"I won't force you to make the pact the traditional way. Usually it requires eye contact, you know."
When he takes the hero's hand, it burns with intense, feverish heat; enough to sear, even in this half-frozen cell. It surges into the rest of him in short order, leaving a crested mark on the palm of his hand, filling his veins with blazing energy.
He drops the other man's hand almost immediately, watching him with interest. He doesn't know how this power will take to him; it's an unruly, individual sort of thing. It gives according to the measure of its wielder.
"Why don't you try now?" he suggests, his voice mild.
It hurts. Oh god, it hurts. Like daggers digging into his bones and venom in his veins, all while his blood boiled within. Avery nearly bites of his own tongue in an attempt to hold back a scream, writhing in his bonds as shadows seep from his pores and wrap around him, suffocating and tight, pinpricks of thorns digging into his flesh without drawing blood.
For a moment he's sure he's been tricked, that he's going to die to whatever foul curse has been placed upon him, but the fire dims and the shadows begin to feel both less and more (a part of something more, a limb, a gentle caress from within), and he's left with nothing but a buzzing, prickling feeling in his skin.
He doesn't dare try to find his reflection in the ice.
He lifts his legs and braces himself against the wall as best he can, then pulls at the shackles, his arms straining. The metal creaks, then bends, and finally one link in the chain snaps. Then the other.
There's finally a noise that Avery hasn't made himself as the wizard lowers to the floor with the single tap of a foot. He wears his power like a cloak; it winds around him in an almost affectionate way, radiating warmth that turns surface layers of ice into shining water.
"The pain will lessen as your body acclimatizes," says the wizard's voice, from somewhere above him. "And if your growing pains become too much, well, I have a draught for that. I'm not that unkind."
He's talking a little more like a healer, an apothecary, and less like the smug, irritating villain who'd been an eternal thorn in the hero's side until the day the hero killed him.
"I'll just wait for you to scrape yourself off the floor, shall I? Then we can leave. Or I can leave, and you can do what you will, since you clearly find my company objectionable enough that you were itching to strangle me just a moment before."
"Asshole," he hisses. It takes a few times to push himself to his feet. It's his arms that fail him first, weakness pairing with the shock of how pale his skin is and the way his fingers darken at the tips, ending in sharp claws. His legs have gone unused for so long that it takes him three tries to stand.
"I gave some of my power to you," the wizard says, eyeing him as he struggles to his feet. "The rest is your own doing. It shapes itself according to the measure of each wielder."
The glow of his eyes crinkle in faint, cruel amusement. "Though it seems to have liked you very much, since you're able to stand so quickly. A stroke of good fortune for your newfound freedom, perhaps."
He turns on his heel, already beginning to walk away.
It doesn't like him at all, Avery tells himself. It's a curse. It has to be. The wizard is just saying whatever he thinks will get him on his side or will make him grovel or... whatever it is he has planning. There's no other reason why he would try to save him.
A thousand words buzz in his head like a swarm of angry bees, every last one fighting to get out. But he has to pick his battles, and right now he can only choose between walking and talking.
Like hell he's going to give the wizard the satisfaction of leaving him behind.
The wizard seems entirely unbothered, like this is just another day for him. If he senses any leaking animosity from the man following him, he doesn't react to it in the slightest.
"Getting away from here seems wise," he comments, after he judges, on some invisible metric, that they've walked far enough (no resistance on leaving the cells, at least, though given who Avery's new 'traveling companion' is, that might be ominous rather than reassuring). "And this will be a good exercise for you."
The bright red glint of his eyes, still the only thing that can be seen of his face, is wicked. His tone curls in spiteful amusement.
He should go back and accept his death with some amount of dignity (he should break from the wizard, attack while his back is turned, and run). He shouldn't go along with this. Even if it's for her sake, he knows he's already crossed some sort of horrible line, that he's dangerously close to crossing another.
He may have to attack the guards, may have to kill them. They'll see him with the wizard and what then? Anyone who still believes he's loyal surely won't after that.
He should go back (the shackles had grown colder by the day and he was sure he had scars from where they'd bitten into his wrists). He should break away and warn someone (no one had spoken up in his defense back then--only empty apologies and "just following orders"). This isn't right (he's so hungry and tired). This isn't right (he doesn't want to die).
"Would it kill you to not kill them? Or did death take away your ability to be stealthy too?"
"My, jumping straight to murder? All that time locked up seems to have made you a little vicious." He chuckles, darkly. "Not that I blame you. It's a starving animal that's most savage."
He spins on his heel with a flourish, his cloak flaring out behind him. Death hasn't lessened his taste for dramatics, it seems.
"I was alluding to teleportation, not to a massacre. Far less messy. But if you want to take out all that anger on someone, I won't stop you."
It's a struggle to keep his voice down, and once again he feels the urge to leap forward and strangle out whatever life is left in those bones, or rip some shackles of the walls and make use of them or... Or something.
"And out of the two of us, only one is known for aiding someone who wanted this kingdom razed to the earth, so please, forgive me for my skepticism."
In all the time they've bantered and fought with each other, the wizard has never been angry. Playful, annoyed, irritated even, but he'd taken even death with good grace.
"How fitting, then, that I have nothing I'll forgive you for." That same fire that gnawed through Avery's body is briefly incarnate in the wizard's voice, smoking off every word. For a moment, he radiates heat like an inferno, a roiling sea of fire scratching at ashen shores. There is not even the slightest trace of amusement in him. "Follow me, then, if your pride can bear it."
One moment, the heat is there, present, oppressive; the next it's gone, as he swirls his cloak and vanishes, leaving only traces behind; the guttering embers of a deliberate trail. The message is clear.
The dam breaks, and Avery leaps at the wizard just as he disappears, the omnipresent heat indistinguishable from the bubbling rage roiling in his stomach. He practically roars as he hits the stone floor, chains whipping his sides as he slams his fists down on the ground.
How dare he? After all these years, how dare he act like he was the only one harmed? How many people in this country had died because of him and his lord? How many times had Vanessa been ripped from her home and used as nothing more than a power source for their wicked plans? Killing the wizard and the Dark Lord had been doing the world a favor.
"For her," he whispers, squeezing his eyes shut and taking a moment to grit his teeth. As long as he can bring her back to her senses, it's worth it. Whatever curse was placed upon him, working with that awful man... "For her."
He gets to his feet once more, hands and wrists aching from something other than the magic and the shackles for once, and follows the traces of magic left behind.
He tries to ignore how the dungeon, despite its lack of windows or torches, seems to look bright as day.
He's tempted to keep extending the distance they'll travel, to exhaust the man for his own petty revenge, but even he isn't that vicious. (Despite what others might say.)
He waits for him in a clearing, by a little cottage long-abandoned. All trace of that anger is gone, replaced by a kind of odd stillness, like a calm sea; whatever this place means to him, it brings him a measure of peace.
(Grief is a strange, gnawing thing for him. A dullness that eats at him, even when there's no flesh to settle the ache in. His lord had been more respectful than the last who he'd called master; had treated him with kindness. His loyalty had been sealed, then. He should probably care more about the damage he's done, but he can't be bothered to care about humans too much at this point in his life.
Every time he looks at the hero, even changed as he is, it's another reminder of his bitter failure. But he hates cages, shackles, prisons; he always has. It was a sentiment he shared with his lord.)
"You made it. Well done." To his tenuous credit, the praise seems genuine, or at least sounds genuine. "This isn't permanent accommodation, but it would be a waste if you died from overexertion after escaping hypothermia. You'll need to rest, and eat."
By now the anger has cooled, diminished into dim but warm coals within. It has nothing to do with the walk or the cottage or even his outburst in the dungeon--no, he's just tired. Exhausted. Not even the fact that it's the wizard offering this respite is enough to make him refuse.
"Better than the cell," he concedes dryly, his weight against the wall. He winces every so often, a jolt of lightning down a limb or prickling thorns growing beneath his skin.
"I sincerely hope so," the wizard says, equally dry. The house is simple, with only a few rooms - not nearly as luxurious as a palace - but it's warm and safe and comfortable, which makes it an adequate shelter.
"I hope you know how to cook," he says, settling down in a chair. "I could make you something, but I've been told by heroic types like yourself that adversity builds character."
He sighs and shakes his head, waving his hand dismissively. "Nobles. All the same. Very well, go to sleep. You'll have food waiting for you when you wake."
Another pause, and then, casually: "If you have any unusual dreams while you're doing so, that, too, is normal. Don't pay too much attention to them."
That gets the wizard an arched eyebrow, but little else, and Avery only just manages to remember to remove his boots before getting into bed, falling asleep the second his head hits the pillow.
---
They break beneath his fists, shattering like glass (like ice). It's never enough--a moment of satisfaction that fades the second the pieces clatter to the ground.
They don't fight. They don't run. They simply exist until they don't, without a single drop of scarlet on his claws or teeth to remember them by.
More.
There has to be more.
The pieces pile up into a carpet ankle-deep. The shards cut into his feet, the last, futile attempt of the weak-willed to hold him back. He should stop. He can't.
And then he sees her: his princess, clothed in the garb of a mourner, clothed in the shell of some abhorrent beast. Her red eyes glare at him from the darkness, wishing him dead, begging for his help, claiming him as her own, and then she's upon him, and he shatters like the prey he'd taken down before.
---
Avery awakens with a start, wide-eyed and slick with sweat, his bangs stuck to his face. The memories of his dream are already beginning to jumble, parts fading, others becoming all-too-vibrant.
A monster.
He was a monster.
She was a monster.
He sits on the side of the bed, his head in his hands as he takes slow, shuddering breaths. He feels sick.
He hears movement from the bedroom, but doesn't go to check on its inhabitant. He'd warned the man about the nightmares, and that was as far as his generosity extended.
(The teeth of the beast are like lightning and knives. It sears into him, eats him alive, and it never ends; disappointed faces watch him from all sides, picking pieces off him and giving nothing back. The monster works its teeth into his soul next, devouring his kindnesses, all warmth, all the softness in him, and he can only writhe and curse and spill out bloody, agonized words.
The beast settles in the pit of his stomach, stares out through his ribcage, gnaws at his heart like a toy, and he knows he'll never be rid of it.)
He stirs the pot of soup hanging over the hearth, staring into it like it holds the secrets of the universe, and stops thinking about his own nightmares. Food this simple is hardly a stimulating topic, but it's better than the alternative.
It takes a moment for hunger to overcome nausea, and soon the scent of the soup on the fire lures Avery out of the bedroom. He isn't sure if the soreness in his limbs comes from the cursed magic in his veins or just from using muscles that have gone unused for too long, but it's there nonetheless, accompanied by a strange weakness he can only hope will be eased with some food in his stomach.
"Heh. Soup better be good for how interested in it you look." It's easy to fake that nothing's wrong. He's long since grown used to it.
"If it's not to your tastes, you'll learn to cook." Despite his harsh words, he pours out a bowl for Avery without so much as a passing taunt about sleep or the quality thereof.
He doesn't particularly need to eat any more, but he pours himself a bowl regardless and sits down. It's some vestige of politeness, to eat with a guest (the way he'd once done in this house, for his few visitors; the way he'd once done with the person he served, at their first meeting).
It's a little spicy, made of seasonal ingredients that suit the weather. There's a homely taste to it, something almost familiar, that betrays more about the wizard's former allegiances and living place than he might have intended.
Avery barely tastes the first bowl, practically inhaling the contents before going for seconds. This one he takes slower, letting the spice sit on his tongue for a moment before swallowing, his eyes briefly shutting as he imagines himself somewhere else, not quite so far away.
"You got the recipe for this somewhere around here, didn't you?"
He should have made something different, perhaps. Something that's not so close to home, or close to his heart (what's left of it)...
But he supposes it's inevitable. He chose to rescue this irritating man, after all. He knows more than most how questioning he can be.
Leaves fall orange and fiery in the autumn woods. The wind whispers through the door. Both of them are worn out from the long days in wood and field; someone whose face he no longer cares to remember asks him to make their favourite dish--
"Yes. No doubt you find it familiar." He drinks with an almost sullen air, like he's thinking of something much more unpleasant.
It's admittedly a little odd to think of the wizard eating anything at all. Even before he died, he seemed to be more force of nature than man--not quite an obstacle, not quite another human being.
"Very. Always made sure to have this whenever I finally came home." Except this time. Things had happened too quickly for that.
He doesn't quite hide the grimace that appears on his face in time.
He glances at him sidelong, and rather than make a barbed comment, he simply finishes his bowl without speaking at all.
(How long has it been since he came back to this house, to something that was once achingly familiar to him? Perhaps it was poorly chosen on his part, but he'd chosen somewhere nobody would dare approach. It was cursed, after all. Forsaken and empty. Haunted by the shadow of a demon that had devoured someone long ago.)
"We'll leave soon," he says, his voice clipped. He seems like he's going to say something else, but he evidently seems to have decided against it. He stalks to the window, gazing out of it like he expects to see something there other than the evening sun reaching through the branches.
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"I won't force you to make the pact the traditional way. Usually it requires eye contact, you know."
When he takes the hero's hand, it burns with intense, feverish heat; enough to sear, even in this half-frozen cell. It surges into the rest of him in short order, leaving a crested mark on the palm of his hand, filling his veins with blazing energy.
He drops the other man's hand almost immediately, watching him with interest. He doesn't know how this power will take to him; it's an unruly, individual sort of thing. It gives according to the measure of its wielder.
"Why don't you try now?" he suggests, his voice mild.
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For a moment he's sure he's been tricked, that he's going to die to whatever foul curse has been placed upon him, but the fire dims and the shadows begin to feel both less and more (a part of something more, a limb, a gentle caress from within), and he's left with nothing but a buzzing, prickling feeling in his skin.
He doesn't dare try to find his reflection in the ice.
He lifts his legs and braces himself against the wall as best he can, then pulls at the shackles, his arms straining. The metal creaks, then bends, and finally one link in the chain snaps. Then the other.
He falls to the floor in a heap, breathing heavy.
It doesn't feel like a victory at all.
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"The pain will lessen as your body acclimatizes," says the wizard's voice, from somewhere above him. "And if your growing pains become too much, well, I have a draught for that. I'm not that unkind."
He's talking a little more like a healer, an apothecary, and less like the smug, irritating villain who'd been an eternal thorn in the hero's side until the day the hero killed him.
"I'll just wait for you to scrape yourself off the floor, shall I? Then we can leave. Or I can leave, and you can do what you will, since you clearly find my company objectionable enough that you were itching to strangle me just a moment before."
And it's gone.
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"What did you do to me?"
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The glow of his eyes crinkle in faint, cruel amusement. "Though it seems to have liked you very much, since you're able to stand so quickly. A stroke of good fortune for your newfound freedom, perhaps."
He turns on his heel, already beginning to walk away.
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A thousand words buzz in his head like a swarm of angry bees, every last one fighting to get out. But he has to pick his battles, and right now he can only choose between walking and talking.
Like hell he's going to give the wizard the satisfaction of leaving him behind.
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"Getting away from here seems wise," he comments, after he judges, on some invisible metric, that they've walked far enough (no resistance on leaving the cells, at least, though given who Avery's new 'traveling companion' is, that might be ominous rather than reassuring). "And this will be a good exercise for you."
The bright red glint of his eyes, still the only thing that can be seen of his face, is wicked. His tone curls in spiteful amusement.
"How do you feel? Ready for a challenge?"
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He should go back and accept his death with some amount of dignity (he should break from the wizard, attack while his back is turned, and run). He shouldn't go along with this. Even if it's for her sake, he knows he's already crossed some sort of horrible line, that he's dangerously close to crossing another.
He may have to attack the guards, may have to kill them. They'll see him with the wizard and what then? Anyone who still believes he's loyal surely won't after that.
He should go back (the shackles had grown colder by the day and he was sure he had scars from where they'd bitten into his wrists). He should break away and warn someone (no one had spoken up in his defense back then--only empty apologies and "just following orders"). This isn't right (he's so hungry and tired). This isn't right (he doesn't want to die).
"Would it kill you to not kill them? Or did death take away your ability to be stealthy too?"
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He spins on his heel with a flourish, his cloak flaring out behind him. Death hasn't lessened his taste for dramatics, it seems.
"I was alluding to teleportation, not to a massacre. Far less messy. But if you want to take out all that anger on someone, I won't stop you."
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It's a struggle to keep his voice down, and once again he feels the urge to leap forward and strangle out whatever life is left in those bones, or rip some shackles of the walls and make use of them or... Or something.
"And out of the two of us, only one is known for aiding someone who wanted this kingdom razed to the earth, so please, forgive me for my skepticism."
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"How fitting, then, that I have nothing I'll forgive you for." That same fire that gnawed through Avery's body is briefly incarnate in the wizard's voice, smoking off every word. For a moment, he radiates heat like an inferno, a roiling sea of fire scratching at ashen shores. There is not even the slightest trace of amusement in him. "Follow me, then, if your pride can bear it."
One moment, the heat is there, present, oppressive; the next it's gone, as he swirls his cloak and vanishes, leaving only traces behind; the guttering embers of a deliberate trail. The message is clear.
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How dare he? After all these years, how dare he act like he was the only one harmed? How many people in this country had died because of him and his lord? How many times had Vanessa been ripped from her home and used as nothing more than a power source for their wicked plans? Killing the wizard and the Dark Lord had been doing the world a favor.
"For her," he whispers, squeezing his eyes shut and taking a moment to grit his teeth. As long as he can bring her back to her senses, it's worth it. Whatever curse was placed upon him, working with that awful man... "For her."
He gets to his feet once more, hands and wrists aching from something other than the magic and the shackles for once, and follows the traces of magic left behind.
He tries to ignore how the dungeon, despite its lack of windows or torches, seems to look bright as day.
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He waits for him in a clearing, by a little cottage long-abandoned. All trace of that anger is gone, replaced by a kind of odd stillness, like a calm sea; whatever this place means to him, it brings him a measure of peace.
(Grief is a strange, gnawing thing for him. A dullness that eats at him, even when there's no flesh to settle the ache in. His lord had been more respectful than the last who he'd called master; had treated him with kindness. His loyalty had been sealed, then. He should probably care more about the damage he's done, but he can't be bothered to care about humans too much at this point in his life.
Every time he looks at the hero, even changed as he is, it's another reminder of his bitter failure. But he hates cages, shackles, prisons; he always has. It was a sentiment he shared with his lord.)
"You made it. Well done." To his tenuous credit, the praise seems genuine, or at least sounds genuine. "This isn't permanent accommodation, but it would be a waste if you died from overexertion after escaping hypothermia. You'll need to rest, and eat."
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"Better than the cell," he concedes dryly, his weight against the wall. He winces every so often, a jolt of lightning down a limb or prickling thorns growing beneath his skin.
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"I hope you know how to cook," he says, settling down in a chair. "I could make you something, but I've been told by heroic types like yourself that adversity builds character."
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Another pause, and then, casually: "If you have any unusual dreams while you're doing so, that, too, is normal. Don't pay too much attention to them."
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---
They break beneath his fists, shattering like glass (like ice). It's never enough--a moment of satisfaction that fades the second the pieces clatter to the ground.
They don't fight. They don't run. They simply exist until they don't, without a single drop of scarlet on his claws or teeth to remember them by.
More.
There has to be more.
The pieces pile up into a carpet ankle-deep. The shards cut into his feet, the last, futile attempt of the weak-willed to hold him back. He should stop. He can't.
And then he sees her: his princess, clothed in the garb of a mourner, clothed in the shell of some abhorrent beast. Her red eyes glare at him from the darkness, wishing him dead, begging for his help, claiming him as her own, and then she's upon him, and he shatters like the prey he'd taken down before.
---
Avery awakens with a start, wide-eyed and slick with sweat, his bangs stuck to his face. The memories of his dream are already beginning to jumble, parts fading, others becoming all-too-vibrant.
A monster.
He was a monster.
She was a monster.
He sits on the side of the bed, his head in his hands as he takes slow, shuddering breaths. He feels sick.
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(The teeth of the beast are like lightning and knives. It sears into him, eats him alive, and it never ends; disappointed faces watch him from all sides, picking pieces off him and giving nothing back. The monster works its teeth into his soul next, devouring his kindnesses, all warmth, all the softness in him, and he can only writhe and curse and spill out bloody, agonized words.
The beast settles in the pit of his stomach, stares out through his ribcage, gnaws at his heart like a toy, and he knows he'll never be rid of it.)
He stirs the pot of soup hanging over the hearth, staring into it like it holds the secrets of the universe, and stops thinking about his own nightmares. Food this simple is hardly a stimulating topic, but it's better than the alternative.
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"Heh. Soup better be good for how interested in it you look." It's easy to fake that nothing's wrong. He's long since grown used to it.
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He doesn't particularly need to eat any more, but he pours himself a bowl regardless and sits down. It's some vestige of politeness, to eat with a guest (the way he'd once done in this house, for his few visitors; the way he'd once done with the person he served, at their first meeting).
It's a little spicy, made of seasonal ingredients that suit the weather. There's a homely taste to it, something almost familiar, that betrays more about the wizard's former allegiances and living place than he might have intended.
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"You got the recipe for this somewhere around here, didn't you?"
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But he supposes it's inevitable. He chose to rescue this irritating man, after all. He knows more than most how questioning he can be.
Leaves fall orange and fiery in the autumn woods. The wind whispers through the door. Both of them are worn out from the long days in wood and field; someone whose face he no longer cares to remember asks him to make their favourite dish--
"Yes. No doubt you find it familiar." He drinks with an almost sullen air, like he's thinking of something much more unpleasant.
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"Very. Always made sure to have this whenever I finally came home." Except this time. Things had happened too quickly for that.
He doesn't quite hide the grimace that appears on his face in time.
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(How long has it been since he came back to this house, to something that was once achingly familiar to him? Perhaps it was poorly chosen on his part, but he'd chosen somewhere nobody would dare approach. It was cursed, after all. Forsaken and empty. Haunted by the shadow of a demon that had devoured someone long ago.)
"We'll leave soon," he says, his voice clipped. He seems like he's going to say something else, but he evidently seems to have decided against it. He stalks to the window, gazing out of it like he expects to see something there other than the evening sun reaching through the branches.
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