The Manhunt/Chapter 5

“You know, Kings are so stubborn.”

The witch in the market continued to weave, fingers moving in rapid succession under the sheer fabric, so fast that one would hardly discern each stitch.

A cart had run over her wares.

Airmid Valerian had been walking nearby, mind swirling with thoughts of their recent rejection, of being thrown out before reaching anything significant. They balanced the possibility of their predecessor being a terrible person against thoughts that their predecessor was better than hexpected. Every breath was rushed and forced; on their chest seemed to lie a weight.

The crash of the cart and the stall had broken them out of those thoughts. Without a hunt of hesitation, Airmid rushed to help.

When one helped a magical figure in need, it would be repaid tenfold.

“I can sense you’re in a state of despair, confusion and riot,” said the witch.

The physician blinked, and without thinking, knelt down.

“What troubles you?”

“Royalty."

“You know,” said the witch, “kings are so stubborn."

“How did you know my trouble lay with the nearby King?”

The witch stared at them with a really obviously annoyed look. “Because he is the only royalty around here? Excuse me?"

Airmid Valerian felt stupid.

Without missing a beat, the witch grinned up at the physician, and gestured to them. “A legacy, might I ask? You all seem to flaunt your story on your clothing,” she quickly surveyed their clothes with a frown. "Candle, fire– is that a skull and plague doctor mask I spot? I must have run into one from Godfather Death.”

“Yes!” There was excitement in their voice. When one came from an obscure tale, it was always a delight to find one who knew it.

“Thank you for helping me reassemble my stall,” said the witch. “I say, perhaps you might benefit from an invisibility cloak? It seems to be part of the standard supply for adventurers, travellers, and ageing soldiers these days."

She swung a piece of silvery fabric into the air, folded it up and placed it gingerly in Airmid's hands.

"The thing only works for eight hours, I'm afraid. I don't have the license to make some that last longer."

“Why do you do this? Aid people? Give them items of help?” It seemed like a terrible way to run a business.

The witch smiled. It was difficult to pin down the atmosphere of that smile. It seemed at once enigmatic and alluring. “What’s wrong with a little altruism?”

“I’m back!” Airmid had yelled, a bit too loudly, when they returned. “With the paper, and groceries, and this.”

Bastion had been staring at a computer screen, chin propped up on his hands, fingers intertwined, staring at a Hexcel spreadsheet. It took a prod in the side from Airmid before he looked up. “Is that… a cheap invisibility cloak?” he asked, looking at the piece of cloth Airmid held in front of him. “How did you–"

When Airmid launched into an explanation – the witch, the cloak, the moneyless offer, Bastion shook his head. “Sounds like a risk."

“I’m aware of my tropes!” the physician stomped a foot. “If a witch offers you help in a fairytale, you should never deny it.”

“A far too convenient deus ex machina,” Bastion took the newspaper, and propped it up. “Whatever you do, Airmid, it sounds mildly illegal, and please do not involve me in your shenanigans.

“Will you break me out of jail if I mess up?”

“No,” he lied.

That afternoon was spent alone navigating the castle. Floor plans were sourced from the MirrorNet, and kept open on their phone.

With ease, they navigated through the place – the guards were either slacking or asleep, and the halls were often covered in a thin layer of dust. Despite the lack of defences, Airmid kept up their guard, lest a small mistake let their cover be blown.

They managed to find the princess’ old bedroom on floor four, in a room located at the very end of the longest corridor. The solitary guard posted by the princess’ bedroom seemed more interested in what was on his MirrorPhone than his actual job.

Thank Grimm, the doors to the room were open. Although he was distracted, the guard would have been distracted by Airmid fiddling with the door nevertheless. It was safe to say that he did not notice a young teenager huddled in a witch’s invisibility cloak breezing past.

Airmid crossed their fingers between their cloak. If they had a spare hand and if the signal here permitted, they would have sent off a hext to Icarus’ kid cousin Mark, a plead for him to pray for their success.

But there was no use in demanding piety when you were disobeying the law.

Inside, the bed was neatly made, and several candles burned in constant vigil for the lost princess. Roses and snowdrops were sprawled across the tables – and fresh, from the smell of it, too. Sympathy touched Airmid’s heart. No wonder why the King and Queen were so frustrated with their presence: seeing Death’s physician must have opened wounds for their lost daughter.

At least twenty, if not thirty, years would have passed. That was an awful long time to mourn.

The edges of Airmid’s lips curled down.

It was too daunting – the atmosphere of this place. Still, the physician knew they had to persist. This was evidence that their story had existed, that the previous generation had lived it. Despite the lead-laden feeling in their feet, Airmid paced those hardwood floors, and stealthily took as many photos of the place as they could.

Before long, their eyes fell on a small plaque.

For those interested in more of the lost princess, please check floor five.

They checked their MirrorPhone's clock. They had the time.

It seemed like a stroke of luck too serendipitous to be true, but Airmid was not the only person at the exhibit on Floor Five. A small, kindly looking couple was just entering the room which the exhibit was held, so the physician snuck in just as the door open.

“We are greatly fascinated by this story,” one member of the couple had said to the guards. “You know how rare it is to find any reference of it.” His voice was monotone and rehearsed.

“Indeed,” said the guard, in a voice just as monotone.

But Airmid gave them no cares. It was time to investigate.

There was not much here. A few paintings, and a 20th century edition of the Grimm Brothers’ Fairytales, the page opened to Story 044. Pictures of the King on his deathbed, and the princess too. Asclepius Hemlock was in these photos, his face scratched out. His hands were long and slim, and he dressed every inch the respectable physician.

However, in a glass case, was an item beyond precious.

Their daughter’s lately unearthed diary, which had been found buried in an old part of the building. It had been dug up with foundation constructions had been going on, restored and confirmed as their daughter’s. And here, it was placed on exhibit, in commemoration of their daughter. It was dated to have been her last two highschool years and all subsequent years until death.

The chance of it containing any trace of Asclepius Hemlock was almost certain. Every instance of their predecessor’s name was property of the Godfather Death legacy. This diary, presented at this exhibit, would be illegal.

Had Godfather Death known of this, he would have already claimed it.

Grimm be damned with Airmid didn’t take advantage of that.

When Airmid returned that afternoon, they almost kicked down the door. “Bastion! I have an urgent emergency! Bastion? Bastion!”

Bastion was passed out on top of his laptop keyboard, his head perfectly angled that he had been pressing on the ‘h’ key for fourteen straight pages.

The physician prodded him in the side, and Bas shook himself awake. “I’m sorry,” he said, voice hurried and automatic.

“Why are you sorry?” said Airmid.

To that, he had no response.

Pulling out the chair opposite, Airmid sat down. “I just need some paperwork done.” They rushed into an explanation – their situation, the exhibit, the diary. “Surely there’s some way of getting around the legalities of this, right? That journal is rightfully mine, but I cannot resort to petty thievery.”

“Clearly anyone with a brain knows that journal should be yours.”

“But these royals are backwards. I’ll need the paper to prove it.”

It took Bastion Fanfarinet roughly a night to go through all the documents and lay out a concise and solid argument. For any other issue, it would have been two nights.

One should not be bored with descriptions of legal action, so as a narrator, I shall absolve you of that.

Yet, I wish to report that lawyers were called in, Bastion gave his report with a calculated grace and made clear the certainty of Airmid being in the right. He balanced words and toppled the situation in the physician’s favour, that even the Queen herself seemed moved by the statements.

The documents, the evidence – they were all handed over to the lawyers and the rest of the legal team. However, this whole affair was not merely a shut-and-open case.

“Hexpect us to give you our decision in less than two weeks,” said a man in a well-tailored suit. An enigmatic smile passed over his face. “I wish you two the best of luck."

When they left the scene, Airmid’s mind still fretted with worry. They shuffled nervously, fidgeted with the cuffs of their sleeve, and looked altogether lost.

“Is this right?” they finally said, when the two reached the door of the place they were staying in.

“You were in the right,” replied Bastion.

He had said it in what he thought a comforting tone, but it was lost on the physician. “Is it right to take away someone’s few memories of their daughter – their monument to their family – for a mere search for truth?”

“Perhaps it’s for the greater good?”

“What greater good is there?” Airmid turned the door handle, and it swung open with a brutal force. “I’m doing this out of personal interest. I’m operating on the possibility that nothing I find will benefit the wider world in any way.”

“The end justifies the means.”

A sigh. “But where do I draw the line between heroism and savagery?"

Bastion had no time to consider whether Airmid was quoting something or genuinely asking a question. "Are the two really that different? Do you envision yourself as a hero, Valerian?"

Do you envision yourself as a hero? Undoubtedly, Airmid had always thought so. One who fought for knowledge and justice.

"Why yes, what else would I be?"