Ringing metal echoed through the obsidian abode of the Alchemist. Galamon took slow, heavy steps, eyes glancing around everywhere. He followed a trail of purple lights, though he didn’t seem to trust them completely. The uniform hallways and sterile atmosphere of the place seemed to disquiet him.
He’d still not had the opportunity to repair his armor after the arm had been severed in the battle with the Lord of Silver, so he raised a bare hand to block his nose as though something ahead smelled foul. He stared down the hall, hesitating to move forward. He reached for his side, retrieving a flask and draining it utterly of the blood within. Once it was gone, he inhaled deeply, and proceeded uncertainly.
Ahead, someone breathed through clenched teeth. The breaths were shaky, but strong. Galamon kept his hand to his nose as though the smell was unbearable. He neared the threshold, steps quiet. He looked into the room first, eyes peeking around the corner, then stopped at the doorway.
Galamon’s head turned slowly, drinking in all of the sights. The place was, bluntly put, horrifying. Sheets and blankets were piled up in one corner of the room. Some of them had enough blood on them to be called ‘soaking wet.’ Anneliese had set up a makeshift washbasin in another section of the room, which Galamon judged she was using for laundry.
And though Galamon had been worried he had drawn the ire of the Alchemist by hunting so many of the creatures in the jungle, the food waste remaining evidenced that had not been the case. Bones had been picked clean and piled neatly. Galamon recalled collecting fruits—he saw none, so he presumed they had been eaten fully, seeds and cores included.
The centerpiece of the room was the centerpiece of the horror. The bed was the stuff of nightmares. Bloody handprints marked the bedposts, the walls nearby. The bed… if the blankets had been bad, the feather mattress was worse. Galamon knew from experience that no man possessed that much blood. It was dark blood, too, looking infected. The obsidian floor was covered, some of it dry, some of it fresher.
Galamon would have been certain he was approaching a dead man had he not heard the breathing in the hall. He stepped into the room tentatively, Argrave’s form obscured by the tapestries hanging from the four-poster bed. When he came into view, it took a moment for Galamon to notice Argrave was writing in something.
Argrave spared a glance upwards, then looked back to his book. He double-took, lowering the book.
“Galamon,” he said, voice surprisingly steady given the state of the room. “Thought you were Anneliese.”
Galamon surveyed Argrave. His skin was the palest it’d ever been. His lips were blue. His eyes were bloodshot and sunken. He was missing all of his nails. Strange, jagged abscesses lined his body. The list of symptoms went on and on. Despite this, Galamon felt an intense vitality radiating from Argrave—it was like the heat of a forge, the strongest of any living thing he’d ever seen.
“It’s been, what, seven days?” Argrave continued. “Hard to tell. No windows. Even if there were, we’re in a damned cave…”
Galamon nodded in confirmation.
“Seven days…” Argrave repeated. “First time I see you in a week. What, you finally get thirsty?” he questioned with clenched teeth. “Followed the sweet aroma, looking for a drink?”
Galamon lowered his head.
“Lying here in blood puddles and you’re provoking the one guy I told you not to engage with!” Argrave shouted and tried to point a finger, but he couldn’t raise his arm up. The movement seemed to dislodge something, because he started coughing. It was a terrible, wet hacking, punctuated by Argrave spitting blood out.
“There’s your drink,” Argrave pointed, then let out a long wheezing laugh. “Christ. I’m losing my mind,” he muttered.
“I have no defense,” conceded Galamon.
Argrave stared up at Galamon, breathing a little heavy. He adjusted his position, then endeavored to catch his breath, calming himself. As he wiped the blood off his lips, he seemed to be assaulted by pain, because he winced and put his hand to his chest. Galamon furrowed his brows and stepped forward, concerned.
“Listen,” Argrave continued. “Listen. No—don’t listen. Don’t listen to a word I have to say. I’m in pain, I’m bitter beyond belief, and I’m saying a bunch of words we’ll both regret,” Argrave outlined. “I know you’ve been helping with the food. That’s… Christ, that’s been very helpful. Even eating makes me hungry. It’s like I’m trying to gain 200 pounds this month. It’s hell. So, forgive the ranting and raving, please.”
Galamon stepped a little closer to Argrave’s bed. “I make a mistake… and you’re asking my forgiveness?”
Argrave snorted, but then winced as though the action hurt. Footsteps drew both of their attention, and Anneliese entered the room, hefting a sack behind her back.
“Argrave, I—oh,” she paused, spotting Galamon. She stared for a bit, then smiled. “You have come. Good.”
“You make her carry the food in?” Argrave gestured. “Couldn’t have carried it inside on your way in?”
“…didn’t want to attract attention,” Galamon excused weakly.
Argrave adjusted his book. “Maybe you are an imbecile. I’m starting to question.” He moved as though to write again, then stopped. “Durran and Garm, they’re…?”
Galamon looked off to the side, thinking about how to answer this.
“Oh, I see. They’re still running scared from the big guy.” Argrave hefted the book, then laughed with a shake of his head. “Morons and cowards. I’m bleeding out my…!” he began, then stopped himself, taking deep breaths to calm. “Gotta relax…”
Galamon looked dissatisfied, like he had something more to say, but he elected to leave it unspoken. He looked around the room.
“I’ll help clean,” he decided.
“Scavenge for food, you mean,” Argrave called out.
Galamon shook his head, a bitter smile seizing his face.
#####
“You came at a good time,” said Anneliese as they walked down the halls of the obsidian palace. “Sometimes… he cannot even speak, cannot think. Seizures and worse assail him.”
“Sometimes?” queried Galamon.
“It comes and goes in waves,” she explained. “It is… very…” she trailed off. “Let us simply say I am glad I am not to be helping him alone.” She paused, then looked to Galamon. “You will come back, yes?”
Galamon nodded. “I will.”
“No fear of the Alchemist any longer?” she questioned. “Had I drawn his ire… I understand your position, staying outside. Even still, it was foolish, what you did,” she admonished.
“Nothing to fear,” Galamon nodded. “Things were settled.”
“Settled?” she questioned. “You make it sound like you talked with him more.”
Galamon stopped walking, staring off to the side.
Anneliese came to stand some distance ahead, staring backwards. She studied Galamon, then crossed her arms.
“I know you feel guilty, but it does not stem from leaving Argrave alone for so long, does it?” Anneliese questioned. “Something else bothers you.”
“Yes… and no,” Galamon refuted. “I do feel guilty about being away for so long. It’s just…”
“What did you do?” she demanded quietly.
Galamon hesitated to speak. He started walking again, and Anneliese followed, casting glances at him.
“The person who initially wished to speak to the Alchemist… was Garm,” Galamon began.
“But he has no legs, so if you intend to cast blame—”
“I’m telling the full story,” Galamon cut her off.
“It has been a very long week, and I am quite irritable as well,” Anneliese continued. “Say what you wish to say.”
“Garm and Durran weren’t afraid to come,” Galamon said plainly. “They’re doing something with the Alchemist. Don’t know why, but he had a change of heart.”
“And what are they doing?” Anneliese demanded.
Galamon stopped. “Finishing up.”
#####
Wanting something to end tends to make it end slower. Or at the very least, that’s the human perception of things. That’s definitely Argrave’s perception of things. He certainly hasn’t been bored... merely constantly occupied.
Pain unending. That’s been his life. There was no reprieve from it. It warded away sleep, making each day take longer and longer. And it wasn’t something that could be ‘gotten used to.’ It would fade in one point, surge in another. Sometimes, it felt like his appendix had burst—other moments, a kidney stone passing.
Argrave had tried many methods to cope with things. He tried to tell himself that some people lived like this daily; they lived with congenital defects, or were burn victims, things like that. It helped for a bit—he found some strength in that. After a while, though, it started depressing and angering him worse.
Elsewise, he often tried to distract himself—writing the report, for instance, or talking with Anneliese. Days of poor sleep rendered most activities extremely difficult and frustrating, though.
After a while, things started to get weird. He compared himself to martyred religious figures, lost in strange delusions that may have been dreams—he lapsed in and out of sleep constantly, awoken by new pains or more aggressive symptoms. He started talking to Anneliese or Galamon about things he’d said in dreams, and they’d look at him like a madman.
After a while, Argrave just stared at the bronze hand mirror, clinging to it desperately and trying to imagine himself playing ‘Heroes of Berendar’ again, a nice, cushioned seat beneath him. It was sad to long to play a video game when that world had become his reality, perhaps. He was beyond caring about how pathetic it was.
If Anneliese and Galamon had not been with him… he was certain he’d be dead. Though, perhaps that wasn’t true—the Alchemist would keep him alive, he suspected, but his price for doing so would be an arm and a leg. Perhaps literally.
Amidst all the misery and shame from the entire experience… Argrave clung to something. It was a foolish thing to be proud of, he supposed, and he didn’t think he’d ever tell anyone he’d been thinking about this at all.
Throughout this whole endeavor… he never screamed. Not once.
Thus far, it had been one hell of a challenge. Argrave might’ve shouted in anger, but he never screamed. It was a small victory in a battle with himself, but… clinging to that kept him sane, he felt. He had a goal beyond ‘surviving,’ another thing to occupy his mind. With Anneliese present, she could conjure a ward and let him scream all he wanted, but this small, pointless victory brought him fulfillment.
Despite the constancy of his situation, time flowed ever onwards, he knew. This pain would not be eternal. He stopped asking how many days had passed after a while. The Alchemist would visit, examine, read Argrave’s report, and occasionally ask bizarre questions. The questions were largely focused on Argrave—personality, ethics, not merely factual things as was typical coming from the monstrous man. It was strange, but then the Alchemist himself was too strange to comprehend, and Argrave was a little too busy to contemplate deeply.
Like this, the suns passed by time and time again… and the month continued to pass.
