Alerich Clausse - 001

Peter forced out a chuckle to match Rattle’s, who now remained silent with his eyes closed.

“I’ve been looking for the man and the reason for so 16 years and never found a single trace. Everything was so well kept. Everyone remained so silent.”

“Rattles, we got this. With this name and this trail, we should be able to make a connection.”

“Peter, come on. S. Finch is obviously a pseudonym of some sort. What good is a false name, if it can’t be traced itself. This is nothing but another dead end. This is just mockery by the defunct.”

He was right and peter knew it. The name meant absolutely nothing if it was false and Peter knew it was false. He had changed the name, the name his father had left in the letter on the desk, but the name was dangerous. Were he to give Rattles the real name, all hell would break lose. Even though he spent much of his time drinking and chasing women, Rattles himself was dangerous.

Maybe it was his desire for retribution, or maybe it was his incredible talent, but Rattles made a name for himself in the university. That’s why he accepted and took the nickname of Rattles in the first place. The name Alerich came with a weight and fame. People who had never seen him knew of him. He was a living legend. Some knew him as Alerich, the terraformer, because he had destroyed an entire mountain. Others knew him as Alerich the death slayer because he somehow defeated death.

Sure, those stories were stretched versions of the truth. Rattles never “defeated” death. He simply created a cure to very contagious disease. Of course, the real story remained an impressive feat. Most alchemists died within a week of attempting to create a cure. Rattles drank the disease to understand the sickness and synthesized a cure out of his own blood. As for the mountain, he did blow up half a mountain, but that was purely out of accident, which involved a little of Peter’s help. They had been trying to build a massive firework display.

Regardless, even with Rattles’s self-control, he could be dangerous when dealing with anything in relation to his parent’s death. And Peter, as the new Lord Blackstone, had to prevent him from destroying half the city in the search of a murderer. There were better ways to solve the murder. Keeping the truth from Rattles was a necessity.

Peter had not completely lied, though. Mr. S. Finch was an alias in the public documents tracking the money’s transaction. The only document disclosing the real name was the Lord Blackstone’s last letter to Peter, a confession and apology.

Rattles stood up in one smooth jump, a smile on his face, somehow over his brooding moment. “That is enough for the day. May the dead fall behind and the living go on. What is being alive if you don’t live, right? You have to appreciate the little things, and I know of two that need my attention at this very moment.”

Peter shook his head and grinned. Even in this moment, Rattles did not stop surprising him. The man was resilient and nearly impervious to all negative emotions, an enviable emotion.

“Hey, don’t get me all wrong,” Rattles said, stopping at the door. “I can’t even begin to fathom the feeling. Lord Blackstone, though his death brings peace to many, was your father. Don’t let the darkness fill you inside.”

Peter laughed a hearty laugh and even shed a tear. “Rattles, he was a ruffian, a sadist, and a monster. I cannot even force myself to feel anything other than relief. But sure, if I need a shoulder to cry on, you’ll be the first I’ll call.”

Rattles shook his head, the grin gone, and waved his hand twice as if to say, “okay,” leaving without a single word. Peter sunk in the office chair, his father’s letter in his hand. He read it over, and a sensation of sorrow drowned him, tears beginning to flow.

“It was too late, you old bastard. Why the hell couldn’t you have said all this to me before you died, god dammit.”  

Alerich Clausse - 000

Peter drank water from the old wooden cup, trying to force down the knot in his throat. Setting down a bundle of papers on his desk, he sighed and rubbed his face, muffled songs of celebration leaking from the floor below. Impossible, he thought. It was impossible. Yet, the papers were authentic. With both his father’s signature and seal, he could not deny it, as much as he actually wanted to.

When he heard that his father died, Peter could not have been happier. It relieved him to hear that maybe, without that bastard, he would be able to be free. He thought and hoped that he could leave the house and move on to his actual desire. His father would not be there to stop him. And with the financial backing of the estate, he would have total freedom. But, this letter was just like his father. Now, that asshole haunted him from beyond the grave.

“But at least he is dead,” Peter sighed in relief. Lord Blackstone was dead and the whole city celebrated.

Startling Peter upright, the door slammed open, and the music intensified inside of the room, and a young man, a very drunk one at that, entered with two girls. It was Rattles, a recent college graduate and magnificent potion mixer, though he wasted much of his time trying to refine the best tasting alcohol.

“Petah! What are you doing stuck in the office on such a wonderful day? Come join us!”

“Rattles, I need to speak to you in private; it’s important,” Peter, said stacking the papers on the desk.

“Whaa- now?”

Peter, smiling at the two girls, offered them the door. “Ladies, if you’d excuse us for just a few minutes.”

The two girls, still clinging to Rattles sighed, but did not complain. They were looking at the new Lord Blackstone after all.

“Take a seat,” Peter said and closed the door behind him. “This is pretty bad news.”

“Fuck, I hate when you say that.” Rattles, whose nickname deceived many, was actually more levelheaded than Peter or any other man in his twenties. And, having known peter all through college, he knew this couldn’t be good. “You found out something about him, didn’t you.”

“My father was the middle man.”

The blood drained from Rattles’s face, and his eyes widened.

“The documents I found in his archive, their a paper trail of the money’s transfer. Someone moved al lot of money in order to kill your father.”

“Is there-“

“There are two names. Lord Blackstone’s as the one who authorized the transfer from his bank, and a Mr. S. Finch. There’s nothing more than that.”

Rattles sunk onto the chair and closed his eyes, the image of his father and mother, both forced out the door, a black hood over their heads, imprinted on his head. He remembered the distinct smell of burnt flesh that lingered around in the house, the smell that led him to burn the house down with his past.

“At least,” Rattles spoke after several minutes of silence. “Whoever killed them paid taxes in order to do it.”

Minutiae

I thought it would last forever, that I would see that smile on her face every day.

It was a normal day, no different from the previous day or any other day. I woke up, following my morning routine, and went through the usual day. After yet another monotonous day at work, consisting of angry patrons screaming through a minute speaker while my boss forced me to act polite and apologize—followed by a lengthy reminder of how I would not meet my week’s quota—I needed to clear my head.

But even though it was just another day, I decided to do something different. Rather than go out and have a beer with my friends or stay at home—where I would just sit in front of another desk and waste 6 hours of my life—I decided to walk.

I walked in no particular direction and did not care for time pay attention to the time; I wanted just wanted to walk, and I did. After the sun set and my legs grew tired, I returned to the office to pick up my things and leave for the day.

Then, we met. She wore a suit I would later learn to call her special occasion meeting attire and a frown that everyone who worked for our company wore. I had never seen her before, but the company was big, which—at any other point of time—would have made it impossible for us to meet. And although I refused to believe in destiny, it felt as if it were meant to be.

I made a joke, my desire’s manifestation to turn that frown. It worked. After a small chat, we parted and I did not see her for a week. I did not know her name and she did not know mine, but I never stopped thinking about her. I was obsessed. I needed to see her again.

Exactly seven days after our first meeting, I took another walk, hoping to catch her on her way out again. She smiled again on that day. She was the seventh, my lucky number Seven. Somehow, meeting her turned me spiritual. I believed in numerology. She was the seventh and the one. Yet, it all changed in a single year.

She laughed at my jokes. I thought we were perfect, but I was wrong. I made her cry in the end. I wish I could say it was something big, that I had been unfaithful or that there had been some form of abuse. It was nothing like that. It was the small things. I had run away from them for so long, but they ultimately caught up and ruined my life, and I hurt her.

It began with a promotion, one of the happiest moments of her life. I shared her feelings; I loved to see her smile, so I made it known. We celebrated and thought the night would never end. I took her into the city, spent the little cash I had, and bought the most expensive bottle of wine I could afford. But, the little things, those little fuckers, caught up to me.

I had been working in that office for five years. I worked myself to death, attempting to win more costumers while putting up with an incompetent boss, all in an endeavor to rise in the ranks. I did not. I failed. My efforts and sacrifices, they did not matter. They were just wasted moments I could have had with her. For many months, the stress took a voice—that of self-hatred and pain—reminding me of how I would never achieve anything, reminding me of how I had failed her.

The anger, regret, and weakness, paired with the celebration and the Champaign, turned to desperation. That night, I left her in bed. She seemed so happy. So, I drove to reflect; I drove drunk.

When I met her, I thought she would never stop laughing, that we would always be together. I was wrong. The small things tore us apart.

I lay in bed that night, unable to speak much. She sat by me, a weak smile holding her together. I told her a joke, the very same one I said on the night we met. I made her cry before I left.