"He desired a world that wasn't weighed down by the powerful, where weakness wouldn't matter."
The wizard stares into the soup contemplatively.
"He believed that the only way to accomplish it was to destroy such things entirely, in order to start anew." There's a long pause. He just keeps stirring.
Avery shifts in his seat and crosses his arms, looking away.
No.
He is not going to feel guilty. It's not his fault. He killed the man, sure, but he was only doing what he could to protect the woman he loved--loves. And it wasn't like the guy was in the right anyway. A world like that was nice in theory, but it was fragile. Someone would come along and the cycle would start again. If he hadn't killed the overlord, then someone else would have. Or else the guy would have died and everything would have been thrown into chaos.
So he has no reason to feel anything about it at all.
Another laugh. This one is bitter, with a cold edge; more like the person Avery has grown to know, in some way, over the years. All sharp edges, mocking, guarded, only genuine when seeking to wound.
"I believed in it because he was there. Without him...it's better to let things be. He believed in that, too. The fairness of life and death."
Death is fair, in its own way. He'll concede that much. But life isn't fair in the slightest. It was an argument they'd had before, time and time again.
You'll understand, he had said, gentle as always. But his lord is gone, now, and he feels no closer to understanding. Perhaps he never will.
"Surely you don't want me to go on destroying the world. Upending the tenets of society. That sort of thing."
That more genial humor is back, its edge a little blunted. He pours out soup into two bowls, placing one in front of Avery. He drinks deeply from his own, taking what small comfort from it that he can.
"Or does that not matter to you any more?" It's a genuine question, rather than a barbed one.
Avery sinks sulkily into his seat, bowl resting against his bottom lip.
Does it matter? Did it ever? His first instinct is to say "yes, of course," to insist that he wanted to keep everyone safe. But when he thinks of everyone, he thinks only of her, and that turned out to be one big misunderstanding, didn't it?
"I don't like it, if that's what you're asking. But it's not like I'm a hero anymore, either."
"Ah, so you've decided to give it up? I can't say it's not a good choice. Being a hero earns you little but scars."
There's an almost rueful tone to the words, like he speaks from experience. A vulnerability that lingers just enough to be noticeable, before he puts his guard up again.
"You're such a child," he remarks, looking at Avery sinking into his chair. "It's still a surprise to remember you ended up killing me."
"I only did it in the first place because you guys kept stealing my wife," Avery replies, rolling his eyes. "And now that someone's made it so that I have to kill people to survive, it kind of makes it hard to take the moral high ground."
He sighs. "At least you're a good cook." A long drink of his soup later, he peers over the side of the bowl to look the wizard in the eye.
"It wasn't on purpose," he says, but there's no bite to the words, as much as he tries.
"It would be a stretch to say so." His voice is dry. "It's where I got my fine companion from, the source of my power. And it ate me from the inside out, they deemed me a failure, and I was abandoned and exiled to the woods."
He pours them both another bowl. He drinks his next serve like someone else would drink alcohol.
"I was left to rot and branded as cursed for the rest of my days. The end."
His lips hover over the edge of the bowl, frozen in place, golden eyes icy even as they glowed brighter than before. He remembers hearing others saying something about him when he was young, how he had "potential," how it could work "this time," and others completely dismissing the idea and pushing to leave him as he was. He hadn't understood it at the time, but now... As absurd as it might have seemed, he believed the wizard entirely.
And these were the people he had been defending.
"No wonder." He can't blame the wizard at all. Better some evil (morally ambiguous?) overlord with weird ideas of weakness and strength than a bunch of corrupt bastards who infected others with parasites and left them to die.
At least the wizard had dragged him with him afterwards, gave him a place to live, and cooked for him, even if the man did seem to hate his guts.
"Bet you found it satisfying, seeing the whole place iced up like that."
"I didn't find it particularly objectionable, no," he says, after a long moment. "Though I wish I could have razed it to the ground myself. Some things feel better when you do them with your own hands."
Is that a bad thing to say? Yes. Does he care? Not really.
All this talk about pasts and histories and he doesn't even know the hero's name. He's not sure if he should ask, or if the other man is interested in divulging it (or interested in his own.)
"And we're pretty much roommates at this point," Avery agrees. The second the words are out of his mouth, he realizes just how silly it is, but... it's not exactly wrong, either. "It'd be pretty weird if we didn't know eachother's names."
It's not like it changes much. He gets the wizard's--Ekkehardt's--point of view a little more now, but it doesn't change what happened.
"We'll just consider this a truce. An official one."
"A truce...I suppose it must be necessary, if these living arrangements are going to be permanent ones." Frankly he's not sure why Avery hasn't just struck out on his own by now, but he finds that detestable as it is, he doesn't mind the other man's company.
"In a place this large, I wouldn't say we're roommates, though. Neighbours, perhaps." His tone is vaguely contemplative.
Avery shrugs. "Same difference. Mostly." And honestly, he can't help but like the aesthetics of the place. They may have had their differences, but Avery has always had a sort of quiet admiration for Ekkehardt's sense of style. And fitting the ruins out with modern amenities? That was real style.
He pauses for a moment, a thought coming to him. "By the way... you don't have any weird eating habits too, do you?" It seems a disservice to the people who die to call it that, but he's not sure he's ready to think of it as anything else.
"I drain life from my surroundings, should I need to do so," Ekkehardt replies, finishing his soup. "But it seems content with some amount of regular food and the occasional live animal, at least when it's not active."
Still weird, but he's used to it enough that it doesn't really register to him any more.
Avery sits up a little more, setting his empty bowl on the table. "Is that because it ate you or just a quirk of its own?" He tries to sound as neutral as he can, but even so, a little worry seeps through.
Ekkehardt shrugs. "It is what it is," he says, ever reassuring. "But I doubt you'll have to deal with the same symptoms, since we're so different, so you should pay more attention to yourself."
It's a more subtle wall, but it's there all the same. It's something he doesn't particularly want to discuss.
"You miss our little duels that much? I'm surprised." That sharp amusement is back, like it had never left, but the way he laughs, a brief bark, is proof that the request had surprised him too.
"Looking for somewhere to vent your aggression, are you?"
"No," he says, almost too quickly. "You just happen to be the only one to provide a good challenge. You're skilled. Even I can admit that. I'll even stick with magic."
"Oh, is that a compliment, of all things? Very well, I suppose I can indulge you." He likes the praise, though he doesn't want to think about why he'd enjoy praise from someone who murdered him (and the man he'd pledged loyalty to, at that). It should be easy to hate him; easier still to dispose of him.
It isn't. Something stays his hand. They're too alike for him to ignore; it's an almost painful sensation.
"Use whatever you like. It matters little to me." He traces a circle on the table, thoughts drifting. "You'd have to try very hard indeed to kill me again. And it would be a waste of effort, regardless."
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The wizard stares into the soup contemplatively.
"He believed that the only way to accomplish it was to destroy such things entirely, in order to start anew." There's a long pause. He just keeps stirring.
"Not that it matters now," he says, quiet.
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No.
He is not going to feel guilty. It's not his fault. He killed the man, sure, but he was only doing what he could to protect the woman he loved--loves. And it wasn't like the guy was in the right anyway. A world like that was nice in theory, but it was fragile. Someone would come along and the cycle would start again. If he hadn't killed the overlord, then someone else would have. Or else the guy would have died and everything would have been thrown into chaos.
So he has no reason to feel anything about it at all.
"You're not going to continue what he started?"
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"I believed in it because he was there. Without him...it's better to let things be. He believed in that, too. The fairness of life and death."
Death is fair, in its own way. He'll concede that much. But life isn't fair in the slightest. It was an argument they'd had before, time and time again.
You'll understand, he had said, gentle as always. But his lord is gone, now, and he feels no closer to understanding. Perhaps he never will.
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"I've given my life for two causes now. In death, I've yet to decide on my next ill-advised ideal to follow."
He grips the pot and lifts it by brute force from the hearth. The metal creaks in protest, and he eases his grip, letting it cool.
"I'm tired," he says, bitter, ashen. "Surely you understand what it means to be tired."
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"Ugh, look. I'm not actually trying to get on your case for this one, okay? I don't like you but I... respect you. I guess.
So watching you give up that easily is kind of annoying."
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That more genial humor is back, its edge a little blunted. He pours out soup into two bowls, placing one in front of Avery. He drinks deeply from his own, taking what small comfort from it that he can.
"Or does that not matter to you any more?" It's a genuine question, rather than a barbed one.
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Does it matter? Did it ever? His first instinct is to say "yes, of course," to insist that he wanted to keep everyone safe. But when he thinks of everyone, he thinks only of her, and that turned out to be one big misunderstanding, didn't it?
"I don't like it, if that's what you're asking. But it's not like I'm a hero anymore, either."
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There's an almost rueful tone to the words, like he speaks from experience. A vulnerability that lingers just enough to be noticeable, before he puts his guard up again.
"You're such a child," he remarks, looking at Avery sinking into his chair. "It's still a surprise to remember you ended up killing me."
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He sighs. "At least you're a good cook." A long drink of his soup later, he peers over the side of the bowl to look the wizard in the eye.
"So you were a hero once, huh?"
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"It would be a stretch to say so." His voice is dry. "It's where I got my fine companion from, the source of my power. And it ate me from the inside out, they deemed me a failure, and I was abandoned and exiled to the woods."
He pours them both another bowl. He drinks his next serve like someone else would drink alcohol.
"I was left to rot and branded as cursed for the rest of my days. The end."
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And these were the people he had been defending.
"No wonder." He can't blame the wizard at all. Better some evil (morally ambiguous?) overlord with weird ideas of weakness and strength than a bunch of corrupt bastards who infected others with parasites and left them to die.
At least the wizard had dragged him with him afterwards, gave him a place to live, and cooked for him, even if the man did seem to hate his guts.
"Bet you found it satisfying, seeing the whole place iced up like that."
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Is that a bad thing to say? Yes. Does he care? Not really.
All this talk about pasts and histories and he doesn't even know the hero's name. He's not sure if he should ask, or if the other man is interested in divulging it (or interested in his own.)
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"Avery," he says after a moment.
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"Ekkehardt, then," he says, at last. "It's not as if either of us lose much from knowing each other's names, now."
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It's not like it changes much. He gets the wizard's--Ekkehardt's--point of view a little more now, but it doesn't change what happened.
"We'll just consider this a truce. An official one."
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"In a place this large, I wouldn't say we're roommates, though. Neighbours, perhaps." His tone is vaguely contemplative.
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He pauses for a moment, a thought coming to him. "By the way... you don't have any weird eating habits too, do you?" It seems a disservice to the people who die to call it that, but he's not sure he's ready to think of it as anything else.
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Still weird, but he's used to it enough that it doesn't really register to him any more.
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It's a more subtle wall, but it's there all the same. It's something he doesn't particularly want to discuss.
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Sometimes he feels it move inside him. He knows its hungry. It practically whines about it from within. But what is he supposed to do about it?
Maybe there isn't anything at all.
"Hey," he says, tapping a finger against the table. "I want to fight you sometime. Not seriously. Just sparring."
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"Looking for somewhere to vent your aggression, are you?"
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It isn't. Something stays his hand. They're too alike for him to ignore; it's an almost painful sensation.
"Use whatever you like. It matters little to me." He traces a circle on the table, thoughts drifting. "You'd have to try very hard indeed to kill me again. And it would be a waste of effort, regardless."
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