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CURRENT ACTIVE MUSES: Mad Tongue Alberich | Mohg, Lord of Blood | Pureblood Knight Ansbach
REQUEST ONLY MUSES: White Mask Varré | Thiollier | Dread Fortissax
OCS: Diedrich of the Alloyed Conspectus | Idris the Mariner | Sanguine Perfumer Ori
dee can have a little bit a facial hair after becoming heresy jesus as a treat ive decided. bc why not make him look more like scholar. but i'm taking one of his hands as punishment
something about a rock and a hard place | alberich, ansbach, ori | 10,803
[CW: DESCRIPTIVE FANTASY MEDICAL GORE]
Alberich knows exactly where Ansbach's personal chambers beneath Mohgwyn Mausoleum is, and it takes him very little time to feel his way there through the labyrinth of tunnels and mazelike grottos once he's reached the Dynastic grounds.
For better or worse, Alberich knows that Ansbach likes him, and that the old knight generally does not mind tolerating Alberich's company so long as his schedule allows it. Of course, his busy schedule — his neverending list of weighty responsibilities — just about never allows it, and Ansbach will kindly ask the heretic to see himself out if he hasn't the time to spare.
The good news is that Alberich knows this, and he respects Ansbach, and he also, perhaps shockingly, respects Ansbach's time and personal space. As such, he takes care not to bother the man during work hours unless it is about something he deems very, very important. Ansbach knows this, and he appreciates it, and thus — kindness for kindness, blood for blood — he typically does not (immediately) turn Alberich away whenever the heretic does, in fact, decide to show up unannounced. At least, not without first hearing out what the heretic has to say.
And seems right now is one of those moments. Ansbach is terribly busy reading, sorting, archiving, and plotting responses to a number of intercepted Recusant correspondences when Alberich trots his way up to the sconcelit mouth of Ansbach’s chambers and, after rudely allowing himself in, announces, half-frantic, "Ansbach. Question."
Which Ansbach really doesn't have the time for right now. The Pureblood Knight finishes sorting the papers in his hands before he turns to respond, and he begins by stating, politely but firmly, "I am very busy right now, Alberich. I can only spare a moment."
"I think all I need is a moment," Alberich says, baring his teeth anxiously, and Ansbach takes in the appearance of the man as he speaks: dressed in one of his tidier robes, dark trousers, and his favourite boots, though he has foregone his glintstone-studded accessories today, which isn't necessarily abnormal, and has also foregone his hat in exchange for a black hooded caplet, which also isn't necessarily abnormal. But there is a thick sheet of off-coloured blood seeping through his hair, dripping down the left side of his face, saturating his blindfold, as if he'd just received a terrible blow to the head. That is the one thing that stands out.
And that just so happens to be the very thing which Alberich has come here to discuss. Antsy, jittery, Alberich says, "Promise, just a quick question: is this what I think it is?" and tosses the blood-heavy hood off of his head.
His next few motions are very quick and very unsettling: claw-tipped fingers find the source of the blood — two deliberate, deep, intersecting lacerations in his scalp — nails digging in harshly, and the flesh and bone beneath makes an uncomfortable squelch-crunch sound when he parts his hair and folds back the skin and reveals, beneath, a jagged ring of broken bone with something bright and unnatural glittering within.
Ansbach is not surprised by what he sees, but he also is not unmoved. He says, quite mildly, "Oh dear," and that is all Alberich really needs to hear.
"It's glintstone, isn't it?" the sorcerer asks, pulling his fingers from the wound, bouncing a bit on his toes with a sort of energy that would suggest he is completely unbothered by the injury (though Ansbach knows him well enough to know that the way he flutters his feathers and flashes his teeth in this moment is all anxiety and no amusement). "It's— I mean, it's not the first one — I've shown you the other ones — but it's... it's different, don't you think? Like… like, I dunno, anatomically, I suppose is a good word, yes? Different? Yes?"
But Ansbach says nothing just yet, because he knows that the pressure of his silence will encourage Alberich to cut to the heart of his fears far more quickly — out of discomfort, if nothing else. And it does. "I— I don't know," Alberich continues, deflating noticeably. "I'm not a medic. And it's… well, hah, it's not like I can look at it, y'know. So I just… thought, um, maybe… maybe someone here, maybe you, maybe someone else, could, just… take a look? Help? Help me out? Because it's, uh, blood, I think, and… a-and, um…"
A pause. The silence is breaking him. It always does. He swallows his pride; scratches anxiously at his palms. "It… it hurts, Ansbach," Alberich finally admits, sounding very ashamed. "And— and things don't usually hurt these days. Not… not like this.
"… Do you think it's going to kill me?"
Which, Ansbach knows, is something that Alberich doesn’t give a damn about at all. Death means nothing to a Tarnished as ancient and jaded as him. No, it is clear that he is worrying about something far deeper than that — deeper than a physical, impermanent end. Something more spiritual than flesh alone. Something that he doubts either of them have the words for. And that makes him feel some pity.
In all honesty, this is not something that Ansbach would typically consider critical enough to warrant postponing his work — personal matters very rarely outweigh the matters of the masses, after all. But Alberich is a friend, a sort of pet project, and he is very clearly frightened, and Ansbach knows that Alberich comes to him when he is frightened because he has no one else he can trust to handle him gently. Ansbach very well may be all the heretic's got right now.
And so, Ansbach decides, he'll make a slight exception.
"It does seem abnormal, yes," Ansbach acknowledges, tone neutral, taking a few steps closer to better examine the wound. (Obediently, without needing to be asked, Alberich lowers his head and parts his hair.) "But I doubt it will spell the end for you. I have both seen and heard stories of sorcerers whose arts transcended the bounds of their minds, and whose bodies then began to crystallise—"
"But that's regular glintstone," Alberich interrupts, and he hardly ever interrupts Ansbach, so Ansbach steps back and lets him speak. "I've seen it too, of course," and he’s gesturing a bit with his hands now. "I mean, duh, of course I have, I'm always around the lakes, I used to attend that damned school, I've seen what became of the sages; but there's a difference, Ansbach — a difference between the Academy's stars and mine; ours; we, the heretics and the dynasts. Their stars, their stones, they're astral, they're physical, and their glintstone is, too: it forms along bone like veins of ore in a cavern wall, anchoring itself before metamorphosing and lapidifying the flesh that surrounds it, cocooning and consuming and completely transmogrifying the physical state of its host, but this—! This, the red glintstone, this is formed from blood — not within blood, but from blood — which! Means it has a completely different internal construction as well as augmented spiritual and sorcerous properties given the inherent metaphysical nature of its creation—"
"Alberich."
Alberich shuts up so fast he damn near chokes on his tongue. Right. Babbling. Unhelpful. Quite busy. The sorcerer makes an embarrassed expression, then pulls his hood back up over his head. "N-not important…" he mumbles in lieu of an apology.
But Ansbach is already moving, because he's already decided to help. No, this is not really serious enough for him to offer much more of his time… but he can probably find someone who can offer some of theirs.
Which he tells Alberich in so many words as he moves across the room. "I am very busy, Alberich," Ansbach reiterates to begin with, "but I've a short list of names in mind of folks who may be able to help alleviate the pain. I cannot promise that any will have any answers, however. Your condition certainly seems… unique."
Ansbach's voice becomes slightly muffled at the end of that last statement, and Alberich realises it is because he has just put on his mask. (Distracted as he is, Alberich hadn't even realised Ansbach'd had it off in the first place. The realisation makes him feel a bit guilty.) Ansbach continues, "I'll make a quick round to see if any of the surgeons are about, if you'll have a seat and mind my belongings in the meantime." Which is a polite way of saying, Don't touch my shit. Alberich wasn't planning to anyway. He attempts to locate a place to sit, focus eventually settling upon what looks like a chair at a table to his left, then makes his careful way over. By the time he's sat down and crossed his ankles, Ansbach, ever-efficient, is already at the mouth of the grotto. "Understand that if I cannot find anyone within a reasonable amount of time, I will need to ask that you come back at a later time. Understood?"
Alberich nods, yes, but he doesn't say it out loud. He's rather hoping that, if he leaves the possibility unspoken, it won't come to be the case.
…
After a few long, quiet minutes of Alberich fidgeting with the blood caked under his fingernails and trying not to get lost in his thoughts — a terrible place to be — Ansbach returns with… someone. Someone Alberich thinks he recognises. The sorcerer is facing mostly-away from the entrance to the room, but he perks his head up as the others cross the threshold, suddenly attentive. "Oh! I know you," he says, but he doesn't sound very confident. "What is your name again?"
And the person in question — dressed casually enough that it's clear they were not expecting to do any work today, carrying two heavy bags full of whatever bullshit they thought might be helpful, eyes tired, hands gloved, clear confusion on their face — answers, with a sort of confident gusto that isn't at all reflected in their gaze, "It's Ori, sir."
"Right!" Alberich chirps, perking up further. Yes, the perfumer, he remembers them now: remembers that he likes them, and that they have very smooth hair, and that they had once asked him to fetch two Arteria leaves in exchange for a very smooth rainbow stone — which he did, and which he still has. But also… "Ah, but I thought you were fetching a surgeon?"
It's directed to Ansbach, and it's a rather rude thing to say, but Alberich realises that before Ori does and quickly tries to amend. "Not that— that, uh…!" Alberich rotates in his seat, turning towards the others, though he still faces slightly away in the end. (Ansbach knows that this is likely because his ever-unstable sight is currently suboptimal, but how is that possible when he is presently wounded and bleeding?) "I just! Meant! I— I was, uh, expecting a different sort of medic, I guess…? Not upset! Just surprised! Just, y'know—"
"It was either me or Varré, man," Ori interrupts, their voice sounding strong despite their expression being tired, and Alberich's immediate response of feigning an exaggerated gag makes Ansbach smirk behind his mask. "So, y'know, you're welcome, and all…"
"Yes! I am welcome! Thank you!" Alberich says, and although his wide and wolfish grin seems charmingly genuine to Ori, Ansbach can see right through it — can see the unease behind it. Alberich is clearly uncomfortable, and Ansbach knows that Alberich comes to him when he is uncomfortable because…
"I must return to my work," Ansbach says, professional as always, pleased with the others' interactions so far. "But you may remain in these chambers for the sake of privacy and security, should you both wish."
Which Ori wasn't expecting him to say at all. Permission to be in Ansbach's personal chambers? Is this really that serious? Alberich lets out a telling sigh, nodding eagerly, while Ansbach briefly places a hand upon Ori's shoulder in silent thanks. He then swiftly returns to the desk upon which his documents still rest — right where he left them, untouched and half-sorted.
Something else Ori certainly did not expect Ansbach to do is take off his mask. But he does so once he's returned to his papers, casually placing it down upon the desk as if it were the most normal thing in the world — as if his naked face wasn't such a scandalous thing for most people to see. He looks very tired. Ori nods their understanding as Ansbach, lifting a smokestained letter into his hands, concludes, "I ask that you try to keep your voices down, but I will be here if you need anything."
Only then does Alberich also notice that Ansbach has removed his mask, his voice having come clearer from where he stands across the room. He knows that Ansbach never removes his mask unless in the company of others whom he wholly trusts. And so, Alberich figures, if he's removed it so casually in front of this perfumer that he hardly knows…
"Thank you, Captain," Ori says, giving a lazy salute before turning towards Alberich — he, this odd half-a-stranger, with his face and his blindfold and his pale white hair all drenched and dried over in blood. "Alright, so what am I meant to be looking at, friend?"
"Oh, this," Alberich says pleasantly before tossing back his hood to reveal the disturbing wound. Ori mutters, Good fucking gods, which makes Alberich smile his carnivorous smile before shrugging his caplet off entirely, holding it in his lap. He prods at the lacerations a bit, as if to show the now-aghast perfumer the full severity of the mess. "It's more of this fucking glintstone," he says, using one nail to pull back the soft skin, "and it's—"
"Well don't fucking peel it, man — you're not that kind of fruit!" Ori loudly protests, so shocked by this idiot’s willingness to skin himself alive that they can't catch themself before letting the little joke slip. (Luckily, the panicked interjection both makes Alberich immediately stop and bark out a genuine, surprised laugh.) "Quit. Quit. Hands down. Fuckssake. Let me see."
And with that, Ori has snapped fully into healer mode, moving with the dutiful gravity of the apothecary they once were.
Alberich lowers his hands into his lap and turns to sit straight as Ori approaches. By the time they've reached his side, their halo has become quite clear in his mind's eye — the tender dullness of care mixed with the threatening maroon of the cessblood — and he does his best to relax as the perfumer sets down a few bags of various things that clink and clatter as they settle upon the floor. Wasting no time, Ori reaches towards the strangely-shaped wound…
… which happens to be in Alberich's scalp. Which he is very, very sensitive about.
Alberich flinches quite dramatically as Ori starts to part his hair with their fingertips, and Ori withdraws quickly, uncertain. "Ah, painful?" they ask, equal parts concerned and apologetic.
Which, no, that isn't what the problem is at all, but Alberich doesn't really want to tell the truth either. Defensive, deflective, Alberich explains, "Ah, no, I just… I just wasn't expecting you to go for it like that." (Ori glances across the room at Ansbach, who seems wholly focused elsewhere, before looking back down at Alberich.) "I'm, uh. Touchy. About my hair," Alberich then continues — which certainly isn't the whole truth, but it also isn't necessarily a lie. "It's fine. You're fine. Just… just, uh, maybe… tell me what you're doing…?" Alberich then hazards to request — which hints at a sort of weakness that he doesn't like anyone knowing about, so he attempts to conceal it by bitterly adding, "Can't see for shit on account of the whole, y'know, I'm fucking blind thing…"
"Right," Ori acknowledges; though they've really only been half-listening, transfixed as they are by the unnatural red that glitters between splinters of bone. "In that case…" — and they lift their hands again — "I'm… just gonna start by taking a look at what I'm working with here. Touching now."
Alberich lightly tenses rather than completely flinches this time, so Ori continues with their examination.
And it's fascinating what they see, but it's also unlike anything they've ever seen before. Alberich's scalp has been cut open in a deep and drastic X, the incisions clearly manmade, though with a blunt and inexperienced tool. (Given the way that Alberich was just digging his nails under the skin, Ori thinks they can guess what it was he'd used.) Upon gently peeling back the pale skin and pink dermis, Ori finds what they're fairly fucking certain should have been a fatal crack in the skull: bone broken, naked and white, the tender vascular membrane having been scratched carelessly away. (Just thinking about how much that must have hurt makes Ori wince.) Nearly-invisible fracture lines disappear beneath the unflayed skin in a way that suggests it's only a matter of time before more of the remaining bone shatters. But the most bizarre part of it all, of course, is that something foreign sits beneath all of this — red glintstone, yes, they can see that clearly now — though Ori couldn't even begin to guess what the hell it's anchored to. Surely the brain itself is not a sturdy enough organ to safely withstand the pressure it would have taken for anything settled upon it to break through bone…
Ori says, "Huh," and Alberich says, "Tell me the bad news, doc."
"Well, first of all, I'm not a doctor," Ori begins, sounding exhausted in a confident sort of way, "but I'm pretty sure you should be dead as fuck."
"Stars, I wish."
Ori lets the skin fall back into place, and Alberich finally untenses. Ori then turns to the smaller of their two bags and begins to search through the mostly-sorted utensils within, gloves now dirtied. "So what the hell happened, man?" Ori asks.
Alberich clears his throat noisily. "Well, I think it all began with my parents—"
"Don't be cheeky," Ori passively interrupts; to which Alberich responds, "I have to be or I think I might die."
"Well, save it for later," Ori replies, unbothered, and Alberich smirks to himself at their patient responses. He appreciates it when people tolerate him. Not many people are willing to tolerate him. It does wonders to help settle his nerves. Alberich attempts to hone his focus on Ori's movements as he replies in earnest. "Fine. Okay. I don't even know where to start. Um…" A beat to line up his thoughts, and Ori retrieves a scalpel wrapped in fine, soft leather. "I suppose I should start by mentioning that this isn't the first, uh, growth, I guess you could call it," Alberich says, which makes Ori glance towards him curiously. "This has, uh, sort of been happening for a while now. The glintstone, I mean. I've got, uh…"
Here, Alberich untangles his hands from his caplet, holding them up with palms facing forward, then wiggles his fingers a bit. Speckles of red glitter on the backs of his hands. “I’ve got these,” he says, which again makes Ori say, Huh. Alberich then opens his robe a bit at the collar, shrugging it slightly off of his left shoulder. There is more glintstone present near his collarbone, to which Ori squints at with another, firmer, Huh. "And these," Alberich says. "These also appeared. It— it felt at first like some sort of… I don't know, it felt strangely firm under my skin, but I just assumed it was some sort of unnatural cyst or pustule — like, I don't know what new and exciting diseases are out there these days, y'know? — but then it kept growing, until it started hurting, and I was getting really fucking sick of the pressure, so I just, y'know…" He mimes slitting the area with his thumb. "Opened it up. And the stone was there. And then the skin just sort of… healed around it."
"That's… nutty, man." Which isn't a very eloquent response, but it says enough.
Alberich nods. "I've seen sages of the Academy turn to stone before — they think it's something like enlightenment, I think — but this is different, because — ah, I was just explaining this to Ansbach, actually — because the Academy's glintstone completely lapidifies its host, but these are… uh, they— they sort of… well, here, look…"
Blade safely concealed, Ori leans over Alberich's shoulder to watch his movements. The heretic presses two fingers beneath the largest lump of stone, one which sits upon his shoulder, then rubs the skin in a gentle circle. The stone, strangely enough, seems to move.
Which earns yet another “huh” from Ori. "You'd think it'd be fixed in place, right?" Alberich asks, tilting his face slightly towards them. "From what I've seen, glintstone usually grows from— from the bone, I think. It's always attached firmly, at least. Fixed. Rooted. Anchored. But this is, like… fuck, I dunno, I'm not a doctor…"
"Neither am I," Ori says, flat and humourless, before then reaching across Alberich's chest to feel at the stone themself. (They forget to narrate what they're doing — his one request — but he can thankfully see their silhouette clearly from this new angle, even despite his currently-poor vision. They have a pleasantly long face.) Ori repeats Alberich's motions — depresses two fingers; gently moves the skin and stone. "It's… it's sitting like a lipoma, or something," they say, standing straight and stepping back, and Alberich tilts his head in such a way that they figure he needs a better explanation. "Below the skin, but not much deeper than that," they clarify. "Not even to the muscle, let alone the bone."
"That sounds accurate," Alberich agrees, pulling his collar closed, "because it certainly doesn't feel very deep. But that's why this one" — he taps a nail to the glintstone peeking through his hair, and Ori very earnestly gasps in panic at the gesture (oh my god oh my god why is he being so careless with the exposed contents of his fucking skull oh my goddd) — "is, uh, unique. Notable? Because it very clearly is also not attached to the bone, but it's also not above it — what did you call it? Lipoma?"
"Not… quite…" But that doesn't really matter. Ori's interest in this peculiar case is quite wholly piqued; however, the knowing that their medical knowledge is about to be well and truly put to the test is making them incredibly nervous. It's been so long since they've worked below the surface of a living body's skin — so long since they had a surgeon at their side to ask anatomical questions. "Regardless, yeah, it's— it's definitely inside."
"Which is weird, right?"
Ori takes a deep breath — pauses, holds it. Exhales in a huff. "Gotta be honest, man: this whole fucking thing is weird." To which Alberich snorts a bit in amusement. "But, uh, I think… Well, first of all, just because you haven't left yourself braindead yet doesn't mean you won't if you keep fucking around with it. Seriously, stop touching it." Which makes Alberich lift his hands halfway up in mock surrender before tucking them back under his caplet. "And… I mean…"
A moment to think. A long one. Long enough that Alberich, abnormally nervous, actually keeps quiet for once; which then makes Ansbach, who has been stealthily yet passively listening from across the room, glance over despite himself.
"… Sorry. Gathering my thoughts." Ori sighs; fidgets with the leather concealing the blade they still hold. "Alright, here’s the thing," they begin, and their tone is rather grave. "I'm an apothecary. I’m not a doctor. I'm not a surgeon. I knew a surgeon, extremely well, who taught me a lot of things, and I can absolutely use a surgeon’s blade" — they say this while revealing the scalpel they've been holding — "but I'm… I'm a little worthless here. As far as answers go, I mean. Answers or… cures.” A beat to centre themself — to fight back their pessimistic urge to self-flagellate. “But, that said, I… really wouldn't trust any of the other dynastic medics to treat whatever the fuck is going on here with the care and caution it deserves. Uh, no offense…" They say that last part louder, and directed at Ansbach. (Unbothered, Ansbach returns their glance, shrugs indifferently, then returns to his papers.) "So… I mean, uh…"
Ori pauses again here, carefully examining the man seated before them for what feels like the first time. Ori has mostly known Alberich through rumours: a madman, a traitor, an annoyance, a problem; volatile and unpredictable, untrustworthy and unfaithful, devious and disrespectful. They remember him, the one or two times they’d met prior, being loud and vulgar and completely disregarding their personal space. Honestly, they’ve been quite content to simply believe the stories and pray they never have to encounter him again…
… and yet, in this strange and uncertain moment, as Alberich once again tilts his chin up slightly, his menacing grin having been replaced with something tight and worried, Ori finds all of the rumours — indeed, even their own past experiences — hard to believe. Here, in this moment, he is quite small — metaphorically and literally, Ori is realising, just a smidge shorter than themself — and, they've now seen, is terribly malnourished beneath his fine robes. He wears his worry on his face when he isn’t careful. He fidgets with his clothes, and he taps his toes gently against the ground, and his babbling has given way to silence, and he doesn’t seem like he’s got much of anyone in this world at all.
Despite his cruel reputation, he is like a child in a lot of ways. He must have been very young when he died.
Ori clears their throat. "Well, Ansbach had mentioned that you were in a lot of pain earlier, yes?" they ask, and Alberich makes a guilty expression that is a more honest affirmation than any words could ever be. "Right, and I can certainly help alleviate the pain. That's my job. Always has been. So. My, uh…" Pause. They glance at the blade in their hand, taking a deep breath. Back into healer mode. "My main concern, after taking a closer look, is that there are multiple hairline fractures stemming from the sharper edges of the gap that was left when the stone sort of… forced its way through the bone there." (Which, again, seems completely impossible, but that’s not important right now.) "I can definitely see that there’s more glintstone underneath the remaining bone, and I’m worried that it may continue to grow and build more pressure until it causes those stress fractures to become major fractures, and for more of the bone to then crack and break apart. And I doubt anyone can live without that much of their skull."
"Yeah, probably not," Ori echoes. "So, I was thinking I could… y'know, clean it up a bit, trim that flayed skin, and…” Inhale. This is the risky part. “Ideally, I’d like to remove a bit more of the skin and bone to make room for the glintstone to continue to grow without causing any more pain or damage.” A pause to exhale. Strangely, Alberich doesn’t seem to be bothered at all by this objectively insane suggestion. Or, if he is, it doesn’t show on his face. “It’s… it’ll be experimental, of course,” Ori continues, “but it’s… it makes the most sense to me, since excision seems totally out of the question at this point. What do you think?”
Which is sort of a funny question. Does he really have much of a choice? "Well, you're the not-doctor," Alberich drawls cheekily, which makes Ori pull a face somewhere between tired and relieved. "I'll trust your judgement. I, ah…" Pause. Think. He shrugs lightly. "I dunno. I was honestly just… looking for an outside opinion, I guess. Maybe some reassurance. Another pair of eyes, as they say — which I can't figure out how to word into a joke about my blindness right now, but just know that I'm trying to." Which, again, makes Ori pull a bit of a face. "Regardless, I was… hardly expecting someone to actually want to help. To worry. To care. So… yeah. Yeah, sounds fine to me."
Ori can sense the fear behind his acceptance. It makes them quite sad. They offer a dull smile. "Alright. I'll start then?"
Alberich nods in lieu of a proper response, and something about the way he angles his face afterwards gives Ori the sense that he is, somehow, looking at the scalpel in their hand.
That's when they remember he had asked them to narrate their movements. Right. With a centring breath, Ori circles behind him, and Alberich straightens his posture and looks straight ahead, poised.
"I'm going to start by removing the skin here, and the remaining periosteum beneath," Ori begins to explain, wasting no time. Pauses. "Uh, sorry. I know you said you're touchy about your hair," they acknowledge, and Alberich shrugs in a way that suggests a very bitter, It is what it is. Minding the tool in their left hand, Ori reaches back into their bag for a small jar containing some sort of gel-like substance, strangely unscented. They uncork it with their teeth, holding both it and the knife unevenly in their left hand, then dip two slightly-bloodied fingers inside, slicking them with the strange, slimy substance. "I'm gonna put some numbing serum on your scalp here so that it doesn't hurt like a bitch, alright?"
"What if I want it to hurt like a bitch?" Alberich coos. "What if I'm into that?"
"You have all night to get off." Which makes Alberich snort. "Now hold still."
Which he tries to do, and fails to do, if only for the first few moments of contact — if only because he'll never quite get used to people he doesn't know touching his head. But he manages to untense and relax after a few moments. Ori makes a mental map of the skin they need to cut away, then extends a bit beyond those margins just in case, gently massaging the cold anaesthetic into his pretty white hair. This whole situation is strange as hell. "Doing okay?"
Alberich nods in response, which he then realises he probably shouldn't be using as a method of affirmation when there is about to be a very sharp knife very close to the inside of his skull. He straightens his posture once more. "Yeah, go for it."
Ori hums in response, places down the jar, then reaches towards the messy lacerations. When they press their fingers to the skin this time, Alberich does not flinch, because he does not feel it at all. "Alright, cutting now," Ori says. "Seriously, hold still."
The sorcerer does so successfully this time. Ori begins the slow, careful, meticulous process of gently, gently, gently cutting away skin and dermis and delicate blood vessels, down to where the cracks and splinters have buried themselves beneath the remaining, sensitive nerves. They take care to part his hair before each incision — to leave as much of it uncut as they can. Because he said he's touchy about it, and they want to be mindful of his feelings; and because they're not a surgeon, so they don't really know any better.
Inhale. Ori finds themself feeling equal parts intrigued and horrified as more and more of the fractured bone is revealed. "How did this happen?" they ask, and they can't remember if they've asked that question already. "Like, you said you'd felt the smaller ones on your shoulder beneath the skin, but this is, y'know…"
"Not beneath the skin," Alberich finishes for them.
"Yeah."
"Yeah, this one fucking sucked." Alberich huffs out a sigh with that, though he's careful not to animate the way he typically would when he does it. "It felt like a headache at first," he then begins to explain, "which makes sense, I suppose, but also, like…" A pause. A hum. "I dunno, maybe it's strange, but it really did feel like something was trying to get out. Like I could somehow tell that something was trapped inside. But, of course, every time I felt over the area, it just felt normal. Nothing. I was honestly searching for glintstone after a while, because I had an awful feeling that that's what it was, but I couldn't find any. None at all. And then, earlier today, out of fucking nowhere, it just sort of…" He makes a totally incomprehensible hand gesture. "Broke. Somehow. Under my skin, it broke, and I panicked, and I cut it open and picked out whatever fragments I could and… and, hah, and whined like a bitch for a while, because, yeah, it fucking hurt, and then… well. Then I came here. To ask Ansbach for advice." A beat. "Because Ansbach always has good advice."
This time, when Ori looks at the knight across the room, he does not return their glance.
"I feel like… like it shouldn't have been strong enough to do that, though, right?" Alberich then continues. "To completely crack it, I mean. Or it shouldn’t have been such a clean ring, at least — like, this seems almost fitted to the shape of it, doesn't it? Like, what the fuck's pushing it so hard to break bone? How did it soften that specific area enough that it didn’t all just shatter completely? Sometimes even a hit from a broadsword's pommel isn't enough to completely crack a skull… or, if it is, it's always fatal — I would know…"
"Mmhm," Ori acknowledges mildly, letting the first piece of removed skin fall to the floor with an ugly, moist plop. Alberich can see it out of the corner of his mind's eye — the pliant, visceral shape of it. It looks like something that shouldn't be happening. It looks the same as when he loses a finger, or a limb: looks like a feeling, and that feeling is animal, and that feeling is panic — self-preservation, fight or flight, a desperate need to run. It's the brightest thing in this whole fucking room.
But he ignores it, swallowing his reflexive nausea as Ori's fingers shift, combing through another section of his hair. They continue with their careful incisions, and Alberich continues with his nervous babbling. "I'm… curious to know what it's rooted to," he says. "Maybe there's more crystal beneath? I dunno, I don't feel any different, and I'm not thinking any different — I'm pretty sure I've still got all the same pieces of my mind that I've always had. I don't sound like I've lost my mind, right? Not more than usual?"
Ori pauses to shrug; continues cutting. "Sound normal to me."
"Right, because all of the sages and scholars I've known who'd begun to petrify sort of went ass-over-head insane after a while — could hardly string a sentence together, just vocalising, just spellcasting. A sort of genius that almost seemed regressive, though I'm sure if you asked the Academy, they'd still call it enlightenment — we're just not advanced enough to understand…" He'd make an exhausted gesture here if he could, but he knows he can't. He's starting to feel Ori's fingers through his hair now, the anaesthetic's effects dulling. He sighs out the shudder he cannot allow his body to make. "But that's beside the point. It just seems different. And I don't know if that's a good thing or a bad thing."
Another wet plop of white and yellow, skin and hair, and Alberich fights back the urge to gag at the way the Blood Star illuminates the sheer wrongness of it all. "I… think I got distracted." He clears his throat. "But, yeah, that's about it. Headache, pressure, then— crack. And now it's just… well. This."
Ori nods, finishing up their incisions. They've managed to neatly remove a palm-sized section of the skin of Alberich's scalp, as well as the remaining periosteum and splinters of bone directly underneath. Still, what's now left certainly isn't a good sight — no, not by a longshot. "This. Yeah."
Which isn't much of a response, and that makes Alberich wonder whether or not Ori was listening to him at all. Given his incredible vulnerability in this moment, the thought is far more embarrassing than offensive.
But Ori was paying attention, and they are intrigued by all of it. They just have no fucking idea if they'll be able to pull off the rest of this ridiculous operation, and that fact is tying their tongue. "I… wish I could help answer all of your questions" they say, anxious. "But, um, at the very least, once I get rid of some more of this bone" — which is what they then move to begin prepping for, reaching into their second bag — "I can, y'know, tell you what I can see. If that offers any insight. But, like, sorry, but I'm not about to go prodding around in your brain about it."
"Oh, sure, sure," Alberich says, a bit more perk to his tone now that he knows he wasn't being completely ignored. "Like I said, you giving a fuck at all is more than I'd expected, and I appreciate it. Can't even begin to tell you how uncomfortable it is to feel your skull cracking."
Which Ori is pretty certain was meant to be another joke, but it makes them think as they fish a dark, thick-walled vial out of one of the deeper compartments of their medic's bag. "Can you still feel it now?" they ask, and their tone is professional enough that Alberich can tell this is a medical question rather than a social one.
So he swallows whatever quip he was planning on making, then considers their question a moment. "… Yeah, actually, now that you mention it," he says, sounding genuinely surprised, because he didn't really realise it until Ori brought it to his attention. "Hah, the pressure's been there for so long, suppose I sort of… got used to it. But I can still feel it, yes, almost… gradually intensifying, I suppose, if I look back on it. Like it's still growing. I'm… I'm assuming."
After retrieving both the bottle and a fresh scalpel — a thicker, more intimidating blade — Ori stands straight and glances back at the glittering glintstone, realising: fuck. They're gonna have to make a judgment call on just how much bone to remove. And that call could very well ruin this man's life if their gut turns out to be wrong.
Gods, how unfortunate it is to be so concerned about people's wellbeing, let alone the people they like. And Ori is starting to think that they do like Alberich after all — him in all of his fidgety, awkward trust.
(If only they knew this is a side of him that almost nobody ever sees.)
Ori huffs. Centers themself. Cusses under their breath. Decides what order to deliver the information that they want to deliver. Cusses under their breath again.
They eventually start by holding the bottle they've retrieved out towards Alberich — in what would be a sighted man's periphery. He turns only slightly towards it, but reaches up with one dirty hand to feel at it — the glass strangely thick, its contents oddly warm, as if it holds something deadly.
Which it does. "This," Ori begins, and their already-sturdy voice has taken on a tone of authority, "is a corrosive poison derived from the stomach acid of manserpents." To which Alberich says, "Gross," and Ori nods in agreement. "It's a horrible, awful thing," Ori continues, "capable of dissolving damn near any organic matter with scary efficacy, flesh and bone and anything else in between. You see where I'm going with this."
"You're gonna dissolve the bone around the glintstone?" Alberich guesses, still sounding unbothered.
"Sort of," Ori says. "Not quite, but sort of."
Ori takes back the bottle, then takes another centering breath; but even as they prepare to clarify their intent, they cannot help but notice that Ansbach has now turned to look at them from across the room — wary, observant, like a shepherd's hound flashing a wolf a warning gaze. Ori is still not wholly used to seeing Ansbach without his mask. His resting expression carries a sort of sternness that his voice almost never does — not with them. Ori knows that Ansbach loves them dearly, and they love him dearly in turn; and although he has never once punished nor even chided Ori for accidentally harming rather than healing, his scrutiny is still a terrifying thing.
Ori swallows hard, and their sinuses itch. They clear their throat gently. "Dissolving the bone completely would be way too risky," they say, tone still strict. "If this touches your brain, you're fucked. We don't want you to be fucked."
"Well, not this kind of fucked."
Ori has realised by now that Alberich's quips are a stress response. It used to be annoying. Now it just makes them feel a little bad.
But they don't respond right away, because they can tell that Ansbach is still watching them. Ori meets his eyes in direct acknowledgement, trying to match his gravity, but they can't quite tell how much of the look is a threat and how much is concern. It makes them nervous. Their next swallow tastes a bit like iron. "Yeah," is all they end up saying to Alberich in response, distracted. But they return their focus to the heretic quickly. "So what we're gonna do instead," they then continue to explain, "is I'm going to coat a blade in a very, very thin layer of it, and then carefully carve a section of bone out. Cleanly. Neatly. There's, uh…" — here, Ansbach finally looks away, seeming satisfied, and Ori feels the tightness in their chest relax — "there's a few layers of tissue between the brain and the skull, if I remember correctly, and that should, uh, allow some margin for error—"
"Love that you're expecting a certain amount of failure here," Alberich purrs sarcastically, and Ori can see him quirk a brow when he turns to look (look?) at them from over his shoulder.
Which is probably just another joke, but Ori does feel quite bad about it… and anxious. And they're not confident enough to keep that to themself. "I don't want anything happening to you," they say, and they say it so genuinely, almost intimately, that Alberich's surprise forces him to swallow the smile on his face. (Something else that makes Ori feel quite bad. People really don't show him care very often, do they?) "The goal is to make you feel better so that you can then try to find your answers. I'm going to be careful. I'm good with a scalpel. My hands are steady. I promise, I'm—... I'm not going to let anything happen to you."
Which, as one of the Dynasty's most avid pessimists, is a hell of a thing for Ori to say.
Silenced by the kindness, choking on his tongue, Alberich makes an almost humiliated expression, nods once in thanks, then looks due forward again.
A breath. "Alright," and Ori opens the dark, terrible vial of poison. The sour, sweltering scent of it makes Alberich cough lightly. "Hold very, very still," Ori says as they coat their blade — lets the excess drip off, a good handful of seconds spent eyeing it warily, then turns back towards their patient. "Beginning now."
This time, Ori has no questions, and Alberich has nothing to say.
The good news is that Ori is good at what they do, even when they think they aren't, and even when it isn't really something that they do. They begin by tracing the (presumptive) shape of the glintstone with the blade's tip, and the acid immediately works its frightening wonders. Hair's breadth by hair's breadth, it begins to chew its steady way down, making an eerie crackling sound and giving off an unsettling scent.
It takes time. It takes a lot of time, and a lot of stillness, and a lot of silence, and all of those are things that make Alberich feel like he's going to go insane. He has to catch himself every time he begins to anxiously bounce his leg, ignoring every urge to flex his tense shoulders, fidgeting restlessly with his caplet — the only movement he can really safely do. When Ori reaches that last, dangerous half-fraction of bone, they pause for a moment, uncertain. Fuck, should they switch to a clean knife? Something serrated? Break it with pressure? Simply continue…?
When Ori finally decides to proceed with the acid-coated blade, honestly afraid of their own decision, the pressure in their sinuses finally gives way to the stress, and a thin bead of blood drips from their nose, down their lips, sparkling faintly in the back of Alberich's mind's eye. These last few moments seem to last as long as the whole procedure up to this point.
But miraculously, thankfully, they manage to pull the whole endeavour off. There is a gentle noise as the first inch of bone loosens and snaps, and Ori places their blade down quickly — in their panic, they do not cover the blade, and the remaining poison chews a bit through their bag. They firmly pinch the bone's inner edge between their fingers, gently loosening it by tugging and applying pressure in a slow and steady tempo, encouraging the last bit to break. A few more moments — acid dissolving, Ori focusing, Alberich wincing — then the neatly-carved fragment snaps loose with a solid click, and Alberich gasps very earnestly as it comes loose in Ori's hands. He sighs in drastic, notable relief as the pressure he'd almost forgotten wasn't normal is finally relieved.
"Fucking hell…" Ori mutters under their breath, lifting the slab of bone away with the delicacy of one handling something precious, something fragile, in honest disbelief that they were able to pull this ridiculous manoeuvre off.
"Can I see it?" Alberich asks, perky now, a bit shocked by just how instantly the ache had disappeared. "It's mine, after all…"
Ori sighs, relieved to hear him speaking normally — to know that they didn't accidentally scramble his brain. The edges of the excised bone feel almost hot to the touch, the remaining poison stinging ever so slightly through Ori's gloves. "Just try not to touch the outer edge too much," they say as they hand the fragment to Alberich — who, Gods bless his stupid heart, has been quite the excellent test subject during all of this, obnoxious banter aside. (Ori has to wonder how the hell he seemingly isn't in any sort of pain right now.) Alberich listens to their instructions, taking the bone fragment — the fragment of his bone — into his hands, pinching the edges with his dirty, dainty fingertips. It carries that same sense of wrongness as the fallen flesh that still lies, pallid and limp, beside the both of them. It makes him feel unsafe despite knowing that he's not. What an interesting feeling.
As Alberich feels over the cracks and grooves through which the stone had first erupted, Ori turns their focus to the now completely exposed glintstone. They'd been so focused on their work, they'd almost grown accustomed to what they were seeing — the strangeness of his condition; the way that everything within his skull that should be pouring out and killing him horribly somehow isn't. Peeking inside, Ori finds that the contents of his skull have seemingly refashioned themselves to accommodate for the stone — to hold itself together in a new and unnatural way, as if this is the way that things were meant to be. As far as Ori knows, the connective tissue within a normal human's skull should not be able to retain its shape and cradle its contents as well as his is right now, and it's uncomfortable to see so directly inside someone's head and know that they're still alive — that they're having a conversation, and curiously feeling over the piece of their body which Ori has just removed, and completely fine. Ori can just barely see the grooves and colours of cerebrum beneath an eerie sheen of pink, of ruby red, like holding a candle to a hen’s egg. It looks, somehow, like the glintstone is directly connected to this tender, fragile matter. Even stranger, there is an unnaturally glossy red film of sorts wrapping itself around the otherwise-loose and now-exposed organ. Is that what's allowing everything to safely, securely retain its shape, even as he moves — breathes, thinks, speaks? And if it is, what the hell is it made of? It's a tinge of crimson far brighter than anything Ori’s ever seen in a human's body before.
It makes absolutely no sense.
"Ori?"
"Ah, sorry, yes?" They didn't realise Alberich had been talking to them — transfixed, lost in thought.
Alberich smirks a bit — that nervous, snarky, yet still polite smile. "I said thank you," he says kindly, and when he tilts his head gently — turns to look slightly over his shoulder, cranes his neck strangely — Ori once again gasps lightly in earnest panic, half-expecting the movement to cause some catastrophic sort of tear in the now-exposed tissue and membrane visible within his compromised skull. But everything seems fine. "And you're bleeding."
"I'm…" Oh, right, their nosebleed. Ori is so used to the damn things that they'd hardly noticed it starting, and hardly care about trying to stop it. They wipe their face on the back of one hand, smearing blood against blood, and clear their throat of the lingering iron. "Thanks. And… and, um, you're welcome."
Alberich nods, and Ori eyes the should-have-been-fatal wound once again. It looks like it may keep increasing in size. Ori has made their margins larger than necessary, allowing some space, but they worry now that it may not be enough — that they may have to do this again…
Which leads to another thought. "I'd say, uh… success…?" Ori hazards, and Alberich smirks at their uncertainty. "Just keep it covered for sure. I know you usually wear a heretic's hat, but, like, tightly covered. Bound, if you can. Bandaged. Uh, to keep things in place, and to keep your hair from getting in the wound." A beat. "I, uh, didn't cut any of your hair, 'cus you said you were touchy about it. But it would not be good to have it get tangled in, ah…” — they make a circular motion with their hands — "all that while it's still open. I… anticipate that the stone will continue to grow and fill in the space that I've left for it, and then hopefully the skin will heal around it the same way it did around the ones on your hands and shoulders. But, uh, if it, y'know, gets bigger than that, then I guess just… come back, and I'll take a bit more bone out. Alright, friend?"
Which Alberich appreciates a lot — more than he can truly comprehend right now, let alone begin to verbalise. He resists the urge to feel at the open wound, knowing well that this isn't something he can idly prod at the way he might a normal puncture or laceration. His fingers instead stay busy by wrapping the piece of bone he still holds in his caplet — a prize for him to keep, like a little souvenir. "Easy. You're the best. It feels much better."
Ori nods politely; looks at Ansbach across the room — he has not glanced over, as far as they can tell, despite the fact that Ori would think he'd be curious to see the outcome — then rolls the tenseness out of their shoulders; wipes their nose again. "Is there any more you want me to take a look at? Like, again, I really don't want to try excising any of this stuff — you can find a real doctor for that — but I can at least try to make it more comfortable. That's— that's my job these days. Pain relief. Palliative care. Y'know."
And Alberich does know, because he has felt it at work, and he has grown to trust Ori very, very much today because of it.
But he still has to ask himself just how deep that trust runs now that they've asked him this new question, and the only other thing he can think of is something which he trusts with next to no one.
"Well…" Feigning confidence, Alberich tries to buy time to make up his mind by humming to himself in thought and tapping his nails against the object in his lap. He figures he might as well be honest, even if that is the last thing he likes to be when it comes to this topic. "… Yeah. Actually. Just— just to, uh, take a look at.”
Which Ori does not mind in general, though the notable reluctance in his tone is rather concerning. Still, Ori nods, then Alberich pivots in his seat to face them. In preparation for whatever is coming, Ori removes their gloves, kneels to search their bag for a clean pair, then pulls them on. Once they've stood and looked back towards their patient, Alberich is removing his blindfold.
Which seems like a nonissue to Ori… at first. But then Ansbach, seeming so convincingly distracted this entire time, not only looks at them from across the room once more, but places down what he's holding to turn and take a half-step closer. This time, Ori can tell that his gaze mostly carries concern.
Which is strange, Ori thinks. And so is the fact that, as they watch Alberich unbind and unwind the blood-saturated fabric, they can tell that he is hesitating to the point that he appears almost as if he's struggling against some invisible force, and his hands are slightly shaking, and his expression has turned into one almost like grief, and it's like a completely different man is now seated before them. There's an obvious weight in this moment that Ori does not feel and cannot understand. And they do not think they want to.
It takes far longer than it really should, but Alberich eventually reveals the mask of his face, and Ori takes in what they see.
Long ago, far before the Shattering, Ori had served the Order as an apothecary. They know well what punishments the old heretics faced — had seen them too much, and treated them too little — and so they are not at all phased by the sight of Alberich's eyes. They know the thorns had a tendency to destroy the area so thoroughly that the wounds could never heal correctly, and this seems to be true for Alberich's case: eyelids sewn gruesomely shut by scars, oddly streaked by his stark white lashes. This does not surprise Ori. This does not earn a second glance. But, as Ori takes a step forward to examine his face more closely, they find themself wincing when they notice that Alberich's left eye has recently been cut open, likely with his nails, in the same blunt, jagged fashion as the incisions upon his scalp. The cut follows the line of his lashes quite neatly from the inner corner to about halfway through the eye socket, but then takes a sharp turn upwards — as if he had flinched, or had to force himself to finish in a rush. The wound hangs loosely open, skin slack and orifice hollow. It's almost more disconcerting than the one fused wholly shut.
"It's, um…" Still hesitating, Alberich forces himself to sit up straight, fighting his natural urge to comb his hair in front of his naked face. He takes a deep breath; presses two fingertips beneath his left eye, rubs a small circle. "I can feel another one of those surface-level ones, like the ones on my hands, growing right about here," he says, and Ori can see the slight shadow of the subcutaneous lump when he moves it. "But, um… that's— that's less concerning. Than, um…"
Ori hears Ansbach take a few steps towards them, and seemingly so does Alberich, the sorcerer twitching his focus ever so slightly in the knight's direction for a moment. Ori tries to read Ansbach's expression, but they have not seen his face enough to know how to do it well. He has a rather drastic resting scowl for a man with such kind eyes.
Ori returns their focus quickly to Alberich when the heretic — with a sort of speed that suggests he has to do this before his window of opportunity closes — lifts his other hand to his upper left eyelid, tucking his nails into the eerily-hollow ocular cavity, and pulls the flesh of it open.
It's disturbing to see what a mess the inside of his eyesocket is. Even the meat itself is discoloured, veined with sallow scar tissue, so utterly misshapen that it's clear his sinuses and lacrimal ducts have likely been wholly destroyed. Alberich breathes in heavily, then tucks his fingers in just a bit deeper, making a short, pained noise. Sensing that time is of the essence here, Ori leans in close — looks deeper, more seriously, more determinedly…
And then they see it: a flicker of red; strangely alive, yet completely and totally unnatural.
"Fuck, man…"
Alberich immediately withdraws his fingers once Ori has spoken — quickly, as if he'd been burned by whatever they'd seen — taking Ori's half-whispered comment as a sign that they've seen enough. Flinching and tensing, whimpering lightly, he presses a palm firmly against the wound, recoiling.
Ansbach is beside them now. Alberich takes a few deep breaths. "I'm fine," the sorcerer says, and Ori can somehow tell it was said to Ansbach rather than them. They have to wonder what Ansbach knows that they don't. "Thank you, Ansbach."
"Let me fetch you something to wrap your wounds," Ansbach says warmly, then turns to cross the room.
Only then does Alberich turn back towards Ori. "There's more in there, isn't there?" he asks, and that same fear from earlier has returned to his tone. "I— I couldn't feel it with my fingers, but I can feel the pressure of it. Against my brow, and a little below it. I can feel it." His next inhale shudders a bit, even as he forces a sad, broken smile. "I can feel it…"
"Yeah, there's definitely more glintstone in there," Ori says, feeling a great and sudden urge to comfort him. "But it's… it's nowhere near the surface."
"But it will be, you think?"
A pause. "I… always err on the side of the worst case," Ori admits honestly, and although the words make Alberich smirk a bit wider, it's a painful sort of expression. It makes Ori wonder just how often his wolfish grin hides something small and scared like this. "I… I might anticipate it, uh, rupturing the same way the other one did. Worst case." Another pause. "But… at least we know what to do about it now, right?"
"To ease the pain," Alberich acknowledges, but he says it in such a way that the unspoken words, Not to solve the problem, are quite easy to hear.
Which makes Ori feel horribly guilty. "You, ah… should probably try to find a real medic at some point," they suggest as Ansbach returns to them with a long length of soft black cloth in one hand and a damp kerchief in the other. "To maybe, y'know, excise it, or study it, or something like that. I'm…" A guilty beat as Alberich takes the cloth from Ansbach with a soft thank you, and Ansbach begins to wash the dried blood from Alberich's forehead. "I'm just a perfumer," Ori continues. "My work is with medicine. I… I don't know much about diseases, or the peculiarities of the body's anatomy, or even how to cure things — n-not anymore." A hard swallow; another smear of blood across their cheek as they wipe their nose. "I just… try to ease the pain."
"And you're doing a wonderful job," Ansbach says, his tone warm and confident, and he meets Ori's eyes as he says it. There is so much depth within their deep crimson — the wisdom, the care, the lifetimes lived, the decisions made. It makes Ori feel strangely sick.
Ansbach hands the now-bloodied kerchief to Alberich, who takes it and begins to use it to clean his hands, then turns to admire Ori's work — checks from all angles, seeming impressed. Ansbach then fusses a bit with Alberich's hair, almost the way a father might — notably, Alberich does not flinch when Ansbach touches his hair the way he had when Ori did — then helps the sorcerer begin bandaging his head. He doesn't say anything else on the matter.
But Alberich does. "Yes, yes," he acknowledges, even more perk to his tone now, although it's a bit forced. (He can tell that whatever he'd last said had struck at something raw and painful in Ori's heart, which was absolutely not his intent. He's not very good at remedying such things, because he usually makes an effort to not give a shit, but it's different when it's someone he actually likes. He tries his best.) "Feels like the first time I haven't had a headache in months. And… and, well, now I know who to trust if the other one gets worse."
All three of them note that he said "if." As if they aren't all completely certain that it's rather a matter of when.
Regardless, although Ori truly does appreciate the sentiment, it doesn't really do much to help — no, not where it matters most. They used to call themself a healer. They used to be praised for their medicines. There was a time when people would approach them, years after being under their care, and tell them that they saved their lives. But they're nothing but a hospice nurse these days — an important task, of course, but one that, by nature, always ends in death. They're rather sick of the sheer hopelessness of it all. And they're rather worried that Alberich, now a much closer friend than before, might soon become another name on the list of people they couldn't save.
But they try not to let that show on their face. They cannot find it in themself to force a smile, but they do manage to keep their expression neutral. "Yeah, I'll do what I can," they acknowledge as Alberich finishes tucking in the edges of the cloth now covering the upper half of his head — from the mask up, tight and secure, the material concealing his brow and hair along with his eyes. It's a shame, Ori thinks, that he has to cover himself like this now — his expressions are easiest to read in the way he quirks his brow, and his hair always has such volume. "And… maybe you'll find someone who knows more about whatever the hell is going on here than I do," they add, trying to sound optimistic despite decidedly being not. "Or, at least, someone who can help you figure it out."
"Stars, I hate figuring shit out," Alberich jokes, cracking his knuckles now that his hands are free and mostly-clean. (Ansbach, after placing a hand upon Alberich's shoulder for a brief second, returns to his papers across the room without any further acknowledgement.) "I quite like to let things get as bad as they possibly can and then whine about it when it fucking sucks."
More humour that Ori can tell hides pain, but at least this one makes them snort out a genuine laugh — an awkward mist of blood is carried on the breath, and they cover their nose with a small, Ah fuck. Ahem. "Well, I still might suggest keeping an eye out for a proper doctor. Maybe someone with a bit more connection to your Star? Since the red glintstone, if I remember correctly, is a sort of… byproduct of your faith as a thorn sorcerer, yeah? Or has something to do with it?"
Alberich makes an expression that is far more difficult to read with his brow now covered — could be disgust, could be uncertainty, could be pity — then makes a teetering motion with one hand. "Sort of," he says. Pauses. "Not quite, but sort of."
Which, Ori realises after a moment, is just him parroting something they had said earlier. He really is like a child in a lot of ways. This time, when Ori snorts out a half-laugh, they've got their nose preemptively plugged. "Sort of is what I aim for," they mumble bitterly, though Mother knows that that's a lie. They aim for more. They aim for much, much more. They aim to achieve anything, anything at all, beyond what they can do. And they always seem to come up short.
… Though today, they suppose, has been a bit of an exception.
Metaphorically and literally, really. Each time Diedrich turns to look over his shoulder towards the Academy which fades into the fog behind him — a juvenile, paranoid motion, not unalike the way a child might turn to ensure their parents are still behind them as they attempt a frightening task — the thought of trudging all the way back through these terrible waters, even with the use of one of the waygates, makes him feel a sick sort of hopelessness that he would rather wait to address and unpack until after he's completed his mission here.
But his mission is fucking stupid, which is honestly something he knew from the start but that he didn’t truly feel the full weight of until about half past no turning back — until the practiced poise and stylish dignity he uses to conceal his anxiety were both completely out of commission. At first, he had been holding up the skirts of his robes in an attempt to keep them dry — he ought to be presentable, to reflect his thoughtful confidence, right? — but one too many unfortunate missteps in the muddy, rocky, ruin-strewn lakebed have forced him to concede that continuing his attempts would be a complete waste of time and energy. As such, his robes are now soaked from the knees down, hanging heavily and unflatteringly around his ankles, the weight of the waterlogged material making this walk even more hellishly taxing, and he's tired — dear stars above, he is so, so tired.
The lens of his stargazer's telescope had led him to believe that the distance from the waygate to the shore was far more reasonable than it turns out it actually is. But, again, he's come too far to turn back now.
He's beginning to lose his cool now that he is so damn close to his target though — now that there is no spyglass lens to protect him. Diedrich has very little doubt anymore that the man he'd spotted on the lakes' southernmost shores is the one whose shadow has been haunting him like a demon for his entire life — who else could fit such a specific description, decorated in the evidence of countless blood sacrifices, the namesake staff of those found guilty of heresy in his hand? — which is precisely whom Diedrich had thought he'd be completely ecstatic to one day encounter… but the closer he gets, the sharper the scythe the man carries appears to be, and the more Diedrich remembers each and every terrible story he's been told:
Traitor. Heretic. Madman. Murderer.
The metaphorical demon is quite frighteningly real now, and Diedrich has to ask himself: does he truly think himself so charming, so confident, so convincingly charismatic that he could sway the mind of someone whose uncontrollable curiosity so famously drove him over the brink of insanity?
Too far to turn back to the Academy, and too late to stop himself from saying, "Forgive the interruption, sir, but are you the one known as Mad Tongue Alberich?"
Which, he realises only after he's said it, is a remarkably stupid thing to be asking with such pleasant professionalism considering he is naming a known serial killer. But, well, better than beating around the bush, he supposes. Who is a madman to judge another's tone, anyway?
Regardless, the merchant the heretic was in the middle of bargaining with seems far more shocked by Diedrich's blatant addressing of Alberich than Alberich himself does. Haunted yellow eyes widen a bit, the merchant turning his head quickly to look at the mildly-winded and lakewater-drenched sorcerer who now stands a few yards away from them, awkwardly dragging his feet through the grass like a pawing bull, attempting to rid the mud from his toes with very little success.
But, no, Alberich himself does not move much at all — not yet. He is crouched afore the merchant with his elbows rested casually on his knees, his scythe holstered to his back, and his staff resting in the grass beside him — harmless. Being addressed so confidently and directly (let alone by his full moniker) certainly does cause him to perk up slightly, almost like a dog that had just heard something rustle in a nearby bush, but he does not turn to look. No, he's busy wrapping up a trade, and although he is curious why a stranger would approach and acknowledge him so boldly, he doesn't care enough to shift his focus entirely just yet.
A beat. Then, tiredly, Alberich answers, "I might be," in a voice far deeper than Diedrich was expecting him to have. (Given the way the Academy's alumni had spoken of him as such a meek and meagre man, he had expected Alberich to sound much mousier.) The surprise makes the sorcerer blink fast a few times — dart his eyes towards the merchant (who is glancing quickly between the two of them rather warily), then back at Alberich still crouched between them. "What, are you some sort of bounty hunter? Just let m—"
"No, sir, I believe I am your brother."
That catches Alberich's attention completely.
Diedrich is honestly a bit surprised (and perhaps smugly impressed) by his own conviction as he states the damning accusation, his tone proud and stern despite his every instinct telling him to be more tactful; but the way the (armed — yes, he almost forgot he was armed) heretic twitches in obvious discomfort at the words, tensing his shoulders and curling his claws, forces Diedrich to take a single, small step back out of cowardly reflex.
Because, Alberich thinks, who the fuck would say something like that? Fuck, they call him mad… Alberich knows that his more nefarious notoriety, especially under the Mad Tongue moniker, lingers mostly around the Capital, and perhaps a bit around the upper camps of Gelmir, but not so much around the lakes of Liurnia — here, where he, as an optimistic young scholar with no idea how horrible the world could truly be, was quite embarrassingly infamous for his weakness rather than wickedness. What the hell would a presumed local of the Lakes (if the pompously sorcerous air and energy surrounding this guy has anything to say about it) have to gain from such boldly-stated bullshit?
"Well," Alberich begins, the word drawling a bit, taking his staff into his hand and standing slowly — fluid, elegant, and intimidating. He grabs the brim of his hat with his free hand and pulls it down slightly lower over his face, further concealing his already-shadowed features. Hidden in this way, all that the slightly-taller stranger will really be able to see of his face when Alberich finally turns and says, "That's a new one," is the flash of his sharp, carnivorous teeth.
But that's really the only feature Diedrich needs to see for the myth of this man and their supposed relation to be solidified as fact in his mind — a unique, embarrassing feature that they share. Tonguing self-consciously at his own sharp canines, Diedrich takes another step back when Alberich gives his staff a playful little twirl and begins to approach in a menacing strut, red glintstone glittering in the sunlight with every slow step. But surely he has no reason to immediately fear for his safety, Diedrich thinks as he forces himself to take two steps forward, right? He wouldn't attack completely outright — no, certainly not, not over simple words…
… actually, on second thought, if the stories are true…
… Diedrich glances back at the incredulous merchant — who, bless his heart, has quite firmly decided that he wants absolutely no fucking part in this and is making a shooing motion with both hands — before straightening his posture and steeling himself with a deep, silent breath, his grip on his own staff tightening. "I imagine it is," Diedrich says, and his tone is still remarkably confident. "I have journeyed here from the Academy to ask if I may have a word with you."
Which Alberich thinks is a funny thing to say, since he certainly wouldn't use the word "journey" to describe going from the school to the shore — it's just a fucking walk. But, well, students of the Academy aren't really known for getting out much, let alone after the Shattering, so…
Alberich hums in thought briefly, considering the implications in the stranger's statement. "A schoolboy, huh?" he asks, a wry little grin curving one corner of his lips. "Bad place to have learned my name. Y'know, kid, if you just wanted to ask a few questions, you could have skipped your little introductory statement" — he wiggles his clawed fingers sarcastically with that — "and just asked to ask. I don't usually bite~"
Which Diedrich is pretty sure is a lie, and is certain is a lie when, at the sound of the words and the tone used to shape them, the merchant's shooing motions become twice as aggressive.
Right. Almost forgot this was going to be incredibly difficult. In all honesty, Diedrich has spent what is probably an unhealthy amount of time imagining a hundred different ways that this moment might go if and when it should finally happen, yet that seems to have done very little to actually prepare him in the end. He doesn't know why he didn’t expect this to be a worst case scenario.
Diedrich glances apologetically at the merchant one last time, bowing his head in recognition of his request — yes, of course, how terribly awkward having a third party would be — then turns back towards Alberich, warily eyeing the grin he still wears. He decides to leave the heretic's cheeky comment unaddressed. "Might we speak somewhere a bit more private?"
"No witnesses? Now that's asking for trouble," Alberich quickly replies, his threatening amusement able to be heard more than seen. "You're weird. That's weird. But, ah…"
A pause, longer than one simply used for theatrical emphasis; one in which Alberich genuinely weighs his options here. Because this guy has obviously lost his mind, and Alberich can already tell he's got all the resolve of a dust bunny despite the confidence with which he carries himself — been there, done that with the whole fake-it-‘til-you-make-it spiel, after all — so it's not like he's really got much to lose in humouring him…
… except his cool. Because Alberich, loath as he is to admit it, has always been a creature far more easily wounded by words than weapons, and Gods know he doesn’t exactly have the best track record for coming out of conversations with Raya Lucarian elitists unscathed. Rationally, logically, he knows that this random scholar’s claims of familial relation (of all fucking things) are complete nonsense, but the notion alone of possibly having some sort of family — let alone family that actually wants to talk to him — has already affected him somewhere deep and sore and stupid.
Briefly, Alberich wonders if that was the intent: to purposefully knock him off-kilter by assaulting the hidden heart of his loneliness. The thought that a complete stranger might already know his most intimate weaknesses — where to strike for a kill that will keep him down longer than one of flesh and bone — sets him quite dramatically ill at ease. Of course, realistically, he knows that that is a rather farfetched scenario, but it is still a risk he honestly doesn’t think he wants to take given how many terrible memories still linger around these lakes. And yet, as always, whenever he must weigh his self-preservation instincts against his curiosity…
"… Fine. Alright. Let's hear your little story."
Worse comes to worst, he can just kill him.
With another twirl of his staff, and a sarcastic little half-bow of insincere respect, Alberich begins to lead Diedrich slightly back into the water — where his sorceries of ice are most effective, and where the cover of the trees will prevent any prying eyes or helping hands from witnessing whatever may happen here.
Which Diedrich can only assume is precisely why the mad heretic has chosen this muddy copse — it's not exactly a subtle decision. But the obvious threat is probably the point, he figures, especially considering Alberich has been tossing cheap threats this entire goddamn time. Diedrich would like to think it's all just some sort of mind game — an intimidation tactic, all bark and no bite, like some sort of toothless animal flashing bright colours — though a hundred stories would all say otherwise about this particular mutt's willingness to attack. But, well, come too far, and all…
Diedrich does not spare another glance at the merchant before following Alberich into the shade and shadows, and he says nothing as he walks — quietly rehearses his well-practiced speech in his head, and reminds himself that he is an incredible liar when he needs to be.
But they don't walk too terribly far. Alberich chooses a spot with enough space to swing his scythe but enough cover that it'll take a while to find a body, then pivots quickly on his heel to face the odd stranger that has oh-so obediently followed him into the shallows. (He can sense the man's nervousness even despite his convincingly assertive tone; which, Alberich thinks, is as curious as it is sad. Maybe he'll take it easy on him, despite his frustration with his profoundly stupid introduction. Maybe.) The strange sorcerer takes a few quick steps back in surprise when Alberich is suddenly facing him, but he gathers himself quickly, standing up straight and keeping his staff held low — respectfully, nonthreateningly. With a little pout of reluctance, Alberich mirrors the other's pose — staff held low in his offhand (unless this man is left-handed… hm), its bloodied branches briefly leaving red stains in the otherwise-pristine water — if only to give him a fair chance (because it certainly isn't out of respect). "Alright, kid, make it quick," Alberich says, casually shifting his weight to one heel, his free hand coming to rest on his hip.
Diedrich takes a bolstering breath. He can't believe this is really happening. "Unfortunately, the story is not a quick one, and I am rarely capable of brevity when impassioned," he says, trying to keep the air somewhat casual — playful. "I doubt you would believe me were I to skip over any details, either."
"Oh, no, no, don't worry, I'm not going to believe you regardless," Alberich says, then gives the other another childishly wide, wolfish grin — something that once again makes Diedrich tongue at his teeth self-consciously. "Spoken like a true scholar, though! But fine, fine, okay, I do like a good story." (Though they both get the feeling he's not going to like whatever it is that Diedrich is about to say.) "Why don't you just start from the beginning, once upon a time and all, and we'll see how far you get before I lose the last few fucks I have to give, alright?"
Stars above, he really is sort of a jackass… But if the stories Diedrich has heard of all the hell this man has gone through hold any merit — which he is positive they do — he, unfortunately, thinks he understands. He does not let the words affect him. "Alright."
And it's finally showtime.
It begins with another bolstering breath. "My name is Diedrich—"
"Convenient."
"Deliberate, I'm almost inclined to believe." Which came out remarkably smooth and spitfire — rehearsing for this moment prepared him for a few things, it would seem — enough so that Alberich is a bit taken aback by this one's quick wit. Diedrich can see this fact in the man's expression — in the slight tightening of his lips, and in the way he leans back ever so slightly in surprise. Diedrich hopes that's a good thing. He continues with his script. "I am a Twinsage Sorcerer hailing from the Academy of Raya Lucaria, the locked grounds of which I have remained hidden away within for the overwhelming majority of my life." (His tone in this moment is truly that of a master storyteller. It is frustratingly captivating.) "Though I have remained loyal to the Academy since the day I first stepped foot through its gates, I did not always belong to it. My roots yet remain in Leyndell, beneath the Erdtree where I was born. It is a fact that has resonated within the deepest parts of my soul for as long as I can remember, like a divine voice through the fog of academia, though it would seem I was never meant to heed its call — not if the Academy is to continue to have its way with me."
A beat for emphasis — to let the foreshadowing settle. Diedrich tries to gauge the other's response to the story so far, searching his shadowed features for something, but finds himself unable to glean much of anything from his now-neutral expression. It's frustrating how equal parts easy and impossible it is to read this one's face. He continues in a hushed, emphatic tone. "Our family name is Widogast, and I know not what became of our parents after the Shattering. Does that sound at all familiar?"
"Nope." Said with the same spitfire energy and boldness that was just shown to him, though Alberich's tone has a darker, sharper edge to it. The grin returns after that, though that too now seems a bit more dangerous. His tone is bitter. "You're really intent on driving this home, aren't you? Got all your ducks in a row and everything — how long did it take you to come up with thi—?"
"I was never meant to join the Academy," Diedrich continues, interrupting Alberich's snide remarks, significantly more energy in his delicate voice now; and, remarkably, the edge of honest desperation actually makes Alberich shut the hell up for just a moment longer. "I was young, no more than sixteen years of age, when I discovered my penchant for sorcery and promptly, eagerly told my family." (He chooses to say "my" this time, since Alberich does not seem to like when he says "our.") "Proudly, I told them that I wished to pursue the study, and that I intended to approach the Academy. I was positive that this new path was the one I was meant to follow."
A small pause for dramatic effect. His voice then grows a bit darker, heavier, like one introducing the villain in a faerietale. "They did not want me to join. They were adamant about it. They outright refused to offer me their blessing, withholding their approval like a hostage kept for ransom. My decision to pursue an education in sorcery was the first time in my life I had ever outright betrayed my family, because I was upset, and because I did not understand." Another small pause. "But I quickly learned."
"Alright, playwright, you’re not making this quick," Alberich says, agitated. He gets the feeling he knows where this asinine story is leading, and he quite thinks he’d rather not hear it laid out so vividly. Still, despite his best efforts to remain aloof, he would be lying if he said a part of himself — that deep and sore and stupid part of himself — wasn't morbidly curious. And when anything is measured against his curiosity… “You’re lucky your stage voice is pleasant to listen to. How many times did you rehearse this obvious script in the mirror, hm?”
The answer is “a deranged amount of times,” but that’s only for Diedrich and the stars to know. He steps cleanly around the question. “I am simply trying to ensure that I do not spare any details,” he says, sounding a bit breathless. “I know that no man would ever believe a story such as this were any details to be spared. The foundation must be set for the structure to hold weight. I cannot risk collapse. It is crucial that you believe me. Please, let me continue."
"And why, pray tell, is it so damn crucial that I believe you?" Alberich asks, his irritation with this whole ordeal finally beginning to surface — to crack the thick ice of his curiosity. "You said you wanted to 'have a word with me,'" — he mimics Diedrich's voice when he says this, and Diedrich is quite unnerved by the way it is almost like looking in a haunted mirror — "so what the hell is it that you really want? I refuse to believe that having your sad little life story heard out is the only reason you’re monologuing at me."
Diedrich’s pause to consider just how much he is willing to reveal and the consequences each answer may have lasts only a second. "No, it is not the only reason," he answers honestly. "But if I am only to be granted enough of your time to speak of one thing and one thing only, I would rather it be this than anything else. Please, let me continue."
Which makes Alberich’s sneer twitch into a frown, mostly because he can undeniably hear and feel just how desperate this sorry sorcerer is steadily becoming, and it's making him nervous. He doesn't like feeling nervous. And he likes it even less when he’s nervous because someone is thumbing at the scar behind which his fragility hides. He doesn't know how much more time he's willing to risk offering here… which, unfortunately, means that Diedrich is correct: one thing and one thing only. Probably.
Alberich shifts his weight slightly — out of his casual lean and into a more sturdy, combat-ready stance, both feet planted firmly in the riverbed — and lowers his chin slightly in acceptance. He does not say anything. Diedrich does not know him outside of myths, but he can tell that the silence is abnormal.
But it gives him time to speak, and that’s the only thing that matters here. His storyteller's facade begins to shift into something more raw — more real. "This was long before the Shattering," Diedrich continues, "and, I'm sorry to say, your name was still on the tongues of the old scholars." Which makes Alberich’s scowl grow even grimmer. Diedrich has to fight back the urge to take a fearful step back. He instead straightens up confidently. "They were quick to tell me the story that my parents never did: that I was not my family's first child; that another child, another boy from Leyndell, had come to the Academy before me, sent by force rather than choice."
"And that, supposedly, was me, is your story…?" Alberich asks, and his tone is even darker than his expression. He is no longer holding his staff downwards and disengaged. He plants the broken bough firmly into the waters, fingertips fidgeting with its blood-dampened branches.
Diedrich nods with assurance — realises he is uncertain if the man can see him nodding, so adds, quite firmly, "Yes."
More unnatural silence follows. Diedrich eyes Alberich closely, once again searching for signs of anything that may indicate he is getting through to him. He cannot help but notice the heretic's fingertips twitching, as if he were eager — on edge. He is also slightly tapping one heel now, making the water around them both ripple. He is anxious; that much is certain. And although Diedrich cannot say for certain if that is a good or bad thing, he has a terrible feeling that it’s the latter.
We've come this far… Once again taking advantage of the silence, Diedrich continues, his voice adopting the gravitas of an elegist, as dramatic as it is enthralling. "You have haunted me ever since," he says slowly, the words pointed and deliberate, and Alberich leans back slightly in indignant surprise. "The shadow you had left lingering at the Academy was the blemish against which my every achievement, my every mistake, my every dream was contrasted.” Again, Alberich looks utterly offended, his mouth now slightly agape, stuttered noises leaving him as if he were trying to argue. Diedrich can only hope that, if nothing else, that means his words are affecting him in some way — any way — that may leave him vulnerable. "I never met you, for I was never meant to; but they made sure that I knew you — you and every single mistake that you had ever made."
"Like what?”
A question he shouldn’t have asked, because Diedrich is eager to answer. "Like how you had abandoned the Academy before completing the review of a single Conspectus; how you spoke so lovingly and longingly about the Erdtree before betraying Raya Lucaria for it; how you then turned to studying magics loathed by the Academy and the Order alike, shaming everyone; how you were so garrulous and queer and constantly questioned authority — bent the rules, pushed the boundaries, searched for answers in forbidden places. For what must be centuries by now, I have had the words of all who had known you in my ear, telling me how proud they were of me for staying the path, true to the stars, despite my errant blood. I completed all of my studies. I never let faith sway me. Curiosity never led me astray. I was well-liked. I was applauded for my successes. I was exactly what they wanted me to be. I was not you."
Each statement feels like the lash of a thorned whip against the most delicate parts of Alberich’s soul, and he is starting to get really fucking sick of it. He knew he shouldn’t have taken the risk in speaking with a scholar. "So you're better than me in every fucking way imaginable and everybody just fucking loves you for it, is what you're saying," he says, and though his tone is dark and thick as tar, it is also audibly tight with obvious, anxious panic.
Which is a good thing, Diedrich thinks, because that means he’s breaking him down. He chooses to match Alberich’s severity to the best of his ability. "Such was the purpose of my existence," Diedrich says grimly, agreeing without really agreeing. "I was meant to correct your mistakes."
"Wonderful. Congratulations. So why the fuck did you just have to tell me this."
"Because I don’t want to live this lie anymore."
Which, upon immediate reflection, Alberich isn't really surprised to hear him say, because it is the most obvious conclusion to the bullshit narrative this man has been presenting — wraps up all the loose ends, neatly aligns all of the clues he has been leaving. Alberich had stupidly allowed him to set his foundation, just as he’d wanted, and now the man has constructed a guillotine.
He really should have known better.
Despite the story’s climax having yet to be resolved, Alberich has pretty much decided that he doesn't want to hear any more, nor does he think that this man deserves any time to gloat about successfully seeking him out just to make him feel like shit. He doesn't respond with words, for he has been rendered incapable of finding any. Instead, he sends a crystal clear message in silence: unholsters his scythe from his back, strengthens his posture, and waits.
It is the first time Diedrich has felt a true, overwhelming urge to give up and run since this whole endeavour began — felt the terror of a prey animal overcome him, forcing him to choke back a whimper of fear. But he can tell that his words are rattling the heretic in a place far deeper than his anger, which means, if Diedrich is clever (and, of course, careful), there’s a good chance he will be able to destroy the walls of Alberich’s resolve completely, shattering him from the inside out. Diedrich had been told that Alberich was fragile — another thing he was praised for: having thicker skin than the one who came before him. He was told that Alberich was easy to make cry, for he was easy to injure with insults — was told that he was isolated and lonely and easy to trick because of it, too eager to lap at any offered hands.
They told Diedrich all of this, never realising that Diedrich was so terribly fragile, too. But that just means he has an inkling for how to proceed in the most devastating way possible.
"They think I am exactly what they want me to be," Diedrich says, returning to his speech, though his voice sounds far more earnestly, unflatteringly human now that the script has been flipped. "They think that I am the perfect scholar, having slotted myself neatly into their ranks of hive-minded zealots, never once questioning the authority of their dogmatic doctrine. I am not curious. I am not interesting. There is absolutely nothing that sets me apart; because, if there was, it would mean that I run the risk of following the same path of aberrancy that you had walked before me.
"But that is not what lies at my heart." And here, he begins to gesture slightly — places his free hand upon his breast, above his heart, gripping the fabric of his robes lightly. "I don't want to be like this — to keep living so soullessly, so mechanically. I have a heart, and it yearns so terribly, and it belongs both with and beyond the Academy, and it feels as though, if I don't finally let it free, it may consume me from the inside out."
"How poetic."
"I don't want to be perfect. I don't want to be just another zombified sorcerer. I want to be something, anything more than what I was supposed to be.
"I want to be more like you."
Here, Diedrich lets the weight of the sentiment sit, heart thudding loudly in his chest as he, terrified, waits to see how the other reacts. He knows these lines could spell life or death. His nerves have settled like a terrible nausea in his gut. A beat passes, then he lowers his hand slowly — balls his fingers into a tight, determined fist at his side, and holds his posture proud.
In all honesty, more than anything else in this moment, Alberich is mostly just upset that this fucker's words are affecting him as much as they are. This whole bullshit story and the way it was presented was obviously meant to break him down, to target him specifically, fashioned to kill him and him alone, and he can't for the life of himself figure out what the hell he did to deserve such a personal, pointed attack. He knows he is not well-liked, knows good and well that he has more enemies in this world than he could ever even know about, and he’s rather at peace with that knowledge these days — immune to the way they call him a monster and a madman. He has come to be able to stomach cheap, surface mockery with relative ease — insults aimed towards his morality, his looks, his nature as something fundamentally undesirable. He is used to people pounding their fists against the surface of how he has chosen to present himself, but this…?
This is just unfair.
It takes a moment for Alberich to consider every angle of the sorcerer's words — to fully break apart and gnaw on and consider each and every facet of this story of the perfect, praised, adored little schoolboy who wants to break the shackles of his sublimity — but Alberich eventually comes to a conclusion. And it's one he gets the feeling Diedrich is gonna hate as much as he does.
"No," Alberich begins, the word coming out strict and dark as an executioner's command. "No, no, I don't think you want to be like me, actually — no, not at all." A step forward. It is heavy and determined. "You don't want to be like me. You just want the luxuries that come with having everything you’ve ever loved stolen from you, and therefore having absolutely fucking nothing left to lose."
Which, for a split second, makes Diedrich's breath catch in his throat. This wasn’t supposed to be in the script. He never rehearsed for this role. Alberich can hear it — can feel it in the way he breathes in sharply and his halo suddenly appears so vibrant with fear. He takes another step forward. "You want to be able to tap into your own ugliness, your own darkness, and fuck up, and be imperfect, but without people looking at you like a failure. You want to be a little troublemaker, a shitty little brat who gets to bend the rules, but without facing any of the consequences. You covet my freedom. You don't covet who I am."
Which Diedrich doesn't have much of an argument for. The realisation that he doesn’t at all know how this act is meant to go terrifies him enough that he takes four steps back when Alberich takes two more forward.
The knowing that this pathetic sorcerer is outright terrified of him in this moment fills Alberich's shame-heated heart with a rush of bloodthirsty power — an executioner's thrill; a desire to draw blood just to hear the creature scream. He sweeps his scythe forward, aimed for the other's throat, and he can hear the man gasp when he steps back again. Alberich is equal parts impressed and frustrated when the sorcerer doesn’t immediately turn and run. "You want to break the rules without facing any of the consequences," Alberich repeats himself, his voice gaining volume, emboldened by his humiliated adrenaline and the knowing that he and he alone now holds the power to decide when this fucker dies. "You don't want to face the torture, the humiliation, the months, years of pain and suffering that I endured for the crime of being a failure — of being different. You don't want to be hunted, imprisoned, shackled, beaten, maimed, crippled, disfigured, debased, destroyed the way I was. You don't want to be mocked, you don't want to embarrass yourself, you don't want to be disliked or loathed or feared or shunned — no, you want to be treated perfect, but you don't want to be perfect. You don't want to be like me! Nobody would ever want to be like me! Nobody would ever want to suffer what I suffered through for the crime of being me—!"
"You deserved better."
It is said just as the cold curve of Alberich's scythe tucks neatly under the sorcerer's chin, and it sounds too earnestly pained to be the words of a man simply desperate to live rather than those of one desperate to tell the truth.
And Alberich has no fucking idea how to handle that.
Diedrich can see the way the heretic's expression so immediately falls — his ferocious, snarling, fang-jutted scowl immediately tightening into terrified shock. Alberich clenches his teeth, and he stiffens so dramatically that his weapon shakes unsteadily in his hand, and there is such an undeniable hurt in his expression, even half-concealed as it is, that it convinces Diedrich that what he is about to say is as true as he always had an inkling it was.
"Alberich," Diedrich begins, now off-script and improvising, letting fate and his heart compose the finale, "I have heard so many terrible things about you and never once understood what you did to deserve it." A breath. The frost-enchanted blade is so cold against his jaw. It makes his teeth ache. It makes his tongue stiff. He continues despite the discomfort. "I’ve had stories recounted to me of your experiments, the unique angles from which you approached and solved dilemmas, as if they were cautionary tales. I never understood how you were meant to be the villain. It never sounded like you did anything wrong. It only sounded like you were considering things that were out of their reach, and that made them angry. More often than not, at the end of those stories, as they laughed about your peculiar methods” — and here, despite everything, his words hitch over a small, bittersweet laugh — “I found myself thinking, ‘That’s genius! Why didn’t I think of that!’”
Alberich’s blade lowers ever so slightly, but it’s not done on purpose. Rather, he is simply so caught up in the words’ sentiment that he feels overwhelmingly weak — like his grip is fit to give out; like he’s made of shadow and dust. Diedrich takes advantage of this moment of incapacity by taking a small step back, the waters rippling calmly beneath him.
"I’m so sorry, Alberich," Diedrich continues, and it sounds so painfully genuine because it is. "I should not have been born. You should have been allowed the luxuries which I was granted. It is a crime that they were robbed from you. It is unfair. And I am sorry that you had to find out this way.
"But I need to know the truth," and here, he sounds almost choked-up, which is not at all like him, and somehow Alberich intrinsically knows that. "I need to know that they were wrong. I need to know who you really are. Because the more I heard about you, the more I realised you sound a hell of a lot like the me I’ve kept secret for a lifetime. I don’t think that I'm a bad person. And I don’t think that you are, either."
A beat. Another step back. The scythe lowers further, and Diedrich honestly feels terrible about it — about rendering Alberich so instantly, painfully broken, despite that having been his initial intent. Diedrich knows well from a hundred recounted stories that Alberich has dealt with more than enough people destroying his resolve with their words already. He knows that he didn’t have much of a choice, but he still feels some guilt in the knowing that he has just so deliberately added his name to that list.
"I'm sorry," Diedrich reiterates sadly. "You did nothing wrong. You’re a good person, and you deserved better. That is what I have always wanted to believe.
“… Please, don’t prove me wrong."
In this taut, terrible moment, Alberich feels smaller than he has in a damn long time — like the most pathetic, inconsequential star in the cosmos — and it has him completely paralysed. His rage- and shame-blinded adrenaline still courses through him, hot and violent in his veins, making his heart pound nauseatingly, but the anger has nowhere to go with the rest of himself so frozen. He trembles. His teeth chatter slightly. He feels sick to his stomach. He feels like he’s finally been heard.
Which is exactly the problem, isn't it? Because Alberich has always been so devastatingly desperate for someone else to truly hear him. All he has ever wanted, though he would never admit it out loud, is for someone to listen to his story, and understand his pain, and tell him that everything will be alright, and that his past does not make him unloveable. The fact that someone he has never even met — someone who has just proven that they already know the ugliest parts of him — is both willing and eager to do so, despite everything, is…
Well, it means something. It means something, and it hurts, and it’s the most frightening thing in the world.
(The bitter truth is that Diedrich had known from the start that kindness here would be the key — would quickly muzzle this snapping mutt — given what he’d been told about Alberich’s sad desperation to be accepted. He feels quite bad for manipulating Alberich in this way; but, again, he didn't have much of a choice.)
(Perhaps, someday, he will be able to make it up to him.)
When the scythe’s blade is finally fully lowered, its enchanted edge leaving a glittering ribbon of frost upon the water’s surface, Diedrich is quite confident that he's finally managed to get what he has always wanted, and he exhales long and soft in relief. (What he didn’t anticipate is the honest guilt he feels over just how much pain he has shamelessly thrust upon Alberich in the process — he, the man whom Diedrich was so often told with such great humour was oh-so fun and easy to hurt. He may be a raptor, but clipping his wings in this way still feels terrible. How could anyone make a game of this?) Diedrich feels at the raw mark of near-frostbite that the icy scythe has left on his throat, trying to soothe away the ache with his warm, clammy palm. Still, he eyes the heretic — this other sorcerer, so alike himself — carefully, cautiously as he does so.
Alberich takes a deep breath, and it is quite embarrassingly shaky. He doesn't like that he is certain the quiver can be heard, and he likes even less that he is sure it must be equally apparent on his face. Shyly, almost, Alberich turns slightly to half-conceal his face behind his collar — a fitting place to hide the evidence of his grief given the reason why he dons such garish accessories to begin with.
Only once Alberich knows that his face is mostly concealed does he admit, "I never wanted to be like this." His next inhale is a sad but telling little sniffle. "You're lucky you get to choose."
Which hurts Diedrich tremendously to hear. It's strange — unnerving, perhaps upsetting, though honestly not at all surprising — how he has only just met this man in person, yet it feels as though he's known him for his entire life. The guilt is a bit disproportionate. He feels a great yearning to embrace him.
A sentiment which Alberich does not share, and does not anticipate ever beginning to. Defeated, defeathered, the heretic once again holsters his scythe to his back — a concession of sorts, and a confession — and wipes the anxious sweat from his face with one palm. "You said there was something else that you wanted to ask me," he then says, attempting to feign more confidence than he feels, desperate to leave the prior topic behind for as long as humanly possible. "What was it?"
Diedrich takes a deep, centring, unbelievably relieved breath. Then, a bit boldly, he steps closer to where Alberich now stands, the heretic turned slightly away and removed by several paces. Diedrich had prepared a dramatic speech to answer this question too, but he decides to discard it in favour of true candidness instead. That seems to be what moves Alberich the most, after all. And it is what Alberich deserves to hear the most, too. "In secret,” Diedrich begins, “unbeknownst to my peers and elders, I have been attempting to follow a thread of insight once gifted to me by a former colleague — which, if my theory is correct, could potentially reveal a truth that I know the Academy would deem heretical." For now, at least, he matches Alberich's desire to not discuss the prior topic any longer, so its dirty weight does not carry over into his tone while addressing this new subject. He sounds conversational, if not a bit overenthusiastic. "All of my research has led me to believe that the key to unlocking this mystery lies hidden within the divine insight granted only to your ilk — you, the aberrant Thorn Sorcerers."
At those words, Alberich turns slightly, appearing as if he were glancing over his shoulder at Diedrich. The glintstone sorcerer pauses in his explanation, just in case Alberich has something to say, but he, quite strangely, does not. The silence itself is an accusation, however. Diedrich takes this into account as he continues. "Ashamedly, I have been far too terrified of leaving the Academy to attempt any field research on my own, not even after discovering this remarkable thread and knowing well that the Guilty often convene in these valleys. But then I saw you, standing here on the shore, and I realised that this could be my one and only chance to uncover any of the hidden truths that have been plaguing me.
"This is the first time I have set foot outside of the Academy since the Shattering," Diedrich confesses, hoping that the weight of that fact will help influence Alberich's decision — which it sort of immediately does, if only because Alberich is starting to feel some concern for this guy and his dangerously deviant theorems. "I believe you may be the only one who can help me. I could not let this opportunity slip by."
Which means something, but Alberich doesn't quite know exactly what just yet. He's honestly a bit annoyed that, after all of this heavy-handed, overemotional bullshit, this guy is asking for help on a fucking research paper. The mild frustration, though still tempered by his fragility, gives Alberich the confidence to turn back around. "Hell of a fucking detour you took just to ask me to help tutor you in briar sorceries, if that's what you're implying," he says, and though his tone is undoubtedly still heavy and dark, it has a toothless sort of edge to it — disarmed. "You could have just asked. You could have just trotted up and said, 'Excuse me, mister Alberich, I was told that you were a thorn sorcerer; could you please direct me to the nearest prisoner camp? I have this paper to write, you see—'"
"I believe I already said that my studies were my secondary concern with regards to speaking with you," Diedrich interrupts, though it is clear in his tone — and this is both good and bad — that he is trying to hold back a laugh at the heretic’s stupid joke and the ridiculous voice he told it in. (The fact that he almost made him laugh makes Alberich smile slightly. It is a much friendlier smile this time than any Diedrich has seen on his face before.) "Selfishly, I put my desire to learn the truth of your nature as the man called Mad Tongue Alberich above that of your nature as a uniquely well-spoken Thorn Sorcerer." Pause. "If you'll forgive me for speaking of you as a subject of study rather than a man."
"Offense taken, and you're not forgiven," Alberich says, but there's enough ironic humour in his tone that, if nothing else, Diedrich still feels more or less safe in this moment. "Look, I don't doubt that my shining reputation as a bitch and a failure still lingers at the Academy, but you could have skipped the whole ‘brothers’ narration and just said you saw my headstone in the courtyard and received a few too many answers when you asked about it. Bit heavy-handed for a lie, don't you think?"
Which Diedrich isn't surprised to hear him say, but it is still tremendously frustrating. Their bond of blood is the whole damn crux of all his life’s misery, after all, and he wishes Alberich would take it seriously. "It is because we are brothers that I was forced to take an interest in you," he says, attempting to match the bitter playfulness, though his upset still tinges his tone slightly. "The school has plenty of more bombastic legends."
"Or you could just be some sort of pervert who heard the words 'aberrant sorcerer,' got a hard-on, and decided to make meeting me your freakish little goal in life." Which makes Diedrich blink fast a few times in shock, though Alberich obviously cannot see it. (He can, however, hear him stutter indignantly for a second.) "Can’t say I’ve ever been the apple of a stalker’s eye before! I'll take it as a compliment only because any other way of taking it is fucking weird."
"Whether or not you choose to believe me is your prerogative," Diedrich says, clearly frustrated but still trying to mirror Alberich’s cheekily jeering tone. "Unfortunately for you, I can say with confidence that anyone else would immediately believe it just based on resemblance alone."
"Awh, so you also look like a pretty little girl? You have the voice to fit one."
Diedrich blinks fast a few times again, though this time his expression settles into one of honest exasperation — exhausted defeat. "I wish you wouldn't say it like that, but I've little room to argue,” he says, and Alberich lets out an amused little ‘a-haw!’ of laughter, which makes Diedrich smile a bit. He then adopts a more theatrically pompous tone. "Though I would rather describe my voice as bardic or thespianesque more than anything."
Which, thankfully for both of them, makes Alberich chuckle a bit, appreciative of the self-aware sort of humour. "Well, congrats on being beautiful to match your every other perfection," he says, "but you're still full of shit."
Alberich grins childishly wide with that — uncanny, almost inhuman — and although Diedrich is certainly pleased to see that the playfulness is warming the heretic up, and although he certainly could continue to focus on keeping the mood light, he spots an opportunity in that wolfish maw and decides to take a leap for it.
"Here, let me try something," Diedrich says before he can second-guess himself, taking a few confident steps forward to narrow the space between them. (Surprisingly to the both of them, the movement catches Alberich off-guard enough that he takes a step back. They both decide to pretend like that didn't happen.) "May I see your hand? I might be able to convince you."
Which seems harmless enough, Alberich supposes, though it’s typically he himself who asks to use his hands to feel out the details that the Blood Star keeps secret. Still, he tilts his head like a pup, confused and curious, and quirks an amused brow. "If you want me to feel your delicate, feminine features as if that will somehow prove something, it won't," he says, though he does so while presenting his free hand, palm down and pliant, for the other to take, like a snooty noble offering their ring for a knight to kiss.
"Not quite," Diedrich says, taking Alberich's hand into his own. (He has to fight back a shudder with how unnaturally cold his fingers are, and that makes him already regret what he is about to do.) He lifts Alberich's hand towards his face, palm upon his cheek, and the heretic cups his jaw politely. "Forgive me, but this may seem strange at first," Diedrich says, then shifts Alberich's thumb towards his lips.
Which is strange as hell, and makes Alberich quirk his brow even more dramatically, feigning scandal. So this guy is some sort of freak. Alberich gives a false gasp, then half-whispers, “Wow, you really are a pervert!” as he traces the arc of the other's upper lip with his thumb — which Diedrich really, really, really wishes he hadn’t said right before he, with naught but a roll of the eyes serving as hesitation, guides Alberich’s thumb between his parted lips.
Okay, yeah, extremely weird. Enough so that even Alberich, in all his vulgarity, almost recoils from the motion. But the reasoning behind this most ludicrous of gestures thankfully becomes incredibly clear, incredibly fast.
The rough pad of his thumb is guided to Diedrich's teeth — to his sharp canines, both above and below, utterly inhuman in their bizarrely beastlike prominence. Once again, Alberich's expression falls quite quickly and dramatically, spine stiffening straight, as he presses his thumb to the tip of one uncanny canine.
It’s an unusually specific feature.
An incredibly specific feature.
One that Alberich has only ever noted in himself prior.
Now honestly scandalised, Alberich withdraws his hand quickly, making a little show of disgust by shaking it off as if it were covered in some foul liquid. "This joke isn’t funny anymore," Alberich says, though there is less humour in his tone this time and rather something more like fear. He doesn't like the implications here: that this guy might not be as full of shit as he thought he was.
An awkward pause follows, one in which Diedrich can tell that Alberich is trying to decide how he wants to handle this situation moving forward. Anxiously, honestly unsure of what the heretic will do, Diedrich keeps his silence — fidgets a bit with the staff in his hands, but otherwise remains patiently still.
For a while, silence.
Then, having not actually come to any conclusions and thinking he’d rather keep it that way for now, Alberich takes a deep breath, then makes a show of leaning to the side as if to peer around Diedrich's shoulder, clearly more for play than purpose. "You said this is your first time leaving the Academy since the Shattering, right?" he asks genuinely, and Diedrich nods his affirmation — nods, once again realises he is uncertain if Alberich can see such a gesture, says "Yes, sir," obediently, then nervously listens again. "Hell of a trek," Alberich continues, which is certainly a different tune than he was singing earlier. "These waters are incredibly dangerous, least of all for someone who, I can only assume, can't defend themselves worth a shit, hmm?"
Not appreciated, but sadly also not inaccurate. Diedrich takes a deep breath — holds it, considers the meaning of this moment, then exhales in a light huff. "I needed to know the truth," he reiterates, just as firmly as before, but he leaves it at that.
Which sucks as an answer, but mostly for Diedrich, because it means that Alberich has very little reason to continue giving a fuck. "Then allow me to escort you back to the Academy where you belong so you don't get yourself killed for your attempts at discovery," he says. Then, a bit darker, and with all the edge of a slap to the face, "Wouldn't want to end up like me, now, would you…?"
… Bastard.
Diedrich has very little to say to that, having exhausted or discarded all of his scripts, and it’s not like he has much room to argue, either. Still, although it is a hopeless sentiment on its surface, and although the words do make Diedrich’s stomach drop as if all hope had just died right before his eyes, he gets the feeling that there is far more to the heretic’s words than what can be gleaned from the surface — that Alberich will not truly dismiss him once they reach the schoolgrounds, because he could never be so black and white.
And so he accepts, and so they walk, and so they converse along the way.
And so they arrive at, and part ways upon, the ruins of the college town.
And so they meet again in three days' time, tucked into a hidden alcove on Liurnia's western shores.
And so, when Alberich greets Diedrich with a cheeky, "Alright, asshole, welcome to Heresy 101," Diedrich stops him to say, "Actually, Alberich, I was hoping we could discuss something else first."
Alberich gets the feeling he knows exactly what the nature of that something else is; and though he doesn't think he’ll like it, he allows Diedrich to explain himself regardless: "I don't want you to think that this is all just some sort of trick to convince you to divulge your knowledge," Diedrich says, which is unfortunately right on the money for Alberich’s current (albeit latent) anxieties. “I don't want you to feel used. Really, Alberich, I cannot thank you enough for your time, and your trust, and your understanding, and— and just for being here, really. With me. Truly.
"... Could you start by, maybe, just… telling me about yourself? In your own words? Please?”
And so, irrevocably, Alberich once again makes the mistake of allowing a stranger into his heart.
Fortissax can smell the sorcerer’s peculiar and unique scent of mushroom soap and heretical blood approaching far before he realises he is approaching with a purpose. The Ancient Dragon is fairly certain that this particular member of Lord Godwyn's little coterie has taken a liking to him, which is frustrating given the little one's tendency to be an intrusive nuisance to all those who would grant him grace. Fortissax doesn't particularly care for the heretic's chatter, and he was quite enjoying his alone time up here on the golden hills of Altus, nothing but the whirring of winds and the calling of distant birds sounding in his ears, watching the horizon shift in colour with each passing cloud…
But, alas, he can smell Alberich approaching, and he gets the feeling that willing the sorcerer to simply pass him by is a foolish hope. Thus, he is not really surprised — but is still slightly miffed — when the tiny human continues to get closer, 'til Fortissax can hear the Tarnished's trudging footsteps through the grasses nearby.
In all honesty, though, Alberich only kinda likes Fortissax. He's cruel and vain and huge and stupid and, despite Godwyn's best attempts to mend both ends of this most tense and awkward clashing of personalities, Alberich cannot help but feel constantly judged and belittled when in the company of the dread dragon. He trusts Godwyn when the Demigod says that Fortissax simply has a different way of thinking and encourages Alberich to take the dragon's words and curiosity at face value, but it's just so damn hard to not overthink every word and question when Alberich has lived such a long and terrible life of people hiding cruel truths behind crueller words, if not outright insulting him in an attempt to break him down.
He wants to like Fortissax — really, truly, he does — and he wants Fortissax to like him, too. But he gets the feeling neither are going to happen any time soon.
But what else is there to do other than just keep trying?
Still, Alberich feels a sort of pessimism he so rarely does fill his chest with painful, humiliated heat when he has finally made it close enough to the massive dragon to be fully seen, and Fortissax, in silence, turns his head to observe the heretic with one intimidating, judgmental, bright gold eye.
Fortissax notes the way the heretic pauses when he turns to observe him, almost as if the human was flinching — as if he was afraid. Such a reaction is a common one for humans to have, especially when Fortissax is presenting as he is today — in his true, massive, intimidating draconic form — but the pale one has always been rather unusually plucky, vexingly forward with how and when he decides to bother the Ancient Dragon. Quite annoyingly, they both are well aware that Godwyn's affection grants this one immunity from Fortissax's fearsome claws. He is often bullheaded as a result — often meets Fortissax's frustration with overconfident cockiness. The hesitation is abnormal. So is his unusual gait. So is the smell of burning on his clothes. So is the pained, frightened frown he wears.
Strange. Fortissax lifts himself ever so slightly onto his forepaws so that he may turn to face Alberich a bit more properly — angles his body perpendicular to the heretic, his neck craned to fix both eyes upon him.
When he dips his head low, closer now to Alberich’s height, and acknowledges, "You are distressed," Alberich immediately begins to whine in fear.
At least, that's what it sounds like to Fortissax. But the truth is that Alberich has been trying his damnedest to keep himself together through all of the stressful bullshit of the day, desperate to make it to Leyndell where he can hide and rest, and he was just about ready to give up hope. Fortissax, despite being the fractious and terrible thing that he so often is, was like a promising beacon through the murk of his terror when the heretic spotted his electric red-and-white halo atop this particular hill — in some twisted, unfortunate way, given the fact that attempting to negotiate with Fortissax without Godwyn there to "translate" is often a fool's errand at best. The dragon has helped him before. He has also abandoned him before. But mostly, of course — and this is honestly the only thing that Alberich truly fears these days — he has been rude enough to make him wish he was dead.
And yet, he is so tied to Godwyn — so tied to that specific, intrinsic atmosphere of safety and reprieve — that Alberich cannot help but be relieved to find the beast here.
Unfortunately, his relief in these sorts of situations — situations where he feels a sort of comfort-in-the-midst-of-something-terrible that he really only feels when in Godwyn's company — tends to manifest as little sobs that break his speech and hitch in his throat. He does not like to cry in front of others — stars know he's done it enough in the past that he's become truly sick of it (and the way people respond to it) — least of all this fucking guy, but he finds himself without the ability to really do much to stop it when what Fortissax's presence means truly hits him: Fortissax is here, which means Godwyn's warmth is within reach; and when Alberich is surrounded by Godwyn's warmth, he no longer has to struggle and suffer. And just when he was convinced he had no hope left at all…
… still, he wishes such relief didn't come in the form of such a terrible creature, because he's certain Fortissax is going to, at the very least, have something shitty to say about his sad attempts at stifling his sniffles.
Which he does… sort of. Fortissax cranes his neck even lower, his chin cutting through the grass, eyeing Alberich closely — noting his messy hair, his torn clothing, the layers of dry-then-fresh blood on his fingertips, the way he is trying very hard to steady his fear-stricken breaths — and he feels some concern at what a mess the typically-tidy heretic is. Alas, his very real concern is hard to hear in his voice when he asks, "What is wrong?" and even harder to hear when he adds, "You appear as if smaller than usual."
Which Alberich doesn't appreciate one fucking bit, but he can do very little to argue the notion when just how sore his muscles and painful his injuries are is finally catching up to him, nor when he chokes on a small sob when he opens his mouth to respond.
Whatever.
Alberich stumbles forward, tired legs finally giving out as the last of his adrenaline leaves him, damn near falling against the dragon's stone-scaled snout when his knees hit the ground — crumpling, defeated, in the grass. (Small indeed, as much as he hates to admit it.) But despite how much his muscle memory of snapping at beating hands is begging him to defend himself in this moment — to defend his honour from the attack of Fortissax's insults — Alberich instead forces himself to be honest, because that is what Godwyn had told him to do with Fortissax. He has little other choice but to trust him. "I'm being pursued," he says, and the weight of that makes him choke up slightly more. He tries to swallow it. He isn't very successful. "I keep thinking I've outrun them, but they keep catching up, and I don't even know what I did—"
"Do not cry," Fortissax suggests rather strictly, but he can tell it 'came out wrong,' as the humans say, when he sees Alberich recoil at the words and cover his mouth with one filthy hand. Right. Tones. We are working on tones. The dragon exhales softly through his teeth. "Please," he adds in an attempt to remedy. "It is worrying to see you distressed. Lord Godwyn is unhappy when you are distressed, and thus so am I."
Which is almost nice, and Alberich almost appreciates it, but Fortissax just has to ruin it by adding, "I know you are capable of greater strength than this. What has left you so battered and weakened?"
Truly, he means nothing by the comment — simply wants to specify the observations that had led him to this question — but Alberich immediately bristles at the words, hating the fact that someone whom he was just so relieved to see has just so immediately made him feel like a fool for considering him an ally — for leaving himself open and allowing himself to get hit. He wants to spit and snap and argue that he is not weak, he is just tired, he just needs somewhere safe to rest, and if Fortissax has any more shit to say about it Alberich will show the ignorant brute just how not weak he is, you son of a bitch, but…
… well. Again, he remembers Godwyn so clearly, patiently, but concernedly telling him to take Fortissax's words as straightforwardly as possible — to not search for any hidden cruelty, any ulterior motives — and he will certainly learn exactly how it is that the dragon thinks. Alberich doesn't really believe it, but he didn't believe a lot of the things Godwyn told him at first. Things he knows now to be facts only after time had proved them to be true over and over again. Perhaps this is a good moment to test just how much this stupid lizard really means it when he says that he, by Godwyn's command if nothing else, will keep Alberich safe, even when he is not being surveilled.
And so, the heretic swallows his pride and bitter upset, and answers straightforwardly: "I'm— I'm crying because I'm scared," he answers — which in of itself is a hell of a fucking thing for him to say to anyone (that isn't Godwyn) — backtracking a bit to give some added context, "and I'm scared because— because I apparently pissed off the wrong cavalrymen down in the valley, and have had soldiers after me since daybreak, and they already got their hands on me twice, and I don't know how the hell I got out of that, but I did, and I'm tired, and I’m hurt, and I— I need h-help. Um. I need— pr— protection. Please."
Gods, he hates hearing the words leave his mouth, because he feels like a damn stupid child, weak and useless and unable to think or fend for himself, and he would rather the obvious implications that he needs help be apparent enough that he needn't ask for it outright — needn’t acknowledge his miserable desperation out loud…
But — because Godwyn is always right — the explanation helps tremendously. Alberich is on his knees, collapsed and weak, trembling slightly from exertion and injury, and Fortissax has seen Godwyn comfort this one when left in similar states by violent pursuers enough times by now that he knows, if Godwyn were here, he would fret over him. (Personally, Fortissax thinks that Godwyn ought to let him hide and heal and bolster his resolve on his own — such determination is how one becomes stronger, after all — but he has been scolded for voicing such opinions before, and has since been trying to mimic the motions which Godwyn sets an example of rather than following the dogma of his ilk.) He has seen the way that Godwyn tends to this one almost like a precious pet, like a human's little housecat, letting him in and offering him comfort in exchange for the pleasure of his presence — for his little gifts and chattery conversations. He has also learned that the comfort this one seeks out in Godwyn is often offered in small, meaningless ways — knows he likes to be held, and to latch onto clothing and hair with his little hands, and to chew on pliable objects, and to be made comfortable and warm under blankets.
Sadly, Fortissax has little to offer in the last two regards. But what he can do — and, indeed, does — is gently press the tip of his nose against Alberich's chest in acknowledgement, giving his hands something to touch and offering the warm pressure of his presence.
He is so large that Alberich has to sit up straight for the dragon's maw to rest neatly upon his lap, his horned chin tucking a bit awkwardly between his legs. He is heavy, and his scales jut uncomfortably into the frail meat of his thighs, but the warmth is greatly appreciated — almost unbearably so. When Fortissax speaks, his voice vibrates low from his throat to his teeth, and Alberich can feel it against his knees. "You humans are persistence hunters," he says, and this isn't the first time he has acknowledged that fact in Alberich's presence, which means Alberich knows exactly why he is bringing it up. "You have outrun them this far. You have outrun them until they cease their pursuit before. Surely you can once again."
Which is not what Alberich wanted to hear, but he isn't at all surprised to be hearing it — gets the feeling that Fortissax means it as some sort of backwards compliment. If there's anything Alberich knows about Fortissax, it's that he seems to think that enduring unnecessary suffering is the mark of a champion — thinks that people ought to earn their merit through misery, or something ridiculous like that. Fortissax has acknowledged before that he finds Alberich interesting — indeed, admires his kinda-sorta-strength — because he has somehow survived all this time despite being so small and fragile and easy to hurt. He tries to act like the sentiment doesn't bother him as much as it does.
But the dragon does not move his chin from the other's lap, not even when Alberich lifts his bloodied hands to grip at the sides of his snout — to trace the raised edges of his nostrils, and to feel where stone turns to teeth in his maw. The contact helps him feel less hurt by the implications than he normally would. He reminds himself that answering sincerely is the only way to answer here. "I could," he says, and the pain in his voice is obvious enough even Fortissax can tell it's there, "but I'm very tired, and I don't like running when I'm tired. I would rather not have to run for a while. I would like to rest and— and gather my strength. To, uh… to better outrun them in the future. But I cannot rest right now without protection." Pause. "Do, uh… does that make sense?"
A question Alberich has never asked Fortissax outright before — honestly, if it were someone else asking him such a thing, he might take it rather condescendingly — but one he has heard Godwyn ask the dragon a hundred times over. He figures it's safe to mimic. Hopes, at least.
Thankfully, he is correct. Fortissax considers the words, a low rumble of thought sounding in his throat that Alberich can feel with his hands. His breath is so warm, smelling of ozone and smoke. His stone scales are so pleasant to feel, and Alberich's little claws can tuck so neatly into the spaces between them — can feel the hot flesh beneath…
"We, the dragons, protect those who are stronger," Fortissax answers after a moment of contemplation, stating the fact as neutrally as possible given this one's proclivity for taking facts as insults, "while the weak are left to perish. How else are we meant to ensure the strength of our numbers if we let the weak stay weak?"
It takes a lot of beating back the snappy mutt of his ego, but Alberich manages to remind himself again, Take it straightforwardly, don't look too deep, and answers as if the implications within that particular question don't make him feel equal parts indignant and terrified. He can feel the energy of Grace-guided beings approaching from the direction he just came, after all. He hates that he's sure he knows what they are. "I know Godwyn has explained to you before that humans value things other than strength," he answers, and he sounds a bit strict. (Fortissax does not like that the small one is being strict with him, but he does not let it show. For now.) "Don't your mothers protect their young when they are still weak? Don't you worry for your— your, uh, your siblings when they are injured?"
The truth is, yes, mothers typically do protect their hatchlings until they are large enough to fend for themselves; and, more importantly, Fortissax very terribly does care about his siblings — his sister — and others whom he is fond of, far more than a creature of his calibre truly ought to. But such is a fact about himself that he does not often share for fear of scandalising his ilk — of insulting his very core. Once again, he considers the heretic's words — considers the words of other humans before him…
Fortissax exhales in a small huff, and his breath makes Alberich's clothing ripple — slightly blows his hair out of his face. "So you are like a baby," he says, which is too funny for Alberich to be offended by. He wants to be offended by it, because it is fucking rude, and he'd rather Fortissax not get in the habit of calling him a fucking baby, but he simply can't because of how sincerely the question was asked. It makes the heretic smile for what feels like the first time in a week.
And Fortissax, admittedly, does quite like it when this one smiles. He has very sharp teeth that show best when he is smiling. The dragon purrs his acknowledgement of what he assumes is approval — humans often smile when something good and true has been noted, after all — but Alberich corrects him with a chirped, "Not exactly," before Fortissax can fully internalise the concept. Which is probably a good thing. "But I am injured, and my kind cares for their injured, whether or not the injured and the— uh, and their protectors are bound by blood. Surely you've seen the Perfumers, the surgeons, tending to the sick? To strangers? Yes?"
He pauses to give Fortissax a chance to answer — he's starting to figure out how to approach conversing with the beast — and Fortissax is not used to Alberich pausing. It makes him listen a bit closer — engage a bit more. "Yes," he answers. "It is something that has taken some 'getting used to,' as you would say." Which also makes Alberich smile a bit. "The thought of tending to a wounded creature to which one has no connection is—… was quite strange to me. But I have seen it expressed between humans, and between humans and their animals, and between Gods and their humans."
He's thinking out loud at this point, which is something that Alberich has heard him do before, but never to him directly. The heretic feels a very real sense of pride and awe in being able to unlock the typically-stubborn dragon's more curious side — to catch a glimpse of what lies beneath the strictness and stone. Surely that must be whatever it is that Godwyn sees. "Your kind is unique," Fortissax continues. "Most other animals will abandon or consume the injured, especially those of a different species. It is as fascinating to witness as it is concerning — to see, for example, a warrior find a fallen bird and choose to spend precious time mending its broken bones rather than using it for its meat. A waste of energy and time."
A pause — a long one — one in which Alberich would typically say something, anxiously chatty little thing that he is, but he keeps his tongue bitten for now. He can almost feel the dragon's thoughts continuing to churn in his head — feel it in the way he vocalises ever so slightly in the base of his throat, too low to hear but strong enough to feel with his fingers as vibrations through his teeth. "Though," Fortissax continues after a long moment, having seemingly come to a conclusion, "suppose if I found great comfort in the songs of birds, I, too, would be unhappy to see one too pained to sing, and desire to hear its song again."
Alberich nods lightly, his relief at hearing the words immense enough to make him feel almost as though he were falling. "It's— it's about compassion, y'know?" he says, his voice a bit tight. "It's about community. What we do for each other. What we mean to each other. Is, uh… is that not exactly why we're here, after all? Both of us? Because—… because Godwyn had compassion for us when we were weak? Wanted to hear us sing again?"
Which, if nothing else, is something that Fortissax can understand very, very well.
Alberich can feel that his pursuers have drawn much closer now — men, horses, a towering sentinel — and he starts to feel a very real sort of panic beginning to settle in his chest once again when he realises that they have surely seen Fortissax by now, and will soon see him as well. Despite everything, Alberich feels some hope for safety within Fortissax — Gods, he wishes he didn't, but he does — and his fingers curl against the dragon's scales for security, claws finding purchase, hugging the beast's nose quite tight to his chest, wordlessly pleading for compassion, for help…
It does not take Fortissax very long to contemplate this time. He thinks of Godwyn — thinks of the day when he was defeated, broken and weak and ready to die beneath the Demigod's powerful heel, but instead was brought in and kept safe for reasons he is only just beginning to identify. Shouldn't his purpose under this new Lord of light and love be to try his best to understand? To emulate? To make proud?
A thought he must save for later, as time is becoming an issue. Fortissax can smell the cavalrymen coming, and he knows what that means for Alberich.
But he does take a short moment longer to pause in thought. Not out of negligence — no, not really — but out of distraction. Association. Observation. In this moment, Alberich clings to his muzzle in a way very much alike the way he so often clings to Godwyn's clothing — when he is scared, but trusting, and needs something sturdy to rely on. It is a sort of trust that Fortissax is not quite sure that he's earned — something that could so easily be taken advantage of were he still a crueller creature, especially given this one's fragility. This realisation makes the dragon feel some sort of emotion that he is not quite sure how to comprehend, nor know if he even wants to attempt to dissect…
But regardless of how he feels, one thing that cannot be denied is that Godwyn is fond of this one, and would be upset to see him too pained to sing, especially if Fortissax had had the chance to stop it. "You are like a little bird," Fortissax acknowledges conclusively, then moves to lift his nose from the heretic's lap.
With a bit of reluctance, Alberich releases his grip to allow the beast to move, immediately feeling far colder and very alone from the lack of contact. But it is a discomfort that is short-lived when the dragon then quickly snatches the small human up in one large hand, as gently as possible but undeniably disorientingly. (Being handled like an object is something else that Alberich does not appreciate, but he doesn't have much choice at the moment, sadly.)
Ignoring the heretic's little yelp of surprise (though pausing a moment to glance down at the creature in his hand to make sure he hasn't accidentally injured him), Fortissax lazily pivots back into the same position in which Alberich had first found him — here, amongst the golden grasses of Altus, looking out far over the horizon, away from the path down into the valley — and tucks the Tarnished safely into the crook of his arm. (His scales are slightly softer here, more alike clay than granite. Hopefully the little one won't be too uncomfortable settled against them.)
"I should hope they are not stupid enough to trifle with me should I instruct them to leave me alone," Fortissax says, an obvious smugness in his tone, and Alberich's sigh of relief hitches on another small sniffle. Somehow, despite everything, Fortissax — the fractious and terrible thing that he so often is — has managed to alleviate his certainty of death. He is safe. He can rest. He has the most intimidating guard in all of the Lands Between on his side… at least for now.
Catching his breath after this final wave of anxiety, Alberich shifts to tuck himself between the dragon's chest and inner arm, finding comfort in the coverage offered there despite his stony scales. The 'thank you' he exhales, though incredibly small, carries the weight of communion.
Fortissax considers the way the heretic has begun to breathe in stutters as if he were upset once again, despite being clearly content — at least, Fortissax presumes he is content, because his tiny claws have once again found purchase in the space between his scales, and he has pressed his cheek quite tenderly against his breast. Shouldn't he have stopped his shaking, though, safe as he is now? Is he not satisfied? But he has all but melted in relief…
… hmph. Something to ask about later, he supposes.
