Chapter Text
Shifting bedsheets had stirred the morning– whatever had come of it since the eclipse had commenced under Kilthion's rigor against Slyvaria. The carmine dawn washed the exterior of Soliel Lavant in a sheet of blood.
Light peered in through carefully crafted panes of glass, casting long shadows over the bed poles that stretched over the man who laid nestled beneath white sheets. His head tucked under his forearm as black hair splattered across the dull surface of its wrinkled mantle.
Szodin failed to remember the last moments that transpired last night. He had recalled Thandoril shifting away from him at something he had said– after that his mind had gone dark. He must have fallen asleep, and a sickened twitch of sorrow occupied his rousing thoughts. His fingers felt along the now empty space in front of him, furrowing his brows in hopes to feel that delicate skin that belonged to Thandoril– however it was telling he had been gone for a while. The bedsheets had been pulled up, smoothed down, with his pillow propped up as it had been prior.
Szordin frowned as he finally opened his eyes to confirm, and the sight was just as disappointing. Thandoril had certainly left, and Tarr scanned the room, his lover's coat no longer tucked underneath his own, his medical brief too- missing, and Szordin propped himself up to peer over the bedside, and to finally confirm, Thandoril's shoes had disappeared. It was like he had not been there at all.
The doctor rarely ever allowed himself to wallow, nor hang in bed long enough once the sun began to rise, (though those days had been long over.) but the man had found himself clasping onto his back in a defeated groan, arm reaching out to retrieve the large wooden pipe that had been resting beside an empty wine glass.
He should be cursing himself for even allowing Thandoril to stay the night, but the risk of Saerion stalking through the halls was enough to put the doctor on edge. It was evident, Nicolas’ injuries had been enough to prove he had never repented and slipped away from that savagery, but one could not tame a wild animal.
He could only imagine what might be stirring below. If Thandoril had been up, the others surely would be too. Szordin was always the first to wake, brewing up a kettle of hot water –just enough for the nine of them to share a cup of tea. He wondered if anyone had taken notice of his absence if the group was up. It was possible the professor had simply returned to his room after Szordin had fallen asleep.
He sat up finally, biting lightly at the stem of his pipe. That explanation quickly faltered as he retrieved the box of matches, eyes catching the distorted image of the eclipse through the rippled glass to his bedroom window. He could hear that jingle of Thandoril's chiming pocket watch. At first, he had sworn he was imagining it until he had looked over.
There it was, that golden locket making its hideous chine, something he had always hated. It was certainly midday. He grabbed it, the tricky gimmick had been lodged between his pipe and wine glass, Thandoril must have set it down when he wasn’t looking, forgotten about it, and left it here. He flipped it open, displaying the elaborate ticking hands as the gears whirred in its own mechanical melody. There were multiple clocks within, each for different regions and even with its own compass. Yet, this trinket was incredibly valuable to Thandoril, and more than just something used to check time.
He flipped it closed with a snap and the chiming ceased. Szordin would give it to Thandoril later, it obviously had not been of mind right now.
Placing the locket down firmly he grabbed a small match from its box, flicking it against the tableside until it sparked to life. He held the bowl as he inhaled sharply, letting that thick heavy smoke fill his lungs. It seemed improper for someone in his profession to be a smoker, but Szordin picked up this habit when he was a kid.
He inhaled as he peered around the room: bright, colourful, embroidered with gold and whites. An apt place to drive a man into madness. The wallpaper was a hideous yellow, aged in some places as if it had belonged to a smoker, and the curtains were a sickly white. The poor interior design of Soliel Lavant bothered him a great deal. He clung to the notion that he would give this place a proper, signature touch –one he believed Saerion would certainly enjoy.
He inhaled again, sputtering ash shooting up the pipe and into his mouth. One thing he hated about this thing, he missed the sleek black opal of his previous one. Though, he believed maybe it was from a more skilled hand, the one that would willingly hold the bowl as Szordin lit a match. One that pulled away quickly to finish off the brewing charcoal at its base.
Never a waste with him, nothing ever was discarded until it frayed and tethered.
His eyes averted to the foot of the bed, and he pieced together what this room had reminded him of. When it wasn’t bathed in candlelight it was a splitting image of the chambers in Kilthion, in his chambers. No–
Szordin gripped the temple of his face, setting his pipe down as he shook his thoughts. He would not think of him here, no-- never again. He leaned over the side of the bed, retrieving the white linen shirt he had left to sit on the floor.
He was feeling guilty again, or was this grief. He had pondered many times what his life would have been like if he had stayed. Upon his discovery of Kelvhans past alliances in Kilthion, followed by Shara once she and Brahms had turned up in Fethers home; he was surely anticipating the arrival of another.
The dark witch from the north: Molinet, where her ties in Grothis sparked the nation's bloodlust against Quamara, where her relentless lust for death had been so persistent Szordin could no longer act as her leader. Sometimes he pondered where her fate lay, if she was even still alive, She would be all he had left once Szordin had faked his death to get out of the firing line.
Kelvhan was deemed the new Grandmaster, a rising sentinel. Szordin questioned if he was correct, that means he had close ties with Rlydolvir. The sudden internal voice sounding out his name made him double over the elaborate decorated vanity in front of him.
Tarr had pulled his shirt over his body, his long mop of black hair sticking out in tangled knots with evident creased circles having long formed under his eyes. He winced, a jab on the side of his thigh had him pulling free his pair of lenses. He checked them over, just to ensure he had not bent the frame out of shape. What negligence for not putting them back in their case.
He glanced up at himself once more. Szordin would not be able to run for long until his past would catch up to him, he imagined with the arrival of Kelvhan, soon after Shara, more would come for Ahzyl. Grabbing his personal brief, popping it open with a click as he retrieved his favourite hairbrush: crafted in Tenzar and bought by a sweet old woman. She explained her husband was a butcher, and the boar bristled brush would be the only suitable comb for Szordins hair type. He ran the paddle through his hair until all knots ceased to their usual flawless gloss that ran down his back like a waterfall of ink.
He sighed, heavy as he collected his things. The group seemed to have been wanting to take advantage of Nicolas’ hospitality of offering the holy home to shelter them for a few days, but Tarr packed as if they would be leaving come afternoon.
If only they knew what horrors Earmaethor Saerion was, and Tarr found himself tracing the deep scar along his right palm, many times he remorsefully suppressed using his might. So many dreadful faces plagued his mind, and he had snatched the pocket watch from the tableside and grabbed his coat from the hanger. The stand clattered to the floor, and Tarr had snapped into tune with the panicky state he was in.
These walls felt so suffocating.
He hadn’t bothered to pick up the coat-hanger. He had no respect for this place and it went against his normal persistent cleanliness to leave such a mess. This holy house would not have his respects.
He carried himself to the entrance of his bedroom, reclasping his doublet as he opened and closed the heavy door with a click.
His suspicions were solidified at the sight of six cracked doors— everyone had been awake except for him. Yet, the seventh door, the final one before the balcony gave way to the spiral staircase, was shut. He felt his eyes narrow, before the subtle scent of blood became stronger as he approached without a mere whisper to his steps.
The room must have belonged to Nicolas, the way it had been claimed right at the feet of the hallway, overlooking the mass in a glorious view of centuries of collected art and polished statues. Well, to Szordin Tarr, the place had been short of underwhelming. He found it hideous, how one could praise such a corrupting religion.
Solarity, he had come to learn of it from his mother. Solarity had ripped 82 chapters from Quamara Lindiel about Rhyvia’s history, their religion– his people's religion. Its original translations had been burned along with twenty-five other religions Sylvaria had not agreed with.
Sol's cleansing, the demands of Sol, so the Amran could walk under his light as humans did. Sometimes Szordin wished he kept his Rhyvia Liendiel, despite its Rharkaivian translations being warped and mistranslated, his homelands had not enough coin to provide proper materials to its people. Szordin avoided religion as much as possible, but he found it hard to conceal a snarl that curled up on his lip when he saw someone wearing the Meldail circlet around their neck.
He had slipped into the dark room, curtains had been drawn to conceal any light from outside. It was quiet, despite the form laying slumped and sprawled across the bed. Still sporting the cassock from yesterday, but the welts and bruises across Nicolas’ neck had worsened. He’d be lucky if Saerion had not snapped his neck from the force of his hand.
Tarr had scanned his face, approaching his bedside. He had begun to examine the scabs that now crossed the length of his features, to the perfectly placed brace against his swollen nose. The doctor lifted a hand and placed it over the cardinal's forehead, it was hot, but not feverish. He pulled away, Nicolas stirring slightly but the man had remained where he stood, looming over him, staring down at his vulnerability– Irresponsible for not having locked his door– and the cardinal could have been lucky the figure standing over him was Szordin and not The Pope.
He had not pitied him, never would he pity someone who called their faiths to a house that caused the slaughter of three nations. There could not be enough blood that Szordin could spill that would ever equate to what Solarity did to Arandor. However, he would not stand before another who suffered.
If Nicolas had chosen to stay, it would lift a burden from Tarr's shoulders. Though, how long would it be until this cardinal died alone, cradled in this very bed until the great embrace of death wrapped its tendrils around him–
– Yes, so sweet and cruel. The palm of his head had lifted once more, and the pulsing probing of what lay behind that deep scar upon the doctor's hand was beckoning to be let free– to feast. How long has it been? The tinged whisper sounding down the hall and pricking across the sharp, ever alert ears of Szordin Fallenspear.
If he had killed Nicolas here, Saerion would be quick to sniff out. He could end this once, and for all: for justice, for revenge, to end this endless cycle of solarity praise. He could taste the nectar of his desires, and the eye wriggled between the healed tissue upon his palm.
A sudden yelp, not from his own mouth, but somewhere in the distance of this room, -no not from Nicolas either, before another followed and another, and Szordin became aware that he had once heard these voices before. A few were yelling, but incoherent, another had faded down into a whisper. A shooting jolt shot up his arm and Szordin could make out that faint glow that was pushing itself free.--
– maybe it had been the sudden picture of the horrified faces of the others that caused a hesitance that had Szordin pulling the open palm away from Nicolas’ head.
He was beginning to gain their trust. He thought briefly of Thandoril, and another jab twitched up his right arm.
The voices seized once he clenched his fist together, closing the door to whatever realm this particular eye led to. He gripped his wrist with his other hand, watching as the green light fizzled out. He had believed this eye was the real gateway into hell when he made use of it in Kilthion; it had once belonged to the god of death after all.
The doctor let go once he had been sure it fell back to its usual dormant state. No, he would not kill Nicolas, not now. Thandoril would be right, he would be the only one who refused to let Nicolas join the group. He could no longer look at the cardinal, and he promptly slipped back out of the room. On brighter news, he would make a full recovery.
Nicolas was the only one who remained in the curia of this particular Cathedral. Why had it been he was spared among two hundred or so men. Szordin would not trust him, not even with the full picture of what Saerion was inflicting on him. It had not made Nicolas appear any more innocent.--
The sounds of voices carried as he descended the stairs. Hand tracing the banner rail until he met the bottom, where his polished shoes met the holy tiles of the main floor. Szordin was quick to run a hand over his hair, flattening it as he approached the dining hall.
A couple of silhouettes had been caught in the candlelight. The large curly mane he had come to make recognition as Ahzyl was sat somewhere near the archway. He made little noise to avoid drawing attention to himself. He had been the last of the group to gather here after all. He crossed his arms behind his back, averting his gaze to the empty plates before the others.
He saw Shara pipe up, and Ahzyl suddenly turned. Szordin wanted to kick himself, and the urge to go back to his room and retrieve his pipe for another draw had become urgent. “Dr. Tarr!” The loud announcement was returned with a tight lipped smile that could be categorized as a scowl, “Good morning! Those beds are comfy, yes? I would have slept all day too if not for Kelvhan." Ahzyl had spoken, his voice carrying across the halls as Arlene and Thaddeus had also greeted Tarr a good afternoon.
“Yes, indeed they are.” Tarr had responded as he gave a gentle squeeze to Kelvhans shoulder. He had picked up the habit once he had noticed those long, pointed ears, a trait only shared between his kin. He believed Kelvhan was not aware of who his people were, but Szordin could have been mistaken.
Still, it had grown to bother him. That face, sometimes it was hard to look Kelvhan in the eye for too long, as it had felt like he was staring directly at Rlydolvir, only it was all wrong. He had to choke back a sneer, as Ahzyl had continued to talk but Szordin had long blocked out his voice.
“You don’t say.” The doctor responded in hopes that Ahzyl had been going on about something unimportant. It usually was. He had moved over to where Thandoril was sitting, back turned and the only one who had not looked over to greet him as the others did.
The silent treatment as usual. Szordin had long grown accustomed to it since his reunion with Thandoril. Normally this would transpire after an argument, but there had been no quarrel between them, not last night. Maybe Szordin should have woken Nicolas up to personally thank him for whatever spell he put on the professor, or maybe the blonde had felt guilty for inviting the doctor up into his bed. Szordin felt little about if that had been the truth or not.
Ahzyl had sunk back down into his seat, patting Kelvhan on the shoulder as he did so. He was finally catching up to the hints when the Doctor was not interested in conversing. He rarely ever did but the curly headed man would somehow crack that exterior.
Szordin had reached into his pocket, taking out the shiny locket of Thandoril’s pocketwatch. He flipped it open, snapping it closed before he repeated it another three to four times in a continuous rhythm. The damned thing was always so loud, and Thandoril had always retorted to opening and closing the thing until Szordin wanted to rip his ears from his head.
It was another habit that would drive Szordin to chewing on his tongue. He flipped the cap again, the whirring of gears spinning before he snapped the lid shut a little harder, kicking out a chair and sitting down across from Thandoril. There had been a row of empty seats: Thaddeus, Arlene, and Chelsea were a fair few distances at another table, Kelvhan and Ahzyl sat at the end, and Thandoril was five chairs away from him.
He could see Thandoril had been reading, a cup of tea was placed to the right of him. He paid no mind but the slight flush to the ends of his ears told Szordin that he was certainly aware of his presence–and that he had realized what he left behind in that room.
He flipped the locket open again, waiting a little longer to close it so the grinding wands and chiming hands would reach the professor's pointed ears. Swiftly he popped it closed, the metal lids clapping together in a click and Thandoril had finally looked up.
“You left this in my room.” Szordin's voice was loud and clear, he watched as Chelsea turned in her seat, Arlene followed. “Forgot to grab it this morning, hm?” He had waved the watch between his fingers before placing it slightly to the left. Thandoril would have to come to him if he wanted it back. He wasn’t going to make his job any easier, and it only paid a fair price for leaving him cold between those sheets.
Thandoril had sighed from his nose, his glare pointedly obvious that if Tarr said another word he would have him by the neck. He got up, the legs of his chair making a horrible screech as he stood. Attention from all ends had been grabbed and Brahms had promptly avoided looking in their direction, and he began to follow Shara as the small group were quick to make their leave, abandoning Ahzyl and Kelvhan who had gone quiet.
Thandoril sauntered over, his shoulders rolling forwards as he snatched the locket from where it rested. He stared daggers down at Szordin and the doctor had only met his look with a self satisfied gleam within his eyes. The blonde man held his stare for a second longer before he sighed again to compose himself from saying anything that could trigger an argument. He didn’t feel like fighting, not again. Szordin was beginning to make it hard to subside his rising temper.
“Perhaps.” Thandoril had finally spoken and Szordin so badly wanted to snap back at him to cut the act. The doctor leaned back slightly in his seat as Thandoril returned to his, leaving the two, - well four in a tense silence.
Someone had cleared their throat, too rough to be Ahzyl so Szordin assumed it had been Kelvhan. He looked over to see the dark haired knight take a heavy swig to the flask in hand and accidentally locked eyes with Ahzyl.
“Thandoril made pancakes!” He chimed up, of course he did. Szordin hated pancakes, usually bitter and cold by the time the plate was placed in front of him. If he thought Thandoril wasn’t playing games, he was certain he was now. “Some type of berry he found in the cupboards? What was it, Thandoril?” Ahzyl looked over and Kelvhan sat the flask down with a heavy hand.
“Rhubarb, it's not a berry.” Thandoril responded as he flipped a page to whatever he was reading. Szordin wanted to vomit, gods, Rhubarb pancakes? What was he, an old woman? The doctor audibly rolled his eyes, now grabbing his lenses he had tucked away in his pants pocket.
Ahzyl had taken to grabbing the flask Kelvhan set down, playing with the handle for a moment before grabbing the man's hand and placing it between the knight's fingers, much like how a child would play with a doll. “They were super delicious.” He broadcasted, “Right Kelvhan?” and the black-haired man had set the flask back down. Szordin wondered how he was able to put up with how touchy-feely Ahzyl was.
Kelvhan mumbled, “Sure.” and it earned a smile from the fiery-haired man beside him.
“How lovely.” Tarr had grumbled, placing his glasses onto his nose before lounging back in the uncomfortable dining chair. Everything about this place felt so cramped, from the chairs, to bed, to halls. He was really anticipating their leave.
Thandoril flipped another page and took a sip from the mug beside him. “There's some left in the kitchen.” He spoke, monotone to the tongue and Szordin only glanced over as his fingers ghosted his lips. He could really go for another hit from his pipe right now, he wasn’t sure what else to do with his hands.
“I think I’ll pass.” He responded.
“Suit yourself.” Thandoril took another sip.
Szordin certainly would, if it meant not eating those flat strips of fried flour and water he would be quite contemptuous right about now. The sudden thirst did quench his throat and he had been completely ignoring that rash at the back of his throat.
The last thing he had drank was Saerion's terribly cured wine– speaking of the pope Szordin had yet to catch wind of him. He felt a tingle rise at the back of his neck. The cathedral had eyes, all of them did, along with ears and consuming mouths of prayers. He had to be somewhere near: Saerion was a slinky predator, plotting, planning, he would show eventually.
When he had, Szordin hadn’t known how he might react. He had already resolved to kill him before they left– if Saerion allowed them. There was no chance the group would leave unharmed, or without a bargain from the pope. He wanted to curse out loud, especially to reach across this table and shake Ahzyls memories back into his head. They should have taken the longer path into Korril but the prince had insisted he was suddenly remembering there had been a short cut into the kingdom.
Szordin closed his eyes, suppressing the flare up of frustration starting to tingle in his legs. He looked over to Kelvhan, then to the flask on the table. “What’s in there?” He pointed with his finger, hand resting on his cheek now.
Kelvhan had looked over, as if processing what Szordin had asked. He looked down at the silver flask, painted and embroidered with Kilthion symbols, a large banner in the middle of it. “Whiskey.” He responded flatly, Ahzyl made a face to prove a point he did not like.
Szordin wanted to fall to his knees and pray to Sol for the holy deliverance he had been craving since he left Cirdanth. He had known Kelvhan was a drinker– his breath, armour, clothes and even the air around him reeked with it. Had Thandoril clung to him with the same suffocating grasp as Ahzyl, he too might have taken up multiple bottles a day. Yet something told him Kelvhans habit had other reasons. Szordin had not blamed him.
Kelvhan had passed the flask by sliding it across the table, passing Thandoril who was lost in his book. Szordin caught it, popping the lid open and downed the rest of its contents. The knight went to contend with what he witnessed, knowing Szordin had not spared him a single drop, but was stopped as Ahzyl again grabbed his wrists to make him turn face.
He felt touched by Elysium, and that nagging soreness at the back of his throat subsided with the warm soothing embrace. Szordin noted this had felt far better than sex. Thandoril had mumbled something as he closed his book and Szordin looked up.
That temporary bliss melted away at the sight of Nicolas, and he had clued Thandoril had greeted the Cardinal. Shara was with him too, with the lack of Brahms' presence. He had hardly left the side of that woman since Riverbury.
The doctor did not greet the Cardinal as the pair passed, heading towards the kitchen. Nicolas had looked even worse when under candlelight, Saerion had certainly made work of him. By the look on Shara’s face he would certainly be joining them on their journey to Korril.
Szordin had tipped the flask again. Nothing, dry as a desert now. He grumbled, as he set the flask down his thumbnail tracing the crest on the flask. It made his stomach turn.
He slid the container back to Kelvhan who grasped it quickly, a wash of disappointment crossing his face as Szordin had left him no whiskey. Ahzyl had also peaked over to peer into the entrance with a squinted eye.
“How are you feeling?” he had heard Thandoril ask Nicolas from the kitchen. The professor had followed the two. Szordin had always made it a habit to eavesdrop on Thandoril whenever he had the chance.
Nicolas had responded before Shara had probed for more information over his injuries. Szordin did not want to hear anymore, and promptly stood. He was not sure where Arlene, Thaddeus and Chelsea had slipped off to, and assumed Brahms would be gloating over how marvelous the statues looked in the main halls.
He passed Kelvhan, “You owe me.” He had spat a sharp suede at Szordin and the tall man had peered down at him with conniving eyes.
“Was making my way to fetch you a fresh bottle.” The doctor responded, holding up a hand to explain as he slinked off under the archway of the dining hall.
He would, but there had been other things he planned out for the day, and the first of them had been tracking down Saerion.