The Days We Lost: Sanders Sides

Chapter 1: Virgil

In the kingdom of Sandersia, a person could get anything they desired, as long as they knew the right people. It was a read-between-the-lines sort of game, in which every apothecary owner was assumed to be a witch, bookstores housed forbidden texts from the Cursed Ages, and payment was in grotesque tithes. The Sandersians who were aware of this kept quiet, for it was a dangerous sort of market to associate oneself with.

Virgil Picani could say with confidence that he hadn't spent a single stokesmark in the past 24 months. He knew where to get the three things he needed— Crofters jam, spiders' eyes, and opioids— and he knew the prices. His fathers, Remy and Emile, took care of housekeeping and sustenance with the former's meager paycheck as a bartender and the latter's struggling therapy schtick. "One day, it will all come together," they would always tell Virgil. "Daddy's going to have his own pub, and Papa's business will take off!" They'd said that for ten years now.

Virgil had decided a while ago that he would rather spend his dreams, his blood, or the days for his life than ask for stokesmarks from his parents. The look on their faces when Virgil used to ask if he could purchase a new set of tarot cards or a roll of parchment, the way that Remy would get on his knees and pick through his satchel for stokesmarks, the way Emile would pawn his favorite possessions; it was all too depressing for Virgil to handle. Two men so kind did not deserve this, especially when the boy they called a son was actually the bastard child of Emile's sister.

He also was falling victim to a deep suspicion that his fathers were hiding something from him.

It had started about a few week prior, when Virgil had come home from the marketplace and found Remy had not left for his shift at the bar yet. Virgil had waited for an explanation, but never received one despite the numerous hints he dropped of curiosity. And then Emile had started wearing clothes he always reserved for winter time and never wanted to leave the house. In fact, Virgil hardly even saw his papa these past few days, and Remy always found a way to avoid the subject.

So the anxiety kicked in. That awful sinking of the stomach that had Virgil wrapped up in his corduroy quilt as he convinced himself that Emile didn't love Remy anymore and Papa was leaving.

"But why wouldn't they tell me?" Virgil sniffled, groping through his bedside table drawer for the opioid capsules he'd come to rely on in times like these. "What else have they hidden from me?"

His fingers grasped the silk bag containing the capsules and he drew it towards him, fingers prying at the drawstring opening. He'd promised himself he wouldn't use these again, but this time was different. This time, he needed them so, so bad.

"This will be the last time," Virgil whispered, sliding a callused pointer finger and thumb into the bag. His other hand groped for his mother's silver goblet, engraved with her initials, though they'd been worn down with time. Such a sinful practice in her name.

Pills on tongue, Virgil took in a gulp of water, washing away the capsules and, soon, the world. He placed the goblet back on the bedside, and eased himself into his straw-stuffed mattress. The anxiety was still boiling in his veins and heart, but Virgil knew it wouldn't be long before the feeling winked out of existence and set him free.

•••

A new band of con artists had arrived in Sandersia, setting up headquarters in the Tomathy marketplace. As always, there were those who believed the lies they sold, and there were those who knew where to get the truth, for an arguably higher price. This caravan was boasting healing crystals, which looked suspiciously like painted rocks, narcotics made from fairy dust, and a soothsayer of romance.

Virgil was a die-hard cynic, especially when it came to sketchy vagabonds showing up with deals that didn't involve selling one's soul. All the traveling merchant groups were the same, and it only took a phony seer and a dirt-and-water "potion" to convince Virgil of that. "Call me a doubting Thomas, but don't call me a fool," he would always say, to which those not familiar with the Bible would question what their king, also named Thomas, had been so doubtful of.