The Antiquity: Chapter 1

Chapter 1

Griselda

There are a few phases to having a job. The first is usually, "oh boy, I'm so lucky to be employed", the second is "wow, money", the third "huh, this is getting repetitive", and the fourth often ends up being "if I stay in the maintenance closet, maybe they won't realize that I'm not actually repairing drawers". It might sound cynical, but fear not, as the first two steps typically remain present throughout the whole ordeal, sort of balancing things out enough for you to be able to get out of bed in the morning.

Griselda had taken steps to make the getting-up part easier: she'd made a sort of "agreement" with her bed. She'd placed a simple enchantment on the mattress – if you wanted to call it that, it was more just a sack of down with as many blankets as she could find stacked on top – making it throw her out of bed, sometimes rather violently, if she slept past 6 am. A great triumph was celebrated by her alone on the mornings where she successfully beat this horrible alarm clock, and this celebration usually included Gris sticking out her tongue and going "neener, neener" to her defeated place of rest. It was a friendly competition that they had. This excitement was usually what got her motivated to make it through the rest of the morning. And if the alternative happened, and she got sent spiraling down onto the floor, the anger of being unable to beat the alarm that day had the same effect. So really, she won no matter what, and was never late to breakfast. That was how she justified it, anyway.

To many, being a Royal Guardsman would sound like a super-cool job on paper. If you were to tell someone from the Modernity, "oh, yeah, I'm a Royal Guardsman from the Kingdom of Weiss", they'd be thrilled, and probably have you lining up to take pictures. Gris had found that Moderners loved novelty. Unfortunately, the experience of being a Guardsman was more like "magical grunt work" than anything. Gris was often ordered by the Prime Guardsman to patrol castle hallways, check the locks and wards, even do repair work. If there was a noble or diplomat staying at the castle, Gris would be assigned as a personal bodyguard. This meant standing outside their bedroom, or sometimes inside, if they wanted to vent you on a whim. Or sitting with them at meals, which usually sounded like "Griselda, doesn't this necklace suit me so well?"; "yes, my lady."; "You don't just say that to all of your charges, do you?"; "No, my lady," et cetera, et cetera. Being a bodyguard sounded so romantic, but really, Gris felt like a glorified manservant who also, unfortunately had to put her life on the line for whatever noble she was assigned to at the time. She had wished, countless times, that she could say, "hey, if you're so rich and have the time to stay in this ludicrous castle, why don't you learn which end of the sword is the pointy one?" but she liked having a place to sleep, so she just barely refrained. If you wanted to talk about wage theft, Gris was more than willing. Once, she'd made a joke about unionizing at breakfast, and was assigned to bed-making duty for a whole week as a result – which she was pretty sure wasn't an actual job.

On that particular morning, Gris hadn't woken up on time. It was usually a bad omen, and she certainly felt as such, since when she flew off her mattress this morning, she hit her head on her dresser, and as a result had a throbbing headache. If you think being thrown violently from your warm bed at the ass-crack of dawn makes you more of a morning person, then you'd be so, so wrong. But Gris didn't need to be a morning person; she'd stopped caring a long time ago that when she was sleep deprived, she looked like a Ghast who hadn't had a drink of human soul in weeks. And sometimes, she acted like it too, especially to those who pointed the previous fact out.

On that morning, Gris received summons from the Prime Guardsman, her boss and manager, in charge of the wing of the castle where she lived. The castle didn't seem that huge from the outside, but from the inside Gris could tell it had been subject to centuries of tampering from other Aegir. Years and years had been put into coaxing the inside of the castle to become bigger than the outside, inch by inch. It was called a Distance Distortion, a space alteration that only a powerful Aegir could pull off; it had probably been done on commission by an outside source, since nobody in their right mind would do it on a Guardsman's salary. Distance Distortions were complex and required years of practice; they gave the inside an object the ability to move and stretch on its own, without affecting the outside. But that also meant that sometimes, the building would decide to grow and shift in ways unplanned by the caster. Walls could develop odd bulges, the size of individual stairs could grow or shrink drastically, and rooms could become so disproportionately tiny that you had to duck to walk around inside them. It was like using the Transform tool in an editing software; do it right, and it was a practical quality of life improvement. Do it wrong, and you ended up with a bizarre and altogether frightening abomination. Gris had noted thankfully that whoever had done the distorting in the castle had done a pretty solid job. A few of the doorframes were slightly different sizes, and that was barely noticeable, at least to someone who wasn't also an Aegir. The castle itself was psyched about the opportunity to become bigger – that was the purpose of castles, really, "to be big" – which Gris had found out when she'd finally convinced it to talk to her. Castle Weiss was technically one big Magicked object, so it wasn't as keen on conversation as a normal item. That was because it was stuffed full of the intent of another caster, the energy that makes magic work in the first place. Each caster's intent was unique, like an ethereal fingerprint, and objects were more likely to listen to those whose fingerprint was familiar to them.

Walking through the hall to the Prime's quarters, Gris greeted all of the familiar objects in her path. The hallway was full of pedestals, each one bearing some sort of ornate decoration, all of whose names she knew. Gris had lived in the castle for 12 years, and nothing had really changed. Well, except for surface area of the floors and ceilings, which seemed to have grown about another five feet, by her measurements. There was an urn named Feba, and two marble busts, Jesp and Lerun. Gris had asked the busts before if they felt odd being shaped like other people, and they told her that they hadn't thought of it before, since nobody had ever asked. Apparently, it was odd even amongst Aegir, who already had the ability to command objects, that Gris made an effort to make small talk with them. This, according to some of the other Guardsmen, made her look a bit nuts. Gris disagreed; she considered it rude to only talk to an object when you needed something from them, considering that the same rule usually applied to people.

Objects couldn't, in most cases, "actually talk". It was theorized that all objects had a consciousness – regular people just couldn't perceive it. Aegir don't count as 'regular people', though; they're a classification of mage capable of re-writing a small portion of reality to accommodate their needs, in the form of enchanting objects. As a result, they can also perceive the consciousness of objects, allowing them to "talk" to them. At least, Gris could. She'd never met another Aegir who asked objects politely for something instead of just commanding them outright. Gris always felt more comfortable when the things doing favors for her actually had a choice.

The hall decorations greeted Gris back, as they always did.

"Good morning, Grissy," said the old table clock, Sheperd, "did Yola throw you out again?"

Gris nodded disdainfully; Yola was the name of her mattress. "I'll get it next time."

It chuckled. "If they allowed alarm clocks in here, you wouldn't have to fight for your life every morning."

"If only." Gris rubbed the back of her head. She couldn't get out of bed in the morning without some outside force there to wake her up, leading to the turbulent relationship she had with her bed, one which she thoroughly hated despite implementing it herself. Most Modern technology wasn't allowed in the city of Weiss, for all sorts of reasons. They King did implement telegraphs and certain vintage firearms, but even those were military-use only. Sheperd, an ornate wooden clock, was a gift to a noble from some Modern diplomats. Usually, when an object's been around people for long enough, they develop their own way of speaking and personality, and since Sheperd was a display antique, it was no exception. Not only that, but more complex objects usually had more to say and a bigger vocabulary. Sheperd had always insisted on calling her "Grissy". When objects give you a name, title, or honorific, they always stick with it, no matter what. They're very consistent like that.

Gris continued her trek to the Prime's office, which she reached only a few minutes after dawn broke. She announced herself using the knocker, like the door always asked her to. Sometimes, Gris thought about how objects all have their own preferences, but only Aegir will ever know and respect them. The thought filled her with melancholy; she couldn't be there for every transgression made against an item, but sometimes she felt like it was wrong of her not to try.

The Prime's deep voice sounded from behind the door.

"It's open."

Gris stepped through the double doors, which opened for her. The Prime was sitting at her desk, tapping her fingers rhythmically on the dark wood. She was an older woman, short but broad, and had the same musculature as the rest of the Guardsmen, who had to undergo rigorous training almost daily. Her real name was Fermina Touselmane, but to her subordinates, she was simply "Madam Prime". Despite her higher-ranking position, she was still subject to the same rules and regulations as the rest of the Guardsman, and was more of a manager than an actual boss. But as a result, she tended to have just a smidge more empathy than the Guardsman's Association officials that occasionally visited the castle. It didn't mean that most of her subordinates weren't terrified of her due to her title alone, though.

"It's good to see you, Griselda. Please, take a seat." The Prime gestured to the padded chair that faced her desk. The room was round and wrought from white marble, with a high ceiling and long, courtyard-facing windows that stretched up the walls behind her desk. It was rumored that the Prime slept in the same type of cell-room that every Guardsman got, but Gris suspected that this was a load of crap. She did think it was nice to see rooms in a castle that actually looked like they belong a castle, though. Or maybe that was just the expectations of the Moderners rubbing off on her. The thought made her shiver.

Gris bowed her head and sat down. "Thank you, Madam Prime."

She waved her hand dismissively. "No need for all that today. I'm just here to pass on a message. It's important, though, so of course, listen carefully." This was unusual. The last time that Gris had been called in, it was because she had been caught telling an unmounted cabinet in the kitchen that it didn't have to open for the mean Guardsman who slams it shut all the time if it didn't want to, and to stand up for itself. Later, after the damage had already been done, the cabinet had taken this as "if the mean Guardsman who slams your doors tries to open you, keep so firmly shut that he accidentally yanks you down on top of him". That was his fault, though, and Gris would die on that hill. Some people needed to learn when to quit. Unfortunately, The Prime's empathy didn't extend that far, and Gris had been given bed-making duty again. You'd think The Prime would've learned her lesson by then, though, because for a week after, nobody was able to get any sleep in the beds that Gris had been making, since everyone's blankets kept suddenly flying off in the middle of the night. Some of her anger must've rubbed off on them. Whoops.

The Prime must've caught on to Gris's confusion, because she continued, "I just got word from my supervisors that you're to be reassigned."

"...Pardon?" Gris blinked at her. The pounding in her head was clearly causing her to mishear.

"You've been assigned to a solitary position working for a noble living in the Antique Heights. His name is Lord Horace Pilsworth. You can read all about him in the report he provided," her brow furrowed only slightly, "in which he was very descriptive. You...should have more than you need here." She slid a yellow envelope across the table, but Gris was still hung up on something else.

"I...I'm sorry, Madam Prime, but did you say, 'Antique Heights'?" Gris pursed her lips after the words left her mouth. Suddenly, her headache felt rather far away.

"Yes, I believe I did. Is there an issue?"

"Um. I don't know if I can..." Gris hesitated; saying these kinds of things wasn't usually recommended in her line of work, "I don't think I can take this job, Madam Prime."

The Prime pushed her glasses up, her brows furrowing deeper. She narrowed her eyes. "Is there something you need to tell me, Griselda?"

"It's...no, I..." Gris was stumbling over her words now. The Prime was intimidating; it went against her better judgement to lie. But Gris couldn't tell her the truth, because that would be an even worse idea than making up an excuse, even one that she'd see right through.

"Griselda, I'm afraid this isn't a negotiation," The Prime continued, her words not without a slight drop of sympathy, which you'd have be looking for to catch, "you were asked for by name, meaning your client is already aware of your skill set and has requested you above all other Guardsmen. I'm not trying to patronize you when I say that despite some...past shenanigans-" hearing The Prime say the word 'shenanigans' almost sent Gris over the edge, "-I believe you're one of the best Aegir who's ever worked within these walls. I have a lot of respect for you. But if there was some reason why you'd be unable to complete this job, you would be subject to inquiry by my supervisors, and I don't want you to have to go through that." Her words were severe. Gris knew that she wasn't trying to threaten her, but she was still actively pushing down the panic rising in her throat.

"I...ok, I understand. My apologies, Madam Prime," Gris breathed in, preparing physically for what she was about to say, "I'll prepare for re-assignment."

The Prime eyed her a bit skeptically, but then nodded. "Very well. You're dismissed." Gris picked up the report envelope from her desk, bowed again, and turned to leave. She then heard a deep voice from behind her again, but this time it wasn't from the Prime – it was her desk.

"Exercise caution, Griselda." Of course it could sense her anxiety; a thumbtack probably could. She turned her head only slightly as she left, and gave the desk the tiniest of nods.

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"This is not good, Synguardian. In fact, I don't think you understand just how not good this is." Gris was packing her few things into her backpack with a rather frantic fervor, ranting to the rapier laid across her bed, the one which usually hung at her hip.

"So you've said about three times now, Gris. Now four."

"Augh, thanks for keeping track," she responded dryly, letting out a huff. Synguardian was a blade she enchanted herself in her spare time, and was an otherwise standard-issue Guardsman's rapier, with a few decorative adornments added over time. Swords enjoyed looking fancy just about as much as being sharp and pointy; it was one of the things Gris found out in her years of wielding one.

"I understand your fears, I truly do. But do you have any reason to believe that if you go back to the Heights, your situation with revert to being the same as it was back then?" It was a good point. Of course it was a good point. Synguardian always made good points, it was a trait that all swords had seemed to have. Gris had no reason to think that returning to her old home would return her to the way she was 12 years ago; trapped, helpless, her only option being to run away. Not only was she now 22 years old, but she was an entirely different person. Well, she was in theory, hopefully, she wasn't entirely sure yet, et cetera.

But Synguardian hadn't been there to see first-hand (first-hilt?) what Gris had to do to get away from the Heights, so many years of scraping for food, fixing furniture for coppers, almost being taken by sea-slavers countless times. The scar she bore on her cheek, right over her jawbone, was her badge of courage, a reminder of the way the journey had changed her. Being told to go back now felt insulting, demeaning, dehumanizing. The fact that she'd escaped, made it to the city of Weiss in one piece, and made some kind of life for herself was a miracle, and now she was being sent back to square one. It was horrible, awful. It was bullshit, was what it was. She could feel her face turning red with rage.

It wasn't like she could just make a break for it, either. Fun fact: Weiss's Guardsmen's Association doesn't like it when clients pay 5,000 Gold Dia (roughly 800,000 Modern Dollars, or M.D.) upfront only for their specifically requested bodyguard to go missing in transit. A stupidly huge amount, Gris had thought. She'd read the report, all 16 ridiculous pages of it, which had come complete with an invoice detailing exactly how much the institution she worked for had been paid to boot her back to where she'd come from. If she tried to run, the Association would hunt her down, find her, and make sure that she never left the castle again, at least until she'd made up the difference in labor. And Horace Pilsworth sounded like a pompous, self-important, dick-headed knob, with a punchable face. She hadn't actually seen any pictures of him in there, but she just had this gut feeling.

"Should I be flattered that I was worth that much to some noble? Blegh." Gris felt a bit sick, as she usually did when she knew something terrible was going to happen. But she also felt ill rather often, and as Synguardian suggested, maybe she just needed stomach medication, and it wasn't a sign of ill portents at all.

"If something should happen to put you in jeopardy," Synguardian said, "you know already that I would risk my blade to protect you. And your charge – but mostly you." That reassurance was nice, at least. Synguardian's name was an Old Weissian word that meant "protector of kin, and those you hold dear". Gris had chosen that title herself; part of enchanting an object was giving it a new name, one that both you and the object both agreed with. If you couldn't come up with something that the object would accept, you'd reached a pretty big roadblock. All objects had a purpose, one that they can't defy on their own. Normally, refrigerators couldn't be told to heat up food, crayons couldn't be told to erase. But by re-naming an object and imbuing it with your own intent, you could change their purpose into the opposite if you wanted, or even something more complex and different entirely. That's how a Magicked item was created. Complicated enchantments are a long and arduous process most of the time, and require spending plenty of time with the object, reading to it, and teaching it how to do certain things, depending on your end goal. Synguardian's purpose was to protect Gris, and whomever else Gris was attempting to guard at the time. But as he frequently stated, 'mostly you', which meant mostly Gris. That wasn't something Gris had done; Synguardian was just like that. Synguardian had also decided, that because of his deep and regal voice, that he was clearly a distinguished young gentleman, and that had seemed to stick.

"I appreciate it, but I'm gonna be pissed about this for a while longer. Let me stew in my own rage for a little bit." Gris tightened her belt one more time, and adjusted her collar in the mirror. Her chest plate, which she very rarely wore since it required padding and was a pain to put on, sat nobly on her torso. She lifted Synguardian from her bed and clipped him to her waist, then patted his hilt. Her greaves weighed a ton and her gauntlets felt entirely unnecessary, as usual, but she was required to wear full armor on the job. "Dressing for the job you want", or some nonsense. The moment she was out of the castle, she would sell all of it. Her strengths were her speed and quiet feet; she wasn't a brawler. Leather armor would be perfectly fine for whatever horrors awaited her in the quiet suburbia of the Heights.

"Very well, do so if you must," Synguardian said (if he had eyes he would probably be rolling them), "but I would advise..."

"...That I don't let my frustration cloud my judgement, like usual?" She'd heard that one a few times. Gris had only adventure novels, Old Weissian poetry, fencing manuals, and Aegir Enchantments 101 to read to Synguardian while she was enchanting him, resulting in his vocabulary becoming like that of a wizened old swordsman with plenty of knowledge to dispense to whoever happened to be listening, which was only ever her.

"Yes, exactly," he said, "I'm so proud of you; you're finally learning. I like to think my good influence will take you a long way." Gris felt Synguardian adjust himself in his sheath slightly, ever so satisfied with himself. He had made Gris find, and in one case make, a new sheath for him three times over the years she'd known him. He would usually say 'I think I've outgrown this one', which was completely ridiculous, but swords are very particular, if not a bit high-maintenance, and their inner machinations were beyond the understanding of many. They could grow an extremely close bond with their wielder, but only if they were content with their conditions. They were the most similar type of object to a real human that Gris had ever met, and it made sense; they were built to be companions.

Gris didn't waste any time leaving the castle; she just said a brief goodbye to the objects she talked to frequently and headed to the front entrance, showing her transfer papers to the guards at the gates, who stamped them and sent her on her way without a word. She didn't have any human friends to say goodbye to; Guardsmen came and went, a convenient way for the Kingdom to sell magical services, and Gris was no exception, just another name and face. She had also done her best not to stand out, considering her circumstances. Anyone could've been associated with her father, and she would've had no idea until it was too late.

But on the other hand, maybe she was just being paranoid: she didn't actually know if he was looking for her. This meant that, amongst other options, either she was really good at hiding (unlikely), he didn't care (it was possible, but that's just because he'd never cared about her anyway), or that he was dead. In the back of her mind, Gris hoped with a sick, intrusive, desperation that it was the last one. She'd confidently declared to Synguardian, on her 18th birthday, that she didn't care about what had happened, and she was done being upset about her father, done letting him control her. That first part was so obviously a lie, more to herself than Synguardian, because she clearly did care, and her hopefully-deceased father was still living comfortably in her brain.

Gris did stop one more time, just outside the castle's gates, and said a quick, "Thanks," and gave a curt wave to the building that had sheltered her for so long. It was a tradition at this point to say her goodbyes right outside the door of wherever she'd stayed that season. This was the place where she'd stayed the longest during her time on the run, so it had a special place in her heart. Sometimes, it felt so comfortable walking the long, white-marble hallways that she'd forgotten why she'd ended up there. She could've sworn that she'd seen a pennant flag on one of the castle's turrets start flapping back at her in response, despite the lack of wind. She smiled, in spite of herself; it seemed like she'd fixed enough ceiling and floor tiles, and probably made enough beds, for the castle to consider her a friend. She always hoped that when she left, it would be of her own volition, but she couldn't live on wishful thinking alone.

And with that she turned, and walked away – homeward bound – for the first time in 12 years.

Bonus: Character concept art!

Sebastian

Griselda and Synguardian (from the cover; cover and concept art designed and drawn by me)