Castor had made adequate recovery, and would return to work that evening, but Tiamat took one look at Patches and rejected his intention to follow. He was not in any pain, his little altercation with Long’s guards had only given him a few grazes at best. But with the minor nosebleeds and scrapes that had occurred, his white shirt had taken on some major stains. Tiamat grimaced as though he had come to meet her covered in spiders.

“What happened to you?”

“I went out for a meeting. Nobody was hurt, just a misunderstanding.”

“A meeting. Well, it’s your time off, you do what you want. But you don’t look prepared for duties. Go and get some rest,” she said. And then, “You should stay in tomorrow.”

He had no more avenues of investigation at the moment, and he was somewhat tired now that she mentioned it, so he agreed. He went to his room and lay down on the bed. It was still daylight, albeit dying daylight, so the carvings on the ceiling were fully visible, poised to bring in a headache.

He looked at his splattered shirt, tugged down the corners. His grandfather’s old staple. Not that the man needed it anymore. The stains had darkened, it couldn't be worn outdoors anymore. He wasn’t sure it was cleanable; maybe that was why all the priests wore black in the ring. Still, there was something appropriate about it. It wasn’t dishonest - no, it was nothing so moral as that - it was simply reassuring. Something had happened today, and here was the proof, hardly about to run off and leave him wondering.

There was the minor problem that he didn’t remember the faces of the people who had contributed the blood. And he wasn’t sure if any of the blood was his. That would be even more reassuring. He'd remember his own face.

A problem with a solution. He leaned against the wall, with its ridged and mottled wood, and forced his shoulder against it. The first hit didn't do the job, so he tried again, doubling the impact. Tearing at the wound that had only just sealed up again. He didn’t see it, but the skin was pulling. It itched but didn’t break. Determined, he ground his shoulder against the wall again, then hit it harder.  The bumps in the wood dug only lightly into his arm. He hit it again.

And again.

And again, tearing forward until the blood started to seep through the torn edges of the gash again and wet the cotton to a dense black, spreading inky tendrils, cool as a river. The new stain seemed to consume the old ones, pooling into a perfect circle slightly to the side of his chest.

There was a knock on his door. He went to open it, and there was his neighbor Cain. Cain was an overseer in the Ring of Light. He had lost most of his teeth in the tragic experiment known as bowling ball day. He wore fake teeth and was fairly soft spoken, it was hard to imagine a better neighbor.

"What was that noise?” Cain asked. Presented with the bloody shirt he was able to come to his own conclusions. “So… uh, everything okay over here?”

“Sorry, I was just-”

Cain waited, Patches dithered.

"I was... I was about to get some rest..."

Eventually, it did not seem worthwhile.  Cain brushed away his question. “Private business, I see. But if you need to talk, you know there is always someone available. This is a church.”

“Thank you."

"I can always call someone, if you need it."

"I won’t cause you any further trouble.”

“Do what you must. I’ll be down at the Ring, tonight.”

Patches closed the door. He lay on the bed, satisfied with his mission, feeling nothing in particular. He slowly removed the bandage on his face, closed his eyes, and fell asleep soon after.

---

When he opened his eyes again, night had fallen. It was a chilly night too, the coldest things had been that month. In spite of the numerous overcast nights, they had all been as hot and humid as in the summer, so it was a pleasant surprise. What time was it? Outside, the cloisters were quiet. They always were. On the low table that sat in the middle of his sizeable room, there was a clock, but he had turned it to face away from the bed. It rang when it was needed, otherwise, it kept its business to itself.

He let it sit. He didn’t need to know the number to realize this was not an hour he had much experience with. Would his arms and legs work as they always did? It all felt out of place. He couldn’t even remember staying up past midnight since he’d moved to the city, definitely not since work started in the Rings.

Even when he was young he'd slept early, though it had been more of a challenge.

Patches was lying in bed without the covers, and in spite of the temperature, he felt hot. That was a bad sign. He got up and saw spots. White spots. Looking down, he also saw small white shapes on dark cloth. He blinked, he was seeing his stained white shirt. In a few hours it had become more stain than white. The blood from the wound he'd gotten from the wall was still slightly damp, sticking the fabric to his skin. He had slept without cleaning up. It had seemed natural and comforting at the time, and now it was all beginning to smell and the tacky feeling of cotton fibres was poking into his chest.

He had no recollection of why he had been compelled to stain the shirt with his own blood. Or even to go to the Tower or find all those people he had found. Nothing had come of it. They might have all been dreams. He had really started dreaming a lot, lately.

His sweat drying, he shivered and pulled himself up. He retrieved one of his black coats and, after some consideration, an old scarf. Then he walked out of the room and into the cloister garden.

The square was quiet, the grass and ever-empty fountain were still. Under the stone arches surrounding the square, he could see the lights were out in every room. It must have been late.

There was a sharp chill in the air, the first taste of the impending winter. Somewhere above, he could hear the wind, but the dorms were protected by the tall, pearl fortress of the church. At night, the long, flat walls were impossibly gracious sights. The most relaxing texture, white as untouched snow but not so bright you had to shield your face. As good as a blank piece of paper, but broader, a whole universe to get lost in.

Of course, the wall of the chapel and a few upstairs enclosures were set with windows, but at night those were solidified too, washed black, and he didn’t mind.

Tonight, the bottom of the long chapel windows was faintly illuminated with a warm glow. Patches frowned. Looking at it long enough, it seemed to be moving, swaying against the glass.

It could have been a number of disasters. Most urgently, it could be a fire. But that was only the second thing to come to mind.

---

There was fire, but it wasn’t urgent. A few candles on the altar were lit, just enough to see where you were going. Every window, high on the walls, regardless of glass color, was showing only midnight blues and blacks. A vast expanse of starry sky rendered any intricate patterns meaningless with ideas of their own. It was hard to look at. He had never been in the chapel at this hour.

Then there was the confessional. If that corner had been dim in the day, it was almost completely obscured in the night. Only the edges of the darkened wood bit into the illusion, the fire outlining the approximate shape of the box, and the most flagrant edges of its vine-pattern carvings. And a few of the edges where the carving had been broken.

Hands by his side, he approached the doors, stopping to face them. They were both shut, of course. He heard nothing, at the moment, but knew.

“Come out.”

And a familiar voice, stifled by the wooden door responded, “Why don’t you come in?”

“It’s too late for visitors.”

“I’d like to talk. Come on in and sit down.”

“If you want to talk I can find someone...” But he couldn’t, not so late. The place wasn’t even meant to be open. “But you should come back tomorrow. We shouldn’t be here at all.”

“Then why did you come up at all?”

“I saw someone was here.”

“And you’ve been looking for… someone. Even though there was virtually no chance that one person, who you can’t even see in the day, would be here of all places. I know the feeling. I’ve been looking for someone too.”

Patches stared into the flickering shadow surrounding the booth for a few minutes, then entered as he always did.

The inside was musty and dark. As expected. But there were a few differences - for one, it was warm. And second, there was noise, unfettered signs of another person. The breathing, deep, heavy breaths that were making no effort to conceal themselves. They were overwhelming in such a small amount of shared air. Patches stared ahead of him and tried not to think of anything. It was usually easy, but tonight…

“So,” he started. “Are you here to eat, or to talk again?”

“I can do both. But I didn’t originally head out to do either. I’m picking something up. For a friend. I guess you could call it that.”

“Why stop in here?”

“Why not?”

Patches sighed. “It’s late. And I’ve been hearing, from those I’ve met recently, that most people fear the priests in this church.”

That just elicited a snort. 

Some old hints of raw impatience started to bubble up. Patches set a hand on the wall. “As you requested, we’re talking. What else did you have in mind? You said you were also looking for someone?”

“Yes. Oh man, this is a tough one. You ready? I’m looking for… hm… an old friend of mine. Maybe a friend. Maybe not. Maybe not even human, you know, I’ve started to think that not everyone I knew back then was a person. What kind of real, living person disappears so completely?”

“I know how it is.”

“We used to do each other all kinds of favors, probably would have done anything if asked, at least I would have. Maybe we both would. But I didn’t have as many ideas as I do now. If only I had the chance before he left. Without saying anything. Just as we seemed to be nearing a real-”

“Enough. I know this story.” Patches squeezed his eyes closed. “Tell me who you are,” he said.

“Don’t you already know?”

“I need hear it from you. I've been guessing for a long time.”

“A little dramatic. I thought you had been cured of that. Mm… maybe you aren’t ready for this yet. It’s not your fault, I mean, it was me who should have-”

“Then come out and show me your face.”

“How is that any different?”

The pointless argument. Eyes closed, Patches felt an irrational but unstoppable smile forming. He wasn’t particularly happy. This was what he said to himself.

“Okay then. You can stay there.” He put his hand up to the grate. “But show me, at least a part. Like you did before the the matches. That's all I ask."

Was that the outline of a person tucked in the corner? An actual person, that he was seeing in the confessional? At night, no less. Who would have guessed the candles at their angle would have changed the view so dramatically?

“You remembered that?” the voice asked drily. “I thought you were - you know what, never mind. That changes plans a bit.”

There was a rustle of plastic and cardboard. Patches knew what he was about to face. Rarely did he have so much time to plan.

The matchlight rose up, tiny but radiant and he took a sharp breath. There were the rows of teeth and the thing, gangling hands, the glow on a face that was half darkness, cut off just above the nose. Was that an embroidered shirt? He shook himself out of that thought. Unimportant. He did hate embroidery, though.

They simply sat in silence, Patches drank in all he could, ashamed of his poor vision, his face nearly touching the metal links of the grate. He was so focused on the little he could see, he didn’t realize that he, himself, had moved into full view of the match, his wide hollow stare illuminated for his guest.

Patches exhaled, at last. “So you won’t let me see any more of you, of your own will.”

“Huh. You interested? Maybe later.”

“Why?”

“Why?”

“Why are you being like this?”

“It’s even weirder that you expect me to give a reason. It’s my face. Can’t give it away even if I wanted to, so I’m gonna make the best of it. Sorry, does that bother you?”

Patches closed his eyes and pulled back into the the shadow of his own stall. With just the slight movement, the flame stirred brightly. Not enough to reveal much, but that didn’t matter. “No. No, this is good. It’s exactly the kind of thing I’d imagine you saying.”

Then he reared back, gathered his fingers in a fist and drove the length of his arm straight through the wall that separated him from his taunting guest, who leapt to his feet in surprise. The metal screen screeched for only a brief moment before being torn out of its frame and went flying, diamond links snapped apart, frame flying with such force it rebounded off the opposite wall and crashed into the floor space below in a shower of metal. Not done yet. He continued, unwinding his shoulder for distance, and unclenched his fist until it was in the right place, then - at last - carefully - with just three fingers - closed. Now breathe again. Faint with matchstick ash.

The visitor was still in a daze, flattened against the wall. He had wisely let go of the match, which was now smouldering in Patches’s right hand. Patches was panting slightly, shoulders rising, lying nearly horizontal through the hole he had punched through, but triumphant. Patches raised the light high enough to see what he had been waiting for. 

Val had the most spectacular grin on his face. “I hope that was worth it.”

Then he clapped his hands around the match to put out the light, and kicked the door down.

Patches let the match go instantly and struggled to dislodge himself. It only took a moment. Blood pumping furiously, he burst through the wood as if it were paper and launched himself out. Val turned for a quick glance and was bowled to the ground. They rolled to the foot of the first bench in a tangle. Patches wasn’t seeing any particular goals, but he didn’t let go. Val was a different story.

Crushed against the ground, he gave Patches a kick, pointedly towards the small staircase before the altar. Patches was dashed on the edge of the bottom stair. There was a sound like an eggshell splitting, but Val was not afforded so much as a whimper, so he thrashed again. One more crack and Patches's hands fell away without a sound. Val finally managed to raise himself and, perhaps idiotically, reached to grasp that white scarf. It was just so tempting. That was the point.

Patches’s arm shot out as if his shoulder were a cannon. The barely-formed scab tore again, but that was absolutely inconsequential. Val swivelled away but even the tiniest grip on his coattails was enough, Patches's fingers took hold and Val was dragged to the ground with a thunderous crash, again. He clawed the carpet and jammed his elbow into Patches's face to no discernable reaction. He dragged them to the side, attempted a flip, a toss, but they were against the wall, they collided with a thump that made the candles shiver. No space left. Val groaned, gave one last dying roll and then fell on his back, pinned by Patches’s fist, solid as a stake to his chest.

Val stared up blankly for a moment, but when his thoughts caught up with him, he laughed. “Amazing as ever. And as painful.”

“I’m sorry.”

“A little late for that.”

They were covered in wood fragments. In his mad lunge Patches had also managed to drag out a trail of metal rings and carpet fragments. Val was observing all of these with a kind of smug pride. Patches could only stare down at him. That was it. That was all. He was looking into nothing once again.

“Don’t fall asleep here. That would be awkward.”

“I won't,” Patches mumbled. “I won't. This is good.”

“Is it, though? I mean, the booth is wrecked.”

“It’s you.” Sweat caught in that white scarf, that had somehow avoided any bloodstains. There had been mercifully little blood. Suspiciously little. 

“I’m sure that’s not so much of a surprise. Can we discuss this standing up?”

“Just a moment.” He searched for the words. He hadn’t quite managed to find them when talking to Magnus, but they were needed now. 

Val stared up at him. Even in the dim candlelight, under the shadow cast by Patches's tired frame, those eyes burned. "Looking for something?"

“I wanted to know if you really existed.”

It sounded as ridiculous as he expected. But with luck, he’d never have to say it again.

Val's mouth spread into a jagged grin; he rolled his eyes and began to laugh. Eyelids heavy, Patches felt the dust settling around them, and the airy rise and fall of lungs under his hand. And the craggy stitches of an embroidered shirt. His heat in his skin dissipated, and felt a slight smile of his own finally creep into play as well.