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There is a monster roaming the Lighthouse.
Davrin knows monsters, and he knows this one is dangerous. Even more dangerous because it hides inside a man. Inside an assassin. He had seen just how deadly it was in Treviso as they battled that winged thing that was definitely more than just a dragon. A monster inside a monster fighting a monster. It makes the back of his neck crawl to see it lurking in the library or puttering around the kitchen as if it belonged there.
As if it weren't enough that the place itself is uncanny, broken, wrong.
They tell him that they're living in the Fade; he chooses not to believe. He finds a room for himself as far from the concentrated weirdness of the eluvian and the floating bookcases and the glowing, rotating tower as he can manage. It's on higher ground, which he likes, and open to what passes for sky, which he also likes. And it's not far from the pantry where the demon makes its lair, so he can keep an eye on things.
He stands on the balcony, his hands resting on the weathered wood railing. Below, Assan scratches his back on the cobbled stones of the courtyard. Davrin wonders where the griffon's brothers and sisters are right now. Their loss aches like a hook caught in his gut.
He looks back over his shoulder at the space he's chosen. It's empty of all but his bedroll and a tattered armchair, but that will change. Even if he's hurting, even if he's been uprooted, his path is clear. He knows who he is. He's a Warden, a monster hunter, a griffon trainer.
He'll make a nest of this room for himself and Assan, and he'll stalk the monster in the pantry until he picks up the trail of his real quarry.
⫷⫸•⫷⫸•⫷⫸
Everyone else is asleep when the pantry door swings ajar.
It's Davrin's turn on watch. He knows at a glance that this isn't Lucanis, and not just by the way the thing's eyes glow. He tightens his grip on the sword that lies across his lap.
"Don't even think about it," he growls.
"Smells like wood and iron," it says. "Feathers and fear."
"Keep it to yourself, demon."
It grins and gives a long sniff. "Bitterness and old blood."
"You take one step past that doorway and you'll find out what fresh blood smells like." He rises from the chair where he's been waiting, watching. "Where's Lucanis?"
"He. Sleeps."
Davrin hesitates, because whatever his opinion on the matter might be, Lucanis is part of the team. They will need a team to defeat the gods, and everyone knows Lucanis needs sleep.
"Just get back in that room like a good little demon," he says. "For now, you're a prisoner."
The thing hisses at him, a sound that shouldn't come out of a human throat. "Not! A prisoner! He promised!"
"I don't care what the assassin promised. You stay in there or you both die, monster."
The creature bares its teeth, the violet light in its eyes flaring. Its hand on the doorframe tightens into a claw and it pushes its face forward, like it has a secret it wants to share. Faint purple plumes spill out between its teeth.
"I could. Show you. A monster."
Davrin's heart gives a great thud and then starts to race. He lifts the point of his sword until it's aimed at the assassin's chest. He's never seen a demon emerge from a human being before but he's seen the aftermath enough times to know he can't hesitate when it happens.
If it happens.
They stand a sword's-length apart, breathing. The firelight reflects off the silver crow skulls on Lucanis's waistcoat, reminding him whose heart beats inside that chest. He doesn't really want to spill the man's blood if he doesn't have to.
There is faint chuckle before the eerie light fades from the monster's eyes. He sees Lucanis shake himself and glance down at the sword. The sleepy bewilderment in his expression shifts into something unreadable. He says nothing, just shuts the pantry door in Davrin's face.
Davrin hears the creak of the wooden cot, and then silence. After a moment he feels foolish standing there in front of a closed door so he returns to his chair. Adrenaline recedes and in its place a chill begins to grow.
He shifts a little closer to the fire.
⫷⫸•⫷⫸•⫷⫸
Davrin wakes, blinking the nightmare away. The details change, but it's always the same — walls falling, blight creeping, his blade bloodied to no avail. Denied both victory and sacrifice, he is left standing guilty and hollow amidst the fallen.
He climbs out of bed and stumbles toward the kitchen, seeking something hot to drink to drive away the ghosts. He steps into the gloom and discovers that he's not alone. The demon is there, perched like a bird on the seat of the sofa. Davrin sees its head lift to draw in a great snuffling breath. His right hand clenches on the grip of a blade that isn't there.
"Another. Nightmare."
"Stay out of my head, demon," Davrin growls, half-grateful to turn his ire on something outside himself.
"You have. The same dreams."
"Yeah. Ever since Weisshaupt."
"No! SAME! DREAMS!"
"What are you talking about?" The demon's raspy shout frays his nerves.
"You. And Lucanis. Fear and fighting. The smell of rot and wrong. Crumbling inside and out. Falling. FAILING!"
Anger blooms in Davrin's belly, an easy cloak over other, thornier emotions. Empathy is too much to ask; he doesn't want to know what an assassin dreams.
"Not my problem."
The demon springs from the couch, hands balled into fists. "MAKE. IT. STOP!"
Davrin holds up a warning hand as he backs away. "Take it up with Lucanis."
He turns to leave. The demon's snarl of frustration follows him out the door. Back in his room, he finds Assan curled beside his armchair. He sits, and together they stare out at the Fade as he runs trembling fingers through the griffon's feathers.
⫷⫸•⫷⫸•⫷⫸
Davrin returns from the Cauldron with a scrap of cloth and thousand questions. Each one feels like a bruise, a spot too sore to touch. When he looks at Assan he sees the urns. He remembers the bones, and the blight. The betrayal that turns solid earth to shifting sand under his feet.
He puts the scrap in a little wooden box and keeps it always within arm's reach. He stares at it and calls it study. He memorizes the shape and the weave and the pattern of the blood stains, hoping they'll map to some meaning. It takes him days to accept Emmrich's offer of help, afraid of destroying his only connection to the monster that took Assan's siblings.
Emmrich destroys it for him.
When he sees the cloth go up in flame his heart misses a beat. It skips another when he hears what Emmrich learns from the process. Elven blood, he'd said. Dirthsal.
He doesn't believe, at first. Doesn't want to. He knows you should never hunt things you don't understand, but he never thought he'd be hunting one of his own. He doesn't want to understand how that happens, how such a noble purpose can become so twisted.
He doesn't want to find out whether it could happen to him.
⫷⫸•⫷⫸•⫷⫸
Davrin's not sure of much of anything any more.
Gods whose existence he's doubted all these years can be real. A fortress that stood for a thousand years can be destroyed in hours. Wardens can be corrupted. Assassins can have honor. A demon can fight at his side and he can be grateful for it. A single feather can be heavy enough to shift the course of a battle. A monster can be made or unmade, raised or redeemed.
What is a monster, anyway?
He feels like he ought to know, if anyone does. Sometimes he misses the certainty he once had. The confidence of knowing where he stood, understanding the place he occupied in the world. Things he once saw in black and white are no longer distinct. They bleed into one another in unsettling ways.
But Davrin is, above all things, a pragmatist. If the world exists in shades of gray, then that's how he plans to see it. Even if it takes some practice.
Which is how he finds himself wandering through the dining hall late one evening, intent on raising a glass with a monster.
"Lucanis," he says, leaning against the pantry doorframe. "You busy?"
He holds up the bottle of whiskey in his hand. From his cot, Lucanis gazes at him with a faintly surprised expression.
"What is the occasion?"
"No occasion. Can't a man just have a drink with a friend?"
"I suppose. Why not?"
Lucanis rises to follow him, collecting two cups from a shelf in the dining area. Davrin sets the bottle on the small table in the seating area and they settle themselves into chairs. He pours and takes a sip. It's not a very good bottle; it burns as it goes down and the taste is vanilla and char. It warms his belly, though.
"There's an old Warden tradition. We gather around the campfire with a bottle and talk about our worst jobs. A drink for each story."
"Sounds like a good way to get very drunk," Lucanis says, the corner of his mouth twitching.
Davrin grins. "That was the general idea, yeah."
Lucanis takes a sip and makes a face. Then he takes another. "Who goes first?"
"Tradition says the oldest," Davrin says with a shrug.
"That would be me." Lucanis sighs and scratches his beard. "I have a lot of worst jobs. What kind do you want to hear?"
Davrin thinks about this for a moment. He runs the pad of his thumb over the rim of his cup and then he gives Lucanis a sly, sidelong glance.
"Tell me one about a monster."