Chapter Text
October 16 | Saint-Martin Canal, eleventh arrondissem*nt, Paris
The ink fades, the night evaporates, the moon hidden behind the dark clouds and threatening blackness returns to the icy darkness to give way to dawn. The dawn is not as merciful as it likes to believe, it extinguishes the stars one by one and reveals the world's ugliness by lifting the veil behind which it has hidden for a few hours.
A corpse floats in the Saint-Martin canal.
An antichrist, the body, is in a cross opposite to where he is. His eyes bulged with horror, the man knew he was being hunted, the man knew he was going to die. Fear consumed him before Death took him, wrinkling his face green for eternity, leaving his mouth wide open. Water enters its cavities and floats, moving slightly from left to right. A light mist tries to hide the corpse but does not cling to the carcass enough to make it disappear.
The smell is nauseating. The stink of sewage, dying bodies and other rubbish moves in the air with the wind. The coppery leaves seem to die faster, falling from the trees to their end on the ground, stripping the dark branches bare. All that remains are clawed handsand bits of fading life.
The murderer is still there. He has one hand in the pocket of his black coat, the wind sweeping through his hair, his eyes fixed resolutely on the water. He contemplates his work with indifference, it is not a beautiful murder. It's ugly. It is without style and grace. A real killer would find no satisfaction in the modus operandi, no flavour in the staging. Just another corpse floating around.
The assassin thinks comparing Art to murder would be a crime. There is nothing beautiful or aesthetic about this kind of death, only the vanity of life is poetic. And this life, this man, was vain, vain and useless, a reject of society who found what he deserved, an insignificant and ridiculous end, the same as all the other dead of the night.
He kills out of necessity, not out of need or to demonstrate a fact: art, the fragility of life, a refusal to obey a society biased by the all-powerful power of the Medeans.
“I hate the Saint-Martin canal.”
He is cold, placid, and relentless. He stalked his prey through the night, with measured steps, the sound of his shoes echoing through the streets of Paris, the silver shine of his blade hidden in the folds of his black cloak. A nice curved blade, always clean despite the multiple cold bodies it has caused. It is a dagger, a golden hilt set with rubies and burgundy highlights. It is given the name of Lesath, one of Scorpio's darts.
The dagger left a clear mark in the middle of the corpse's chest. His white shirt was stained, and the surrounding water turned pink, like a halo.
He died like that, mouth wide open, terrified, a well-placed stab wound.
“What a performance.”
The assassin turns.
Another Character appears in the last shadows of the night, He slips and slides there, sly as a snake.
Smaller than the murderer, He has dark skin, on which the light does not reflect, it flees from Him. Tattoos run across His skin, His chest exposed by a dramatically open black silk shirt. His black hair is held in a multitude of braids stuck to His skull, while His black eyes rest on the still bloody blade in the pale hands of the one who took the life away.
“It’s not a glorious performance. Aren’t you tired of fishing out souls from the water?”
“I don’t fish out souls”, He retorts with a quiet voice, but just as empty of emotion as that of his interlocutor. “Do I look like a fisherman?”
“I forgot”, the other responds sarcastically before looking at the one standing next to him. “You’re not one to get your hands dirty, you prefer it when others do the work for you, don’t you?”
“It’s presumptuous to think so. I don’t expect anyone to understand the exact nature of my work, but if anyone should, it’s you.”
He makes a movement of his hand, His long tattooed fingers, set with rings, describe a graceful movement.
His macabre power acts, like a true Hades, a reaper who reclaims his sinners to punish him for eternity. The Assassin stops himself from vomiting and blinks more quickly to indicate his discomfort.
The body begins to decompose, to burn from the inside, the bones, the flesh, the organs, and the muscles become ashes which fly into the sky, chasing away the last darkness of the night in an incandescent whirlwind. The last item that disappears from this corpse is a tattoo, a small mark in black ink on the inside of his wrist that he dared to so blithely expose.
The assassin noticed this.
In a queue earlier in the day, a luxurious black leather briefcase was in his hand, looking displeased as he looked at his ornate watch. An insignificant detail that his eyes were able to notice. He hadn't originally planned to kill him, but with recent events, They may need to be reminded. They need to remember that they are doomed to disappear, to die like rats, to return to dust.
Remember, man, that you are dust, and to dust you shall return. A universal rule of the universe, you have to be stupid to think you're above it.
All this for an Ouroboros, a snake that bites its tail, depicting a symbol of infinity.
He will not be mourned. People like him are not mourned, they have no real soul, only a fractured, rotten, corrupted organ.
“I could have done it. Making him disappear, isn’t that an ability I have?”
“But you didn’t… Did you want them to find the body? Those from the Magisterium?”, he questions disdainfully. “They would recognize the blade, and that would raise even more questions.”
“It would expose them more easily.”
“That would push them into a corner and draw attention to you. It’s a game of chess, and you have to be the smarter player, you’ve already been too careless.”
“They were forced to call Oscar Piastri, is that really negligence?”, he spits the name with a form of disdain, spitting on what he represents.
The assassin swings the blade until the knuckles turn white. He was not careless; he tried to be the smartest player in this game of chess, to undermine all the other parties, to manipulate them like puppets in the hope the kings would fall one day. In the hope, they annihilate each other. He cannot lose, he must not lose.
“What are you doing here? Usually, this is not where we meet.”
“The time has almost come.”
And the Man disappears in the same incandescent ashes that he raised, a whirlwind that fades into the air, the particles vanishing, there is no trace of this Man in the Universe. Only the discomfort He causes.
The Assassin sighs and leaves, looking at his watch, a broken dial with shaking hands. It's time.
October 16 | Max’ apartment, Rue de l’Échelle, firstarrondissem*nt, Paris
Max Verstappen wakes up with a bad feeling.
It's a familiar feeling, the overwhelming sense that All will go bad, an old friend who we can't get rid of because he's stuck with us for too long. The familiarity would fade and all that will be left is a big unknown.
This morning, it was worse.
It hits him in the throat like bad nausea, it gnaws at his bones down to the marrow, he has the impression of suffocation, that the world could just as easily evaporate. He opens his eyes and immediately looks out the window, Paris does not seem to be engulfed in flames, and it is not raining, there is a bright and vibrant autumn sun, a fresh wind blowing on his neighbour's geraniums.
Max is in his bed, a sheet over his naked body, the cold autumn sun tickles his skin, as he begins to feel cold. He tenses, as suddenly as if he had been awakened from a bad nightmare, out of breath from his overwhelming feeling of unease and emptiness. There's something wrong, he's sure of it.
He suddenly turns to Charles.
Her first concern is with him. Is he okay? Is Charles okay? Did madness finally get the better of him? Will he suddenly begin the end of his life: the one where the colours have faded because the one he always loved has disappeared in favour of a gloomy glow of madness?
No.
He takes a calmer breath.
No. Charles is fine. Charles sleeps peacefully, arms wrapped around the pillow, mouth slightly open, his fluffy brown hair spread against the white linen. His shoulders and shoulder blades are exposed, small moles and bruises blooming on his soft skin. He looks peaceful, calm, and quiet, finally relieved of all his worries, he wants to preserve that. He wants Charles to be relaxed all the time, for the furrow between his eyebrows to disappear, for his green eyes to shine without the slightest hint of madness.
He lets a finger trace the tender curve of his neck, he feels the subdued heartbeat through his thin skin, and the goosebumps breaking out. Charles lets out a whisper, he doesn't wake, but his face sinks deeper into the pillow. It's a miracle Max isn't stuck, his body is completely draped over his, like a blanket. He doesn't complain about it, he can get up before his flow of thoughts becomes too strong, the mental barriers not strong enough to fully restrain Charles, and he ends up waking him up.
It's a miracle his sudden awakening didn't wake him up in turn.
He gets up, puts on pants and leaves the room, he would hate to break his sleep.
His living room is lit by the rising dawn, a ray falls on the battered sofa on which he usually sleeps and where Jimmy and Sassy are spread out. It's quiet, he doesn't hear the sound of sirens, he doesn't hear the melody of crime or screams. No menacing magic tickles his skin, it's worrying. Something must happen. Something happened, he feels it in his gut, somewhere, someone is dead and it’s important.
The void distresses him.
It is not the feeling of emptiness that follows when it does not occur strictly Nothing. It is the feeling of emptiness left by one's Medean gifts. If Charles is a master of the mind, if Lando can go back in time and if Oscar can rewrite the structure of atoms and affect reality, Max's gifts are focused on Space.
He controls Space, where he can control it until he reaches its limits, and without altering the foundations of Physics.
And Space, for the first time in years, does not respond to him. Space or the notion of Space seems to have shrivelled under something more powerful, smothered under a veil, held in silence by something more powerful. Space has bent its knee and is silent for Max. Space does not bend before anything.
“What the hell is going on?” he asks.
He opens the window of his apartment. Paris is silent as it has never been. Life seems to have left him suddenly, there is only the wind whistling between the houses of the first arrondissem*nt. At Dawn, the town comes to life and discovers the dead, this time Max has the disastrous and overwhelming feeling that everyone has been killed.
Charles is fine, he told himself. Charles is fine. Sassy and Jimmy are fine, moving in their sleep.
He needs to see that life has not died out in the bubble of his apartment, he needs to feel Space again.
Max tries to use his gifts. He looks at a goblet on his coffee table and tries to swap it with the vase on his bookshelf.
Nothing.
The cup does not move. The vase does not change place.
“f*ck”, he growls.
His hands start to shake, and he rushes to the kitchen to get a knife. He probes his environment in search of the slightest element that could explain the loss of his gifts. Helplessness floods him, he hates it, the absolute silence of the surrounding universe. He holds the blade in front of him, his blue eyes narrow, there is nothing suspicious, he feels nothing.
He wonders if he's having a nightmare.
Max hasn't dreamed since his father died.
“Meow”, Sassy chirps.
Max jumps before the cat rubs against his legs.
Sassy is rubbing his legs. Jimmy is on the couch. Charles shifts his position in the bed to snuggle into the warm spot left by Max. The neighbour across the street accommodates her watering can. A man walks onto the Rue de l’Échelle.
Space is present again.
Max places the knife on his counter and closes his eyes. He feels all the variations of the particles, the place of each, even the ozone in the air and the first signs of rain. Max is in control again, even more worried about his momentary lack of power. Did others feel it?
Sassy makes a clucking sound to get his attention, before climbing onto the counter. His paws begin to push the stack of ten files he hasn't opened.
There is that too.
A bad day ahead. He growls and retrieves them, the damaged leather rubs against the pads of his rough fingers, none of his business is important. He lost his powers for some time. High politicians are dying. And somehow, it's connected to Horner's latest research.
f*ck.
Do none of the lines written by his sentinels answer these mysteries? There are just a bunch of unanswered questions left: Who killed Mattia Binotto? Who is killing Europe's high politicians? What is this damn snake all about? Who wants to kill George?
The last question has far too many answers. Max is convinced that George's own brother wants him murdered out of ego or fear of having his throne stolen by his more competent younger brother.
“I’ll give this to Hamda,” his assistant will be unhappy, but he won’t have to take on the extra workload he’s put on himself.
He needs to at least investigate this loss of power and if it only affects him.
Bam. A heavy sound, although familiar, resonates against his door.
What now?
He probes Space. The newspaper delivery man.
The newspaper has just arrived. He wonders what this rag has published. Le Moulin Bleu is a misinformed gossip mill everyone in Paris reads with attention. There is no doubt they will write about the dismissal of Lando and the minimal progress made by the sentinel on the Mattia Binotto case. He hopes George has managed to charm the journalists enough that people will maintain the same polite indifference towards him. He is not ready to politely endure critical glances and off-the-cuff remarks.
He needs coffee before reading this.
He starts the machine and retrieves the filthy pile of papers.
The paper was printed in a hurry, that's the first thing he notices. The letters bleed on the greying sheets, some are not straight, and the images are blurry, Mattia Binotto's mansion, George at a play conference, and an old image of Lando from five years ago.
CASE OF THE MURDERS OF THE HIGH POLITICIANS: THE FRENCH SENTINELS IN THE TORMENT.
Max reads relevant passages.
The Italian Magisterium has confirmed that Mattia Binotto was killed according to the same Modus Operandi as the high politician: Claire Williams. Peter Bayer, Mike Crack, Markus Schäfer and Marc Gene. According to an internal source at the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, the Italian Magisterium and the Ferrari family are “suspicious” about how the events were managed.
The first sentinels at the crime scene were Max Verstappen and Lando Norris.
Lando Norris is a former member of the Foramen cult, absolved of his crimes by the French Magisterium and the European Magisterium, following the testimony of Oscar Piastri.
Lando Norris is said to have killed 56 people (unconfirmed) during his years of cult activity, some calling him “Horner’s Puppet.”
Lando Norris is still prohibited from setting foot on Belgian and English soil.
Some accuse that Lando Norris may have his share of responsibility in the various murders, the Italian government is particularly angry that a former “criminal” could exercise such a high rank and be involved in “their business”.
Lando Norris has been removed from the sentinel office by the High European Magisterium.
The director of the French justice office and prince of the British kingdom, George William Russell, affirms that Lando Norris has absolutely nothing to do with this affair and has demonstrated exemplary behaviour for many years. It nevertheless ensures full cooperation with the European High Magisterium.
“As the matter goes beyond the borders of our nation, it does not fall under the jurisdiction of the French Justice Office and by extension, the sentinel service currently headed by Max Verstappen.”
“The French Magisterium ensures its full cooperation with the European High Magisterium.”
Kimi Antonelli will be part of the investigators on the Binotto affair in collaboration with…
Lando sees his name, once again, dragged through the mud. There's a new article about him on page 8, a critical article with a list of names, and people that Horner wanted dead and would have killed. The list has never been released, nor the number of names on it, it is only speculation. Max knows it's more than what's written in the paper, he knows Lando took away lives like a grim reaper, unwavering, relentless, cold, efficient.
People are not suspicious of children. Lando was just that, a little boy they taught to kill.
Max sighs and massages his temples.
On page six, new speculations, witnesses say they saw Oscar Piastri, so the press takes the opportunity to praise him. The author recalls the wonders he accomplished, and how he defeated Horner, but the journalist does not mention his relationship with Lando Norris. They were only together for three years, after all...
Rumours say that Oscar Piastri was hired by the European High Magisterium to personally handle the High Politicians murder case.
Max sniffs, closes the newspaper, and places it on the pile of old newspapers which he places in the bottom of Jimmy and Sassy's litter box. Oscar Piastri is not a holy altar boy, he has killed during a war, Horner did not die thanks to the divine intervention of the Holy Spirit, to win a war, the scarlet still stains the soldiers victorious.
Oscar hates the Magisterium and the High Magisterium, he doesn't think it's an opinion that has fluctuated over his last five years.
Max grabs his coffee, enjoys the bitterness, and thinks about his priorities.
- Find out if this failure in his Medean gifts only concerns him (see Lando).
- Investigate this absence based on the response.
- Discuss with George their room for manoeuvre.
- Ensure that the collaboration between Oscar and Lando does not end in murder (Lando may hold a grudge).
- Give non-urgent files to Hamda.
A sixth sprouts in his mind. The newspaper also talked about Kimi Antonelli, who is the second to the director of the Italian sentinel office. He is one of the youngest in office, only eighteen years old, and is known to be impressive, intelligent, and cunning. The most resistant will say that he is in office thanks to Toto Wolff, the director of the European justice office, mentor of George and godfather of Antonelli.
Max doesn't like Wolff, but he has a sure eye for talent.
He has met Antonelli twice and having him on their side could benefit them when foreign relations have taken a major hit. He needs to talk to George about it, send him a note, and find out if he can make arrangements. The file on Binotto's death would be essential to their investigation, all they have left is what Max managed to duplicate before the members of the High Magisterium took the originals. He has confidence in Lando and Oscar's abilities, but the more they know, the sooner this matter will be resolved.
“You think too hard”, a voice said behind him.
Max doesn't jump and turns to face a still-sleepy Charles. His hair is dishevelled, and his eyelids flutter slowly from lingering sleep. He is only wearing his underwear and Max's slightly rough sweater, a dark brown that contrasts with Charles' ivory skin.
“I’m sorry Charlie.”
“Is this coffee?”
Charles takes his cup from his hands and grimaces when he drinks, he has never been a big fan of bitterness. Max sees patches blooming on Charles' skin where the sweater itches, and his thoughts evaporate to focus on the only person who matters. Charles, sweet and sleepy, drinking from his cup. They seem domestic, established for years, while they have only seen each other at Charles' pleasure for three years.
Max must ignore the ugly truth about him: Stolen masterpieces and criminal activity (he refuses to think Charles is capable of murder, but the list goes on).
“You know, it doesn’t matter. You are a sentinel, it’s your job”, Charles places a kiss on the corner of Max’s lips, his breath smelling of coffee. “And I can’t stop you from thinking. Besides, I have my own business in Paris.”
“I would have to arrest you.”
Charles shrugs with a playful glint in his green eyes. He wonders what it will be. The Louvre? An underground, clandestine auction?
“None of that, it’s harmless business”, he smiles softly to reassure Max, but he has no way of making sure he’s not lying. “I do not lie to you.”
A tooth scrapes his lower lip. Charles is lying.
Charles lies and leaves. Charles leaves him and offers him sweet moments where he wears his sweater, drinks from his cup, feeds his cats, kisses him on the corner of the lips and sleeps in his bed. Max won't love anyone else, and at the same time, no one will ever break his heart like Charles Leclerc.
“Don’t give me a reason to stop you.”
“Handcuffs are not the type of bracelet that suits me outside a bedroom.”
A maniacal and lustful glow. Charles left again. Max sighs and closes his eyes, counting to three to face this charming and cold facade controlled by the gifts of Medean. Charles puts his arms around his waist and pulls him towards his chest, batting his eyelashes. He rises to the surface and Charles grimaces, he presses himself against Max, listens to his heartbeat, snuggles up and holds on like a buoy so as not to sink again into the abyss of his mind.
“It’s getting worse and worse, isn’t it?” Charles asks.
“It's not your fault.”
Charles nods and stays snuggled up against Max for a long time until dawn ends to completely give way to daylight. Until Max's knees got a little sore from standing, still, locked. He runs a hand through Charles' hair, he thinks that everything will be fine, that there is a solution. If he is selfish, he will give the book Oscar is looking for, so that he can repair Charles's little broken pieces.
“I’m sorry, Max.”
“It doesn’t matter Charlie.”
“I wish it never happened like this.”
Charles presses against him a little more. Max will squeeze it for as long as he needs, he always does, and he always means it. An instant, a minute, an hour, a day, an eternity. If Max has time to give, he thinks the best way to spend it is to give it to Charles and if Charles isn't there, then he spends it helping others.
The story of his life.
“We don’t change the past.”
“Unless you’re Lando Norris.”
“Do you think we would be here if he really could?”
Charles looks at him and purses his lips.
“He could never have stopped Oscar from leaving, nor could he have prevented the reasons for his departure. It’s an inevitability, we can’t do anything about theinevitable.”
BAM. BAM. BAM.
Charles is startled when someone starts banging on Max's door, he looks at him with a hint of fear.
“sh*t. I shouldn’t have crossed paths with him, it’s not a good idea.”
Charles heads to his room and hides there while Max uses his gifts to find out who is at his door.
He recognizes the familiar distortion of particles. Some describe an erratic movement that produces a sharp heat, an acceleration, and others, an icy cold and lifeless, without the hint of a thrill. This particular dance makes Time “normal”.
Lando
What is Lando doing here?
“I'm coming.”
Max opens the door to his apartment, and his friend and former subordinate enters without any elegance, his black coat flying behind him like a cape. He looks a little crazy with his bulging eyes, dark circles and erratic arm movements.
“I walked all night, Max. And I am sure of one thing! I'm going to kill him.”
Lando launches into a long, rambling, meaningless diatribe in which there is only one logical word: Oscar.
The only person capable of transforming Lando into this fickle and erratic human could only be Oscar Piastri.
He already has a headache, and it's undoubtedly the worst thing that could have happened to him this morning after experiencing a loss of power.
“Fire him. You and George. Fire him”, he finishes.
“I can’t”, he pinches his temples and shows her the door to tell her to leave; “I have more urgent things to do.”
“No, you don’t have more urgent matters. They will probably take away your job when the European Magisterium decides that you too are a threat to national security. Whether today or tomorrow. You listen to me, because I don’t want to work with Piastri.”
“I have more urgent matters to attend to”, he ignores the second part, he expected to hear it.
I don't want to work with Piastri. I'm going to kill Piastri. Piastri is unbearable. Lando will find hundreds of variations to describe an animosity he doesn't feel. The problem is not Oscar's presence, but all the emotions that he brings out in him. The uncertainty and the unpleasant feeling of having been stabbed in the chest. If Lando knew a tenth of what Max knows about Oscar's activities, he wouldn't survive, because Lando would feel even more betrayed by the man he once loved.
Lando wants to believe in a mixture of indifference and hatred. If he were so indifferent, the wedding rings he always wears around his neck should be in the Seine and not worn as a promise or a maybe.
“Did you lose your powers this morning? Felt a change?”
Lando stops and suddenly becomes thoughtful. He bites his lips.
“I don’t pay attention, otherwise I only think about that. That’s actually how I deal with that Leclerc asshole… Is he there too? In Paris ? Did he come to see you? You know it’s because of him that Oscar knows Lady Sibellus.”
“Sibellus?”
“Yes, Sibellus. The secret thief? The puppeteer? The one who runs a brothel in the Ruelle des Chats Noirs. This Lady Sibellus there, the face of the international underworld. Oscar knows her because of Charles Leclerc…”
Max shouldn't be surprised considering the information he has about Oscar, he can't help but frown and look towards his bedroom door. Lady Sibellus, the beautiful Lady Sibellus, bewitching siren, and secret thief, can bring down an entire country with everything she knows.
Max bites his lip.
“What were you doing at Lady Sibellus?”, Max asks, crossing his arms over his chest. “You have to investigate, not… not That.”
“I was just investigating, and who do I see? Oscar Piastri! This bastard! He knows her! He even acted as if he was capable of understanding the game”, Lando dramatically raises his arms to the sky. “And don’t judge me, if the matter doesn’t move forward even though it’s the High Magisterium, fair people don’t have much trouble”
He has a point. Max can't help but worry. Lando is intelligent enough not to reveal any secrets, so he is not under the control of the Medean, however she can tell that he came to her brothel. Lando Norris, freshly discharged from sentinel duty, with an important and elusive figure in the international underworld; the press would have a field day. Max and George would struggle to save him from any imprisonment.
“Have you collected any clues?”
“Yes.”
“I do not see where the problem is.”
He knows exactly where the problem is. The problem is vast and boils down to one fact: Oscar Piastri abandoned Lando Norris, without explanation, offering him two wedding rings, and without giving the slightest sign of life in five years. Lando hates him three-quarters, and Lando hates himself one-quarter because there's probably a part of him that will never stop caring about Oscar. Max knows the feeling, the idea of hurting Charles kills him from the inside, and Lando must feel the same when he also wants to make him suffer as he suffered.
“The problem is Oscar! We can’t trust him.”
“I never said I trusted him.”
“Besides, it’s a very bad idea.”, Charles finally intervenes.
Charles comes out of the room, groomed and dressed, he is wearing his pants from the day before, but also one of Max's shirts which looks big on him, exposing his collarbones. Emerald eyes imbued with madness. It's not Charles, it's not his Charles is the dangerous manipulator that his power has given birth to. Now is not the time, not when Lando is hysterical and hates Charles.
“What are you doing here? Max, why is he here? Is that why you wanted to chase me away?”, Lando growls, putting his arms on his chest. “I swear, if you try to read my thoughts…”
“I’m not trying, you’re loud”, Charles smiled. “You think too hard, and your barriers are… not very effective.”
Lando pumps his fists and the particles stir in the air, it heats up. The faster the particles move, the more chance there is for a detonation to occur. It is impossible to travel to the future unless Lando has already gone back in time, in which case he produces small detonations which hurt him, but hit his opponent all the more.
Max doesn't want to see either of them hurt. He doesn't want chaos in his apartment, he just wants this ordeal to end so that he can return to his monotonous routine, investigate this loss of power, and find Binotto's killer so that he does not kill George. Eventually, he'll kiss Charles before leaving for the Magisterium and torture himself by imagining that he could do this every day.
“My barriers are impeccable.” Lando retorts, he sees the frown on his eyebrows, a sign that he is improving them as we speak. “Shall I repeat my question? What are you doing here?”
Max puts himself between Lando and Charles, while Sassy hisses in his corner, bothered by the noise of the two men. Lando would stop Charles on the spot if he knew exactly what he did for a living, if he knew that he was Il predestinato. A mixture of personal vendetta and thirst for justice gives him a migraine, Max understands, he is understanding. Only Charles here knows the extent of Oscar's secrets, and Max has to admit that he doesn't want to know them. The little he knows is enough for him, he doesn't need to add more elements to the dichotomy between the nice boy who arrested Horner and who was madly in love with Lando, and the one Charles knows.
“Why wouldn’t I ? Max and I don’t have the same problems as you and Oscar… Although I see…”
Max feels the mark of Lando's power in the air, the particles have changed, the very construction of the sheet of Space. They have slowed down describing an opposite movement, it moves less, little, and the one which was heating has cooled down.
“It’s because of you he knows Lady Sibellus, you bastard!” Lando insults, taking a step forward, his finger extended.
“Lando !” Max scolds because he will not tolerate anyone insulting Charles under his roof.
Lando stretched time, and whatever Charles said in this alternate timeline definitely pissed Lando off. The brunette seems furious, his eyes are shooting daggers and all the particles in the air want to become fireworks to let all this rage evaporate. Charles' smile widens and that crazy glow reappears. Max must intervene.
“Lando, I think you should leave?”
“I should leave? Your… Honestly, I don't know why you're defending him. He knows Sibellus, -damn it! Because of you! Oscar knows Sibellus. You know what Sibellus does to people! She steals secrets and when she has them, she uses them like f*cking puppets. I hate Oscar, but I wouldn’t wish that on anyone.”
“You don’t hate him.”
“f*ck you Charles ! I hate him and I hate you !”, he screams before turning to Max. “I swear to you that if you don’t fire Oscar, he will end up in the Seine with the rest of the corpses from Paris who did not reach Père Lachaise.”
Lando walks towards the door, and Max feels his headache getting bigger.
“I can't. George told you, Lando, it’s non-negotiable.”
The door slams, shaking the apartment as Charles' crazy gaze falls on him, a satisfied smile on his lips.
“He thinks I corrupted Oscar, that’s cute”, his smile twists. “Is he aware that Oscar would burn the world down for him? Or is he just an idiot?”
Charles smiles.
“Also it was impolite to not bring croissants for breakfast.”
October 16 | somewhere in the sixteenth arrondissem*nt, Paris
Oscar hates this day.
He walks through the streets of Paris, a navy blue umbrella to conceal him, as lazy drops of drizzle fall on the waterproof fabric. Steam comes out of the drain, a white and vaporous veil hides his measured and rapid steps. He's hurrying, he's already late.
“You could make an effort to be punctual,” an imaginary Charles scolds. “Timing is key.”
If Charles were here…
Oscar doesn't want to think about Charles.
His thoughts are dark, his ideas grim, as he thinks back to his meeting with Lady Sibellus. A semi-murderous rage pulses in his bones, he wishes her champagne was poisoned or that she missed one of the steps of her brothel so that her head would shatter against the floor of the hall. She played with Lando and Lando didn't know the game well enough to realize he was used.
Knowing Lando, he must have thought the opposite, that Oscar was being used against him, that he is a great player. But the truth is Sibellus fears Oscar, and he served his Achilles heel on a silver platter. The only reason he didn't push and provoke Sibellus was his assurance that nothing would happen to Lando.
Oscar has always made sure to keep him safe, his devotion has not wavered in recent years and no enemies can harm Lando as long as he is on the prowl. Lady Sibellus, all-powerful and important that she is, has no chance of succeeding. He will burn down her brothel and destroy the secrets it contains before a plan to hurt Lando even germinates in her deranged mind.
He runs a hand over his face as he takes a shortcut on a cobblestone street on the 16th. His shoes crunch on the wet ground, he almost slips for a moment, a lack of vigilance, a beginner's mistake. Balance is important, we don’t know who could attack him.
He didn't sleep all night, it's worse.
His mind did not find rest. He would have done better to follow the news in the press more carefully, this would have avoided the unpleasant surprise of the Binotto affair, this cursed lemniscate and his unlucky summons. Oscar prefers to be in Paris to handle this matter and is happy to have a “legal” reason to do it himself. Nevertheless, the thought of George Russell or Max Verstappen snooping around has forced him to rethink the entirety of his plans.
He would have been better off being more careful.
Charles will distract Max, it's the least he can do. Charles is Max's biggest weakness, he won't kill for him, but he can die for him. Max transfigures himself into a wall and shields against all threats, almost all threats. Oscar, more cautious now that he has to face his little incompetent mistakes, hopes that they will investigate the momentary loss of their power at dawn. It was a complex and risky manoeuvre, but when Max discovers that the Medean gifts have evaporated from all of Paris in about ten minutes, it will be enough to distract him.
Protect Lando. Keep his things private. Stop anyone who killed Binotto. Get the Geber book.
He can do it.
Oscar looks at his watch, and the hand trembles in the dial. He is late. Very late.
After his little sleight of hand aimed at destabilizing Max and granting himself some peace, his nose bled profusely, staining his clothes and all the cobblestone streets he passed through. It could be embarrassing if he had committed a reprehensible act. He had not. He had only surveyed the arrondissem*nts of Paris, from the 10th to the 16th through the 11th, leaving traces like a dying person ready to meet his destiny in the Seine.
He turns again.
George Russell summoned him at dawn before the last glimmer of darkness had even faded. A magically conjured white pigeon brought him a sealed piece of parchment before disappearing into the morning mist.
Oscar knows precisely where he's going: the secret library of Adelaide de Bourbon, the only one in the line who hasn't lost her mind, literally and figuratively. An astronomer, a woman of science, whom they would have sworn to kill because she is what more boorish men would call a witch rather than a scholar.
Not that it would have been easy to kill Adelaide, she was too intelligent.
Oscar turns one last time to find himself in one of the narrowest alleys in the world. His body touches the rough walls and scratches his black coat, while his feet wade in stinking humidity. A gutter drips at a slow and boring pace, aware of being in the least beautiful, ugliest and most forgotten place on the 16th.
At the end of the alley, faintly illuminated by a lost ray of light, there is a simple door dilapidated in wood. Adelaide was known for her illusory gifts, capable of fooling the best of them, capable of bringing her illusions to life for hours before they disappeared as if they had never existed.
Oscar admires Adelaide, more than the others.
Oscar takes a breath and knocks, the wood decrepit under the shocks, tiny pieces falling to the ground, and then the door is revealed as it is. Royal blue, perfect, with gilding representing jays and lilac and a door knocker, it opens onto an immense vestibule: the secret library of Adélaïde de Bourbon.
“There you are… I thought I should send a missive to the High Magisterium for an international arrest warrant.”
“Without proof of any crime? I doubt that high politicians like spies are easily corruptible.”
George stands in the middle of the entrance hall, perfectly in the centre of a chessboard-like mosaic, like a game piece awaiting an auspicious move. Is he a king? A queen ? A tower ? A bishop? Oscar already knows the answer, George is a thinking head, a born king who serves as a spare, but who does not lose.
“And it’s the uncertainty that makes you stay.”
Touché.
And there's Lando. Especially Lando. George probably suspects it, in the enigma that composes him, it is the only thing he can be certain of, Lando is the constant in his story, his affection is invariable, unconditional, extends to infinity, and devoid of limits.
Oscar tries to let go of what haunts him more than all his schemes and mistakes, Lando's ghost touches his skin after five years of pining from afar, convinced it's for the best. It is. For the best. Lando is safe. Oscar never is. He still feels the ghost of his lips on his scars, like a balm that wards off the pain that caused them.
He wishes that providence had not cursed them.
Oscar tries to focus on the library, its vestibule, and walls covered with Renaissance paintings representing all deities or divinities relating to the Arts. The Nine Muses, Apollo, Pan… They all find a place in a moving painting, in the blue tones which cover the walls. Silver acanthus wraps around the various ribbed marble pillars as a symbol of knowledge. The dome above their heads is made of glass and shows the unpredictable weather, grey skies, light rain and fog.
He sighs. Why couldn't it be a little nicer? Lando doesn't like the rain.
“Why am I here?”
“Max sent me an urgent missive this morning. Lando refuses to work with you and asks your removal. It’s a problem that’s easily fixable,” George speaks thoughtfully. “Secondly, he talked about meeting Sibellus.”
Oscar grimaces, his nose wrinkles, his eyes narrow.
“Go get information from the source of the crime when the justice system has none.”
“Never again with Lando. I don't know how this game works within the underworld, but we can agree that he doesn’t know how to play.”
Oscar nods and clenches his jaw.
“Good,” George gestures for him to follow him and guides him into a small blue living room where several books are displayed on a coffee table. “Can more information be extracted from Sibellus?”
“I could without Lando, but not without paying the price. The only reason she played was because he was there.”
“And what is the price?”
“A secret.”
George grimaces, in turn, his blue eyes analysing each of the elements he possesses. Oscar suspects that he knows less than he wants him to believe. George has no idea exactly what he's been up to in recent years, only a vague, fuzzy idea with oddly cut puzzle pieces that never come together to form a bigger picture. There are corpses everywhere he goes, he wears a cloak of death like the plague, and he knows it. Cities are painted red and masterpieces disappear.
George will never know more.
“It’s too high a price,” George concedes. “Luckily, I didn’t bring you in for that. Did you experience any loss of power this morning?”
“For about ten minutes, I found it curious, but not worrying.”
“Has this ever happened to you?”
“In Greece, in Delphi, at the archaeological site of the Oracle,” Oscar explains, shrugging his shoulders, trying to appear nonchalant. “There is an inscription… Only the oracle has the power, so the Medean gifts do not work. It's the same in the gardens of Dodona. There is an artefact at the Louvres which can cancel them out over three kilometres. I’ll go check if it’s still there, that could be it.”
The artifact, a small idol in the image of Apollo in ivory and a gold lyre placed in a poorly guarded area of the museum with the power to annihilate magic over a radius of three kilometres. In definitive ways. Oscar paid one of Charles' accomplices handsomely to have it stolen, and it has now joined his friend's private collection (hopefully he'll stop sulking over Pandora).
This is Oscar's insurance, he used another method.
“I guess it won't be long before we get the report,” George massages his temples. “Fine. At least it's resolved. I'll ask Max if this has anything to do with Il Predestinato. The Italians are perplexed to have found their David in the middle of the vineyards.”
“Maybe he didn’t like him?”
George narrows his eyes, there's no way he doesn't know it's Charles. George doesn't care, they're just works of art, Charles poses no threat to society as long as he continues to steal antiques. Oscar thinks the same, madness has not yet consumed him enough for his crimes to concern anything other than his passion for the arts.
“Odd. Isn’t that supposedly the pinnacle of the Renaissance?”
“Maybe he found something better to contemplate? Emperor Hadrian had the face of Apollo changed from all the statues in his villa to the image of his lover when he died. David’s face must not have pleased him.”
George's big blue eyes narrowed even more. Shouldn't he be accustomed to the dramatic nature of love stories born in power struggles? The tragedies that live within them and the broken hearts? He and Lando should serve as an example, a case study. They are a tragedy, more than they can all believe because Oscar cannot do the one and final thing he can do to relieve Lando of all the harm he has caused.
“Why am I here?” Oscar asks again.
“The books on the table are references for your investigation. Copies that can be found at the International Magic Archives, the best symbology books and the best potionists' almanack,” George points to a mahogany coffee table with a pile of books.
Oscar is familiar with the symbology book; he has a copy in his office, between a dusty version of the Odyssey and a piece of flame-retardant yellow goat-smelling fabric.
“I think these books could have been given to us at the Magisterium,” Oscar remarks, narrowing his eyes. “My usefulness is quite different.”
“It’s not a story of usefulness, but of allegiance. Consider your presence here as both a threat, a warning, and a gesture of goodwill.”
Oscar stops.
He stands on a Persian rug, as George stares at him intently. His strategy is risky at best, brutal when Oscar has learned to read between the lines and the hidden definitions of each word. George has no idea what he has done, he does not know exactly what he is, but he knows that he is more dangerous than these Medean gifts already suggest.
“I need to know where you are. You see, I don't understand the games of criminals, but I have my own. I wouldn't hurt Lando, but you have to understand that he could have not lost his position as Sentinel. Not that he or Max would know.”
“They didn’t ask for his dismissal.”
“They very strongly recommended it, but strategically, it assured me of Lando’s collaboration, and by extension yours. We both know you wouldn’t do anything to hurt Lando physically or more than you already have emotionally.”
If Lady Sibellus knows that Lando is his Achilles heel. George Russell knows how to pierce him, ache him, and torture him. If he takes a step, the spear will sink deeper, Lando will pay the price, and Oscar can't afford to see him in a cell, not when he fought to keep him out of there for eight more years. George could do it, use the High Magisterium, maybe Toto Wolff, to find a charge.
“So. We understand each other. Now, I'm not going to ask you the whole truth. I just want to know where you stand in my game,” George continues, “because, I will not die.”
George shows him a table stuck to a window, a blue bench against an alcove surrounded by two velvet curtains of the same colour. The table is a delightful piece of woodwork, but the centrepiece is the Yalta chessboard, the three-way chessboard, which sits on top. It is made of rosewood and ash, shiny with hand-engraved and gold-painted letters. The pieces are made of precious stones: white diamond, black diamond, scarlet ruby.
Oscar approaches.
Small pieces of paper are found like each of the pieces, the protagonists of a game that has already started, and question marks on the large black pieces. A black bishop is named Lady Sibellus. The White King is George Russell. Max is a Queen. His trajectory is far from the rest, he is in the same diagonal as the ruby bishop: Charles. Lando is a white knight, isolated from all other pieces in the game.
Oscar is nowhere. George doesn't know where he is. Is he the Black Queen, seemingly harmless where it is, but which in four moves sweeps away Max and George? Is he the Red Queen, a third protagonist, antagonistic or not, inconsistent to his position? Is there a white tower, its alignment has not changed, remaining this piece which can join the white knight?
“Who are you ?”
“It’s a dangerous game.”
“My life is already on this board, what more do I have to lose? There’s an Archivist and guards, Max knows where I am and who I’m with,” George shrugs. “I told you, I don’t play the same game as yours, but I always want to win.”
Oscar can concede to him. He knows what he is, and he knows it won't hurt his plans. He prefers to gain a point of confidence rather than lose control.
“If you disappeared again, Lando wouldn't be surprised. He would never know. You will die in this library, the world has not heard from Oscar Piastri in five years. No one will look for you. You're already dead to everyone who used to care. So where are you?”, he adds.
Oscar stays placid. It hurts.
Nobody cares. Nobody should care. An undying part of him wishes they did.
Charles is friends with him for an obscure reason, he knows he doesn’t care about him, only how their partnership benefits him. Logan has Arthur. Arthur has Logan. Lando wishes him dead.
Oscar wishes he was dead too.
It killed him to leave him. Now he’s a walking dead, a powerful one, who still has tales to tell.
Oscar stays placid. He plays the game.
Oscar opens the drawer under the chessboard. A sapphire set, blue, sad and melancholy. And there is an emerald green game. Oscar grabs the queen and spins her around his fingers. He can only be an emerald-green queen. Red is corrosive passion. White is good. Black is evil. He is neither good nor bad, he is not devoured by his passion. Green… Green suits him best.
He places the piece in the middle of the game and looks at George.
The Emerald Queen can destroy the Black King and Queen in two moves. She can join the white knight, keep an eye on the red bishop, and threaten the white king and queen with several moves without posing a real threat.
“This is where I am.”
“Do you know who wants me dead?”
“No.”
“You know why ?”
“I have ideas.”
George takes a deep breath.
“Is my death advantageous to you?”
Oscar opens his mouth.
“Never.”
George seems surprised by her answer, widening his already too-big blue eyes.
“Never ?”
“I do what I do out of necessity, not out of desire, my goal remains the same, in the end.”, he places a finger on the white knight. “Does this make me a bad person?”
“I guess not.”
The conversation ends. Oscar takes the books and heads out to leave George to his tribulations. Honesty is always an enviable and appreciable quality, he was honest. George has been a friend and comrade in arms, he is quick-witted, intelligent, and cunning. He could be the one to uncover Oscar's secret, where even Charles failed. As soon as it is discovered, his world will become infinitely darker and more dangerous, and yet his death constitutes neither an advantage nor a disadvantage because Oscar has never forgotten who his friends are.
George. Max. Charles. Logan. Arthur.
He is not a monster. He's not that kind of monster.
He returns to the entrance hall and looks at a golden apple in a tree painted to contort himself. Hesperides apples. Do people know that they are a receptacle of perversion and not of knowledge? Ladon is cursed. The Hesperides are cursed. The orchard burned.
Oscar wipes ash memories from his head.
“Wait!”
Oscar turns his head to see who is calling him.
The Archivist of Adelaide Bourbon's secret library is a stunted old man with too much white hair and glasses. He looks like a dead man whose eyes shine with a glimmer of failing life, his arms trembling under the weight of the two books they carry. He walks down the hall with fragile slowness, his feet dragging against the slippery marble floor.
Oscar wouldn't have cared about him normally.
Archivists are not interested in anything other than the work they have under their supervision. Archivists are the people least likely to be seen as threats, only caring about the ink in the books, the tangle of words and the mysteries hidden behind a metaphor, a soliloquy, or a single curiously used word.
He stops. He doesn't need any more words to know who this man is.
“You’re like her, aren’t you?”
Oscar raises an eyebrow, and he understands who he's talking about. In the portrait of Adelaide hanging, an oval and youthful face, brown eyes, long brown hair and a mischievous smile, she wears a pretty blue silk dress reflecting pink. She is frozen in eternal youth.
“Yes,” Oscar answers, because he has no interest in lying.
The Archivist looks at him with deep disgust, looks him up and down, internally cursing him as one would a black cat. He is too afraid of reprisals, if his thoughts are expressed out loud, perhaps he is afraid of a divine reprimand. Does he see him as some kind of deity because he is like she was? The deities are often monsters, you don't need to be an archaeologist to know that, not when the world is gangrenous, prey to all evils and vices.
“He came to visit me when I was younger.”
So that's it.
“Really ? Did you have a choice?”, Oscar lets out a bitter laugh. “You are very lucky, my fate is worse than yours.”
“I would kill for your fate.”
“Well, you would be as good as dead. My fate does not suit everyone.”
