Work Text:
I sit myself up in bed with a deep sigh and run my fingers over the gash in my shoulder. It’s already verging on a scar. Another one. I grab one more cotton pad, dip it in disinfectant liquid, and dab it on and around the wound. I don’t even have to wince anymore. With the rest of the blood cleaned off, I lie back down, careful not to pull on my IV. Now the blood only needs to vanquish the ache in my joints. I stretch as well as I can and let out a big yawn, twitching when the door opens. Laurence peeks into the room. He flashes that brilliant smile that wrinkles the skin around his eyes, sneaks inside, and presses the door shut behind him.
“It’s good to see you’re well,” he says, voice as warm as his expression. “You had me worried for a minute, there. If only just a minute.” I grin at him.
“No reason for more,” I say. As soon as he gets close, I trace my fingers over his brocade robe. Grabbing his collar, I pull him towards me into a kiss. He loses his balance in the process and ends up very nearly crashing into my lips. I giggle underneath him and feel him smile. He embraces the kiss, letting it go deep enough to tickle my stomach, before he pulls back and levels his golden gaze at me.
“Are you well, dearest?” he asks, tucking a stray lock of hair behind my ear. I nod once.
“Better,” I say. “The less bleeding and nearly dying, the better.” He rolls his eyes.
“I’d rather there be markedly less of that in the future,” he groans.
“No promises,” I say with a smirk. He crosses his arms.
“But you can try.”
“I do try!” He presses his lips together and strokes my cheek. His movements are ever so gentle, as if I was a fragile porcelain figure that’s already cracked. The gesture soothes away my smirk and the fuzz in my stomach. Touching my own hand on top of his, intertwining our fingers, I let another sigh rock through my chest.
“I think I’m getting old,” I mutter. At that, he scoffs and smiles wider.
“Time tends to do that to people,” he says. His words are as soft as velvet and caress me like his touch. I shake my head, squeezing his hand.
“I’m serious, Laurence.” I roll my shoulder and wince demonstratively. “I could swear there’s sand in my joints,” I groan. He furrows his brow and looks me over.
“Sand?” he asks.
“That means it hurts. Aches,” I say. “And my head feels… like it’s full of rocks.” He places his soft palm on my forehead, gaze somber like the grave.
“As if you’re coming down with the flu?” he asks. I nod, though the motion is awkward against his hand.
“All I need now is a nose full of snot and nonstop coughing,” I say. He glares at me and sighs.
“I see. Well, the blood should’ve well taken care of that by now,” he mutters. I can almost hear the cogs in his head creaking as he thinks. I shrug, almost pulling at my IV.
“I suppose it started with my wounds and called it a day,” I say and pull his hand off of my sweaty forehead to cradle it in mine.
“It shouldn’t. That’s not how it works,” he grumbles. I press a kiss to his knuckles, dodging his lace cuff and gold signet rings with my lips.
“Then perhaps I am just getting old,” I say, smirk reemerging on my face. He scoffs, but still mirrors my expression.
"We'll see. I've no doubt that it'll pass. The blood has never failed you before, so I see no reason why it would start now," he says and squeezes my hand with his delicate fingers. His smile is radiant and warm, like the first sunbeams peeking over the horizon after a long, long night. I nod at him, and this time the motion makes the tendons and muscles in my neck feel as though they're tearing themselves apart. His face falls as I wince.
"But until then... do try to be careful. Even if you're merely resting here," he says, all but nailing me to the bed with his glare. I can't help but smile sheepishly. The tears in the cubicle curtain from last time still haven't been fixed.
"Always," I purr. He nudges my shoulder and leans in to steal another kiss.
*
Song fills the cathedral to the brim. It’s one of his newer hymns—I don’t know the melody by heart yet. He leads the choir. I can pick out his voice even among a crowd of hundreds. It’s the only one that remains distinct when my ears start ringing. The hymn echoes against the walls, against the windows and statues. Shivers creep down my spine. Every hair on my neck and back stands on end. It’s as if their voices make the cathedral vibrate. My own voice has long since died in my throat. I can barely breathe. My lungs quiver and refuse to take in air. I stop leaning against his throne and stand on my own two legs. It doesn’t vanquish the vibrations in my body. They must be coming through the floor as well...
My mind shudders when my senses catch up. Their singing has stopped. The crowd is slowly clearing out of the cathedral. I’ve no clue how long the respectful silence has reigned instead. And the ringing in my ears continues; the shuddering, how the outlines of reality seem to bleed out and into one another. I clench my teeth, shut my eyes, and grasp the hilt of the Holy Sword on my back. The ringing fades into the background. Left behind as my mind transcends. Sprites dance before my eyes, sprinkling calm back into my soul. I could reach out and touch them. Share my body as well as my mind. It could only possibly be a joy. A boundless one.
Two warm, gentle hands cup my cheeks. The vibrating stops. My eyes fly open, just in time to see him press his lips against mine. Then he levels his gaze at me, eyes wide, brows pressed together.
“Are you alright?” he asks, voice barely above a whisper. He’s all I can hear beyond the ringing. I manage to smile at him.
“I am now,” I whisper. This soothes his expression just a smidge. He heaves a sigh.
“How was the hymn?” he asks. “I thought it lacked a little something," he says before I get to answer. "As if it didn’t quite flow like it should. I think I need to count the syllables again. Did you hear me sing?” He looks at me like an expectant child on their birthday. I release my grip on the Sword and stroke his cheek instead.
“You were lovely, baby,” I purr. “As usual.” He smiles, dimples adorning his chubby face. My stomach tingles, nearly quenching the nausea in the process. He brushes his fingers across my cheekbones, then places his palm on my forehead once more. His smile gives way to a pout.
"You're awfully warm," he mutters. I sigh, exhalation scratching my throat.
"That sounds about right," I say, managing a weak chuckle. He looks me over with that grave look in his eyes. The cogs are turning.
"Is this that same flu-like feeling you described the other day?" he asks. I barely get to grimace and open my mouth like a beached fish before he starts stroking his chin and muttering.
"That just doesn't make any sense," is all I catch. He seizes my hand and gives it a squeeze.
"Why didn't you tell me?" he demands. I deflate, flashing the weakest of smiles.
"What can I say, Laurence? I wanted to be here for you," I mumble. "To hear you sing." I get to say no more before I have to smack my hand in front of my mouth. Nausea coils in my chest, squeezing and churning my stomach. My vision blurs. He grips my upper arms.
"Ludwig," he says, barely penetrating the ringing noise. I force my eyes open to look him in the eyes.
"Go to my suite and rest. And consider that an order," he says, voice more gentle than I'd expected. "Rest for as long as it takes. I'll administer another dose of blood. And don't get up for anything." He jabs his index at me for emphasis. My fingers itch to hold the Sword once again.
"But... what if something—" I start, but he silences me with that same finger.
“No buts. You’re in no state to fight anyway,” he says, seizes my hand, and guides me out of the back of the cathedral. My feet feel like they have lead weights tied to them. I can barely keep my balance. He whispers strings of soothing words. The trip back to his private suite is one big blur. One moment I’m speaking with him in the cathedral, the next I’ve a soft rug underneath my bare feet and I’m sitting on a bed draped in silk sheets—his bed.
“Put down the sword, okay?” he says. I press my lips together, nausea intensifying. He caresses my thigh.
“When you’re ready,” he amends and brushes his lips against mine.
“I’ll be back to administer blood. For now, your only job is to rest. Got it?” he asks, gazing into my eyes. He’s swimming before them. I blink multitudinously.
“Okay,” I whisper.
*
The cold marble stings the soles of my feet. Every step echoes and makes grand hallway wobble. My balance wavers as my gaze wanders up; up to where the stained glass is bleeding onto the walls. Bending and twisting and my knees are about to buckle. I draw a ragged breath that burns my throat. It's as if I'm breathing needles. A voice ricochets down the hall and I twist to look behind me, the motion almost killing my balance once and for all.
This isn't like in the books. In all the novels I've read, a voice, a person, a touch pulls the protagonist out of their reverie. The waking nightmare they've been plunged into. But the hunter before me looks like a reflection. An image cast on the surface of a raging ocean.
"Sir," they echo. Sir. That I know. They're probably smiling at me.
"Please, calm down," they say. They continue, but their words whip right past me. I take a step towards them.
"Where is it?" I ask, voice more ragged than my breathing. They take a step back. Face aligning for just a moment, I almost recognize them. They're one of Simon's. They keep talking at me. Before they have any time to react, I lunge ahead and seize their throat.
"Where?" I repeat. Their face is barely quivering at all from this distance.
"I—sir—I'm sorry, we—we only thought it'd be best if you rested instead of—"
"Where?!" I shout. A sob crawls out of their throat and they press their eyes shut.
"In the workshop! Upstairs, in the workshop!" they say, voice trembling instead of their face. My hand drops to my side and I stagger back the way I came. At least I think I came from that direction. It all blends together. The hunters I pass stand out from the white marble. They try not to, but they do. I wrap my fingers around every railing I come across. Every single one grates my skin and its cold seeps into my bones. Whispers resound in my skull while I drag myself up the stairs. My joints aren’t full of sand anymore. They’re full of gravel. And my feet slip time and time again up the ladder. I have to pull myself up on my stomach and crawl until I can walk again. Gusts of wind circle the tower. All the way up here, I have a perfect view of Cathedral Ward. The world comes into focus. Every line is sharp and crisp and the evening sky is bright pink against the slate rooftops. I draw a deep, unobstructed breath. Then I press on.
Inside the workshop, a wall of grey figures block my path. They're armed to the teeth. In this moment, my bare feet radiate cold into the rest of my body. It shivers.
"Ludwig, sir," one of them says, taking the smallest of steps towards me. "All is well here. You ought to return home and lie down."
"I hate to say it, but you just don't look well, sir," another chimes in, utterly shrill. My eyes shift from one face to another. They're still sharp and clear. For now. My heart skips a beat when I catch a glimpse of it. Behind them. The cold dies out. Electricity crackles in my chest, in my head, in my fingers. I could swear I say something, but I can’t tell what it is. It might not even be a word. Glancing to my side, I grab the nearest weapon. A sword, its grip familiar in my hand. Their stances change. A motion too subtle for the untrained eye.
My body moves in my stead. The flow of combat embraces me and tosses me into a leap. None of these hunters can parry like I can. It throws them off of their balance. Had they been serious about this, they'd have had someone else stand in my way. Maria. Simon. Gehrman. Anyone. I slit one's throat, plunge the sword into the chest of another, floating through battle like a ghost. I ache. Every breath burns. The third shrieks before dropping to the ground, their blood impossibly hot against the soles of my feet. The fourth is nowhere to be seen. Not when the workshop is twisting and quivering and bleeding before my eyes. If they fled, they're smarter than the rest.
The sword clatters to the ground, blood spattering from its blade. I stride towards my Sword. Pulling it off of the wall smothers the fire in my gut. My breath stalls as I clutch it against my chest. A smile spreads across my face and I close my eyes. The sprites dance before me in the dark. I can almost hear their whispers clearly today. They're so close. So warm. All is well indeed.
The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. I'm lying down on the granite floor, Holy Sword in my arms. I sit back up with a groan. My stomach churns when I catch sight of the blood underneath my feet. The scent of rust permeates the workshop. Heart in my throat, I turn around. The walls are covered in blood. Three hunters lie dead. I know them. Even from this distance, not seeing their face, I know. A sob rocks through my chest and I cover my mouth with my hand. With another groan, I rise to my feet, Sword still clutched against my chest. I stagger out of the workshop, out into the bone-chilling wind.
I can imagine his face clearly. His horror. His disapproval. His fury. He'll know. No matter what I do now. He'll know. He can't see this. He can't see me. I slide down the ladder and drop to my feet. All colour has drained from them and they've gained a blue tinge at this point. My pace picks up. He can't see me.
*
Raindrops thrum against my face. Each drop prickles. I open my mouth and stick out my tongue. The water has a faint taste of sulphur to it. Gazing down into the lake, I try to make out my face. It's distant from here. It looks like someone else. I lean closer, almost losing my balance on the lakeside railing. I look like someone else. Unfamiliar. Wrong. My feet are a lot clearer than my face from here. They're wrong, too. I lift my gaze to the grey horizon in the distance. The lake and the weeping sky blend together like amateur watercolours. I close my better eye. More of an impressionistic edge. A giggle bubbles in my chest. I silence it immediately. It's off. I clutch at my throat, long nails poking at my skin. Whatever's in my throat making that noise, it's coming out. Now.
"Ludwig?" Shivers race down my spine. I throw myself backwards and scurry to my feet. My clothes pull at my shoulders, at my hips. He's shorter than he used to be. The hunters surrounding him are as muddled as the horizon. He's radiant. A beacon of gold against a sea of ash. My face pulls into a smile. The warmth in my stomach doesn't care if the motion hurts. His eyes are huge. Like the ones they keep in jars. His lower lip juts out slightly.
"Ludwig, beloved. My heart," he says. I crouch down, movements strained and jittery. Every inch stings. My gaze is fixed on him. He's almost sharp and clear against the chaos.
"Is this—are you—" My heart skips a beat. He never stutters. "How are you feeling?" he asks, voice full of air. I stare at him. Wheezing breaths crawl through my chest. I know the words. Saying them is another matter. After I've opened and closed my wicked mouth a few times, the thing in my throat answers.
"No," I croak. What was the question? He presses his lips together and caresses his chest with his fingers. The area right above his heart.
"Are—" he asks, but the creature interrupts him.
"Don't worry," I whisper. We speak in sync. A hideous cacophony. He presses his eyes shut for a moment.
"I am worried. I am worried, Ludwig," he says. His words fall as clear as the rain.
"Have you looked at yourself?" he asks. "Do you realize... what you are? Right now?" My gaze wanders. Look at my toes. If that's what they really are. Glance at the trees. They're dancing in the breeze. Peruse the hunters. One after the other. Little humans in a line. They cower under my gaze as if it were a sword.
"Ludwig!" Laurence demands my attention back. "I need you to answer me," he states. My mind's fog shudders. I roll my neck, joints cracking like crunchy leaves. Rain pelts my face.
"Ludwig—"
"You were lovely, baby," we say. He gasps.
"As usual." He stares down at the mud. He shakes his head, hand covering his mouth. A hunter whispers in his ear. Nothing but a whistling noise to me. Indistinguishable from the ringing in my ears. When he looks back up, his eyes are bathed in tears. But his gaze is pure lightning. It commands me to close my mouth, straighten my back, stand up despite the ache. He strides towards me. They grasp at his robes, but he stops for nothing. He gets closer. My fingers start quivering. He's within range. I could reach out. I could pick him up. I'd have everything. I reach for him. Arm like a whip. Almost catch him. He dodges backwards, chest heaving with every breath. Mine stalls. He stares at me. Swallows hard.
"Ludwig, I don't want to have to do this," he says, voice mushy and crackling. "Please, give me something. Anything. Anything at all. Please." Give him something? I look around. He doesn't like trees. Doesn't like nature. That wouldn't do. Stones underneath me aren't shiny enough. I glare at him. I have only one thing. Embers seethe in my chest. Noises slither out of my throat. He runs backwards. Back into the crowd of hunters. I wrap my fingers around it. He isn't getting it. It doesn’t belong to him. A deep breath rocks through his chest. His lower lip quivers and he pushes up his glasses, looking at the hunters.
"Put him down," he whispers. A sentence only barely uttered. The words ricochet in my mind. Put him down. Put him down. Get rid of him. That's it. Get rid of him. Kill him. Kill him. Kill him! My grip around the Sword tightens. The hunters step in front of him. Cover him. I bare my teeth. Squeeze a tear from my eye. A roar tears through my throat as I rush towards them. Most dodge. Some are crushed beneath the blade. Radiance flees, breaking their formation. A sun surrounded by clouds, racing across the sky. I throw myself into the grey crowd, reaching for him, despite his distance. Pain pulses from my joints, my side, my thigh. My thigh? I take a swing at the raging ocean. Catch a few of them. Beckon the moonlight. The hairs on my arms stand on end. I swing towards the other side and release. Their shrieks intensify the ringing.
I jump. They're almost clear from above. I come down hard. Miss him by a hair. His voice is distinct. Even as a scream. He's separated from the crowd completely. Scurrying towards the forest. Their voices stab at my ears. They dodge and avoid my swings. But they aren’t prepared for my arm. My nails. My teeth. If only they’d stop screaming so much. Bullets riddle my back. A howl rips through me and I twist around to face them. They’re gripped by recklessness. My fingers caress the blade and I call upon the moon. Once more. We release in sync. My body almost goes limp. Moonlight waves strike down their ashen army. Nearly blinding. It’s warm to my touch—flittering, dancing. The wails are their own song.
I turn on a dime and all but toss the Sword towards him. Its tip catches his heel. He shrieks. Falls on his face. Dirt mars his golden brown hue. I pull myself towards him. By the time he’s turned to look at me, I’m hovering above him. I raise the Sword. He reaches out towards me. Rivers are pouring from his eyes.
“Ludwig,” he whispers. The fire stills. My breath stalls. I’m perfectly frozen, blade pointed down towards him, heart skipping its beats. Put him down. Get rid of him. Kill him. I bare my teeth. Kill him. Plunge the Sword. Kill him! His weeping stops in an instant. Dark blood creeps out from his stomach. He stares at me. His mouth is open, as if he’s expecting something in it. This isn’t what he usually looks like from this angle. My arm moves on its own. Reaches down towards him. Nails trail down his wet cheeks. Pain shoots through my shoulder. Where my collar bone used to sit. I curl up, gaze darting around the woods, the horizon, the academy. I grab the offensive object and pull it out. Another bullet, but much longer. Thinner. It’s my turn to scream when another penetrates my gut.
My eyes turn to the muddy sky above and I spot him. Perched on a balcony. Aiming at me. I crouch down, support my weight on his face, my dearest. Loud voices. Scratchier than screams. A bell of recognition chimes. The assassin. The apprentice. Them and the archer. Shivers, amplifying the pain. Pull the Sword from his belly. He draws a ragged breath. Fasten it on my back. Run. Push away bushes, trees, branches. Get down on all fours. Much faster. More comfortable. Is it four? Much faster.
*
A shriek resounds against the flaming sky. Penetrates the fog. I draw a sharp breath. It aches. I ache. The scream chimes. A sound I know. Like the back of my hand? Warmth spreads through my chest. What vaguely constitutes my upper body. Lighter than it’s ever been. Lighter than it’s ever been like this. A wail slithers through my body. An answer. Like a cacophony of wolves howling at the moon—at each other.
I force my eyes open. The fog has thinned. I can almost see. Before me lies an ocean. A crimson sea. He doesn’t reply. His shriek yet echoes in my mind. Each time, its volume lowers. Fades. The chime stills. I’m enveloped in silence. Weighed down by my own body. My joints are sawblades. Another sob drops out of my throat. A lead weight inside of my skull. All made of fog. My breathing stalls. I close my eyes. Silence soothes me. I return to my ocean.