“Garm mouthed off to the Alchemist?” Argrave questioned while rubbing his chest, taking deliberate and heavy breaths. Anneliese had placed some accommodations in the room—the end of the bed had a chair to accommodate Argrave’s dangling feet, and she had placed a large couch just beside the bed for herself. In addition, some food was ready and stocked.
The pain was beginning in earnest. It was a constant dull ache, rising ever upwards in intensity. It had been manageable at first—ignorable, even. But it kept growing and growing, becoming all-consuming. It reminded Argrave, strangely enough, of having eaten something incomprehensibly spicy. The pain appeared tame for a time—half a minute, maybe. But the fire would keep growing, consuming one’s throat, one’s mouth, with such a steady pace that the moment seemed to last forever.
Unlike a hot pepper’s spice, there was no respite from this pain. No milk, nothing to offer temporary relief. It was just an ache rising ever higher, like a room slowly flooding. The worst part was that Argrave saw no ceiling in sight—it stood to keep growing, eating away more and more at all other sensations. The uncertainty bred nervousness, fear.
A month of this, Argrave told himself mentally. This is nothing. First step on the stair. Gotta be better.
“…and so they refuse to enter,” Anneliese said.
Argrave looked at her, realizing she’d been talking while he’d been lost in thought. “Sorry, got lost in my own world,” he confessed.
“They ran into the Alchemist, and he told them to get out of their sight after some words,” she summarized what she had said quickly. “Now, they fear retribution, so they stay far from the castle.”
A stab of pain seized Argrave’s head, and he inhaled through clenched teeth, veritably hissing.
“Useless imbeciles,” he said loudly, his own voice echoing in his head. “What good are they?”
Anneliese looked off to the side, saying nothing.
“Damn it all,” Argrave cursed. “No… they’re not imbeciles. Pain… pain makes your irritable. Forget what I said.” The stabbing subsided in his head, and once it did, he interrogated further, “What the hell did they say to the man?”
“They avoided the subject,” Anneliese crossed her arms.
“Christ. I might be pissing blood soon, and they’re playing about with our local twenty-foot-tall psychopath!” Argrave stroked his head, his shouting making his headache worse. “I can’t catch a break? Even now?!”
Anneliese stared at him patiently. “Is there anything you need?”
“Yeah,” Argrave nodded. “Choke me until I’m unconscious, see you tomorrow,” he gave a salute.
She lowered her head, unamused by his joke.
“I’m sorry,” he apologized. “Maybe you… maybe you shouldn’t be here. I’m just going to be a moody prick for days on end. No one deserves to be subject to that, least of all…” he shook his head. “Just go, join Galamon.”
“I made up my mind, Argrave,” she said simply without a moment’s hesitation. “You expect me to leave you to fend for yourself? Could you? We know not how bad this will get,” she pointed out.
“But—”
The Alchemist entered. His steps seemed heavier than normal, somehow. Argrave tensed, quieting and sitting up in the bed. Wordlessly, the Alchemist came to stand before Argrave. He held his hand out, an eyeball forming within his palm once more. His gray eye shone with spell light.
Like this, the Alchemist stood there, as still and shiny as a nightstand lamp. Argrave stayed silent, doing his best to make even his breathing quiet as he waited for whatever the Alchemist was doing.
“Mmmm…” he groaned for nearly a minute, voice low. “I see it now. You descend from that golden serpent. Vasquer. She had a union with a man. Hideous thing.”
The Alchemist began to walk around the bed, hand remaining stationary. It reminded Argrave of the way a chicken’s head could stay totally still as it moved. After a long while where Argrave cast uncertain glances at Anneliese, the Alchemist finally closed his hand.
A finger extended towards Argrave. The mini hand on the finger’s tip grabbed Argrave’s cheeks, and his eyes widened in surprise. The Alchemist’s skin was surprisingly rough, despite being white and smooth-looking. Argrave tried to keep his face firm, but his cheeks were soon squished by an indomitable force—not enough to hurt, but enough to move him, certainly. Not that Argrave could notice if it did hurt, what with the all-consuming pain of his Black Blood integrating with his body.
Anneliese stood and stepped towards the bed, her expression morphed by surprise. She looked concerned but hesitated to act.
“You talk frequently. The muscles in your face—signs of non-stop chatter, laughter, smiles,” the Alchemist noted. Argrave felt some strain on his neck as he was lifted upwards somewhat. He raised his hand up, hesitant to stop the Alchemist. Before he could make up his mind, Argrave was released suddenly, falling back to the bed. “Every time I listen to this room, I hear your babbling. Inane complaints. Witticisms. Delusions of grandeur made grander by gullibility.”
Argrave stared indignantly with brows furrowed and eyes wide, massaging his face in confusion.
“Words, words, words—there are too many in the world,” the Alchemist said. “Words fail half the time. What good are words in a battle?”
Silence filled the room for a while. Argrave figured it was a rhetorical question, and so he stayed silent.
“Stop thinking. Answer,” the Alchemist commanded, and Argrave scrambled in the bed.
“Words…” Argrave trailed off, before finishing, “…got me here.”
“A lie. You have feet, legs, all connected to a brain by systems so complex your words fail to describe them. They render you ambulatory, not words. You walked here. Words, be they on paper or spoken, carry no one anywhere.”
I really don’t need this right now, Argrave thought, brain dancing to find the answer.
“It’s a metaphor,” Argrave rebutted.
“Useless things,” the Alchemist stated, voice a pitch lower—this alarmed Argrave very much, because he knew it was a sign of anger. “Words are a veneer—metaphor is yet another façade atop this veneer, another step to remove and obscure the purity of the mind’s thought.”
Argrave noted the irony that the Alchemist had used a metaphor to disparage metaphors, but he focused on what the Alchemist meant.
“The purity of the mind’s thought,” Argrave repeated. “There is no other method of communication so universal and sophisticated as words.” Pain shot up Argrave’s arm, and he winced, but kept his thoughts focused on the titan looming above his bed. “Words are the best way for the common and the grand to understand each other’s thoughts. And universal understanding—that’s a powerful thing,” Argrave finished through clenched teeth, gripping his arm tightly. “Words foster that.”
“Nnn…” the Alchemist groaned once again, a vast mouth on his stomach opening up. Black smoke started to rise up into the high ceiling. He walked to the wall. It parted like burning twigs twisting from a flame, revealing the jungle beyond.
Argrave started to worry that he was about to experience an elaborate eviction because he lost a debate he didn’t understand.
“I hate talking most of all,” the Alchemist said, pure contempt showing on his voice—a rare divergence from the constant apathy. “No different from assault. Why must I suffer your thoughts? I have my own to deal with—thoughts infinitely more important.”
Not wishing to make the same mistake as last time, Argrave answered, “Why n—”
“Be silent,” the Alchemist interrupted. “Talking is an assault. Yet it is the strangest form of assault, doing no genuine harm. The spoken word plants itself within your mind like a parasite, worming and changing and feeding on the valuable thoughts within. Corrupting. Morphing. Violating the sanctity, the purity, of the hallowed thoughts within.”
The Alchemist turned and the wall shut, hiding the jungle away once again. “The spoken word is an insidious killer. Harmless, fools say. But in time, the words batter at the mind, until the ‘you’ that once was is only a memory, and your thoughts of the past become foreign. It kills that ‘you’ that once was.”
Recluses go to any lengths to justify their lifestyle, Argrave thought drolly, finding some amusement amidst the tense atmosphere and pain wracking his body.
“But when the time for words has passed, and mindless hordes charge each other, spite in their gut… everything blends into the song of war, and true mettle will be tested.”
The Alchemist walked back to stand before Argrave’s bed. He stayed there for a long while, doing nothing. Argrave could not relax his vigilance. He sat there, alert and awake, preparing for any eventuality.
Without another word, the Alchemist turned and walked out of the room. Argrave stared at the threshold like the man might reemerge at any time.
A minute passed. Another. Finally, Argrave collapsed back into the bed, feeling exhausted.
“What in the god damn was that about?”
“Argrave…” Anneliese came to sit in the bed. Argrave kept his eyes on her. She reached out, then touched the back of his neck.
When she pulled her hand away, blood was on her fingers. Argrave kept his eyes on that for a long while.
“He said it would happen,” Argrave said grimly. “Sweating blood. I guess… time to find out if I’d crack under torture,” Argrave concluded.
#####
Argrave was certain of only one thing—time had passed.
As the pain grew worse and worse, it became difficult to note anything beside the passing of time. Every moment felt eternal. The symptoms ascended beyond mere pain, and Argrave felt like he was losing his mind.
All that the Alchemist promised would happen, did. All that and more. The once-clean room became a disgusting mess, but Argrave was too consumed with simply getting by. With more pressing concerns, Argrave could not be appalled by his own state.
He was beset by a constant hunger, eating at him. He drank water and consumed food so frequently the taste of anything became nauseating, but his body never rejected what he ate—indeed, it seemed to desperately take it in. If he didn’t tend to it, the hunger and thirst became another source of pain.
With everything going on, sleep became an impossibility. Argrave laid in his bed, shivering, beset by strange cold sweats. He raised his fiercely trembling hands to the dim light in the room. He saw that his nails were black and blue—he suspected they’d fall off, soon enough.
There was something else constant—or rather, someone. Anneliese. She rested on the couch, taking the time to sleep.
“Anneliese,” he called out, voice still steady despite everything.
She roused at once, head lifting up and eyes coming to attention like she wasn’t sleeping at all—perhaps she wasn’t. “What is it? Do you need something?”
“You should… go outside,” he said, interrupted by a shiver.
“Why? Do you need something? Take it slow,” she urged, moving off the couch to kneel by the bed.
“I don’t… want you here,” he managed through clenched teeth.
Despite the harsh words, she remained steady. “Why?” she questioned.
“Hate being seen like this,” Argrave growled. “Most of all… by you, of everyone in the world. Never want you to see me like this.”
Anneliese laid her head on the bed and waited for a few silent moments. Then, she lifted her gaze once more. “Argrave. Do you know what I would hate?”
Argrave shook his head. He wasn’t sure if the gesture was conveyed, because he was shaking enough it might be ambiguous.
“I would hate letting you remain like this, alone, miring in your own misery. I cannot abide that.”
Argrave closed his eyes when she said that. After all that had happened, he was finding it a little difficult not to cry.
He felt a strange tenseness in his hand. He feared a new symptom and opened his eyes to look. Anneliese held his hand, offering silent support.
“Empty your head of these emotions of embarrassment, shame,” she shook her head. “Focus on yourself. Forget about the world.”
Argrave turned his head away from her, staring off into the room. Nothing needed to be said, by his estimation. She would know what he felt. And he wasn't sure it would be especially well-received from one covered in blood.
At least, that was his excuse.
