The Manhunt/Chapter 11

“And this–,” Bastion said, presenting a handkerchief tucked into an elaborate pattern, “is how you fold a pocket square. We’ll move onto bowties next."

“The trick is to use a pre-tied one,” Airmid said, leaning over. “No one can tell the difference."

“Airmid,” he said sternly.

“It’s true,” they smiled self-assuredly. Beneath their hands was a hastily folded handkerchief.

Bastion sighed. “You’re not creasing the handkerchief sharply enough. And you’ve given no regard to symmetry. Gabriel, how is yours?”

The other Fanfarinet held up the pocket square he just folded. Unlike the physician’s, it was evident work was put into it.

According to one of the several unwritten rules of adulthood and polite society, polite conversation should be maintained after dinner. When Airmid Valerian started stacking cutlery across the edge of the table and onto glassware during such polite conversation, Bastion had recognised the boredom of small talk, and tried to entertain the two in other ways.

Teaching the art of folding pocket squares was dull, but at least it was socially acceptable in this current situation.

“Apparently, fake pocket squares exist as well,” said the doctor to Gabriel, across the table. “Personally–"

“We are changing the conversation,” Bastion said. “An Ambassador Fanfarinet should appear every inch the proper gentleman. To cheat with these falsehoods undermines that image."

“And isn’t that just a dastardly, villainous thing to do?” said Gabriel.

“… a fair point."

Gabriel had wit – one could see that clearly. He would have no trouble with villainous one-liners and clever banter between hero and villain.

That fact would be further proven in a conversation a few topics down the track.

“It’s strange, isn’t it?” Bastion had commented. “You’re well-aware of the destined death that comes with it, and yet you’re still willing to accept my uncle’s legacy?"

“We’re all going to die. I don’t see why me kicking the bucket a few decades earlier makes much of a difference."

“A few decades is a long time.”

“Not necessarily in the long run. The world is meaningless, gentlemen,” he said, his voice ringing out in a sort of declaration. “Might as well have fun living in it. If the life of a legacy is grandeur, then I say a few years of fun is ultimately worth more than decades of boredom.”

“And that final day of agony?”

“An honourable way to go, I’d say. Personally,” Gabriel said. “There must be a reason why you two turned up on my doorstep. This is exactly what’s supposed to happen. Fate.”

“So it must be fate then, that my family chose to leave you undiscovered for over a decade?”

“Yes,” he said. “And it must be fate that you bear the emotional burden of dealing the news of your destiny in childhood, while I must wait until the more developed time of adulthood.”

‘You’re eighteen,’ Bastion wanted to say. ‘That’s still so young.’

Instead, in classic Fanfarinet fashion, he held his tongue.

The conversation soon switched over to Airmid. “And I heard you were chosen, not inherited,” Gabriel said. “What was it like getting your destiny, –Valerian, wasn’t it?"

“A stroke of luck, really,” said the destined physician. “Not everyone can be the thirteenth child of a peasant, and have Godfather Death himself serendipitously stumble upon your biological father."

“Yes. Almost as lucky – or rather, unlucky – of having a bastard of a father, or–” he gestured to Bastion, “an uncle."

“Being the physician is an absolute honour,” said Airmid.

“We’ll both end up dead, Doctor,” Gabriel pointed out.

Almost unblinkingly, they responded. “Yes, but one of us gets venerated.”

“That is correct – physicians do get forgotten, and Fanfarinets do get painted portraits."

“But you get villainised.”

“As do you, for going against your godfather.”

Airmid found no way of responding in a dignified manner to that. Instead, they leaned back over to Bastion. “You know, he’s quite the wit.”

“I believe that had once been a prerequisite of Fanfarinets?” Bastion replied. “Certainly, a prerequisite I never managed to fulfil.”

“I would argue otherwise."

“You flatter me,” he brushed off the remark with a small wave of the hand. Despite himself, Bastion grinned briefly, but soon resumed his previous seriousness. Turning to face Gabriel once more, he said, “I feel like I’ve told you this several times, but you are more than perfect for the Fanfarinet destiny. It would be a loss if–“

“I rejected it. Of course, I won’t,” Gabriel smiled. “You lead fun lives."

A false image. Bastion did not live a life of casually running off to France and throwing caution to the wind. Gabriel saw the money and the fake confidence. He did not see the tears, the self-doubt, the self-deprecation and the constant wish to throw oneself off a cliff and get this destiny thing out of the way. But, if Gabriel had known all of that, would he have agreed so eagerly to the proposition?

“Is this what it’s like to be a legacy?” Gabriel had asked, the cool air echoing his words over the balcony. He gestured to the table they sat at, and the Parisian city stretched out below them.

“Close enough."