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.
"If you chuck me in the dungeon of whatever evil tower of yours we're going to, I'll find a way to kill you all over again," Avery says dryly, pointing his spoon at the wizard for emphasis. And then he's back at the soup again, debating going for thirds.
He's full. If he eats much more, he has a feeling he'll make himself sick. But he's just not satisfied. It's strange, but he supposes it's just one of those things.
"Why did you even bother getting me out of there, anyway? You could have just left me there and continued doing..." he rolls his wrist in a lazy circle, "whatever it is you do in your off time."
He wonders whether to give him a honest answer or not. He supposes that if he doesn't, he'll keep getting pestered until he does.
"I hate chains and cages," he says, still staring out the window. (He hates, too, the sight of someone being used and thrown away once they've performed what was asked of them.) "And I was bored of grieving."
He tilts his head a little, training an eye on Avery. "Don't mistake this for goodwill," he says, after a moment, his voice irritable. "I'm not doing this because I like you."
There's something insulting about that word. "Please. Like I feel anything but contempt for you, too. How many times did you rip the love of my life away from her home and put her in danger again?"
The wizard can be as loyal to his fallen master as he likes. Avery knows he's extended the hand of mercy and given them more chances to turn their lives around than many others would have.
"Still... I'll thank you for getting me out. I guess."
He waves a hand, immediately dismissive. "I don't need your gratitude, especially if it's that begrudging. Save your breath."
As for the comments about the love of Avery's life, he has nothing to say. He has no emotional attachment to the princess; whether their plans involved her or not, she was simply another human in the end.
He owes this man nothing; he could simply leave him as he is, without guidance, lost. (The same way he once was, living here in a house that felt desolate and empty long before he'd left it.) If he truly wanted, he could be long gone before the hero could follow.
In the glass, his reflection stares back at him. For a moment, it's years younger, with an expression he detests. The crumbling, frail creature who still has a grip on his heart, a sadly-smiling face of the beast that coils heavily in his ribcage, twists around his spine, a constant and affectionate companion.
He watches his reflection and knows that though he could leave, he won't. He detests that too.
"I'm just heading you off at the pass before you can rib me for not thanking you," Avery replies with a shrug, then stops and grins as he sets his bowl down, looking far too amused with himself. "Pun unintended."
His fingers linger on the spoon, but finally he lets it go. He's full, no matter what his body seems to say.
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no subject
---
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.
no subject
(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.
no subject
"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.
no subject
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.
no subject
"You got the recipe for this somewhere around here, didn't you?"
no subject
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.
no subject
"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.
no subject
(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.
no subject
He's full. If he eats much more, he has a feeling he'll make himself sick. But he's just not satisfied. It's strange, but he supposes it's just one of those things.
"Why did you even bother getting me out of there, anyway? You could have just left me there and continued doing..." he rolls his wrist in a lazy circle, "whatever it is you do in your off time."
no subject
"I hate chains and cages," he says, still staring out the window. (He hates, too, the sight of someone being used and thrown away once they've performed what was asked of them.) "And I was bored of grieving."
He tilts his head a little, training an eye on Avery. "Don't mistake this for goodwill," he says, after a moment, his voice irritable. "I'm not doing this because I like you."
no subject
There's something insulting about that word. "Please. Like I feel anything but contempt for you, too. How many times did you rip the love of my life away from her home and put her in danger again?"
The wizard can be as loyal to his fallen master as he likes. Avery knows he's extended the hand of mercy and given them more chances to turn their lives around than many others would have.
"Still... I'll thank you for getting me out. I guess."
no subject
As for the comments about the love of Avery's life, he has nothing to say. He has no emotional attachment to the princess; whether their plans involved her or not, she was simply another human in the end.
He owes this man nothing; he could simply leave him as he is, without guidance, lost. (The same way he once was, living here in a house that felt desolate and empty long before he'd left it.) If he truly wanted, he could be long gone before the hero could follow.
In the glass, his reflection stares back at him. For a moment, it's years younger, with an expression he detests. The crumbling, frail creature who still has a grip on his heart, a sadly-smiling face of the beast that coils heavily in his ribcage, twists around his spine, a constant and affectionate companion.
He watches his reflection and knows that though he could leave, he won't. He detests that too.
no subject
His fingers linger on the spoon, but finally he lets it go. He's full, no matter what his body seems to say.