D'arce x Ragnvaldr, 2338 words. No dialogue, Angst, and an unhappy ending.
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Ragnvaldr was so miserably in love that it hurt. Not in the sense of heartbreak, but in the sense that just seeing D’arce or hearing her laugh caused a pain in his lungs, his throat, his stomach. Watching her tell stories to the Girl using the small rag doll made him smile, but it also made him gag. At first, he presumed it to be some sort of parasite; maybe one of the beasts he’d devoured here had given him a sickness of sorts.
But then he started coughing up petals. Yellow, orange, red; those were the colors from the first batch. And then it began to mix; purples, pinks, the whole rainbow– they all began to appear whenever he coughed. The petals were most certainly from two different things, but he was never one for botany. Not in the shivering, freezing, Oldegard, in which next to nothing of the sort grew.
It was manageable at first. Whenever he felt a cough coming, he’d cover his mouth with his palm and drop the blood-covered petals behind a barrel or crate. But then Cahara began to notice, as did the Girl. Moonless, too. If Enki noticed his frequent coughing, it was hard to tell– but D’arce most certainly heard each wheeze and gag and muffled struggle for air. She’d stopped waking him up to take over watch while the others slept– rather, she took over what would be his usual time, and then passed it on to Cahara.
She had told him he needed rest to recover until they could find herbs that’d work to help with whatever sickness he’d caught. He hadn’t been all that happy with the idea, but the determined look in her eyes shut up any arguments he might’ve made.
It all became worse when Enki saw one of the petals. Ragnvaldr thought that he’d disposed of them fast enough, thought that he’d not missed a single one. But Enki grabbed his arm and held an orange petal between two fingers with a quirked eyebrow. His voice, cold, calculated, and hushed, had questioned Ragnvaldr with no fear; even if he could be snapped in half with ease, he stood his ground and demanded answers.
But Ragnvaldr had none. He didn’t get infected by any of the mumblers, he was sure of that; so he wasn’t entirely sure what had happened. Enki’s expression only tightened with that answer, however, as if it wasn’t good enough. As if Ragnvaldr was hiding something. The next question was bluntly phrased, asking him of love; who was it?
It seemed irrelevant, but the way the priest stared at him with that face stained by a permanent sneer said otherwise.
He responded truthfully, his hand gripping his own bosom as he struggled out the words. Her name, her face, buried in his mind as though a dream; and perhaps it was. A dream of a new future with her. The two of them, in Oldegard, tangled in each other’s arms and him pressing kisses to her jugular and temple while she laughed and ran her calloused fingers through his hair.
Enki’s face tightened further with disapproval, but he did not comment his disdain. Rather, he told Ragnvaldr to leave the party and to forget her. For your own good, he had said. But the idea made his heart ache more, as did it make his lungs tighten and his eyes itch from waiting tears of sorrow. His back turned to the priest, but that could only hide so much hurt; his voice was strained enough to show what he thought of the idea. A simple denial, made oh-so heartfelt by the sorrow in his tone.
Ragnvaldr had been forced into the sidelines of battle from the others’ concerns. A brute could only be a brute if in perfect shape, after all– and he was far from. If he tried to rush in, Moonless and the Girl would stand in his way, with the dog mastering puppy-dog eyes and the Girl trying for a pout. It didn’t help that D’arce would give him a disapproving look if he ignored the two; for even if the look was with knitted eyebrows and a downturned mouth, she was looking at him nonetheless, and it made his heart skip a beat.
Nonetheless, he’d learned to back off. Let the ones who weren’t coughing up flora regularly do the fighting while he did the best healing he could manage. He was fast working with it; unless it was D’arce in front of him, bleeding and hissing in pain while one of her limbs just barely remained connected to her body. Some sort of righteous and protective anger surged through him, despite the fact that she could take care of herself– perhaps, due to the loss of Hilde and Björn, he could not help but feel angry.
Even so, he stood down. His hands moved slowly with her, unlike the others, and he made sure she was well enough to keep fighting. His mouth opened with words to say, but she was gone before they were spoken. All that remained was one measly little flower, bearing petals different from the rest, all curled in on itself although terrified. Ragnvaldr stared at it and knew he should feel the same. A demise oncoming, for his sickness was getting worse. And yet he knew not much of it.
It all got worse when the alchemist gave them the update on Le’garde; a killer whom D’arce viewed as a god; a sinner viewed as a saint, a venomous snake viewed as a harmless hamster. He’d watched hope return to her eyes and a bounce form in her step, but her joy was his pain.
He loved her so much that it was killing him to see her happy—no, not just happy—In Love with someone who was not himself. The very man who took away the woman he called the love of his life was now the same man preventing him from having another he’d fallen for; his antithesis and opposition in every way.
Ragnvaldr followed her nonetheless, as did the rest of the party. Where his steps were now heavy, hers were light with a twirl itching to be had. It made him dream of spinning round and round with her in the cold Oldegard nights, letting her bask with moonlight on her skin and whiskey in her veins as they laughed together and tripped over each other's feet. Yet, where dreaming once brought him comfort, it now only brought him pain.
Enki, despite being the utter bastard he was, seemed to notice before the others. And yet his advice remained the same; leave and forget who D’arce Cataliss ever was. Those terms were the only ones that would let him live, and yet death was far more merciful than the idea. For her rarely-had laughs, her freckled face, the determined spark in her sea-colored eyes… Something about her, everything about her, gave him the hope needed to push on within the dungeons.
So he ignored the advice and he pressed on. Axe at his hip, becoming heavier as his strength sapped, and the strongest look he could manage etched onto his face. He’d match her determination, even if she’d never match his love.
He was selfish beyond that reason for following her, however; for he was a man tormented, hungry for revenge, and he’d only get such a thing with the blood of the blonde pooling in his hands and dripping down to the ground through the cracks in his fingers. At the moment, however, the only thing granting him a similar feeling was his own blood and spit, accompanied by cursed greenery as his lungs collapsed in on themselves.
. . .
But he was already dead. D’arce’s god, her savior, her everything; he lay there, dead and beginning to decompose. Her hands trembled as they caressed what remained of his face, begging him to open his eyes and look at her. The room was almost silent beyond that as Cahara grimaced, Enki sneered, and the Girl stared.
And yet, for Ragnvaldr, hope for something new returned. Perhaps he lost his goal of killing that man with his bare hands, but he’d maybe, just maybe, his dream of dancing under the moonlight with D’arce and the taste of alcohol on their lips would be achievable. That hope made him move just a bit further into hell, in which past and present spun hand in hand, their bodies intermingling until it became hard to decipher which was when.
In the place of the gods, in which the past was the very same as the present, he continued to cough and wheeze, albeit worse than before. It had become harder and harder to discard the petals. Some he’d drop off edges, others he’d stuff into cracks in the wall. But sometimes they were found by one of his companions, who’d discuss what could’ve left it behind, all whilst the priest glowered at him.
He was on death’s doorstep, and only Enki seemed to know the cause. His body was becoming frailer by the second, losing mass and muscle no matter what he ate, be it berry, herb, or the flesh, shell, and meat of the horrid. His bulky frame was whittled down until he could only drag the axe he held dear as a companion across the stone floors and tile pathways. It was a struggle of the most humiliating kind, but even so he refused to let Cahara nor D’arce carry it on his behalf.
That was the case, at least, up until he collapsed. Heaving and writhing on the floors of the tower, coughing into his palms and struggling with the tears pin-pricked in his eyes. The flora was swallowed to keep it hidden, but it only made it worse. While Cahara ushered the Girl to bed, telling her that it’d all be okay and that he was just having issues due to the dust in the room. A comforting lie, but a lie nonetheless.
D’arce dropped to her knees at his side with a clang as she hit the tile. For the first time, her metal-shielded hands met his face– trembling as they pulled hair away to see his sunken eyes and the blood dribbling down his chin. She spoke with that posh yet darling accent of hers, expressing concern and confusion at his state, trying to discern what was wrong with him.
He did not respond with words. His hand, trembling just as much as her own as he pressed her gauntlet closer to his face. It was cold, it lacked the warmth of flesh, but it was enough for him. Where she stared with confusion, his muscles relaxed partially and his breathing evened out for a few heartbeats. Her touch, ever so gentle, brought him some form of comfort as his limbs numbed out.
Ragnvaldr was a strong man, even while dying, and yet he could not ask her to promise an eternity with him at the moment. He could not profess how much he’d grown to care for her, despite her history and despite his own, nor could he find the courage to make the move to place his bloodstained lips against her chapped ones. He simply stared at her, searching her eyes in hopes of anything that returned his affections.
All he could see was concern. And all he knew was that his words were better left unsaid.
That was a painful knowledge, but a knowledge to be had nonetheless. He closed his eyes and sighed, letting his hand drop from hers so it could help the other cushion his head. She tried to usher him towards the bed, but he remained where he lay– for the Girl, he claimed. For convenience to be near her, he knew.
The dead of night felt as though it were approaching, but the dungeon bore no true time. An internal clock was the only thing to rely on for such a thing, but even that was not good enough. His eyes did not flutter shut from the exhaustion of day, nor did they flutter shut of weakness. He listened and watched as D’arce moved around, adding unneeded tinder to a fire to keep most everyone warm. Her expression was restless and her eyes were sunken into her skull with bags forming beneath her eyes, but the case was the same for most everyone.
Hers had just gotten worse, and it was primarily Ragnvaldr’s fault. His arms moved before his mind could, dragging him closer to her until he was sat up by her side. There was a lump in his lungs, crawling up his throat and itching until he coughed into his hand. It was the quietest cough, and yet what he felt in his palm was the biggest flower yet. As D’arce’s eyebrows knitted, her head turning until she was able to stare at him, he placed his hand on her cheek and rubbed his thumb beneath her eye.
With the other, he gave up the last of his strength. The last of the plant that’d grown its thorns and vines inside of him, squeezing and piercing his lungs until his own breathing was no longer calming, gently placed into her hair.
Her name felt right on his tongue as he stared at her, blood dripping from his chin just as it dripped from the petals caught in her hair. A confession was what he knew to be his last words, for one should always admit their secrets before their walk into their grave. Three simple words, followed by a tearful farewell.
His forehead met hers before he went limp, his eyes fluttered shut as to not see the horror in her eyes. Then he crashed to the floor for the final time, the only sound remaining being her cries for the others to help, and her pleas for him to wake up.
He was to die, he knew, and he was glad it was in her arms.
