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He’s always been able to see right through people. Their worst. Their best. It’s the power of the true self, the voice in his head whispers. It’s his— your —goddamn right. He ignores the voice and smiles at the customers. He is seven and he is afraid and he is silent. Because the voice in his head is not him, but it is him. The voice in his head doesn’t sound like him at all, it’s a man’s voice— deeper, hoarse (as if he coughed up smoke), but sometimes it gets really animated and light and if Stahl was anybody else, he’d take that voice for being genuine; if Stahl was anybody else, he would have shied away from that voice; if Stahl was anybody else—
—he wouldn’t have a voice in his head to begin with.
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He’s always been adept with herbs, and wild plants. Some laugh and claim that it’s too feminine of a task; failing to see the value of it. Sure these plants can heal, but some can also poison. It’s funny how people forget that, Stahl thinks. The voice thinks it’s funny, too. How much people can miss when they are just seeing the big picture. But the voice in his head wasn’t interested in this sort of killing (the silent type)(where you walk away with clean hands): been there, done that — Stahl flinches at the thought— but still, it didn’t hurt to know.
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But soon Stahl forgot about the voice. The voice blended in with his voice, or maybe his voice blended in with the voice. But he had dreams of people he has never been before and a strange new world where everything was so different. (They had moving boxes and a world painted black and yellow and red. They had strange contraptions— that he forgot about upon waking— and wore strange clothes and talked about things that he has never heard of in his life.) But Stahl didn’t really get it and chalked it up to an active imagination.
Or falling asleep in the stockroom.
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He still knew the poisons, though.
Daphne. English Yew. Woodbine. Pokeweed. Bittersweet. Jasmine. And those were only the berries. Belladonna could count as well, and fares as a dangerous hallucinogen, not to mention sedates. He also knew of hyacinth bulbs, and narcissus bulbs, and of the dangers of oleander and foxglove leaves, and how one or two rosary peas or castor bean seeds could lead to death for an adult.
But he is an apothecary’s son and all this knowledge is just half of the picture. He knew which plants could be eaten raw and which ones should be mashed into a poultice and which ones are just simply edible.
He knew about burdock, yellow dock, amaranth, and clovers. About motherwort, yarrows and cattails and pennycress. About sheep sorrels and wood sorrels and shepherd’s purse. About turmeric and plantain and coltsfoot and chicory.
He is the apothecary’s son, after all.
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The strange dreams continued with sporadic intervals of time between them. And time went on.
And then, Stahl joined the Shepherds.
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There was something really nostalgic about being in an army that is there to “serve and protect.” Maybe it’s all those childhood memories of playing hero, Stahl thinks. But he’s not so sure.
He originally wanted to use a bow and arrow, his fingers twitching for the urge to shoot something, at the idea of poisoning the tips of his arrows— but nervous buildup of excitement and anticipation faded when he got his hands on a bow and arrow. He wasn’t really a good shot.
(Instead; he found that high with a blade. But he found himself so unsettled with the bloodlu— no, not the bloodlust, he didn’t want to think it could ever be bloodlust, but the sheer realization of how easy it is to kill a man with a blade. He didn’t enjoy conflict and was always more of a mediator than anything, but there was a smug satisfaction that came from defeating an enemy. It terrified him.
He started to battle with a horse, hoping that it could reign him in. But still that didn’t stop him from being tense and nervous at the start of every battle.)
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The dreams begin to get more vivid. He dreams about girls shaking, crying and rooms with nooses and broken bottles of alcohol. He dreams about blood and victory and the world being in his palms. And he is confused, horrified, about this world inside him. Because this isn’t me, this isn’t me, this isn’t me.
He doesn’t wake up from that night, not really. But he pretends. (He’s awfully good at pretending and faking a smile. It’s an art that people have mastered for decades, that people learn to master as children— simply playing pretend.)
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And when Robin walks in, and Stahl wakes up.
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His name is Adachi Tohru— and he is you. This isn’t something Stahl can deny, this isn’t just a crazy dream, but a crazy dream years in the making. And it’s true. There are names to the girl’s faces. Mayumi Yamano. Saki Konishi. A name to that strange sleeping town. Inaba. And a word to describe the twitching in his fingers. Hunger.
“Hunger for what?” He wants to ask, but he bites his tongue, instead.
Later, he wonders why he didn't ask.
It’s not like anyone would have answered him, regardless.
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But still. He isn’t Adachi. Despite the twitching fingers and the uncanny physical similarities— he isn’t Adachi. Not truly.
It’s just that parts of him— gets eaten up by Adachi and everything about them is mixed up and sometimes he can’t even tell what parts of him are actually him.
He doesn’t know much, aside from herbs and poisons and how to properly hold a sword and take care of horse, but he does know that, he aches more food and dumb jokes and pleasant conversations. And that one day, he’d like to retire and live a quiet life in the town, or even in the country— not as an apothecary (that’s his brother’s job)— but simply as a man, and eat fine meals and take care of his horse, which he really is quite fond of.
(He’s not sure about having a wife anymore, or kids. Not after— not after seeing those girls.)
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Robin has Seta’s eyes.
They are tactician eyes— but they aren’t cold. They aren’t even as opaque as Seta’s eyes were. They are warm eyes, eyes much like Stahl’s own.
But still— there is something unnerving about Robin. He doesn’t look for those qualities too hard, and keeps an amiable, yet distant relationship with him.
Some histories don’t need to be repeated.
(They aren’t gods anymore. He isn’t a god anymore.)
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He’s not a brilliant fighter. He doesn’t do any moves that are too risky or ethically questionable, but he does go out of his way to protect his partners.
When they thank him, he shakes off their words with a smile, and secretly wonders if he is doing this because he genuinely wants to, or to distinguish himself from his other half.
He doesn’t care for the answer.
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The dreams stop and time goes on, till they come back in the form of just one simple dream.
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“The gods punished me by making me live a life of the most average of the men.” Adachi says, laughing bitterly.
They are standing among the mist, with fog surrounding both of them.
Stahl doesn’t say anything. There’s not much to deny, afterall. It’s something he’s always known and accepted. It’s a safe place to be, and allows you to be noticed and unnoticed as you wish. He really doesn’t mind.
Adachi says a few words after that— words that Stahl can’t remember, though he feels like he should— but then it’s silence.
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He opens his eyes and the light feels warm and fresh upon his face, and he is reborn.
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