bloodandflowers | (no subject)

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Kell sags against the thick stone wall of the Basin. Overhead, the ruby waters of the Isle slip endlessly by, and around him, the unnatural dark Kell had summoned begins to shiver.

"As Anasae," Kell says into the darkness. Dispel. The smoke twists into nothing as if it was never there, and Kell draws a deep breath.

"Did you kill them all?" Rhy would ask if he were here, and Kell would nod and step back to reveal the ruined remains of his training dummies. But Rhy has yet to find him today, and Kell takes another breath, closing his eyes for a moment to listen for his brother's heartbeat. Beneath the brand on his chest, the magic that binds them rises and flares, and beneath Kell's heartbeat he feels another, its thump steady and even. It means Rhy is calm, at least for now. He would feel excitement in his breast if Rhy were coming to drag him off again, back into the bowels of Red London to chase another adventure.

Kell grimaces. As if provoking Red London's criminal element could be called adventure. His ribs still ache with the hits Rhy had taken only the day before, his head foggy with Rhy's hangover. Where Kell would fight the memories that haunt them both with magic and blood, Rhy would do it with his princely fists and copious wine, and the bond that binds their lives together means that Rhy's pain is Kell's. Reaching up, Kell tugs on his own hair hard enough to sting, smirking faintly when he feels Rhy's heart skip in response.

"Sorry," he whispers into the dark, even if he isn't, and begins to clean his hands of blood. He's used a lot of magic today, and Kell's head swims as he tucks his silver blade back against his wrist. He needs food. He needs...

Kell closes his eyes.

Something more than this palace that feels so much like a prison.

You could still run. The thought echoes between his ears with a voice that sounds like Lila's, and Kell shakes his head to dispel it. Lila escaped, and Kell stayed. For Rhy, he'll stay forever.

Mostly clean now, save for the sheen of sweat on his skin, Kell raises his right hand, the cut across his palm still wet from training, and presses it to an X drawn in blood on the wall. "As tascen," he says, transfer, but when the door opens up and Kell steps through it to the other side, it's not the lavish chambers of the prince he walks into.

It's onto the wooden gangway of a port, and before him looms a gray and wintry sea. Kell turns a circle, but the palace has disappeared, without blood or command to see it gone. Kell’s heart stutters and begins to pound.

This is no London, Red, Grey or White.

This is a different world entirely.

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"No," says Kell, surprising himself with the admission, but perhaps it doesn't matter here, what and who he is. It's a dizzying thought, and for a moment Kell's thoughts run along Sirius' own. He doesn't truly believe himself trapped in this place. His magic was not enough at the dock, but it will be. It must be. But what would it be like to stay, unfettered by palace walls and rules?

"There were two," he continues. "Now there is only myself." Kell reaches to arrange his wet hair over his eye once more. It doesn't seem to bother Sirius, and for that he's grateful, but as the crowd around them thickens he feels more and more heads begin to turn. "In your home, the magical and magicless exist alongside each other?" he guesses. "Your kind, and Muggle?"

Kell brushes his hair back across his eye as they walk, wet strands hiding it from view once again. It seems a well-practiced motion, smooth and efficient, and Sirius can't help but wonder why he would hide a mark of such power. He's garnering quite a few stares from the people in the streets, it's true, but he could decimate any number of these people with barely a thought, Sirius is certain. Why the care for their small thoughts?

"Muggles, yes," Sirius replies. "Those without magical abilities. And we co-exist to a certain extent, but there are rules. We're not to interfere with their lives if it can be helped and they're not to know of us. We can live in their spaces, but we also have our own, set apart. Where you're from, everyone is magical, then? It's just you blood folk who are truly special. Tell me, can you do anything else with it? Or only heal and transport?"

It's a fascinating thought, and Kell can't help thinking of how it must have been before the doors between all the worlds were sealed, the magical and the magicless living together in the same space. It makes him sad for Londons Grey and White all over again, but humanity had done well enough without magic in Grey. In many ways, they were far more innovative than Red London who could simply magic anything they wished.

"I am glad you can coexist," he says honestly. "I think it must be better that way." Kell turns his head, studying Sirius for a moment before deciding, "When my strength is recovered, I will show you whatever you wish. But," adds Kell, daring a smile, "You must do the same."

"Oh, must I?" Sirius says, grinning at the small curve to Kell's lips and wondering how often the man smiles at all. "We'll have to schedule in at least several days, in that case. I have quite the repertoire. I do hope you can keep up."

It's a tease, of course. Partially. From what Sirius has seen already, he knows this man is powerful, but Sirius is equally aware of his own prowess.

And, if nothing else, he can pull out Padfoot.

He's still smiling as they reach the door of the tavern and Sirius holds the door for Kell before following him inside. "Are you from England then?" he asks as they head toward a table near the far wall. "Or from some other world entirely, yet somehow blessed with the proper manner of speaking like some others I've met here."

Kell enters the pub still smiling for Sirius' carrying on, but he pauses as the sights and scents of the place overwhelm him. No matter what world he travels to, all pubs feel the same, their wooden floors and tables worn slick with thousands of feet and hands, their lights dim, the air warm and smoky. Kell thinks of his room above The Setting Sun with longing and grief unmuted by the passage of time since it burned, taking all his treasures with it. Even so, he's grateful to have been brought here.

Following Sirius to the far wall, Kell sits, trying not to sigh as his tired body folds into the booth. "My city is called London. In my world, it sits as the capital of Arnes at the edge of the Arnesian Empire. In the magicless world, it is the capital of England. It is the same in location and name, but that is all."

It's difficult to miss the quiet sort of melancholy that settles over Kell's face as they step into the bar. It's a curious look with the promise of alcohol so near, but Sirius chooses not to press. At least for now.

Particularly when he speaks again, his smile slipping into a frown of utter confusion. "Hang on, are you saying there's more than one London?" he says, his forearms resting against the edge of the table as he stares again at Kell. "And what is this Arnesian Empire?"

"I know of four Londons," says Kell, strangely pleased to have baffled Sirius. He is out of his element here, but at least he can still surprise the other man. "Perhaps five, if we are to count yours."

Kell pulls a stack of napkins to him, lifting their thin layers one by one. "They sit atop one another in reality - magicless Grey, then my London, red and full of magic, then White London, starved of magic and at war, then Black, sealed away forever. As Antari I travel between them all, but Red is my home. London is its name, but Arnes does not look like England. For some reason, only the names and locations are the same."

Sirius stares at the napkin as Kell explains, attempting to imagine the London he knows atop another similar but different just beneath. Strangely, it's not all that difficult, not when he knows a separate sort of London from Muggles, and not after finding himself flung into this dreadful place.

"Are we on a separate napkin altogether, then?" he asks, gesturing vaguely around him, indicating Darrow at large. "Perhaps there's another layer just beneath us, a city with the same name, only with better architecture and no magic."

He has many more questions, of course, but he thinks they're better asked once they've both had a pint or two.

"This could not be a layer above or below," says Kell with a thoughtful frown creasing his brow. "One may not go from White to Grey, for example, never around, only through. If I moved from Red to another, it could only be White or Grey."

It's beginning to hurt his head, in truth. "Another napkin perhaps, as you say," he concedes. "But if there's another world beneath us, I can't reach it without a token."

"A token," Sirius echoes, trying to imagine what exactly might qualify. "But what sort--"

He's stopped short as a woman approaches their table, her smile warm and easy, though it noticeably falters when she looks to Kell. The man's eye is still largely covered by the swoop of his red hair but perhaps she catches a glance and Sirius leans forward to grab her attention.

"Two pints of your favourite on tap, if you please," he says with his most charming smile, tossing in a wink for good measure. "And perhaps a basket of chips. Er-- fries, that is." Her smile returns then and as she leaves to fill their order, Sirius looks back to Kell. "What sort of token?"

Kell keeps his eyes on her, not unmoved by her fear but too stubborn to give any outward sign of it. His shoulders don't slump when she leaves with their order, but he does sink back against the booth, drawing a tired breath. Where once his eye inspired awe, now he sees only fear in those that behold him, both in Red London and now here. In everyone except, perhaps, Sirius.

Kell reaches into his pocket, rummaging for a bit before he produces a Red London lin. "Any token from the world I wish to travel to. I find coins are the easiest to keep track of. What are chips?" he asks, curious. "Or fries?"

Sirius eyes the item Kell pulls from his coat pocket, a small piece that looks not unlike a sickle. He doesn't reach for it, aware that Kell may see it as some sort of threat or at least an encroachment upon something at least marginally valuable. Particularly here, where such a thing may be nearly all he has to connect him to his home.

"Potatoes sliced and fried," he replies with a wide grin. "They're delicious, especially with vinegar. Have you not something similar where you're from?"

"In Grey London I have had potato fritters," Kell admits, "The potatoes mashed and then fried. Never sliced and with vinegar." But Kell is always tired and hungry after blood magic, and now that the shock of arriving here has somewhat faded he's famished. He can't help but feel a bit excited to eat something Sirius is so enthusiastic about.

"I always liked fritters. The palace would have considered them too base to serve."

"I can't say I like this Grey London moniker," Sirius admits with a wrinkle of his nose. He's only partially teasing, lips tugged into a hint of a smile. "Though I suppose it's not my London so much. We've magic, after all. And have done for centuries. Perhaps we should come up with a different name, if only for mine."

He arches an eyebrow as Kell continues, however, his mention of fritters prefacing a comment far more intriguing. "Palace?" he says, head cocked. "Royal family or servant?"

The question cuts more than Sirius could know, and Kell spends a moment breathing deeply. How long has it been since the Queen asked him to call her mother? How long since the King looked on him with anything but contempt? "Servant," he answers, "Though for most of my life I was treated as family."

He lowers his gaze, lifting it only when the ales arrive, and Kell doesn't hesitate. He takes his glass and drinks deeply, recalling only when it's too late that he's said no thanks at all. "Thank you," he tells Sirius. "For this."

Kell's hesitance in responding is telling, Sirius thinks. And he's proven correct once Kell does speak, the answer somewhat conflicting. A servant treated as family? It's true Sirius may not fully understand how royalty is done given he's never paid all that much attention to the Muggle monarchy, but it seems odd to him all the same.

Their pints arrive before he can say as much and Sirius watches as Kell immediately takes a large drink. Sirius sips at his own, letting the silence settle for a moment before he says, "Remember this later," he says with a wink and a smirk. "If we meet again and I succeed in pissing you off, perhaps. But tell me, of what service were you to the royal family?"

Resettling his glass before him, Kell frowns. It's strange to have to explain what and who he is, when all his life, he's never once been able to hide it. "Antari are rare," he says. "We are the only ones who can travel between worlds. I know of no other Antari still alive. And - "

Kell's expression darkens before he wrestles it back under control. "I am a symbol. The other empires think Arnes' might is because it owns an Antari. Superstition, of course, but the idea is powerful."

"Owns," Sirius replies, eyes narrowing as he catches onto that one world. He has one hand wrapped around his glass, but he's leant forward, watching Kell carefully. "As if you are a thing and not a person."

He pauses then, head tilted, lips parting to inquire further just as the waitress returns with their basket of chips. However, the basket isn't all she brings, her lips curved in a strange smile just for Kell as she hands him a familiar envelope and then walks away without a word.

"Ah, yes," Sirius says, watching the woman walk away before turning his attention back to Kell. He grabs a chip from the basket and bites into it. "Welcome packet, I believe. I'd forgotten about that," he says with an apologetic smile. "Go on, open it. It's only further proof that you've gone completely mental."

Kell looks up in surprise. Has he really said owns? He's long been thinking it, but the thought is close to treason. Something in him stirs, restless and defiant and nearly pleased, a feeling that blooms all the more when Sirius calls him a person.

He feels warm and, if not happy, encouraged to hear another person say it. He's almost smiling when the chips arrive, but it falters when the woman's smile is something he doesn't know how to read. Sirius, on the other hand, has no similar problem, but Kell doesn't feel particularly reassured. He lifts the packet as one would a viper and opens it carefully, frowning when a card with his image on it falls out, along with a key marked Candlewood.

"When could this have been made?" he wonders, lifting the card. His picture there is better than any scrying board, and shows his red coat, one that's yet to be turned out here.

"Anyone's guess," Sirius replies with a flippant wave of his hand, which he then quickly uses to grab the bottle of vinegar at the side of the table, drizzling a fair amount over the basket of chips. "I got one as well when I arrived. There should be a key in there too, and an address for where you'll be staying. Oh, and something called a mobile my godson swears is useful."

Said mobile has been on Sirius's night table since the nearly the moment of his arrival. As far as he's been able to tell so far, despite what Harry's told him, he really sees not much use for it at all.

"Here," Sirius says then, nudging the basket toward Kell. "Try a chip, it'll make the loss of reason easier to digest."

Kell pulls a heavy rectangle of what feels like metal and glass from the bag and leaves it on the table, staring at the chips when Sirius' nudges them forward. Feeling numb, he lifts one and ignores the heat that burns his fingers, pushing half into his mouth and biting down. It is, admittedly, delicious, salty and hot and a little bit crisp, but somehow it adds to the permanence Kell can suddenly feel settling over him.

Shelter, a place to sleep, food - can he really be expected to stay here? It's a mistake, he knows it is, but Kell feels panic clawing up from deep within him, and with it, childish tears. Sanct, what if he can't get back to Rhy? It's impossible. He's Antari. No world can hold him.

"Has anyone left here?" he asks Sirius, struggling through the rest of his chip.

Biting into another chip himself, Sirius keeps an anticipatory gaze on Kell and is mildly disappointed when the man's face doesn't immediately break into a satisfied smile at the taste of greasy, salty potatoes.

"Ah," Sirius remarks, understanding more of Kell's uneasy expression with the question. He chews a moment, then takes a sip of his drink before settling his forearms against the table. Is there any easy way to bear this news, he wonders. Harry hadn't had an easy time of it and the first Sirius has had to attempt it.

Perhaps he should've paid a bit more attention when Remus had tried teaching him couth.

"As far as I've been told and as far as I've seen myself in the month I've been here, I'm afraid not," he says, grimacing slightly, apologetic. "People do leave, it seems. But it's just as unexpected as their arrival and doesn't appear to happen by choice. Or effort."

Kell shakes his head, unwilling to believe that. Of course it's impossible for other people, but a traveller is what he is. Kell stares down at his hand, debating with himself whether he ought to cut himself open and try again, fatigued or not, but the shudder of his heart reminds him of something even more pressing.

Eyes widening, Kell pulls at his shirt, parting it to expose the silver concentric circles scarred over his heart. The seal is still there. He can't feel Rhy, but the seal is there, meaning the magic holds. It must, across worlds even, as it always has before, but why can't he feel him? "Rhy," Kell whispers, closing his eyes to feel for him again, but there's nothing.

Another strange expression crosses Kell's features. It isn't one of acceptance -- reluctant or otherwise -- or even argument. There's something Sirius is missing and, as Kell begins tugging at the shirt to reveal a strange, circular scar over his heart, is only more intrigued.

"Rhy?" he echoes, gaze darting from Kell's face to the mark against his skin. Kell had explained earlier that he could heal quickly from his wounds, but it's obvious this is no ordinary scar. There's even a shimmer to it, as though decorative. His gaze lands on Kell's face once more and holds, assessing. "Person or place?" He pauses a moment, lips pursed and head cocked. "Or merely a curse?"

Kell listens a moment more, straining with all of his will towards his brother, but nothing comes. "My brother," he says, opening his eyes, glad he's seated as a wave of dizziness crushes over him. Red London or Darrow, the world has no shape without Rhy, and for the first time since he arrived here Kell is truly afraid.

"In all ways but blood," he says, pressing his fingers to the seal as if it revive it. "My life is bound to his own. I can't feel him."