-Chapter I: The Garden of Hereafter- 74Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡQCobw7ER2w
Ophelia Faulkner
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Some 35 years later…
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Patiently they waited, coats neatly placed over their arms and hair slicked back to show off their well-rehearsed smiles. Outwardly, they presented themselves as a bunch of soft-spoken men, most of them well into their forties with a successful career, enough money that no whim was ever left unfulfilled, and a loving family waiting for them at home. And yet, beneath the facade, they still felt unsatisfied. Some were merely weak-willed, struggling to play the game and dance to the same tune as everyone else, whilst others were fuelled by greed and a hint of boredom. They came here again and again, always telling themselves that ‘it would be their last’. Alas, their last never seemed to last.
The sun, hidden already by swathes of grey, dipped below the horizon, casting a dusky shadow over The Garden of Hereafter, its grand doors still firmly sealed. A palpable tension lingered in the air; a silent anticipation shared by both patrons and ladies alike. These men were seasoned in this ritual, experts at the game they played, and yet, it was an unspoken agreement that they couldn't resist stealing quick, furtive glances through the ornate windows as we prepared for the evening's performance.
Even before the curtains were raised, we, the girls, understood the script by heart. We knew what was expected of us, how we were meant to move, what smiles to wear, and what masks to don. The masks, figurative and sometimes literal, concealed our true selves, forcing us into roles that the world demanded. We were like players in a macabre theatre, enacting a story that repeated itself with each passing night.
Yet, within this beautifully adorned but treacherous garden, we were never truly alone, nor were we privileged enough to savour the embrace of safety. The glances of the men outside, the weight of their desires, and the veiled vulnerability that clung to our every step all ensured that the confines of our world were anything but secure. In the silence before the performance, as the doors remained shut and the stage remained empty, we found ourselves caught between the masks we wore and the anticipation of what the night would bring.
Gazing out of the fifth-floor window, I caught the faint echoes of their conversation carried on the breeze. What had begun as hushed, polite discourse among seemingly respectable men would inevitably devolve into the brazen antics of inebriated idiots. Liquor fueled their audacity, transforming them into boorish louts with hands that roamed far too freely.
They encouraged one another, like mischievous schoolboys daring each other to perform daring feats. Their competitions revolved around the conquest of the most coveted courtesan, as if by claiming her, they could somehow fill the voids in their own lives. These were men who, by day, wore masks of propriety and decorum but, under the influence of alcohol and the dimly lit allure of the night, revealed their baser desires and insecurities.
“Are they getting rowdy again?” Fayth asked as she brushed my hair, my scalp hurting from how rigorously she had applied the treatment.
“Seems so,” I said, scowling at Lord Keen, a walking runner bean of a man who backed himself into a bush and fell over. The other men laughed at him, none seeming to lend a hand.
“Let’s finish you up then,” she said, taking my arm and pulling me into the chair. “Do you know what you’ll be doing tonight?”
“The usual, serving drinks,” I said.
Fayth nodded along, and pulled at my black hair, curling it around a hot iron rod. “Good. Keep them topped up and they hopefully shouldn’t bother you.”
“They won’t bother me, anyway. I’m a tier two girl; it’s like I’m invisible and don’t even register on their radar. I might as well be a raccoon in a bra that sometimes brings them beer,” I mocked.
“Small mercies, I suppose,” Fayth said with a sigh, pulling the iron rod away to let tightly curled ringlets fall down to my shoulders. “At least it’s not often you have to entertain them.”
I let out a sigh of relief and nodded. “Tell me about it. It could be a lot worse.”
“It could also be a lot better.” Another ringlet was done. “You could be a kept woman, living in a big house with a chef and a cleaner at your beck and call, all the dresses and jewellery a woman could ask for. You could keep a small toy poodle in your handbag if you wanted to.” This was more her dream than mine.
“And have a husband who spends his free time here? I think I’ll pass,” I said. Another ringlet done. “Having said that, I’d rather be a sexually unfulfilled, pill popping, perpetually tipsy wife of some mediocre bank manager than a slave in a whorehouse.”
Fayth sat beside me and squished my cheeks together; I looked like a fish. “Then what does ‘happy’ look like to you?” she asked, a soft smile across her red lips.
I had asked myself that same question many times before, and I could never quite fathom a tangible answer. For the most part, ‘anywhere but here’ sufficed. But when I sat down and thought about it, I could never quite picture it. This life was all that I had ever known, bought at a young age from a slave trader and indoctrinated into the life of a whore. Or, well, courtesan, as my owner, Lord Chamberlain, liked to remind me; our clientele apparently didn’t like the idea of paying for whores.
Another ringlet was done. “I want to be… a sky pirate,” I pulled the answer out of my arse.
“Last week you wanted to be a tree doctor, and the week before that I seem to remember something about a mad apothecary,” Fayth laughed and shook her head.
“We can but dream,” I said under my breath. “Maybe I’ll use my invisibility skills and become an assassin. They’ll never suspect the racoon in a bra.”
She completed my hair, weaving it into intricate curls reminiscent of the porcelain dolls decorating her room. As she assisted me in donning the constricting corset and snug leather boots, I couldn't help but gaze at my reflection in the ornate mirror. In that polished glass, I saw not myself, but rather an artful creation, meticulously moulded and adorned to fit the exacting desires of another.
It was strangely simple to lose myself in the illusion that the woman in the mirror was not me at all, but a distant figure, untouched by the harsh reality of my existence. A stranger with her painted features and elegantly arranged hair, existing solely to fulfil the whims of someone who had claimed ownership over every aspect of my life.
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A soft but authoritative knock resounded through the room, and the door creaked open to reveal the commanding presence of Mama Gardenia. She bore the weight of years gracefully, her mature countenance framed by a conservative, ash-grey suit with a matching skirt and jacket. Her once-vibrant hair had been tamed and pulled back so tightly that it seemed to stretch the skin over her temples, smoothing away the wrinkles that life had etched upon her brow.
A lingering miasma of smoke trailed her like a spectral companion, an inescapable testament to her penchant for indulging in the finest, most expensive cigarettes. The rich, heady scent of tobacco intermingled with the less distinguished aroma of the cheap perfume she insisted on wearing, creating an odd scent that made my nose itch.
“Lady Fayth,” Mama said, curtsying to Fayth, only to stare daggers at me. “We are opening, and Lord Chamberlain would like Ophelia back now.” Her smile was strained.
Fayth slowly stood up, brushing down the front of her dress. “Can I help tonight?”
“You would like to help us, m’lady?” Mama was a little taken aback, but it wasn’t the first time Fayth had asked to help.
Fayth nodded. “I get bored up here… alone,” she gestured to her room, which although was filled with the most recent gadgets, most expensive dresses, and by far the most up-to-date pieces of technology, it was… lonely. Her owner plied her with whatever she desired to keep her happy in his absence. Truth be told, his absence is what made her happy.
Mama rolled her answer around in her mouth, eyes flickering from side to side. She looked up to Fayth and placed her index finger on her lips. “So long as this doesn’t get back to you-know-who,” she said with a wink, “then I see no harm in letting you out of your cage for a little while.”
A wide grin spread across Fayth’s face, her green eyes lighting up. She did a little hop on the spot. “Oh, I promise not to say a word!”
“Use the Thespian Magicka make-up on your eyes and hair, then you can work the desk. Greet the clients and show them to their booths. Think you can do that?” Mama asked.
Fayth nodded, excited for this freedom. She ran to the window, leaning through the bars that framed her cage, and closed them so her room wouldn’t get cold. Lord Chamberlain rarely let her leave her room, mainly out of fear of her master’s wrath, should anything happen to her. But Mama had her ways of making Lord Chamberlain turn a blind eye when it suited her, and tonight she was feeling rather charitable.
With excited glee, Fayth riffled through her hoard of pots containing Thespian Magicka, a powdery substance that glittered in the light and was often used by men and women in my line of work. With a mere pinch of the substance, one could temporarily alter the colour of their eyes and hair to whatever they desired. Fayth was often one for playing dress-up, usually for a crowd of no one but her dolls.
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Mama's firm grip on my arm guided me out of Fayth's chamber and into the opulent hall, her high-heeled shoes echoing with a pronounced click-clack on the polished wooden floor. The corridor was alive with the hurried movements of the other girls, all dressed in flamboyant burlesque-style feathered dresses that seemed to defy gravity as they rustled and swayed with every step. The mingling scents of clashing perfumes overwhelmed my senses, creating a heady atmosphere that seemed to pulsate with sensuality.
Music played down below, a rising melody replacing the idle chatter of the girls. With a creak of contempt, the doors opened, welcoming the bitter evening air into the foyer, its icy grip clambering for the warmth of the upper floors.
I remained by Mama’s side as we descended the black spiral staircase, the other girls following behind, the men’s eyes widening and smiles twisting darkly. Whispers amongst the men erupted, the odd depraved laugh here and there, but most remained silent, admiring the girl - or girls - they had already chosen to keep them company. A few men argued over their chosen girl; this was expected, especially for the five or six tier girls, many of whom had their own little fan clubs.
As we reached the base of the stairs, the men picked out their girls and were shown to their booths, where they’d spend the evening plied with alcohol, hand fed a good meal, and given the undivided attention of their costly paramour, all of it rounded off by the extortionate price of renting a room. By the hour. Not that many of the men had the capacity to last longer than ten minutes - prep time included - but an hour was the smallest increment of time that was allowed. They usually filled the rest of the hour with sobbing regret and empty promises that this was ‘their last time’. As said before, that never quite rang true.
“Ophelia,” Mama grabbed my attention once she had divided up most of the girls. “I want you, Agatha, and Irene to waitress tonight,” she said, waving me off, and began giving orders to the remaining girls who had yet to be picked.
I breathed a sigh of relief and nodded. Waitressing was easy. Keep the men's thirst sat, and I was as good as invisible, their hands and leering stares focused elsewhere.
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Nestled in the heart of the rotunda room, a sanctuary amidst the spiralling booths and sea of flickering lights, stood an ornate stage, solitary and commanding. Night after night, it played host to a procession of girls, their momentary escape from the shackles of their roles, a rare interlude where they could step into the spotlight and momentarily shed the personas thrust upon them. Here, beneath the glow of dimmed, coloured lights, they could let their true selves emerge, whether through song, dance, or the poetry written upon their heart.
I had never felt the urge to ascend that stage, with all its unrelenting scrutiny, the weight of judgement bearing down on me for every deficiency; for every imperfection; for everything that I simply could never be.
In the hushed corners of the establishment, I watched others as they claimed their brief moments of liberation, their voices and movements a testament to their spirit's resilience. Yet I remained hidden away, refusing to be called upon, for what was there for me to offer? What treasures did I possess that could rival the dazzling talents on display? I struggled to find an answer.
One round; two rounds; 10 rounds later, I was barely halfway across the room, the excitement of the evening having settled into quiet enjoyment. Ursula, a small girl with an infectious laugh, sat on the stage, playing a sombre tune on her violin, all that she was and wanted to be contained within each sweep of the bow.
Above us floated Vessels, orbs of sentient Magicka contained within crystalline spheres. They cast dim lights across the room, fluctuating between warm hues, their shadows ebbing softly with every twist and twirl. Quiet chimes resounded as they bumped into one another, and like bubbles they squished and bounced about the place.
One Vessel whined as it descended, landing on the bar and flattening itself out, the little light inside blinking.
“Is it okay?” I asked as I approached the bar.
Logan, our usual bartender, gave it a poke with a straw. The Vessel whined again, and then poof, with a spray of rainbow colour it popped like a bubble.
I frowned. “Did it die?”
Logan shook his head. “Nah, when they get low on energy they disperse back into the Aether. I’ll get Albert to weave together a few more spells for them to feed on,” he said, taking out his phone and sending a text.
A few moments later, the Vessels bounced with excitement, chirping as they twisted on themselves, happy to be nourished by the ribbons of Magicka Albert watered down on them. I smiled. Life swelled within their little crystal chambers, buzzing with energy, and poof, a few new Vessels popped into existence, these ones tiny with barely any light within them.
“I wish I could do that,” I said with a longing sigh.
Logan’s eyes narrowed and his brows knotted together. “You want to be able to crap out a mini clone by eating too much?”
“No, stupid! Magicka!” I said, playfully slapping his arm. “I want to be able to use Magicka.”
Logan chuckled, a wide grin across his face. “Ohhhh, I get ya, I get ya.” The monitor beside him beeped, a new order coming in for booth 42. “Trust me, you don’t wanna be a Wielder,” he said as he prepared the drinks. “Hiding what you are, not sure who’s a Guidance sympathiser or who’ll rat you out to the Sanctum; wondering where you’ll get your next fix of blood, and if it’s even clean and safe to consume,” he paused to put the drinks on the tray, handing it over to me. “And if you can’t get a hold of any blood, your Eternal starts to eat your soul until it’s sated. Count yourself lucky you’re normal,” he said, gnashing his teeth together; I was always taken aback by how long and pointed a Wielder's fangs were.
I backed away, not sure if to laugh or grimace. Logan found my reaction funny, his grin widening, but his attention was drawn back to the monitor. With the snap of his fingers, a blue light flashed between us, his fingertips pulsing white. Ice patterns formed on the glass as he caressed it, the drink chilled to the perfect temperature. He winked at me and returned to work.
“Normal, huh?” I mumbled to myself and set a path to booth 42.
From across the room, Fayth and I locked eyes. She waved to me, a grin hidden beneath the puff of now blond hair. I waved back, my smile genuine. A new client arrived, shivering from the cold, relieved finally to be in the warmth, and Fayth showed him to a booth.
I slipped between the booths, those satisfied blind to me, their eyes and attention fully taken by their chosen girl. Soft velvet lace slipped between my fingers, one hand tracing the purple sheer curtains that framed each booth, offering a modicum of privacy. My mind wandered; to dream of somewhere far from here, my imagination the only reference I had.
A flash of green suddenly shot out in front of me - Eve, one of the top tier girls - stopping me in my tracks. The drinks flew forward, glass smashing on black marble.
“Watch it!” Eve squealed as she slipped. In my haste to grab her, we both lost our balance and fell.
Landing on my hands and knees, a fragment of broken glass pierced my palm. The pain was sharp and cold, but the blood was hot, pooling before slipping through my fingers. With my hand pressed against my chest, I winced and gasped for air, waiting for the sharp throbbing to fade.
I eventually summoned the courage to open my eyes, and that's when I realised that the entire room had turned its collective gaze toward us. Dozens of eyes, previously lost in their own world of indulgence, now shifted to focus on the unexpected commotion.
It was only then that I comprehended the true magnitude of the gathering; so many Wielders were present tonight, their normally white eyes now consumed by inky blackness, and their irises radiating an eerie, unnatural glow that lacked any trace of pupils. These luminous orbs stood out starkly against the darkened sclera, like stars in a moonless night.
The hushed murmurs and fleeting glances in their direction fell away, replaced by a stifling silence. It was as though the room itself held its breath. And then it began, a disconcerting sound that started as a low, ominous crackle. Their faces, so serene moments ago, began to fracture like porcelain, fissures racing across their skin to reveal the brilliant, ethereal lights beneath. Each crack exposed a glimpse of the inner hunger, some more pronounced than others, as the scent of my blood hung in the air, causing them to bare their teeth and emit guttural, predatory growls.
Eve stared at me, her brown eyes replaced by a crimson red glow. Her lip curled, revealing her razor-sharp fangs which glimmered in the light, strings of watery saliva betraying her hunger. She glanced away, her eyes wide in shock as she clapped her hand over her mouth. The sound of worried chatter grew louder, and someone quickly hauled me from the floor - Lord Chamberlain.
“M’lord, I—” I was halted by his grip tightening around my arm.
Luminous blue eyes met with mine, hard shadows cast upon his sharp features. There was a singular crack beneath his right eye, the powerful swirl of Magicka hidden behind the mask he wore, pulsing with life.
“Apologies everyone,” he called out, looking away and waving to his clientele. “A Sanguis cocktail for everyone. On the house, of course, to quench your thirst.” His charming smile and offer of a free drink appeared to calm everyone down. He snapped his fingers at Ursula, and she resumed playing her song.
The charming smile faded as his eyes slid back down to me, his grip tightening. Before my very eyes, his face was transformed by the ethereal touch of Magicka, the crack sealed and leaving no trace of imperfection. The surge of Magicka in his grip was palpable, like a current passing between us.
He yanked me forcefully towards the bar, and I stumbled behind the heavy velvet curtains, his fingers releasing their vice-like grip only to hurl me against the wall.
“What are you playing at?” he snapped, pushing me against the cold marble.
“It-it was a-an accident, m’lord,” I stammered. “E-Eve just sh-shot out and I-I—”
“—Excuses again?” he interrupted, hand gripping my jaw as nails dug into my flesh. He forced my eyes to meet his, billowing shadows ebbing in the peripherals of his black sclera.
I grabbed his hand and tried to pry it off, but this only angered him, his grip tightening until I stopped resisting. The strength of his grip; it felt as though he was about to rip my jaw from my face.
“My lord,” I whimpered, a tear slipping down my cheek.
His face neared mine. “Eve is one of my top girls. She brings in tenfold the cash that you do. What if your little stunt had hurt her?” With a cruel twist, he seized my hand, pressing down on the open wound, driving the shard of glass deeper into my flesh.
“I’m sorry,” I whimpered. My stomach lurched, the pain causing my knees to go weak. The edges of my vision darkened. “I’m sorry,” I repeated. “It won’t happen again, I promise. I’ll be more careful. Please.” I gritted my teeth, wanting to vomit.
“Oh, you will be sorry,” he said, venom laced between the words.
He let go of my hand, and I felt a cold rush of dread as his fist clenched at his side. I closed my eyes and tensed, waiting for the barrage to rain down on me.
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But it never came.
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Hesitantly, I opened my eyes. Lord Chamberlain's gaze, once piercing and filled with anger, now widened with a mixture of shock and uncertainty. Beside him, the figure that had halted his clenched fist remained an enigmatic presence, shrouded in black riot gear, a phantom in the dimly lit backroom.
I couldn't help but wince as Lord Chamberlain's grip on my jaw loosened, allowing me to take in a shuddering breath. His knees faltered, betraying the facade of stoicism he had portrayed mere moments ago.
The figure in the tactical face mask seemed impervious to the turmoil, their emotions hidden behind that formidable barrier. The sole hint of colour amidst the darkness was a vibrant red scarf adorning their neck; a stark contrast to their otherwise monochromatic appearance. A respirator integrated into their mask filtered the air they breathed, each deep, measured inhalation accentuating their sturdy poise.
Beneath the tinted goggles, there was a glimmer of incandescent golden eyes, locked squarely on Lord Chamberlain. Their unwavering gaze held an intensity that seemed to cut through the room's tension like a blade, creating an uneasy equilibrium between the two men.
“Flynn!” Lord Chamberlain said, voice hoarse. He managed a dry gulp. “To-to what do I-I owe the ple-pleasure? Is His Highness he-here?”
A long pause stretched between the three of us, Lord Chamberlain holding his breath, eyes unblinking.
“No,” Flynn said, his husky voice muffled by the respirator. “Just me today.”
“Oh! Yo-you wish for a girl? I can get you one of our best. Just leave it to me!” Lord Chamberlain said. He went to walk away, but Flynn’s grip on his fist stopped him in his tracks.
“No,” Flynn repeated, and pulled him back. “How do you think His Highness would respond at hearing how you treat his property?” he asked, glowing eyes glancing at me.
Lord Chamberlain shook his head. “Who? Ophelia? Oh, no, no, no. She’s one of mine, you see. I would never treat one of His Highness’ girls with such disrespect. No, no. I care for his girls, that I can promise.”
Flynn’s eyes lingered on me longer than I was comfortable for. They flickered back to Lord Chamberlain. “And Fayth?”
“What of Fayth?” Lord Chamberlain was taken aback.
A throaty laugh slipped from Flynn’s lips. “His Highness charged you with guarding her, did he not? Keep her safe and hidden and he would allow you to claim any profits from the girls he rents to you. Is that not the deal?”
Lord Chamberlain nodded, eyes narrowing. “Yes…?”
Flynn grabbed him by the back of the neck, hard enough that the man squawked and flailed his arms. With ease, he dragged him to the curtains and pointed to Fayth standing at the booth, welcoming clients.
“Not very hidden, is she?” Flynn said.
Lord Chamberlain's once-commanding presence had crumbled, leaving him grasping for words that seemed to elude him. His mouth opened and closed, struggling to form a coherent sentence; a rational explanation; even a feeble excuse! Something; anything! It was a surreal sight, witnessing the man I had always feared reduced to a stammering wreck, his words drowned out by the torrent of nervous sweat and saliva.
As the seconds ticked by, the room fell into an awkward silence, broken only by the shallow breaths that escaped his trembling lips. I couldn't help but lift my gaze to meet Flynn's, my heart racing. His eyes held a captivating intensity; a glimmer of something otherworldly, laced with the unmistakable presence of Magicka.
“I suppose I can overlook it this one time,” Flynn said with a sigh. “For a favour.”
“Anything!” Lord Chamberlain wheezed, wriggling out of his hold. “Whatever you want!”
“A booth,” Flynn said. “I’m meeting someone. Don’t tell them I’m here, but direct them to me, understand?”
Lord Chamberlain nodded, hand on his own neck in an attempt to relieve some of the pain. “Yes, of course. I’ll get you a girl; one of our best who—”
“—No,” Flynn interrupted. He grabbed my forearm, his gloved hand cold to the touch. “I’ll take this one.”
“B-b-bu-bu-but—”
“—Is there a problem, Gregory?” he hissed his name like a threat. Standing a good five inches taller than Lord Chamberlain, Flynn's broad shoulders and imposing presence made the lord look small in comparison.
With nothing to say, Lord Chamberlain pursed his lips and shook his head. He held himself, arms trembling beneath the intensity of the man’s gaze.
“Good. I’ll take a corner booth away from prying eyes. I’ve already given Fayth my friend’s details. He won’t be long,” Flynn said, holding me tightly and taking me with him.
Fear should have coursed through my veins, reducing me to a quivering wreck. I should have been soaked in sweat, my body trembling at the mere brush of his fingers, tears streaming down my cheeks as I whimpered and pleaded for release. To have one of His Highness' elite men - a Banshee no less - even cast a fleeting glance in my direction was nerve-racking enough. But to have his full attention; to feel the weight of his gaze squarely fixed upon me - it was beyond unsettling.
My emotions bypassed mere fear, transcending into realms of pure horror and despair. I found myself immobilised, as though every part of me had shut down except for the cognitive functions required for survival. Rationality had abandoned me, and I was left with nothing but a chilling numbness.
For someone who had always been a sceptic, it was ironic to find myself in this moment, silently pleading to Mother for her divine intervention.
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