Venture Out

 He wasn’t familiar with the masquerade, at least not intimately. He’d heard of incredible parties, and balls and performances and songs and more in the great city of Faline— but where he was from, the Harvest was much milder, more somber. There was no hiding your food and wealth from the spirits of the starved; instead, there was a night to skip your meal, and to give it to the spirits instead, burning a lock of grain to draw them closer and reveal to them what you had offered.

 In summary, Sylen didn’t have a mask. He’d never owned one. Instead he sat in the luggage-stuffed corner of his rented room, unable to peer out the filmy window, but fully able to hear the raucous laughter and partying beyond. He inhaled, sighed, rubbed his fingers against the hem of his shirt. He shifted his leg on the bed, and though he was far from a large person, the mattress still sank beneath him with a defeated squeak. After a fortnight of living here, he’d only just started to wonder if the bedframe was actually meant for a child.

 He wasn’t sure if he wanted to celebrate, let alone how. He was feeling miserable as ever, emotionally and physically, both resources utterly exhausted. He’d become somewhat of a shut-in, too worried about risking another chance encounter with the fog, and in public— in Faline— the consequences might be much worse. He’d been dodging his Witchfinder duties, avoiding his superiors entirely, though he’d finished the paperwork he knew he’d needed to submit, still sent it in, just so they wouldn’t come and find him. Interacting with Witchfinders would be last on his to-do list, if he’d even have one.

 Currently his vague to-do list included getting his own meal. He felt guilty, knowing his parents would’ve wanted him, expected him to skip it, to honor the spirits; but he wondered if there really were any spirits to honor at all. A dismal, broken sense of hope was the only sort of hope he had left, and it had begun to wear down nearly everything, every thought or feeling, whether related to him or to the holidays.

 The voices outdoors pattered against his window, sharp cries and laughs cutting through the air; his tongue felt slick, acidic, as he imagined going out, the fog crawling through, the whole crowd finding out what he was, living a piece of his life.

 He pulled his knees up to his chest and rested his forehead on the ball of his hand, fingers digging through his curls. He’d been in here two weeks already, eating his camping rations and drinking basin water, with all of five feet to move around, and he was getting sick of it. It wasn’t just that he could hear the festivities through his window; he could smell them, too. Meat and bread and soup and fruit and pastries— he groaned and pressed his brow into his knees.

 He was nervous. By Grace he was nervous. The imaginings of what might occur, what might happen to him— they were overwhelming. But he was sick of jerky and seeds and stale water, and he’d been sitting on his bed so long there was a dent in it by this point. That and he’d barely walked in, quite literally, weeks— every part of him ached with the salty soreness of doing nothing.

 He rose to his feet, head tilted beneath the crooked ceiling, and rubbed the bridge of his nose with a slow exhale. He wiped an eye, then unbuttoned his shirt, seeing as he’d been wearing it for three days straight and probably needed a new one.

 Though he expected to be cold, when he stepped outside he almost felt obligated to doff his jacket. Bonfires and boiling cauldrons and torches and steaming soups and hundreds of active bodies littered the streets like crumbs to a cake, and the warmth of it all really did make the air significantly less chilly. There was something endearing about it— about knowing the joyous celebration, the gathering of happy people, could make the turn of winter a little less harsh.

 He’d been outdoors mere seconds before a mask was shoved into his hands; he whipped his head toward its owner, eyes wide.

 “Done for today, sir,” the owner said— a short, scraggly-looking elder, whose face was likely about as red as the wine he smelled of. He winked at Sylen. “Won’t be needing this for the rest of the evening. I go to bed at sundown.”

 Sylen stood awkwardly at the street’s edge as the man meandered past him, hobbling up the stairs and into the same inn Sylen had just exited.

 Sylen turned the mask over in his hands; smooth, a desaturated sort of gray-green, with dark circular eyes and a small slit where the mouth would be. Altogether uncolorful, quiet, and simple— just how Sylen would have preferred it anyways. Of course, he would’ve liked the scent of it to be a bit less wine-y, but he appreciated any means of hiding himself regardless.

 Mask equipped, he dove into the swarming crowd, weaving through the sea of people, the waves of fabric; it felt good to move again, to be out of his scrunched living quarters, and above all, to know no one, not even Witchfinders, would recognize him should they pass him by.

 He caught sight of a street-side shop up ahead, set up for the holiday, a number of cheerful women and their children behind the sign, handing out bowls of something that smelled absolutely heavenly. He’d been making a beeline for it, and was making it through with ease when someone slammed into him. Sylen twisted to the side, head whipping over his shoulder to search for who’d bumped into him, just on instinct— but before he could get a good look, someone else reached out, grabbed the side of his head, and lifted his mask in the same motion. Before he’d even had a chance to react he was bombarded with some sort of glitter or powder or a combination of the two, and he hissed like an angry cat, trying to force it out of his nose and mouth as the offender vanished into the crowd. Sylen’s mask snapped back into place, and whatever dust had been in his beard, on his cheeks, was now stuck between his face and the mask’s, and he breathed the rest of it in against his will.

 A haze washed over him, made his thoughts melt. Something in the pit of his chest struck a chord, a note of warning, and through the muddled confusion he just barely wondered if his fog had come about. He hung his head, clutching it in one hand, staggered to the side, unintentionally bumping into a few people as he reeled back; a feeling like warm sludge crawled up from his gut, into his throat, pushing out a few desperate gasps behind his mask. He doubled over, gripping his hair again, trying not to retch, and steadied himself, tried to slow his breathing. He closed his eyes, rose up again.

 Something flickered through his skull, some odd image, something upsetting, something he couldn’t place; he twitched his head, blinking the image away as he reopened his eyes and tried to focus on the festivities around him.

 People were blurred, all in red and black and white and blue and nearly smothering him as they bobbed in and out, came far too close and then drifted much too far; he could swear their masks were moving, the eyes flitting in his direction, the teeth and mouths and tongues opening and closing as if the masks spoke, too.

 His fingers twitched and he gripped the edge of his jacket sleeve, too scared to take his mask off; it felt like protection, now, rather than just a hiding place. It made him one of them, made them pass him by without hurting him, without sinking their teeth into his skin.

 His tongue had gone dry, a vile taste coating the roof of his mouth, and the wine scent only made him more nauseous. He lolled a bit on his heels, struggling to stay upright as the shock of sound and color around him pressed in and out, pushing and pulling, making his head swim. Whatever he’d been drugged with, he didn’t imagine experiencing it on an empty stomach was doing him any favors.

 The muddied image flashed behind his eyes again; he scrunched them up, his nose too, and shook his head, barely managing to stumble his way through the chaos around him. His boots scuffed against the cobblestone until the made it to the other side, shaky palms reaching out to brace himself against the wall of the nearest building; the brick felt solid, tangible, and it eased his nerves, if only a little.

 The hollering and chortling and singing behind him made his heart pound, stomach turn, hair prickle; they went from sounds of joy and celebration to the howls of wolves and squawks of vultures. Every laugh became a wet cough, or a dry hack, or a desperate gasp to stay alive. As Sylen’s breaths quickened they began to warm the air in his mask, making it harder to breathe, which only caused his panic to quicken with them. Much as he dared he pulled one hand off the cool brick, nearly losing his balance in the motion, and swung his arm loosely toward the mask to pull it off, get some air.

 He could feel the sweat drip from his face as he panted, each drop spiraling down to the dirt below. His eyelids fluttered and drooped, a sudden weight coaxing them to close; his head tilted forward and the hand he propped himself up with began to drag down the side of the wall.

 There was a sound, off to his right— whether the scoff of a man or the snort of a pig, he couldn’t tell, not with whatever was whirling around in his system right now. His ribs tightened around his heart as a figure closed in toward him, their shadow looming over the brick he faced; their hands pressing against him felt like electric shocks, and he flinched, gagging a little as he clenched his teeth, and shoved a hand toward them to push them off. He would’ve liked the shove to be hard, forceful, but the dust had made him weak and drowsy, and his push was a bit more like shooing a fly. Despite his sluggish exterior, his breaths and heart raced as panic coursed through his veins. It must be the Witchfinders, they must have known he was hiding— they must know he had powers now, and they’d come to the celebration to drug him, drag him away.

 His nails scraped against the brick as he threw himself toward it, away from the figure at his side, who he still couldn’t focus on; he bared his teeth like an animal, too tired and lost to form words, to express his discomfort. His head began to ache and throb, his brow and jaw having been tight as anything for a good however-long since the dust. He felt his shoulders slump, though he didn’t want them to. He leaned against the wall, chin falling toward his chest, the mask slipping from his hand and into the dirt below. His breaths had slowed, now, too, but not in a steadying manner. He was losing control, more than he’d already lost. His feet lost feeling as lightheadedness poured through him; shock knocked him in the back of the head, making him slip, and the figure near him scurried forward, their fingers digging into his jacket to keep him upright.

 He lifted a hand, grabbed their wrist, tried to look toward them— but he couldn’t focus on the figure, nor on anything in sight. Instead, as his eyes closed, the blurred image that had flickered through his mind before now became clear: himself, looking into the mirror, and seeing Agnus in his reflection.