Not A Fairy Tale: Extract From The Last Son

Caph’s lover has been sleeping for twenty-five years. This is taken from the morning he wakes up, and from Caph’s reaction to hearing the news.

Caph walked at first, deaf to the noises of the streets. Trembling and incredulous, he was assailed by memories, assaulting him like the great tsunami that had destroyed the old wharf: a room above a bar, the hot embrace of a strong, muscled body, the laughter and easy caresses that had followed.

The open shark-jaws on the wall, all stained, white teeth.

The tale of the Maestro’s Sleeping Lover was well-known across the city. It had become legendary, a storybook romance. The sleeper was Aden of Ivar, the hero who’d lain down his life, his mind, to help save the city entire. The man who’d sealed himself in the stone, that the Maestro might live on.

By every blazing hell…

Like Caph’s ‘Maestro’ legend, like Aden’s very name, it was a lie. An obfuscation, a necessary fiction. Select pieces of stories, all stitched together and decked out in fabulous costume. And there was so much more, truths that had been omitted, things that not even Darrah knew, and that Caph had always kept concealed.

The thoughts were cold as dread, dripping down his back. He walked faster, trying to prepare himself for the shock, for the realisation of his twenty-five year dream, or for its final shattering. He passed through the old district gateway, telling himself, over and over again, to keep his perspective. That time had faded fact to fantasy, and then to fable. He understood that, it was inevitable.

Another memory: Darrah losing his temper, and going up to the Hospital with a pickaxe. Caph hadn’t known until weeks later, but, just like Caph’s music, Darrah’s fury had left not a crack upon that sleeping stone figure, not so much as a mark. Jay had stopped the whirlwind, but the resulting row had been the beginning of the end.

He should have died! Darrah had raged. Then at least you would have been free! Free to love! Free to have a life!

His chest tight, Caph shoved the thought away. Needing to know what had happened, yet terrified of what he might find, he threw aside his age and dignity and broke into a run. People started as he passed them, but he didn’t care.

He couldn’t keep the pace. Cursing his years, he slowed down, gulping air to steady himself as he laboured wearily up the long, spiral stairs. When he finally reached the upper level, he had to stop, leaning against the wall to let his stitch ease and his heart slow.

Before him, the Builders’ great, metal artworks gleamed like laughter. They sang, their music inhuman, angular, but their message clear, There you are, Caphen Talmar, the city’s first Builder in a thousand generations. You think you’re one of us? Really?

Ignoring their mockery, he started running again. The gardens were bright and sunlit; the surviving old High Family estates now repurposed as schools and museums. The strident tones of a dragon-preacher, a Kei-following fanatic, carried loud on the wind. There was a young woman, sitting reading a book. A tidy snake of students, obediently taking notes.

All of it so… normal. So indicative of the city’s long rebuild, now formally over, and so oblivious of the great change that had just cracked Caph’s world to the core.

He had no idea what would come next.

When he reached the Hospital, the forecourt was empty. Like a man facing an enemy, he strode across the quad, throwing both front doors open with bang. Then he ran down the wing to its far end, scattering orderlies from his path, and reaching the place he knew so well.  

There, he had to stop, catch himself up. Try to breathe, to ease the nausea, the thumping of his chest.

What the hell could he even say? Proteus - Aden - would still be thirty. He’d be fifty-five. He’d understand and remember. He’d have no knowledge of the intervening time. He’d be shocked at Caph’s age, but pleased to see him. He’d need space to readjust. He’d hurl himself into Caph’s arms. He’d push him away. He’d want a new start, and nothing more to do with him. He’d be ruined, suffering brain-damage from the long coma.

Closing his eyes against the onslaught, Caph listened, but could hear nothing. No voice long remembered, or long forgotten.

So many futures lurked here, in this very next moment…

He was not a superstitious man, but the prayer to Kei, to Vei, to Austen’s memory, was inevitable.

Taking a breath like it was his last, he pushed open the door.

The follow-up to Children of Artifice, The Last Son is all about what happens when that fairy tale lover finally stirs. Because the first one was so powerful, so intense to write, it’s proving to be one of the hardest things I’ve ever done, but it will see the light of day soon, I hope.

(There are also a couple of bits of interim fiction, telling some of Caph’s relationship with Darrah, here).

Reading: Galaxy of Horrors. What else?

Watching: Everyone’s talking about it, Doctor Who. I really hope tonight’s is better than the last one. (Warning: linked review contains spoilers).

Playing: Reaching the closing fights of Baldur’s Gate 3. Have completed both Astarion’s quest line and Wyll’s, and am now trying to complete Shadowheart’s, but that last boss is a real bitch. Bit miffed that the characters max out at 12th level (though Larian had trouble coding the really heavy-duty spells, apparently) and hoping that my poor battlin’ Druid can beat the Big Nasty without actually turning into a you-know-what…