The Shrouded Scribe and the Audacious Composer
Story by Xandra Libris on SoFurry
This is probably the only real attempt I ever made at fanfiction. CW for fantasy drug use and transformation.
I am not affiliated with Failbetter Games, and Fallen London is not my creation.
Andrew awoke from the dream in a stupor. They stood up and balanced themselves against the wall of the honey den. They took one step, then another, then a third, then a fourth. Once they were confident in their ability to achieve forward momentum, they staggered into the main hall of the honey den, bid the proprietor a good evening, and walked out into the morning air. Once outside, they made their way slowly but surely back to their lodgings, walked over to the mirror, and began undressing and removing their bandages.
To the section of Fallen London that was familiar with the work of Andrew Pensworth, they were known as the Shrouded Scribe, never seen without a covering of bandages hiding their face, their eyes hidden behind smoked spectacles. Speculations abounded as to the true appearance of Citizen Andrew. Most figured they were a returned Tomb-Colonist who could not be persuaded to leave. Others thought that the bandages hid some horrid scar or deformity. One person claimed that they saw scales under the bandages. But no one had ever seen the author’s face, save in shared honey dreams. And who could say whether that face was real?
Andrew could, of course. They knew the face was a fabrication, pulled from their memories. A desire made real by the strange chemistry of poisoner’s honey. It was the face they used to have, the one they mourned. And as Andrew stared in the mirror at the horrible abomination that had replaced it, they knew that the time would soon be coming where they could no longer keep their new face hidden.
They had become involved, in recent days, with a young gentleman known as Bartholomew Benton, the Audacious Composer. He was a quite talented musician, modestly successful, who had a bit of a honey habit. The two of them had met in a shared dream, walking though forest of stained-glass trees, the light of strange, distant stars filtering through the canopy.
“Excuse me,” asked Bartholomew, “but aren’t you the one who wrote that Penny Dreadful about Jack the Specter?”
“I am,” said Andrew.
“You gave me nightmares for a month. I had to start taking poisoner’s honey so I could dream pleasant things again.”
“Oh,” said Andrew, “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be,” said Bartholomew, laughing. “The piano concerto I wrote about my nightmares has been my best-selling piece to date! I daresay I owe my career to you.”
“Thank you,” said Andrew. “Truth be told, that’s the highest praise that piece ever received.”
They spent the rest of the dream walking through the tress and conversing. And they spent several dreams together after that. They had tea together in the belly of a whale, and dined on the shores of a blood-red sea. They waded into the waters of nonexistent planets, and tasted the wine of the damned in the bowels of some imaginary hell. It was getting quite serious between them. So serious, in fact, that they had agreed to meet in the waking world.
When Andrew had finished removing their bandages and clothes, they drew a bath and slid in, letting the warm water envelop them. They needed to sober up before tomorrow. Whatever happened, Andrew wanted to make it a day to remember fondly. But however hard they tried to stay positive, they couldn’t shake off the part of their mind that said the next day would end in disaster.
Andrew and Bartholomew met in Hyde Park and took a walk down it’s cobblestone paths. They admired the sights and sounds of nature, both the controlled arrangement of the park and the untamed wild of the cavern ceiling above them, lit by phosphorescent lichen and teeming with bats. They became lost in conversations about the past: Andrew described their flight from prison and their subsequent career as an author, while Bartholomew spoke of his childhood at home with his father, a Zee Captain, whose stories of adventure on the underzee had formed the basis for Bartholomew’s latest work. Bartholomew even related some of the stories, as best as he could remember, of the Tomb Colony of Vanderblight and the icy citadel of Frostfall.
“You know,” said Andrew, “I don’t think I’ve ever heard the ‘Zee Mariner’s Suite’ in the physical world, though I have dreamt of it in the honey dens.
“Oh,” said Bartholomew, “I’m afraid you’re in for a disappointment, then. I don’t think that piece can live up to what people dream it to be.”
“Please don’t be so down on your work,” said Andrew. “You are quite talented. And while poisoner’s honey may let you dream fantastic things, reality has its own beauty.”
“If you believe that,” said Bartholomew, “then why do you hide your face?”
Andrew turned and looked Bartholomew dead in the eye. Even hidden behind smoked spectacles, Bartholomew could feel the intensity of their gaze. He quickly turned his heads away, his cheeks flushing red.
“I’m sorry,” said Bartholomew, “that was impertinent of me.” Andrew sighed, their posture relaxing.
“No, I’m sorry,” they said. “It’s a fair question, and you have every right to ask it.” They wrung their hands. “The truth is...something happened to me. Something that drastically changed my appearance in a bizarre manner. There are those that, if they knew, would look down on me. I would be treated like a sideshow curiosity at best.”
“Have you...have you ever trusted someone enough to tell them what happened?”
“No,” said Andrew. “I have not.”
“Do you...do you trust me?” Bartholomew turned to look at Andrew, his eyes hopeful, but his face dour. Mentally, he was prepared for the worst.
Andrew looked at the face of his companion. He was bright eyed, not quite young, but not quite old. His red hair stood out like a fire on his head, and his mustache made him look like a dashing hero from some dime store romance. But there was more than just his striking looks. Andrew could tell that there was a deep compassion in those eyes, and a love of adventure. These had been the driving forces behind Bartholomew’s work, even the ‘Nightmare Concerto’ that Andrew’s own work had inspired. This was a man who truly cared for his fellow humans, and Andrew loved him for it.
“Yes,” said Andrew. “I trust you. Come with me.” They held out their hand, and Bartholomew took it in his. Andrew lead Bartholomew back to the lodging house where they stayed and led him up the stairs towards his room in the attic.
“When I was on the surface,” Andrew said as they opened the door to their room, “I stole an artifact from a museum. It was an iron sculpture of a dragon, Celtic in origin. As I put it into my bag, I pricked my finger on one of its horns, and a drop of blood hit it. The transformation started days later, while I was imprisoned.”
Andrew lead Bartholomew inside, then let go of his hand. They began disrobing, removing first their smoked spectacles, then their coat, then their shirt, vest and tie. Finally they began unwrapping their bandages. Instead of human skin, Andrew’s body was covered in red scales. Their face was reptilian in nature, almost snakelike, and their eyes were yellow with slit pupils. Two bony nubs, the beginnings of horns, could be seen growing on the back of their skull.
“I came to Fallen London hoping to find a cure,” said Andrew, “but you can see how far the change has progressed. Pretty soon it won’t matter whether I wear the bandages or not - I won’t be able to hide horns under a few scraps of cloth. and I can feel my back ache, as though wings are supposed to be there, but aren’t.” They turned to face Bartholomew, tears streaming down their scaled cheeks.
“Do you think you could accept someone like me?” asked Andrew. “Could you...could you love a serpentine monster?”
Bartholomew walked up to the Scaled Scribe and put his hands on their cheeks. He felt the wetness of their tears and looked into their sad reptilian eyes.
“I can, and I do.” And with that, the Audacious Composer pulled the Scaled Scribe into a passionate kiss.