Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

RELENT

Every single day was identical to the last—if there were even days in this place, that was. Upon further consideration, he supposed there were. Even warped by the heat as it was, his sense of time was acute enough to know that his meals were delivered regularly. If they could be called that. Every day, twice a day, he received stew with mysterious, chewy chunks lurking in the sludge that tasted about as wooden as its bowl. From the texture, he assumed it belonged to some species of fungi, but that didn’t matter. He was fed enough to survive—whatever that was worth—and, if he tried, to muster the effort to think of things other than food. Yet it was difficult; hunger and fatigue were his constant companions.

He gave a quiet huff and gnawed on a nail as if they hadn’t all been bitten to their beds. He had been the Tidesinger, once. He had been strong, purposeful, free, once. He had been many things—a soldier, a leader, a friend, a son, a brother. Yet, those titles and their attributes were left atop Mt. Velgrin’s peak the day his freedom ended. There, they remained, among the smoldering, spitting fires, the fires that haunted his dreams.

His only title now was prisoner.

The heat, ever-present and ever-suffocating, was another cause of his misery. Joined with his anguish and hunger, he had seldom found sleep in the early weeks of his imprisonment. Although he’d been stronger at the time, his sudden malnourishment and sleep deprivation had caught up to him. Taken ill, he remembered being too weak to move, too sore to try. And the guards, seeing how he refused food, simply stopped offering it. Time became indistinct not long after that, awareness like a shimmering, heat-addled mirage. He remembered believing—wishing, almost—that he was dying, a golden ember fading to ash.

And then there had been hands, cupping his head, stroking his hair before jerking back as if stung. The hands had been warm, but not oppressively so as many things were, here. The hands fed him, gave him something cooler and thicker than water to drink, and sometimes would absently brush his hair before pulling away as if the very act of touching him was painful.

“Am I dying?” He whispered in one of his clearer moments.

The hands did not answer and covered his mouth, trembling ever so gently against his lips.

And he would lapse into hazy oblivion once more. After some unknown time, he was better, back in his cell, and the hands were gone. The hands, he later realized, could have only belonged to Ingressus or his own imagination.

The memory faded and Achillean rubbed his eyes—they often grew dry in the heat. Then, a bit shakily, he pulled himself to his feet. Each time his thoughts seemed intent to drag him near his minds’ darker depths like a riptide, he would rise and fight the current. Once a soldier, always a soldier.

That meant distraction in its most convenient form: exertion. He forced himself to walk the perimeter of his rectangular cell. The coarse red brick bit into his feet as he shifted into a jog, already breaking a sweat in the overpowering heat. There wasn’t enough room in here to truly run, and regardless, he doubted he would be able to. His body, once wiry yet muscular, had atrophied in its weeks—months—years? of disuse. Something in his chest was spasming and his breaths came as blustery, gasping pants. Stinging sweat dripped into his eyes.

His legs gave out, as they always did. Chest heaving, he sank to the red floor and laid there, limbs splayed. The Nestoris gazed upward but saw nothing, trying to regain control of his breathing and slow his frenetic heart.

“You’ve grown weak.” A sudden statement followed by a  sudden face.

Achillean blinked but did not rise, licking salt from his cracked lips. The taste was an intense reminder of the days spent by the ocean, days of swimming and splashing, days accompanied by that very same voice.

“Weak er , that is.”

How he missed those days. “It was cooler, by the sea,” he murmured with half-lidded eyes, wanting to do anything but meet the other Ardoni’s glare. He would surely crumble if he did. Words were the only thing he had left, his constant, his first and final hope.

And Ingressus knew that, too. He sneered, “You had always been weak—your defeat was assured.”

“But you hated the water, I remember that so clearly,” Achillean continued, unhindered, for what else was he to do? What could he do but attempt to unearth the friend he’d lost to a foe?

“Even so, you were there with me.”

“You brought the War!”

“To honor our friendship, I made you a gift out of twine, seashells, and a pearl—all things we’d found on that beach.”

“You rallied Ardonia against me.”

“You acted as though you didn’t want it, but took it anyway.”

“My people were slaughtered!”

“You wore it every day.”

Ingressus turned away. “I should have killed you on that mountain.”

Achillean was weightless, drifting. “As brothers, we were free on that shore. And yet, after everything…” he trailed off, not wanting to say the words.

“You tried to kill me!”

But he had to.

“I couldn’t save you.”

Silence. Long, unbroken silence pulled taut like a fishing line ready to snap.

The Deathsinger’s eyes burned through him—hot as fire, hard as rubies. “And why did you think there was something to save.”

Achillean couldn’t reply. He’d tried to break through the Deathsinger to get to Ingressus, believing, imagining that he was in there somewhere and waiting to come out. But the look in his eyes had said enough.

And the prisoner was alone once more.

Time congealed and the stifling heat dulled until the cell could nearly be called cold. It was as if fragments of ice had grown in his heart and been pumped to the rest of his body, filling him with jagged shards of pure cold. In a world of raging fire, Achillean was made of ice.

Perhaps he had been a fool to look for hope in the hopeless.

Perhaps he should never have sought to find a friend within a foe.

Perhaps he would lie here for hours, days, months, years more, hoping the hellish heat would thaw his frozen body, his numbed heart. But he knew it wouldn’t. He would remain here and fully give in to the numbness, to the frozen void where there had once been hope—because he knew, now. He knew that the Deathsinger was right, that there was nothing to save.

Chapter Text

REMAIN

Days succumbed to weeks as time limped away, away from the War. Away from the bloodshed, away from the peak, away from the deadened eyes of a friend turned foe. If he could, he would have called after it and pleaded—asked—demanded to know why it had left him behind.

Yet time marched on.

When he didn’t have dealings with Chronos and whatever remnants of his clan that continued to trickle in through portals—his haggard yet beautiful, weary yet strong clan—he was alone. He kept busy, in part because there was much to be done, but more so because his thoughts would not let him be when he stopped. But sometimes, it simply couldn’t be helped.

It was those thoughts that ultimately drove him to the prisoner’s cell. Weeks passed, and until now, he had avoided the Tidesinger altogether. He was uncertain of how the Nestoris would react to his presence—how either of them would. He knew shouldn’t care, but those thoughts were as difficult to shake as always.

Not for the first time, the Deathsinger wished that he’d followed through with the killing blow.

When he arrived, he was met only by stillness and silence, tomblike in its completeness. The Netheran guards at the cell’s door were twin statues, neither acknowledging the master’s appearance. As he approached on light feet, he was able to see why he was met with silence instead of soft-spoken, accusing words that would have cut to the bone.

Achillean lay on the ground, gazing sightlessly into the red haze above. His markings—normally a sunny gold—more closely resembled dull brass, underscoring visible ribs and shaky breaths.

For a time, the Deathsinger could only stare. It was as if he were invisible to the other Ardoni. Felled by illness, his foe did not so much as tilt his head in his direction. The Voltaris wondered if he were even conscious, his eyes looking too distant, too glassy, too much like the dead.

He wondered if the Tidesinger’s next breath would be his last.

But the Nestoris breathed on, a strand of hair fluttering over his lips, and he felt foolish for doubting. For hoping. For fearing. His enemy was too tenacious, too stubborn like the soldier he was.

“Keep fighting, Tidesinger,” he said, as one would mutter a curse.

The Deathsinger turned and left without a backward glance or afterthought, and for once, his mind was silent. It remained that way for the next two days, two days of peace in which he’d nearly forgotten about his foe. Two days before his thoughts grew loud once more, calling him back to the cell.

The silence was more stifling this time. Perhaps that was because the pair of guards were absent, for reasons unbeknownst to him. Apart from that, nothing had changed. The Tidesinger lay in the same place on the bricks that the Voltaris remembered, only now with his eyes closed.

Measuredly, he approached the maroon bars and leaned against them, frowning. Had Achillean moved since his last visit? Were he truly ill, or was this some act to invite sympathy? Some kind of foolish attempt to have a chance at escape? Regardless, it was a pathetic display. He thought the Nestoris was better than this.

“Tidesinger, rise,” he commanded.

His foe did not even twitch an eye.

“Get up,” he growled, jaw stiffening. “I will not give you a third chance.”

The Deathsinger waited, his patience draining away like candle wax beneath a hot flame. The Tidesinger—incarcerated and incapacitated as he was—still believed he could stand up to him. Why? What cause did he have to fight for, now? Why did he continue to resist?

“Of all people,” the Deathsinger’s tone was like searing embers, “you were the last I expected to act out of spite.”

And he received no reply. The Nestoris remained a fixture on the floor of his cell, only his chest moving with each gasping breath. The Deathsinger no longer cared whether he were faking or not. The last of his patience had melted away, leaving only a wick of burning anger. He approached the door and entered the cell, not even bothering to let it fall closed behind him. The Tidesinger still did not react—but now, he was certain that the Nestoris wouldn’t be able to ignore him as easily. Such things were difficult in close proximity.

In no time at all, the Voltaris stood over him, clenching and unclenching his hands. His enemy looked even more worse for wear up close.

He kneeled beside the sweaty, brassy Ardoni. “You cannot ignore me forever. You’re only a prisoner—what are you trying to achieve?”

No response—was it even surprising at this point? Yet he had to grit his teeth to keep from snarling. He grabbed the prone Nestoris’s shoulders and jerked him upright as if to force him into alertness, acknowledgment. Something to fully convince the Voltaris that this was all an act.

Achillean’s head lolled to his chest, eyes never opening—a marionette with sliced strings. He did not answer, he did not wake.

This was no act.

It was still sinking in when Ingressus noticed the smell. The rank stink of sweat, grime, and infection reminded him all too much of the overcrowded medical camps from the War. Places with too much misery and too few healers, he only visited them when he was needed to boost morale… or to send off the dead.

Slowly, warily, with an almost morbid curiosity, he turned the unconscious Ardoni onto his front. Open, festering sores pitted his back, his elbows, his heels, all sticky with blood and pus and bathing Ingressus in their combined stench. He couldn’t help but twist away for fresher air, blinking rapidly. They were pressure sores, unpleasant things from where Achillean’s frame had met the floor.

He must have been lying here for quite a long time.

Ingressus took a slow breath, his eyes riveted to the red-rimmed sores, now knowing why the guards had forsaken their posts. Why bother to watch a prisoner who couldn’t wake, much less move on his own? There was no sense in guarding a soon-to-be-dead man.

Achillean had, at some point, slipped out of his arms. He now lay on the ground like a fish out of water, slicked with sweat and spasming for air, dying.

And time was abandoning Ingressus again.

“Get up,” he repeated, “Achillean Nestoris, get up.” His foe couldn’t die like this. He was too resilient, he’d proven that to the Voltaris time and again when they clashed in battle. Battered or not, he had always looked the Deathsinger in the eye and risen back to his feet.

He would not get up.

Ingressus’s mouth was dry, drier than the scratchy air he breathed. There were only two options. He could let his greatest adversary perish—let the curtain fall on a life he’d already tried to end. Or, he could attempt to pull him back from the precipice, to spare him a silent slip into the void.

The Voltaris dragged his fingers through his hair, raking his scalp. In reality, he’d made this same choice weeks ago. He’d decided the Tidesinger’s fate when he took the Nestoris prisoner instead of bringing his sword down—the only difference now that his survival wasn’t ensured.

But he would try anyway.

Ingressus shuttered his eyes and drew the ailing Ardoni into his arms. Everything was distant, happening to unfamiliar people in another age. Time had escaped him, leaving him so far behind that he had fallen into the past. He hadn’t held Achillean like this since—

No. Those thoughts behind the walls of his well-fortified mind were dangerous. If he paid them any heed, they would slip past the mental defenses he’d constructed over the years, tearing him apart. Then, there would be too many pieces he couldn’t fit back together, too many stones that should have remained unturned, a sea of questions that would never be answered, forever trying to drown him and he couldn’t—

Breathe.

He breathed. He was in control. Whatever brotherhood he and Achillean shared as children had lost meaning as they grew. Their childhood had been frivolous, unremarkable—as childhood often was—and ultimately, an exercise in futility—as, it seemed, life often was.

Yet here was Achillean, possibly dying in his arms.

And as futile as it may have been, Ingressus was unable to let go.

The Voltaris master swallowed, opened his eyes, and commanded himself to rise.

The Nestoris was light, so light, and that made walking easier. His breaths were quick, but Ingressus’s feet were quicker. He found himself running down the empty halls, chasing after time, holding Achillean as if doing so would sustain him a little longer. How long did he have?

The halls had never been so vast, and Achillean was growing heavier.

His chamber door finally revealed itself in the distance. Invigorated, the Voltaris master closed the gap and fumbled with the latch. It clicked agreeably and he flung the door wide, jostling his charge. Ignoring all else, he hurried to the room’s corner where his berth was set into the maroon brick wall, hidden by hanging drapes. He shouldered them aside and placed Achillean facedown onto the berth, then allowed himself a breath. He needed his thoughts in order.

Deliberately, he lowered his gaze and fully took in Achillean’s condition. The circular, infected wounds had leaked blood and pus over Ingressus’s arms where he’d held him. He would have been revolted if he weren’t a warrior, used to the sort of thing. He did his best to wipe the mess on the drapes for the time being.

The Voltaris grabbed the hem of an untouched curtain and tore a few rectangular strips off. He then put them to use blotting up the mess on Achillean’s back, casting them aside when they were saturated.

Though the sores remained unsightly, they weren’t as bad as he feared. Achillean remained in mortal danger, but death would not come for him just yet.

Ingressus put his face in his hands and allowed himself a sigh. Was this relief? If it was, why should he be relieved that his foe truly had a chance?

He shouldn’t, he knew, and grimly quashed the feeling.

Time passed yet kept a slower pace as if apologizing for its prior haste, now allowing Ingressus to catch up. Cleaning his charge’s wounds, he lost himself in the rhythmic motions. The sleeping Ardoni’s expression was placid, serene—when had he last seen him without fear or a hardened resolve?

With a frown, the Voltaris worked the cloth into a particularly crusted sore on his shoulder. These wounds—pressure sores—could only come from lying in one position for far too long. Which forced the question: why had he not moved? It was possible—likely, even—that he initially took ill from the Nether’s environment. Its harsh, hellish climate and clouds of spores had even worn on Ingressus, but he pressed on. He had to. Even so, the Nestoris could have shifted to prevent the sores from developing… it made no sense. Unless he’d already been in too much pain to notice—or was too despondent to care.

Ingressus almost snorted aloud. He doubted it, that was nothing like the Achillean he knew.

But did he still know him?

The Voltaris huffed and reached for the small medical bag he’d managed to locate earlier. He produced a needle and spool of thread, frowning at the eye. He tried to slip the thread through the small hole, but its end was frayed and he was holding the needle too tightly—his fingers slipped and it sank into the flesh of his palm. With a quiet snarl, he jerked it out and wiped the drops of blood on a discarded cloth.

Since when did he let himself become so wrapped up in his thoughts that he could make such a careless slip? Why should it matter how his foe came to be in this state? In the end, it changed nothing, for here he was.

On the second try, he threaded the needle without issue. The deepest sore on the Nestoris’s back, just above his left shoulder blade, required the most attention. He stitched it closed, wrapped it in linen, then returned the supplies to the bag and surveyed his handiwork. While far from professional, it was functional and would suffice.

Now for the difficult part. In the bag were potions of health and regeneration, equally useful in this situation, yet equally challenging to get into an unresponsive Ardoni.

Ingressus bit his lip. First, he pulled Achillean upright and propped him against the wall, wanting to recoil at his skin’s feverish heat. With more urgency, the Voltaris took the potions from the bag and shook them for good measure, wondering which to use. Either was fair game to attempt to administer first, so he went with the scarlet health potion. If it worked, its effects would be apparent immediately. With a sharp twist, its cork popped off and hissing filled the air as he stared into the frothing liquid that was nearly the color of blood.

The Nestoris’s lips were already parted, so Ingressus brought the bottle to his mouth and gingerly tipped its contents down his throat. Would Achillean swallow it? He waited for the potion to make a reappearance or for him to start choking—but ultimately, neither happened.

Within the next minutes, Achillean’s breathing had eased from its shallow gasping into something steadier. His markings had perhaps lightened a fraction—it was difficult to tell. Potions, while potent, didn’t work miracles.

The Voltaris then gave him the pink regeneration potion, which had a less noticeable effect. He then placed the empty bottles on the floor with a soft clink and leaned back, rubbing his temples. When would Achillean wake up? What would he do when he did? Would he know where he was? No, probably not. He had never been to the Voltaris master’s chamber until now, but he would be able to tell he wasn’t in his cell. Then, would he try to escape?

Of course he would. But he wouldn’t be strong enough to do so with any measure of success.

What will I do when he wakes? The question rattled around inside the walls of his mind, offering no answer.

Thump, thump, thump. The sudden, insistent knocking roused Ingressus with a jolt, and he cursed his frayed nerves. Then he cursed himself for somehow falling asleep, and cursed whomever had the gall to disturb him.

He looked over at his charge. Achillean still sat propped against the wall, holding no more life than a puppet. At least he hasn’t awoken. The Voltaris laid him back to rest on the berth, not wishing to exacerbate his wounds.

Thump, thump, thump. Sharper this time, followed by a muffled, indistinct voice behind the heavy door. With added urgency, Ingressus placed the empty bottles back in the bag and tucked it behind the curtain. He took a breath to ground himself and watched the hanging fabric become still, concealing all things that would raise questions.

One step, two steps, three steps, four and he had reached the door. Ingressus settled his features into an approximation of a glare—and it wasn’t all that much of an act. Whoever was disturbing him had better have an important reason.

“Ah, our esteemed leader has finally made an appearance.”

The master let out a soft sigh, “Ralin.”

His deputy took the hint, “Apologies, Master Ingressus,” he cocked his head, “however, you are late.”

The Deathsinger cursed himself again. “What for?”

The scarlet Voltaris frowned. “The banquet, of course. Are you unaware of the time?”

Yes, he had been. Ingressus said nothing as he retrieved Voltar from its mount on the wall, then rolled his shoulders and approached the door once more. He was sure to pay no attention to the drapes that hid Achillean, silently praying that the Nestoris would not wake while he was absent. “Hardly. Now, let’s make haste.”

When they arrived at the banquet hall a short time later, the Voltaris master claimed an open seat at a random table. He always preferred to sit among his people rather than to look down upon them from some distant chair or altar. Not one of the Voltaris that he could see had taken a portion from the varieties of laid-out foods, all had awaited his arrival.

He felt himself smile, but there was little happiness in it. How could the other clans not see that their weary hearts were filled with compassion?

Ingressus let the hilt of his staff bang against the brick floor twice, calling for silence. Heads turned, and the conversation present trickled away like the sweat on the back of his neck. In times like these, it was customary for the clan’s master to deliver a speech. But as Ingressus stood in the sea of his brothers and sisters, he could not pull words from the scratchy air.

Ralin nudged his foot. The Voltaris master nearly huffed at him—he had never been one to quail in front of an audience, that wasn’t what was happening now.

And so, he delivered a speech. It wasn’t long or particularly eloquent, yet his clan seemed to understand. He wanted to raise their spirits, yearning to promise a brighter future for them all. But he would never feed his clan lies, even starving for good news as they were.

No. He spoke the truth yet blunted its edge, ruby eyes falling on a child huddled beside his father. The anxious-looking youth stared back with a bright gaze, eyes wide. Undoubtedly, he had already witnessed the horrors of war, even at such a young age.

Ingressus broke eye contact and took a slow breath before his next words. “With King Chronos as our host, we shall be safe for as long as we wish to remain here. Rest easy, my brothers and sisters, and know that hope is far from lost.” The Voltaris master let the words hang in the air as his clan bowed and nodded their thanks, then took their seats. He sank onto the bench, setting Voltar at his side, then reached for a nearby pot of stew to ladle into the bowl before him.

Ralin leaned in, “Not your most polished piece.”

“I’m not one to mince the truth into pretty words.” He took a spoonful of the stew and grimaced; it was as hot as everything else in this realm.

His deputy grabbed a few mushroom caps from a plate and bit into one, cocking his head. “I’m aware. However, the maxim ‘actions speak louder than words’ still holds true,” he gestured to his leader with the partly eaten mushroom, “and yet, your actions speak nothing but lies.”

The Deathsinger clenched the sides of the bowl to still his fingers’ quivering, yet whether it was from anger or anxiety or simple tiredness, he didn’t know. And he said nothing.

Ralin gave him a conciliatory smile, but it held a hardened edge, invisible to someone who wouldn’t expect such a thing. “It seems the long days aren’t treating you kindly.”

“Kindness is in short supply everywhere,” he replied lowly, stirring his stew in hopes of letting some of the heat escape. “It would be foolish to think that the transition to this way of life would be so easy. I don’t expect to find kindness when it has shunned our clan for so long.”

The deputy polished off his mushrooms, cleaning the tips of his fingers in a self-satisfied manner. “And he lies! Do you not believe the words you shared with your clan?”

The Deathsinger gave him a hard look, “I believe that hope needs to be earned—it is a commodity. Go waste your breath on someone else.”

Ralin appeared to weigh his words before reaching a decision, “But do I not have duties to attend to, Master Ingressus?”

“Yes, and you know what they are.” He drained the rest of his stew and rose, retrieving Voltar. The staff of the clan exuded authority. “Go.”

Ralin tipped his head in a bow and they went their separate ways. The Voltaris master lingered at the door for a moment, giving all appearances of taking in his people, his clan. In reality, he was making sure he would not be followed. Once he was certain of that, he forsook the room and took off down the hall towards his chambers. He’d stowed a spoon and bit of stew in his inventory earlier, now bringing them out as he neared his room.

When he was inside, he hung Voltar on its wall mount and took cautious steps towards Achillean’s berth, which was still hidden—no, his berth, which the Nestoris merely occupied at the moment.

Ingressus reached out to draw the drapes back, but stopped. What if the prisoner had awoken while he was gone and—

Stop that, he told himself. A cursory look proved only that his nerves were getting to him; the room was undisturbed as he’d left it.

He swept the drapes aside. Achillean lay on his front, not having moved from his earlier position. The Voltaris sighed, but was it out of relief or disappointment?

Why was he conflicted? Why should it matter? Their paths had been laid out before them long ago.

It shouldn’t matter. Nothing about this should matter.

Mechanically, the Deathsinger propped him up and began spooning the stew’s broth into the prisoner’s mouth.

Time picked up its pace once more. The remainder of that day and its successor passed without a backward glance, and in that span, he’d only left his chambers for meals—also taking food for his charge—but no one disturbed his peace. Undoubtedly, Ralin would later ask questions, but that held no bearing on the present.

Ingressus kept catching himself cradling Achillean’s head in his lap, or worse yet, stroking his hair. He used to do that in Nestoria, back when they were brothers, when Achillean had been afraid of thunderstorms and that was what soothed him.

Back when he cared, and yet… there were no thunderstorms in the Nether.

The Deathsinger’s hands clenched the Tidesinger’s scalp. He is not the only prisoner here, he is the reason that none of us are free. He sought to destroy both me and my clan, yet now his very life is in my hands and I chose to preserve it when I could have ended this destructive cycle? Out of some lingering delusion of a friendship long passed?

The Deathsinger took a slow, steady breath, sudden revulsion twisting within him. He could easily snap his neck, here and now, so fragile in his hands. No one would ask why, and all the Voltaris would certainly celebrate his long-awaited death.

The Ardoni in his arms shifted ever so slightly and all thoughts of murder, of vengeance, of justice fled Ingressus’s mind at the sight of his terribly bloodshot, dim golden eyes trying to focus.

Achillean’s words fell out in broken pieces, “Am I dying?”

Ingressus closed his eyes and felt his grip slacken—he couldn’t look at him. He didn’t want to be touching the once-gilded Ardoni, didn’t even want to be in the same room as him. Yet, it was as if he couldn’t move, weighed down by his own memories and regrets and the lingering image of those tarnished yellow irises below, silently pleading for something. For what, he didn’t know. Solace? Assurance? An end to the pain? Freedom…?

The Voltaris pressed his hands to his eyes as if to bury the image deep within himself, to never see it again. If he looked into those golden orbs below, he would see his own guilt and misery reflected back. He would see weakness, and he would crumble.

The Deathsinger was not weak, it took strength to spare his enemy’s life.

And yet, Ingressus wasn’t strong enough to kill the one he once called brother.

“Is this what you wanted?” The Voltaris lamented and opened his eyes.

Now, however, Achillean’s were closed.

Ingressus stared down at his hands, then pulled the Nestoris back into his arms. He would survive, but he needed to go.

And time, it never stayed for long.

Step after step after step, the red Ardoni’s feet carried both him and his charge back to the empty cell. He opened the door and deposited his form onto the floor, then exited the cage. The click of the lock was the only sound in the vast room.

But he didn’t fully leave. He watched the prone form at a distance, the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest. In time, he noticed that he’d sank to the brick floor, but that didn’t matter. He continued to watch.

After an unknown, unbroken time, the Nestoris moved. Nothing extreme, just the familiar tension reentering his frame, a twitch of his eyelids, his fingers. Gingerly, he opened his eyes and got his hands under him, pushing into a sitting position. It looked painful, but the Voltaris knew he’d be fine, now, as fine as one could be in this place.

At some point, he’d leaned in to gain a better view, he wasn’t sure of when. But the prisoner must have heard him. His ears perked and he twisted to find the source of the noise… but there was nothing.

The Deathsinger was already gone, and now, only the prisoner remained.