Shadows and Jewels

Taranis walked slowly along the dark hallway, lost in thought. His victory was sure, although no one knew it yet. He had successfully slipped through the shadows long enough, gathering information and slowly reaching his inky black fingers further around his enemies until there was no escape. All they knew was that a man called Reddair and his backing had ruined many of their plans and lost them many chances for fixing the Ackbury desolation.

That was the main charity movement – save the poor orphans living in ash! Bring light back to Ackbury! Purify the water! The only problem was that this was his domain, the place he’d chosen to house his collection. Anyone coming anywhere close ruined the isolation he craved and jeopardized the hiding place of his precious treasures.

Taranis let out a small breath of frustration, remembering the many times he had been one-upped by that little “hero” with an ego too big for his ripped overalls. Quintus, the country bumpkin turned hometown hero… the spearhead of the Ackbury Support movement. The one Taranis had carefully slipped a noose around and was now drawing it tight. And, like a puppet in the hands of a skilled manipulator, Quintus and his cronies had walked right into it. If it weren’t for their all-consuming pity for the orphans and desolate people in Ackbury, Taranis would never have been able to achieve this… this glowing success.

Taranis smiled softly, his piercing eyes like ice. I suppose I must thank him for doing my work for me. He turned away from the window and straightened his suit collar, his dark clothes fading into the shadows. He pulled out his white mask, a simple yet terrifying symbol that covered his whole face. It was Reddair’s face, the easily recognizable crescent mouth and eye holes cut into the thin ceramic. It was a trick of white and black. Taranis slipped it on and smoothly opened the door before him with one white-gloved hand.

He stepped into the large room, what was once a wide expanse of marble and gilt finish, still echoing with the faint voices of nobility. Their ghosts might still haunt the mansions’ halls, but for now they existed only in Taranis’ mind’s eye, and he stepped through their twirling forms, the ballroom a wash of expensive fabric and piano music. He saw at the same time the bright colors and forms of times past and the present, cobwebbed state. The grand piano to one side still glistened ebony under the frail shawl of dust and webs, and Taranis decided he would brush it off and play a song or two after this business was finished.

He walked past it to the center of the dim ballroom, and finally looked to the head of the room, where a figure was hurriedly rummaging through the oak chest at the foot of the stairs. Taranis chuckled to himself, a sort of happy satisfaction filling him. He placed a hand on his hip and watched for a moment, taking in Quintus’ bent form with a sharp eye. He was wearing the same dirty and torn overalls, his ruffled blonde hair adorned with a cobweb and a twig. Around his shoulders was the satin cape – a gift from the Mayor in recognition of his efforts. It sagged around him, out of place on the farm boy’s shoulders. Taranis caught a glimpse of the pendant swinging from his neck, and smiled. Good job, Quinty. You did just as I wished.

“Quint!” He called, his voice neither sharp and dangerous, nor soft and friendly. Instead it was just a word, thrown across the marble floor with no intention. Quintus spun around, his cape twisting unhelpfully around his legs. He’s too short for this job, Taranis thought. Quintus gasped at the sight of Reddair, his archnemesis. His right hand grabbed for his pendant, and his face contorted into a determined frown.

“Reddair. I’ve come to stop you.”

Taranis chuckled at the words, so cliché – so predictable. Quintus had slipped into the role of the hero quite easily, with all the fairytales he’d loved in his childhood to supply him with phrases like this. “It doesn’t look like that. All I see is a farm boy too big for his britches… and stolen jewelry.” Taranis held out a hand, staying where he was. “Hand it over.”

“It’s not yours, Reddair!” Quintus growled. “This belongs to the ancient family of-”

“-Lady Agatha’s family?” Taranis interrupted. Quintus’ eyes widened. “Oh, I knew that, I think everyone does at this point. But this is their mansion, is it not?”

Quintus just sputtered. “H-how do you – she’s not – I mean, she is, but-”

Taranis rolled his eyes behind his mask. “She told me herself, so I suppose you could say I have it firsthand. I knew she had to be some sort of noble, with blood like hers. A lovely azure color, to be sure.”

Quintus froze. “…What? Blood?” All the color drained from his face, and Taranis watched it with interest.

“Oh, you had feelings for her, didn’t you? Poor kid,” he said, shaking his head. “That’s such a bummer. You know,” he said, taking on the tone of a friend giving relationship advice, “If you had told me sooner I would have let you two meet again before I… but let’s not dwell on that. Just give me the pendant, and I can send you to her.”

Quintus, shocked, couldn’t speak, but the strength in his legs had failed and he sank onto the chest behind him.

Taranis felt a deep tiredness. He was surprised by it. Perhaps all his planning, his endless plotting, had drained him more than he thought, but the sight of the reckless boy trying to push through his fear was no longer a delicious victory. Taranis checked himself and looked inwards. Yes, it was as he thought. He just no longer cared. Slowly, he lifted a hand and undid the ties to his mask. It fell away and he let it slip through his fingers, shattering on the floor. The tinkle of the shards echoed in the empty ballroom, and Quintus gasped.

“T-Tar? Taranis?” Taranis shrugged. “Y-you’re Reddair?” Taranis felt that now would be the time to laugh callously and explain his plans to Quint, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. “Tar, you… you can’t be.” Quint, now utterly confused, stepped forward, his cape slipping off with a silent flap behind him. His muddy boots left tracks on the marble as he approached Taranis, who stood with his hands in his suit pockets, watching.

“Tar-”

“Don’t call me that.” Quint recoiled from his sharp words, and the eyes that had wooed all the maidens of Wellston stared into Taranis’, trying to make sense of everything. They widened as he reasoned out every event, every interaction with Reddair, the scourge of Ackbury.

“You were the one that night in the theatre! You took the sword! You… you ruined the wedding, and you burned all the application forms for the Ackbury Redemption Act. You ruined all our efforts to help Ackbury.” As Quintus put two and two together, Taranis just stood there, looking around slightly and watching the old chandelier move to and fro with the invading wind.

“Tar, you monster.” Taranis’ attention was called back to Quint, whose eyes now dripped tears. “You… did you kill Agatha?” Taranis shrugged. He knew perfectly well what had happened to the girl, but his tiredness filled him, gluing his mouth shut. “Tar!” Quint grabbed his shoulders and shook him angrily, slumped, sobbing, his hands still clutching Taranis’ suit. “Tar, the orphans…”

He eyed the pendant, swinging from Quint’s neck. All this, for a necklace with no true power or meaning – just a symbol. Just a theoretical victory. He shook his head inwardly at how mental it all was. The farm boy, crowned a hero, weeping in front of the villain, a man who had hidden in the shadows with his glittering jewels until now, when he stood in the center of the decrepit Ackbury Manor ballroom, staring up at the painted ceiling damaged by water. The sound of Quint crying was the only sound now, but Taranis closed his eyes and heard the ghosts of the dancers again, the swirling music, the tap-tap-tap of sturdy dress shoes and the clack-clack of high heels, the swish of fine cloth, and the laughter of people enjoying the night. The glitter of a pure jewel on the neck of a delicate lady, and the sound of soft whispers behind a large fern by the refreshments. He stood again at the wide doorway, peering in at the whirlwind of color, his small hands clutching the fine chain of a broken necklace. He stared down at the tiny diamond in his palm, the facets shining in the light of the crystal chandelier. It was the first jewel he’d ever owned, and its bright core sparked an obsession.

Quint pulled himself upright again and shook Taranis feebly, bringing him to the present again. “Why, Tar?” he asked. “Why?”

Taranis watched his eyes with detached interest. “Why not?”

Quint’s eyes narrowed in hate and he pushed himself away, stumbling back. Taranis stood still. “You’re despicable.” It was spat out.

“And you’re full of fake heroism. Where’s the challenge to a duel? Where’s the revenge speech? Where,” Taranis asked, stepping closer and feeling something well up inside him, a need for something he couldn’t quite speak. “Where is the hero, Quint?”

“I-” Quint gasped, tears still tracking down his cheek, “I am the hero.” He drew himself up.

“We both know that’s not true,” Taranis said, prying at the feeling inside himself with desperation. “Where’s the hero, Quint?!” He shouted. His voice ricocheted off the dusty walls and caught in the heavy drapes, sticking. It doesn’t make sense, he thought. There’s supposed to be a villain and a hero.

“I’m the villain, Quint, where’s the hero?” He yelled again. Quint put his head in his hands, stumbling back from Taranis’ strident voice. His eyes peeked through his fingers, though, and darted to the side door, seeking escape.

“You cold hearted thief,” Taranis continued, his eyes flashing. “You’re not even here to fight me. You were looking for that letter, right?” Quint shook his head, too hard, and backed away. His blue eyes now had a shadow in them, their constant shifting finally showing his nature. Taranis walked forward and loomed over him. “Quint, look at me. I’m the villain. But you’re not the hero. Even Agatha knew that. That’s why she left!”

Quintus froze at the name and stared at him. “She …left?”

Taranis turned away and flung his arms out at the ballroom. “There’s nothing left for her here. You know as well as me that she wanted something, anything else than staying in this godforsaken town – this country – and moldering with the portraits of her family.” He recalled her parting words to him at the dock, the mist swirling around her like a cloak.

Don’t let Quint run away with himself. Not a word for him, for her childhood town, for her ancient family line. Just a warning and a quick handshake, then the loudly rocking boat rowing away into the dark.

“How dare you!” Quint gritted his teeth. “You’re lying. Agatha would never leave, she loved this place more than anyone – more than you.” Still, there was the shadow in his eyes, as though he knew the truth of what Taranis had said and couldn’t deny it to himself.

“It’s true,” Taranis said softly, his eyes blurring the nobles into the ballroom around them again. “She loved it more than anything. That’s what made its loss so painful for her.” He focused his eyes and looked down at Quintus. “She had to leave, Quint.”

Quint stared at the floor, shoulders heaving. Taranis felt the tension inside the other, and knew something was coming, just as he felt the rain increase outside the window. Out of the corner of his eye, a flash of lightning lit up the courtyard of the mansion, and he turned, waiting for the thunder. He stared out at the dark clouds, the pain of years long past a faint memory. Now all he had was tiredness. Fatigue and no hope at all for a change. The ash that covered the fields of Ackbury would stay, and the despairing townspeople would continue to struggle, while Taranis would hold his jewels close and watch the manor fall apart.

Taranis heard the thunder begin, a rolling roar that pushed through the clouds and down into his mind, filling his ears. He closed his eyes again, feeling the wet breeze through the broken glass of the window, hearing the scuff of Quint’s boot on the marble behind him. He breathed in the ash-dirt-rain smell and felt his hair ruffle in the breeze. In that moment, he felt nothing, a blissful emptiness instead of ambition, hatred, or loneliness. He felt like the pure jewel, encased in gold and swinging on a pale neck in the light and sound of a joyous ball, all shadows reflected away in shining facets.

The knife in the hero’s hand slashed across his shoulder, Quint’s unsteady grip loosening immediately after, and it clanged to the floor, a spatter of blood glistening on the marble floor. Taranis reacted to the blow, twisting in pain and grabbing his shoulder. Quintus fled, grabbing his satin cape and scrambling for the side door. The cape flapped behind him in his grasp, and the door banged behind him, flying open again with the impact. Taranis, with eyes squinted in pain, saw Quintus’ dark figure fleeing through the weedy courtyard, lit by another flash of lightning.

“Too… afraid… to finish the job,” Taranis said, half chuckling, and knelt. He lifted the knife from the floor and inspected the blood dripping off the tip. It was a deep purple color, the mixing of noble and commoner bloodlines evident. Quintus’ fear of blood was perhaps his lifesaver, he reflected. Taranis wondered what would become of Ackbury after this. Will Quintus give up on being a hero? He laughed softly, still holding his shoulder gingerly. Of course not. Agatha knew that, I knew that.

For a moment, he contemplated what might happen if he went after Quint and tried to expose him to the townsfolk. It would never work. Taranis fumbled at his suit pocket and pulled out the fine gold chain, knotted and tangled with itself, the tiny flash of a diamond hanging from it. His fingers stained it purple as he fondled it, his eyes tracing every link in the chain, every glitter and every flash from the jewel. Then he staggered to the broken window, scanning the garden. Quint was long gone.

Taranis held out the necklace, a memento of a twinkling memory. His hand opened, and the necklace

fell

its gold threads twisting around the diamond

as it plunged into the shadows of the courtyard below.

He saw one final flash… and it was gone.

Thunder rumbled, and Taranis turned away, limping across the ballroom to the door, his feet crunching through the shards of his mask. He slipped away into the shadows again, and the light and sounds of the nobles dancing faded into the cobwebs.