Backdated Log: NPC Miss Rosalie & Mordecai Roberts Who: Miss Rosalie (NPC) and Mordecai Roberts What: Confessions, recriminations, explanations, and apologies. In no particular order. When: Extremely backdated to the afternoon of Saturday, March 10th, 2018 (during the kidnapping and NPC plots) directly after this. Where: The lounge of the Atlantis Hotel Warnings: Angst, spoilers, references to organized crime, slavery, kidnapping, and associated misdeeds.
Be careful what you wish for; you just might get it. The old proverb was running through Mordecai’s mind on a loop as he made his way to meet Rosalie (as the one rightfully, if somewhat mistakenly, furious with him, she deserved to choose the ground). He’d missed her so much for so long, he hadn't really thought about - or wanted to think about - how she would react if she arrived in Atlantis from before their recent tentative understanding. His first breathless excitement at her arrival had only made the realization of just what she last remembered more of a punch in the gut. He wished, not for the first time, that Christopher were still here. Even if Rosalie at this point in time was liable to give his word only slightly more weight than Mordecai’s own, that was still something.
There was a bottle of brandy back in his room that whispered enticingly of forgoing this entire conversation and simply drowning himself for the duration of the next week or month or until Intake fixed the current malfunction. More productively, he could offer his services to the search parties and lose himself in work, but either of those options would mean not seeing her. And that thought was just unbearable.
The Atlantis Hotel was the same place they’d housed the future generations when they had come through from Atlantis Future. Mordecai reminded himself of that as he crossed the lobby to the lounge. In one potential future world, Rosalie forgave him enough to marry him and produce children (in two she didn't, and the war stretched on or was cataclysmically lost). There was enough grim humour in the thought to show up as a wistful smile when he presented himself, hands in pockets at the entrance to the hotel lounge.
Rosalie was feeling very flustered, a feeling she wasn’t accustomed to and certainly didn’t enjoy. It had been bad enough at home, discovering that it had been Mordecai who had been the suspected double agent, divulging all their plans to the Wraith Gang and allowing them to always stay one step ahead, not to mention that he had been found in the house of that dreadful woman, Miss Bell. However, now, to make things worse, she seemed to have been kidnapped to another world, with barely a ‘How do you do?’ from those in charge and only the double-crossing Mister Roberts for familiar company.
She had been in two minds as to whether to turn him down when he’d suggested that they meet but, as satisfying as it would have been to let him go wanting, she really did want the explanation he had promised her. After some serious consideration, she had given in and told him where she was being accommodated, telling him she would meet him in the hotel Lounge. There she sat, with a steadying cup of Lady Grey tea in front of her at a small, round coffee table, her legs crossed neatly beneath her skirt, a troubled look plastered across her face, waiting.
Mordecai couldn't help drinking in the sight of her rather greedily. It had been months, and even the dismayed expression on her face was welcome. He removed his hands from his pockets and crossed to her table.
“Miss Rosalie,” he greeted, with a little more formality than his expression indicated. “Good afternoon.”
He cleared his throat and then pulled out the chair opposite her without waiting to be invited. “I’ll take a seat,” he said, adding by way of excuse, “Atlanteans are an oddly incurious bunch, but the same can’t be said for the non-natives. I'm not anxious to rehearse this for an audience. I did that once, and I didn't care for it.” He was rambling, as he often did when nervous, and he made an effort to stop himself. “You're the only one I owe an explanation.”
Rosalie felt her stomach lurch, more than she had expected it would, when she heard Mordecai’s familiar voice. She lifted her chin to look at him but, although etiquette suggested that she rise to greet him, she stayed resolutely in her seat, her jaw set in a hard line.
“Mordecai,” she said, acknowledging him by way of return greeting. Despite his formal tone, she noticed that he didn’t wait to be invited to sit. That was probably for the best. She couldn’t be certain she wouldn’t have left him standing there, awkwardly, in limbo, had she been given her way.
“I am far from the only one, Mordecai,” she replied sharply. “There were a great deal of people at the castle eagerly waiting to hear the rest of your revelations. Although, quite frankly, what you had already revealed, before we were so unceremoniously removed here, was quite enough to make me question whether I ever wanted to listen to you speak again.” She paused, the anger, disappointment and shame clearly present in her expression. “In short,” she added. “This had better be good.”
Mordecai knew he had misspoken as soon as the words left his mouth. “I meant here,” he said, for what the clarification was worth. It didn't seem as if she was going to cede him any grace whatsoever, at least not beyond the fact that she’d let him speak at all. He looked down at the tea cup in Rosalie’s hands and back up at her face. There had been a multitude of reasons why he’d danced around ever openly paying court to Rosalie, but the fear of someday earning that expression had been one of them.
“I’m sure you're disgusted with me,” he said finally. Months in Atlantis and weeks at home, and it was still easy to feel himself back in that chair surrounded by betrayed faces. “So am I, don't worry.” Was that too flippant? He tried again. “I’m grateful for the hearing.” It still came out a little too stilted to sound sincere, although it was. They’d never been good at brushing by each other easily, and the habit stuck even when it wasn't meant to.
“I know what I said, but I didn't do it for the money.” How to explain why he had done it - and be believed - was a more difficult matter. Even in his head, it sounded rather too much like a school boy pointing fingers. The devil made me do it.
Rosalie gave Mordecai a withering look. Disgusted didn’t even begin to cover the range of emotions she had been feeling ever since Mordecai had been apprehended in London and brought to the castle. At first, the overwhelming feeling had been one of disbelief, which had quickly turned to betrayal and bitter disappointment when Mordecai had begun explaining the extent of his dealings with the Wraith Gang.
However, she was caught off guard when he claimed that he hadn’t in fact done it for the money, like he had earlier claimed.
“Then what on earth did you do it for?” she blurted, unable to hide the hurt in her voice. “What was a good enough reason to betray your colleagues? Your friends?” ‘Me?’ she thought.
Mordecai winced at the hurt tone, started to open his mouth, and then closed it. It was encouraging that she’d asked. He’d made every effort during his interrogation to discourage Rosalie - or anyone else - from wanting to inquire too closely. Hopefully, she wanted to know enough that even without the amalgamation of circumstances back home, she wouldn’t walk away before he finished.
“The same reason I came to the Castle in the first place,” he said, quietly. “I was ordered.” Hastily - he was well aware that admitting to being a spy wasn’t a particular improvement over admitting to being a mercenary - he added, “I didn't have a choice.” Even he wasn't entirely sure how much of the truth that was. Before going to Eleven with Christopher and Millie, it had been years since he’d dreamed of any active rebellion, but the experience had been enough to know that it only made matters worse. Even knowing he was now free, talking about Eleven still gave him the uneasy feeling of eyes on the back of his neck. He could feel the hairs there standing on end.
Rosalie felt as though the breath had been knocked out of her. She withdrew the hand, which until then had been resting on the handle of her teacup, for fear that it would tremble and make the china clink.
She had assumed, stupidly so, it now appeared, that he had been led astray in London, after he’d taken up his assignment there, when the lure of money had been forefront in his mind and the castle - and her - had seemed a long way away. However, if he had been a double agent since before they’d met, it cast doubt over their whole relationship, their friendship, as he had put it. Had anything they’d shared been real or had she been a means to an end: a way to get close to Gabriel and learn what only the Chrestomanci’s Chief Assistant could divulge? She desperately thought back over all their interactions, trying to pinpoint a time, a conversation, that should have informed her that he had ulterior motives. She had been so certain of his feelings for her, certain enough to turn down Frederick Parkinson’s offer of marriage, even after the poor fellow had taken a cricket ball to the face over her. Still, she couldn’t help but recall that night at the opera. In hindsight, it was no wonder Mordecai hadn’t proposed to her, as she’d expected he might. How silly of her.
She felt tears well up in her eyes and quickly looked away from him, feeling very cross at herself for allowing him, even after all this time, to affect her so.
“I’d like you to leave now,” she said curtly, not trusting herself to say any more.
He couldn't say he hadn't expected that. Mordecai gripped the edge of the table and then let go and stood up. “Rosalie-” He was torn. He had promised to respect her decision. If he didn't know there was a world in which she didn't hate him, walking away would be easier. He’d done it before. “There’s more to it than that.”
Rosalie desperately wished Mordecai would go. She could feel the tears prickling her eyes and her throat felt thick, even as she fought against the tide of emotion that had brought on such a physical reaction. She would not let him see her cry.
However, Mordecai, it seemed, was not leaving, so Rosalie did her absolute best to channel all her emotion into anger, sniffing back the tears as she rounded on her companion with flashing eyes.
“So it would seem. Tell me, were you ever straight with any of us? Or perhaps you enjoyed laughing about how gullible we all were with your Wraith gang friends?”
This was every bit as awful as he'd ever imagined it would be, although Rosalie's anger was slightly more bearable than her tears would have been. Mordecai sat back down heavily. "I wasn't laughing," he said. "And I wasn't working for the Wraith then."
If he hoped to finish, he'd have to do so now. He'd once told Sarissa that he couldn't tell this story without alcohol in his system. That wasn't entirely true, but it certainly would have helped. He tapped his fingers against his knee absently, nervously. "I was sent to Twelve as a baby. They do that occasionally, in Eleven, when the Dright wants to study something, send off a child, keep tabs on him, prepare him as he grows up…. In my case he wanted to study good and evil, so he sent me to a good man."
Mordecai stopped and corrected himself. "To two good men." His voice was steady, but distant, and his face paler than it should ever, by rights, be. "My father finding me wasn't an accident. At least, I don't think so. The Dright doesn't make many mistakes, although if he'd chosen someone else, I might have..." Might have what? Gone to ruin faster than he had? At least he wouldn't have his father's death on his conscience. No one had ever claimed credit for the accident, but the timing had been too coincidental for Mordecai to believe it was one. "He deserved better. So did Gabriel. So did you all."
He noticed his own tapping and folded his hands over his knee to still them. "I was glad to be there. That was true. I enjoyed the work. I couldn't have asked for a better partner than Flavian. I admired Gabriel, and even Paul, for all he can be a bore. I..." In for a penny... "I was madly jealous of Frederick, but only because I knew he was a better man." Not only for that. Parkinson had been free to ask.
He couldn't look at her after that, studying the design on the teacup she'd left sitting instead. From the point she'd come, it would be the closest he'd ever come to confessing his feelings to her. "I wanted to stay, but I had orders. The Wraith was the worst villain the Dright could find. I'd like to say I tried to refuse, but they had my soul. I was long past that."
He cast about for something else to say. “I’m sorry.”
Rosalie was lost for words. Every time she thought she understood the situation, he went and confused things again with another revelation. By the time he came to a stop, her mind was reeling with all the new information.
“But no one can get to Eleven,” Rosalie said weakly. It was all she could think of to say. “Or, no one ever returns from there if they do,” she added, frowning. How could Mordecai be from Eleven? They would have known. Gabriel would have known. She would have known if the man she’d begun to feel so fond of wasn’t in possession of a soul.
It was a great deal of information, Mordecai knew. At least, she hadn't called him a liar. “They keep people out,” he said wearily. “They don't like visitors. If anyone does make it there-” His shoulders tensed. “-you’re right. They don't usually leave. They don't like anyone knowing too much about them, but there are stories: elves, the Fair Folk. It’s not what they are, but it’s close enough: cold, beautiful and completely without pity. They don't regard anyone else as human, so it doesn't matter what they do to the other worlds. Chrestomanci, the Wraith - it’s like watching animals in a zoo to them.”
The image conjured up by Mordecai’s description of Eleven people was both beautiful and terrifying.
“But you’re not like that,” she interjected, a frown creasing her forehead. No sooner had she spoken, though, she started to doubt herself. A whole tribe of mermaids…
“Or are you?”
Mordecai's mouth went dry. The question stung more than it had any right to. He’d stood by for the Wraith’s evil. More than that he’d contributed his own (Millie was a lovely girl, and Mordecai was glad Christopher had befriended her, but he’d never feel sanguine about the escapade that had caused the loss of Christopher's first life). He wet his lips, but his voice still came out rough. “I’m selfish and cowardly, but I'm not them.”
Rosalie knew that Mordecai might well be lying - he seemed to be incredibly skillful at it and ready to tell tales at the drop of a hat - but it really did make her feel a lot better about everything to hear him say that. She knew how to deal with selfish and cowardly, despite their not being at all admirable traits, but cold, pitiless and inhumane were beyond her.
“Do they still have it?” she asked, still sounding a little shaken and not her usual, forceful self. “Your… soul?”
Selfishness and cowardice had caused damage enough. Mordecai had never wanted Rosalie entangled in these parts of his life, but he'd wanted her in his life too much to detach himself sooner or completely. “No,” he said. “Not anymore.” He met her eyes - supposedly the windows to the soul, though Mordecai had always had his doubts about that - and hoped he looked believable.
He debated how much of the future to reveal on her first day in Atlantis. As much as Christopher had told him on a similar situation was probably necessary, and when else could he expect to have the opportunity? “Did they talk about timelines in intake?”
He barely paused for a response before continuing. “Gabriel is planning a raid on the Wraith. You don't need to deny that,” he added lest she think he was fishing for information even now. “It’s already happened for me. It goes badly.” Guilt flashed across his face. How had any version of her forgiven him after this? “Badly enough to make a twelve-year-old the acting Chrestomanci.”
He reached for Rosalie's hand, aware what a blow that would be, but dropped his hand back down to the table. He wouldn't be surprised if she never wanted to touch him again. “And to accept the help of a known double agent.” They hadn't had much choice in either case. “Gabriel's all right.” At least, he could assure her of that. “Now. The Wraith scattered his lives. More efficient than trying to kill him eight times, I suppose.” Mordecai's words were choppy and thick with bitterness, but he didn't make excuses. That was squarely on his shoulders, one way or another. It was his information Gabriel had acted on, weapons he’d smuggled that the Wraith had used.
“It took awhile to find them. They were in Eleven. The Dright had been collecting.” He shifted. “Christopher's going to be an exceptional Chrestomanci. He brought all of us back.” At a price, of course. Nothing involving the Dright came without.