Chapter Text
A yawn rips its way out of Coen's throat as he staggers toward the abandoned cottage he called home. He rubs at his eyes, careful not to skewer them with his still unwieldy claws, trying to wipe away the slow encroaching blur that lingered in his periphery. His body felt heavy, as if someone had filled him with sand, every step forward a challenge. Coen dragged open the rickety wooden door to the small building, the dim moonlight filtering through and illuminating the cracked floorboards of the entryway.
Coen's body ached with bruises and cuts inflicted by the dozens of kobolds he had slaughtered with Lacra earlier that night, and his mind swam with the gruesome state they had found Isbrand in. He rubbed furiously at his eyes again, this time trying to empty his mind of the emaciated, bloody figure that Lacra had called a vrakhir. It had been an interesting few hours, that much was certain.
He pushed his way into the bedroom to find Ambrus reclining on one of the beds, humming absent mindedly to himself and picking at a spot of dried blood on his breastplate. He was dressed in a simple white linen shirt, the drawstrings meant to secure the v-necked collar left untied, his wavy blonde hair left hanging around his face. It was still a little strange, Coen thought, seeing this deadly vrakhir sitting on a bed and fiddling with his armour. It had only been a week since their duel, and while Coen was still wary of his new ally, he found an unsteady sort of comfort in having someone to travel and fight with him, even if it was a former Boyar. He still felt uneasy turning his back to the man, however, as if he were trusting a hungry predator not to pounce.
Another yawn tugged Coen away from his thoughts, earning him an unimpressed hum from the man across from him.
"Getting sleepy, are we?"
"No, it's fine. Just a long day." Coen sighed and turns to his own bed, beginning to set down his belongings. The beginnings of a headache prodded at the backs of his eyes. "I'll feel better come dawn."
"What on earth did Lacra do with you, Coen?" Ambrus taunts, his eyes narrowing and his mouth twisting into a teasing grin. "You seem awfully worn out."
A spark of irritation ripped through Coen at that. "Nothing happened. Drop it."
"Sure it didn't," Ambrus drawls, eyeing the numerous bruises, kobold bites, and scratches littered across Coen's bare skin. "You look like you've been positively desecrated."
Coen whips around to face Ambrus, fists clenched, levelling him with an icy glare. "You really don't know when to quit, do you?"
Ambrus raises his eyebrows and presses his lips into a thin line. A tense silence stretches between them, a question alight in Ambrus's pale eyes. Coen huffs and turns away from the other man, extricating a vial of blood from his pack and pouring the contents down his throat. He stalks across the room and picks up a rag to scrub the crusted blood off of his now rapidly healing skin, having decided that their brief conversation has come to an end. Ambrus tracks every movement, his dirty armour forgotten at his side. Coen tosses the rag somewhere over his shoulder and moves back towards his bed, avoiding meeting Ambrus's piercing gaze all the while. He sat on the edge of the bed, now, shoulders sagging under the weight of all that he'd seen in that damned cave, all the fight leaving his body with a hefty sigh. He fell back onto the mattress with a soft thud, covering his eyes with his forearm. Coen could still feel Ambrus's eyes on him, could still sense the question hanging in the air between them.
"If you must know," Coen said haltingly. "We found Brencis's sire. Isbrand." He waited a moment for a response, but nothing came. "He was chained to the wall of a kobold hive. He'd been chewed to bits for two years. Two whole years, stuck being fed on and regenerating."
Ambrus sucked in a breath. "Poor sod. That musn't have been a pretty sight."
"No, it was awful. I suppose I just…" Coen removed his arm from its spot over his eyes and stared blankly up at the ceiling. "When I think of immortality, I don't think of that. I never considered an eternity of pure suffering, trapped in a cycle of pain and healing and pain all over again. Just… Neverending torture."
"That's…" Ambrus hesitated, the usual sneer that underscored his voice suddenly absent. "No, I don't believe I'd considered that to be an option either."
"I don't know if there is a God worth worshipping out there anymore, but… I can only pray that never happens." Coen said quietly. He shifted himself until he was propped up on his elbows, and finally met Ambrus's eyes.
A pensive look made it's home on Ambrus's face. He turned away quickly as he met Coen's gaze and schooled his expression into one of icy indifference, but his shoulders sagged as if carrying a heavy weight, his hands twisted together in a knot, and his leg bounced incessantly against the wooden floorboards. Unsure of what to do with this information, Coen stood and cleared his throat.
"So, uh, Lacra mentioned another vrakhir in Svartrau by the name of Vicho, said he might be able to help us overthrow Brencis." Coen moved to rummage through his clothing, and emerged with a plain looking black tunic. He went to put it on, his movements sluggish. "Do you know anything about him? Lacra didn't tell me much. I was going to go and find him now, if you wanted to come and help."
Ambrus turned back to Coen at this, looking relieved, yet distinctly unimpressed. "Were you not just yawning and moving about the room with all the grace of a baby deer? You really think you're prepared to face another vrakhir in this state?" He huffed a laugh. "You're more foolish than I thought, Coen. I still wonder how you ever bested me in battle."
"I'm fine." Coen said, and he smoothed out his tunic and started towards the door. "Let's go."
Coen grabbed the door handle and went to pull it open. He barely registered a rush of black smoke in his periphery, flinched away from the door as a cold hand gripped his wrist, keeping him from moving any further. Coen met Ambrus's stark white eyes, his heart beating rabbit quick and his chest rising and falling with shallow breaths.
"Really?" Ambrus drawled, levelling Coen with a thoroughly disapproving look. "If you go bumbling through the streets of Svartrau with that amount of awareness you're going to get killed. That would be very embarrassing for you. And for me."
Coen wrenched his hand out of Ambrus's icy grip and took a slow step back, eyeing the man warily. Coen tensed as he looked over the vrakhir in front of him. The burn scars adorning his sharp jaw and thin cheeks, the hard set of his mouth, the menacing glint in his eyes; Ambrus was still very much dangerous. Coen couldn't afford to let his guard slip enough for him to be startled like that again — Ambrus was (unfortunately) right, it could cost Coen his life. And his family.
"Relax, Coen, I'm not going to do anything. Do us both a favour and get some rest before you do something stupid, hm?" Ambrus stepped toward the window and pulled back the blinds. "You won't be able to find this Vicho anyway, it's nearly dawn."
Coen, still frozen by the door, let his muscles relax and slumped fowards with a heavy sigh. "Fine. I'll try and get some rest, but…" He dragged his hand down his face as he made his way towards the bed. "Try not to drain me in my sleep?" Coen tried for a smile, but from the displeasure contorting Ambrus's face, he was sure the feeble attempt at humour fell flat.
"I've heard your blood tastes like shit, dawnwalker. Don't flatter yourself." Ambrus made towards his own bed and plucked a book from his own pack, flipping through it briefly before sitting on the thin mattress and opening the book to the start. "Now, please shut up and sleep."
"Wake me after a few hours? I really can't waste a whole day in bed."
"Sure, sure." Ambrus waved his hand dismissively and shot Coen a pointed look. "Goodnight, Coen."
Coen watched Ambrus as he fiddled with the page between his clawed fingers, and finally settled into bed. His eyelids grew heavy and slid shut the instant his head hit the pillow. Coen wasn't sure how many days it had been since he slept, and decidedly did not have the energy to figure it out. Just as his consciousness began to fade, he opened his eyes to find Ambrus looking at him, a curious expression painted on his face. His usually sharp eyes had softened considerably, and the harsh line of his mouth had relaxed into a gentle pout. He looked nice, Coen thought distantly, away from the scrutiny of others.
Coen barely had time to dissect this before a dreamless sleep finally took him.