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Aaravos dreams of drowning.
There is water in his mouth, in his throat, in his lungs. It is dark, so very dark.
Then he wakes up.
.
In his mind, there is a Before, a Middle and an After. The Before is fleeting. It’s hints of power and green and love and loss. The After is too much and too little at the same time. He wants to see everything, hear everything, touch and taste everything. But at the same time, he spends any amount of time in the world and he is left shaking with the feeling of too much.
It is the Middle that haunts him. He’s read every book on those shelves a dozen times and could name each title with ease. He knows how the fire creates an image of warmth but does not, will not burn flesh or provide heat. It is always light and never dark. He’d built the place after all- anything was better than that initial blankness he had been thrown in. He had created an illusion of towers in the distance, making the world seem far larger than it was in actuality though in truth he had been confined to four rooms.
He stopped trying to count the days a long, long time ago.
There is a saying, he remembers. He who is born in the cage longs for the cage.
Aaravos wonders how that could be true. He hates his prison, hates it with all the fibre of his being.
But.
But.
He sometimes wishes that the feeling of too much would go away. Back in the mirror-prison it was not just quiet but silent save for Aavaros’ own movements. It left his ears ringing with imaginary bells.
.
His mirror-prison is not cold, nor is it warm. It is simply there.
He will (never, ever) admit he had spent nights sobbing and scratching at his starlight skin just to feel something, anything.
It’s been so very many years.
How old is he, he wonders. How many moons have passed? He was... young, old? when he was first trapped. Foolish, arrogant, brash, eager to overestimate his abilities by far too much (and at far too high a cost).
Aaravos sometimes wonders what it might have been like, if he hadn’t decided to do whatever he did that ended up with him in here. Would he be happy? Powerful? Feared?
He doesn’t know. He won’t ever know.
He wonders what he was like Before.
.
There’s a human at the glass.
He is tall, and lithe, and arrogant. He reeks of death and desperation and a terrible hunger.
Salvation.
.
The man is angry, Aaravos knows. Displeased at being thwarted. Aaravos does not care much for this vassal, save for the freedom and opportunities for revenge he provides. The dragon queen and the elven folk are similar, arrogant and powerful. Just like Aaravos is. Was. Will be?
Aaravos is not so sure what he wants anymore. Freedom, yes, but he has that now. Somewhat. Revenge for imprisoning him? That should surely be the next step, but revenge on who? Avizandum is dead, his mate and child not having partaken in his imprisonment. He could try to kill them, he supposes, but that would likely not end well for him. Anyone else who he had had a personal vengeance against would be long dead.
He can figure it out later. For now he exists to serve. And if conquering Xadia is what is requested of him, then conquer Xadia is what he will do.
Or die in the process.
.
Aaravos wonders about death sometimes. He is old, so very old, and so very weary of the world. He can die, that he is sure of, but it would be difficult. There had been nothing within the mirror-prison that could permanently harm or kill him (believe him, he had tried) and Startouch elves live for a very long time otherwise. He supposes there is a chance of being felled in battle, but it is very difficult to make him stay dead.
Right now, he is sort of in-between. He has a form outside of his prison, yes, but it cannot actually feel any of the sensations of heat or cold or pain. He is in all actuality little more than a ghost.
There’s a high he’s chasing, one that comes with battle and blood and being free. He feels the edges of it when they desecrate the Sunfire elves source of power and he turns the queen to ash.
He wonders if he’ll ever feel it again.
.
The battle happens and the vassal is felled temporarily. Aaravos spins himself into a cocoon and sleeps. It’s fourteen months before the chrysalis cracks open. The humans had left months prior, Viren having given up on both efforts for Aaravos to wake whether it be on his own or with intervention. That is why when the chrysalis cracks to allow for his body to slide to the ground ungracefully there is little fanfare or regard save for the few moths that had nested nearby taking flight. That is fine. He prefers the moths to the arrogant human and his progeny.
Still, it will take time before he fully wakes.
.
It’s... cold?
Aaravos blinks awake in an instant.
It’s cold.
He laughs. He’s trapped in a frigid cave with no clear exit or help in sight but he is free.
It is... hours? Days? Later when he emerges from the cave. He is... scattered. His memories are like fleeting dust and scatter easily to the wind. Thankfully the humans had left clothing and while the garments are ill-fitted he makes do. Aaravos turns towards to sunrise and wonders who he was Before.
.
Aaravos is not quite sure what to do with his newfound freedom. Yes, he could wage war on all of Xadia and yes, he could go around corrupting humans but that would be a lot of effort for little of a reward. His vassal is still alive but Aaravos has no need of him anymore.
He was (is?) a master of the primal forces. Maybe he could study further. He doesn’t truly see the appeal but it’s a start.
Aaravos practically crumples at the feeling (feeling!) of grass beneath his feet. It’s been so long. Even though the grass is spiked and crackles with dryness it is alive. He is not sure what to do next.
So he walks.
He walks and walks and walks. It’s been six days and he knows this because there is a cycle of night and day. He forgets the need for water or food or sleep and just walks.
And while he walks, he thinks.
He had people in the Before. A lover, maybe? Friends, family? He is not sure.
Aaravos finds he’s unsure a lot more these days.
.
The first time he sees the stars again with his own two eyes he cries. The stars dusting his skin shine gently while the ones overhead twinkle unfeelingly. He may be a master of all the primal forces but he is Startouched at heart and it has been a cruelty to be separated from them for so long.
“Aaravos,” snarls the dragon. Aaravos executes a short bow. “Greetings, oh great and powerful one. May I pass through your borders?”
The dragon snarls again, “You smell of death.”
He would, he supposes. “And you owe me a debt, oh great one.”
He probably shouldn’t enrage the beast. Probably. But he is very bored and there is nothing better to do.
The dragon huffs and snarls and overall looks very menacing but Aavaros does not care and Sol Regem finally secedes and lets him pass.
.
Aaravos is still not sure what to do. The places he knows that are safe to him from dragons are long gone save for one: Katolis. This one he only knows from recent memory but they are human and likely would not let dragons trespass so easily.
Three days into the trek he comes across a battalion of soldiers. They bind him because he is an unknown elf and he nearly sobs at the touch of another on his skin. It’s like a star being born and it is too much but not enough never enough never-
.
The soldiers do what he expected them to and put him in a prison within the castle. The daughter of his vassal was at the castle and recognised him easily. That is why he is no longer in his original run-of-the-mill dungeon but in a more upgraded one for magic users (particularly elves).
They think him mad, he knows. Dangerous, yes, but mad all the same.
Aaravos wonders. Is he mad? Maybe all those years in that place finally broke him
It’s so different, he marvels every time he wakes. Yes, he had exchanged one prison for another but this one is alive. There is water trickling down some of the walls and the stone is pockmarked and rough-hewn. The guards shuffle and shift and are utterly human. Imperfect, but alive.
That is what he hates most about his mirror-prison, Aaravos decides. Everything is smooth and shines and glows delicate blues and purples and greens. He’s spent years (decades? centuries?) in there mapping out every detail and there is nothing that is not perfectly made, artificial. The plants neither grew nor died and the sunlight neither waned nor brightened.
This place... it is real.
.
There are warriors at his cell. A female, tall and dark-haired and a male with hair like fire.
The king has called for your presence, signs the woman. She is stone-faced and straight backed. A warrior. The translator accompanying her is nervous, he can tell.
He blinks at her. A smile curls at his lips. Well if the King demands so, he signs back.
She hides her surprise well. He wonders how many bother to learn her language. There’d been a book on developing hand languages in his- the mirror and as with all his other books he’d read it hundreds of times.
He towers over her, Aaravos knows that. He is taller than most. He towers over the translator too.
As he exits the chamber, he takes time to observe the carvings.
The glass catches the light and-
Blue.
He throws up.
He’s thin, he knows. Before and the Middle left him lithe, with muscle. A hunter. He didn’t have to eat or sleep in the Middle and as such he did not. He supposes some of those habits must have carried over with him into the After. In the After his habits left him more skeletal.
The warrior offers him little in way of privacy as he throws up, gagging up what meagre rations he had managed to stomach. The translator shifts uncomfortably before turning away.
Apologies, he signs at her. She stiffens and turns her head slightly away. That is fine. Xadia didn’t fall in a day, as they say.
.
Aaravos had been called for the mock-trial to seal his fate.
“Why not just put it back in the blasted mirror?” One cries.
Aaravos cannot fully conceal the flinch that runs through him at that.
The young king holds up a hand for silence. “Putting him back within the mirror would be a temporary solution at best. He’s already shown he could get out of it once- what’s stopping him from doing it again?”
The court is quiet. “What do you propose then, my king?”
The young king’s eyes harden.
Aaravos gasps out at his magic being cut off from him. The humans had been particularly clever when they found the pair of age-old cuffs that blocked magic. He wonders if they were made for him in the Before. It would not surprise him. The work reminded him of one of the Archmages who specialised in weaponry and held a bitter grudge against Aaravos. He couldn’t remember who had specifically imprisoned him aside from there was a mixture of dragons and elves but he would not be ill-advised to assume this particular Archmage had been among them.
It hurts. Sort of. He’s sure for any other elf it would be extremely painful but Aaravos has strange levels of pain calculation. It’s more the absence that is odd, like a limb that has been cut off and has yet to realise it even though it is bleeding.
It was also a relief, in a way. Everything is still bright and textured and this does not only go for his physical body but his magic too. Being in the exact same environment for centuries had not allowed itself to expand in a way that was healthy.
At least now he might be able to go without the headaches that come with the roiling storm that is him.
.
There is a Sunfire elf standing just outside his prison. She’s accompanied by the warrior human.
She bares her teeth at him. “Aaravos the Great, laid so low by some simple humans. How pitiful.”
He smiled at her. “Why, whatever do you mean? I’ve always seen the appeal in humans. Elves, however-“
She punches him. Quite hard. He rolls his jaw and swallows back the blood, smiling back at her with copper-stained teeth.
“That’s for murdering my sister,” she snarls. Sister? Oh. The arrogant queen. She had stood in his vassal’s way and needed to go. He says as such, smiling prettily all the while. It is only by the restraint of the warrior woman accompanying her that he is left mostly unscathed.
He wonders if it would have been so bad if she had succeeded in her revenge.
.
He’s four thousand? Five? He doesn’t remember much of the time.
Aaravos is useful for his knowledge about magic, he knows.
He can’t think. It’s been what, weeks since he actually kept something down? Pitiful. He draws runes within the dust. The manacles encircling his wrists are a constant reminder of what he has lost. He would never miss anything from his prison but embroidery had been a skill he had come to enjoy over time. It had given something to do with his hands.
He wonders what his vassal is up to these days.
.
Aaravos wakes to an... interesting discovery. There’s a sore on his arm. It’s darker than the rest of his skin and warm to the touch. It’s fascinating. He didn’t even know his skin could turn such interesting colours.
He pokes at it curiously and conceals a hiss of pain at the sensation.
Do elven folk get sick with human diseases? Can they? What a fascinating thing to figure out.
Aaravos would usually delight in the cold but he cannot think. His body is racked with tremors and the circles under his eyes only grow more pronounced.
His skin is odd. A sensation that is irritating. He scratches hard enough to draw blood but that brings little relief.
The warrior woman is back. She’s signing something to the guards but Aaravos cannot muster up the strength to focus. He dislikes the feeling intensely.
The king requests your- Her hands stop as she gets a look at him. She pales and is that concern? How delightful. She crouches and presses a hand to his face, tilting his head from side to side. The bumps had spread from his arm to his chest to climb around his neck like a vine of thorns. Aaravos recoils from the touch but there is nowhere to go and he hates it.
“Stop,” he snarls. She removes the hand and furiously signs to the guards something Aaravos cannot read. That is when his thoughts cut off entirely and he is greeted by an all too familiar darkness.
.
He wakes up in a white bed with a healer next to him. She’s looking at a chart with an awful lot of red on it. His ears prick up out of habit and he sits up to look at her. She doesn’t startle at the movement, her eyes flicking to him and back to sheet before she stands.
The healer presses a stare into him that attempts to bore through his very soul. “You have a moderate case of pox. There was a recent outbreak but it appeared no one cared to check whether you had been inoculated.”
Aaravos tilts his head slightly in acknowledgment. She gives him a look before scribbling something down on the sheet.
“Do you have any allergies?
He does. But he will not tell her them. He settles for a long stare instead.
The healer sighs, “Have you had inoculations? Any past diseases?”
He remains silent. Most of what he remembers is a lot of blood and screaming. Was it his? There are times from Before he is not entirely sure he wants to remember.
“Alright, what’s your year of birth?”
He blinks. “I do not know.” He must be in the thousands. He remembers things and people that are long dead and near forgotten to this time. He remembers a voyage from somewhere else and falling, falling into the deeps and dark water filling his lungs-
Aaravos is no longer sure he wants to remember Before.
But that was Then, and this is Now, and Now means there is a healer standing in front of him waiting for answers.
So he talks.
He talks and talks and talks and the healer’s cocoa-brown skin has been getting steadily paler with every word. Then when he has run out of words to say, he stops.
The healer asks to excuse herself for a moment.
He hears loud but muffled cursing from the antechamber she had gone into and absentmindedly picks at one of the scabs decorating his arm.
It is two-hundred and forty-three heartbeats before she re-enters the room. There’s a fixed look of determination on her face as she stares down at Aaravos.
“You,” she says, “need so much therapy.”
.
Aaravos does not entirely understand why they released him from his stone prison into a lushly-cladded room within the castle. He is still very much dangerous and very much a security threat, but whatever the healer had said had convinced them to move him, though not without supervision.
The two guards at the door stood straight-backed and outwardly stoic and unnerved. He was an elf, though, and he could taste their wariness on the back of his tongue. Aaravos knew should he attack one there were many more guards nearby and ultimately he would not come out unscathed. He might be able to even escape the palace but what would he do after? Within the palace there is at least entertainment in the form of the people.
For now, he would settle for playing with the guards.
The second, third, fourth and fifth days in his new rooms passes without fanfare. The sixth the healer reappeared and asks if he wishes to go explore the gardens.
He agrees, as the only plants he had seen outside of his prison were the dried grass and a few desert shrubs. There are roses and lilies in the garden, along with many other plants he does not recognise. A wizened elder that appears to be one of the gardeners leads them towards a pond. White-pink flowers float atop green lily pads. The elder beckons to him near the waters edge and he follows.
“Lotuses,” the elder says with the quiet confidence of someone knowledgeable in their trade. “Symbolising rebirth.”
Aaravos is quiet as he watches them drift across the surface of the pond undisturbed. The elder bends down to pluck one by his side.
“Take a cutting” says the gardener, pressing one into his palm. Aaravos nods and takes it, taking care not to crush the fragile petals.
“Is there anything you would like to keep you entertained?” the healer asks as a parting question. Aaravos deliberates for a moment on the risks before requesting the materials for embroidery. She blinks before regaining her demeanour and nods, trotting off briskly.
Aaravos places the cutting in a bowl of water and waits for it to grow roots.
.
To his surprise, on the seventh day the healer returns with the materials. She places them on the table next to him. There is a moment of silence as Aaravos stares at the fabrics for a moment before taking them into his hands.
Aaravos tilts his head. “Why?”
She pauses. “Why what?”
His ear flicks with annoyance, staring at her. “I have killed many of your people. Even without my magic I could snap your neck right now. I have killed thousands of both your kind and mine. So why are you helping me?”
She steels herself, “You have. And that was wrong. But I am a healer and I took an oath to do no harm. And... and it wasn’t right that you weren’t allowed to get help.”
“Oh.”
Oh, indeed.
.
He learns the healer’s name is Themis. She has a partner named Minerva who lives in the nearby town. Themis lives at the castle for part of the year before returning home to Minerva.
For two months, life is- not bad, but not exactly good. It is better than it Was but is not yet as good as it May Be.
For two months, he heals, bit by fractured bit.
Then Viren returns.
.
Viren is not the actual issue. His escort, however, is.
The young dragon prince, accompanied by his mother.
Zubeia may not have taken an active stance in his imprisonment but she was very much complicit in it.
She has the power to place him back within the mirror and without his magic he was now virtually helpless before her might.
Part of him wishes to flee to his chambers, hide within them like a scared child. But his chambers are relatively high above the ground and Zubeia would catch him with ease.
So Aaravos, instead of up flees down.
.
The dungeons are still as dark as he remembers it, although now fully emptied of prisoners. There are only two guards at the entranceway, which Aaravos easily bypasses.
And as he walks into the room, Aaravos realises just because the dungeon had been emptied of prisoners doesn’t mean the same for the prisons themselves.
He can hear the trembling of the castle at her might and can hear the shouts of guards above but nothing registers save for the Thing in front of him.
The guards find him slumped next to his mirror, near-catatonic.
It’s just his luck they catch the eye of Zubeia.
.
“You,” she snarls, “You hurt my baby.”
He should say something. Would if his tongue had not turned to lead and his lungs ceased to function. He’s trembling, he realises in an absentminded way.
The prince chirrups something and Aaravos feels a flinch tear through him. Thankfully the queens attention is now focused on her babe, who seems to be communicating something to his mother.
“My son says I should spare you. That you have not killed anyone since you have stayed with the humans. Should I give you a chance, elf?”
It does not matter what Aaravos says. Either he will be killed, thrown back in prison, or left alone.
He would rather death than the mirror again.
The dragon queen takes pity on him and lets out a hiss that is almost mocking, “Be warned, elf. I will put you back within that mirror without a second thought should you ever step a foot out of line.”
Aaravos nods and makes his way back to his room. As soon as he shuts the door he slides down to the floor, boneless. His lungs refuse to work and neither do his legs.
Then he sees his lotus had been knocked over. There is glass surrounding it and the water stains the carpet.
That is when he breaks apart.
.
It is fourteen hours after Zubeia when Themis shows up. He has not moved, has not slept. His hands are stained with blood from where he tried to piece the glass back together.
She sits down next to him, quietly prying glass out of where it has wedged itself in his hands.
They’re both silent the entire time.
.
It is thirteen days after Zubeia when Aaravos can speak again. Themis had visited every day to make sure he ate and at least attempted sleep.
The lotus was in a new bowl of water. This time the bowl was wood.
.
“Do you want to talk about it?” asks Themis on the fourteenth day.
He doesn’t and that is that.
.
It is twenty-two days after Zubeia when Aaravos is sitting in the courtyard.
There’s a flicker of movement and he lunges and twists. He leans back with the weight in his hand to observe what he had caught and-
It was a cat, he realises, the now still body dangling from his grip. It was relatively young and mottled with stripes. He’d been startled by it and now it was dead.
Aaravos had killed before, many times. There was nothing special about a cat.
So why was it now that he felt a pang of something? He turns to leave, to dispose of the cat and forget this.
Then he hears the mewling.
.
When Themis returns she finds him sitting on his bed with three small kittens in his lap.
“There was a cat.” He says simply and watches her gaze shift from him, to the cats, to him again.
“And?” she says.
“I killed it.”
She frowned. “Why?”
“I don’t know.”
“What did you do with the body?” she asks.
“I buried it. Near the roses.”
She shifts to look at the cats again. “Will you name them?”
“Name them?”
“Well I suppose they are yours now.”
He looks at the kittens. They are small and weak. Helpless. Aaravos could kill them all right now and save them from a possible future of hardship.
“Rhea. Hera. Elarion.”
Themis didn’t smile, nor did she frown. She just nodded and said, “I’ll see you next week.”
.
It is thirty-four days after Zubeia when the gardener invites him to plant seedlings. It is hard work that requires careful attention as to not crush the fragile stems.
“You watch,” says the gardener, “After a two years they’ll have their first blooms. They’ll live for another hundred.”
.
It is forty-four days after Zubeia when Rhea goes missing. Aaravos tracks her scent around the palace for fifteen minutes until it came to a halt.
Aaravos freezes as he realises where he’s standing. Her scent stops near the entrance to the King’s quarters.
The door opens.
“My lord,” he says, bowing neatly.
King Ezran is holding Rhea in his arms.
“Is this your cat?” he asks.
“My apologies. I did not mean for her to get out. Rest assured it will not happen again.” Aaravos is fine with himself being tortured or killed, but Rhea is something he’s gotten attached to. He’d prefer she didn’t get the same treatment.
King Ezran shrugs. “It’s fine. She says she likes the mice you give her, but small-sister wants fowl.”
Aaravos is not sure what he’s meant to say to that, so he settles with a quiet, “Thank you.”
“Um-“ says the King, “Are you okay? It’s just- Themis said you weren’t and that’s why we shouldn’t lock you up and I agreed but y’know...”
Aaravos stiffens. “I am able-bodied enough to do anything you request, King Ezran. I am at your behest.”
The king shakes his head vigorously. “No, I meant like you seemed pretty freaked out when Zym and his mom came over and like-“
It is at that moment Aaravos remembers the king is about twelve and he is thousands of years his elder. The king is a child, so why is Aaravos scared of him?
Because he can put you back in There, whispers a voice, Maybe he will. Maybe he’ll throw you back in and never let you back out.
“Um,” says the king, “Hey I heard you were really good at like history stuff and I’m having trouble with this assignment I’m doing about the first humans in Katolis so-“
Aaravos nods. “I can help with that.”
.
Ziard. How could he forget Ziard? Beautiful, brilliant, talented Ziard and the great city Elarion, all razed to the ground on the whim of a beast.
Ziard had asked him to make sure they didn’t forget him. Aaravos had readily agreed. He’d helped Ziard craft the staff and that is why Viren caught his attention-
How could he forget Ziard?
.
“I remember... bits.” says Aaravos to Themis the next time she visits.
“What bits?” she asks.
There are tears on his face, he realises. “I had- a friend. Maybe more? Ziard. And he’s-“
“Oh,” says Themis, “Oh.”
.
He hates Sol Regem, Aaravos decides. Hates Avizandum too, but Avizandum is dead.
“He’s blind.” says Themis. “Sol Regem, that is. Your friend Ziard didn’t leave him unscathed.”
“Good,” says Aaravos, tears trailing down his face, “Good.”
.
“Do you know what happened to the survivors?” asks Aaravos one day. Themis frowns in that way that means she’s thinking of nearly-forgotten information.
“Some settled here, I think,” she says slowly, thinking about each word. “The rest were spread out. It was a long time ago but there’s probably quite a few descendants.”
Aaravos inclines his head. “Thank you.”
.
“You know dragons aren’t bad, right?” says the king, who has insisted Aaravos call him Ezran.
The quill snaps in Aaravos’ hands and he excuses himself.
He doesn’t come back for the next three days.
.
In the end it is Ezran who comes to Aaravos instead.
“I’m sorry about what I said,” he says. “I talked to Themis and she said just because I had good experiences with dragons doesn’t mean that everyone else has. And that there are good dragons and bad dragons, just like people. Zym’s a good one! But I guess there has to be some bad dragons. There’s a mean one who wanted to eat Callum for nothing! But, uh, yeah, I’m sorry.”
Aaravos strokes Hera, who is sitting beside him. “You are forgiven.”
“Can you teach me about history again? You made it sound really interesting.”
He grins that wildcat smile that is becoming more common by the day. “It would be my pleasure.”
.
Aaravos dreams of drowning.
There is water in his throat, his mouth, his lungs.
He is not a good person. He has never been one. He still does not know right from wrong.
But maybe he is not altogether evil.