Veritas Virumque/P1E6

"If the descent is thus sometimes performed in sorrow..."

Turnus had walked into the consulting meeting with no hexpectation, and half an hour in, he didn’t know what he was hexpecting. So far, it had mostly been conversation and life talk, and he had half a mind to just walk out by this point.

Behind Gabriel were textbooks, and hanging on the wall was a tote-bag for the University of Ever After.

“Don’t you need a degree to do consulting?” Turnus had asked.

“I’m literally only clerking right now,” responded Gabriel. “Besides, very few fairytale roles actually require degrees – the applicational stuff is mostly taught at Ever After High or select magnet schools. Could go somewhere more prestigious, but hey, I wanted to stay near BookEnd.”

“I mean, with destiny, you barely have to do anything politically.”

“By the time destiny rolls around, I’ll have a degree. So one can’t say I went through my life accomplishing nothing. Mother would be proud if she knew.”

For Turnus, university had been a hexpectation, until destiny threw a magic wench into everything. To an extent, it still was, just less urgent. The moment academic pressures stopped from his parents was the moment Turnus realised that a trophy husband meant that he’d never be forced to succeed on his own terms.

Before he could respond, sharp, incessant knocks came from Gabriel’s door.

“Uh, could you get that?” he asked Turnus.

Turnus turned the handle, and standing in the door frame was Airmid Valerian.

“Hi Gabriel,” they said.

“Airmid, I’m in a meeting right now.”

“Hello Airmid,” said Turnus, just to be polite.

“Hello Turnus! I’m rather sorry you have to be stuck here, especially since it’s so near dinnertime.”

“I’d like dinner,” he said at the mention of dinnertime.

“So would I,” responded Airmid.

Gabriel was glad that the other two were locked into small talk, so that he didn’t have to try pushing a conversation ahead. He briefly wondered if this clerkship was even worth it. Then, much like Turnus and Airmid, started contemplating dinner. He had an hexpectation to fulfill for Godfather Death. Perhaps food was a better way of bonding. Perhaps Airmid, with their sudden entry, was Lanius’ way of checking on him.

“Let’s get dinner then,” Gabriel stood up. “Pick a location at BookEnd.”

Airmid and Turnus eventually decided on an anarcho-syndicalist bookstore cafe that was nested in one of the side alleyways of BookEnd. Gabriel was not entirely fond of the idea, and suggested that the two pick something else. To annoy him further, they went with bastardised French food. The French bastard complied.

At the restaurant, conversation was stilted. There was something inhibiting when it came to talking naturally in a room where both Gabriel and Airmid were present. The two simply did not get along. Anything that one said would be immediately refuted or criticised by the other. All interference was deconstructive and the atmosphere was dampening.

When the cheque was finally laid down on the table, Turnus was thankful for the relief from the dinner talk.

"I'll pay," said Gabriel, and he put his credit card on the table. The name on the card caught Turnus’ eyes as it passed him by.

Not Gabriel Fanfarinet, but Gabriel Benoit.

Turnus had not forgotten about Bastion Fanfarinet. The excitement of running Veritas had just swept him away in the behind the scenes of Ever After, and this little piece of evidence had just pushed the subject back into the limelight.

Benoit. What a generic, French surname. Maybe it was his mother’s surname. But cards had an expiration range of usually four years at maximum. If Gabriel had attended Ever After High, then wouldn’t the last name on the card be Fanfarinet?

If Gabriel attended. Turnus realised that no one had actually mentioned if Gabriel had gotten his education here. He was out of Ever After High, which was vague enough.

Gabriel Fanfarinet signed the receipt, and the trio exited the restaurant. “You know the hexpectations, Dr Physician,” he reminded Airmid, thinking of his own contract with Godfather Death.

“What?” said Airmid.

“You know. I should really be off though. Take care.” He turned, heading off deeper into BookEnd.

The two students made their way back in the direction of Ever After High.

“Airmid,” Turnus said. “We should talk.”

“Alright. About what?”

“Benoit. Why was his last name Benoit?”

“It’s his mother’s name.”

Alright. That was his assumption. “Then why is it on his credit card? I thought Fanfarinet was his surname.”

That, Airmid did not have a response for.

“How long ago did he stop going by Benoit? You’d assume that a legacy would take on their legacy parent’s surname once they find out, right?”

“Yes?”

Turnus frowned. A guess made sense, and would slot too perfectly with what happened. “Gabriel only found out recently, right? Recently enough to have an active credit card that still has his nonlegacy name?”

“... Yes.”

“And it would be ridiculous, right, to be assigned a destiny at this age, especially at the risk of… I don’t know, not having someone to be Fanfarinet and the story not going on. That’s why Ever After High was built, correct?” Turnus’ voice was rising with each sentence. “Airmid, you’re being quiet.”

“You’re right,” said the doctor. They had been unusually tight-lipped with Turnus. “I have a very strong suspicion what happened.”

“Does Bastion have anything to do with it?”

The doctor betrayed themself with a nod. “I don’t know whether to be angry with the person who aided him, or to respect his privacy and not question it.”

“I don’t have-- I don’t have it in me to hold back these questions, Airmid.”

“Well… I usually don’t, at least in the case of scientific pursuit. For some reason, this is different,” Airmid said. “I realise that I’m probably breaching confidentiality… especially considering that Bastion doesn’t want to be found. He barely wants to be remembered.” Their voice went quiet. “I’m glad he let me remember him, though.”

“How? Between us, and uh, maybe Adalinda, no one else remembers him. I remember him doing so much - volunteering, political internships…”

“Simple. He made a deal.”

“... devils?”

“No, he’s a very intelligent person. Death.”

Turnus’ eyes widened. “As in Death himself? Or--”

“Godfather Death. So just a reaper,” Airmid’s otherwise clenched arms fell defeated at his side. “My father.”

“Can you elaborate?”

“My father has a vapourisation curse. It is never fully effective, there will always be some pivotal people that will hold the original memory. Such pivotal people are always chosen by my father, who casts the spell.”

Turnus said nothing in response, letting the future physician ramble.

“I don’t know how many people are involved. I don’t know who or how many people work for him, or if he outsources this dirty work…” Airmid frowned, and looked downcast. “It’s very shocking, isn’t it? To realise you actually know so little about the person you call father.”

“It’s a spell you said, right?”

“I assume so, it shows all the signs.”

“Airmid, you know I’m immune to magic, right?”

It took a good half-minute for the physician to react. “Explain.”

And Turnus was sick of explaining this to people, but you must never conceal information from a doctor, so explain he did. The future physician was listening intently, processing, and with every sentence and description, their hand fidgets would change, and there were subtle differences in expression.

“That makes so much sense! You’re seeing through the veil, the smoke and mirrors-- that’s why you’re been writing like that, because you can just instantly process the data and proofs,” Airmid’s voice was filled with excitement, and only mildly restrained. “While the rest of the world have been firing alpha particles at gold foil, you’ve been seeing quarks.”

“I-- I don’t know how apt that metaphor is.”

“Please, I’m trying to accommodate for your own scientific interests!” they said. “Turnus, let’s work together. Your observation skills would be instrumental in a few projects I had in mind.”

“Maybe… I don’t know…” Even though this wasn’t a case of beauty, or prestige, the way that physician worded the request put him off. Perhaps objectification wasn’t the right term for it, but the fact that an uncontrollable aspect of himself was being used to further someone else’s interests.

The physician could possibly have just been trying to accommodate for both of them. Turnus could imagine Airmid Valerian describing the collaboration as “mutualism” or “symbiosis”. How could he possibly know though, given that he had no reason to trust anyone?

~*~

When he returned, Orleans was out. Turnus took the envelope, and made his way two floors up to slide it under Gladiolus’ dorm door. Perhaps it was just nerves, but the envelope felt heavier than before.

It was getting late. He still had class tomorrow.

Turnus wondered if it was worth making another stop at the Lifairy. He did have something planned blog-wise, once again on monopolisation. The research was still being compiled. After that blog, he had no further plans. For the course of his brother’s wedding, he had already asked another person prolific on the MirrorNet to prep up a guest blog while he was away.

He went back to his room, and fell onto the bed. It had been a long day.

When he woke up, his MirrorPhone’s clock told him it was around 3am. Orleans was in his corner of the room, asleep. Turnus checked his MirrorPhone again, having forgotten what time it said, and his eyes fell on the date. He hadn’t started packing for his brother’s wedding.

In the morning, when Orleans was awake, he continued his little game of being concerned. “I’m glad you got sleep, I was getting worried.”

“Not much, I woke up at 3am and was packing until 7.” He gestured to a half-filled suitcase.

“What? No, Turnus, you can’t do that. Go get more rest.”

“I guess I’m still only human.”

“Hexactly! You can’t push yourself…”

His roommate’s statement just passed over Turnus like a missed arrow point. “Driven by human things… like the pursuit of knowledge at the expense of sleep…”

“That’s nothing to brag about!” Orleans crossed his arms. “You’re going away in a few days anyway, we haven’t seen you at all…”

“You’ll see me when I’m back. Also, we’re literally roommates.”

“That’s not my point!” Orleans said, frowning visibly. “Look, Ramsey will be dropping by in like an hour, so go fix your hair or something.”

Turnus raised an eyebrow at how quickly Orleans was able to change the subject. Despite having literally run away from Orleans a day or so before, he compiled with his roommate’s last comment. In the mirror, Turnus looked at himself and the purple hair, dead and straightened.

~*~

In the same day, Turnus was tackled to the ground, just as he was making his way from Advanced Mathemagics to History of Tall Tales.

“Turnus!” Gladiolus said.

“What is happening?” Turnus wanted to say, but he was face down on the floor, so he sounded more like “wahjsdfk”.

“I got your letter! What did you need to tell me?”

At that, Turnus propped himself up off the ground, and got back on his feet so he could face Gladiolus directly. “Nothing? I clearly already said everything in the letter.”

“What do you mean? Didn’t you send this?”


 * Dear Gladiolus,


 * We haven’t caught up in ages! You’re a faetastic person, appreciate you heaps.


 * BTW, I have something very important to tell you face to face.


 * Love,

Turnus

Turnus’ hands curled around the edges of the paper, crinkling it like a stress ball. “This isn’t my handwriting. You should know that.”

“Oh! So, whose is it?”

“Did you get any other note? Is this the only note you got in the past few days?”

“Yeah, no, this is the one. Did you have anything to say?”

“I do! And I wrote it all down carefully, and it didn’t even get to you?”

Gladiolus passed him another piece of paper - the envelope the letter came in.

Carefully, carefully, Turnus turned it over. On the back of the envelope, was a broken wax seal. He lifted up the flap of the envelope, and looked at the underside where the adhesive would usually be, but its once-sticky surface was coated in a thin slice of paper. It was obvious what happened -- someone took his envelope, and opened it with a paper-knife, and resealed it.

He had delivered a forged message with his own hand.

“I’m breaking up with you, Gladiolus. That’s what my original letter said. That’s also probably what this person wanted me to tell you, to your face.”

“And you… you weren’t going to tell that to me to my face before?”

“Look, I’m stressed, I’m busy, highschool is only four years, and well-- I have the future to worry about.”

“But as a letter… not to my face.”

“Fine, that was really cowardly of me and I am sorry,” Turnus paused, and lowered his voice. “Also, uh, we’re having this conversation in the middle of the hallway right now? I need to get to class?”

“Turnus, that’s-- it’s fine, we can talk later!”

“I’m stressed.”

“Go to class,” and as suddenly as he appeared, Gladiolus dissolved into the crowds of students passing, like a drop of water into the ocean.

For the rest of the day, Turnus felt disturbed. The weight that he hoped to get off his back -- a relationship that was drifting apart, one that he realised would make him neither happy nor comfortable --, still hung. There was absolutely zero desire to return to Gladiolus, but closure was not there yet.

When Turnus got back from classes, he found his roommate back in their shared dorm room. “Orleans. Let’s talk face-to-face.”

“Which is what you should have been doing!” replied his roommate in a more forceful tone than Turnus had ever heard from Orleans. “I can’t believe I had to prompt you into doing that!”

“You’re like, the second person to tell me that,” said Turnus, who plopped himself down on his desk chair.

“We’re friends, Gladiolus is our friend. You-- this is not you. You shouldn’t--”

“You shouldn’t-- you shouldn’t tell me what to do. You weren’t there when I wrote the letter. I put the letter in the envelope. Orleans… you pried into it, didn’t you? That was a private matter, this wasn’t your letter. Like… did you literally have to invade my privacy? Do friends do that?”

“Maybe not, but friends also don’t break up over handwritten letter,” Orleans’ voice was still forceful, but veering into pleading now. “We’re friends, Turnus. I was concerned. You’ve just been so… wound up.”

“You don’t know me, Orleans. I’ve literally never been more… I don’t know, I’ve literally never cared so much about anything at Ever After High until the last week and a bit. I don’t want to… I don’t know, keep on passively following you around, away.”

Orleans was still speaking. “But I didn’t want to be hasty… I had to search around for evidence and stuff, right? I was prying because I cared! I interfered because I cared about both of you!”

“You could have just asked.”

“But you kept insisting you were fine!”

“Wouldn’t be a problem if you just took my word on things.”

The future King of the Gold Mines sighed, and removed his monocle to rest his hand on his own cheek. “We are still friends, right? Friends forgive each other.”

“Maybe I don’t want to be friends.” Turnus rolled his desk chair away near his bed, and tucked himself into a little ball on it. He refused to believe it. Out of all the places now barred from him, he couldn't even feel safe in his own dorm.