Chapter Text
The hum of the people and the clink of coins sounded different in this part of the bazaar. Going sideways under the bridge, it seemed to divide into the illuminated and the gloomy part; in the shadow of the huge passage to the Capital, the darkest affairs often swirled.
But Stanley wasn't here for justice or duty. Although his body was still strained by a military uniform, and a trusty rifle was pressing on his shoulder, he didn’t plan to brag about the order, nor to flash the scope along with handcuffs. The only thing he put on display was his trusty cigarette. The last one.
It was like his invitation ticket to this (not so) secret meeting. After all, everyone here either has a legitimate right to trade goods, or a desire to buy them up. There is always something dear and desirable in the bazaar. There has never been a case where someone has not found a thing they desire the most. At least that's what his colleagues told him.
No matter how much Stanley thought about it, he still didn't understand what exactly pulled him from his usual patrol route; maybe boredom due to absence of attack order, or maybe the lack of tobacco. Stan doesn't know exactly his motives, and the desire to get more herbs for cigarettes sounded more logical than any other reason. Therefore, he was looking for what he designated in his head as tobacco among a pile of dissimilar tents and counters, even though he had already passed by the ninth stall selling it.
Stanley was guided by a feeling, as he would say, a military instinct. And he was telling him that he needed some special tobacco. Which no one else had. Everyone who gets under the bridge relies on feeling. This is an unspoken rule that is not talked about, but it is read in the eyes of everyone here.
A moment later, the same feeling is visible in Stanley's eyes; he has found it. More precisely, he understood where to go. This feeling tickled his nostrils when he inhaled the aroma of tobacco herbs. It pulled him somewhere in the form of an invisible thread of smell to the very depths, somewhere in the continuation in the sewers, where the darkest people who sell the darkest things certainly gather. Being among these pimps, slavers, organ sellers, dealers, henchmen and other scoundrels, there was a clear understanding of why a rifle was hanging on his shoulder. And the smell kept calling and beckoning further. It seemed that the stench of waste products, collecting under shoes in the form of tiny microbes, would confuse this trail without a doubt. But either the smell was too strong, or it was time for Stanley to change his profession from a commander to a search dog.
The fragrance invited its seeker into a purple velvet tent, illuminated by a garland, a luxury available only to the select and resourceful. Light was the noble thing, and Stanley for now only earned an oil lamp for late poker game.
It looked like a magical tent, the kind that immediately tells you who you're looking at if the goods on the shelves haven't done it yet. However, Stanley had seen many so-called arcanists, real and fake, and knew that every such tent in the bazaar also reflected their character. This one even seemed simple compared to its competitors. Why does Stanley have the word "Elegant" on his tongue?
"Elegant enough?"
Oh, that's why. Because the owner of this tent inspired him with this word with his look... of piercing black eyes. Stanley didn't even notice the white hairstyle combed into a strange pompadour, or the unnaturally long, sharp claws tapping out a rhythm. When he gazed into those black eyes... he couldn't look anywhere else. At first, it seemed to him that he was looking into a very dark brown shade; people just don't have eyes of the void color. But the more he looked into them, the more he was drawn in.
Stanley did not realize how all extraneous sounds had subsided, except for the pounding of the merchant's fingers and his own heartbeat. The fragrance came straight from the tent, and he couldn't breathe in anything else. Even the smell and taste of his own cigarette became something unbearable, although everything should be exactly the opposite. It's his usual tobacco that cannot be uncomfortable, but this smell made it almost disgusting in comparison.
"A mix of tobacco leaves, crimson grass and hundred lives root" As soon as the cigarette went out, the right mixture was placed on the counter in front of Stanley; strangely, they both knew it was the right mixture, but how?
"What a service" He grinned in surprise, which was also strange; he planned to skimp on candor today.
In response, the sorcerer smiled, and only from the way his face softened, it seemed that he was not a sorcerer at all. Someone who is associated with blackness just can't have such an angelic face. And here is a new shape carved into Stanley’s mind; the outline of the merchant face. All that was missing was a name. And also clothes. But this is something non important that flashed through his mind the moment the dust fell from the smoldering cigarette.
"People await you, commander" Along with the mysterious phrase, it felt like water left Stanley’s ears.
The bazaar started to hum again, which caused him to look around in confusion. There couldn't have been so many stalls in a deserted corner. And this nook is not deserted. And the elegant purple tent that had been pressed in here just a moment ago was completely gone.
People were making a lot of noise, calling out to him and selling their wares. Stanley wondered more and more if he had imagined it all. He had smelled all kinds of smells there, so maybe he just hallucinated everything.
He was no longer drawn to the bridge, so he returned to his regular patrol route. He only went to the bazaar once or twice at most, and even then, only to its brightest part. He had no interest in exploring the sewers with criminals anymore. Stanley even managed to forget about it as if it was really just a dream. But there was one thing he couldn't forget:
An alluring dark gaze accompanied him every time Stan lay down in his modest nook. Ordinary soldiers have barracks, but he has a whole bed and a desk. There are even bedside tables and lockers for his nelongings. He even managed to make himself a homemade curtain for some privacy. And at night, when he closes his eyes, he is visited by this pair of black eyes, an angelic smile and the smell of herbs.
Stanley always wants to smoke, and he smokes the mixture that was given to him. After that fateful meeting, he was left without a restful sleep and a monthly salary that disappeared on that faithful day. Now all that was in his mind was a stranger.
His voice, his smile, his white hair, his eyes.
The image haunted him both in his dreams and in his waking life. Or was Stanley hunting him? In a crowd, he always noticed that black gaze, which suddenly turned out to be ordinary brown. He saw a piece of that snow-white hair, but it always turned out to be the wrong shape, the wrong color. And only the voice never haunted him. No. Stanley would have fired right away if someone whispered in his ear with this voice.
It's an obsession. Stalking. Magic. Stanley managed to come up with so many reasons and explanations. How much responsibility was being shifted onto the shoulders of a man he had only seen once. More precisely, this man thinks that they met once, but Stanley has seen him in his dreams in various scenarios about a thousand times already. And for the sake of his own well-being. As long as his mind could still generate something that wasn't a black-eyed sorcerer, he had to get it over with as soon as possible.
The bazaar has long forgotten it, this elegant tent. That smell was no longer coming from anywhere. Stanley had no reason to come back anymore. He's already taken what belonged to him. A whole bag of headaches, worth his salary.
But he kept coming back. Now the banners on his jacket almost glittered under the sun and his own authority. This soldier was buying information here. He was looking for a sorcerer who had already justified Stan’s dog nature. He was sniffing out everything he could. And find absolutely nothing.
The people in the bazaar are different, and everyone doesn't know each other's names. This is also an unspoken rule - there will never be one person here twice.
The guiding thread from the herb plume was pointed out by another witch fortune teller. The one after which all his pockets turned out to be empty, but the frequent loss of property no longer bothered Stanley. All he cared about were the black eyes.
It was the woman who pressed into his dry and callused hand and without hesitation ran her finger along the lines on his palm. They were like trenches. That's what she said. And these trenches and pits will only lead to his death. Good. Stanley had been waiting for such a death. On the battlefield, hugging not even with his comrades, but with his trusty rifle.
With her sharp claw, which was not well-groomed at all, unlike the black-eyed one, she scratched his line until it bled and said the last thing:
"You’ll find another way. Smelling just like your tobacco"
After that, Stanley did not find his cartridge chamber. And the epaulet on his shoulder. What an absurdity. A commander with one golden shoulder.
But it didn't matter anymore. After all, even the possible illnesses that the witch held under her fingers didn't bother him as much as the tip she gave him. Of course! Herbs! After all, if he finds the place where they grow, (probably far from the city, if the black-eyed man appeared at the bazaar only once) then he will find him.
Tobacco could be found everywhere, but the “hundred lives” could only be found in one ill-fated place. The Forest of Oblivion, where people often die. Yes. Exactly! How could he not have thought of that?
He must have seemed crazy from the outside. Why would an army commander go alone in such a place! Fortunately, Stanley thought of telling no one that his vacation would be spent not in the fields or mountains, but in the most vile and ill-fated place in the region.
As soon as Stanley entered it, he immediately felt what he needed and where he needed to go. The path formed itself in front of him, as if a dense thicket, hiding any rays of light with its thick foliage, was his faithful ally. Stanley is used to pushing ahead. In war, you can't run right or left at all. Only forward, where the road that death itself dictates pulls you. It's just that in this case, She decided to play with him before doing Her duty.
As expected, the sinister arcanist’s hut was also elegant. Purple tiles, frosted glass in the window frames. There were a bunch of flower beds in the backyard, from where the most unrealistic plants were growing. They were guarded by the most terrifying scarecrow.
If it weren't for the atmosphere, Stanley would have thought that he had broken into some old lady’s house. But the familiar smell hit his nostrils again, almost grabbing them with two clawed fingers, forcing him to jump over all the steps of the porch and, with a rifle at the ready, knock on a smooth door decorated with a cross.
The house didn't even budge. Of course, it was a figurative expression, but Stanley would not have been surprised if the hut would instantly get up and walk on some dragon leg deep into the woods. Instead, nothing gave away anything alive inside. It was like no one was home.
Stanley knocked again, insistently. He didn't want to shout "In the name of the Capital, open up!" but with each attempt he made, he began to realize more strongly that he had no choice.
And as soon as he opened his mouth, the door opened inwards as if making fun of him, causing his fist to fly inside.
The stranger's sharp black gaze almost disarmed him on the spot, but Stanley now knew better than to stand and stare. Instead of the reaction the sorcerer needed, he pointed the gun at him. The stranger reflexively raised his hands up, looking mildly surprised. But Stanley knew! This brat was only feigning his bewilderment.
"I am ready to hear complaints about my product and give you your money back without threats, you know" He said, too indifferent for a man who can be turned into a target any second now.
At their first meeting, neither of them knew what Stanley needed, but now he was sure both of them were aware of the reason for his visit to this hell hole. But if the sorcerer had decided to play the fool further, then Stan will indicate the reason loud and clear.
"You put a love spell on me! Fix it!"
Then the black-eyed man stared at him for a long time silently. It didn't seem like it was something he planned to discuss.
"Excuse me?"
"Don’t make me repeat myself" Stanley flipped the safety off his rifle to show the seriousness of his intentions, "Remove. The spell"
And then the black-eyed man looked at him with a shocked look. His cheekbones twitched as if he was trying to hold back a smile. He maintained his steadfastness quite professionally. When the arcanist carefully moved away from the passage, Stanley didn’t understand this action at first.
"Maybe we can discuss it inside? Or are you planning to solve your problem like this?"
Stan looked around. Like what? One of them is in the house, the other on the doorstep, and a gun stands between them. If the sorcerer is worried about their placement on this chessboard, then Stanley doubts the correctness of his prioritization.
However, he accepted the invitation immediately when the stranger disappeared into the house. The interior looked Gothic, as if the commander had not entered an ordinary hut, but a small one-story castle, if that made any sense.
Stanley’s kingdom wasn't famous for their imperial campaigns, but during his service he traveled a lot, so to speak. He saw a lot of amazing things. Why wouldn't a Gothic house in a scary forest become another landmark?
Never in his life Stanley was interested in witches' daily routines. Although he wasn't surprised to see some kind of huge potion-making machine on the stove. The bookshelves in the circular living room are lined with mysterious books, sometimes even written in a different language.
Surprisingly, this arcanist didn’t steal knowledge by feeding on the brains of scientists. Which was good. Surprisingly. But Stanley was wary of this joy, because he knew why he was having it.
The sorcerer put his elegant leg in formal trousers over the other and stared at him with a studying gaze. Maybe because Stanley decided to sit on the floor instead of an armchair. It was just that the chair was on the arcanist’s side, and he wanted to aim at him without difficulty.
"May I ask, what made you think that I put a love spell on you?" Black-eyed continued to play the fool, and ever so talentedly.
"Because you did" Stanley answered stubbornly.
Arcanist clicked his tongue and rolled his eyes.
"And why would I do that?" He wondered instead of snorting.
Really. Why?
"For my title" Stanley made a guess, "You wanted to use my rank to get access to higher ups"
Sorcerer laughed louder in response.
"You have a really rich imagination, commander" He reached for the mug left on the table along with the book after Stanley decided to raid his house, "Have it ever occurred to you that you just fell in love with me?"
The tip of a rifle that suddenly jolted in his direction made him retread without getting the mug.
"I will shoot you if you flinch again, sorcerer!"
This time, there was apprehension on the black-eyed man's face. Naturally. Everyone will have it if you stick a gun in their face. Then the look on his face was smoothly replaced by discontent. Disappointment that he was caught, - Stanley guessed. The sorcerer very carefully sat back down and folded his arms in a cross. In silence, he stared at the soldier with a bit of self-absorption.
"You, soldiers, are all arrogant filth" He measured Stanley with an intense gaze, "By looking at one of you i get only a gag reflex. And disgust from the germs logically makes people to keep their distance from them"
Now he's playing the comedy that Stanley disgusts him. He’s trying to distract him, but to no avail. Stanley is smarter than that. He fought with such cunning people like this guy. He knows what he's doing.
"You better cancel the love spell. And then maybe i won’t decide to burn you down along with your witch hut"
The magician tilted his head down. His thick eyebrows pulled together in annoyance. He looked formidable, though angelically handsome. All of his elegance disappeared at once.
"You have hearing problems? I didn’t put a love spell on you, you degenerate cancer patient. And logically I can't cancel something that never existed"
"It’s you have hearing problems! Cancel the love spell!"
The arcanist leaned his head back in his chair with an exasperated growl.
"How can you not understand!? Spell canceling potion helps only when there is a spell put on you, and when there’s nothing to cancel it only makes it worse!"
"So make this canceling potion! Or i have to give you something in exchange!?" Stanley insisted, taking a part of his expensive uniform with each word he says, "Here! The last shoulder strap. Sorry! The other half you can take from your college that stole it! What else do you want? Maybe medal? Well i have hundreds! If you need more i’ll earn it! Or you want some kind of ring!?"
Arcanist laughed in response.
"And now you sitting on your knees in front of me and proposing" He joked almost victoriously, "I never thought that i’d be in such a predicament. What exactly did you find in me, I wonder?"
Then Stanley stopped turning into a ripe tomato, because this sorcerer gave him an argument. He was so right. By all standards, this black-eyed man was not his type at all. Stanley liked black-haired and green-eyed women with thin eyebrows and lips. And this one...
"Exactly! You’re not even my type! You’re not even a woman! Just a guy with large eyebrows and ridiculous hairstyle!"
So the sorcerer froze, indignantly opening his mouth. He stared at him with his black eyes. Stanley stared back at him, lost in thought. Was this wizard really not his type?
His eyes were so black that they seemed bigger. However, his features were soft, and his porcelain skin and white hair even made him look innocent and pure. Like an angel. His lips were plump, even though they were small, and small dimples appeared on his cheeks when he stretched them too much. They gave the tightness to his smile, but for some reason that was what gave him his charm. Although the sorcerer's eyebrows were white, and therefore should have been invisible, because of their density and volume, they only made those big eyes stand out more. And his hairstyle suddenly stopped being so ridiculous. It even seemed elegant...
Stanley instinctively focused on the sight of his rifle. No. These thoughts were clearly not his! After all, a few minutes ago he was looking at an ordinary terrifying sorcerer, and now the same sorcerer seemed to him almost the most beautiful creature on the planet. It's clearly witchcraft! And it began to intensify.
"Decided to buy time, huh? Well, let's see what will happen sooner; I will shoot you or you take me under your control”
In response the arcanist looked at him with so much disgust that it felt like Stanley had turned into a frog. Closing his eyes, he put a hand on the bridge of his nose and froze like that..
A silence rise.
"Are you sure you're not confused?" Decided to try again, but to no avail.
Stanley decided not to respond to his provocations. It seemed that the air in the hut was becoming more intimate. And why not? It was a beautiful love story. He, the sorcerer, and the gun between them, which was destined to fire. If the sorcery did take hold of him, Stanley would ensure that before the sorcerer committed any evil deeds, he would show the full spectrum of his love. However, these thoughts were only a result of the spell, and Stanley would not dwell on them..
"Alright" Arcanist straightened, changing his demeanor; now he smiled pleasingly, with his leg resting on top of the other, "You win. I'll give you the love spell cancelling potion"
That's where they should have started! All this back and forth was starting to wear on Stanley. Although the sudden change in the sorcerer's demeanor was suspicious. It seemed that he had something up his sleeve (not that Stan would allow him to carry it out).
The sorcerer carefully stood up from his chair and, under the gun point, walked towards the closed cabinet. When he opened it, Stanley saw a bunch of bottles arranged in their proper places: the bottom ones were empty and hadn't been used yet, the top ones were harmful and covered with an iron grate, and the middle ones seemed to contain non harmful substances.
A flask of wine-colored liquid was taken in hand, its lid sealed with beeswax. It was not yet opened. The sorcerer handed it to him with the degree of disdain that was acceptable for handling a potentially dangerous substance:
"Here your spell cancelling. Just don't be mad if you'll be tortured with diarrhea or your relative will die"
Stanley reached for it with his hand, but froze in thought:
"How will I know if this potion is legit?" He wondered, awaiting the reaction of a clever arcanist, which almost did not happen.
"Show this in any brewing stall and every qualified alchemist will tell you that this is a right potion"
Wow. They even have qualifications. Stanley chuckled as he continued to reach for the vial. He wonders if they have specialized witchcraft schools. Has this one attended one? Judging by his well-dressed cloak and aristocratic appearance, which set him apart from ordinary witches, he must have come from one.
As his finger lightly touched the vial, something within the arcanist changed. Stanley always had a good reaction, but this time he couldn't predict that a sorcerer's hand would grab his wrist.
Stanley yanked his arm back, and the vial fell to the ground, shattering on the carpet. But the sorcerer didn't seem to care about the damage to the item. Well, he did care. He definitely cared, considering how much money was in Stanley's missing salary! But right now, he was staring at Stanley's palm with his intense, studying gaze.
Now two hands were holding Stan, because he was struggling like a rooster going for a pin. Although the sorcerer wasn't doing anything painful (except for his sharp claws digging into his skin), his instincts were still going off.
Stanley froze only when those black orbs looked at him without changing their position.
"The deal is not in love magic..." With the same unchangable look the arcanist suddenly announced "You are cursed"