All these years spent risking his life to save her, to save everyone, never complaining, never asking for anything in return, just picking up his sword and readying his magic to throw himself into danger... All these years holding her in his arms and whispering sweet nothings in the night, pressing kisses to her neck and jaw and assuring her that she was his one and only... All these scars from battle, these tired bones, these victories and losses...
For what?
The day was saved for good. The great evil that overshadowed their lands was gone, had been gone for months, slayed by his own hand, an end to his journey, a new beginning for them all.
And here their hero was, tossed in the dungeons, held in chains, all because one woman thanked him for saving her husband with a kiss on the cheek.
Avery had never seen his princess so angry, so betrayed as he had that day. He'd tried to explain to her that the woman was married, that it was thankfulness and thankfulness alone on her part, that he loves (loved?) her and her alone and always would, but that had only seemed to anger her more.
The air had grown cold as he was dragged away, accused of aiding the very forces he had done his best to defeat this entire time. She fed him, at least, though he preferred the days that she sent servants and guards to do the deed instead. There was always a catch when Vanessa was involved these days: a hundred assurances of his love for her with each needing to be just as heartfelt as the last, each bite of food accompanied with a kiss, a candlelit dinner when he couldn't even reach the seat... The only question that seemed to be allowed was when he would see her next. Asking when he would be let out only ended in a hungry, empty night or two.
There was something different about her--not just her mannerisms and frightening obsession with their love, but a sort of aura of wrongness that he couldn't quite describe, that seemed to be getting stronger by the day. Days that seemed to be getting colder and colder as of late. Anymore, he spends the days in his cell shivering, teeth chattering away as he wonders if (when) it'll be cold enough for frostbite or hypothermia to send in.
Some days he remembers to use his magic to keep himself warm. Some days he's so tired he can't even be bothered.
He just doesn't get it.
How did he end up like this? What was the point of it all?
There's no warning of his arrival, no footfall or sound. Just a space suddenly filled, cloak swirling around him and failing to stir any air at all.
The wizard, face entirely shadowed by his hat, leans against the half-frozen wall - mostly for effect. His solidity is questionable right now, given that the last time they'd seen each other, Avery had put a sword through him.
"You look like you've seen better days. Did peace not agree with you, oh bold hero?"
Avery stares at the wizard in front of him, eyes wide, mouth agape.
The Dark Lord's servant. Here.
No.
No, it's impossible. Avery had defeated him (run him through, felt the hot coppery rivulets of blood run over and through his fingers, relished the moment and felt horror at it all the same). It can't be him.
"I've been down here too long," he croaks, and looks away, brows knit.
The ruin that he's chosen to dwell in - and by extension, that Avery now dwells in - is only dark, ruined and mossy on the outside. Even though he doesn't need many of the creature comforts that he would have as a living person, he's hardly going to rid himself of them, and he wouldn't be able to stand living in a messy, musty space simply for aesthetic reasons.
There's plenty of space to roam on the ruin's grounds; they could go days without seeing one another. But even with such a large space, it's hard not to notice the other man's restlessness. Mostly because it annoys him.
"Still not enough of a palace for you?" are his first words to address it. "What is it this time?"
"It's fine," Avery snaps, even as he paces back and forth like some sort of caged beast. "I'm just..."
Hungry? It feels like the closest word to how he feels, but he's eaten well while he's been in these ruins and even while they've been on the road, and so there's no reason he should be. He just knows that he needs something. He isn't sure what. "I don't suppose there are any other 'side effects' of that curse of yours you haven't told me about?"
Side-effects. He doesn't recall, but then again, the circumstances are different, and he doesn't quite know or understand the shape of the other man's new power. Even now he wonders if taking it back would be the better option, but it would leave the other man far too weak to survive here.
There had been a wildness in the hero's eyes the day he died. He'd pushed a little too far, pricked a little too much; the next thing he knew, it was his blood staining that sword.
There had been horror, true. He'd expected that. But there had been a kind of satisfaction there, too, lurking behind it...
"If there are, they're unique to you. But perhaps you just miss getting in fights." He hmms, as if he's been suddenly struck by a thought. "There have been some graverobbers nosing around altogether too close to this place. Perhaps we should go and deal with them? That might satiate your apparent thirst for violence."
Avery barely leaves his room the next few days, only exiting to find something small to eat or to wash up. The next couple of days after, he finds it in himself to pick up a sword again and practice in one of the ruin's courtyards.
It's the only thing that keeps him out of his own head, and even then his practiced movements still sometimes descend into furied flailing and slashing whenever a stray thought hits too close to a nerve.
He's doubted her lately. He shouldn't, he knows. Vanessa loves him, has always loved him, but now there's a part of him that wonders if the sickness that's overtaken her has been present the entire time. He'd never gotten the chance to speak much with anyone in town, after all. She'd always pulled him away for this or that or something would happen to whisk him away on another adventure. And then there was the time he'd woken up to find she'd cut his hair.
Avery enters the ruins once more in a huff and heads for the kitchens. Technically, eating is pointless. He hasn't felt hungry in the way he used to since that day with the graverobbers, though there's an itch in the back of his mind and a few slight, insistent shifts from the thing inside of him that let him know that he'll need something else before long.
He doesn't take much interest in swordplay. His lord had been the martial type, certainly, but swords weren't a weapon he was ever interested in. When the other man runs off to swipe at nothing with his sword and be alone with his thoughts, he lets him be.
He's cooking again. He doesn't need to eat, but he finds comfort in the repetitive motions anyway. He barely notices (has let his guard down enough) when Avery enters, preoccupied by the cutting and chopping and heating that comes with the process of creation. (More soup, made from what grows around here at this time of year. Less spicy, more fragrant; spring has been here for some time.)
Like this, relaxed, at peace, he looks completely different. At least for a moment, until Avery speaks and he scoffs.
Avery is content to flop down into a nearby chair and watch the wizard for awhile. The soup smells just as good as it always does (though he already misses the hint of spiciness), but it's the expression that catches his eye--or, rather, the wizard's body language.
He's never seen him like this before, calm and unhurried. If it weren't for the whole undead thing, Avery would think he'd stumbled in on a completely different man. "Funny. I always pictured you more into potions and hexes than pots of soup," he says after a moment. It's the first time he's spoken to the wizard in days.
He hasn't really fought anything or anyone that could be considered a worthy opponent since he died. He thinks that perhaps he's gotten a little rusty, in the absence of such things.
Perhaps ambushing him would be the practical thing to do, but when it's just the two of them - sparring, nothing serious, he remembers - it seems pointless.
"I don't have all the time in the world," he says, as they stand in what was likely once an arena. Today, it fulfills its ancient purpose once more. "So you'd do well to make it count."
He holds a spear loosely in one hand. His old one had been broken in the fight that killed him; he hasn't gotten around to repairing it yet. Perhaps he doesn't need to.
Avery does a double take. "Wow. Really? I promise not to bring my sword along and you bring in a weapon? Gee. Thanks. I appreciate you making sure we're on equal footing."
He should have seen that coming. Maybe if he had studied law he would have caught that particular little loophole in time.
He rolls his eyes. "Whatever. At least I'm going to stick to my word."
He takes a deep breath, narrows his eyes, and then thrusts his hand forward, a bolt of blue flame--significantly bigger than it should have been--leaping from his fingers toward Ekkehardt.
"You broke my staff in two the last time we met," Ekkehardt says irritably. "We are on equal footing."
Normally he could cut or deflect such magic, but he decides it's wiser to dodge instead. He points his spear as he leaps out of the way, and the air whistles as it sharpens into knife-like projectiles that hurl themselves at Avery.
Avery's quiet the day after their sparring match, and then seems to disappear entirely from the ruins for two days after. When he finally returns, he looks healthier than he has in awhile, and certainly more energetic.
He stops when he finally catches sight of Ekkehardt, blinking and staring as if he'd only just now remembered that the other man exists. "Oh. Right. I probably should have left a note or something."
"So good of you to grace me with your presence once more," Ekkehardt says, not looking up from the shockingly domestic activity of repairing his own clothing. He seems to be entirely focused on stabbing his needle a little harder than strictly necessary into the cloth as he patches his cloak.
"I thought you'd gone and fallen into a hole somewhere, and I'd be fishing you out of the river three weeks later. It's my utmost surprise to discover that's not the case."
"Wow. Glad to see you have such a high opinion of me," Avery replies dryly. "My companion was getting antsy, so I went out to eat. It just took a little longer than I was expecting." Unless Ekkehardt had some sort of stash he was holding out on, it wasn't like he could survive the way most normal people did on food anymore.
The forest around the ruins is attuned enough to what could be debatably considered its caretaker that any major changes tend to make it agitated; it serves as a kind of early warning system, most of the time.
Today, the forest is agitated, restless, furious. Branches wave in high autumn winds; the trees are alive with the sound of birds' shrill cries, intruder! trespasser! thief!
Pressure swirls around the ruins, a storm of breathless tension. Something has happened; it doesn't feel like anything good.
His companion writhes, twisting around his insides and sending wispy shadows snaking from his mouth when he breathes. It wants something or fears something, but Avery isn't sure what, not nearly as attuned to the forest or understanding of the creature inside of him as Ekkehardt is.
"Stop," he hisses, but his companion doesn't listen, squeezing and sparking and insisting. "Fine! Fine. Just... Just point me where you want me to go?"
To his surprise, it does. Not consciously, or not any conscious way he knows of, but he slips through the trees with ease, following along some sort of invisible thread where the tension in the air grows thick in a way that fills him with a sense of dread.
When he put forward the idea of turning part of the ruins into a garden, Avery hadn't realized just how much work went into it. Between the digging and the planting and making sure that everything is in nice, neat little rows, he's already sore and tired and sweaty and very much hoping that this ends up working out well by the time he and Ekkehardt are done with it all.
"Okay..." he sighs out, sticking the shovel he's holding into the ground. "Anything else you're keen on growing or should we stick to this for our first foray into the world of horticulture?"
Ekkehardt is still in what could be generously described as a mood, and so it takes him a little while to respond. He's viciously clearing out a particularly persistent patch of unwanted weeds with nothing but a shovel and tenacity, despite his ability to decay anything he doesn't want to be there. He seems to find it satisfying.
"This is enough for now." His tone is chilly. He doesn't look at Avery. "It should be enough to occupy us both without getting in each other's way, at the bare minimum."
It's been a while since their last big argument. (Little ones crop up all the time, over just about anything. When they have nothing better to do, it seems, chipping at each other is how they interact.)
But by now, the hero (Avery, he finds himself thinking of, more and more these days; not just a title but a name now) is a fixture in his life, as much as he'd hate to admit it out loud. Someone he looks for, not just someone he tolerates.
Which is why he takes notice when Avery seems even more restless than he usually is.
"Something on your mind? You look aggressively troubled today."
"Oh really?" Avery comes to a stop and folds his arms, his words as dry and unamused as his expression. "Glad to see you're paying attention. I never would have figured it out myself."
He sighs and shakes his head, then looks out the window into the forest beyond. "If you must know, I'm worried about Vanessa. Sure, you didn't do anything, but obviously she's under some sort of curse out there." And here he is, holed away in some moldering ruin, feasting away on souls and living with an evil wizard.
[ He goes for a walk one day, and the forest is different. Full of darkness and thorns, stained with a purple so vivid he can almost taste it...
It's very impressive, for a first try at least. He'll admit that much. But his body language suggests he's going for a pleasant stroll, rather than anything else. ]
[Avery stands not too far ahead, hands on his hips and a proud grin on his face as he surveys the work that he's done. It might be a bit of a pain for the animals that lived there, sure, but now this place looks like a proper evil forest should, and isn't that what really counts here?]
Not bad, eh? Nice and intimidating. People will probably get lost way before they have to deal with the magic you put around the ruins.
His forest had worked so well, sometimes even managing to kill the poor fools who wandered in too deep before he got the chance to even touch them, letting Avery grab up the remaining, wandering soul with ease.
This time, they were bandits, with weapons that hacked and slashed and shot, and though Avery managed to kill every last one of them, he was left to retreat afterward with his tail tucked between his legs.
He clutches at his arm as he drags himself back to the ruins he calls home, bloody and bruised, at least three crossbow bolts sticking out of him in various places. He'd be dead long ago if it weren't for the creature inside him, but by the way the world tilts and spins around him, whatever poison they tipped those bolts with might just finish the job.
It's not unusual to hear Avery crashing back in because of some poor decision or another, but the state of him is something to behold. The idea of taunting him for his wounds doesn't even spring to mind.
It would be a waste of all my hard work if he were to die, he's finding himself thinking less and less lately. If his heart still existed, it might pound anxiously in his chest; the gap where it once was aches regardless.
He hates that he understands this feeling. Hates it's for him, of all people. If he were ever to say it out loud, it would taste like ash and bitterness in his mouth, he thinks.
He offers no comforting words, though part of him wants to. (Part of him holds onto the hazy memories of him chiding his lord, already once burned but still willing to extend his care regardless. Grips them tightly, not wanting them to be replaced with anything else.)
He can't heal, but he knows what to do with injuries. He begins to clean off the blood, close all those open wounds he's received with the touch of searing heat, one by one. Pulling the bolts first and then closing the injuries, so more poison doesn't feed into his blood.
He's not tender with him, but in adherence to the pain he must be feeling, he keeps each burst of heat as brief as possible. The poison is more difficult, but he suspects it will come down to his own skill at antidotes, and the other man's will to live.
"Do your best to stay awake," he says, tersely. "I'll be much displeased if you die and waste my efforts."
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All these years spent risking his life to save her, to save everyone, never complaining, never asking for anything in return, just picking up his sword and readying his magic to throw himself into danger... All these years holding her in his arms and whispering sweet nothings in the night, pressing kisses to her neck and jaw and assuring her that she was his one and only... All these scars from battle, these tired bones, these victories and losses...
For what?
The day was saved for good. The great evil that overshadowed their lands was gone, had been gone for months, slayed by his own hand, an end to his journey, a new beginning for them all.
And here their hero was, tossed in the dungeons, held in chains, all because one woman thanked him for saving her husband with a kiss on the cheek.
Avery had never seen his princess so angry, so betrayed as he had that day. He'd tried to explain to her that the woman was married, that it was thankfulness and thankfulness alone on her part, that he loves (loved?) her and her alone and always would, but that had only seemed to anger her more.
The air had grown cold as he was dragged away, accused of aiding the very forces he had done his best to defeat this entire time. She fed him, at least, though he preferred the days that she sent servants and guards to do the deed instead. There was always a catch when Vanessa was involved these days: a hundred assurances of his love for her with each needing to be just as heartfelt as the last, each bite of food accompanied with a kiss, a candlelit dinner when he couldn't even reach the seat... The only question that seemed to be allowed was when he would see her next. Asking when he would be let out only ended in a hungry, empty night or two.
There was something different about her--not just her mannerisms and frightening obsession with their love, but a sort of aura of wrongness that he couldn't quite describe, that seemed to be getting stronger by the day. Days that seemed to be getting colder and colder as of late. Anymore, he spends the days in his cell shivering, teeth chattering away as he wonders if (when) it'll be cold enough for frostbite or hypothermia to send in.
Some days he remembers to use his magic to keep himself warm. Some days he's so tired he can't even be bothered.
He just doesn't get it.
How did he end up like this? What was the point of it all?
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The wizard, face entirely shadowed by his hat, leans against the half-frozen wall - mostly for effect. His solidity is questionable right now, given that the last time they'd seen each other, Avery had put a sword through him.
"You look like you've seen better days. Did peace not agree with you, oh bold hero?"
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The Dark Lord's servant. Here.
No.
No, it's impossible. Avery had defeated him (run him through, felt the hot coppery rivulets of blood run over and through his fingers, relished the moment and felt horror at it all the same). It can't be him.
"I've been down here too long," he croaks, and looks away, brows knit.
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guess who just has to eat a dude
There's plenty of space to roam on the ruin's grounds; they could go days without seeing one another. But even with such a large space, it's hard not to notice the other man's restlessness. Mostly because it annoys him.
"Still not enough of a palace for you?" are his first words to address it. "What is it this time?"
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Hungry? It feels like the closest word to how he feels, but he's eaten well while he's been in these ruins and even while they've been on the road, and so there's no reason he should be. He just knows that he needs something. He isn't sure what. "I don't suppose there are any other 'side effects' of that curse of yours you haven't told me about?"
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There had been a wildness in the hero's eyes the day he died. He'd pushed a little too far, pricked a little too much; the next thing he knew, it was his blood staining that sword.
There had been horror, true. He'd expected that. But there had been a kind of satisfaction there, too, lurking behind it...
"If there are, they're unique to you. But perhaps you just miss getting in fights." He hmms, as if he's been suddenly struck by a thought. "There have been some graverobbers nosing around altogether too close to this place. Perhaps we should go and deal with them? That might satiate your apparent thirst for violence."
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It's the only thing that keeps him out of his own head, and even then his practiced movements still sometimes descend into furied flailing and slashing whenever a stray thought hits too close to a nerve.
He's doubted her lately. He shouldn't, he knows. Vanessa loves him, has always loved him, but now there's a part of him that wonders if the sickness that's overtaken her has been present the entire time. He'd never gotten the chance to speak much with anyone in town, after all. She'd always pulled him away for this or that or something would happen to whisk him away on another adventure. And then there was the time he'd woken up to find she'd cut his hair.
Avery enters the ruins once more in a huff and heads for the kitchens. Technically, eating is pointless. He hasn't felt hungry in the way he used to since that day with the graverobbers, though there's an itch in the back of his mind and a few slight, insistent shifts from the thing inside of him that let him know that he'll need something else before long.
"This sucks."
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He's cooking again. He doesn't need to eat, but he finds comfort in the repetitive motions anyway. He barely notices (has let his guard down enough) when Avery enters, preoccupied by the cutting and chopping and heating that comes with the process of creation. (More soup, made from what grows around here at this time of year. Less spicy, more fragrant; spring has been here for some time.)
Like this, relaxed, at peace, he looks completely different. At least for a moment, until Avery speaks and he scoffs.
"How eloquent of you."
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He's never seen him like this before, calm and unhurried. If it weren't for the whole undead thing, Avery would think he'd stumbled in on a completely different man. "Funny. I always pictured you more into potions and hexes than pots of soup," he says after a moment. It's the first time he's spoken to the wizard in days.
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FIGHT CLUB FIGHT CLUB
Perhaps ambushing him would be the practical thing to do, but when it's just the two of them - sparring, nothing serious, he remembers - it seems pointless.
"I don't have all the time in the world," he says, as they stand in what was likely once an arena. Today, it fulfills its ancient purpose once more. "So you'd do well to make it count."
He holds a spear loosely in one hand. His old one had been broken in the fight that killed him; he hasn't gotten around to repairing it yet. Perhaps he doesn't need to.
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He should have seen that coming. Maybe if he had studied law he would have caught that particular little loophole in time.
He rolls his eyes. "Whatever. At least I'm going to stick to my word."
He takes a deep breath, narrows his eyes, and then thrusts his hand forward, a bolt of blue flame--significantly bigger than it should have been--leaping from his fingers toward Ekkehardt.
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Normally he could cut or deflect such magic, but he decides it's wiser to dodge instead. He points his spear as he leaps out of the way, and the air whistles as it sharpens into knife-like projectiles that hurl themselves at Avery.
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oops more button pressing
He stops when he finally catches sight of Ekkehardt, blinking and staring as if he'd only just now remembered that the other man exists. "Oh. Right. I probably should have left a note or something."
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"I thought you'd gone and fallen into a hole somewhere, and I'd be fishing you out of the river three weeks later. It's my utmost surprise to discover that's not the case."
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Today, the forest is agitated, restless, furious. Branches wave in high autumn winds; the trees are alive with the sound of birds' shrill cries, intruder! trespasser! thief!
Pressure swirls around the ruins, a storm of breathless tension. Something has happened; it doesn't feel like anything good.
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"Stop," he hisses, but his companion doesn't listen, squeezing and sparking and insisting. "Fine! Fine. Just... Just point me where you want me to go?"
To his surprise, it does. Not consciously, or not any conscious way he knows of, but he slips through the trees with ease, following along some sort of invisible thread where the tension in the air grows thick in a way that fills him with a sense of dread.
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"Okay..." he sighs out, sticking the shovel he's holding into the ground. "Anything else you're keen on growing or should we stick to this for our first foray into the world of horticulture?"
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"This is enough for now." His tone is chilly. He doesn't look at Avery. "It should be enough to occupy us both without getting in each other's way, at the bare minimum."
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But by now, the hero (Avery, he finds himself thinking of, more and more these days; not just a title but a name now) is a fixture in his life, as much as he'd hate to admit it out loud. Someone he looks for, not just someone he tolerates.
Which is why he takes notice when Avery seems even more restless than he usually is.
"Something on your mind? You look aggressively troubled today."
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He sighs and shakes his head, then looks out the window into the forest beyond. "If you must know, I'm worried about Vanessa. Sure, you didn't do anything, but obviously she's under some sort of curse out there." And here he is, holed away in some moldering ruin, feasting away on souls and living with an evil wizard.
Or an ex-evil wizard.
Whatever the hell Ekkehardt is at this point.
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oh no feelings
It's very impressive, for a first try at least. He'll admit that much. But his body language suggests he's going for a pleasant stroll, rather than anything else. ]
Re: oh no feelings
Not bad, eh? Nice and intimidating. People will probably get lost way before they have to deal with the magic you put around the ruins.
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His forest had worked so well, sometimes even managing to kill the poor fools who wandered in too deep before he got the chance to even touch them, letting Avery grab up the remaining, wandering soul with ease.
This time, they were bandits, with weapons that hacked and slashed and shot, and though Avery managed to kill every last one of them, he was left to retreat afterward with his tail tucked between his legs.
He clutches at his arm as he drags himself back to the ruins he calls home, bloody and bruised, at least three crossbow bolts sticking out of him in various places. He'd be dead long ago if it weren't for the creature inside him, but by the way the world tilts and spins around him, whatever poison they tipped those bolts with might just finish the job.
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It would be a waste of all my hard work if he were to die, he's finding himself thinking less and less lately. If his heart still existed, it might pound anxiously in his chest; the gap where it once was aches regardless.
He hates that he understands this feeling. Hates it's for him, of all people. If he were ever to say it out loud, it would taste like ash and bitterness in his mouth, he thinks.
He offers no comforting words, though part of him wants to. (Part of him holds onto the hazy memories of him chiding his lord, already once burned but still willing to extend his care regardless. Grips them tightly, not wanting them to be replaced with anything else.)
He can't heal, but he knows what to do with injuries. He begins to clean off the blood, close all those open wounds he's received with the touch of searing heat, one by one. Pulling the bolts first and then closing the injuries, so more poison doesn't feed into his blood.
He's not tender with him, but in adherence to the pain he must be feeling, he keeps each burst of heat as brief as possible. The poison is more difficult, but he suspects it will come down to his own skill at antidotes, and the other man's will to live.
"Do your best to stay awake," he says, tersely. "I'll be much displeased if you die and waste my efforts."
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