Gael’s boots thudded against the worn, uneven steps as he made his way downstairs, the creaking of the stairs echoing in the quiet of the orphanage.
His breaths were steady, but his thoughts were jumbled, a tangled ss of half-ford theories and questions. He had to know. He needed to know. He stepped into the wilted central garden, eyes scanning the grey greenery until he quickly spotted the slumbering three-headed hounds.
Beelining straight for the largest hound sleeping in the shade of a dead oak near the far end of the garden, he made a point to grip his walking cane behind him. He didn’t want to scare the hounds with its clicks and clacks. That, and his ‘Miasma Mantle’ mutation covering his scent, allowed him to walk undetected until he was right in front of its oversized snouts.
Now he was too close, though.
Whether it was just instinct or sothing else, the giant three-headed hound stirred, its massive body shifting as its heads snapped to attention at once. It imdiately craned its heads up to snarl weakly at him—but he simply held out his ungloved right hand, keeping them at bay.
“Easy, boys,” he muttered under his breath, extending his hand toward the middle head.
He felt he’d seen this particular hound before. Knew it well enough. His fingers twitched in the air, waiting for so kind of recognition or sign that the beast knew who he was, and, slowly—very cautiously—the three-headed hound began to settle.
The middle head—weak and still sowhat misshapen—leaned slightly forward, dragging the rest of its body with effort. It nudged his hand gently with its snout, a gesture that was almost affectionate, though the size and power behind it could have easily knocked an ordinary man onto his ass.
Well, Gael was still most of an ordinary man, so he barely registered the hound knocking him back onto the ground. He fell hard on his ass, dropping his cane, but as the three-headed hound kept nudging him with its squish nose, he couldn’t help but exhale a short, amused sigh.
“Good boy, Grimlet,” he murmured, reaching up to pat the middle head. Despite it being the only hound he really recognized, the other two heads wanted in on the action too, and they started pushing each other out of the way to get to his hand.
Despite its bulk, it acted almost like a giant puppy.
You really are my little Grimlet.
He could’ve stayed like this all day, just him and old Grimlet, but of course, Maeve’s voice broke through the mont.
“What are you thinking about?”
Gael didn’t bother turning around. His eyes remained fixed on his hound as he kept rubbing its heads.
“Damn annoying chain,” he muttered, running his hand along the hound’s neck where the three heads connected to the sa body. He traced the stitches and felt the unnatural way they pulled at the beast’s flesh. “I can’t ever go anywhere in peace, huh?”
His finger traced the stitches again, noting—just as much—the fine, precise work of the grafts holding the heads together. They were well done. Incredibly well done. He grimaced, muttering to himself again.
“These stitches are too damn neat. Whoever did this had too much ti to practise.”
Maeve moved closer, her footsteps tentative. She crouched down next to him, frowning as she eyed the stitched-together beast in front of him with a little worry. All three heads growled at her at first, but then he shushed them with a bop to the nose and shook his head. Grimlet understood ‘don’t kill’, at least. He was still the cute little puppy Gael had trained.
“... Evelyn’s story,” Maeve began quietly. “That doctor she ntioned... He’s a strange character, isn’t he?”
“A super-skilled doctor, indeed. A man who can graft three heads onto a single body, confidently say he can cure a dozen different sicknesses with just dicine, and then suggest a gutter rat to attack a Raven and a Caser is no ordinary man at all.” He scoffed. “It’s a Plagueplain Doctor wearing a different mask, no doubt about it. He implanted three Myrmurs into the girl, did sothing to help her keep them under control—in the process, weakening their auras so much that our eyes couldn't detect them until she was standing right in our field of vision—and now that she's been compromised, she's been abandoned.”
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Maeve stiffened slightly at the title, and Gael could feel her skepticism in the air. She didn’t speak right away, but he could see her processing the words in silence.
“Are you sure?” she asked.
“Yep.”
“How sure?”
“Well, not really. There are only seventy two of us across the Plagueplain Front. Right now, there shouldn’t be any here in Blightmarch. I’d know. Rumors about Plagueplain Doctors going sowhere travel faster than rats in a slaughterhouse, so if there is one in Blightmarch trying to keep a low profile by not wearing his raven mask, we gotta watch our damn backs.”
“You talk about them like you’re not one yourself.”
His gaze fell to the hound again, watching it shift slightly, the middle head looking up at him as if it understood.
“... I’m not,” he said plainly. “At least, not according to anyone worth listening to. I may wear the mask, but I didn’t inherit it the way most Plaguplain Doctors inherit theirs.”
Maeve gulped next to him. “How so?”
“You’re supposed to kill the one before you. Fight the Plagueplain Doctor, kill them, and take their mask and title.” He gave a short laugh, low and hollow. “But I didn’t kill the guy. There wasn’t a fight with any witnesses. I just ended up with the mask, no questions asked, so even if the mask is legitimate, nobody knows about . Nobody’s co looking for . The Church of Severin hasn’t sent its Inquisitors down to confirm my existence, and honestly, I prefer it that way. I’d rather not have to deal with Vharnveil.”
Silence hung in the air, heavy and thick like the air in a tomb until Maeve, ever so curtly, cut through it with a voice like a knife.
“Why wear the raven mask, then?” she asked. “If all it does is unnerve the people you’re trying to rope in as patients—”
“—I prefer the term ‘persuade’—”
“ —and you’re not getting any benefits from the Church of Severin, who usually sponsor the Plagueplain Doctors’ experints, then why?”
Gael didn’t answer imdiately. His fingers lingered on the Grimlet’s rough fur as his mind went sowhere darker. Maeve’s question wasn’t new. Hell, it wasn’t even the first ti she’d asked it, but… it felt different this ti, like she wasn’t just curious anymore.
What had changed about her?
What did she think about him now?
“... What’d you see in your dream?” he asked quietly. He didn’t look at her. He didn’t need to. He could just tell she was fidgeting with her hands, and that she was uncomfortable, not knowing what to say.
She opened her mouth once, closed it, and then finally spoke. “I saw… your father.”
Gael’s chest tightened. He didn’t let his expression change, but inside, a storm began to stir.
“Your father,” she continued, “getting killed by a Myrmur... coming out of your mother. And then an Exorcist killed it... after it killed him, which got toxic blood all over your eyes.” Her voice faltered as she finished, like the words themselves left a bitter taste in her mouth. “That Exorcist with the umbrella… I an, ‘Mistrender’ may be a rather uncommon morphing briefcase-weapon model, but I’m sure there are other Exorcists who also—”
“That’s cool. So the chain that connects us shares mories both ways,” he muttered under his breath. “It’s only fair, I guess. I saw your mories, so now it’s your turn. This is supposed to be a professional and equal relationship, isn’t it?”
But Maeve was insistent. “What happened after that dream?”
“Exactly as the Exorcist said she’d do,” he said casually. “I was sent to this orphanage at eight years old, and I stayed here for two years. Evelyn doesn’t recognize because she was much younger than when she saw as a kid—and because of the mask, I fucking suppose—but I rember seeing her around. And all these hounds running around in the garden... I rember them too.”
He stroked Grimlet’s head one more ti, smiling as his little hound started to doze off again.
“Didn’t stay long here, of course, but looking back?” he said. “Maybe it wasn’t so bad here. The hounds made it… bearable.”
And thankfully, before Maeve could ask another question, Cara’s voice suddenly rang out from above.
“Gael! Maeve! Co back up here and help pack so things from the orphanage! We’re taking what we can back to the clinic!”
Gael whirled over his shoulder and shouted, “Coming up!” Then he stood imdiately, and as he did, Grimlet started whining. The beast shifted its massive weight, leaning into him one last ti. Gael sighed, his hand lingering on its rough fur for just a mont longer.
“I’ll be back, I’ll be back,” he said, more to himself than the hound. “Just wait a bit longer. I’ll see if I can separate the three of you.”
Straightening up, he caught Maeve’s gaze. She was also standing just behind him, staring at him with a look he couldn’t quite place. There was a mont’s pause before Gael raised an eyebrow, annoyance lacing his voice as he asked, “What?”
Maeve’s mask covered her lower jaw, but he still saw it in her eyes: that faintest curve of her lips, the barest of smiles. It was so small, so fleeting, that for a second, he almost convinced himself he hadn’t seen it at all.
But then she shook her head and said nothing.
Not a word.
…
Gael had half a mind to open his mouth and prod, but he stopped himself. No point. So, he turned away, walking back towards the building. Maeve fell into step beside him, and oh, he knew she wanted to know.
She wanted to know what had happened between his arrival at the orphanage and the day he t her with a Raven’s mask.
Unfortunately, he’d never tell her voluntarily.
Not today.
Not ever.
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