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The clink of empty glasses echoes through an otherwise silent common room, F’lhaminn’s deft hands working them clean deeply into night.
Empty.
Thancred stares into his untouched cup, fading golden candlelight barely illuminating its contents, his distorted reflection revealing no weakness.
Would that his filth wash away so easily.
Thancred is blameless but tainted all the same, evidenced by lingering nothingness surrounding his mind - a void, a gaping crevice cleanly sheared from him, broken and worn away; perpetually unfulfilled, neither beauty nor lover are adequate distractions and no battle, regardless of ferocity, can turn his attentions from the emptiness within.
Thancred repeatedly, stubbornly, attempts to fill the hole – with duty, with responsibility, with determination and a charming smile to hide the weariness –
- Even with hate.
All futilely.
He remembers nothing, yet knows what is absent with intimate familiarity: his light touch, like the flicker of a campfire’s flame – though dangerous and an existence Spoken are instinctively averse to, ‘tis undeniable that his presence is ultimately satisfying and undeniably necessary.
Lahabrea – a meaningless name more than an entity, a sensation rather than an individual - hinders him even now, leaving Thancred only with mundane responsibilities well within the capabilities of any novice adventurer from fear that this emptiness renders him more vulnerable to primal influence.
A shell unable to fulfill even his role, never to see Louisoix’s will through.
The empty glasses clink into place behind the counter, fitting perfectly on their shelf, almost as if in mockery.
Drink still untouched, Thancred pushes the stool back, unable to bear the façade any longer; offering F’lhaminn a smile and wave, he exits into the stillness of Mor Dhona’s evening.
Driven by self-loathing, Thancred heeds a call he is yet to hear. Like a lone karakul, he roams North Silvertear – not aimlessly, perhaps, but certainly lost – seeking completion, yet knowing not how to find it. The enigmatic void within is his guide as he follows the invisible path, an accursed journey that only leads to his downfall, his sole companion the gentle lapping of the lake’s water against the shore.
There remains no other alternative save to obey unknown whispers, lest he fall prey to madness.
As if suffering summons him – as it once did, as it doubtless will again – Lahabrea reveals himself, the duration of his observation impossible to know. Together they overlook the Keeper of the Lake, the dark Ascian robes seemingly absorbing what little light the moon’s rays offer, Mor Dhona’s thick aether swirling as if a part of him.
There need not be words, Lahabrea knows Thancred’s purpose well enough.
“Return it.” Regardless of the foolishness, Thancred turns to his enigmatic companion, blade drawn; unable to hide erratic despair, he speaks the only words that describe his predicament. Thancred knows not what he asks for, or if it’s an ailment within Lahabrea’s power remedy, yet desperation leads him to the only individual with potential answers.
Unaffected by the threat of Thancred’s weapon, the smallest smile plays at Lahabrea’s lips, the starlight’s reflection over the lake revealing his features even in the deepest night.
“And so you bear witnesses to the truth; you are nothing without me.”
He knows.
Lahabrea’s words find their target and, like a horn at the races, provoke Thancred into an irrational attack that predictably hits only air.
“An abandoned host, the broken remains of something greater, stealing away to its master so that it once again finds fulfillment in its purpose.” His harsh voice rings from behind.
Thancred’s jaw clenches as he turns to meet Lahabrea’s masked features, close enough that breaths blow the bangs from his face.
“I’ll not heed your falsehoods; do not waste time toying with me and -”
A haunting chuckle halts him mid-sentence; quiet and subdued, laughter echoes over Thancred’s flesh like a brisk wind, coursing bumps down his spine and prickling his flesh. “I need not toy with you, Thancred.” The name rolls off his tongue lazily in mockery. “ – what I seek is already mine.”
Clawed gloves reach up with uncharacteristic gentleness, pushing stray hairs behind his ear. A single finger trails down his face, cool metal soothing the warm foreign aether that seeps into him – aether that takes root within, spreading slowly through the crevices of his fragmented mind in promise.
“Until the stars die and beyond, you remain bound; cease this futile struggle and accept inevitability.”
Thancred pushes Lahabrea from him, slashing into the air where Lahabrea stood moments before; to his surprise, Lahabrea allows the desperate strike to hit, aether oozing from his chest like formless, black blood that floats between them, coating Thancred’s arms with numbing toxicity.
“I’ll not give in again.” He murmurs repeatedly, almost a mantra, as the aether that makes up Lahabrea melts into his torso like spilled ink over parchment.
He already has - by acknowledging unspoken summons and coming to this place, Lahabrea demonstrates that his control remains, even long after relinquishing his hold over Thancred’s flesh.
In stubborn defiance, Thancred rejects Lahabrea in the only way that remains in his power; blindly attacking the darkness that smothers him, Thancred’s assault is greeted only with the distant echo of laugher, the Ascian well beyond mortal reach. The last of Lahabrea’s black and purple robes shred – robes that should not be familiar, yet Thancred knows the feel of their soft, foreign cloth as intimately as he knows the worn hilt of his blade under his fingers – as Thancred’s sight darkens and the aether envelops him entirely.
He shudders as Lahabrea trickles through his veins like scalding soup, a torturous lick that barely teases the edges of his essence with the relief he desperately needs - the Ascian a necessary component for completion and the return to how he was intended to be.
Such disgust fills Thancred at Lahabrea’s unspoken confirmation that he almost heaves the remains of his supper from his gut.
Despite re-entry into his flesh, Lahabrea does not pierce the vulnerable barrier surrounding Thancred’s soulspace. His connection is unlike before; there is no loss of control nor dulling of his senses, but dizziness remains, an almost fatal aether sickness that inebriates him until the point of –
- Satisfaction.
Lahabrea molds within like a custom fit glove, his essence influencing Thancred’s, the swell within his chest almost making him laugh in twisted glee.
Thancred needs him; the completion and unity that exists only with Lahabrea –
He tears himself from the thought, appalled by the Ascian and, moreso, that he even considers Lahabrea’s presence a pleasure for indulgence - undoubtedly the reaction Lahabrea seeks from him: a pleading, willing return to his possession.
Lahabrea whispers unintelligible words in that alien tongue of his, smooth deep and slow, commanding and confident, that vibrate through Thancred’s body before the Ascian slowly, painfully leaks from his form. Like a predator releasing wounded prey just so it can watch it limp away, squirming in its weakness, Lahabrea frees Thancred, the remains of his influence fading, leaving only void.
When the air around Thancred clears and consciousness returns, he is once again alone in Mor Dhona. All of his attentions return to the gaping hole within; larger and more demanding than ever before, it pounds in burning desire like a lover that leads him to the brink only to deny him the ability to finish.
Breathless, disquieted, and empty, Thancred continues to overlook the lake, refusing to return to the Stones like a beaten hound.
Lahabrea’s gifts are an irreversible curse, yet the alternative is intolerable – ‘tis no choice at all. Thancred sees all promises through, no matter the cost.
An uncertain premonition, the echoes of Lahabrea’s essence continue their dance over Thancred’s flesh with the night’s breeze.
This time he won’t break, he swears silently upon the corpse of Silvertear’s guardian.