Chapter Text
“Don’t you think this is too much?” Marie asks him. She’s trembling on an overstuffed chair in the library. Shadows kaleidoscope around the room, dipping between books, wavering across chandeliers, flickering on the floors between their feet. She’s making an obvious effort to not flinch whenever a shapeless limb glides across her shoes. Commendable, really.
Arthur ignores her and instead concentrates on the shades. It’s been a full two days since he discovered his power, more or less, and he decided it would be far more entertaining to get a handle on it than attend lessons. (Honestly, Arthur hates classes - reminds him too much of his childhood days in Wonderland, shut up in a windowless room with a dusty map, the feeling of a switch on the back of his calves, the way the Royal Tutor would touch his back, dipping lower. . . No. Best not to think of it.)
“What if you strain yourself doing this too much?” Marie tries again, pulling her feet up into the chair with her, despite the social faux pas. Strange that she would allow herself this weakness in front of him. Upsetting, really. After all that he’s done to her, she’s more afraid of a trick of the eye than himself! He’ll have to rectify that - can’t have the staff trusting him too much. Not today though, unfortunately. He has an appointment with Dirga soon.
Dirga. . . Arthur has too many questions for the man - but first he wants to vent about having to make an appointment with him in the first place. Wasn’t he supposed to be always indisposed to Arthur? What a useless valet he must’ve made. (He must admit that Rosalind has not made their meeting easy, but that would be giving Dirga some leeway, which is unacceptable.)
And while Marie still attended to him through the day as a maid, he at least had a new valet, some wet-eared boy with ginger hair and eyes that were too sharp for his round face. He was positive Rosalind hired him as a spy - a terrible one, really, so Arthur allowed it. No one can say he isn’t a magnanimous man.
“I suppose that’s enough for today,” he says with a sigh, dispelling the illusions about the room. Kiku had been right about there not being a disciplined way to learn magic. It was as innate as thinking about a glass of water when thirsty. He supposes it’s just a matter of honing the thought - the instinct to create the feeling he desires. “Marie, go help prepare lunch. My guest should be here soon.”
She stands, her knees weak but her face drawn into a tight, neutral expression. “Of course, young master.”
(How grating to be referred to as young. He has nearly fifty years of memories to lean on. Wizened. Experienced. Murdered.)
“And I doubt word of my guest will reach my mother,” he continues, leaning back in his chair. “I wouldn’t want to have her bothered at such an early hour.”
“Of course not.”
“Excellent. I’d hate to see what happens to anyone who disturbs mother’s peace.”
Marie curtseys and leaves, her steps uneven but assured. He wonders what tortures she has imagined to keep her silence. Whatever she’s thinking is likely more horrific than what he can come up with, considering having her beheaded seems to be off the table. A shame really. What a bitch of a Goddess.
He fixes the stack of books on the table next to him, irritated that he’s still waiting - that he even has to wait, but there’s nothing for him to do to relieve his stress. Ever since his arrival to Cards he’s been on some of his best behavior, which he finds to be entirely abhorrent, but there are things a man must do for survival.
There is a golden brocade pillow at his side and Arthur thinks about the long, guttural screaming he would succumb to in Wonderland; the way his throat would smart after his lungs would pinch under the strain of being squeezed for every last molecule of air. . . If he cannot hit things with a scepter like before, he could scream again - feel that rush of blood to his head and that first gasp after a fit, like a babe reborn.
Arthur picks up the pillow and inhales deeply before pressing it to his face and screams. It’s muffled, just enough. It feels good, but it’s not enough. Standing, Arthur pushes the pillow into his face harder and tilts his head back before screaming again, stamping his feet, and arching his back when it feels like his lungs are empty, just to squeeze out a final, rattling squeak before pulling the cushion away for a tremendous gasp, nearly driving himself dizzy.
Goddess! That felt good! He’s huffing, laughing a little to himself to feel the scratch of his throat.
“Ahem.”
Arthur whips his head up, the pillow still clenched between his hands.
Dirga is just on the other side of the library’s entrance, the door mercifully closed behind him. He bows, as befitting his station, and casually walks to a nearby chaise. “May I have a seat?”
“Yes, yes, sit,” Arthur answers, words tumbling from his mouth. Just how much did the man see? Not that it mattered. In fact, if he heard a single word from Dirga about it, he would haunt the man for the rest of his life. The Goddess never mentioned anything against psychological torture - well, she didn’t mention much of anything, but he thinks this is a reasonable assumption.
“Please,” Dirga says, motioning with his hand for Arthur to sit as well. “I believe we have much to speak about.” There is a look of concentration on his face and as Arthur sits, he cannot help but to think that this is what it must feel like to be watched by a predator, Dirga’s eagle eyes never once leaving Arthur’s face. “No one can hear us now.”
“Oh? Are you sure of that?”
Dirga nods. “There is a spell of muting in this room. I made sure it was activated.”
“I see.” (A lie.) “Well then, I suppose you understand what will happen if it’s not.” Arthur surveys the room, hoping he can perhaps spot a difference between now and fifteen minutes ago. He cannot.
Before Dirga can begin asking questions about the Goddess again, Arthur demands, “Tell me about Cards and the Call of Suits. Tell me about my magic and what the Hell you meant about being a guardian of souls. What am I even doing here? I refuse to be kept in the dark any longer, Dirga.”
There is a long silence between the two of them. Arthur decides that Dirga does not blink as much as he believes a normal human should. Perhaps an exaggeration but the stony way Dirga stares is deceptively still.
“Hm. I suppose those are questions you cannot ask others without risk.” He looks disappointed for a moment, but he leans into the cushions of his chosen couch and starts talking, his voice a deep rumble, his words clipped, as if he has practiced an economy of speech, using the least amount of energy for each word as possible. “Cards, unbeknownst to many, is a Universe that is connected to many others; one-way doors, if you wish to imagine their connections as such. I won’t expound upon that until much later when we have actual lessons.”
“Lessons?” Arthur’s expression twists in distaste. How many times must he die to stop attending lessons?
“Yes, when you’re. . .” Dirga grunts. “Well, I don’t know what you’ll be.”
Ah, yes. How perfectly obscure. “Alright, fine. And the Call of Suits? Rosalind mentions it at least six times a day. Drives me insane, that.”
Dirga nods as if it’s a reasonable sentiment. Such a redeeming quality; Arthur likes him again - for now. “The Call of Suits happens every fifty-eight years. An ancient magic of Cards where the Universe itself chooses the next Suit of rulers. A King, a Queen, a Jack, and an Ace.”
“I see. . .” Arthur thumbs at the cushion in his lap, attempting to piece together the few weeks’ worth of fragmented information he’s managed to scrounge up. “Ah, so Rosalind is vying for Mother-of-Royalty? She believes I might qualify for this. . . ritual?”
“You do.” If possible, Dirga looks even more intense. “There is something only the Suits and the Royal Scribes know. With the exception of Aces, every member of the Suit has half a soul. They return to Cards only when their soul completes a life and the Goddess gives them judgment so that they might become a greater person - one worthy of rule in Cards.”
“Half a soul?” That. . . sounds awful if he’s honest with himself. Horrific. Imagine knowing you’re not a complete person; not that he’d know what a half-souled person or whole-souled person is supposed to feel. He supposes he’d just feel the way he does now. Normal. “And you’re saying I’m one of those people?”
“Yes.” Dirga nods again. “Half a soul is far easier to transmigrate than a full soul.”
“Wouldn’t that make a person. . . I don’t know . . . incomplete?”
“Perhaps. There are still many questions on the ethics of this, but there is little we understand about the Goddess’s motivations. In any case, it has been happening for centuries, perhaps longer.” Dirga taps on the armrest of the chaise, seemingly in momentary thought, although his gaze never leaves Arthur’s face. “This is my role as a soul guardian. To find and guide the chosen few before and after their ascension. It took you longer to return to Cards than some of your contemporaries, but there is ample time.” He pauses, inspecting his gloves for a second. “Also, I can say that the Goddess makes up for a half-soul by giving each member of the Suit a Soulmate. Another half-soul to complete her chosen.”
Arthur takes a moment to let this sink in. So Dirga is compelled to Arthur by . . . his lack of soul? It’s already impossible to imagine the emptiness having a half-soul must be like, but to add in the idea that you must have another person to be. . . complete. “Sounds dreadful.”
“I would not know. It has served our Suits thus far.”
“Have you asked them about it?”
Dirga pauses. “I. . . have not.”
Arthur bites back a long, annoyed sigh. He can tell what type of man Dirga is now - the scholar who thinks in terms of fact and quantifiable data, the realm of emotion something to be held at arm’s length in case it muddies scientific waters. In a way he’s reminded of Ludwig, that traitorous lout, but only in that they both have a rather stern face and an incessant, uncomfortable penchant for direct eye-contact. He now knows that Ludwig felt deeply but hid it well. A mistake he refuses to make again.
“Well, this has been. . . enlightening.” But mostly confusing. “What about your magic, then? How does it work? It seems you’re capable of actual spells.”
“I believe I’ve been more than accommodating,” Dirga says, leaning his head against the palm of his hand. If his face weren’t so impassive, Arthur would assume he is pretending to look impatient. “I’ll ask that you answer my question now, if you don’t mind.”
“Which is . . .?” (He knows perfectly well what it is, but it never hurts to be a little snooty.)
Dirga focuses intently on Arthur’s face again. “What did the Goddess ask of you? What was her judgment?”
This. . . question is more difficult to answer than he had assumed. Arthur, lost in thought, traces the line of his neck, a quirk he’s picked up since coming to Cards. “It’s difficult to say,” he admits after a tense moment. Dirga looks to be clinging to each word that leaves his mouth. “It was a short conversation. Mostly detailing my wrongs.” He tries to remember the sound of her voice, if it was like a bell, or the crashing of waves, or something equally melodramatic. He’s unsure. “I . . . don’t know if she passed me a judgment, per se.”
“Then what did she tell you?” Dirga is leaning forward, his immense interest obvious.
Arthur almost wants to lie, but something tells him that Dirga will know almost immediately if he does. “To repent,” he whispers, as if saying it aloud will force him to relieve those moments of nothingness.
“To repent?” Dirga almost looks. . . baffled. “That is. . . new. Normally the directive is much clearer. Our current King and Queen had motivations such as embodying honesty and generosity.”
“How awful for them.”
Dirga looks unamused. “I don’t see how it is.”
Perhaps a nonsensical argument will help him relieve this stress he feels building between his shoulders. “Well, wouldn’t that indicate that they were once both a vicious liar and a greedy bastard before this? Does the Goddess simply choose ex-criminals and paragons of vice to try and mold them into something decent by hanging their second deaths over their heads?”
“Ah. You wish to speak blasphemy.” Dirga doesn’t seem bothered, which annoys Arthur. “But questioning the natural order of the world is the basis of scientific discovery. Tell me, young master, what better ruler is there than one cowed into morality by the constant threat of death?”
Arthur bites his tongue. Of course tyranny and those that rule by fear can make great progress for their kingdoms with an equal threat of death - he would know, he lived it himself! But perhaps the question was less about the fate of the kingdom and more about the regret of dying unfulfilled. Doubtful, but he can see what Dirga is aiming for. “I see your point,” he says after a moment. “I don’t agree, but I see.”
“A contrarian, then.”
“If that’s what you wish to believe.” Arthur sighs. He’s tired of this conversation. Tired of all conversation, really. Pity he wasn’t reincarnated as a cat. “Answer my last question, then. I’m growing weary of this talk of ethics.”
“They are important to think on,” Dirga admonishes, but Arthur simply rolls his eyes. He got enough of those lectures in his past life, and he certainly didn’t need them now. “But I will allow it to pass for now. This might be the last time I can meet you until the Calling. The Lady of the house is rather. . .”
“Annoying? Conniving? Vain? Duplicitous?”
“. . . Persistent when it comes to hindering my contact with you. But, anyway, you asked of magic.”
“Indeed.”
“Those that can use magic are a minority in Cards - and the nations across the ocean. Generally, it is a sign of royalty or of priestliness. Sometimes not. There is an association of those with magic and political power, as well as a connection with the Goddess. It is said magicians are favored by her, but that is simply the ignorant explanation of plebians.”
“If magic is so rare, then why are you here? Working for the house of a simple baron?”
For the first time Dirga has an expression of something other than curiosity or smugness. He looks, briefly, scandalized. “I’m here for you, obviously,” he says, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Rosa - the lady of the house - believes she can simply pay me to follow her whims and bring more prestige to the house because of my magical ability. But, I’ve known, from the moment I saw you when you were introduced to the King as a babe, that you were . . . hollow. I followed you here - to watch over you; and study you.”
“I shouldn’t be surprised,” Arthur says with a sigh. It’s hard to admit, but this conversation is making him uncomfortable. He hates it. (What he wouldn’t give to stab something - or someone - right now. Perhaps his right arm. He doesn’t need two arms to be a menace to society.)
“But,” Dirga goes on, breaking Arthur’s train of thought, “that is a topic for another time. To fully answer your question, magic is an intuitive thing. No one can teach you, so there can be no master nor apprentice, no stolen spells or secret mages. You will simply have to experiment.”
“Well, this has been an enlightening conversation.” Arthur stands, pretends to pick off a pill of lint from his trousers. “I’ll see myself out before Ro - mother is aware of our meeting. Good day.”
Arthur would like to lie and say that this was one of many fruitful conversations with Dirga, but Rosalind caught wind of their meeting despite their secrecy (and a very teary affirmation from Marie that she had told no one, even after being a subject of experimentation for his illusions for a week) and had prevented their meeting again for over a year. In hindsight, Arthur felt this may have been for the best. A person can only hear that they are . . . less than a whole person so many times before going (officially) insane.
In fact, life after that day was a monotonicity of magical practice, receiving a gentleman’s education, the occasional written correspondence from Kiku, and subtle household power machinations against Rosalind. Just like Wonderland, really, though instead of plotting to kill his older brother, he is biding his time against an ambitious harpy.
It would be amusing if the situation wasn’t so vexing.
Two months and three weeks after his seventeenth birthday, Arthur found that his life would, once again, become something akin to torture.
This was the precise day that he met Alfred Jones.