Chapter Text
Ambrosius is small in his bed. The king-sized mattress overflows with fluffy pillows and above them looms a majestic headboard. It all stands around him, just as still, like the ancestral aura he’d always drag around for everyone. Yet he himself is thin and bruised. He’s pale, as white as the butterfly bandages bridging the deeper gashes on his face and arms. A casted leg sticks out from his blanket. His bleached hair falls down over his closed eyes. The sight has only shades of white, except for his red wounds and purple bruises which become stark in contrast.
Ballister has stripped his armour at some point. He can’t remember when, where. He still wears the same dirty shirt, pants, and scratched prosthetic as he holds an ice-filled bundle of cloth to his bruised ribs. He has some butterfly bandages along his arm. His hand is a mess: aches itching where the skin had been scraped off by all the rocks. The cool of the ice pack brings nice relief to the hand holding it, but it’s too cold on his chest. Even through the cloth and his shirt, it’s too cold. Ballister relents, placing the ice on the table beside him, but the warmth doesn’t return to his chest like he’d hoped. Everything there still sits frozen, dead and cold but so heavy.
He’s beyond exhausted. His limbs nag at him to slump beside Ambrosius, breathe in the lavender of his sheets and sleep. He doesn’t, though. He stays in the chair, even as the pillowed seat stops feeling soft. Maybe all the ice in his chest is too heavy for it, but the bed is too heavy for him; Too similar for all that’s changed. Ballister would’ve thought he’d be too exhausted and too relieved to respect the change, but he does. He can’t sleep in Ambrosius’ bed. It’s no longer the same comfortable place- No matter how much Ballister wants it to be. There’s a chasm neither of them are in a state to handle. So Ballister stays in the chair, watching the stars through the window. They fade away with the night, Ambrosius’ gentle snoozing a contrasting constant throughout.
Nimona had convinced Fea to come with them to the lair. Ballister would’ve preferred them all stay together, but when they rushed Ambrosius away there was little time for arguing. Nimona shifted into a large dog and ran off with a hesitant Fea as Ballister jumped in the ambulance before it took off without him. He hopes they’re alright. He wonders if they need food; What Fea would eat; Whether that’s something Ballister will come to know.
When the sun colours the sky with orange and red, Ambrosius inhales deeper. He stirs.
Ballister straightens, the haze of waiting gone in a moment.
Ambrosius’ face scrunches before his eyes flutter open. He groans. Ballister’s breath catches, the chasm holding him still. Ambrosius looks around, blinking twice before sighing and reaching over to the light switch by his bed.
The gentle click cracks the ice in Ballister’s chest. The light above them does nothing compared to the beautiful and bright colour of the sunrise streaming through the window.
Ambrosius looks around. He flicks the switch again: off, on. It hurts. “Ambrosius.”
He turns to his name, eyes surprised and light but aimed somewhere beside Ballister. They flicker around to find him but miss still.
Ballister tenses, trying to figure out how to tell him, but he doesn’t need to: Ambrosius’ face falls and his eyes stop searching. His hand drops away from the switch, leaving the light burning uselessly above them. He turns on his pillow to face the window. They sit there, Ballister finally sharing his awareness of the chasm between them. They keep silent for a bit. They keep their distance in respect of the chasm. In fear of it.
“Is it dark out?” is the first thing Ambrosius asks. His voice is hoarse and quiet. The question is simple and heavy.
“No. It’s… light out.”
“Morning or…?”
The peak of the morning, Ambrosius once called the sunrise. ‘How can you not want to get up when the sky is glowing?’
‘You’re such a morning person,’ Ballister said, highlighting another passage he’d need to study as the bed dipped and his reading glasses were snatched away.
‘And you need to put your books down and come admire the morning with me.’
Ballister hadn’t even looked at him, taking the glasses back, ‘I need to learn this.’
‘You need a break.’
‘This is important- I can’t just-’
‘I know, Bal, but you’re important too,’ Ambrosius worried, making Ballister turn to find his concerned smile and loving eyes. ‘You’ve barely slept between the books and I miss you. Take a break with me?’ he asked, ‘Just while the sky glows?’
So Ballister had. Curled around Ambrosius and with jasmine tea steaming from their mugs, he took a break on the balcony. He watched the sun rise over the wall and laughed with the blonde until he learned to admire that moment every morning as much as Ambrosius does.
As much as he did.
“Yes,” Ballister grieves, “It’s morning.”
Ambrosius nods, face still turned away to a sight he used to love without knowing it’s there. Ballister can’t say if it will make him happier or sadder to be made aware of the glowing sky, so he doesn’t say anything at all.
“I’m home, right?”
“You are. They’ve sent all the knights who’ve gone blind home.”
Ambrosius flinches. He doesn’t turn all the way to Ballister, lingering on the ceiling instead. “All?”
Permanent flash blindness, the healer called it. They didn’t care for Balister’s question as to how they could know it’s permanent, because they already had to answer the same denial thrice before. “You weren’t the only knight near the collision without eye cover.”
Ambrosius’ brow furrows. He mourns, “Who else?”
“I- I don’t know,” Ballister realizes, “I didn’t ask.”
The Academy was always big on unity and looking after fellow knights-to-be, but Ballister was hardly a part of that. He did his best nonetheless: Checking on his sparring partner if they’d gone down too hard, offering his help when classmates struggled, laughing at jokes that weren’t funny. Yet he was rarely granted the same respect. He hoped that would all change with their knighthood. It has: Ballister’s bruised ribs are courtesy of the knights he doesn't belong to. In turn, it isn't quite regret he feels for not worrying about who else lost their sight. It's more a kind of grief for another hope betrayed. He isn't a knight. After all that- all those years, all those efforts- he isn't a knight.
“And Nimona?” Ambrosius asks suddenly, some kind of memory prompting the grief on his face.
“They’re alright. They found you, actually.”
Ambrosius nods. He breathes, “I think I remember.” He pushes himself up-
“Don’t-” Ballister jumps from his chair as Ambrosius freezes and grunts, eyes scrunched shut with pain.
Ballister hovers. “Your leg was stuck. You had surgery. It’s in a cast.”
Ambrosius huffs through clenched teeth. He’s propped himself up on his elbow, uncasted leg bent up under his blanket. He slowly relaxes, eyes fluttering and breath becoming easier. He doesn’t move. Neither does Ballister, who’d stepped right up to their chasm without meaning to. He finds himself in a precarious balance, not quite wanting to move back but unsure of actually reaching out and touching Ambrosius.
“Where were you trying to go?”
“Just… feel the air. The sun- I’m feeling a bit… A bit too little.”
He was tensed with pain only a moment ago, but Ballister could understand he’d want to find a nicer feeling. A change to the sheets he’s been laying in all night. “Let me help,” Ballister offers, finally reaching out-
“No, I-” Ambrosius doesn’t flinch but he makes himself smaller, eyes falling shut again. Ballister lets his hand hang in the air, unwilling to pull it back.
Ambrosius doesn’t open his eyes. He hasn’t tried to look at Ballister since waking up and it’s another dichotomous pain. As much as Ballister wants Ambrosius to look at him, it hurts when his eyes shoot past. When they linger just beside him.
Ambrosius whispers, “How come you’re here?”
“Someone needed to look after you.”
“You could’ve dropped me by my parents.”
“They won’t look after you," Ballister scoffs.
“They’ll do enough. It shouldn’t fall to you in any case.”
“What if I want to be here?”
Ambrosius gives a shaky exhale. He finally blinks up, trying to look at Ballister. His teary eyes land somewhere on his chin. “You were always a better person than me.”
Ballister wishes he could still disagree with him. The way he used to in school when Ambrosius always looked at him like he’d hung the moon. But he can’t. He can’t because while Ambrosius raised his sword, Ballister never gave up trust. Even after the golden knight was going to arrest him and Nimona, Ballister still met up when Ambrosius asked. It doesn’t make him a better person, but he’s not at fault for this. It’s simple: Ambrosius failed to trust again and again, tearing the gaping chasm Ballister finds himself balancing over now. The chasm neither of them are in a state to handle, so Ballister doesn’t try. Instead, he says, “Let’s sit outside.”
They do, Ambrosius refusing Ballister’s help beyond bringing the wheelchair and opening the door. They sit on the same balcony as many mornings before, but this time there’s no tea, no hugs, no laughter. There’s merely a sky only one of them knows is glowing.
The Next Morning
“It’s to protect them,” Ballister explains as he carefully wraps the long strip of white cloth over Ambrosius’ eyes. “I would’ve gotten sunglasses or something but I couldn’t find any.”
“You could just leave me here, though,” Ambrosius mutters. “I’m sure Nimona would appreciate it.”
“I’m not leaving you by yourself.” Ballister couldn’t. Getting around with a broken leg is tough enough. Getting around after losing one’s sight is tough enough. Doing both simultaneously is next to impossible. Still, Ambrosius is hesitant to accept Ballister’s help. The healer came by yesterday to to install bars in the bathroom and to help him eat and take his medications, but today it’s up to Ballister. He’d made a sandwich and offered a bottle of water for breakfast, both easy enough for Ambrosius to find and use without needing Ballister to touch him.
How had that become such an issue? They’d clung onto each other that night, but now… Now, tying a cloth over his eyes is the closest they’ve been since. Ambrosius seems nervous at the idea. Guilty, maybe. Scared? Ballister isn’t even sure what he himself is feeling. It seems as though he keeps hanging over their chasm, on the verge of reaching out but never meeting the other end. He knows he could nudge close with his prosthetic and Ambrosius wouldn’t realize that it’s him, but what’s the point in a touch you can’t share or feel?
“And anyway,” Ballister banishes the question, “it would be good for you to get some air-”
“I've got the balcony-”
“-and movement.” He finishes his knot, letting the leftover cloth dangle and asking, “Is this too tight?” as he walks around Ambrosius to see if he’d put it on right.
“No, it’s fine,” Ambrosius breathes, pulling some hairs that got trapped against his forehead free from under the cloth. “Thank you.” He looks like a different person: Expressive eyes hidden by the material and his hair curling defeated over it. A stubble covers his entire chin and the wounds and bruising remain stark against his pale skin. He wears his white hoodie and grey sweatpants, one leg bundled up above a long cast. It’s kept elevated by the wheelchair he’s slumped into. He looks nothing like Gloreth’s great descendant. He looks young and old and ill. Maybe he shouldn’t go out so soon after.
“I just need to go over and see how they’re doing,” Ballister says, “If you don’t feel up to it, I can ask Todd if he-”
Ambrosius blanches, pushing his wheelchair forward: “Gloreth, I’m going.”
One day turns to two and Nimona is starting to wonder if Ballister is planning to return to them at all. They’re starting to wonder if now that Nemesis is back and wounded and needy, Ballister won’t be bothered to hold the grudge he should- That he’ll push it aside to take care of the poor little knight. Maybe Nimona was nothing more than a placeholder in the weeks that Ballister got betrayed by the Institute and Goldendick. One emotionally damaged companion might be all he can bear.
“Doubt."
Nimona whirls around on the couch, finding Fea bundled on the back of the sofa, eyes still closed and head held out to them. It’s Fea’s favourite spot since they’re light enough that they don’t even cause a dip in the cushions, allowing them to sneak into anyone’s feelings and thoughts. Their eyes flutter open and Nimona hears, “Doubt is name?”
“You have to stop doing that!” Nimona angers.
Fea tilts their head, “But I learn names.”
“I don’t care- You can’t just sneak into my head!”
“How learn?”
“What?”
“If can’t, how learn?”
“You could ask me.”
“If ask, one name: Curious.” Fea stomps silently on the cushions, “I want learn more!”
“Well that sucks for you then, doesn’t-”
The front door clicks. They turn to it. Nimona feels ready to shift, energy bubbling under their skin as they step around the couch between Fea and the door. They hold their breath, ready to bring hell to any knights who might’ve decided to kill them anyway.
The metal creaks inward. “Nimona?”
“Boss!” Nimona launches forward, pulling the door all the way open and wrapping themselves around Ballister’s waist. Arms surround them in return. They shouldn’t have doubted him.
“The lair’s still standing?” he laughs.
“Of course it is,” Nimona pulls away, aiming a half-hearted smack to his arm. “You think I wouldn’t look after Evil Larry?”
“There’s no one I’d trust more,” Ballister smiles. Nimona beams back. It’s still so new and wonderful to be wanted. Their eyes fall to the figure behind Ballister-
“Holy shit he looks bad.”
“I reckon that’s aimed at me,” Nemesis resigns. His voice is croaky and combined with his pitiable physique, Nimona can hardly remember what about him ever commanded so much status.
“Why’d you bring him?” Nimona sours.
“He can’t be by himself.”
“You’re telling me no one else will take in the Kingdom’s favourite?”
Ballister exhales, long and heavy. It darkens the bags under his eyes. He doesn’t look good at all: Scratches and bruises but more than anything crushing exhaustion colours every slow limb and red eye. “Please, Nimona…”
“Fine,” they relent, not wanting to add more to Ballister’s weariness. “But I’m not going to pretend like he doesn’t owe me.”
Nemesis fidgets, “About that-”
“Don’t bother.” Nimona spins on their heel, marching back into the lair.
“Tired,” Fea tells Ballister. They’re propped up on the top of the couch behind his head. The touch of their forehead against his hair is so light that only the small tingle of static warns him of their presence.
“Exhausted,” he corrects, which Fea cheerfully repeats.
“Well you wouldn’t be if you’d dumped the wheels somewhere else,” Nimona hisses from beside him on the couch. Their bored eyes glare at Ambrosius, who sits in his wheelchair on Ballister’s other side.
The blonde ducks his head. Ballister can imagine his guilty eyes under the strip of white cloth he wears.
“I wasn’t complaining,” Ballister assures him, “Fea was just...”
Ambrosius is quiet, before nodding and whispering, “I know, Fea. Thanks.”
The not-quite-fox adores Ambrosius, speaking to him more often than they do to everyone else. It’s a good way to outbalance Nimona’s refusal to acknowledge him directly, which is another worry. Ballister's had hope that this could work out. Yet the question he weighed when he was stuck behind that last metal slab seems to continue haunting him: Risk Nimona for Ambrosius or risk Ambrosius for Nimona? He thought he worked it out, fought for both. That doesn't work here, now- Not with Nimona's grudge and Ambrosius' guilt. The blonde will be pushed into a sacrificial retreat unless Ballister holds him close. Yet doing so could widen Nimona's grudge, making them feel abandoned and tearing another chasm.
Gloreth, his body is heavy and the couch, so comfortable.
Fea hops onto the armrest and into Ambrosius’ lap, who leans back in response. Fea walks in circles until settling down, fluffy tail curled around themselves. Ambrosius’ hands hover. He mutters, “If you’re sure,” before lowering his hand until it rests on blue fur. Fea looks up, watching the still hand on their back. They reach out with their snout, nudging the hand to move. Ambrosius obliges, gently petting Fea, who lies back down with a purr.
It looks cosy, prompting the memory of Ambrosius’ hand carding through Ballister's own hair. He sags deeper into the couch. His eyes droop.
“Boss.”
Ballister startles, head flying up as the world still seems to turn a bit. He shouldn't stay here long. He should get the stuff he needs, give Nimona some money, and get Ambrosius home. He should get up.
“You should go sleep," Nimona disagrees, "I promise I’ll look after him.”
Ballister studies Nimona. ‘It shouldn’t fall to you in any case,’ Ambrosius said yesterday. Well, then in what world should it fall to Nimona? Ballister shakes his head, wiping at his eyes, “He needs to take his medications soon.”
“I can do that,” Nimona scoffs.
“I know, but…”
“I’m not offering for Goldendick.”
“You’ve already done too much.”
“I know.”
“Nimona…”
“How are you going to look after him when you can’t even keep your eyes open? It’s a nap, boss- That’s all I’m offering. I’m not about to defeat lasers or traverse ruin or anything so relax, okay?”
Nimona's teen girl form has always been best for condescending looks: a raised eyebrow, humour twinkling in their eyes, and a quirked lip. They won’t let Ambrosius die or hurt, they’re too kind for that. They might not like to hear it, but Nimona is quick to help. Maybe it’s an old habit left from years of searching for acceptance. The idea turns Ballister’s stomach. Still, Nimona is someone he can rely on. Ambrosius might have screwed with the way he trusts, but Ballister remains sure of Nimona, so he sighs, “Okay.”
Nimona grins.
“Thank you,” he extends.
“Sure thing, boss.”
They both know it isn’t a sure thing at all, but Ballister will find a proper way to thank them. He somehow manages to get up, moving towards the mattress in the other room, before pausing. “The medications are in the pocket behind the wheelchair, instructions are on the back. Wake me if anything happens.”
“Oh, I’ll wake you if he so much as needs the bathroom.”
“You both do realize I’m not deaf, right?” Ambrosius quips half-heartedly.
“Yep.”
“Sorry,” Ballister realizes, earning a disapproving glance from the shapeshifter. “Are you alright with this?”
Nimona scoffs, “Who cares?”
Ambrosius quirks a quick smile, “Get some rest, Bal.”
Nimona isn’t always sure that they’re a villain. The blood-soaked people on TV who chase the protagonists with chainsaws and pick axes seem much better at it than Nimona’s ever been. The ones on TV don’t have people they care about and want to protect. They haven’t saved lives on simple instinct. They have motives, origins, and anger. They like that the world fears and even hates them. Nimona’s never quite managed that sort of perspective, an innate craving crawling in their gut to be seen for who they are. They hold a stubborn surety that they’re someone good. But with every refusal grew a disdain, launching Nimona not quite into villainy, but they’ve developed a strong taste for dissonance. They dance to whatever cacophony they can ignite.
Like putting on a horror movie whilst babysitting a newly blind knight.
“Alaric! Alaric, where are you?”
The music twists, the loudness of the chase sequence giving way to infrequent hums of melody. The chimes are long and lingering before giving way to deathly silence. The girl huffs air desperately and her hesitant footsteps crunch over the forest floor. She nears a tree, eyes wide and scared. The music builds as she roams around it- A pick axe splatches right in her eye as the girl wails.
“Gloreth-” Nemesis flinches.
Nimona laughs at him. They pop another handful of popcorn in their mouth, turning back to see a blood-soaked man chase the girl with a haunting smile. Nemesis’ shaky exhale is a wonderful addition to the scene. The girl gets caught and torn apart. With a lingering shot of the man glaring down the lens of the camera, the credits roll in silence.
“That was good,” Nimona delights, dropping the bowl of popcorn on the table. They turn to Nemesis, who continues to pet a snoozing Fea. Nimona glances at the clock, finding it’s gone past three. A grin warms on their face as they shift into energy and soundlessly land behind Nemesis. Turning back into their teen girl form, Nimona leans in close and says, “Boo.”
Nemesis twists around, almost knocking Nimona in the face as Fea startles awake. He groans, tensing as he grimaces and holds his breath behind clenched teeth.
Nimona pulls back as Fea jumps up, pushing their snout under Nemesis’ hand and closing their eyes. The blonde relaxes, exhaling long and heavy as his body sags. “Thanks, Fea… No, I just tried to bend my knee again- Sorry.”
Nemesis pets Fea. The not-quite-fox settles back into his lap, clearly content to drift off again. Nimona doesn’t understand why they seem to like the blonde so much, knowing what he’s done and how he would’ve treated them before the fall of the wall. They’re just too young to know better. Too young to know the many years with no change: Generation after generation all making the same mistakes, spewing the same cruelty. How haven't they learned anything all this time, repeating history so accurately? It sure as fuck doesn't make Goldendick deserving of Fea's fondness.
Nimona scoffs, pulling the medication from the back of the wheelchair. “I don’t see why I still need to give you pain meds when you’ve got Fea jumping at your every grunt, but…” They pull out the two orange vials, leaving them on the couch to grab a glass of water from the kitchen.
Returning with it, Nimona stops in front of Nemesis. They grab his hand- He tenses. Nimona narrows their eyes at him, a small grin pushing at their lips. “Are you scared of me?”
Nemesis forces a breath, muttering, “I just hadn’t expected you to grab my hand.”
Fuck, he’s pitiable. Nimona pushes the glass in his hand. “Hold this,” they command, feeling him take the water’s weight before letting go to snatch the medications from the couch. They drop down onto it to see how many he needs.
“Nimona,” the mindless mascot starts, tone hesitant. “What you did for me-”
“Don’t,” Nimona interjects, opening a vial and shaking a white pill out onto their palm. “I didn’t do it for you so don’t ruin it by thanking me.”
“Will you let me apologize then for-”
“I don’t forgive you.” Nimona closes the vial and grabs the other, repeating the gesture. They don’t give a fuck what Nemesis wants. He thinks he can just apologize and it would all be alright? That suddenly he hasn’t betrayed Ballister? Threatened someone he was supposed to love and trust? His apology is selfish- a way to get the guilt off his chest. Nimona won’t fall for it. Hell, if Gloreth had ever tried to apologize, Nimona would’ve punched her right in the fucking face. Not that she ever had. Apologized. Or tried to.
“Can I say it at least?”
“No,” Nimona chucks the vials on the table, “You can drown in it for all I care. The only reason I didn’t let you die is because of Boss.” Nimona grabs Nemesis’ other hand, throwing the pills in his palm. “But if I’d have known that you would make him go without fucking sleep and have him all-”
“I’m sorry.”
Nimona’s hand tightens around Nemesis’ wrist. Fire starts dancing on their tongue. “I told you not to.”
“I’m-”
“No-” Nimona cuts him off, leaning in and never relenting their tight grip. “You said you cared about him- That you knew the true him and still cared, but then you raised your sword and treated him like a monster. If you think a measly ‘sorry’ centuries too late is going to mean anything then you’re fucking wrong, you selfish gutless asshole. Don’t apologize to me.”
Gloreth’s descendant ducks his head. He doesn’t try to say anything. Nimona almost wishes he would because the rage in their chest still burns so explosively. To appease it, they sneer, “And don’t apologize to him. Just go away.”
Nimona thinks they see him nod, but they don’t care, already releasing his hand with a shove and turning away to sit in the window as a hissing cat.
Maybe it’s not just dissonance they’re after. The disdain has been festering for so long it wasn’t going to out itself merely in unharmonious song. This burning betrayal has always been meant for scratching and screaming- raging and roaring.
Nimona isn’t always sure that they’re a villain, but maybe- sometimes- they get close.