Plop
The stone fell into the murky waters of the swamp. Ambrose watched it sink. The sludge was so thick that the rock rested on the surface, procuring a crowd of bubbles from the depths. Tarot was late. Though they lived in the same house, they couldn't be seen in each other's company around the Manor. To combat this, Tarot had promised to meet him down by the river bank. That was yesterday. Though Tarot usually went about his business leisurely, it had already been an hour since the appointed time. At least, that was what Ambrose thought. In the Manor, certain sunstones lasted only twelve hours, allowing him to keep track of time, but whenever he went out, he brought with him a sunstone that lasted a few days, meaning he couldn't tell the passing hours whatsoever.
Fingers tapped on his shoulder, startling him. Ambrose flinched away, turning quickly to see the culprit. Tarot seemed sheepish, possibly wearing an apologetic expression. His face was once more covered in his typical veil, which confused Ambrose. Did he feel the need to broadcast the fact that he was an Omen to every passerby?
Twiddling his thumbs, Tarot sat down next to him, maintaining several finger-widths of distance between the two. He avoided eye contact, keeping his eyes fixed on the ground, rather than Ambrose's perplexed visage. Leaning his head back, he sighed, "Solanine's surprise for the Day of Beginnings is… an offering,". His voice was tense, which furthered Ambrose's confusion.
"I don't understand… you seem troubled by that," almost fearful, Ambrose didn't add the last part, though he wanted too. Tarot was often unnerved when others seemed to read his emotions, despite his lack of control over his own face. Ambrose could sympathize with that much.
Tarot was tapping his right little finger on his left palm, which was an oddly specific movement. He seemed to think for a moment, then, without a word, he twisted the golden ring located betwixt the lowermost and middle knuckles on his little finger. Ambrose gasped, bearing witness to a most bizarre sight. His finger had vanished. In its place, a golden skeletal structure. As if the skin had been peeled off to reveal a metallic crust, the prosthetic was slightly smaller than the knuckle it connected to, leaving a skin-width of margin between the two. The mechanism was visibly hollow, as the golden strands left spaces within their weave. Looking closer, Ambrose realized that what he thought was simply a ring, was actually a lead band to a miniscule catalyst. Imprisoned in a gilded cage, a marble-sized chunk of sunstone sat, fixed in place by more golden bars. The stone alone must have cost a fortune, seeing how perfectly round it was. Ambrose couldn't dream of how much the entire prosthetic cost.
The voice of the finger's wielder brought Ambrose back to reality. "It was an offering," Tarot said, his voice dripping with somber malice. Ambrose's eyes widened.
"You mean–?"
"Yes, Solanine offered it up to her twisted religion," if Ambrose could see the expression behind that cloudy veil, he knew it would be one of inexplicable rage. He balled both hands into fists. The metal digit made a soft clank, as if in agreement.
Ambrose couldn't understand. "Why would she–"
"She said it was the price to be an Omen," his voice was now void of all emotion, completely flat.
Ambrose tried to reach a hand towards his friend's shoulder, to comfort him in some way, but Tarot flinched away. Feeling hurt, he withdrew his hand slowly. "If the price was so steep, then… Why?".
Tarot stared into the distance, lost in his own thoughts. "I… I had no choice," he released his fingers from the fists they were trapped in. "I was a gift to Solanine. From my father, so that he may finally be rid of me,". Shifting his gaze towards his severed little finger, ears drooping slightly, he muttered a single phrase, something so desperately tragic that it made Ambrose's heart bleed. "There was no other way," he mumbled.
He straightened suddenly, smoothing the long panels of fabric that adorned his legs, as if avoiding any possible questions to follow his shocking reveal. When he spoke, his voice became rock hard, an obsidian knife. "The point is, those in power only do things for their own benefit. More importantly, Solanine's offerings are never good news," Tarot began to recede into the shadows from whence he came, but stopped.
"Stay safe, friend," a warning disguised as a comforting sentiment.
If only Ambrose listened.