Welcome to Gaia! ::

Malodore made its way across the Amityville campus, its movements purposeful and direct in a way they had not been for some days. The swamp was not too far away, and it had Fedele balancing on its shoulder to guide it. As the ground under it turned to muck, the plague doctor didn't bother lifting up its coat to avoid the damp. Speed was more important than cleanliness at this juncture.

Finally, finally, it rounded a moss-draped tree and spotted two tall, thin figures standing near a tethered boat. Above them, the branches were covered with black crows; each figure also bore one crow on each of their shoulders. "Zia Armida," it called out, still speaking in Italian. "It's me, Malodore - Loreto -" It came to a stop in front of them, mud-spattered, wings shaking slightly from exertion.

"Wicked child," Armida sighed, her voice emerging from Ligeia's beak. Her movements were guarded, but there was a thread of gentleness in the crow-voice. "We see you. What has happened?"

Malodore glanced at the other plague doctor - also maskless in the traditional sense, but shrouded in black and bearing a beak-free mask of white porcelain, as did all of Armida's little colony of exiled Cirurgien plague doctors. It couldn't tell who it might be, or even if it ought to recognize that other silent figure. "I... much has happened, Zia Armida, much. I am so glad you came, I... I have been so alone," it said, voice very small, as if it were once again the plagueling that Armida had first met.

After a moment, Armida shook her head. "I forget, wicked child, that you do not see as I do. Here: this is Celeste, come home to us at last." She reached out one hand and settled it into the other plague doctor's grasp.

Malodore blinked - the last time it had seen Celeste, she had still be in the Casa, masked and utterly furious at it. Without her help, it wouldn't have escaped the Casa Cirurgien without being unmasked as both Armida and now Celeste herself had been. It bowed to her. "Zia Celeste..."

"Hm," was all that came from Celeste's speaking-crow.

"Now, my wicked Malodore-child," Armida said, "I have seen some of your... antics. Your wings, as you know... your friendships. Your mate - she would be your mate, yes? The purple-fleshed ghoul I spoke to?"

The familiar, weary stab of pain was somewhat circumvented by Malodore's surprise at Armida's mention of speaking. "You spoke to Riley? When?" it blurted out.

"When Fedele came to you. Only once did I use his beak to speak, though I have sometimes used his eyes to see - not overmuch, of course. The Casa and my own people remain my priority. But I wished to know something of your progress." Armida nodded towards Malodore's wings. "It seemed all was well, but then Fedele brought your message."

"M-my... my Riley is gone," it whispered, past the familiar tightness growing in its throat. "She is dead, dead in truth. I... oh, Zia, I do not deserve my wings." It began to shake. "She had an affliction, an infection of sorts, and I knew of it but did not treat it. And it killed her. I killed her, through my inaction. I have committed the greatest sin a plague doctor can commit."

There was a long silence, broken only by the rustling and soft cawing of the crows overheard, and the lapping of water at the muddy shore. Finally, Armida spoke again. "Shall I, then, count sin in the way the Cirurgiens do? Am I, then, as hidebound and inflexible as those we left behind?"

Its head jerked up in surprise. "I... no, but..."

She had no eyes, but the twin gaze of both the porcelain mask and Odilia was somehow doubly piercing. "If you have come to me for punishment, that I might somehow 'redeem' you through cruelty and discipline, then Celeste and I shall depart immediately." Her words were blunt, and Malodore flinched away. "I will not be party to your emotional shambling. Oh, hear me," she added, as Malodore's beak opened, "I am no stranger to pain. My mask is gone: so, there is the proof. I understand your grief, and I honor it. But I did not come all this way to berate you. Nor did I come to hold you. You understand?"

"I..." Malodore took a deep breath, for the calming effect; the scent and humidity of the swamp reminded it of home. "I... I'm not sure that I do, Zia Armida," it admitted. "But I do not want you to go..."

She studied it for a moment longer, then nodded. "It is enough. Child, there is a small hut not far from here, open for weary travelers. Go and set your affairs in order for a day or two, then return to us there. Fedele will know the way." The crow cawed, then glided down to land on Malodore's shoulder.

It bowed its head. "A thousand thanks, Zia... ah, should I bring anything?"

"Bring... no, not your little pets - present company accepted," she added, as Fedele cawed indignantly. "Bring the bloodmetal I gave to you."

A faint shiver ran through Malodore's frame, but it nodded agreement. Surely she would want to take it back; it was not worthy of bearing wings any longer. "Is there anything else?"

"Hm." There was a pause. "Bring any mementos of your mate."

It flinched, spreading its hands in protest. "What? Why? I don't... Zia, they are in my room, and I... I don't want to go in there..."

She - or rather Odilia - fixed it with a steely gaze. "You are afraid of entering a room?"

It bowed its head further, this time out of shame rather than respect. "I... I will do as you say," it said, wings rustling to show its unease. "When?"

"As soon as you can." Armida turned, steadying Celeste as the other plague doctor stepped into their boat. "Do this swiftly, then return... and we shall talk."

"Yes, Zia Armida," it mumbled, feeling nothing but confusion; Armida had effectively greeted it with the emotional equivalent of a slap in the face. "I will return soon."

"Good. Until then, my wicked Malodore-child." The older plague doctor stepped back into the boat herself, picking up the boat's pole and planting it onto the swamp bottom with ease. Malodore bowed again, then watched numbly as the boat vanished back into the mist.

The little shack was not difficult to find. Now that it was occupied, it glowed like a beacon in the swamp, attracting moths, scareflies, and will-o-wisps. Malodore bent under the weight of the sack, clutching it tightly to avoid dropping it into the slime and muck that it waded through. The shack was on the end of a muddy promontory, sheltered under the spreading, moss-draped branches of two venerable trees. The shack was also decidedly easier to reach by boat, but Malodore had no desire to add 'frustration at boat' to its list of woes.

It knocked on the door, which swung open at its touch; it walked inside without looking, gaze fixed on the small, rickety table in front of it. It slung the bag down with a thump. "There," it grated, in its native tongue, "there. Everything, damn you. Much good may it do you."

Armida was sitting at the table across from Celeste, her hands folded in her lap. "So I see," the crow-voice said, calmly. "You were not afraid?"

"I was, but I went anyway," it snapped, releasing its hold on the bag and taking a few steps backwards. It felt unstable, irrational. It had lost its anchor and the world was tilting; worse, it was utterly aware of how irrational it was, while feeling utterly powerless to stop it. "Why did you make me go?"

"Because it was important." Armida opened the bag; Odilia hopped from her shoulder to the table, peering inside so her mistress could see the contents. "I see. Ah... yes. That will work." She reached inside. Malodore closed its eyes, trying not to listen to the way its only remaining treasures sounded as she rooted through them.

The sound of a chair pushing back made its eyes open again; to its surprise, Armida was still sitting down and looking through the bag. It was Celeste that stood before it. This close, it could make out the details of her porcelain mask: the face wore a gentle smile, the Reaper equivalent of the tenderness she had shown to all the young plaguelings under her care, an expression utterly at odds with her stiff, tense body language. "Walk with me," Celeste's speaking-crow croaked.

"But-"

"Walk," and this time it was a command. Malodore swallowed its frustration and bowed its head.

Moths fluttered at it as it left the shack, following Celeste; it had no idea what to do or say, both because of its current turbulent feelings and because of what had happened the last real time it had interacted with Celeste. The older plague doctor had been its teacher from a very young age, but had grown brittle and bitter after her mate Armida's exile from the Casa. Still, without Celeste's help, Malodore itself would have lost its sight and speech and had to rely on crows to provide those services, just like Armida and Celeste did. Their last real parting had been marked by that old, old bitterness and anger.

A faint sound, like the clearing of a throat, came from underneath Celeste's mask. Then her speaking-crow opened its beak. "Loreto."

It swallowed again. "Zia Celeste."

There was a long silence before she spoke again. "I did not save you because of you. You know that. You were simply in the right place at the right time."

"I know," it grated, shaking its head, trying not to be rude to her - but why was she telling it what it already knew?

"You have lost one that you loved."

"... Yes." Its wings rustled in frustration. "Zia, with all due respect, why-"

"Because I do not want you to be as I was. As I am," Celeste said, sharply. The crow-voice had none of the raspy quality that her true voice had had, but the intonation was still teacher enough that Malodore automatically shot bolt upright. "I thought my Armida was dead when they took her - when they tore out her wings and threw her into the swamp. How could anyone survive? The Elders told us survival was impossible. We believed them - we were raised from birth to believe them. So I did. For ten years."

Malodore tensed, startled - it knew some of Celeste and Armida's story, including that Armida had been exiled long before it had even been born, but it hadn't realized that Armida's survival had ever been in doubt. "I... I did not know," it said, finally.

"Of course you didn't." Celeste shook her head and took several steps away from Malodore; although she was facing away from it, her seeing-crow kept glancing back, keeping it in her sights. "Did you see her die? Your mate?"

Its beak ground against itself. "... Yes."

"I am sorry, for what little that is worth." The crow's eyes glittered in the wisp-light. "The sight, the memories, they will fester in you. They will harden into stones that your flesh breaks on with every movement... if you allow them to." Malodore looked away, unable to respond; the description was accurate. "They will bring you no joy. Your time spent with them will become only a curse. Do you want that to happen?"

It reared back, startled. "No! Of course I don't! She... I miss her, I..." It swallowed tears, for what felt like the thousandth time. "I want to remember her... without this pain, this... this ache. I miss her." Its voice dropped below a whisper.

"Of course you do," she said, though there was no soothing tone in the crow-voice. "So. Do not be like me. Do not let those memories turn to bitter stones in your heart. Hah." She snorted, a soft sound that emanated from behind her mask, rather than from her crow's beak. "Plague doctors - we are, within our self-imposed limits, masters of the body... but we expect the heart, the emotional heart, to heal the same way as the physical. It is not so. Scars do not heal, they harden. And then you become old and stubborn and stupid."

"I don't think you're stupid," it offered.

Celeste snorted again. "I did not say that so you could offer me pithy reassurance, plagueling... though you aren't a plagueling any more, are you? You've grown up." She turned partway towards it, the seeing-crow adjusting its stance to compensate for the movement. "So perhaps there is hope for you. You are young and vital still, and the young always heal better than the old."

Malodore looked away. "But... Armida came back. Eventually. My... my Riley will not."

"She did come back, yes," Celeste said, simply. "But the Armida I had loved died that day. It was another Armida that came to me, and by that time I had become another Celeste. We were fortunate that the people we had become could learn to love each other again. I still miss her as she was, and her presence as she is now does not fully blunt that loss."

"I... I see." Its voice was quiet. "I don't want that to happen, I... I just miss her. Everything hurts, Zia, I... it wasn't this bad, when I thought Ettore was dead. Not even close."

"A mate is different from a friend." She took a few more steps forward, swamp water splashing as she entered the shallows. "We are plague doctors - we are driven to find solutions, to think that everything can be solved. That if we say only this thing or that thing, perhaps mix this or that remedy, anything is curable. It is not so. It was disease that took her?"

"... Yes."

"Even in the Casa, this happens. That is why the trust-blades are kept sharpened," she reminded it. "You may wish to explain to me why the blame is yours and yours alone. I do not care." Abashed, Malodore shut its beak. "It has happened already. Is it likely to happen again?"

"... not to one I love, no. Perhaps to others I care about."

"Then fight for them, but do not grow stiff and silent around your pain. In this, the heart is as the body: stagnancy breeds ill humours. I hold no particular love for you, Loreto, as my Armida seems to," she said, frankly. "You are one among a thousand plaguelings I raised, nothing more. But you have shared a pain I have tasted, so. I warn you now, as I warned you and Ettore so long ago. Perhaps this time I will be listened to." She had no beak to smile with, but the wry twist was in the crow-voice nevertheless.

Malodore bowed its head. "I will... keep that in mind, Zia. I... I thank you."

"Armida did not ask me to come, you know," she said, turning and walking towards, then past, it. "She was going to go alone." With that, the older plague doctor vanished back into the hut. Malodore hesitated, taking a deep breath and listening to the sounds of the swamp for a moment.

Then it squared its shoulders and followed her in.

When Malodore awoke, it fought a moment of powerful disorientation until it remembered where it was - tucked into a simple cot, under Armida and Celeste's care. The plague doctor sat up slowly, peering around; it was alone in the shack, and the dim light of the pumpkin sun flickered in through the windows. There was a crow on the table, though, and when it saw Malodore it cawed and flew out the window.

They were outside, then.

Adjusting its hat on its head, Malodore opened the door. To its dismay, both Armida and Celeste were around their boat, a series of tarp-covered bundles now loaded into the back. "Are you leaving?" it said, wings flaring with sudden anxiety.

"We are, but not just yet," Armida replied, turning to face it. "Your sleep was restorative?"

"... a little," it admitted, walking over to join them. "It still hurts, Zia."

"Of course it does. Such wounds as you have sustained do not heal in an instant, even with your modern methods." She could not smile, but there was the hint of one in the crow's voice. "It will hurt for some time, perhaps for always, but there will be new joys if you allow it."

It nodded slowly, remembering what both she and Celeste had said last night. "Yes. I... I'll try, Zia Armida. Zia Celeste." It bowed to them.

"Good." To its surprise, she rested one hand on its shoulder for a moment before moving off, heading towards a tree stump off to one side. "Now. There is a task we must complete before we return to Corvilla. Come here, wicked child."

It followed obediently, then stopped in its tracks as it realized what was sitting on the tree stump: the bloodmetal. "You're not taking it with you?"

"Why should we do that?" That was Celeste, sounding just as exasperated as she ever had. "I taught you, Loreto; honor your teacher by using your mind."

It ducked its head. "My apologies... but..."

"You have just ascended a year, have you not?" Armida moved over to the stump and picked up the bloodmetal, settling it into the crook of one arm. "Did you not tell me that you intended to add to your wings a bit each year until they were complete?"

Malodore stared at her. "But I told you - I'm not worthy of them any more."

"By what metric? You have grown in intelligence and skill, child." She tapped at the bloodmetal with one claw. "There is not enough here to complete the wings, but the start you have made is good. A bit more, and there will be enough left over for you to feed into your pinions later, provided you tend to it properly. And if you say one more word about your unworthiness, I will close your beak myself!"

It kept staring, turning its gaze to Celeste, but her seeing-crow just stared back. "You... I..." It took a deep breath, wings shaking a bit, then bowed. "I... I accept, Zia Armida... thank you."

"I told you it'd see sense," Celeste said, shaking her head.

"I never doubted," Armida replied, then held the bloodmetal out to Malodore. "How did you place the initial spars? I assume you crafted them, then performed surgery to get them implanted?"

"Yes. Riley helped me, as did a good friend. An Igor," it added, and both plague doctors nodded. The skill of Igors as assistants was known even in the Casa. "I, ah, had thought that I would increase the wing structure to its full size..."

"A reasonable plan," Armida agreed. "So, now. It requires a bit more material, I think, but you brought some with you that will be suitable." After Malodore took the bloodmetal into its own hands, she reached down and produced Riley's metal pauldrons.

It stared at her. "Those? They're... they're hers, I..."

Armida sighed. "My dear, wicked child... you grow so soft, so timid, so afraid of being hurt with every mention, every memory," she said, quietly. "Listen, then: she was a part of you, was she not? Then allow this bit of her to become part of you in truth. She is worthy... as are you."

It turned that stare to the pauldrons, imagining her flesh under them. Not a part of her, not literally, but... it was close enough. "Very well," it said, voice barely above a whisper. "I'll do it."

She held the pauldrons out to it without a word.

Gently, Malodore took first one pauldron and then the other, settling the metal against the bloodmetal in its hands. Instantly, the bloodmetal warmed, changing consistency to flow over the pauldrons, taking the baser metal into itself and transforming it into its own substance - the substance that would become Malodore's new wings. A tear dripped from Malodore's mask, unbidden; the droplet hissed on contact with the bloodmetal and became part of it as well.

When it was done, it wordlessly held the bloodmetal out to Armida; she took it, and immediately the bloodmetal began to reshape itself. "You, too, so they do not think they are meant for me," she chuckled, and Malodore came to her side, reaching out to join its FEAR with hers.

Together, the shape of great, skeletal spars began to form in their hands, this time shaped not by flame but by FEAR. The bloodmetal was responsive; perhaps the substance, which had once made up Armida's old wings, remembered both its old owner and new. Armida's movements were deft, speaking to her experience as a former Elder, in which she had made wings for many others. "To soar, to move forward, to ascend," she said, nearly singing the simple words as the metal flowed under her claws. Malodore echoed them, swallowing back the lump in its throat.

At last, it was done, and Armida gestured for Malodore to turn itself. "Did it hurt much, the first time?"

It shuddered visibly. "Extremely."

"Hah. Well, then - this time will be different. We are merely adding to what already exists, so. It is not the same. And you will find our healing arts are far greater than your own; wicked though you may be, you are still a child," Armida said, her smile audible in the crow-voice. "Take down your coat."

Malodore obeyed, slowly undoing the clasps of its coat, shrugging it free so that the fabric hung around its waist. The movement was embarrassing, exposing its bandages so, and it twitched instinctively when Armida tugged aside the bandages around its current wings. It hunched, growing tense in anticipation of pain, gathering its remaining FEAR in preparation to make the new wingspars its own. "Are you ready, Zia?"

"One moment." There was movement, a tug at one wing, and then something bright in its field of vision: Riley's ring. It took it, shakily, slipping it over one claw. "There, now. We are prepared.

Brace yourself, child."

When it opened its eyes again, the world swam into focus - the roof of the shack, again, and then sudden movement. A small weight landed on its chest, shifted, and cawed before taking off again, buffeting the plague doctor's face with air.

It sat up slowly, taking in the expanse of its new wings, the way they moved and shifted in response to its own movements. Experimentally, it tried to move them, and felt only a little stiffness in the muscles. It spent some moments with its head turned back, watching and testing to see what type of muscle movement produced what sort of result.

The crow watched from the windowsill, chuckling to itself in corvid amusement.

Finally, Malodore got to its feet. "Zia Armida? Zia Celeste?" it called out, but there was no response other than a second caw. It emerged from the sleeping alcove to a main room empty of both plague doctors and their things; a glance through the window revealed that the boat was gone. But Fedele was on the table, along with the bag Malodore had brought, all its contents safely tucked back inside it. There was also a note, which it picked up and unfolded at once.





And that was all.

Malodore shook its head and folded the note again, its beak opening in a small smile. It then shouldered the bag; Fedele took flight and landed on its other shoulder, peering warily at the new wings stretched out behind it. "I'll be as you are, soon," it informed the crow, reaching up to scratch at his head with its free hand.

As it left the shack, the last remaining crow spiraled out through the window. It circled above for a moment, then laughed and flapped up into the canopy, vanishing into the fading light of the pumpkin sun. The will-o-wisps were starting to come out, tracing the swamp in light.

In its memory, Riley circled its waist with her arms, not turning to stone this time, but warm and laughing in its mind, pressing her skin to its beak and kissing it in the way only a mindflayer could.

Stretching its wings, Malodore took a step forward.

Then another one.

And another.

I miss you, mia cara... oh, I miss you, and it still hurts more than I could imagine, and I will cry and scream again before I am well... but I will not grow brittle and cold. I will not become another Malodore than the one you loved, distant and living only for my anger...

I will be as Zia Armida said.

I will be strong enough.