The Manhunt/Chapter 18

When cells make proteins, the two strands of DNA separate temporarily, for the part of genetic code to be copied.

Afterwards, the strands of DNA rejoin.

To return to Ever After High was surreal.

In their trip, it had seemed as if the two were living. This was life – not corner cafés and coffeeshops, not formal attire and mildly kidnapping lawyer’s clerks. To live were those conversations throughout the night, and those the quips exchanged to escape reality and truths.

Ever After High seemed sanitised and forced in comparison.

Truly a fairytale, then.

Seeing those pastels and saturated oranges almost made Bastion want to throw up. And this time, he would have actually had something to throw up, because he remembered to eat breakfast.

It was such a shock, that even the narrator’s exposition and description began to be deteriorating and lacking.

“Things that are realer than seeing Ever After High like this,” Bastion quipped. “Airmid’s Valerian’s tie.”

“The letter from Hemlock.”

“That butter substitute of corner cafe vingt et un."

“Bastion Fanfarinet.”

“Hey!"

Gabriel dived in between the two. “Gentlemen, gentlemen, you’re both pretty. Would you please stop fighting, and let me simply appreciate that we are in close proximity to Ever After?”

With only mild shock, Bas stared at Gabriel. “Dear D’Aulnoy, your speech has improved.”

“I hope that’s not mocking, cousin.”

“No. Spell no! It’s perfect for an Ambassador Fanfarinet."

The next Ambassador Fanfarinet – Gabriel, now – beamed. “Honoured to be turning out to your hexpectations. Now, what had been your plans, again?"

Bastion Fanfarinet had arranged a meeting with Grimm. He planned to take Gabriel Benoît to meet him and to explain the situation and suggest a more suitable role switch.

Meanwhile, Airmid Valerian had that scheduled tea shop meeting, with an all too nonchalant Godfather Death.

“Listen, I know what people say. Learn history or you’ll see yourself repeating it,” Lanius Nightshade, having given up his skeletal form that day, could finally sip tea. “Yet consider: I was so embarrassed by my past mistakes that I wanted no one to bring them up.”

“But our story is a fairytale! The point of it is to be constantly told.”

“It wasn’t a fairytale when I first carried out the Physician Project. Every generation afterwards, it just became habit.”

“Why?”

“The same reason why I delete my angsty throneblr posts.”

He wanted people to see him as cool. He wanted respect and admiration. And what sort of person respected a reaper who’s greatest feat was also his greatest mistake?

In the name of Grimm, his whole personality was based off how people would see him.

How superficial of him.

Well, the world was changing, as was the concept of destiny. Perhaps the way he could tackle his story could change too. He thought of restoring the memory of the previous physicians to the world once more. The thought felt like a punch in the face. He thought of making Airmid Valerian the first ever physician to be remembered. It was a nicer thought, but there had been greater physicians than Airmid before.

It was all very confusing.

The only sensible thing to do was sip that tea.

A calm and peaceful silence followed. Just the two, and their tea. Living life. Thinking about the Godfather Death story. It was such a candid image that justice itself could not inspire more.

Eventually, Airmid broke that silence. “I tried so hard to retrieve some information about Asclepius – anything!” they said. “And I thought I did. Upon thought, surely you must have worked harder to erase all of that.”

“I did.”

“Then my own arrogance has done me in,” they grinned, and raised their glass. “Icarus and the sun."

“No, I don’t believe it was all for naught. I did promise you something in that letter, you know.” Godfather Death sighed, and blinked back tears. Tears? Grimm, this was far too emotional for him. He dug into the drawstring bag he carried with him, and pulled out a file. “Asclepius’ criminal records,” he said, slamming it down on the table.

Airmid Valerian stared at the file for a long, long time.

Eventually, they spoke.

“Criminal records?"

It was not criminal records they had asked for, but information on the past would have been contained in them nevertheless. Yet, the mere thought that a previous physician, one so respectable and hardworking, would have sunk down to the level of a criminal was terrifying.

And not only that, but it seemed too easy. The word failure resurfaced in Airmid’s mind, and they pushed it back. No, they didn’t deserve this file. They didn’t work hard enough to deserve to know anything.

They wanted to keep chasing.

Success seemed grey, void of purpose. The fun had been in the journey, in the thrill of discovery.

But there were more physicians, and surely a set of criminal records could not contain everything about the previous one. Airmid brightened. More to chase, then.

“I thought you destroyed all evidence of the physicians ever existing, Godfather,” Airmid said. “How–“

“Not destroyed. Erased. One might even use the word ‘deleted',” Godfather Death smiled. “And as with computers, there’s always a trash bin somewhere.”

They opened their mouth to ask where in particular that metaphorical trash bin was, but the answer was so obvious. Godfather Death’s cave of candles, of course. Only Lanius knew the specific location, and those he brought there – the physicians, would not have lived long enough to tell anybody.

“I’m speechless.”

“Ah, but you just spoke.”

“Don’t give me that sass, Godfather, this is a weighty moment. I need to savour it.”

Godfather Death granted Airmid that moment.

It was only a brief five seconds – five seconds of Airmid just holding onto that file, not daring to open it, not daring to breathe, even.

Five seconds until Airmid Valerian dared to speak again.

“One question: why did you give me Asclepius’ criminal records? Why not something else? A journal? Letters? Recounts from friends? Newspaper articles?” Airmid shook their head in disbelief.

“Perhaps, once upon a time he had been a brilliant young man, ready to change the world. But he did something so heinous that I could do nothing but define him by his crime.” He tapped the file with a bony finger. “It’s all in there. Send me your thoughts."

“Define him by his crime…” that didn’t mean Asclepius saving the swan maiden instead of his destined princess, did it? It still followed the story, just in a different way outlined by the Storybook of Legends. As Airmid’s fingers curled around the edge of the folder, nervousness curled them up from inside. “How heinous?”

Godfather Death didn’t answer.

Silently, Airmid opened up the file, flickered through to the relevant pages. They read, still remaining silent, and softly closed the folder.

“Oh.”

“Yeah,” Godfather Death gave a nod that was a head shake at the same time.

The conversation inside continued for at least half an hour. Airmid gave up loitering outside.

Bastion would have to end up finding them outside in the squad, staring at the outskirts of BookEnd, fiddling with the edge of their shirt cuffs.

“It’s official,” Bastion said. “We found Gabriel at place at BookEnd to work – more simple clerk stuff, and a place to live – we’re splitting the expenses. He’ll take some courses at Ever After to establish his role as the next Ambassador Fanfarinet, but otherwise…”

He smiled. It was still pained, but better concealed.

“I’m free. From destiny, that is.” That smile was almost unnerving. “Enough about me. How was your talk with your godfather?"

Godfather Death hexcused himself almost immediately after the meeting, saying that he had been invited to an outing by a rather enthusiastic sprite, leaving Airmid alone with the file and their thoughts.

Still tucked in Airmid’s pocket was the letter, and in their bag, the journal.

The physician checked their watch – Bastion’s Scrollex. They tapped on the glass. When Bastion had the watch, it had been perfectly polished, not a speck of dust anywhere. Ever since it had fallen into Airmid’s possession, it never seemed to be kept to the same standards. Their fingerprints left an imprint on the screen. With a sigh, they swiped the face on their tweed jacket, and headed off.

Now aware they had about an hour to kill, Airmid Valerian headed off to the park. The fresh air was always inviting, and the surrounding nature reminded them that there was always something in the world worth fighting for.

But the trees just reminded Airmid of deforestation issues, and the weeds scattered in the grass of invasive species. They passed a lost cat poster, and their stomach tightened in sympathy for the poor person lacking their pet.

With enough wandering, the physician reached the campsite. There, a hole for a campfire was present. The fire had long been dead and suffocated, but there was just about enough wood and timber resting in the pit for a small fire that would last a few minutes.

On impulse, Airmid pulled that letter from their pocket, and the journal from their bag, and flung it in the pit.

Grimm damn them all, all those physicians! Grimm damn Asclepius Hemlock in particular, that liar, that deceit, the man who sullied the image of the physician destiny! Grimm damn Airmid Valerian himself, putting both the previous physicians and themself on a pedestal so high that the fall from involved terrified screams the whole way down.

From their other pocket, came the lighter. They raised it like a gun, bowed over, and lit the first edge of the letter.

As the paper crinkled, as the scent of smoke reached their nostrils, Airmid Valerian came to their senses.

In a swift panic, they pulled themself up, attempting to stamp out the flames. But instead they lost their balance, and tumbled into the pit. Luck meant they managed to suffocate the fire, probability meant that they ended up burning a hole in their tweed jacket.

Far from dignified.

But Airmid Valerian did not deserve to be dignified.

None of the physicians did.

Dejected, they pulled the letter and journal from the ashes, messily shook some soot out, and shoved them haphazardly into their bag.

This, whatever it was, was a problem best dealt with using a clearer mind.

Enlightening was a word on Airmid’s lips, but it never fell. Instead, they shrugged. “Lucid. No other word for it.”

“I won’t pry,” Bastion said, and didn’t.

For a while, the two stood in silence.

“Will you still be staying at school?” Airmid asked.

“I don’t know if I’ll finish my schooling here. There is honestly no point or place for me, anymore,” he laughed. “Perhaps I can risk it. A life with no plan."

That was a lie. He knew what he was to do – get an internship at the House of Adalinda. He was qualified for that, overqualified even, and on good enough terms with the Queens and their daughter. They would house him, give him a job, and keep him from the prying eyes of destiny.

Yet, he was willing to give up the stability of that.

There was something oddly thrilling in throwing caution to the wind, and himself into reckless abandon.

“Sounds adventurous,” grinned the physician.

“Acquire a leather jacket. Buy a motorbike. Escape to Switzerland and live a quaint life in the fields,” he continued, in a tone that clearly implied he was not serious. “Do you think you’ll be doing anything, dear Doctor Physician?"

“Being better than everybody else, probably,” they said, then winced at their own words. “I don’t know. I’m not certain of anything anymore. The only certainty in my life is uncertainty. Before, I thought I had embraced that, but– but–“

“You’re not sure?”

They sighed. “Precisely.”

“Seems like we both have quite the journey,” he gave a nod and his trademark elusive smile. “Godspeed, Airmid Valerian. You are, and will always be, the greatest physician to me.”

When cells are about to divide, the DNA duplicates itself to maintain the correct number of chromosomes in a cell. Here, the two strands of DNA separate–

–never to rejoin again.