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The tower was quiet. If Zenos listened closely, he could make out the distant hum and clank of machinery; the dull thrum of Anima’s pulse through the walls. He was not strictly keen to hear these ambient sounds; but nevertheless, they would have ordinarily been inaudible over the endless stream of inane chatter spilling out of Fandaniel’s mouth.
Only in Fandaniel’s absence was Zenos blessed with silence. While the Ascian was always coming or going, Zenos struggled to keep track of just how long Fandaniel spent anywhere. His time spent at Zenos’ side was too long, and his time spent away was too short; yet somehow he seemed to be constantly leaving, and only rarely returning. The numbers did not add up. He spent most of his time neither there nor elsewhere—in the grey space where he may have been nearby, but Zenos did not know for sure.
But Fandaniel’s exact location mattered little to Zenos, except for its limited utility in marking the passage of time. The hours and weeks bled into each other; a muddy, disorienting torrent of tedium, broken only by Fandaniel’s interruptions and repetitive dreams of the end.
And a single, shining moment of clarity—when Zenos had called out, and his friend had come running to answer.
When they had last met, his friend had promised that the next time he set foot in Garlemald, it would be to settle their bet; that once he’d learned everything that Zenos’ soul stone had had to teach him, he would return again to Zenos’ side, and they would decide which of them had learned it best—and Zenos would again claim his transcendent moment.
But now, his friend dragged his feet. He busied himself with the vermin trembling in the shadows; rendering aid and offering succor, rather than making good on the promise he had made to Zenos.
Such was the life of a hero, Zenos supposed.
The corner of his mouth twitched, and he felt a faint swell of… something, in his breast. Something icy and bitter. Thick. His brow furrowed as he tried to identify it.
Zenos felt the aether in the room bend before he heard the sound heralding Fandaniel’s arrival—or the Ascian’s voice:
“My lord; I have returned with our guest!”
Zenos opened his eyes, and looked at him.
The maw of churning darkness closed as Fandaniel stepped out into the room. In his arms, he held Faust: clenched tight around the waist, wrist gripped in one hand—and slumped unconscious against Fandaniel’s chest.
As their eyes met, he grinned at Zenos—and began to waltz.
“Yes; all of his compatriots shall be quite occupied,” he said, turning gracefully despite the strain of supporting Faust’s weight. “No one will have a moment to miss him amidst the chaos—so my lord’s dinner date with his dear, delinquent friend will go happily uninterrupted.”
Zenos watched Faust’s head loll against Fandaniel’s shoulder. His fingers loose in the hand that gripped his wrist; his free arm and tail swinging limply as he was twirled across the room. The skirt of his coat fanning out with every rotation his sagging body made in Fandaniel’s arms.
Zenos’ brow furrowed. His chest prickled with annoyance—and something else.
“Unhand him,” he said, pushing himself up from his seat.
He strode across the room to Fandaniel. The Ascian made a show of his surprise and came to rest; still clutching his insensate dance partner as he blinked up at Zenos. “Unhand him?” he echoed. “But my lord—I still must bear him to the dining room; how shall I accomplish it if I—”
“Unhand him.”
Fandaniel blinked at him again; it was difficult to determine what measure of that surprise was still part of the act. He considered Zenos for a moment, before his face split into another cloying smile. “Ah; but of course my lord would like to escort his guest personally! How foolish of me.”
He heaved Faust’s body off of himself, toward Zenos. Zenos threw his arm out, hooking it around Faust’s waist before he could hit the ground.
Faust hung there, draped over Zenos’ arm like a jacket, his feet dragging against the floor.
Zenos stared at him.
“But a thought occurs to me, my lord: our guest might benefit from some entertainment to accompany his dinner.” From the corner of his eye, Zenos saw Fandaniel tilt his head to one side. “Previously, I recovered the equipment one Dr. Mal Ascina used in his research to separate soul from body.” With a flourish, Fandaniel spread his arms wide. “I propose giving our guest a first-hand demonstration! As he is a man of science himself, I’m certain he would appreciate a marvel like eating his dinner with someone else’s mouth.”
Faust most certainly would not appreciate it.
Yet, when Zenos had last seen his friend—when he had come running to Zenos’ side—he had so passionately castigated Zenos for his failure to pursue new heights. How his eyes had burned, his lips pulled back from his fangs; tail lashing, nose wrinkling, as his brows pinched hard towards the center of his face. How angry he had been at the fecklessness and lack of ambition he had perceived in Zenos; how angry, with his lack of curiosity in the world.
Surely— Zenos thought, with a faint twinge in his chest—his friend could find the value in Fandaniel’s suggestion.
And had his friend only done as he’d promised and come straight back to Zenos, he would have arrived conscious enough to voice his objections.
“Fine,” he said.
Fandaniel clapped his hands together. “Very good, my lord!” He spun—the skirt of his purple robes flaring out around him—and beckoned Zenos. He began to walk, and did not wait for Zenos to follow; the thin clank of his boots on the metal floor already started to grow faint. “Come along quickly, my lord,” he called back over his shoulder. “We don’t want dinner to burn!”
Zenos ignored him. He shifted Faust’s weight and lifted him, gathering his friend effortlessly up into his arms. He held him near his chest—and looked at him.
Zenos was always surprised by how small Faust was. Indeed, to see him animated—with blazing fury; with that blinding passion to live—made him feel larger than the little man folded up in Zenos’ arms. His indomitable force of will; that monumental strength of body and spirit. In Zenos’ memory, his friend always dominated.
It was strange to see him this way—limp and unmoving; the creases smoothed from his brows and nose, the corners of his mouth. Utterly bereft of the fire that burned behind his eyes.
Zenos had never seen his friend’s face without it.
He tried to grasp at the feeling it inspired in him. It danced at the edges of his mind—out of his reach. But only just barely; with enough patience and focus, he might yet seize it.
He stared down into Faust’s closed eyes and relaxed face, and tried to make sense of the feeling in his chest. Some kind of tension; something prickling under his skin.
It slipped through Zenos’ fingers.
His brows pinched, and he exhaled through his nose. Whatever it was, dull frustration had taken its place.
Zenos laid Faust down in the cold, metal embrace of Mal Ascina’s machine. His body settled in along the ergonomic curves, limbs resting wherever they lay. His head lolled against the neck rest; his face turned slightly in Zenos’ direction, with closed eyes and soft, slow breaths. Still, he slept on.
Zenos watched him.
“Now, it shouldn’t be long from here,” hummed Fandaniel as he tinkered with the control panel. The display beeped softly with every touch—an additional layer of noise. “But a few more moments, my lord, and voila! Your friend will be safe and sound in his temporary vessel.”
He gestured with a flourish to the Garlean soldier seated in a similar machine on Faust’s other side. Zenos had already taken note of him when he’d entered the room. The jacket of his uniform lay open and the clothes underneath had been disturbed; his torso was largely bare and dotted with nodes linked to the machine by thin black wires. He lay unmoving, but he was still breathing.
Zenos assumed he was already a husk. Whether Fandaniel had worked quickly, or had already prepared this jest before he’d ever proposed it to Zenos, mattered little.
“Yes; dinner is sure to be a lively affair now,” Fandaniel continued, returning again to the display. “Your friend will most certainly be quite animated to find himself in unfamiliar flesh.” Fandaniel grinned. “Not that he, of all people, needs the encouragement! But in my experience, people tend to react rather dramatically when they awake to find that their body is changed from when they fell asleep. After all, wearing a stranger’s skin may be downright unremarkable for people like you and I, my lord; but your dear friend is still a virgin in this respect! How lucky he is to have two so experienced gentlemen like you and I to guide him together through his first time in a new body.”
He paused, and Zenos could feel Fandaniel’s eyes on him—expectant. However, Zenos ignored him; he let Fandaniel’s words slip through his brain without leaving behind an impression.
He did not take his eyes from Faust.
The soft beeping of Fandaniel’s tinkering resumed—but he, himself, was silent.
After a time, Fandaniel again clapped his hands together, satisfied with his work at the control panel. From the corner of his eye, Zenos saw Fandaniel step back and turn; he spun on the ball of his foot, and with a jaunty step, he drew up beside Zenos. He lifted his hands, fingers wiggling, as he stood over Faust.
His friend did not stir as Fandaniel began to prepare the procedure.
Again, Zenos felt a twinge of something. He watched Fandaniel handle him. Maneuver his hands; slip a monitor on over his finger. Pry open his eyelids and shine a light into the green eye staring unseeingly back at him.
Unfasten the collar of his coat, exposing a flash of white skin—and the promise Zenos had cut into it.
Zenos’ lip twitched.
The something welled higher as Fandaniel picked open the line of buttons trailing down Faust’s body and peeled back his coat; as he pulled up the thick, woolen shirt underneath.
Zenos tried to grasp at it—but the feeling slipped nimbly between his fingers before they could close around it.
Zenos realized he was frowning.
Fandaniel glanced at him from the corner of his eye. “My lord?” he asked, as if delighted for the opportunity.
Zenos ignored him. He tried to bring the feeling into sharper focus. He concentrated on the weight tugging at his stomach; the prickling radiating out to his extremities. He felt… restless, but not in a way he recognized; not in a way that would be satisfied by challenge or sport. He felt compelled to…
To do what?
“Does something trouble you?” Fandaniel continued, breaking Zenos’ focus. “Perhaps all the gory machinery is displeasing? You would not be the first man to shy away from a procedure only once he’s seen the instruments involved.” There was an extra, cloying sweetness in Fandaniel’s voice, and a smile on his face. “If you would like, my lord, you could turn around—or even wait outside the room. I assure you that it will be so quick and easy that you won’t miss a thing. Or perhaps you would prefer to do it yourself? It would be a simple thing to guide you through the process.” His dark eyes glittered at Zenos. “You only need name your desire, my lord.”
Zenos watched as Fandaniel slipped a gloved hand up Faust’s bare stomach. His fingers splayed against Faust’s chest as it softly rose and fell with each sleeping breath.
“Do your work,” growled Zenos, as once again the feeling became obscured by a dull haze of irritation.
Fandaniel’s smile spread wider across his face, sharp and curved like a crescent moon. “Very well, my lord.”
The Ascian turned back to Faust. He reached over and grasped a handful of thin wires, pulling them down from the machine; he bent low, and began taping them to Faust’s skin—his neck; his chest. Sliding his hands up under Faust’s shirt to reach his collarbones; lifting Faust to reach the small of his back. Clever fingers, probing and pressing as he worked.
Zenos watched him.
He disliked Fandaniel’s hands on his friend.
But Zenos had to consider this. Fandaniel’s hands had not troubled Zenos when he had last seen them on Faust: hand clenched in Faust’s, and fingers dug into Faust’s arm—Zenos’ last glimpse of his friend before Fandaniel pulled him backwards into churning blackness.
When Zenos’ friend had promised him that he would not set foot on Garlean soil unless it was to run again to Zenos’ side.
He watched Faust lie there in the machine, silent and pliable, as Fandaniel handled him.
Had he been conscious, Zenos was certain that his friend would have leapt at Fandaniel, flames spilling from his eyes and mouth. Ferocious, and terrible; blazing hot—just as he was in Zenos’ mind and memory.
Zenos was aware that Fandaniel was watching him.
And still—the feeling eluded him.
The machine whirred to life, and after only a few moments’ activity, it again grew still and silent.
Fandaniel clapped his hands in triumph. “Well!” he declared. “Now that our guest has been dressed for dinner, the only thing left to do is to get dinner itself on the table.” He stepped away from the control panel and glided back over to where Zenos stood, towering beside Faust’s body. “Would you like to escort him to the table—or shall I?”
He asked it with a pointed suggestion. Zenos glanced in his direction, but did not move his head enough to see him. “Leave us,” said Zenos.
“Very well, my lord!” chimed Fandaniel, bending in a sweeping bow. “Don’t tarry too long, now; dinner will be ready shortly, and it would be a shame for it to get cold.”
Fandaniel hesitated a moment, waiting to see if Zenos would acknowledge him. However, Zenos did not, neither looking at him nor responding to his words.
After a moment, time and space opened behind Zenos, and then snapped shut again—leaving him alone with Faust once more.
Carefully, Zenos plucked the electrodes from Faust’s skin. Pinched delicately between his large thumb and forefinger, each node came away and was discarded—left to dangle limply from the mouth of the machine. He pulled Faust’s shirt back down, and buttoned him back into his coat, until all of his white flesh again vanished beneath black wool.
Again, he felt that tension in his chest, prickling at his skin. Turning his attention to the sensation, he thought it might have been faintly warm, like hot tea settling in his stomach. Yet it was also unpleasant, somehow; this low, heavy feeling set alongside something else high and quavering.
He stared down into Faust’s sleeping face.
But this was not Faust’s face, for this was not his friend’s body—not for the moment, at least.
Zenos turned, instead, to the stranger.
Calling on the power of his Resonant, Zenos beheld the sleeping soul of his friend—a flame more like a black sky of roiling storm clouds. A sky the color of trepidation, which might open up at any time in wind and rain, pierced by blinding flashes of lightning and deafening thunder. But for the moment—uneasy calm. A low rumbling in the distance, and a thin current of electricity in the air; the smell of moisture, and a warm breeze. A restless sky of churning, dark clouds.
His friend slumbered peacefully in his strange vessel, unaware that it was not his usual home—nor that Zenos had begun carefully peeling the tape and sensory nodes from its skin.
The experience was likewise strange for Zenos. Although he might confuse his friend’s physical dimensions with the scale of his presence, Zenos knew his friend’s body. He had revisited his experiences of Faust over and over again, until they had been etched indelibly in his memory. Zenos knew not just the sharp furrows in his brow, or the furious curl of his lip; he knew the feel and shape of Faust, from his scalp to his knees, just as surely as he knew that burning look in his green eyes. But this skin was unfamiliar, and the muscles and bone structures swathed in it felt foreign under Zenos’ hands.
As he buckled his friend back into his armor, he found that the faint warmth had disappeared from his insides; only the heavy, jittering feeling remained.
He could not see his friend’s new face. Fandaniel had not bothered to remove the stranger’s helmet before he’d been laid in the machine—and Zenos did not see the purpose in removing it, now. He stared into the expressionless facade of the helmet, and watched the churning black sky beneath.
Again—Zenos failed to identify the feeling.
A wave of frustration swelled up and washed it away. But even this feeling was dull and distant; a pale phantom at the edges of Zenos’ mind. This, he found still more frustrating—but not so much that it could calcify into something solid.
Solid, like in the throne room of Ala Mhigo castle; in the blazing sunset over the Royal Menagerie. Something he had been able to grasp firmly in both hands. Bright and hot in his chest.
Just like his friend.
He looked at his friend’s body—at the face he recognized.
In his time outside his own body, he had learned many lessons about himself. The experience of existing in unfamiliar flesh had revealed to him deficiencies in his stance and form; and likewise, it had given him the opportunity to remedy them. Weaknesses he had had all along, but had never managed to identify or correct.
Perhaps there was something to be learned, staring out at the world from behind those green eyes.
Now, that was an entertaining thought. If his friend would be upset at being removed from his body, he would only be angrier to see Zenos run around in it. Zenos would not get to relish in Faust’s piercing glare, or the way he snarled his words when his temper rose; he would not get to see that beautiful curl to his lip, or the amusing puff of his tail. But although he may have liked to, Zenos did not need to see these things: already, he had turned those memories over with such frequency that he could conjure them with perfect clarity. But what he could not conjure was a vision of what his friend would do with a body that was not his own—and how quickly he would overcome the handicap and win his back.
And Faust would have no choice but to play it. He had broken the rules for the game they were already playing; had he wanted a say in the next one, Faust should have arrived at Babil conscious.
He should have come running back to Zenos’ side—as he’d promised he would.
Again, Zenos felt a twinge of something in his chest. A sharp, acerbic taste rose in his mouth.
He reached for it. Circling; trying to examine it without spooking it and causing it to recede again into the black void of his subconscious. What was the emotion hovering there at the dusky boundaries of his heart?
He could make no sense of it—but at least this time, it did him the courtesy of lingering.
And that was better than the alternative.