Chapter Text
The Thaumaturge absorbs the last remnants of the Salutor's power from Danis, drawing out the Flaw from the man until it tapers off into nothing. The air in the room begins to clear of its threatening, unpredictable aura.
It is much the same phenomenom that occurs when a fresh breeze dissipates the sullen river fog that often rises from the River Vistula. The ambience in the bar is changed, and many hunched drinkers emerge from their frightened stupors and begin to relax - as much as one can relax in this part of southern Śródmieście, anyway.
That moment when Wiktor claims the Flaw of Recklessness for his own is when the floor of the bar suddenly becomes the ceiling. He feels a dizzying, nauseating wrench inside his chest as if a mad surgeon has pulled out some vital structure in his guts, and he is thrown unwittingly into the dreaming space.
He finds himself in a vision, captivated by Danis the soldier hanging upside down like a marionette. Red sparks dance along the barrel of the revolver. Wiktor watches the Cossack fire off the rest of the empty chambers as if in a dream.
The demon Lelek is watching it too.
The steel hammer moves at a glacial pace back and forth, ratcheting and releasing, back and forth. If the revolver actually had any bullets in the chambers, he imagines that the brass casings might drift upwards and clink against the ceiling. Perhaps they might burst like small bubbles. The thought brings a strange smile to his face.
The struggle to dominate Lelek is short and fierce. The bird demon is impossibly fast, and its shrill cries disrupt Wiktor's usual route of attack, forcing him to improvise constantly. Throwing everything he has into the fight, he manages to subdue the creature with the help of the Upyr.
The world rights itself, and Danis is once again mournfully slumped in his seat, staring despondently at the empty gun in his hand and unaware of the spiritual battle that has just concluded.
Although Wiktor has come to expect a degree of unpleasantness after defeating and then commencing a new partnership with a Salutor, the level of strangeness with Lelek is notable.
There's distressingly little information written down in thaumaturgical books on the particulars of taming Salutors, but he's beginning to suspect that all the nuance comes down to the characteristics of the individual demon. Taming Bukavac had been a straightforward physical fight, whereas Veles was a quiet battle of wits more befitting the reptilian nature of the trickster. Trying to put Veles in a chokehold would have got Wiktor exactly nowhere, and neither would have been challenging Bukavac to a game of riddles. Lelek, an unpredictable and reckless Salutor, is playing by an altogether different set of rules.
Returning his attention to the body of Danis, a man with an absent Flaw, Wiktor can sense the great emptiness which squats in the man's chest cavity. Within this hollow is a maelstrom of grief, love, and despair - without his companion Pasha, Danis no longer knows what to do with himself. All is untethered and wretched with guilt, and the man is overcome with regret that the gun was unloaded.
Wiktor knows that black feeling all too well. With a spark of sudden compassion, he motions Upyr to skulk up behind Danis and commands a subtle manipulation. The Salutor plants sombre suggestions of mourning and reflection into the man's grief-stricken heart, grinning in its skeletal way.
"It's time to stop." He intones in a deep voice, and releases the command. Danis sighs, finally beginning to accept and confront his grief. It may take the man a long while to process the death of his partner, but in doing so will hopefully be able to grow past it and move on, instead of wallowing in his self-destructive spiral. In the future, perhaps Danis will compose new songs for his balalaika about more than just death.
Upyr nods and taps his heavy cane decisively, before fading out of view. The rush of thaumaturgical power leaves a tingling at the tips of the fingers. It's an intoxicating sensation as always, but this time it's left a slight headache behind. There's a heat rising behind his eyes, almost feverish in nature.
I should rest.
But Abaurycy has other ideas.
"Where do you think you're going Wiktor? The night is young! Let's get back to my bar - I guess it's still called the London Bar, since you stole my lovely demon away. We have things left to discuss."
Brooking no argument Abaurycy grabs him by the shoulders and steers them both across the street to the London bar. Śródmieście clearly has other plans for Wiktor tonight, none of which involve sleeping.
The acrid smell of vodka after they uncork a new bottle makes his dry mouth salivate, and he belatedly realises he is still suffering the nausea he felt earlier in the dream vision.
"Ah, my friend, I should warn you I'm not really feeling myself. I should probably head home after this one."
The strain of fighting and capturing a new Salutor always makes him feel sweaty and terrible, but perhaps this time he'll be able to put off the inevitable worsening of the migraine by turning in early, despite the heavy drinking he's already participated in this evening. He can sleep it off, and Ligia will be none the wiser.
Abaurycy pouts at him.
"Nonsense! We have defeated this monstrous demon, you and I, and that simply must be celebrated." He says, refusing to be put off. Then he pushes a glass into Wiktors's hand. "Plus, nobody got shot after all tonight so I'll be the first to admit I'm getting a little bored. Come on, have another drink with your old pal! Just like the old days huh?"
"The old days? We were just snot-nosed kids!" Wiktor splutters, remembering the first time they'd stolen liquor out of Father's cellar stores. The night had ended almost as soon as it had begun, with Wiktor puking in the rose bushes and Abaurycy being sent home with a twisted ear.
Abaurycy grins his shark-toothed smile, eyes glinting at the memory. "You still a light weight?" It's an obvious goad, but spoken with real fondness, and it damn well works.
"Go on then, one. Just one!" Wiktor tosses the liquor back easily but without relish. Sometimes there is just no arguing with bloody-minded Abaurycy. The vodka scalds on the way down, and pools in his stomach where it sits like lead shot.
He hears the chattering of a bird raucous and echoing in one ear, and he tilts his head around curiously to follow the sound. The Salutor is taunting him from the shadowy recesses of the bar. It's probably sniffing around some of the gamblers there, looking for the telltale reek of debts and desperation.
Although he now possesses the soldier's Flaw of Recklessness, the creature Lelek has not yet submitted to him and still poses a threat to his psyche. He can already feel it riling up his three existing Salutors, who aren't at all pleased to have such disreputable company.
Stop that.
Wiktor quickly runs through all he knows of the Salutor's habits. Lelek is attracted to drunken acts of enormous stupidity, of callous disregard for consequences, and utter chaos. He follows its erratic flitting between the people playing bridge, and muses on whether taming it will require some act of great folly. A single shot of watered down vodka was enough to briefly grab its attention, after all. What might another shot do?
Let's stay out, and see where this goes.
Abaurycy glances at him quizzically. "Are you looking around for another drink already? I thought I heard you say 'Just one'. Well well, I was worried you were going to disappoint me Wiktor. Tonight is going to be a riot, I can tell! Cheers!"
The icy weight in his belly grows as the night wears on, despite the steadily increasing heat behind his eyes and ache in his teeth. He owes his friend, so he figures he can keep going for as long as is necessary. Their debt is not yet paid, nor discussed - and besides, he is admittedly starting to have fun. An unintended side-effect of this experiment.
Abaurycy is ebullient, relishing the freedom of the evening. The blonde man seems to know everyone in the Warsaw underworld, from the name of the surly bouncer to the card sharks hustling the game tables. For a moment, Wiktor considers what his life might have looked like if he hadn't been kicked out of the city at fifteen. Might he have persuaded his friend into a more respectable career?
No, it's too hard to imagine the guy as a member of the bourgeoisie. He was always going to end up in a shitty place like this with a knife in his back pocket and brass knuckles in the front. Perhaps the young headstrong Szulski would simply have followed his friend right down into Warsaw's seedy underbelly, fists bloody, and the two of them would have never looked back.
But Wiktor is no longer that same naive, violent youth. Sure, he'd still jump into a scrap given the slightest provocation if Abaurycy asked it of him... But he also has a higher calling these days, with all the politics and noble causes he keeps getting entangled with. He has a handle on his pride - most of the time - and recently his adventures have been concluding with only minimal blood spilled.
To character development.
Wiktor drains the rest of his glass whilst Abaurcycy is outside - presumably fighting a casual acquaintance, or else pissing in the alley. Then he surreptitiously rolls the empty glass along his forehead, trying to soothe his low-grade fever. He only succeeds in making himself slightly sticky with alcohol residue. The glass isn't cool enough to offer much in the way of relief.
Wiktor heaves a tired sigh. It's exhausting trying to maintain his mental barriers this evening. Usually they are effortless, and are strong enough to keep all his Salutors obedient and his thamaturgic perceptions sharp. But this new one is staying close to him, watching with its huge dark eyes and waiting for Wiktor to let his guard down. Sometimes it creeps close to croon in his ear, and when he turns to look, it is feigning disinterest over by the door. It knows his barriers are faltering, and is testing his defences.
The London Bar is crowded tonight, mostly with rail workers and contracted labourers spending their week's pay packet. The vodka is shit here, but at least it's cheap. The upper classes and well-to-do of Warsaw appear to avoid this place and he sticks out like a sore thumb in his tailored suit and cravat. There are two coal fires in the saloon throwing out a warm amber glow, for which on any other day he would be immensely grateful, but today forces him to take off his tailcoat and mop his brow with a handkerchief again. Somebody from the back room comes around and shovels a few more coals onto the nearest, using a brass poker to coax the flames into life.
Wonderful.
His skin feels like it's burning up, and he tugs on his shirt collar to loosen the silky fabric's claustrophobic grasp. Small beads of perspiration are forming at his temples and beneath his moustache. The french brandy on the rocks he just ordered is definitely not helping his headache.
Catching a glimpse of his bedraggled appearance in a polished glass on the wall sets him to fretting. The barman has been giving him weird looks all night, and he knows that if he wasn't drinking with the owner, his haggard countenance might have raised a few questions. He drums his fingers on the bar with nervous energy until Abaurycy returns, looking a little bloodier and a lot happier. His pockets look suspiciously full.
"Right, next drinks are on me. And then, I'm feeling like Russian vodka, if you know what I mean." They clink glasses, and down a last drink together. Wiktor chokes it down, worried he'll see it again sooner rather than later.
"Alright - one more place, then I really, truly, must get home." He presses one hand to his mouth to suppress a nauseous hiccough.
"Ha ha, we'll see about that." There's a mischevious glint in the blond's eye, as he no doubt plans further debauchery.
As they stumble out of the bar, Wiktor sucks on a piece of ice, attempting to force his internal temperature down slightly. Despite the cool autumn night, there's a real possibility he's dangerously overheating.
He's trying very, very hard not to think about what it might be like to take a quick dip in the Vistula.
The water would surely be freezing at this time of year, and dark with river weed. He'd slide smoothly through the brittle ice like an otter and float weightless in the black waters. It would be cool and peaceful...
He realises he's stopped walking when Abaurycy bumps into him.
"What?"
No, no, that would be a terrible, reckless idea - an idea that Lelek is most definitely influencing. He studiously concentrates on not thinking about it, but his flushed skin and sticky clothes are making it exceedingly challenging to think about anything other.
"Fine, I'll lead. You've been out of this city far too long, my friend."
As they move leisurely on down the street to the next place, his concentration wavers, and the world twists around sickeningly. The wet pavement is swapped for the dark night sky and Wiktor is standing in a sea of glowing stars as his dream space envelops the street. He freezes, irrationally afraid to take even one more step in case he might fall right off the world. His heart is lurching in his chest. The beauty of the clear night of endless stars is overwhelming, but the dread black space is an ever present l'appel du vide.
Lelek shrieks a haunting song which echoes throughout his skull and stands all the hairs on his arms bolt upright. It makes him think about God and death, power and flame, Grigori Rasputin and leaps of faith. If he isn't careful, this song will drive him to do something terribly reckless.
"Wiktor?" Abaurycy's voice echoes strangely. It's unusual for non-Thaumaturges to enter his mental space, with the exception of Rasputin, but it is good to hear a familiar voice nonetheless.
The untamed Salutor cackles at him from somewhere in the region of his feet, which are ankle deep in a puddle somewhere far distant. The vision is totally disorientating - he cannot tell which way is up and which is down. But at his side is Abaurycy, standing solidly next to him, trying to see what Wiktor sees. And hasn't he been doing that since they were small boys?
"Hey, friend. What are you looking at over there? Is it another demon? Surely it can wait, Elysium is this way! Come on, I have a score to settle with this one-eyed rich guy. Not as rich as you, but, you know. It's all relative. " His friend claps him cheerfully over the shoulder, which abruptly brings the world back into focus again – like hitting a fritzing radio just right.
The stars stream down from the cobbles in a shower of dazzling sparks, and the pavement crashes upwards into the soles of his boots. There's a strong smell of ozone and wet earth. The grounding impact of leaving the vision causes Wiktor to fall to his knees.
Abaurycy kneels beside him, throwing an arm around his back. "Come on, you can't sit down here."
After a brief and largely unsuccessful attempt to both stand up and pull together his disoriented mind, his body simply rebels and starts to vomit up the burning contents of his guts.
"Fuck! Mind my shoes! I got them shipped from Vienna, they were expensive." Abaurycy says, leaping back with some disgust.
"Ugh. Apologies. Although, to be fair I did tell you I was feeling unwell earli-"
Wiktor retches again into the gutter. All trace of the brilliant stars has disappeared, leaving him on all fours in a woozy, empty haze. The world seems a little darker and duller at the edges.
There's nothing but bile and vodka fumes left in him, yet he still feels unbearably queasy. He gets unsteadily to his feet, wiping the sourness from his beard. He'd feel bad for the state of the street, but then again, this is central Warsaw on a Saturday night.
Abaurycy is scuffing his feet about on a patch of scraggly grass nearby and scowling, waiting for Wiktor to get himself together.
"Ugh. Sorry about your shoes. I- I had a kind of vision." Vision, drunken hallucination, nightmare induced by a rogue Salutor, whatever. "Don't worry, I'll be fine. Just became... dizzy for a moment." He spits on the floor, trying to clear his mouth. "How did you-"
Abaurycy spins him around by the shoulders. One after another, his red-rimmed eyes are peered into.
"Hmm. You are looking a little... peaky. I can't believe you've become such a terrible lightweight in my absence!" He musses up Wiktors artfully dishevelled hair, until Wiktor shoves him off. "Maybe it was that French brandy you had that was bad. I told you to stick to the good Polish vodka!”
Wiktor clamps a hand over his mouth and convulses through an empty dry heave at the thought of consuming any more alcohol.
"Don't mention vodka..."
Agreeing to continue this night out was an absolutely wretched idea, one of his worst. And he is still no closer to figuring out how to tame Lelek.
Abaurycy laughs.
“Well, I guess I'll help you home, if you're going to keep keeling over on me."
Viktor groans in agreement and loosens his shirt collar again. It's so unbearably hot. His shirt and waistcoat are soaked with sweat - his body is trying valiantly to rid itself of some toxin.
Could be the booze. Could be... not the booze.
"Mmhm, that's... that's probably for the best. I feel like shit." He says, not bothering this time to hide how truly unwell he feels. There's an undercurrent of unease running through him; that this feels too similar to the time he seriously misjudged what it took to master Paimon. The confusion, the heat, the visions - all symptomatic of a crumbling mind.
Together, they manage to flag down a late night carriage. Abaurycy has to push him up the steps and bundle him into the cab. There’s no strength in his trembling muscles.
Wictor barely remembers the ride home, but he thinks that as he sits slumped on the jolting passenger seat, Abaurycy begins gently petting his unkempt hair.
Either that, or some kind of monkey had got in. He'd seen a capuchin monkey for the first time last week at that oriental-themed soirée, with beady gimlet eyes and sharp white teeth. The hairy creature was constantly pawing through things that didn't belong to it - it had stolen his cigar, and one silver coin from his pocket. Of course there was also Wuzhiqi, a Salutor from the Far East with the face of a white monkey. She could be here in Warsaw right now, leaping over buildings and climbing into vehicles.
God, his thoughts are jumping all over the place.
He rests his head on Abaurycy's shoulder, monkey or no, and the solid weight feels grounding. It seems like the journey takes no time at all, but by the time he half falls - half slides from the hansom the sky is no longer dark but soft violet with the dawn. A blackbird trills its morning song nearby, and Wiktor shudders.
"Damned bird" he mutters, staggering against the wall outside the tenement. Before he goes inside the house, he intends to throw up once more for good measure. Better out here than on the antique Persian rug.
Suddenly, the brickwork is gone and instead he finds himself face to face with Lelek’s bulbous eyes staring madly out of the dark. It cackles as he stumbles for balance. What a marvellous prankster his new Salutor is.
A sneaky claw catches his leg, and the strength goes out of him. He cries out and trips forward against the main steps to the family house and sprawls there dazed for a minute. His heart is beating a wild frenzy against the inside of his ribcage like a maddened rabbit running backwards and forwards in a too-small cage. He senses that the creature is toying with him. It's maddening that he cannot find the secret to besting it.
If his father could see him now...
Sick, drunk, and bursting at the seams with an intoxicating power so strong he can feel it radiating outwards. His psychic defenses are in tatters, and he can feel Upyr, Bukavac and Veles becoming restless.
Wiktor's control is slipping. Why did he ever think a fourth Salutor would be a good idea? Sheer vanity! Three was already a fine number. Father always did admonish him against succumbing to his pride, and look where willfully ignoring that advice has got him. All this raw power, but he's still too dizzy to make it from the carriage to the front door.
The cab driver's horse is prancing in its traces and whinnying with nervousness, and now the cabby has stepped down from his seat to see what the commotion is about.
Abaurycy helps him to sit back against the wall with concern. The street loops around a few times, and he squeezes his fists up to his face to try and soothe the pressure behind his eyes.
"Hey Wiktor. Do me a favour you crazy wizard - be more fucking careful. You're nearly home. Wouldn't want to wake up your bossy sister, hmm? Hang on just one moment. This guy is getting too nosy for his own good."
His friend leaves to confront the driver, and in between the strange roaring in his ears, he can hear snatches of their spirited argument as if the wireless is tuning in and out of a particularly aggressive radio play.
"If he puked in my goddamn cab-"
"- - off, he's not drunk, he's ill."
"- my money. Rich people-"
"-who are you calling-"
"- get out of here before I fetch my friends-"
"[indiscriminate cursing]"
"-yeah? You and what army?"
"- fucking shivs, you absolute -"
Stanisław Szulski would definitely not find this funny at all; his alleged prodigy of a son being pushed around by some demonic chicken, while his son's only remaining friend and former servant brawls a taxi driver outside their house.
He lets out a shaky breath that's half sob, half manic laugh. Lelek chirps along and flaps its motheaten wings, remaining infuriatingly out of reach. Its wide nightjar beak is agape with wanton delight. His pounding head feels like it's being split open with a clawhammer and red hot iron nails. He fervently wishes these particular workmen would go on strike like the rest of Warsaw's labour force.
The coach driver has taken off at speed along Green Square; the driver desperate to get away from his unruly passengers. Certainly, the frightened horse was eager to put some distance between them. Animals always know something is unnatural about him, like they can smell the power, or perhaps sense the Salutors skulking about. Cats have begun to hiss and arch their backs at him now, when before they were merely aloof. Even the blackbird seems to have abandoned its perch outside the tenement building.
Abaurycy has squatted down beside the wall and is staring hard at him. Wiktor's jaw is locked into a rictus grin that is either conveying mirth, or extreme pain. He tries to stop making The Expression so Abaurycy will stop looking at him like That, but it's too hard with all the conflicting emotions flowing freely through him. His mental gates are swinging wide open, and he can't push them closed against the incoming torrent.
Abaurycy whistles. "What happened to you, Wiktor? I thought all this time you were living it up in Paris. I assumed this whole dishevelled and distressed traveler image was just another chic new look for you, but maybe it's a lifestyle, huh." The blonde man is uncharacteristically concerned.
Wiktor hums. "It was a... rough few years."
Abaurycy's eyes abruptly flick downwards, giving Wiktor a once over. "Tch. Such a mess. Did you get blood on your shirt fighting those damn Russkie morons, or punching the lamp post? Either way, you're going to need your whole fancy get up laundered. "
Wiktor blearily squints down at his dirty, sweaty shirt, where there are indeed a few splashes of bloody scarlet that weren't there earlier. His fevered imagination rides wild and the colours swirl together to form the thamaturgic symbol for Mind, and then dissolve apart in glistening red fireworks.
"Mm'not sure.." he slurs, leaning his aching head wearily back against the solid wall and closing his eyes. The stairs feel insurmountable. They will definitely have to wait until tomorrow. His upper lip feels incredibly sweaty, and he wipes his mouth sloppily with the back of his wrist.
"Oh shit. Let me... I've got a pocket handkerchief somewhere, I'll -"
He feels cloth being dabbed under his nose, and he wrenches his eyes open. There's a glistening red smear on his hand. Not good.
"Man, did those guys break your fucking nose?" Abaurcycy asks.
Wiktor widens his lopsided smirk. "Hah! Of course not. We beat them to a pulp, they barely touched us..."
"Why's your damned face bleeding all over my nice silk hanky then, smartass? Here, pinch your fingers over the cartilage like this. That should slow it. I've had a few hits to the moneymaker myself, I know what I'm doing."
When was the last time he'd had a nosebleed?
Maybe that day he and Ligia had fought over the single remaining plum doughnut, and she'd shoved him into the door 'as a joke'. Or when Abaurcycy had punched him for being an obnoxious little bastard (on several occcasions). Either way, it must have been years ago. He loses himself in the memory for a moment.
"Come on. Hey! Open your eyes posh boy."
He tries to make out his friend's concerned expression against the morning sun. This level of bone deep exhaustion should be concerning, but he can't quite bring himself to care, or to lift his arm all the way up to take Abaurycy's handkerchief. Upyr is grumbling somewhere behind him. Their connection is flickering in and out, and he starts to feel uneasy.
"Wiktor, shit, take the fucking thing."
Why does he need to take it again? Capturing a new Salutor is tough, and this is only his third in as many weeks. His aching head is buzzing with their powerful presences like a nest of furious bees, and it's a feeling which can't be contained within the mere vessel of his fragile human skull. Maybe it really is starting to leak out? Can a Salutor escape by weakening or killing its captor? He sincerely hopes not.
The alcohol has lent his body artificial strength all night, but most of its effect has diminished and now he feels lethargic and too, too hot. He feels himself retreating into his mind, away from his stupid, useless body.
Abaurycy slaps his face, shocking him awake. "Oi. Don't fucking go to sleep. I don't know what to do with you. I don't want to leave you, but, shit. I have to get out of here."
His nose is definitely bleeding. There's hot blood trickling inside his mouth and down the back of his throat. Probably overdue a trip to see Rasputin.
Need to stop the bleeding - no, he needs to get control of Lelek first.
Willful thing.
It's rattling around in there, finding all the chinks in his defenses and pecking at them. There's a sharp pain behind his eyes. He hears a fluttering of feathers close behind and feels a puff of rancid breath which smells of rotten meat and vodka. The warm fumes are noxious and there's an increasingly high pitched ringing noise that won't go away.
He tries to get up to flee the sound that's driving him to insanity, but his feverish body just won't obey him any more. He collapses sideways and hits the pavement.