Chapter 293
Ellison's penthouse, perhaps unsurprisingly, was serial-killer clean. A brief rifle through his cupboards revealed rows of glassware and plates coated with a layer of dust, moving air displacing enough of it that it swirled in the late afternoon light piercing through gaps in closed shades and drawn curtains.
The only evidence that he'd even lived there at all was the way his bed was made, and the simple black box left behind at the foot of it. On closer inspection, it wasn't exactly black—just the deepest, most somber navy. The box, so far as I could tell, lacked any discernible way to open it. No keyhole, uneven surfaces, or sections that gave any flex. Not so much as a seam. I inventoried it and moved on, finding little beyond a growing sense of unease that was impossible to place until I looked at the room as a whole, and realized what was bothering me.
It was the asceticism. When I'd moved in, my place had been pre-decorated. Either by the previous occupant or the owner of the building. Nothing beyond the stock kitschy Eat-Pray-Love shit and pop-art still lifes. It wasn't exactly to my preferences, but it was color and texture, and as I wasn't exactly keen on taking a few days off to redecorate the place, I'd decided it could stay as it was. The irony was amusing. And at the very least, it made me look like less of a psycho.
Judging from the bundle of assorted art, hanging word-pieces, and a number of tertiary appliances I found in one of his closets, Ellison, by contrast, had stripped the walls and blacked out the mirror in his bathroom with masking tape. Someone's personal space says a lot about who they are, and as far as I could tell, either Ellison was making an intentional effort to say nothing, or he was doing worse mentally than I'd realized. My brother got like that, sometimes. When he was frustrated, particularly with his own failures, he'd strip away distractions, carving away at any variable that could even fractionally affect his focus, throwing away sentimental treasures or pawning pored over books close to his heart.
It seemed over the many lifetimes he'd supposedly lived, he'd perfected that approach.
I could have spent hours there, turning everything over, cutting open mattresses and removing floor lining, checking all his typical hiding places. My brother was occasionally sloppy and prone to oversight, but the room itself told me that wouldn't be the case here. Generally, when he was making this much of an effort to be fastidious, the results were impeccable. So I moved on, hoping he'd been too busy to bother with the one place I might find traces of the brother I had before.
Our old place. Much as I'd come to hate the cramped walls and cracking foundation, it'd haunted my dreams as of late. The brass knob turned easily in my hand, hinges emitting the tell-tale squeak that'd so often given away my comings and goings.
It felt strange, being back. Doubly so with the mask on. I slid it off, seal breaking as cool air rushed in, chilling my cheeks, a wave of nostalgia pouring in as the emotional suppression effect faded. Not entirely intending to, I stared down at it, feeling a familiar weight pressing down on my shoulders. Without the all-father's interference, there was no question I'd be dead. Becoming Myrddin had allowed me so much more flexibility and slack than I'd be afforded otherwise. Beyond that, the identity created a near-perfect outlet for the more volatile aspects of my personality. Myrddin could thrash and burn, escalate as much as necessary without fear of reprisal, and stamp out potential threats before they gained momentum. It'd been a worthwhile undertaking, and with a few notable exceptions, I didn't regret it.
But for the first time since I donned the name, Myrddin's future was murky. The purpose he'd served was more or less complete. Matt had established relationships and clear in-roads with both the Adventurer's Guild and The Order of Parsae. Contrasted with Myrddin, who was held at cautious arm's length by the first, and almost universally reviled by the second.