Chapter Text
It hardly comes as a surprise when Thyrsus is placed back into his hold by the Professor with a nod that affirms he is rather worthy of wielding his family’s relic. Gloucester’s legacy rests upon his shoulders, as well as the Alliance’s--who is better to wield it than its future leader? None other than a noble of such pedigree as himself would be more suited for the job! Surely the Professor sees such latent skill within each spell he casts, how elegant his form is with each flourish of his hand.
Thyrsus is certainly not the most attractive relic to view, its odd spines (spires? Spikes? Even he cannot think of a word!) snake out from its wand-like appearance, an ominous red glow emanating from the Crest stone inside. Quite a shame it is not as refined as himself, but perhaps an air of elegance shall be obtained by remaining in close proximity to a man of his stature.
He inspects it with a thoughtful hum as he stands in the training grounds, sleeves rolled up as to not singe them whilst training. While normally he’d scoff at such an unrefined appearance, it would be rather embarrassing to burn his uniform. Such sloppy form, unable to handle a bit of fire… how unlike him it would be. With one hand wrapped around its staff, Lorenz’s other is stretched out towards a nearby dummy.
He barely works through one fire spell before searing pain tears through his arm. His fingers twitch around Thyrsus; Lorenz takes in a deep breath before steadying himself, uttering the spell once more. Could it be the power the relic holds, and he simply is unused to it? If such happens to be the case, then Lorenz shall rise to the occasion. His response shall be to train harder, to master this new task that he’s been assigned.
His fire arcs past the dummy, and before Lorenz can be proud of such a display, the pain in his arm worsens. It’s as if the spines on Thyrsus have twitched to life, snaking down his arms like thorns on a rosebush, barbs embedding into his skin. A choked gasp leaves him, eyes wrenched shut in agony as he falls to his knees; they peel past his flesh, blood brighter than the rose that adorns his chest. The pain is sickening, and Lorenz fears to open his eyes to see the mess he’s made of the training grounds as Thyrsus continues to embed itself in his flesh. Vines tear their way through his veins, attempting to reach for his bones and twist his arm in a sickening angle.
Despite this, he peeks one open to see not a single mark lies upon his skin. While it’s fallen to the floor, Thyrsus remains intact, its crest stone faintly glowing. No blood decorates its thorny spires, and it leaves Lorenz in a panic.
What had he just witnessed?
Unsteady fingers hover above the relic, unsure if it should make its way back into his hold. It’s rude to leave it here, to paint himself as slovenly when he is the very opposite. What noble would he be, leaving his family’s relic in the dirt? Despite the trepidation that runs cold in his body, Lorenz grasps it once more as he rises onto his feet.
Your father’s blood is on your hands.
He blinks, and glances around the deserted training grounds in search of this unknown voice he cannot recognize, cannot place. His father’s blood? It sounds like such utter nonsense, yet something tugs at the corners of his mind to argue it is anything but.
Its prestige is built upon a mountain of corpses, their skulls your father’s throne. This is his legacy, and it shall bury you in carnage. I am only returning a fraction of the people’s suffering unto you.
Lorenz’s first thought is that he has passed out from the pain, and this is a cruel nightmare. Gloucester, its roads paved with bodies, their blood used to till the soil in the gardens--surely that’s nothing more than lies. While he doesn’t agree with his father often, to label him so cruel… What foundation are these whispers built upon?
Your ignorance will be your end.
Lorenz’s head begins to throb as thousands of nails dig at the inside of his skull. The agony is blinding, and the doors of the training grounds come into play through his bleary eyes. If he can make it to his room, to set Thyrsus down, to allow himself a moment to think, perhaps he can make sense of these frenzied words that seem to emanate from the relic.
...The relic. How ludicrous he feels to humor the notion that an inanimate object could speak. It’s easier to believe than the fact his death would come, were he to continue following in his father’s footsteps.
His steps are unsteady as they make their way towards the exit.
It’s during his weekly afternoon tea with Ferdinand that someone comments on his appearance.
“Forgive me if I offend you, Lorenz, but your complexion appears rather pallid as of late.” He sets down the cup on his saucer with a frown. “If you were unwell, I would not have minded waiting for our usual conversations of tea.”
“It is nothing, Ferdinand.” Lorenz waves a hand dismissively and takes a small sip of tea. It tastes of rusted copper. He’s kept Thyrsus close by, to inspect it, and it’s only worsened his condition. “It would not be kind of me to cancel at the last minute.”
“I would normally agree with you, but… if you are ill, your health takes greater priority than a finely brewed pot of tea,” he says, “and as a friend, I am only speaking out of concern.”
“Would wasting this tea not be an insult to its kind?” Lorenz has to blink a few times to put his vision back into focus. The worried expression hasn’t left Ferdinand’s face. “...do I truly look so ill?”
With a nod, Ferdinand removes one of his gloves, and goes to place the back of his hand to Lorenz’s forehead. “Goodness! Your skin feels like ice, Lorenz!” He’s quick to rise, offering out the same hand with a further worried expression. “I am to escort you to the infirmary, and I shall not hear any argument coming from you. Professor Manuela shall see you at once.”
Lorenz knows not to argue, despite how humiliating it feels to leave their tea unattended in the gardens, how his body is racked with chills as he’s escorted to care he is unsure that will help. How is he to explain what is wrong, with the only explanation this ill feeling began when Thyrsus was placed within his hold? Did the professor know this would occur? Did Father?
Mind heavy with fog, Lorenz barely registers the conversation Ferdinand and Professor Manuela have. He’s in a cot within the blink of an eye, blankets tucked around him, their voices nothing more than faint murmurs as his consciousness fades.
In Lorenz’s dreams, he sees a demon.
The demon bears the silhouette of his father, features obfuscated by shadow, crimson roses adorning his claws and horns, eyes stark white. Each petal drifts to the ground like droplets of blood, snaking a path that soaks Lorenz’s feet (and it’s soft, delicate like roses, and it makes Lorenz wish to vomit) . His grip around Thyrsus lies steady, the relic’s spires brushing against his throat.
Lorenz does not know whether it is beads of blood or sweat that wet his skin.
I knew you were never worthy. A disgrace to the Gloucester legacy.
“But I have not strayed from your course…” The warm, discomforting wetness coils around Lorenz’s legs. “You sent me to the Officer’s Academy to follow in your name.”
You have failed already. You cannot handle Thyrsus. Why would anyone trust you to handle Gloucester, or the Alliance?
“A single misstep does not prove I am unworthy…!” No, no he cannot lose this! What will he do with himself if disowned, cast aside like he was nothing?
The demon is silent, empty eyes boring holes into Lorenz. It turns its back to Lorenz, dripping claws still wrapped around Thyrsus. Somehow, its steps are quiet as the demon walks away, melting into the shadows.
“Father?” The blood turns into a thick, vicious substance, bright red to contrast the black expanse he is trapped in, dragging him into the void. “Father, please--do not leave me here!”
His world turns dark.
When Lorenz awakens with a start, he clutches his chest in a clammy hand, heart pounding in his ribcage. His fingers curl around the rose emblazoned onto his uniform, yet the petals do not feel soft. They’re brittle and cold, and crumble to ash in his palm.
He blinks rapidly, heart within his throat, and closes his eyes once more.
This cannot be real, he repeats to himself as the rose cracks and withers, this must be a mere continuation of my nightmare.
An eternity seems to pass before Lorenz opens his eyes, rose pristine as ever, its petals weighted with death.