, begging her to take a seat and join them. Was she one of them? Or more likely, she figured, a guest - and an unwanted one.
Something in her heart recoiled even as her leg neared the bench, and she looked back up at the seated lords. In her hand now was a spear, ivory for its haft and with a grim black point; her arm moved unbidden as though commanded by the weapon, her mind simply watching through the windows of her eyes as the spear’s blade swept across the table and brought cups and plates and candles clattering across the bench. She could hear a hiss and smelled the sizzling of raw meat, and the dark liquid oozed over the bench and boiled as soon as it touched the stone. Laughter erupted from the twelve figures with a cacophonic echo resounding from wall to wall to wall of the subterranean hall; in unison they bowed their heads.
She could see now they were far from human: their robes fell away from their faces and she could see them for what they were, with bestial heads and the bodies of men. One bore the visage of a deer, antlers twisted like braids; another had the regal head of a cat, and another was a solemn eagle with yellow, unblinking eyes that remained steadfast in their stare. She could now feel the weight of their gazes on her, but something at once within and without burned away any feeling of fear that lingered in her heart.
The closest lord, the one with the head of a cat, reached out his arm as in greeting, and she found herself walking toward him, seeing sharp white teeth emerging from hungry smiles all down the table the closer she got.
Again without her will her body moved, and it struck in but a moment: the spear’s edge severed the proffered arm which fell to the ground with a sound like the earthy thunder of a landslide, and in the very next moment her spear had been driven through the cat-lord’s back, the point digging into the table like a black talon. Out of the wound where his arm had been poured a sickening cloud of maggots onto her legs and her feet, but with a gesture she burned them away into ash. A hideous smell reached into her nose like rancid tendrils but for all she tried she could not bring her body to retch and instead she could only be a spectator in her own body as her hands reached out to the cat-lord, tore out a strip of flesh from his back like with a predator’s claws, and dangled it down into her waiting, grinning mouth.
The laughter ceased, and the twelve smiles fell away.
The cat-lord’s body went limp and his face melted into the stone table, his body revealed to be nothing more than a crude puppet, some failed imitation of life that could only resemble death. The candle flames wicked away as though a gust had run through the barren room, and just like that the seats were all empty and a deep, icy chill vanished from the abyssal dining hall.
At once the sun returned to Jacqueline’s eyes, and she reached out with her own, warm hands to feel the air on her skin. The sun was low and orange in the western sky, and Jacqueline let out a long sigh.
“Are you alright now?” It was Clemence again, with some real concern in their voice. “Your face went blank and you sort of just stared out at nothing right after I called your name earlier.”
Jacqueline shook her head. “Earlier? You mean…”
Clemence seemed to shrug as though equally confused. “It was around noon, I think. You left another Master’s territory and I could sense you again, and I spoke to you. It was around then that you seemed to go into some kind of trance and just… walked. No matter what I said you kept going, around and around down different streets, down one and back up another. It was like you were walking in another city entirely.”
With a rub of her temple, Jacqueline tried to make sense of their words. “Something happened last night… then I woke up in the mansion of that Master you mentioned. She was kind… I think.”
“Did you get a name?”
“Yes, she…” Jacqueline began, but like a dream upon waking the girl’s name had vanished from her memory. “She was… I remember red hair, and she had red hair, and…”
Clemence seemed to frown in disapproval. “She had red hair, huh. Wow.”
Scoffing, Jacqueline turned the complaint back on her mental passenger. “Where exactly were you after last night? When I was recuperating I felt something in my heart like a scar, but no voice in my head.”
There was a long and telling pause before Clemence said anything.
“No answer?”
“I don’t remember either!” they blurted out, snarling. “I think I was dreaming, though, or at least it felt like it. I haven’t dreamed in a long time, you know.”
“A dream? Can you sleep?” Jacqueline stopped mid-stride, and rested against a lamppost. Had Clemence been sleeping after last night, recovering in their own way? It seemed strange: a disembodied voice couldn’t possibly tire from overexertion, so did they even have a need for the stillness of rest and the unconscious images it brings? Or perhaps Clemence was far more ‘alive’ than Jacqueline consciously could understand.
They sighed as though Jacqueline was suggesting the obvious. “In my dream I saw a city - somewhere in Europe - and a war: guns, smoke, machines, the dead. Everything was varying shades of brown or grey, like a kind of film.”
Jacqueline hesitated, images of the horrific feast returning before her eyes, and for a moment she considered trying to explain her own dream to Clemence - but another thought took its place.
“I know what you saw,” she said, through teeth almost gritted from her bodily fear of dredging up a past not worth recalling. No one could change what had already happened. Thinking about it was useless, as all it accomplished was bring a too-familiar ache to her chest.
Clemence hummed in realisation. “Ahh, I understand: those were your memories.” She searched for words to express a feeling she hadn’t had in a long time. :I’m… sorry.”
“Don’t be, Clemence. It shouldn’t matter to anyone anymore.” Her shoulders were low as she leaned against the lamppost, and her fingers traced idly through the air. If she moved her hand just so… ever so faintly… she could conjure the feeling on her fingertips of Casimir’s rough stubble that one final day in Budapest.
She shook her head. “You can’t repeat the past, after all.”
“What do you mean?” Clemence’s voice raised to a defiant pitch. “Of course you can!”
The confidence infused in those words caught Jacqueline off-guard, and her heart raced from the implications of such a simple repudiation of reality. Then she settled down and took in a deep breath, expecting another of Clemence’s acidic remarks to chastise Jacqueline for being so foolish and to keep her head in reality.
“Why do you think I’m here?” The voice seemed to be almost pleading, now. “Why - that’s the reason everyone’s here: to change the past! I’ve seen it happen, right here, with my own eyes. Nothing is beyond saving, and no one either - not a single person here. They all have their chance.”
Jacqueline wanted - her heart cried out for it - to say, ‘even me?’ But she bit her lip and kept up her aloof stoicism, dismissing the idea off-hand. The implications that very idea held were far too much to ponder even given a whole night’s walking, and eventually she would need to sleep and once again the dreams would come and they would not be as kind. With those eyes of hers, every dream was a prison of the soul.
But Clemence was more clever than that, and Jacqueline’s soul had already begun to show its cracks and openings to them.
“Even you, Jacqueline,” they assured, with a smile playing on their invisible lips. “First, I need to find my body. Then, and only then, can I show you a miracle.”
-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-
What most piqued Cleopatra’s insatiable curiosity was how confident James seemed as he led her around the city, like there was some pride within him that showed itself only around others. It made her wonder what quiet uncertainties lay in his heart, as were in the heart of every man. He had tried to hide his tears in the museum, but the wetness of his eyes was an easy tell. She’d seen it all before.
So she indulged his confidence, going along with him on whatever whim of the hour struck him. After the museum the library had closed, and with only the slightest disappointment in his sigh he’d said, “There’s always tomorrow, right?”
And they went back home to his apartment, where he mixed ice and water in a combination that, with a quizzical expression on James’ face, singularly delighted Cleopatra. She told him that if he had come up with such a concoction in her day, she would have granted him a place of honour in the royal court of Egypt. He replied with a scoff, telling her that was exactly as arbitrary as he expected a monarch to be, a response that only made her laugh - driving him, in turn, to further frustration. She smiled, not expressing her surprise at how much he reminded him of another man she’d known, long ago, who was just the same when they met under the Egyptian sun.
By the time evening approached they were in his car - much to Cleopatra’s discomfort, but James insisted - and it was his idea this time. He’d told her about a theatre, which elicited as much interest from her as it did confusion.
“I’m still shocked that when you Servants get summoned to the modern day, you don’t even get basic knowledge about what the world’s like. You don’t know movies, really?”
Cleopatra shook her head. “How important are ‘movies’ to spirits summoned for war? We are granted an understanding of the local language and that of our Master, as well as superficial details about the region’s geography and such. If a heroic spirit had previously been summoned as a Servant into this era they would recall the knowledge they gained then, but these sorts of things happen quite rarely. The last time I was summoned in any capacity resembling this one was about a thousand years ago, by some alchemist who had found one of my temples and deciphered the ritual hieroglyphics on its walls.”
James was focusing on the road, driving past Dumbarton Oaks toward Uptown, well out of the way of the war even as night was approaching. Still, he had to give her a sideways glance at that last sentence and the boundless implications that arose from it.
“You’re saying you were summoned before?”
She nodded. “He was an Arab scholar who recognised me as a fellow intellectual. Luckily for him my temple was intact enough to act as a conduit for summoning me and binding my spirit, though it did not last long. Al-Nadim was the name he gave me, I think, and we talked for a while as he treated me to a small meal of some hummus, eggplant, and lamb he cooked in a small clay pot in front of me. It was short, but memorable. He told me a bit about their culture: their love of books, and a singular god, and the artistry of their poems and their respect for ancient learning. He was charming and kind enough, though I was much displeased to learn I had no way of leaving the temple and seeing the state of Egypt a millennium after my time.”
“Well, I hope I make for half as interesting conversation, then.” He shrugged and rounded a corner; the Washington National Cathedral in all its Gothic grandeur was on their left, and he drew her attention to it with a gesture.
“Ah..” Cleopatra stared out the window, her eyes flicking up and down to take in all the details of the huge, ornate structure before it passed from view. “Don’t worry about that. You at least do not keep me cooped up in a bare stone room and take me to see… ‘movies,’ which I look forward to judging with my own eyes.”
James let out a small laugh. “Speaking of: we’re here. Uptown Theater, D.C. It’s a pretty ritzy place, but luckily the parking spots aren’t all taken.”
He glided the car into an open space and let the rumbling of its engine roll to a stop. Cleopatra looked over to James - who had the decency before they’d left his apartment to wear a tie and a nice silk shirt for the occasion - and waited for him to get out and open the door for her.
Taking his hand in hers, she walked by his side to the theatre’s box office; a host of other cars had been parked all around, and streams of couples young and old made their way in the same direction. Many eyes were on them - or perhaps just her - as they passed, regarding Cleopatra with an almost supernaturally rapt attention. James just sighed even as he raised his shoulders up and back under the weight of so many all-too-curious gazes. A few of those in the crowd might have recognised him, but no one dared come too close to Cleopatra, as though all those around understood her for what she was. It made her smile, feeling once again as she had in life when the sheer charisma of her presence and authority could stop even the most dedicated of processions still as statues.
“I just hope no one here’s a Master too,” he whispered into her ear, and a small laugh passed her lips at his concern only now after having come so far.
They took their place in line at the box office, but that respite of stillness did not last long: “No, you go ahead,” insisted a man ahead of them with his date, and the rest of the line followed suit, drawing back from the couple of James and Cleopatra like a wave receding from the shoreline. James brought a hand to his face, groaning, but there was nothing to be done. Cleopatra soaked up the attention without a care.
“Excuse me, sir,” he said to the attendant at the box office, tapping lightly on the glass to get his attention. “Two tickets for the next showing of Cleopatra, please.”
The attendant looked to him and apologised at once for his distraction, which James waved away with a smile and a “don’t worry about it.” James slipped a couple dollar bills past the glass and took the tickets in exchange, telling the attendant to keep the change.
Cleopatra’s eyes had lit up at the name of the movie. “Oh, you are sneaky, aren’t you, James?” She grinned and pinched his side, realising just what he’d ensnared her into.
He gave her a coy half-smile, and she could tell he was more relaxed now that they’d distanced themselves from the gawking crowd. The confidence in his stride was honest again and not a performance for the attentive public, and he let himself lean into Cleopatra just a bit more. She was a little shorter than him even in her steep heels, but no one would think of it given the commanding air she had everywhere she went. Yet, there was a certain uneasiness in him that she could sense as they walked together, as though when he was by her side he felt somehow self-consciously out of place.
They took their seats in a middle-back row of the theatre, James having turned down the seller at the concession stand.
“Not hungry?” Cleopatra asked, suddenly feeling the distance between now and lunch.
“I don’t want to ruin my appetite for tonight,” he said to her in a low voice, and she left it at that. If the movie was anything to judge by, his surprises were fun, and she had no desire to ruin it. She settled back in her seat, appreciating the comfort of the fabric much more than the awkward, hot leather of the car or the stone benches of a Greek theatron. The smell of cigarette smoke was acrid and filled the whole room, but she shut it out like she had the reek of gasoline amidst the cars outside. At least in Alexandria there was incense burning at every street corner and the aroma of spiced food wafting from every window to overpower the earthy stench of the urban world.
The lights dimmed, the screen lit up, and scattered conversations died down to mere whispers.
Cleopatra’s whole attention was on the movie, such that she didn’t notice as James spent as much time watching it as he was studying her face. Multifarious expressions of curiosity, awe, and fascination danced in her eyes and on her lips as she drank in every sumptuous visual and every crisply spoken word. If nothing else, James knew, she would remember at least this the next time she was summoned, even if she didn’t remember him. A low melancholy fell over him and he didn’t pay much attention to the movie, laying back in his chair with a pensive look on his face, his eyes unfocused and his mind elsewhere.
The credits rolled and the theatre filled again with light, and James took Cleopatra by the hand as they gingerly got out of their seats, the concept of standing feeling strangely foreign to them after three hours of neglecting it.
“Did you like it?” he asked as soon as they were out of the theatre, away from the din of the bustling crowd.
She squeezed his hand, then let go. “It was fascinating: a tapestry of movement and colour, all on a space no larger than a temple wall. It reminds me of the dancing automata the inventors of my time crafted, but on a far grander scale and much more fully realised.”
James scratched his head. “It was about you, though; what did you think of that?”
Cleopatra gave him an enigmatic smile. “The woman representing me had a difficult task, attempting to embody the soul and vigor of someone she had never met nor seen. She captured my beauty well, but the narrative seemed to deploy my character as a sort of olive wreath for the contest of towering men. I find that interesting: even today, two thousand years removed, you understand Egypt not through my eyes, but through those of her Roman conquerors.”
“At least we appreciate your obelisks,” he offered, struggling to come up with a response that he felt could meet her intellectual standards. He just enjoyed the movie: it was long but luxurious and dramatic, and presented a world he could never experience in his own life. To him, that was the true beauty of the modern American movie, from Ben-Hur to The Wizard of Oz.
“Mm… I take it you liked the movie, James, and wish I felt the same as you,” Cleopatra said to him as he led the way down the street to their next destination.
He shook his head. “It’s not that, but - anyway, we can talk more about this in a little bit. I wanted to take you out to dinner as thanks for today, and there’s a nice Hungarian restaurant right around the corner from here. I doubt you’ve ever had goulash, but on a cold summer night there’s nothing else like it.”
Cleopatra smiled and gave her assent, letting her thoughts idle in her mind as she started to wonder just what it was that made him so uneasy around her. It was something more than her intelligence and beauty, she suspected, but she respected his wishes and followed him towards the restaurant.
They had entered the theatre with the sun high in the sky, but by the time the movie was over the sun had set and a pale twilight fell over the city. Now was the time not of comfortable outings but of violence, and behind her Master’s back the Servant Cleopatra remained vigilant.
She brushed her arm against his, and felt goosebumps on his skin. His posture was stiff and agitated, his own senses understanding that even this early in the night something was amiss.
“James… are you feeling what I think you are?” Lines of light like golden veins flickered into existence up the length of her arms, both of her palms grasping glimmering orbs that pulsed with a magical energy that put James’ own magecraft to shame.
He nodded, and slid up against the brick of a building by the corner of the street. A four-way intersection lay in front of them, a wide-open space far from ideal for remaining undetected by hostile Masters or their Servants. Rows of young trees broke line of sight in all directions ahead, but for a magi’s keen sense of the transmundane they were hardly an obstacle.
“There’s a magus ahead up the road, moving in our direction. It feels like his magical energy is divided, split off, probably a familiar.”
Cleopatra’s assessment matched his, and with a gesture from her mystically-infused hands a vast and quiet surge of energy arose in the form of gilded spheres up to the heavens, glittering like stars and indistinguishable from true celestial lights far above. James looked upwards, admiring the artificial skyscape but with a frown.
She clasped her hands together. “I am the living Isis, remember? These are the Tears of Isis, shed for the death of Osiris and the magnificent cosmic equal of the Nile; and these stars, like tears, are destined to fall. You Americans inherited much from the Romans, so you would probably recognise their name for it: the constellation Virgo.”
Now James watched the shimmering of those heavenly shapes with a bit more wonder, but it was short lived: the other Master drew ever closer.
“The Nile flood…” he murmured, but explained no more, his eyes locked on the street ahead. They could see two figures now, one tall and broad and the other - the Master - very slight.
“We should first try to parley - but be on your guard, James.”
James put his hand on her shoulder, stopping her from stepping forward into the illumination of a streetlamp like a spotlight upon her. “Parley? Aren’t they our enemies? Naturally, since this is a war and that’s a Master.”
A smile, and a shake of her head. “Not yet. Remember: there are no such things as ‘natural’ enemies or allies. Everything is dictated by circumstance. Should talks turn sour… then I can spring my trap, and we may just be the first Servant and Master to eliminate a rival.”
It seemed, as ever, like Cleopatra had the upper hand in everything, a contingent plan for all situations - so James went along with her ploy, the pale lines that ran like cracks in Arctic ice down his right arm converging on a single point in his palm, then fading. At the end of the day, she was his Servant: they had to trust one another, and he knew that she was as invested in his success as he was. And, between the two of them, she had far more experience in diplomacy and scheming than he could hope or even want to have.
“We’re not here to fight!” announced James, stepping under the lamplight, arms open.
The Master opposite him stopped, some twenty metres away. The urban landscape was flooded with light, and James could easily make out this Master’s appearance, and that of the Servant as well. She looked no taller than five feet even, and waves of red hair cascaded down just past her shoulders, making a bright contrast to her lily-white dress. Her eyes had a stern severeness to them, and as she opened her mouth to respond she hardly looked amused.
“Then what are you here to do? It’s far too late for tea, and there’s no sense in trying to disguise your Servant the way you are.”
That confirmed one thing to James: her English was unremarkably accented, and he deduced she was either a long-established emigre representing some foreign power - unlikely, given her youth - or a Canadian. That softened his heart despite her cutting words and the suspicion she obviously harboured. Her thin lips were drawn tight, and a fluttering bird hovered in loose circles a few feet above her head. Then there was her Servant: imposing in height and dark in complexion, with exotic clothes the likes of which James had never seen before, not even in books about old cultures. He had the distantly regal air of a king about him, and clutched in his right hand was a spear as tall as himself with a razor-sharp point black as obsidian.
James sighed, and Cleopatra could tell he wasn’t the type for cunning conversationalism.
“Look, we just got out of seeing a movie,” he admitted. “We were about to head to a restaurant I know around here, but then we could tell a magus and Servant were heading our way, so now we’re just standing here all high-strung instead.”
The Master frowned in open disgust. “You expect me to believe that you just so happened to be wandering in this neighbourhood at this hour, and were completely surprised to find an enemy?”
“Not an enemy yet, but yeah.” He hitched his thumb over his shoulder. “The Uptown Theater’s down that way, if you really don’t believe me. The name’s James, by the way. I’m here representing the USA.”
It was seemingly the other Master’s natural reaction to respond with a curtsy. “Very well - courtesy given is courtesy owed, as my mother says. My name is Eleanor Rosemary Richardson, of Ottawa, Ontario, Canada. I have not fallen for your story, but I find your innocent intent plausible enough.” Then she looked down, as though distracted. “...what was the name of that restaurant you mentioned?”
Cleopatra stood on the sidelines, enjoying James’ unintentionally brilliant diplomacy. He didn’t try to play at a craftiness that didn’t suit him as it did her: his strength was in his plain talking and his good nature. In that way, by being straightforwardly honest, anyone would be taken aback - certainly magi, with their typically conniving character.
Her attention had faded for a moment from the increasingly lively conversation; she noticed the girl’s Servant was as silent and watchful as she was.
“...yeah, it’s a great place! My dad knows the owner, in fact he helped him get a visa to come to America after the revolution in ‘56.”
It now almost looked like that serious Eleanor wore a smile, though clearly unbidden. “Really? That’s very honourable of him. Say, were you actually watching a movie tonight, despite… well, despite the war?”
James shrugged. “It doesn’t feel much like a war to me, I’ve got to say. My dad served in Italy back in World War Two, and it’s nothing like his stories. Doesn’t feel real yet, if you know what I mean. So far I’ve just been showing my Servant around the city, telling her about American culture. Have you got the same movies up there in Canada? Ones with Elizabeth Taylor, and Richard Burton?”
Eleanor closed her eyes and covered her mouth, perhaps stifling a laugh. “Yes - Cleopatra, right? Hmm… to tell you the truth, my parents rarely let me see films, but it sounds like you enjoyed it. Maybe I…”
She trailed off, then shook her head. “Oh, forget about it. Anyway, you’ve proven to me that you have no ill intent. I appreciate that. I would not be so bold as to propose an alliance, but… I think we both would benefit from working together, at least for a while. Right?”
“Yeah!” James stepped forward with a beaming smile; far above, a line of foreign stars twinkled their last and vanished from a vast, twilight-blue sky.
The four of them spent the rest of the night on patrol through Washington, but throughout their long walk their animated back-and-forth conversations went uninterrupted by conflict or the presence of other magi, as far as they could tell. Cleopatra kept a careful eye behind them at all times, but even her discerning gaze could not sense the dark-haired woman who followed them at a distance, occasionally stopping in the shadows to speak with someone who was not there.
I think this was the longest chapter yet! Sorry about that. However, I really enjoyed writing it and I think the long, extended sequences are important: this is more of a character development/backstory chapter than a plot-advancing one - though I'm sure at least a few people will be pleased at a certain plot advancing! I ended up taking this in a different direction than originally planned: the outline had James and Cleopatra successfully getting to the restaurant and continuing their chat, which while it would've been interesting, felt a bit too drawn out after the movie scene. Still, I hope their interactions came off well here. I don't know how obvious it was, but as opposed to the last chapter with those two, this one was from Cleopatra's perspective. Even in a scene with multiple characters I inevitably write from within the "mind" of one of them despite the third person style, but this was the first time it was really intentional.
Now, this update is a bit special, because... it's December! I always like to do fun and special things for Christmas, and the first present comes early: for this chapter's choice, you can vote for any two selections off the map. It's not ranked-choice; both will end up featuring in the next chapter, which might end up being split in two depending on size. Whichever two have the most total votes win out. As a clarification, on the map the exclamation mark beside Finley's Gym is basically a placeholder: I confess I haven't made a Rodrigo chibi yet. He's the star of that locale though, if you want to see more of him. As for the second thing, it'll be after the map spoiler.
The second present is this: each of you can ask up to two questions about anything relating to the story in any way, and on Christmas Day I'll provide an absolute answer. Your questions can be about future events or what previous choices would have led to, or just about anything else you can think of. Since this is a meta-narrative tale, your questions also might affect the story in some way...
You can change your answers at any time, too, in case upcoming chapters make you curious about something else. This university term is almost over for me, so I expect to churn out at least one chapter before Christmas, probably two. I look forward to seeing what people are most interested in finding answers to!
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Originally Posted by Snow
