The Legend of William Oh-Chapter 222: Burning The Candle At Both Ends

His flesh sizzled as white hot stone crashed over his limbs like a wave. His Resistance only slowed the process as the water in his skin caused the molten stone to bubble. His fat rendered and burned, sending tiny gouts of flame popping out of the suffocating heat.

No!

Fabron struggled against the clinging stone even as it ate away at the very muscles he needed to do so, turning them to charcoal wrapped around charred bone.

The white-hot glass crawled from his arms to his chest, burning its way up his throat, rendering away the soft tissue, stealing away even his ability to scream.

It climbed and climbed, until the white-hot glass was all that he could see.

It never took his sight.

In the manner of dreams, it reverted back to the beginning, seamlessly returning to the moment of impact at the slightest moment of distraction.

It was a dream, but an animalistic portion of Fabron’s mind clawed and fought back viciously with the desperation of a fox caught in a trap.

Because every iteration he started just a little more burnt than he had before. His fingers were charred bone that refused to obey his commands as the roiling wall of molten stone crashed over him again.

What happens when it reaches my eyes? Fabron didn’t know what would happen, but he knew with certainty that it couldn’t be allowed.

So he fought.

And burned.

And fought…

And burned.

…ster

…aster

…Master!

“Ung!” Fabron started awake, a bottle clattering to the ground from where his sudden jolt had dislodged it from his rumpled covers.

“Wh”-HACK- Fabron hacked a wad of dry mucus out of his throat and regained the ability to speak.

“What time is it?” Fabron rasped, blinking the sand out of his eyes.

“Two hours before the mixer, master.” Aria said, putting a warm hand on his back to help him sit up before she slipped out from under the covers herself, silver hair cascading down her back before a dress shimmered into place over her eye-catching curves.

She was the most beautiful of the Burning Court. A courtesan who saw to his needs, comforting him and helped him sleep every night. She was more valuable to him than all the others by a Coil.

Fabron grunted as he turned sideways, sticking his feet out from under the covers and instantly regretting it.

Why does it have to be so damned cold on this Floor? And why do I feel so awful? I suppose age comes for us all, Fabron thought as the night’s dreams were scattered by his waking -and hungover- mind.

Only a few years ago, a night with a woman, even a paid one, would have him feeling relaxed and ready to conquer The Tower the next morning, but these days he almost felt more spent and anxious than he did the night before, a ball of nerves boiling in the pit of his stomach with seemingly no path for release.

At least the sex is good, Fabron thought with a groan, leaning into his palms.

Between his fingers, he could make out Lucas, the Burning Court’s butler, a sharp-featured older man bustling around the room, preparing the clothes he would be wearing to the party, while Aria poured him a drink of water.

Aria saw to his body, Lucas to his business.

And the others?

Madelhari saw to his Vassals.

Tassos saw to his money.

Neka saw to his protection.

Keeney saw to his wisdom.

Jakome saw to his future.

Madelhari and Tassos were still on the 9th Floor, overseeing his Stronghold, but the others were still with him, hovering intangibly just outside his sight. Like something floating at the edge of his sight, and every time he turned to look, it flitted away just before his eyes landed.

Of the intangible ones, Neka was the closest to him. He could practically feel her hand resting on his shoulder, ready to shove him out of the way of an attack and manifest in his place in an instant.

Neka had the privilege of being the only of the seven who could summon herself at her own discretion.

The others could only patiently offer their assistance and wait for him to bring them forth into reality.

Together they took care of his every need. Fabron felt like the moment he had completed the set, he had begun hurtling down the path to Lordship, dragged along by seven flaming horses, with nary an effort from himself.

Well, that’s not entirely true.

Having all seven out at once was a strain. Not on his Charge or Focus, but…simply on his mind and body.

Having four summoned at once was a light, constant drain that he hadn’t quite been prepared for. A few hours at a time was nothing much, but days? Weeks? Farbon was nearing his breaking point.

He couldn’t dismiss Madelhari or Tassos for fear of Lord Bitch-ton trying something while he was away, so he would have to suck it up and dismiss one of his two favorites.

As much as I would love to show off Aria to all those Lords and Nobles with scepters up their asses, Lucas is better at guiding me through etiquette.

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Guiding me. Like a puppet.

Fabron shook the strange thought away, causing his hangover to flare up, making his head ring and pound like a forgemaster’s hammer.

“Aria, as much as I love your company, I’m dog tired. Leave us.”

“Of course, Master. I look forward to comforting you again.” Aria said, bowing low. In the blink of an eye, Aria was consumed by flames, leaving a momentary outline of her blackened skeleton before she vanished back into intangibility.

Aria returns to the fire.

I wonder if it hurts them when I do that? Fabron thought, feeling Aria move to stand beside him, her imaginary hand resting on his other shoulder, imaginary breasts brushing against his arm. Imaginary breath on his ear.

Fabron chuckled.

Even unsummoned she stokes my imagination. That vixen.

With only three of his Court summoned, Fabron felt the low-grade constant strain fade to something more manageable. Like a mild hangover instead of a wasting disease.

Something he could muscle through on sheer willpower. Still, it wasn’t pleasant.

Ugh, that outfit Lucas has picked out makes me look Like a popinjay.

“This outfit makes me look like a popinjay,”

“It makes you look like a successful Lord who presents himself well. We haven’t fully rectified…that,” Lucas said, gesturing to Fabron’s slight potbelly. “But these clothes will help you cut a fine figure. Now put them on.”

Fabron groaned, wobbling in place for a moment before simply sitting on the bed to put on the pants.

“Bakton approaches with an offer for a ceasefire, what do you do?”

“I summon Keeney to review the terms.” Fabron said with a grunt, hiking the uncomfortably tight pants up.

“Why?”

“Because it’s probably a trap.”

“Several young women want to spend the night with you. What do you do?”

Fabron glanced to the side. “I mean…do I know them, or…”

“What do you do?” Lucas asked, looming over him.

“I politely decline.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s probably a trap,” Fabron said with a sigh, standing as Lucas began buttoning the fastening at the front of his ornate vest, before helping him into the overcoat.

Farbon looked at himself in the mirror.

Not…bad, actually.

His sagging tummy seemed to vanish, and the dark circles under his eyes vanished under an application of make-up from Lucas.

That caused a chuckle to bubble up in Fabron’s throat.

Make-up. Hah. Me, a veteran Climber and Debt-slave. Wearing make-up.

In Fabron’s opinion, if a man looked tired, it was because he had done a hard night’s work, be it drinking or women, and therefore there was nothing to be ashamed of, but according to Lucas, any sign of weakness was unacceptable, hence the makeup.

“And what do you do if William Oh approaches you?” Lucas asked, going over the last details that were entirely invisible to Fabron’s eye.

“Become fast friends.”

“Why?”

Fabron frowned.

Why?

“Because…I’m going to kill him.” Fabron said, the words feeling foreign in his mouth.

“Because you must kill him.” Lucas said, placing a hand on Fabron’s shoulder and meeting his gaze, the flickers of fire still raging in the butler’s eyes.

“It’s the only way, Master. You must avenge yourself.”

Avenge…what? Fabron thought with a frown. Maybe it was the hangover, but he didn’t quite remember exactly what William Oh had done to him, specifically.

He could feel it though. Anger burning through his body like molten glass. He felt a faint rage bubbling up inside him, thousands of voices muffled by liquid stone.

“Yeah. I’ll get him.” Fabron said, nodding.

“Excellent. I’m proud to call you my master.” Lucas said with a gentle smile that didn’t seem to reach his eyes.

I wonder if that’s a fae thing.

“Oh, but not a chance in the Abyss I’m walking into that den of snakes sober.” Fabron said, staggering over to the cabinet and pulling out another bottle of Swamp Monster.

Mmm, cranberry.

“Master. Master, no, MASTER!” Lucas said, trying and failing to dislodge the bottle from Fabron’s lips with his frail arms.

Two hours later, Will was watching the new Lord, Fabron Faefire fail the party spectacularly.

The drinks they’re offering aren’t particularly strong, so…was he drinking before he even got here?

…Why?

Will would like to chalk it up to a spectacular lack of self-control, but it wasn’t as if the man existed in a vacuum. Even an alcoholic would get themselves modestly drunk if they knew getting completely shitfaced at Zodiac’s shindig could get them killed.

And yet, here we are.

Perhaps he’s drinking to escape some kind of pressure.

The party itself? Then why come? As valuable as political meetups were, if you knew you were going to crash out at the party, then it would be better to just stay home and manage your own affairs. Right?

Both the New Blood and Old Blood were giving the man a wide berth, seemingly waiting for him to dig his own grave as he spewed invective towards Wiliam Oh, specifically. As if he held a personal grudge that bubbled up unbidden when he was sloshed.

Interesting. Maybe he’s an idiot, but even an idiot doesn’t fail this hard without some kind of external pressure. I’d like to figure out what that is.

The only way to truly understand this man was to get on the same level.

As he walked across the ballroom floor, Will discretely took a swig of Tank Slayer before tucking the flask of poison back in Phantom Hand.

“You must be Fabron Faefire.” Will said, extending a hand as he approached. “I’m William Oh.”

“And another thing about William Oh.” Fabron was saying as Will arrived. “He’s got a little-“

Fabron’s head wrenched around to face Will as though someone had grasped his head and physically twisted it.

Facing him directly, Will saw that the man was in his late forties, bearing brown hair with a tinge of red and brown eyes. He had hints of white at his temples, and his beard was perfectly shaved despite not looking like he was in any condition to take care of himself.

“…Soft spot for orphans and widows.” Fabron finished, his accent shifting slightly, peering at Will blearily for a moment before glancing back at the fae butler standing beside him.

The butler nodded.

“Put’er there,” Fabron said, clasping Will’s hand and shaking it with a wobbly looseness that made Will think he might topple over. “Fabron Faefire.”

“You change your name when you became a Lord?” Will asked. “It’s pretty slick.”

“Yeah, cuz’ of the al-alik, alitab…It sounds cooler. And cuz’ the fire.” Fabron said with a tired smile.

And he did look tired. Will’s Acuity could easily pick out the makeup hiding the circles under his eyes, and his scent and posture were that of a man who had just finished a shift in a mine.

Or a recent amputee.

Or someone with a stomach parasite from the 13th floor.

“Tadah.” A burst of flame appeared above Fabron’s fingers, and Will’s eyes widened as the Miasma itself was consumed by the flames.

That would be…incredibly dangerous if it touched a Climber, given that it could burn the miasmatic structures inside their bodies. It could burn Classes. Let alone flesh.

Some kind of resistance bypass, then?

“Faefire,” Fabron said with a smile, staring into the opalescent flames dancing across his fingers with a hint of buried fear.

The fae butler nudged Fabron with his elbow, and the new Lord cleared his throat.

“Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Oh. We may not have much interaction with each other right now, but I hope that in the future, our two, um…strongholds can prosper together and that we can be friends.”

“You were just telling these people that I’m an unqualified child with a small penis.” Will said, the Tank Slayer loosening his tongue.

“Ummm..yeah. But that’s fine. I don’t have anything against you. The- I just hate y-.”

Fabron hissed as the butler pinched his side.

“I hate not getting to know people, so I talk shit about them to get their attention. It’s a bad habit.” Fabron said.

Uncaring about who was watching, Will took another swig of Tank Slayer.

“Who is that?” Will asked, pointing at the fae butler herding Fabron with the flask.

“Lucas. He dresses me and tells me what to- he helps me practice etiquette.” Fabron said corrected, the alcohol adding smoothness to his hasty correction that almost made it believable.

“Mhmm.” Will’s eyes narrowed. “Lucas, back up. Out of earshot.” Will made a ‘shoo’ gesture.

“Only my master can-”

“Indulge us, Lucas.” Fabron said, shooing the butler away with Will.

Will waited until the flame-eyed fae was far enough away before he put a hand on Fabron’s shoulder, the Tank Slayer making balancing difficult.

The two of them wobbled there in companionable inebriation for a moment before Will found the words.

“Fabron,” Will whispered, meeting the Lord’s eye. “Do you need help?”

“No, I’m fine,” Fabron said, his eyes turning away from Will’s and welling up with tears. “They’re – I can’t…I’m fine.”

He is not fine.