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English
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Part 4 of tadfools associated.
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Published:
2024-01-19
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1,420
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1/1
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That old honey and vinegar

Summary:

Isobel speaks to her brother for the first, and last, time.

Notes:

can you imagine it? how isobel would go to the waning moon after dark and drink in the corner, on the house, and gossip with her bastard brother that everyone knew about, but never acknowledged until she did.

(See the end of the work for more notes.)

Work Text:

There was a splatter on the floor.

Rays of light poured through the creaking roof, the corpses of old patrons swaying in place where they’d been politely gathered by the Harpers. Their souls would be disentangled from their rotted bodies, she’d been promised, an apprentice necromancer in their ranks knowing enough to make a difference. Isobel had looked away out of shame at the sight of them, flinching when she heard the old barkeep mixing up words and phrases, like he’d been hit around the head rather than been dead for a hundred years.

‘And that was him?’ She asked faintly, not listening to the reply as she crouched down in front of the pile of flesh, bone and gore. A pale liquid ran through it all, congealed and almost green; remnants of the rancid brew that had killed the Waning Moon’s head brewer.

Her beloved was nearby, Aylin meandering around the upper floor as Isobel curled up like a child, arms around her knees, leaving her to her task. Everything stank. The whole of Reithwin stank. Isobel was glad she was leaving for Baldur’s Gate, but this…this was something she had to do. There were no books to read, and no-one left to ask.

Isobel’s hand rose. The skull necklace beneath her fingertips was so cool it could have been metal, but the texture was just that little off, and when she grasped it, Withers’ magic seeped from the pores. Green light glowed around her hand, and when Isobel threw out that hand like a lifeline, she called his name.

‘Thisobald Thorm!’

The old scribe had promised it would work, if only for a time. Unlike other artefacts with similar powers, Withers’ didn’t merely reanimate what echoes of consciousness remained, but summoned the entire soul, and whatever the vessel it needed to communicate.

Within the puddle of exploded flesh, used here as a talisman, the soul of her brother appeared in a sickly glow, gathering the flesh together before her eyes in a sagging facsimile of man. At first, Isobel was terrified of the sheer size of him, similar to her father in how he towered over her, but the girth put her off, such a difference between father and son that suddenly, the familiar shape of his cheekbones didn’t matter to her anymore.

‘My name is Isobel,’ she whispered, watching as grey eyes shifted down, down, down, until they reached her where she crouched on the floor. Thisobald, slow and simply, sat. There was a giant thud, that rippled through the floorboards and sent her toppling back, only caught by his gigantic hand swallowing her own. Green magic—glowing, rot-tasting, alive—swirled between them, palms both alight with the rune for death.

O Lady of Silver, forgive my transgressions. The magic was familiar to her in ways she hated contemplating, the nightmare of eternal darkness haunting her in her waking hours. Isobel’s only comfort was her armour. Supple. Holy. It warded her against evil and lit her from within with a fiery light, that only ever found itself close to extinguishment under the might of the Shadow Curse—and now, did naught. Thisobald’s presence was unnatural, but Isobel had given him an invitation.

‘I am your sister, I have come to understand,’ she spoke to him, still holding his hand. Isobel wanted to explain to him what she knew before wasting any valuable questions. ‘All the Thorms have found themselves undead, in a way. I was brought back to life. My aunt, Gerringothe, became a picture of greed in her golden armour, and my Uncle Malus fell so deeply into his worship of Shar that even I failed to recognise him when told the stories of his death. Until the mention of his name, at least.’

Gerringothe: the woman who’d taught her sums and the value of duty to ones underlings. Isobel spent her summertime rushing through Reithwin Tollhouse, a messenger and page, note-taker and beverage provider. It was her aunt’s domain, wholly, and Isobel had feared her as much as she respected her. She’d been stern, but not cruel. Scheming, but not vindictive. Without Gerringothe, Isobel doubted her education would have been so rounded and thorough, not in the face of Ketheric’s grief for her mother.

Malus: the dread relative who she only saw at new year celebrations, at Moonrise Towers’ celebration of hope and life, and reflection on their losses. In retrospect, the child Isobel had once been never knew how skewed her celebration of the new year was, especially for a Selûnite—but Malus was still family, her father's uncle. He listened to her chatter and danced with her most uproariously, smiling oh so faintly when she pulled at his ears as a babe. Every gift he gave her was stolen from someone else, their little secret. To learn of how twisted he and Gerringothe became, under Shar’s guidance, fractured just that much more of her spirit.

Isobel’s heart beat evenly, now. She reached with her second hand to place it on top of where hers and Thisobald’s joined, comforting, then asked him her first question. ‘You said before to my allies that you became this twisted thing when Ketheric Thorm, our father, laughed. What was your relationship like?’

Thisobald took a moment to reply, and when he did, the magic surged between them, chasing away the grey of his eyes for necrotic green, thunder behind his voice. It shook Isobel to her bones, and in her mind, she saw a black door begin to creak open.

‘Father hated me,’ he said, his mourning as deep and fathomless as her own, ‘and never paid attention. Not until the curse. Not until he realised the Nightsong’s immortality could be spread like a poison. Then, he paid attention, my sister—laughed, when I screamed.’

Her steady heart ached. Isobel felt her eyes sting, and told him, ‘I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Thisobald. Were you happy, in life?’

‘I had my brewery, and my workshop. Every night was a great occasion, with mead, music and dance, and rare was there a moment that I did not enjoy the gifts given to me by Silvanus and Selûne.’ Thisobald lowered his thick chin, and what must have been grotesque during the Shadow Curse only looked warm, and sad, to Isobel. He’d been a fat man, there was no denying that—but Isobel could imagine a life where she loved her brother for all he was. Silvanus, she thought, wondering if he’d frequented the forests in search of herbs for mead and gin alike. The nature god was kind to his followers, and the Waning Moon had been the best tavern for miles, beating out Last Light Inn with ease.

The Inn was always more of a wine place, anyway, she recalled distantly, knowing she only had one question left. From a rampart, Aylin found her way down and shone brightly, even in this dim place; Isobel shook her head, silently telling her to leave her be. Her lover nodded, then stood vigil.

When Isobel looked back at Thisobald, his gaze was clearer than it had been, previously. The door opened wider. He looked between them both and smiled, missing one of his lower teeth.

‘I’m glad your life was well,’ Isobel told him, truly. And though his body was still mutated, abdomen barely stitched in place, she placed a brief kiss to the hand she clasped in her own. ‘And I’m terribly disappointed I never knew you. I would have liked to have a brother, and someone to come to in desperate times. My life was privileged, and lonely, until I became a cleric of Selûne in my own right, and found Aylin. There were so many things my father disapproved of. My mother has been dead a long time.’ Isobel found herself laughing, despite the morbid subject matter. ‘I am glad our father is, too, to be honest. Don’t you?’

No! She wanted to shout, realising what she’d done a second too late. The door in her mind opened wide, Thisobald’s grasp on the inside handle.

‘I am,’ her brother said to her, soft as the wind on the breeze. He began to close the door between planes, so more kindly than she could ever have expected. ‘But I am glad you are not, Isobel.’

Before her, Thisobald’s body began to fade away, the green light on their palms dying last. Isobel’s hand squeezed over nothing. Her brother was gone.

And Isobel only wished they’d had more time.

Notes:

o but what could have been.

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