Chapter 4: Illusion

After recovering his shaky mental state using the remnant clarity from Fear Transmutation, Lumière had bandaged the wounds on his arm and leg using some spare cloth pulled from his coat pocket.

Lumière's long coat was quite different from the traditional coats worn by the working men and tourists of Leiden. Because the area surrounding Leiden was stuck in a state of constant rainfall, long coats had become the norm. Lumière's coat was carefully fitted with various mechanisms and hidden compartments for his trick-related items. This was related to how he kept flash paper in a certain hidden back pocket, and how it was alighted using the strips of coarse striking paper on its side.

Thus, at all times, he kept useful items alongside him. While he was eager to return home, he knew that those who waited on him would worry if they saw him in such a state. That was why he took the time to refresh himself. It was just another of his lies, his tricks, his illusions.

Now that he was freed from the present danger, countless thoughts began to trickle into his mind.

'Why did such a creature suddenly appear in Leiden? What could have caused such an occurrence? I know that monster was at least a fraction of a human person…' As Lumière parsed through the previous events, he tried to distance himself from his emotions and think logically, but it proved quite difficult. 'And how did Thomas Hawthorne know to appear at that moment? He said that the Lord Sinner had been watching me with interest for some time, so does that mean that Thomas had been watching me from a close distance as well? Or does he have some sort of magical ability to close long distances in such a short time?'

In the Western Continent, the concept of magic had been highly stigmatised, and near-to-all knowledge of the systems of magic had been suppressed by the church. Lumière had grown up in a monastery, so he understood that much. Of course, being able to access the library within the monastery, he had been able to glean far more knowledge than the average person would, and so he didn't fear the concept of 'magic' like others did. If that were the case, he might have died of fear the moment that Thomas Hawthorne had appeared before him.

Strange occurrences like the appearance of the monster had been known to happen in Leiden. It was why in recent times, the capital of the Western Continent's empire had been sending in Peacekeepers, a militant force tasked with maintaining order, into Leiden in order to protect it from anomalies that interfered with daily life.

Of course, most times, Lumière was not concerned with the events that happened within the middle borough of Leiden, where wealthy merchants and well-off government workers enjoyed mostly-peaceful lives. That was because he had grown up in the lower borough, the section of Leiden that remained at the lowest point of the city. That was because the area that Leiden had been established on was quite hilly-terrain, and so it had been built onto three separate layers that divided the population- the lower, middle, and high boroughs.

Lumière stepped down a long pathway of flowering steps enveloped in brush and foliage, almost as if it was a secret path to the middle borough, where the show hall was, to the lower borough, where Lumière lived. Because of constant rainfall, there was a large stone slope plastered onto the large hillside separating the two boroughs, so that the rain would avoid pooling in the middle borough, and make its way far below. As such, a large portion of the lower borough was flooded, and so boating services were common in the massive stacked city.

The stacked housing district of the lower borough, named 'Etten-Leur' by the people around it, meaning 'false hope' in the local language, was an amalgamation of towering slums that had been desperately stacked atop one another to avoid the floods of constant rainfall. The lower level had become a waterway for the transportation of goods for organised crime groups- and of paltry transportation for workers who worked in the middle borough, or sectors of the lower borough.

However, many chose not to live in Etten-Leur, for fear of the gangs, or of wanting to avoid the floods, without money to live in one of the many hovels that had been crudely plastered onto the face of the towering district. They became homeless wretches that gathered on Cobbler's Street, which lied apart from Etten-Leur on a grassy hillside, where Old Leiden lie uninterrupted by the machinations of the city's advancement. Cobbler's Street was where the monastery that Lumière had grown up in stood, welcoming all that needed aid. It was the place that Lumière worked hard to support- or rather, lied to others in order to support.

As Lumière finished descending the flowering steps and continued down the street, he soon came upon a man dressed in tattered cloth that seemed far too worn to be patched up, and too dirty to truly even be considered clothes.

He had bright-white hair that fell dirtily against his shoulders, and a nose as red as roses, that incessantly dripped snot onto his upper lip as he muttered to himself and scrawled etchings into the stone wall beside him.

Sitting down beside the raving old man, he eyed the scribbles upon the wall. Each sentence that had been scrawled in spotty chalk was by his short descriptions, in how fractured they could be, the 'secrets to the endless expansive universe'. Of course, how true the mutterings of a crazed elder could be was completely subjective to a person, and Lumière did not agree to pay his thoughts any real attention.

Lumière was a man whose heart had been carved with pity for the miserable, for he too was someone fate didn't often smile kindly upon. So, every day that he worked at the show hall, he would make time to visit the old man, even if it only meant providing him with company.

"Mr. Carthel, have you eaten anything today?" Lumière asked him with a gentle smile.

The old man's gaze flipped immediately over towards the poor magician. Continuing his incoherent ramblings under his breath, he reached his hands out as if to accept anything that Lumière would offer him.

Slowly, Lumière slipped his jet-black performer's gloves away from his long, thin fingertips with a sigh.

The career liar then reached into his coat jacket, where a pocket had been sewn carefully into the interior, and pulled out a white linen cloth that had been bunched up carelessly. Tucked inside was a small piece of bread, one made of inferior flour from the hill-strewn lowlands- a piece of bread that had by then grown stale and cold.

"Father Benedict always makes sure I'm carrying something to eat… but I know well that within the lower borough, there are those that are far hungrier than I." Lumière spoke in a hushed tone.

'That fool cares for others far more than himself…' He cursed inwardly.

As he lamented, he could only sigh once more.

Hurriedly, the old man accepted his offering, sparse as it was, and in an instant, it had been tucked away within his frail gut. For a Dwindler of the city-state of Leiden, one would urge them to eat slowly, after living for days without a single bit of food crossing their lips - as if to save them the sickness of an upset stomach.

However, in the case of Aineth Carthel, Lumière was not so afraid of refusing him the instant pleasure of quelling his hunger. He was sure that no matter what he would say to the skeleton whose skin clung desperately to his bones, he would not live much longer.

Such was a world of tragedy, the type of life that was lived down below the land of the fortunate.

Still, for some reason, the harsh beating in Lumière's heart wished he would live to see many more ruby sunrises. That was why he would often make his way to the man on the street, if only to feed him whatever he could, and make sure he was warm. Although the monastery Lumière was taken in by would often feed those without homes that gathered outside of it, and would shelter them from the cold of night, Aineth Carthel seemed completely opposed to gathering in a group, and so he stayed by his muttering lonesome on the side of the street. Even if he were to try and socialise, it was unlikely they would accept him. The sane feared the insane. It was the nature of humankind.

"Be sure to come by sometime, Mr. Carthel." Lumière smiled as he stood up, bidding his farewells to the old man. He knew that his words meant nothing to him, but they were really only meant for Lumière. He was a complacent man, who could say that 'he had at least tried'. It was a half-hearted invitation, selfish.

After a short time walking through the rain within the sculpted-stone city, Lumière came to a wooden sign standing up on a large pole, with lettering carved into it in the Thalis language- a lettering system bound to the greater Iles language, spoken almost exclusively in the west of the continent.

'With a linguistic system so simple, even wretches could easily learn to read the signs to the wayside, couldn't they?' He thought simply, trying to wave his worries away.

Lumière didn't for a moment consider himself a poor bastard. The Monastery had taught him the minute details of life, of literature and language, and of art and music. It wasn't as if he allowed himself to bolster his ego, however. He didn't think himself completely different from those tarnished by the whims of fate. He too had his own troubles to suffer.

As long as he was a denizen of the cold ground within such a cruel world, even he was no better than an illiterate rotting fool.

He stretched out a hand towards the sky, blocking out the lettering of the sign in the foreground as he tried to grasp at the stormy clouds to no avail. Pulling his hand away, the lettering on the sign came back into view, and he read it haphazardly as he passed it by.

It spelt out, in thick sprawling text- 'Cobblers Street'.

Despite its amiable name, one who traveled along it with no prior knowledge would be shocked to realise that most all of those who lived within Cobblers Street wore no shoes.

It was a street where those without a home would stray, stay, and die. It was a street where no business sought to open, where those with minute amounts of fortune were sure to stay away from, and where a single monastery rested silently on a hill at the end of its winding cobble path.

Still, because of the Monastery, and because of the previous Father's kindness, he had been allowed the boots on his feet that had been repaired and refurbished many times over, now cracked and worn in appearance.

It was, as Father Benedict would put it, the 'sun within a cruel world'. There was hope in all things. Lumière couldn't understand his view, no matter how many times Father Benedict would repeat it. How could you enjoy something when your entire life revolved around survival? He was a practical man. He couldn't believe that someone with nothing at all, like the Dwindlers, could afford to enjoy their lives. He thought it was a stupid ideal to tell them that hope existed when fate actively worked against them.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Croft." A man spoke suddenly from beside him, Lumière not realising he had been there as he lost himself in thought.

Turning to face the bodiless voice, he was greeted by two figures. The one who had spoken out had stark grey hair and emerald green eyes. The second trailing behind him had cloud-white hair and light blue irises hidden behind a silver monocle, with sharp black tattoos underneath his eyes.

He recognised the former as Eamon Stroud, and the latter as Adonis Trinder. They were underlings of a small crime organisation that operated out of Cobbler's Street. It was, after all, a place where no one would willingly go, and so it was the perfect place for them to stage their operations.

"So, will you be paying the toll today?" Eamon spoke with a grin, extending his palm as if greeding his emptied wallet.

"You know as well as I that I have nothing, Mr. Stroud." Lumière smiled softly. "What little I do have, apart from necessities, goes to the church so that the wretches that live on this street may eat. Would you wish to take away the food of a starving child? I didn't know the ideals of the Blackfeather Group had been twisted to this extent." Of course, this was a lie. He still had the collections from the attendants of the show hall tucked away in a hidden pocket in his coat. Just because he was someone who swindled others didn't mean he should allow himself to be swindled in return.

Eamon's brows furrowed, and he let out an audible 'tsk'. "Well, forget it. I'm just messing with you, anyway."

Lumière looked towards Adonis, who with a calm expression, trailed in the background like a loyal dog. He tipped his top hat towards the man, and Adonis quickly blushed and averted his gaze.

"Why are you so dirty, Mr. Croft?" Eamon asked of the magician. Lumière had been too lost in his thoughts to notice that during the fight against the monster, his clothes had become covered in mud and debris. The blood had been no issue. His coat was a dark-black colour for that very purpose. Still, it was clear that it had been soiled to a great degree.

'Damn it, I forgot something as simple as this… will Sister Alinde and Father Benedict notice this?'

Suddenly, shadows overtook the street bathed in lamplight. A large silhouette appeared behind the two, with eyes gleaming in the darkness like two rubies.

"I told you two time and time again." The silhouette scowled. "No Sisters, no Father, and no Magician shall be held up. Stop wasting his time with your nonsense."

The two underlings looked up with surprise towards the towering shadowy figure, their gazes darkening with anxiety as he spoke. Illuminated by the lamplight, the form of his carefully sculpted face with deep cheekbones came into view. He had midnight-black hair, bright red irises, and soft sepia skin. It was Constantine Adler, the leader of the Blackfeather Group.

The tall man grabbed hold of Eamon's collar, lifting him high into the air as he looked down towards Lumière. He wasn't nearly a giant, but he was surely taller than the magician by many heads.

"I'm sorry about them, Mr. Croft."

"Mr. Adler, it's no problem at all." Lumière smiled dejectedly. "It's nice to see you again. Were you able to find your sister?"

Constantine shook his head sadly, his gaze mellowing as he spoke.

"Valerie is still missing. It's been two weeks, so our Blackfeather Group has lost hope…"

Constantine's lips curled up humorously, and in a joking manner, he continued.

"By any chance, do you have any magic that can help us out?"

The show magician shrugged while shaking his head.

"Sadly, I only deal in doves and flames," Lumière spoke with pity in his voice. "But, I have two human eyes capable of watching the world, so I'll keep a lookout for your sister in the coming days. I'm sure she'll be found, so don't let your heart soften up too much."

Lumière stepped close beside Constantine, still looking onwards as he spoke softly into his ear.

"You're a leader of many, and the only glue that keeps this street afloat. Do not let this matter ruin you, Mr. Adler. Family is important, but you have even greater responsibilities to maintain." Lumière said seriously. "The church can feed the Dwindlers, but only you can sustain order in this lawless street."

Constantine's eyes widened for a moment but quickly returned to a serene and calm state as he smiled assuredly. He simply nodded towards Lumière, and leaving him behind, dragged Eamon on the ground as Adonis trailed quickly behind them. Before long, he turned his head back towards Lumière, who was still looking at him with pity and spoke in a gruff voice.

"May the Veridian star guide you."

Lumière waved his hand in objection before showing off an embarrassed smile.

"You know I'm not that devoted to the church. What star would choose to shine for me?" Lumière laughed.

Constantine smirked, and his laugh became a huff of breath, so he turned back around and continued walking towards the towering multi-layered streets of the lower borough stacks.

'That man is your 'sun' in a cruel world, Father Benedict. He is the hope you want to preach about.' Lumière teased inwardly. 'Although, I'm sure you wouldn't readily think the same of a crime boss.'

The Peacekeepers of Leiden rarely ventured into the lower borough. It was a place of crime, but as long as that crime stayed out of the middle and high boroughs, it was no matter they concerned themselves with. The entire population of the lower borough could die off, and it would have been a relief to them. Such chaos that tarnished their ideals of order was nothing more than nuisance.

In place of an organised police force, the citizens of Etten-Leur and Cobbler's street relied on Constantine Adler and his Blackfeather Group to maintain a semblance of order. Within the crime-ridden lower borough, rules still remained, and it was up to them to enforce them.

For years, due to the cooperation of the monastery on Cobbler's street and its proximity to the headquarters of the Blackfeather Group, as well as Constantine Adler's and his sister Valerie's love for magic shows, Lumière had become a close friend to him. This meant not only that Constantine constantly looked after the wellbeing of the magician, but that he was always looking to assist the monastery in their endeavours to help the Dwindlers of the lower borough.

Soon, Lumière came to a broad grassy hillside in which the light of the lilac moon shone brightly, bathing the monastery in bright colours.

Stepping up the steps of the cobblestone pathway towards the Monastery's front door, Lumière let out a sigh of relief, brushing the excess dirt off of his coat.

Its stone architecture, although worn by centuries of age, was brilliant in its design. While he knew nothing of the mathematics and artisan's craftsmanship that went into building it, the Monastery of the Crown of Thorns within Cobblers Street was a spectacle. The brick towers on each end of the monastery stretched as high as a tree, the right-most tower holding up a large bronze bell that would ring out during sunrise, midday, and sunset. Of course, the nun in charge of ringing the bell was hard of hearing. It was unfortunate irony.

Because it was after sunset, the noise within the monastery had all but died down. In its many rooms, and upon its wooden floors, all who could fit were given space to sleep through the cold night, and a hot meal to warm their emptied, usually-frail stomachs. The rest bundled themselves together on the hillside, trying to stick close together to avoid the chill of the night.

So quietly, as to not wake anyone up, Lumière rested a hand upon the unlocked, rickety doorknob made of chilled copper, and crept with silent feet into the monastery.

'Finally, I'm home.'

Lumière crept past the bodies of the sleeping Dwindlers, up the staircase to the right of the main hall. It was cast in darkness, not a thing visible to his eyes. Still, he had spent enough years within the monastery's interior to be able to navigate off of memory alone. When he had reached the second floor, he walked down the hall, less cautious of making noise, and entered the bathroom to the left. He reached up above him and turned the knob on an electric wall lamp mounted with shoddy brass fittings.

In recent times, the Church of Thorns had begun to renovate every monastery, abbey, and cathedral in majour cities. The monastery on Cobbler's street had been one of the last to receive electrical innovation, but it came around eventually. Often times, when the weather grew bad, as it usually was, the electricity would fail to function. Luckily for Lumière, that was not one of those nights.

He made his way over to the sink, turning the faucet handle and allowing the ice-cold water to flow out. He washed the dirt off of his face and neck and let out a sigh of relief. While the wounds on his arm and leg still stung, he decided not to deal with them for the time-being. The knife given to him by Thomas Hawthorne had looked relatively clean, and if the teeth of the human-amalgamation had carried any disease, it was likely that cleaning the wound any further than he already had would do nothing more for him.

As Lumière looked at himself in the cracked mirror of the bathroom, he felt a shiver go down his spine. He grimaced, staring at himself in the mirror.

The 'him' staring back at him was smiling.

As Lumière saw the sight of the figure that resembled him, his vision grew dark, and he soon after fell unconscious.