8 character challenge ficlets

[faxpunk]

 

With Barnaby travelling for some all important lecture series in the Federates of America, Edgar relaxed the rules around the family home, much to the confusion of the young Eleanor. 

“Dad says bedtime is at nine o’clock,” Eleanor said, frowning. “It has always been at nine o’clock.”

“I think at twelve years old you can surely stay up until midnight.” Edgar poured himself a generous glass of gin with crushed ice and red berries. He looked up at her with a gentle smile. “Besides, otherwise we’ll miss the film we’re going to see.”

“Dad always said books are preferable to films.” She folded her arms, not looking entirely convinced. “One gets to use their imagination more when reading.”

“That’s very curious because I assure you that your father has seen a film or two with me which have done plenty to arouse his imagination. Besides, this is a French film we’re about to see. What could be more educational?” Edgar tipped his glass towards her. “Now my dear, have you ever had a taste of gin before?”

Barnaby finished making the sandwich just in time for Edgar to appear in the kitchen, his jaw set tightly. “Pray tell, Barns, are we taking in strays now? Who is the frightened-looking blond in the sitting room?”

“He’s from the economic department of the Slovak embassy; quite fascinating, really, we got to talking at a university event. I believe the man studies for his Masters on the side.” Barnaby wrapped the sandwich carefully and placed it in a brown paper bag, ignoring Edgar’s icy gaze. “Highly interesting, the recent industrial developments in the mid-continental states. Though I suppose it quite escapes your limited interests–”

“What does he want?” Edgar asked. “Money or sex? Barns, a man of your intellect shouldn’t be so taken in by any handsome con artist on the street.”

“I believe he is just here for a cup of tea, though I thought I would make him something to take with.” Barnaby looked back at Edgar. “Would you calm yourself? I only invited him in for a brief moment.”

“Good fucking grief.” Edgar inhaled sharply. “Let me make this clear to you. I might not be in charge of the nation anymore, but this is still a house worth twenty million. We can’t just let anyone in.” 

“Is it a house, or is it a home?”

“Oh, don’t give me that.”

Barnaby stared at him, and under the scrutiny Edgar’s stance seemed to become less tense, less tightened with fury. 

“Fine, you deal with him, the best as you see fit. Just don’t keep him around for too long.” Edgar raised an eyebrow, his mouth almost smiling. “You know how jealous I can get.”

“I am well aware of the endless limits of your idiocy,” Barnaby muttered beneath his breath and set about making tea. 

"As it happens, I've been a tad down on my luck, good sir."

The rich man regards Ergo, his eyes moving up and down his body – lanky enough to possibly look ill-fed, he hopes. The blue eyes settle on his face yet the expression does not soften.

"Don't call me sir. I'm very sorry about your ill fortune but if you're doing this under duress–"

"Not at all," Ergo says quickly. He smiles, gentle and docile, all the things he needs to look like in order to pull this off. 

He doesn't want to sleep with the old fuck, not that it would be a enormous hardship but frankly what he needs more is to get his hands on the wallet. The gentleman's clubs are typically rife with old fools but it seems he hasn't been lucky enough to find one. Perhaps he didn't pick old enough, or stupid enough. 

"A word of advice," the man says as Ergo steps closer, running his hands over the lapels of the man's suit. His voice sounds tight, harsh. "Don't ask for money before you've sucked someone's prick for it."

Ergo laughs, the sound bursting out of him genuinely this time. "I'll take your advice. Now how about we get on with it?"

"I've rather lost my appetite." The eyes remain narrowed and fixed on Ergo. 

"Please," he says, hoping a dose of pity will get him what he needs. His hand continues stroking the suit that costs more than his life. Lower, he finds it. Breast pocket, a hard square beneath his palm. Credit cards, maybe two fifty pound notes just in case. "For free, this time. You're so handsome."

Now he feels a little pitiful himself but he's so close.

"Young man," the man says, voice filled with weariness and perhaps some soft emotion, for all his coldness.

"Please," Ergo repeats, leaning in, the hand right there, inside, and the man's mouth hard beneath his own. A hand pushes him from the centre of his chest but he's already pocketed the prize. 

"You're not half as convincing as you think you are, dear," the man tells him with little warmth. 

Fuck you, Ergo thinks but allows the thought to slide away.

"I'm wounded," he says, as the man makes his leave.

"Then imagine the pain I must be feeling," the rich man tells him, voice filled with the same contempt Ergo feels for him, too.

Ergo dines in Londinium for a week and buys a plane ticket home before the cards are all closed. When he later tells a couple of Livonian crooks the story of how he scammed a member of the English government, they don't believe him. 

September Ten - Edgar & Eleanor with the title "Summer Fun"

Eleanor sighed. The assigned reading papa had given her for the summer holiday was, on the upside, only seven books. But they were heavy books, dense histories of the English parliamentary parties and a couple of slightly less difficult volumes about how to engage an audience when talking. Once she had worked through the first volume, it was already two weeks into her summer holiday and she’d barely gone outside, only visiting the pond near Affila’s house once.

“Do you not wish to learn?” papa asked her dryly, not looking up from his paper, when she complained to him. “Learning doesn’t end at school.”

“Stop torturing her,” her dad said. “She’s only ten and I know for certain you haven’t read those books, either.”

Papa’s mouth formed an easy smile. “Haven’t had to.” He finally looked at her, folding his paper. “Read at least half of them, Nora. For me, won’t you?”

She nodded, feeling great relief that the rest of her summer was a little less tied up in books. Dad still didn’t look too pleased, and she left the room before papa had the chance to change his mind.

September Thirteen - Mat & Edgar - playing a board game

“D’you know, I didn’t vote for you.”

Edgar raised his eyes from the chess set, his fingers flexing in the cold of the morning. Oh, how charming was it to be outside, meeting the members of the public. This was the last time he was waiting for Barns in the middle of a park. There should have been an indoor establishment nearby he could have escaped to, without having to be subjected to the rabble.

The working class man was broad-shouldered with brown hair, slightly curled at the longer ends. He was handsome, though his stance told a story of unearned confidence, which unnerved Edgar slightly. Only slightly.

“I bet your father did, though,” Edgar quipped, sitting back.

The man’s jaw tightened. “He’s dead.”

“Congratulations.” Edgar thought back to his own, the miserable cunt. “I meant, my condolences. How very terrible.”

“You know how to play, mate?” The man gestured towards the board.

Edgar hated chess. There was too much thinking involved, and very little reward from victory. He’d been forced to memorise an opening gambit or two, though. “One of my very favourite things, the true game of gentlemen. Would you care to join me?”

The man sat opposite him, and didn’t look as begrudging as Edgar expected him to be. He made the opening move, and kept his eyes on the board. 

The more moves had been made on the board, the clearer it became that Edgar wasn’t playing against a master in disguise. The younger man thought through every move very carefully, and yet made crucial, amateur mistakes. Edgar breezed through to a checkmate.

“Well,” Edgar said softly, resisting the urge to gloat. “Have I earned your vote now?”

The man opposite glared at him. “You think I don’t read the news, mate? You’re retired now, you prick.”

Edgar stood up, seeing Barnaby at the edge of the park entrance. “Don’t be a sore loser, my dear lad. It’s rather unbecoming.”

“Oh, fuck off with you,” the young man said, frowning.

“Always a pleasure.” Edgar cast him one more look, forcing himself to smile politely, before turning on his heel. 

September Sixteen - Ergo & Konstantin are taking a class together

“You said this was a class for bettering our Islandic skills,” Konstantin muttered beneath his breath in Haemtongue. “Why they even have this available at the community centre is beyond me–”

“Perhaps the Islandic aren’t as close-minded about the art of lockpicking as you Finns tend to be,” Ergo said lightly and ran a hand through his hair. “The class is taught in the local language so we’ll definitely be learning new vocabulary.”

“Have your lockpicking skills gotten rusty over the years?” Konstantin asked darkly. 

“I guess we’ll find out, won’t we?” Ergo smiled at him.

Konstantin said nothing in reply, focusing on the teacher’s voice instead. It suddenly occurred to him he’d never seen Ergo pick up the key to their flat on his way out and now he understood why.

September Twenty-two - Edgar & Pire - "what's in the box?"

(The following took place in 1984, approximately 4 years after Edgar's story ended and a year after Pire, in his early 20s, arrived in England. Edgar is the High Chancellor.)

The masked man is blond and lanky, dressed in carefully tailored pinstripe. Pire is unnerved at the ease of his stance, the relaxed way his fingers tap a rhythm against the leathery back of the chair he stands in front of. 

It’s his second time in a gentleman’s club and he’s not particularly used to any of this; the decadent fabrics, the private rooms, the masks that provide some semblance of anonymity but not quite enough. Blood rushes in his veins, thinking about the things he’s seen in these places.

“Oh,” the masked man says. “Please don’t mistake me, young man. I’m not here for pleasure, I’m simply here to close an account I’d accidentally left close.” His mouth pulls into a wry smile. “At the <i>demand</i> of my husband.”

A man having a husband is not unusual here, another thing Pire has not yet gotten used to. The man in front of him sounds upper class, his voice deep but haughty in a way he’s learned to recognise as a class signifier in this new, strange country.

“Sorry,” Pire says, feeling himself flush. “I didn’t mean to stare.”

The man looks him over. “At another time, perhaps–” He then shrugs with one arm, not saying more.

“What’s in the box?” Pire gestures to the navy-coloured velvet rectangle in the man’s hand.

“A gift for the monsieur of this place.” The man opens the box, and shows it to Pire. The watch looks expensive, glittering in the dim, amber and purple hued lights of the club. Golden and silver wheels turn inside its glass casing, and the band is decorated with diamonds. “It’s hideous but unfortunately the proprietor isn’t saddled with good taste.”

“I’m sure he’ll appreciate it,” Pire says as the box clicks shut, a muted snap.

“Where is that accent from?” the man asks, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. 

“I’m from Belge.” Pire remembers again that he’s Peter Cuypers. “I moved here for work.”

“Fascinating,” the man replies and his eyes behind the mask seem to study Pire more closely, lingering on the lower, exposed part of his face.

“I should–” Pire begins, stumbling over his words slightly. “I should go.”

“But of course.” The man straightens his back. “Pleasure to make your acquaintance, all the same.”

They haven’t actually met, haven’t shared names or anything else, really, but Pire nods all the same and accepts the man’s hand into his own. His fingers are long where Pire’s are wide and his skin feels cool to the touch. The grip is strong, and formal.

When he gets outside, the wind mists his burning cheeks. He knows he shouldn’t go back to such places anymore but he’s so lonely, he knows he will.