The Ghost of Vermil-Chapter 42: Marco XXII

The clang of steel swords rang in the peaceful clearing.

"Keep your grip steady," Felix advised after battering Lucas with a series of blows in a fury seemingly born out of some personal inspiration. "If you lose your blade, you lose your head."

Lucas tightened his hands around the hilt of his blunt sword, trembling. Sweat beaded on his milk-white face, his cream shirt soaked. He charged with the thrusting stance that Felix had painstakingly taught him the past week. He had begun to pick up some skills and apply them, albeit awkwardly.

The air was damp from last night's rain but it did not stop Marco Vermilon from dragging his brother to training. He would have brought him to the courtyard of the Royal Keep if not for the watchful eyes there. Instead, they made do in a small meadow where their only spectators were farmers who occasionally passed by, glancing in curiosity but too occupied in their work to care.

Lucas had suddenly grown famous, making a leap for the Eleventh Place on the Academy standing. Director Garren had announced that his young brother had defeated the Weeper, declaring him a hero. Lucas had subdued the tumbleweed once, but it still came as a shock to Marco. He was astonished and worried but most of all, he was proud of him.

He had asked him about it after the incident.

"I simply grabbed hold of the monster. It was the director who decimated it," Lucas had replied. "I am as surprised too that he put me in the eleventh spot. I don't feel like I deserve it. I'm just happy I get to stay."

What he had said was not a lie but it could not have been the whole truth either, for the Director would not have put him on a high pedestal if he had not seen what Lucas was capable of. Director Garren allowed no tolerance for weakness.

"Were you hurt anywhere?"

"I'm perfectly fine. But another student, a third-year called Wilcan, has lost an arm."

They had paid a visit to him but the young lord had not awoken yet. The Sisters speculated that all his life-force was being channelled into healing and keeping him alive, leaving none for consciousness.

As a growing young lad who still fumbled with a sword, occasionally stumbling on his own feet, no one could have suspected of Lucas to belong among the strongest scholars in Demach. If he protected his rank, he would belong to the top ten in the coming year. Then he should be conscripted as a candidate for platoon leaders in the Holy Army.

Panting, Lucas dropped to the ground on all fours. We should invest some time on endurance training. Marco diligently took note of Lucas's shortcomings.

He brought him a skin of water. "Sophomores are seeking to challenge you," he warned him.

Gulping down half the water, Lucas wiped his lips with the back of his hand. It was unsettling how pale he was, Marco thought. In spite of days under the sun, his skin remained dead pallid. His brother said, "I've already met some of them."

"And what are you planning to do?"

"Of course I declined. I'm only going to lose."

"That's wise of you. You just need to keep earning merits without having to fight. Now that you're on the height of the rankings, the professors would not throw you out anymore."

"I hope so," he mumbled, cheerless.

"You cannot put yourself down after fate had lifted you up." Marco patted him on the shoulder. "Enjoy it at least. I'm glad you came to Demach, Lucas. In just a month, your life had changed."

Mounting their horses, they trudged back to the walls of Gallenport. The soil was sodden beneath, the grass wet. Autumn leaves covered the ground in a red and yellow carpet, the wind knocking away more to add to them. The Delta would soon begin to flood as autumn storms ravaged West Bismuth.

Before crossing the portcullis, a holy guard in dark blue garb embroidered with the three-pronged Star of Michael tested the presence of demonic power within each one of them. It always glowed before Marco even touched the gauging artifact. Lucas, exhausted and battered, did not earn any reaction from the three-bladed star, no matter how long the guard laid the tip of the star's handle on his pale palm.

"I don't understand it," he said.

Neither do I, Marco thought. "It should be no trouble though, isn't it?"

"No, I suppose." He let them through.

Arriving at their house flanked by pubs and stores, one of the servants informed Marco of the presence of a guest.

Broad shoulders and a bulky stature, Eritch's silhouette dwarfed the chair he sat in. "Took you long enough. Lucky your servants are welcoming."

"Apologies. We have ridden outside the gates."

Eritch looked past Marco. "Who are you?"

"I'm Lucas of Vermil, my lord," his brother replied, "A fledgling servant to House Vermilon."

"Are you now?" He craned his head back, doubtful. "Ah, I remember you! The Weeper Slayer. Why would you be in Marco Vermilon's ranks?"

Marco cut in, "Because I am his liege."

Eritch stared at him threateningly, but the lord from Ochre Pass did not press on it. He slid a package on the table, together with a letter marked with the basilisk sigil. "The collateral, as discussed. If you break it, you'll have to pay with more than just gold; for you would have broken my sweet mother's heart."

Marco grabbed the package. Eritch did not let go immediately, saying, "I don't know exactly what you're using it for, but I know well that it is not for Artifact Studies."

Pulling it away from Eritch's grasp, Marco assured him, "I will take good care of it, my lord. You have my word; you'll get it back in one piece."

The stout young noble glared at him, untrusting. "I'll come back for it on the next day of the Seraphim." Taking the roasted chicken the servant had served to him, Eritch shambled to the door without so much as a farewell.

"What is it?" Lucas asked.

"The artifact that shall be the subject of my presentation on Artifact Studies." After his victory over Eritch Corlissen, Marco immediately demanded the transport of the artifact. It took longer than a week, but the silver paid should be worth it.

"Can I see it?"

"Of course." Setting aside the letter, he undid the leather packaging to expose a small slender wooden box. Inside, a white quill of the prettiest feather Marco had ever seen lay on a bed of yellow sand as fine as snow.

Ser Gerald spoke behind him, "Is it the feather of..."

"An angel," Felix remarked with awe.

"Can I touch it?" Lucas reached out a hand.

Marco shut the lid, recalling the time a Star of Michael broke after contact with Lucas. "It could be fragile," he reasoned, "Perhaps, another time when I've seen how durable it is."

His brother made no effort to insist.

"You can wash up first, Lucas. Have the servants bring you some warm water. I'll study the artifact in my room."

Wrapping the box with the leather fabric it came with, Marco brought it to his own chamber and opened it there. Tentatively, he unfolded the letter. It read,

Dear Lord Vermilon,

Although it grieves me to part with my Quill, I shall honour my son's words as a proud hunter of Corlissen. I trust that you shall treat it with the utmost delicateness as I do.

As Eritch had written that it was for your studies, it is only just that I, the owner, share with you some knowledge about the Quill of Melancholy and Longing. I presume you already know of its purpose, otherwise you would not have taken undue interest in it.

What the records might not say is its origin. It was said to have been plucked off an Ophanim's wing and then imbued with an invocation through the angel's lips himself, granting the Quill such simple yet far-reaching power. It is a prayer of health and life that is contained within it.

However, it is a false claim that the ink inside it never runs out. The Quill siphons memories and turns them into ink that glimmers a certain colour depending on your distant company's wellbeing. If used rashly, one might run out of memories of their families, friends and acquaintances. If you treasure these memories with them, better not reminisce the happiest moments for the Quill is greedy and it takes with abandon.

It is my wish the Quill would calm your heart as it does mine whenever its ink is laid. May the Lord of Kindness light your path always,

Drichella Corlissen

Marco closed the letter and regarded the Quill with caution. Gingerly, he picked the Quill up, sand coming away off it.

Taking a piece of paper, Marco thought of his mother and wrote her name. Anastasia. What he thought of was a random memory of them together on a dinner table. Her face appeared bare of cheer but at least she did not look blue either. That particular time, Marco had realized Anastasia was not so simple a woman or a mother.

He dropped the pen, overwhelmed by a feeling of loss as though he was grasping at water to retain a precious memory, never succeeding. By the time the ink glowed gold, he had forgotten what memory the Quill had devoured. She's doing great, I see. Gold was perfect health. Black signified death.

Knowing how it worked, Marco wrote the name Alice the maid in one continuous stroke, conjuring a memory where the maid accidentally broke a vase and apologized profusely, fearing punishment. When Marco lifted the quill, the name flickered in gold. She's still alive! Alive and kicking.

He almost jumped in glee. He went through all the trouble of confronting Eritch in order to know whether Lucas's company in the Ashwood Forest was alive or dead. The incident at the Forest remained an enigma. The long gashes on the dead escorts, the cursed wolves and Alice's disappearance. She survived it somehow when the other servants and even the gallant Ser Harol didn't. Surely, she must know something.

Marco felt himself getting one step closer to solving the mysteries surrounding his younger brother.

Although he had confirmed Alice's survival, Marco went on to use the Quill out of mere intrigue, for the sole purpose of testing it.

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He tried David Rupert. He remembered the small ginger head boy running around the Vermilon Palace as Lucas chased after him, laughing. He regretted recalling that moment, for it was the rare times Lucas knew mirth. It was too late though, for the ink had started to pour and the memory had begun to fade. In the end of the boy's name, Marco was left only with regret, not knowing what for. The ink glowed first before the light suddenly disappeared, leaving nothing but a scorched name — black as jet. So, this is the Quill's colour of death.

He wrote — or at least attempted to — my father. The Quill spilled no ink. He had no memories of his father, only of his mother's grief born of his absence.

Understanding how the Quill worked, Marco grew bolder. Lucas's father, he etched slowly onto the paper. The only recollections of him that he had were few and faded. He could not even remember his face nor his name. But he knew his figure that loomed over him, the vague discomfort of his presence as a literal stranger to Marco's eyes, and the familiarity of him in the end. The Quill took it all voraciously, spewing it as a light golden ink onto the paper.

The words flickered before dimming, turning charcoal grey, nearly black but not yet. He is on the brink of death, Marco thought, spine suddenly shivering. But still, he lives...

He knew not what to make of it. Lucas had the right to know. Yet, should Marco trouble him for a person who had abandoned him? A father who never wanted him? Their mother would throw a fit, most possibly. The trauma Lucas's father had left her would break her again the way it did once before. Marco wished he had not thought of writing Lucas's father. He was a person he barely remembered now. Lucas had no memory of him at all. Why should I let a nearly dead man throw our whole family into disarray?

Drichella Corlissen had wished for the Quill to calm Marco's heart, but it gave him more disquiet instead.