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“No, we'll keep it. I'll keep it,” you decide, softly shaking your head. Reaching out once more, you trace a finger down the burning heart emblazoned on the bright silver. Just for a moment, a fleeting fraction of a second, you see the metal stained with dark rivulets of blood. A blink later, and the image is gone once more. The metal is as bright as the light of the full moon.
“Isambard,” Alex warns, “I don't think-”
“I've made my decision, Alex,” you interrupt, “You said it yourself – my father's crimes are not my crimes. I won't have this piece destroyed just because you're getting squeamish.”
Alex studies you carefully, his eyes darkened with sadness, and you feel a sharp pang of regret for your words. As much as you want to apologise, though, you somehow can't form the words.
“Very well,” the older man decides, his face set in a grim mask, “But you're carrying it home, not me.”
-
You ponder your father's deeds as you walk home, the awkward weight of the cuirass preventing your thoughts from wandering very far at all. Your earlier revulsion has somewhat cooled, leaving behind more of a curiosity. When he shed blood and danced in orgiastic rituals, what did he see? What kind of being did he contact, and what did it reveal to him?
It could all have been primitive superstition, you take pains to remind yourself, the natives may not have been any better than the Godhead's faithful – both screaming prayers into a void with no hope of an answer.
But what if they didn't go unanswered?
Strix, Stryx, Strix, Stryx...
You wish you hadn't asked Alex for their name. It's going to be echoing through your mind all day now, and probably all night. You'll hear it in your dreams, assuming you sleep at all. Idly, you wonder if this is what going mad feels like.
Ariel is waiting for you when you return, sitting on the manor's front steps with the scope from her rifle. Slipping the scope back into her pocket, she leaps to her feet and gives you a big wave. “Wow, nice armour,” she remarks as you approach, “Looks heavy though.”
“It's not really, but it's awkward to carry,” you grunt, “Is that you offering to take it off me?”
“Absolutely not,” Ariel laughs, “But I'll get the door for you. That's helpful, right?”
“Close enough.”
Carrying the cuirass inside, you set it down in the hallway and dust off your chafed hands. It would have been easier to just wear the damn thing, but that would have meant stripping off in the middle of the postal office. You weren't quite that desperate. Alex murmurs an excuse and leave you alone with Ariel, her gaze following him out of the room.
“He's in a bad mood,” she notices, “Did you two have an argument or something?”
“Not exactly,” you answer vaguely, “Just a gentlemanly disagreement. You wouldn't really understand.”
“Clearly not,” Ariel remarks, one corner of her mouth twitching up in a smirk.
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