The Natural Order of Things

Talle had gone. Finch trailed close behind Ferre exiting the shop, mind reeling.

The storyteller was oddly light on his feet, though he had donned his coat. He seemed too cheery for a man who had just very nearly fought his brother in a tannery. Finch noticed that he didn't lean so heavily on his cane.

"Ferre?" they said. "What's up with you?"

Ferre looked down in glee. "Five years," he said lightly, "it's been five years and I can finally have something new." He paused, thinking. "I'm coming back down here tomorrow, you don't have to come along if you don't want to. I shouldn't be long, I just need to get my last measurements and pick up the first replacement."

"You're this excited over getting new harnesses?"

"Of course," Ferre said.

"No way. You just wanna see that tanner again, don't you?"

Ferre nearly tripped, catching himself at the last second. "What? No!" he said, hair askew. "I mean, I'd hope to see him again, because otherwise I won't get my harnesses, but… that's not why I'm going back. And what business is it of yours to accuse me anyway? You —" He stopped at the look on Finch's face. "What?"

Though at first Finch had been terrified of this man, they had quickly learned that his fearsome persona was only an act. They had decided that using their unfortunate circumstances to their advantage was the only way to go. "Oh, nothing," they said, knowing full well that they were in no danger for only teasing him. "Never woulda guessed that the infamous Lightbringer, destroyer of worlds, is really just a hopeless romantic."

Something hit them hard in the back; they let out a yelp of shock, then swivelled on their heel to stare at Ferre, who firmly set the foot of his cane back on the ground. His eyes glittered, though whether with entertainment or anger it was difficult to tell. "You shouldn't poke fun at someone with a weapon, kid," he said.

Finch's back throbbed. They rubbed at it with a hand, wincing. "I'll make fun of whoever I want," they countered. "Ain't any reason to smack me with a stick, though."

"Plenty of reason," Ferre said, but his tone was light. His anger had not lasted long, he was in too good of a mood. He came to a stop in the shade of a collapsible awning and looked around, chin lifted. "Do you see any way down to the water?"

Finch had almost forgotten that the man was constantly burning Charge. "You're near two feet taller than I am," they said, "so you'd know better than I would."

"I suppose," Ferre murmured, almost to himself.

"Why do they call you Lightbringer anyway?"

Ferre started, glancing down at Finch in surprise. "Er, there are a few reasons." He paused. "One is strictly logical and the other is a matter of opinion."

"Hit me."

"The first reason," he began, "is that when one consumes a great Charge and burns it constantly as I do, he lets off a constant stream of waste energy. In the process of using any Enhancement or Manipulation or other ability, the energy used is returned to the environment, most often in the form of colour, though sometimes a breeze or a faint continuous sound can occur. You might notice that things are more colourful in my wake. That is why.

"The second reason is simply that I bring light in the form of knowledge. Stories, news, sometimes I even pass messages." He looked down, frowning. "I hope no one ever figures out the truth."

Finch didn't ask what that truth was. "You talk like a textbook," they told Ferre.

He let out a little breath that might have been a laugh. "Bad habit," he said. "Let's get going."

The hotel room was quite cold. Finch huddled into their sweater, spine tickled with shivers. As usual, the more warmly-dressed Pendrin didn't seem bothered; he padded unevenly to the far bed and picked up his satchel, retracting a vial of powdered bones and heading to the washroom for a glass of water. He still had that vaguely gleeful look on his face. Finch couldn't place it.

Finch had a seat in the armchair and leaned back, hardly making a dent in the coarse upholstery. They took off their pageboy and tossed it onto the bed, ruffling their thick hair in contentment. It was getting longer than they liked, only about an inch or so above their shoulders.

When Ferre returned, he shooed Finch out of the armchair and sat in it smugly, stirring his cloudy drink with a wooden stick. Finch sat with a huff on the foot of the bed. "You have got eyes for that scruffy tanner fella, haven't you?"

"Eh," said Ferre, "maybe." He grinned and took a swig of the solution. "We'll wait for Talle to get back from wherever he got himself lost and then I'm going back out, might go for a walk. Rallar's a gorgeous city, no reason to stay inside." He crossed his right leg over his left knee and leaned back, balancing the glass in his hand.



Talle heard nothing but the thunder of his thoughts. The ground flew by under brisk feet; he didn't feel the chilly air despite his sleeveless tunic, and goosepimples had sprung up all down his arms, but he ignored them. He had to find the girl and give her his report before Ferre got too suspicious of his absence.

He looked around, searching. She had told him to meet her by the tenth dock, and he stood only feet from its gate, hands in pockets. He was easily a foot or more taller than anyone else in the crowd, so he at least had a visual advantage.

There was a tap on his back. He turned, surprised.

You're late, the girl signed. She wasn't deaf; universal hand signs were the only reliable way the two had to communicate due to the fact that each spoke a different language. Talle had specifically chosen a Revereli name; it would look less suspicious.

It was unavoidable, he replied. I follow my brother, he decided to make a detour. I have to hurry. Quickly but neatly, he relayed a series of cities and towns off to her, pausing in between to let her scratch them down in her pocketbook.

She snapped it shut, eyes glittering. I will see you in Haladel, sir, she signed rapidly, then whirled and took off into the crowd, coat sailing.

Talle let out the breath he had been holding and set his shoulders, starting back towards the marketplace.

He was worried that any day now Ferre would find him out. Though the younger man wasn't often very observant, he was very paranoid, and any excuse Talle gave him to think he was in danger would send him running south faster than he could be stopped. He seemed to have the idea that he didn't need protecting, which had been disproved many times, and yet still he stuck to it despite his overly nervous tendencies.

Ferre was difficult to understand; he seemed to operate on a different frequency than everyone else. Fortunately, Talle didn't care to understand him, only to stop him.

Talle wasn't certain how much he looked forward to the aftermath of his decisions, but he couldn't afford to let his worry get in his way. Ferre had to die. And he had to die soon.