Jackal Among Snakes

Anneliese stepped through the bizarre palace of the Alchemist, following the purple lights that shone without an obvious source. They guided her through the complex place. Typically, her eyes wandered at times like these, consumed with curiosity, but she was led forward now with a single-minded purpose.

She passed through a threshold into another room. The trail of lights faded. She saw a bed in the back of the room—it was a fancy one, a four-poster bed, hanging curtains of purple fabric with strange designs on them. Its fanciness seemed in stark contrast with the rest of the place.

Anneliese stepped forward towards the bed. She saw a pair of feet sticking off the end, and as she grew closer, she ducked low and looked.

Argrave laid there beneath purple blankets, holding a white book in his hands. It was blank, and he busied himself with filling it out. As she stared down at him, he looked up at her.

“You’re here. Look at this,” he complained. “The man couldn’t even get me a bed large enough for my whole body. You’d think a giant like him would have some sympathy for the people on the taller end of the spectrum, but no. He makes me leave my feet hanging.”

“Argrave…” she stepped closer. “What is… what is wrong with you? I can… I cannot…”

“Oh. He gave me some liquid,” Argrave explained, voice without much vigor. “Not feeling very emotional right now, to put it simply. Should fade. I hope.”

Her eyes darted around frantically, scanning him as she drew closer.

“Take a look at this,” Argrave pulled down the blankets, revealing his pale, bony chest. “Not a scar in sight. You wouldn’t believe how bad I looked not too long ago. I’m a little disappointed, honestly… wouldn’t mind a nice scar, right down the center…” he traced his sternum with his fingers.

Anneliese sat on the purple bed just beside him, eyes locked on him. “But what… what did he… what exactly… how did it… how did it go?” she babbled.

Argrave shrugged. “I’m not sure, really. Apparently, the same potion he gave me to dull my emotions is stopping my new heart from doing its thing.” Argrave touched his chest. “My new heart’s a… I don’t know… it’s a magenta color, I guess, and it glows.” Argrave looked up. “The Alchemist said he’d be back in a few hours when the blood starts pumping. He advised I eat plenty.”

“But how do you feel?” she asked, her speech finally normalizing somewhat.

“Pretty weak. Can’t move much. And I think… and maybe I’m just being delusional…” Argrave looked at himself. “I think I can already vaguely feel the pain coming. The changes.” He shook his head. “Well, whatever. I have to write this report.”

As Argrave raised the book, ready to resume his task, Anneliese practically fell forth atop him, hugging him fiercely. Just as quickly, she pulled away.

“Forgive me,” she apologized. “No, forget that. I am not sorry for being glad you are well. But…” she sighed and lowered her head, white hair splaying out across the purple blankets. “I was worried. I still am.”

“If the ivory man hadn’t filled my veins with apathy-juice, I’d probably be a lot more worried than you are,” Argrave noted. “Well, that sounds a bit dismissive. I’m glad you were worried.” He paused. “That sounds worse, doesn’t it?”

Anneliese laughed heartily, like all the tension built within was being dispelled with each laugh. She stood. “You said the Alchemist is to return?”

“That’s right. Make sure everything is in order, that sort of thing. If I’m to be given a diagnosis of terminal death… it’ll probably come then,” Argrave nodded.

“I will stay with you,” she said. “Who knows what will occur after such a strange happening? You need someone by your side.”

“We discussed—”

“That was my decision. Save your words,” she shook her head.

Argrave stared her in the face. Her amber eyes were steady and determined. He could see how tired she was, yet nonetheless… he sighed, then set his book down.

“Alright. If I start moaning and groaning when my body begins to accept the new blood, don’t make fun of me, okay? I don’t need any shame with the pain.”

She knew he was only joking and smiled as she made for the door. “Write your report. I will get you food, as the Alchemist advised.”

“This brings me back,” Argrave called out, picking up his book once again.

“To what?” she paused at the threshold.

“Me, sick in bed. You, taking care of me, going to fetch food,” Argrave reminisced. “This time stands to last a bit longer than our time in Veiden. Bringing dried meat again?”

She stepped back into the room a little. “Would you like that?”

Argrave raised a brow. “Anything’s fine, little lady, don’t trouble yourself.”

“Hopefully this is the last time I need do such a thing,” she commented. “Though… I have no problem with it.”

“I’ll be as hale as a hare when this is done,” Argrave assured. “Galamon coming, too? The other two?”

She shook her head. “Presumably. I am unsure. I ran off possessed once I was informed of things,” she shook her head. “I will keep an eye out.”

Argrave shook his head, then said in faux sadness, “You learn who your friends really are on your deathbed, looks like.”

“Please do not joke about that,” she shook her head.

Argrave laughed, then picked up his book. “Ought to get back to the slave labor. By the way, could you grab that bronze hand mirror? It’s in my pack just outside.”

Anneliese nodded and moved away.

“Thanks, Anneliese,” he called out.

She waved as she left. Argrave opened the book, trying to find where he’d left off writing.

#####

“Anneliese will not be pleased,” noted Galamon, sitting cross-legged. “Your protection is bound to her by honor—a contract.”

“Honor, is it? She won’t care that I’ll be dead?” Garm laughed, stuck in the dirt just beside Durran. They sat around a fire, cooking the striped cat. “Whatever. I make my choices. Me. Not her, not our newly Black-Blooded friend. This has nothing to do with Argrave. It’s MY choice. Mine. I will not allow them to interfere in that.”

“She’ll care,” Galamon nodded. “Argrave will, too.” He shook his head.

“You won’t?”

“I understand what it’s like to crave death,” Galamon said as he stared into the fire. “Was never brave enough to go through with it.”

“Hahahaha!” Garm laughed. “Shown up by a talking head.”

“Why do you do this?” Galamon asked.

“Because I’m a burden,” Garm said contemptuously. “I know what it will take for me to gain a body that I’m satisfied with. It would be as difficult as becoming Black Blooded, I suspect—months of work, all to give me a barely-passable body, with not an iota of my former power. I’m deadweight.”

Galamon crossed his arms. “Yet you’re selfless enough to go through with this?”

“My whole life, people have disappointed me. My parents. All my friends. My teachers, my students. They never made the effort I made.” Garm looked at Galamon. “And now… I’ve met some people who wouldn’t disappoint me. I’m certain all of you would do as much for me as I am willing for you.”

“Found what you wanted… so you’ll end it all, without reason?”

“There’s reason,” Garm refuted. “Argrave fights some ancient calamity. He needs no deadweight, least of all a snarky bastard like myself.” His golden eyes turned to Durran. “At the very least, he’ll have a bitter bastard like Durran, who can carry his weight... and then some.”

Durran scratched his cheek. “Yeah. Fighting a god. Fun hobby, looking to try it out,” he nodded.

Galamon ran his hand through his white hair. “What’s your plan for this Alchemist?”

“Argrave probably doesn’t know this… but I know about the Alchemist, too. Some High Wizards engaged with him, at some point. Plenty of writings about the freak.” Garm closed his eyes. “My existence is special. A sentient necromantic creation. He’ll have interest in studying me, I’m sure.”

“Is it enough to ask what you intend of him?” Galamon adjusted his sitting position.

“I’m sure he’ll be eager to test out the Unsullied Knife more,” Garm reasoned, opening his eyes once again. “If worse comes to worse, the Alchemist won’t let me transcribe every spell I remember. But I’m certain I can bind my soul to Durran’s.”

Durran rubbed at his chest at the mention of ‘souls.’

“The soul’s not in the chest, idiot,” Garm rebuked. “Don’t act all terrified.”

Durran lowered his hand. “Just nauseated, thinking about merging with you, that’s all,” he shot back.

“Yeah, yeah,” Garm coaxed. “Let it out, tough guy.”

Galamon looked to the fire. “What will happen?”

“When souls merge… one dominates the other,” Garm explained. “It’s… eaten, more or less. Very risky thing for two souls of equal power to go at each other—it’s a game of chance and will at that point, and the loser is erased utterly. This situation is incomprehensibly rare. Fortunately for Durran, my soul is damaged. Quite badly. That bodes ill for my future.”

Durran crossed his arms. “Yes, you’re damaged goods. That much is obvious.”

“Then what is the benefit?” Galamon tilted his head.

“Memory,” Garm succinctly explained. “When a soul overwrites another, vestiges remain. If it’s a swordsman’s soul that’s eaten, the winning soul will learn the sword very, very quickly, until you catch up with the person’s skill. In the case of spells… any spell I’ve learned, or any tier of magic I’ve breached… Durran will have an easy go of things. Handheld through all the challenges in life, like a kid with rich parents.”

“Sounds useful,” Galamon crossed his arms. “Why’s it rare?”

“Well, souls are fleeting things,” Garm continued. “Need something like the Unsullied Knife for stability. Things that can facilitate such a procedure are rare, and closely guarded. And not all souls are compatible. If there’s a drastic difference in personality… well, it’s about as useful as doing nothing at all.”

Galamon nodded as though things fell into place. “I’ll help. But I’ll come with you. If either of you requests anything untoward of the Alchemist… I’ll end you there, even if I perish. My primary duty remains protecting Argrave. I sympathize with your plight, but I will not compromise on his safety.”

“Yes, yes,” Garm said dismissively. “I understand. On the front of Argrave… if you could, I’d like to write a letter. To him, to Anneliese…”

Durran looked like he had something to say but refrained.

“I can do that,” Galamon nodded. “You should write of the soul, and merging souls, to Argrave. He… the soul in his body is not the body’s original. I believe he could gain something from your wisdom.”

Garm raised a brow. “I’d ask more, but a dead man doesn’t need to know much of anything. Alright. I can do that,” Garm confirmed. “Another thing, Galamon. About that benefit I mentioned.”

“What?” the vampire questioned, rising to his feet.

“My eyes,” he began. “They’re valuable. I was an A-rank mage, once. They can see things—people’s magic strength, for instance. And they can better discern illusions. No illusion magic will affect you, should you inherit them. Not to mention… my vision is damned flawless. Do you want them?”

Galamon frowned, staring at those black and gold eyes all too similar to those belonging to the abominable creatures within the Low Way. “I’m a vampire. That may cause problems.”

“You’re a vampire?” Durran repeated incredulously. “Is no one in this—"

“Not now, Durran,” Garm dismissed. “It shouldn’t cause problems, not if the Alchemist fixes things. Your eye color won’t even change. It might take a couple months, but it’ll correct itself, and you can keep those shining whites you have.”

“I don’t want your eyes,” Galamon shook his head. “Another could use them better.”

“Alright,” Garm pursed his lips. “Guess I’ll offer them to Argrave or Anneliese.”

Durran looked utterly flabbergasted. “Boy,” Garm called out, pulling him from his thoughts. “My soul is to become a part of you. Moreover, you’ll inherit my spell collection, provided the Alchemist allows me to write it out. Yet allow me to make one thing clear—even if I’m gone, bits of me will remain, like a lingering ghost. If you act against Argrave, or Galamon—if you hinder them… I’ll tear you apart from the inside. You will support them with all you have until Gerechtigkeit is dead and gone.”

“Not even sure this mythical being is real,” Durran countered. “What if it’s all bogus? What if Argrave’s lying?”

Garm laughed. “I thought like you, once. Argrave will change that thinking quickly enough. If he doesn’t… I’ll let you leave.” Garm took a deep breath and exhaled loudly.

“Alright!” he shouted. “Time to end this miserable existence.”

“Are you sure you wish to cast your life away?” Galamon questioned.

“I died six hundred years ago. I was merely trapped until now,” Garm answered coldly. “I always thought about freedom, trapped as I was. I longed for it. It became an obsession. When I thought of freedom, I thought of flying. But I have flown aback Durran’s wyvern.” Garm closed his eyes. “Now I think of freedom… and dream of dying.”