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Sometimes, Ambrosius’s thoughts proved to be too much for him.
Not that he’d let it show, of course. Those deepest trenches of his mind were for him alone to brave. Of course, he knew that Ballister would be more than willing to brave those trenches with him. He’d slay every single negative thought Ambrosius ever had, if he could. It was nice to know that he had someone to rely on.
(Though, that “someone” was slowly becoming two someones as he and Nimona learned to trust one another.)
He knew that, but he’d never let either of them see into those dark recesses where his most negative thoughts took root, flourishing in the darkness like a fungus he couldn’t rid himself of.
As a descendant of Gloreth, Ambrosius couldn’t afford to lose his stoic facade. Not around other people, at least; especially before the whole fiasco with the Director. If someone like Ambrosius couldn’t keep it together, then how was he expected to keep everyone in the Kingdom calm? It wasn’t befitting of someone of his status to panic in a dire situation like that. It wasn’t correct.
No, instead of letting those cracks in his mask be seen, he simply always finds himself walking a familiar path to the center of the city square.
It’s around sunset when he starts walking this time, cloak pulled tightly around his shoulders. He counts his steps as he walks, each tap of his shoes on the pavement providing something to focus on. The usually bustling streets were calm as people close up shop and head home for the night, and Ambrosius takes the opportunity to just bask in the peacefulness of it all.
After a bit more walking, he finally arrives at his destination, the huge statue of Gloreth in the center of the Kingdom. Her left arm was forever extended, sword forever raised to defend the Kingdom from a threat that didn’t exist. Her expression was forever a stoic mask that Ambrosius had tried his entire life to mimic perfectly.
He sits at the base of the statue, running a hand through his hair and displacing his hood as he stares up at the face of his famous ancestor.
“Hey, Gloreth.” He speaks, voice barely above a whisper as if he were afraid that if he was too loud he would disrupt the peacefulness of the entire Kingdom. He breathes in the crisp night air as he stares, noting that now that it was past sunset the statue was illuminated by a single light in the base. “You’re probably getting sick of me at this point.” He chuckles dryly, folding his hands in his lap as his gaze follows the point of the sword off into the distance.
“...I don’t know what to do. Or what to think.” He sighs, “Nimona told me what she remembers about you. Your mom wouldn’t let you cut your hair short and you hated it, but it was bearable when Nimona braided it with flowers. She told me you two were inseparable… until the village found out about her shapeshifting.” The atmosphere around him seemed to grow heavy as the words left his mouth, everything he and Nimona talked about swirling around in his head.
“The more I think about it, the more it seems like you and I aren’t that different.” The words were spilling like a waterfall now, the thoughts that had been bothering him all day finally bubbling over. “We both betrayed someone close to us. We both hurt someone we loved. And for what? Because it’s how we were taught?” He hugs himself, gripping his upper arms with a bit too much force.
“I guess the only difference is that Bal forgave me.” He sighs, “I can’t imagine why.”
He remembers the look of hurt and betrayal on Ballister’s face at the ceremony as Ambrosius dropped his weapon in shock at what he had just done. He remembers Ballister hunched over in pain, bleeding out as he stumbled his way out of the arena.
(Ambrosius had been so sure he’d killed him.
The trail of blood had been followed for nearly two miles, and Ballister hadn’t had any immediate medical care. The way the scar looked, Ambrosius assumed he had cauterized it as soon as he could, and he could barely imagine how painful that was.
Ambrosius knew Ballister forgave him, but he still wasn’t sure he could forgive himself. Especially when it’s obvious that Ballister’s phantom pains were bothering him.
He hates himself a little bit more when he sees it.)
“I don’t deserve his forgiveness.” He says after a moment of silence, letting the words fall from his lips like they were weighted. “Let alone his love. I feel like sometimes… he acts like nothing happened. I-I’m glad he’s not mad at me but… every time I see that robotic limb he built for himself it’s like the guilt is ready to swallow me up.”
He can’t help but think of that night in the Antlered Serpent, just before Nimona tried to skewer herself on Gloreth’s sword.
“Ambrosius, I-I’m not the villain here–”
“I know, I know.” He holds up his hands placatingly, before reaching across the table and putting his hand over Ballister’s robotic one.
(It was his first time getting an actual good look at it.
It was crafted with such care, and Ambrosius had to admit that he was extremely impressed by it. Gloreth only knows how long it took, building it with scraps and one arm.
When his fingers make contact with the cool metal, he idly wonders if he could feel sensations through that arm.
Would he be able to feel it if Ambrosius kissed the knuckles? Or rubbed his thumb in circles on the back of it? Or squoze it in an attempt to comfort?
Gloreth… it was all his fault. There wasn’t anything he could do to bring Ballister’s arm back. No amount of words or apologies could regrow a limb.)
“I believe you.” He says softly. Like he should have from the start. Like he should have when Ballister told him that he was innocent.
“I-I don’t even know what to say anymore.” Ambrosius grips the edges of his cloak, holding back tears. “I didn’t believe my own boyfriend because of what? The fact that everyone expected me to arrest him solely because it was my duty as your descendant to be perfect?” He chuckles, but there’s no humor in it. It’s a dry, hysterical sound. “I never asked for that. Everyone puts me on this- this pedestal. Like I’m some kind of deity or prince.”
He was signing autographs since before he was a Cadet, and as he grew he watched as people fawned over him and took any opportunity to swarm him, asking for autographs and photos and a lot of other things that, admittedly, started weirding him out a bit.
Ballister always told him he handled it with grace, but he would be lying if he said that it wasn’t overwhelming sometimes. He hated how the spotlight was always on him, hated how people seemed to worship the ground he walked on while the man he adored was cast aside and treated as less-than.
(He felt like he had to earn his place on that pedestal.
It didn’t seem right to him that people loved and respected him solely because of his lineage. He always did his best when he was at the Institute, training harder than anybody save for Ballister. He tried his absolute hardest to make sure that love and respect wasn’t wasted on him.
If he didn’t, he felt like he let everybody down.
Just like he let Ballister down that night at the Ceremony.)
Ambrosius sighs as he stares up at the moon, blowing his hair out of his eyes.
“I don’t know. Sometimes I just wish I was a normal person with no “awesome” lineage, or whatever they call it. Do you ever feel like it’s all just pointless? I mean, really, having your blood running through my veins doesn’t automatically make me a good night. It doesn’t even automatically make me a good person. I just…”
He’s silent for a while, just listening to the dead quiet of the city around him. He sucks in a deep breath, the cold night air doing well to clear some of that crowding darkness from his head. Though, his own words would always come back to haunt him.
“It doesn’t even automatically make me a good person.”
Was he a good person?
Sure, everyone thought so, but good people don’t cut off their boyfriend’s arm. Good people don’t try to arrest the man they love or believe someone else over them without good reason to.
On the other hand, though, bad people don’t try their hardest to fix their mistakes. Bad people don’t promise to spend the rest of their lives making it up to whoever they hurt.
Is Ambrosius a good person?
He doesn’t know the answer.
There is one thing he knows for sure, though.
“I love him. I really do. More than anything. I’d rather die than hurt him again, but I don’t understand how he doesn’t hate me. Nimona, too, seems like she’s warming up to me.” He shakes his head. “It’s weird. I feel like she should hate me, too.”
It’s then he realizes the moon is nearly directly overhead.
He throws his hood back over his head, the fabric settling to cover his face. He stands, then, glancing up at the statue one last time. The statue of the first Hero of the Realm. The statue of an ancestor he never knew but always tried to mimic. The statue of the person who hurt someone he viewed as a daughter.
“That's enough out of me.” He says simply, turning on his heel and trudging back the way he came.
He felt a bit lighter, but the thoughts swirling around in his head still felt like they were made of lead. Weighing him down until it was a struggle to sift through them.
If a few tears trail down his cheeks as he slips into bed beside his sleeping boyfriend, that’s his secret to tell.