Across years of silent tragedy, guilt had become a familiar beast.
Quilleran knew it well, spent countless hours under its cold shadow, sensed its weight in the empty spaces of his skull, felt it gnaw at his organs like a parasite. His relationship with it was complicated, having transformed and graduated into new shapes with the passage of time: a battle with ignorance and indoctrination, denial and justification, acceptance and rejection. A story of a boy who knew no better shaped into a cog in a war machine, grown to become a man determined to degrease every shaft and axle until they ground to a halt. His defiance against the Sordid was a plea for forgiveness, the only thing currently within his power that he could leverage to right the wrongs committed by his own hands, but that power that was beginning to slip through his fingers day by day.
He hadn't asked for this life. He hadn't asked to wake up on the cold, hard stone of Talon Hill's western face, his mind clouded by the amnesia that hid his past from him. He had to have been somebody before that day—he had no knowledge of who he was, not even his name, but he could speak, could read and write, and could identify objects and concepts (trees, sun, cold, et cetera,) with the accompanying vocabulary to match. These things all required teaching, and someone to teach them, but no amount of focused thought could conjure even the fuzziest blur of a memory. Not a face, not a room, not a voice or feeling, nothing. There had been no time to grieve it then, or even ponder it much at all, before he was promptly accosted by Sordid soldiers and carted off to the Stronghold. He hadn't even felt afraid in that moment, so uninformed of the dangers they posed; a fact that only made him a more perfect victim of their targeted influence. The first step in Fyros's master plan.
What came next was atrocity, horrors painted through the lens of normalcy. Fyros's word was divine ordinance. Interlopers were examples to be subjugated, a warning to the remainder of humanity. These ideas were presented as infallible truth, and Quilleran had believed them, believed that obedience to Fyros's bidding was the only way to achieve true purpose. So when the orders evolved from sorting goods and polishing blades to escorting intruders to the dungeon, there was never any question, even when the cells were empty again by the very next morning. He didn't want to think about the poor souls who had wandered too close to the Stronghold—people who were somebodies, with families and friends and lives awaiting them in the towns below, people who looked just like he did. To Fyros, they were nothing. To Quilleran, they were sets of eyes just as confused as his own, though deepened by a fear he had never yet possessed.
Everything changed once a new word attached itself to his name: Spy.
He had worked for years, earned Fyros's favor alongside his attention, built trust among the Sordid court. The word was a culmination of all of his efforts, of his existence, the reason Fyros had spared him above everyone else. His appearance, so different from the rest of the Sordid, was not a curse, but a gift—an advantage that he alone could carry. A high honor. He would immediately be of even more use than the other Sordid spies, able to walk among townspeople in broad daylight without earning much more than a cursory glance. He could grow closer to people, earn their trust, too, learn their ways and their secrets, and bring that precious information back to Fyros in exchange for further praise and reward. To adopt the new title simply made sense.
He watched only from a distance at first, lacking the social skill to involve himself further, viewing humanity with the same eye of disdain that every Sordid hoisted. Gradually, he learned more, absorbed and took to heart the mannerisms in which people talked to each other, how they spoke just as much with their hands and their facial expressions as they did with their voices. It was an art that he practiced constantly, mastering how to mask his intentions behind placid features and vernacular, how to be agreeable, to tell people what they wanted to hear. The humans, in their blithe simplicity, were all too easy to manipulate. After all, he was a Sordid, too, and as a result he was deeply familiar with the darkness that hid in the hearts of humanity: their vices, their pride, their greed. But just as soon as he had built the confidence to take his first steps into Llora, as soon as he could see with his own eyes the true lives that humans led, the curtain abruptly fell.
The townsfolk were not detestable, not thoughtless, not inferior. They were all souls, navigating through life with tools they had crafted with their own hands, surrounding themselves with trusted others for the sake of their collective survival. They taught each other, helped each other, created goods and services to sell or barter, made friends, fell in love. They made food unlike anything the Sordid had ever pillaged, created art for the sake of it, and music, too, colored their lives with beautiful things to make themselves happy and then shared them. Every life that had been snuffed out at the hands of the Sordid, at his hands, had been another one of these somebodies, another bright speck in the tapestry of the realm that gave it meaning.
Reality crumbled down around him, not all at once, but in small pieces, small chunks of rubble and debris that scraped at his psyche as they shifted and slid out of place. The threads of emotions that crowded his chest surfaced and mixed in a confounding weave of denial, and grief, and anger...and guilt. His first encounter with the monster. What he had done, what he continued to do at Fyros's behest, were terrible things, things that sought only to destroy these people who had committed no crime other than existing. His faith in the Sordid's cause, in his own purpose, evaporated particle by particle. The longer he thought about it, the more his own existence became empty once again.
One thing he knew for certain: Fyros could never know.
His ability to disguise the outward expression of his emotions found new use. He knew the Sordid. He knew Fyros. He knew how to appeal to their sensibilities, knew how to keep secrets close to his chest. Knew how to bolster himself until he stood at the leader's right hand. Knew how to craft himself into Fyros's favorite.
Quilleran soon created new purpose for himself, too, in the gathering of information—information meant only for his own eyes, information not useful for war. He discovered the libraries and bookstores the townspeople had made, sought answers in the records of centuries of experience from humans and elves and any other race whose literature he could get his hands on. He learned more about them and himself at the same time, became better at communicating with them, and all the while racked his brain for anything he could do to slow the Sordid's progress against humanity. A new word found its way into his vocabulary: sabotage. Sabotage, beginning in mere increments, chipping away at the preparations the Sordid had already been arranging for centuries. The weaponry was suddenly, conveniently, no longer a match to the caliber of human militaries. The armor, not threatening enough to be impressive in the history that would be written after their conquest. Their defenses, antiquated and vulnerable. And with each revision, he twisted his vocabulary in every manner imaginable to make sneaky flaws of design seem like flashy additions, a gem in Fyros's crown, an element to strike fear in the hearts of the Sordid's enemies.
The terrifying truth of the matter, however, was that Quilleran was running out of excuses. Running out of time.
It was in this realization that the guilt reemerged. The guilt of his inevitable failure, the weight of humanity's destruction that he had, at one time, aided in willingly. As the situation stood currently, Phenomina and Llora had only recently begun bolstering their armies, and no Guardians had made themselves known in any capacity. With every day that passed since the Sordid mishap in Llora, Fyros's temper only grew more violent, and the time for preparation was rapidly concluding.
Quilleran could feel himself deteriorating. His mind was as full as the pages of his journal, both having long crossed the point of unintelligible din. His frantic attempts at course correction were reflected in his handwriting, tearing across the pages in barely legible sweeps that promptly smeared under the sweat of his palms. When he wasn't writing, he could feel the twitchiness take over—in his legs, his fingers, his eyelids—and could hear the shakiness of his breathing through the ringing in his ears. The internal monologue in his brain began to lose form, every word blending into one another, into gibberish, such that plans A through F began to drown amongst each other until all arrived at the same destination: that there was nothing more he could do.
That the entire realm would be wiped out without remorse.
That Saruya, and those precious few close to her, would die.
That it would be his fault.
It was all he could do to maintain composure in front of Fyros while his heart was breaking, while his mind and body were wracked by an anxiety so overwhelming that he wanted nothing more than to run away. But there was nowhere he could go where he would not be found, not if the Sordid had anything to say about it, and thusly the futility of his circumstances hung over him again and again. The only monster more powerful than guilt was the monster that was himself.
The humans had a weapon against this beast, or so he had gathered. That weapon was alcohol.
He had never actually tried it, himself, not after the countless nights he had spent as a fly on tavern walls watching others drink to the point of losing themselves. He had been locked in a complex game of strategy against Fyros for years, a game that required constant vigilance, and had determined long ago that any type of mind-altering substance would be detrimental to his mission. But tonight, when that mission felt so destined toward failure, when all else felt pointless, he was finally willing to make an exception.
The first taste was awful. Vile. Horrid. But the burn on his tongue felt akin to punishment that he so rightfully deserved, and was soon followed by another, and more still, each sip like a lashing, until his throat and chest burned so brightly that he couldn't tell the pains apart from each other anymore. And then, soon after, he could feel his head grow heavy where it sat on his neck, could feel the blur of his thoughts trickle into a warm pool of nothingness, and finally, the twitching came to a halt.
He sat for a few peaceful minutes, listening to the music and revelry coming from the rest of some random inn's downstairs tavern with his eyes closed, letting the tipsiness sway him back and forth like the rocking of a boat. But when his lids opened again, he was met with the joyous faces of people who hadn't the faintest clue their demise was imminent. They danced and laughed and cheered without a care for even tomorrow morning's headache, and the very sight of their delighted ignorance crashed into him like a wave, plunging him deep underwater right back where he started. When he wrenched his head away from them, the only other places to look were at the bar top where his journal sat waiting for a revelation, or the shelves lined with more bottles beyond. In that moment, the two sights were representative of his only options: have a breakthrough or drink until you find it.
He orders another.
...
Saruya shut the door to Bethara's apartment, turning her copy of the key in the lock until it clicked and only then allowing the sigh she had been holding to escape her lungs. She had spent the past handful of days there working diligently to get Bethara's life back in order: opening windows to break the stagnation, cleaning the heaps of dishes and clothes and trash that had accumulated, and wiping the place from top to bottom. She had even stood over Bethara's shoulder to make sure she paid her bills, and then helped her write a brief correspondence to her manager, something simple to communicate that she was alive but requiring a pause from the public eye. The disgusting piles of old food she replaced with fresh, warm meals she prepared herself, and in and among all of these tasks, she had been doing everything she could to get Bethara moving again—little, achievable tasks to make her feel more like herself, like re-rolling her wrist wraps and shaving the sides of her head back to the usual stubble.
She still hadn't found out what exactly the catalyst for the depressive spiral had been, though she had made many a subtle attempt at gleaning an explanation. She could only hope she was getting closer, but after her first direct approach had been met with such a raucous meltdown, she was keen to make her next attempt using more sensitive tactics.
One thing was for certain, though: Saruya was nearing the end of her rope. After several days of rigorous cleaning and caretaking, for goodness' sake, she wanted a hot meal without having to be the one to make it. Stashing Bethara's spare key back in her satchel, Saruya turned away, taking her first step off the landing and then another, with each additional footfall carrying her deeper into Main Street. It was still decently populated this time of night—it always had been, with its proximity to the Arena, but it also connected the heart of Phenomina with a variety of grocers, magic shops, dining halls, inns, and just about every other core service the city offered, so there was always some amount of traffic to match. Even the mayor's office was nearby, to the north, just past whatever roaring audience the arena was hosting at any given time.
An inn would suit her needs just fine for tonight, somewhere with a humble but hearty menu and, if she were lucky, perhaps a traveling entertainer to make the time brighter. She felt more encouraged the closer she got to the establishment, as the sounds of several instruments met her ear, sounds that surged and quieted each time the door opened or swung shut. Finally, as she reached the door, it was her own hand that caused the noise to pour out into the street, and she pushed her way inside.
It was perhaps a bit busier than she would have liked, being as tired as she was, but she could feel herself warming up to the environment bit by bit as she sidled past the tables and the people dancing between them. The next task was simply to find a place to sit, and scanning the crowd, she spotted two: the second and third barstools from the back wall, leaving her with the choice of whether she preferred having a stranger to her left or right. Not that it truly mattered. She would only be staying for as long as it took to finish her meal, then back to Bethara's apartment she would go. Using the stool's footrail to give herself a boost, Saruya elected to settle in the seat third from the left, seeing as the neighbor to her right was fully engaged in a half-shouted conversation with the next patron (about the level of speech necessary to be heard) and would likely give her little regard. Her opposite neighbor, on the other hand, very much gave the impression that they were to be left alone, indicated by the way that they sat slumped with their arms covering their head. She was more than willing to oblige.
She eventually managed to catch the eye of the innkeeper as he bustled about behind the counter and ordered her meal, a dish popular in the city: a steaming bowl of noodles, meat, bone broth, and herbs with a hunk of bread as accompaniment. It was just as hearty and warm as she had wanted it to be, carried on the delicate broth that never sat too heavily on the stomach, and best of all she hadn't had to lift a finger to be able to enjoy it. It was perfect.
With her meal finished, Saruya spun around in her seat to get a better glimpse of the musicians as they played for the crowd that had gathered in this inn's tavern, wondering to herself how many of them were locals, regulars, or out-of-towners. Nonetheless, they all seemed to blend together in a feverish wave of kicking, stomping, and swinging, with laughter and applause that shook the rafters. Though she couldn't play any instruments, herself, she always appreciated the way even a simple drum could coax a rhythm out of people and bring them together. It was a breath of fresh air after how quiet Bethara's apartment had been, and soon enough she found herself swaying and humming with the beat, too.
Her ears tuned in not only to the music, but also picked and sampled among the strings of conversation that stood out around her. The nearest table across from the bar went back and forth debating the lyrical content of the current song that was playing, with each seat insisting that their version was the correct one, and the two patrons conversing beside her were in the midst of some sort of business. She couldn't quite tell what business it was, however, as it was so deeply steeped in some manner of technical language that the words had no meaning—lots of "circling the wagons" for something, though the more she listened the less it seemed that either of them worked with wagons at all. But just as she thought herself ready to fetch her coin purse, pay for her food, and leave, she could hear the sullen character at the far wall finally speak.
"One more, please."
The voice, its depth and timbre, was shockingly familiar. Shockingly like Quilleran's voice.
No. There was no way. That heap in the corner had been Quill the whole time? The demeanor was so unlike him it seemed impossible, and even if it weren't, the coincidence of finding him here was simply too great.
"Hey, man, I hate to be "that guy" but I think you've had enough for one night," cautioned the man behind the bar.
The rest of the tavern failed to notice the interaction, still swept up and captivated by the music and activity taking up the rest of the floor. Saruya, on the other hand, could feel the proverbial white tail flashing behind her as she sat frozen in place like a deer, having not yet built the courage to investigate with her own eyes. If she didn't look, perhaps she could still deny what she was hearing.
"All I ask is one, and then I'll - will leave, I won't be unreasonable." The words blended together at the ends, slurring into one another, but especially so as his lips worked around something multisyllabic.
"One more, and you'll be kissing the doormat on your way out. You can barely even sit up."
"I can handle it, I assure you."
On what assurance he was speaking, Saruya had no idea. She racked her brain to try to remember if she had ever seen him drink even once, but no memories surfaced.
The innkeeper seemed to concede, taking away the empty glass and stepping away to fetch a fresh one.
Saruya continued to listen, deliberately filtering out the sounds of the hoopla reverberating through the rest of the room so she could catch the details. The mutterings of a simple incantation, the clinking of glass as a spell replenished the ice inside. The hollow pop of a bottle being uncorked, from which a quantity of eyeballed precision then poured. When the glass made contact with the bar top once again, its sound muted by the ring of condensation upon which it had been perfectly replaced, and the innkeeper turned his back, only then did she finally allow her head to move. The image came into focus starting from the corner of her eye, the form of hunched shoulders and fingers threaded through hair, then clarified as she turned further and took in the sight fully. Familiar rusty red hair in the most askew state she had ever seen it in public, familiar furrow in the brow deeper today than average, familiar bulky forearms reaching for unfamiliar brown liquor.
He looked like shit.
She watched him for a moment more as he tilted the glass toward his lips, took a large gulp, grimaced, and let his head fall back into the cradle of his other arm where it laid atop the bar. The glass still dangled precariously, held loosely at the rim by his fingertips and tinkling faintly as the ice shifted and swayed. And it was here that Saruya faced the inexorable truth that she was the only one fit to intervene.
She began cautiously, placing her foot on the footrail of the stool between them and sliding the rest of her body across after it. She took one more glance around the tavern's interior to check for curious eyes and ears, and, deeming it as safe as it was going to get for a public setting, placed a hand on Quilleran's shoulder.
"Hey, what are you doing here? Are you okay?"
He lifted his head slowly, and as he did, Saruya could hear the sound of a piece of paper unsticking itself from his skin—revealed to be a journal page once he had raised himself up enough for the rest of the book to become visible. It had left behind a reversed charcoal imprint of his writing across his cheek, but between the dim lighting of the room and the chaos of the handwriting that had been copied, it was completely incomprehensible. His first glance upon her was quick, equally disbelieving, but after taking a moment to grind the knuckles of his free hand into his eye socket in some attempt to clear the picture, he registered her presence more fully. "...Saruya?"
Saruya couldn't help the immediacy with which she recoiled from him, her head whipping in the opposite direction and her nose scrunching up. "Eugh, your breath is dreadful! What happened here?"
Quilleran crumbled in an instant. His whole body folded over, collapsing in her general direction halfway atop the counter and halfway on her shoulder, and shaking heavily with some manner of sob or dry-heave. "I can't take it anymore," he whined into her sleeve, his fingers dragging for purchase along her spine, "It gets worse every day 'n I can't do anything to stop it anymore, and I've tried and tried and tried, but the Sordid—"
"Shhh!" she admonished him, giving his arm a squeeze in an attempt to grab his attention. Lowering her voice and bringing herself close to his ear, she added, "Not so loud, you're going to cause a scene."
"Saruya, I've thought of everything." He pulled back enough to look at her, then turned away briefly to rub at his temples. It seemed like an ache was distracting him, but whether it was caused by exhaustion, alcohol, or both, Saruya was unsure. "I always think of everything. But I don't know what to do anymore, and if I can't figure it out, then everything will—"
His breath caught in his throat and he promptly buried his face in one palm to crush the following wave of despair, his face crinkled in an expression of sadness he had never displayed in front of her before.
Saruya could feel the befuddlement that had solidified itself across her own features as she looked him up and down. She heaved a sigh, dabbing the pad of her thumb against her tongue and using the wettened digit to smear the charcoal off of his cheek. "Gods, what is my life right now?" she mumbled under her breath, talking moreso into the air than at Quilleran. "First I have Bethara falling apart on me, and now you?"
The commentary, despite its rhetorical nature, caught his attention. His head swiveled slowly until he could spot her from the corner of his eye. "...What happened with Bethara?"
"She's just—" She began to respond like she would with him on any other day, but being cognizant of his current condition, stopped herself short. She instead scowled, deeply annoyed with both of them now, and shook her head. "Ugh, I can't talk to you about that right now. Don't worry about it."
"No, what happened?" he insisted, pushing himself upright.
"Not now!"
Quilleran let out a sigh of his own, slumping against the wall beside him and making a move to reach for the glass again.
Saruya intercepted him, plucking it from the bar and folding it between her fingers. "Stop it. No. I agree with the barkeep, you've definitely had enough. I have never seen you like this."
He made a noise of protest, but no further attempt to reacquire the beverage. "The situation at the, uh...there," he stuttered, gesturing ambiguously to the east, "is so much worse than you can imagine. He barely listens to me anymore, he overrun, er, overrides me all the time. Which means he's out of my control now, d'you even understand how dangerous that is?"
She watched as his hands swam from place to place amid his stupor, covering his face or pulling at his hair over and over in slow smearing motions. She wondered how much of it he had pulled out, already.
"And what do, what do these people have? Nothing. They have no prepared—nothing prepared, barely an army, forming on conjecture, and whatssat gonna do for morale? Who's signing up for THAT army?" He buried his face in his hands again, speaking through them to add, "It's hopeless, 's what it is."
"That's what conscription is for, I guess," Saruya mused half-heartedly. "Look, as much as I appreciate you trying to talk all vague, we really can't be discussing this subject matter freely out here. Give me a second."
There was no way they could talk here, but also no way she could get him back to her home in Sapwood on her own, and similarly, absolutely no way she would be taking him to Bethara's apartment. The best course of action was to keep him here, or any inn close by with a private room vacant. With how busy their current location was, her hopes weren't high insofar as availability was concerned, but there was no harm in trying.
Summoning her resolve, she sat upright in her seat, pushing against the footrail so she could lean further over the bar top and catch the owner's eye once again to wave him down. "You wouldn't happen to have any room for my friend, here, would you?"
The innkeeper looked her up and down, then made a similar pass over the heap of a shape that was Quilleran. "Shared or private?"
"If you don't want him disturbing your other guests, I think private is about the only option."
He turned back to Saruya, fingers smoothing over a thick black moustache that sat like a brick on his upper lip, and squinted at her once more. "...Four silvers."
She raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. Now there was a third person getting on her nerves. It wasn't the first time someone had tried to take advantage of her for her size, assuming she was childish or otherwise too young to know the difference. With how often she visited Bethara, however, she was more than aware of the standard cost of various services across Phenomina, including the inns, even though she had never stayed anywhere other than her friend's apartment. "I think you and I both know that's two silvers too high, even for a private room, but if you wanna upsell me that bad you can get me a privacy placard. Does that sound like a deal?"
The black brick twitched as it loosely concealed a scowl. The man fished around under the bar, fetching a room key and a simple wooden tag on a string and tossing them loosely in front of her. "And the tab?"
"Just tack it on and I'll sort it on my end later. But I want a receipt, you hear me?"
"Fine, fine."
After a brief exchange of coins and papers, Saruya pulled her bag into her lap to temporarily store the key and placard—then, thinking proactively, nabbed Quilleran's journal from under his arm and tucked it away for safekeeping, too. It was going to be all hands on deck if they were to make it up the stairs.
She pushed herself off of the stool and onto the floorboards below, adjusting her bag over her shoulder before giving Quill's arm a nudge. "We're moving. Get up carefully, lean on the bar."
"I can do it," he asserted. He got his feet on the floor and slid from the seat, but as soon as he tried to bring his torso upright, the world spun out from under him and he tipped backwards against the wall, stumbling to catch himself.
"I said use the bar!!" She stepped up to his side, attempting to pin him between the counter and her body to keep him from crumpling to the floor. It was a valiant effort, and though she wasn't truly sure how effective it actually was, he didn't seem to have fallen far.
He took a moment to find his grip, making contact with the wall and bar respectively after a few failed arm swings. "I was not that dizzy a second ago," he mumbled, looking dumbfounded.
"It's different once you stand up. Now, are you going to listen to me?"
He nodded in response, humbled.
Saruya pulled away from him for a moment once he found his balance, or as much balance as he would be able to achieve in his current circumstances, to peek through the crowd and plan her route to the staircase. The fully occupied bar meant that their journey would not be an easy one, as it would be rude to lean on any of the patrons along their way, but if she could just get him past the row of seats there would soon be another wall for him to prop himself against until they reached the stairway's handrail.
She looked back at Quilleran. Spotted the half-finished drink she had confiscated from him. She would need a drink, herself, to survive whatever the rest of the evening held in store—they called it "liquid courage" for a reason. Fisting the glass, she shot it down without giving herself time to think about it, and slammed it back down on the counter, unable to conceal the guttural noise of disgust that escaped her throat in the drink's wake. "Gods, that's disgusting."
It was Quilleran's turn to appear baffled, though his response was admittedly delayed as it took him a few extra moments to process what she had done. "Why did you...?"
"Lean on my shoulder, or try to. Eyes on your feet. We're moving."
...
One stair.
Two stairs.
Three stairs.
"Was that guy trying to overcharge you?"
"Yes. Step up."
Four stairs.
"You shouldda let me talk to him."
"I handled it, it's fine. Step."
Five stairs.
"I'm very persuasive."
"I know, darling. Step."
Six stairs.
"What were you doing here, again?"
"Bethara."
"Right."
Seven stairs.
"Are you gonna tell me what happened?"
"No. Step."
Eight stairs.
"Why not?"
"Doesn't matter."
Nine stairs.
"It does matter."
"Just focus and don't let go of me. That's all that matters right now. Step."
Ten stairs.
"...I'm sorry you had to come across me like this."
"Don't worry about it. Step."
Eleven stairs.
"I'll make it up to you in the morning."
"You won't remember this in the morning. Step, watch the ledge..."
Twelve stairs, then the final step necessary to clear the floor. She guided Quilleran toward another wall to lean on while she retrieved his key, then performed the minor balancing act necessary to hold the door open with her foot while ushering him inside—where he promptly and unceremoniously stumbled backward onto the bed. The room was stocked with all the basics one would imagine from such a lodging: a single bed with some side tables, one of which bore a carafe of water, a wardrobe, a desk and chair, some lights (enchanted, of course), and an adjacent private washroom. There weren't any decorations to speak of aside from a single, bland painting of a farm on the wall across from the foot of the bed, but there was no need for the room to be frilly, only functional. Still propping the door with her foot, she rummaged through her bag until she got her hands on the wooden placard she had purchased downstairs. It was plain in appearance, strung up on a colored ribbon and bearing the simple adage "Do not disturb" scratched on both sides. Though on the surface it seemed entirely too simple to be sold at an upcharge, it was the magic bound to it that made it valuable.
After Saruya hooked the placard on the doorknob, she removed her foot from the doorway and stepped inside, letting it swing shut behind her. Once it fully nestled into the doorframe, the entire room plunged into complete silence with a suddenness akin to blowing out a candle, and all sounds of music, singing, and chatter from downstairs disappeared in an instant.
Quilleran propped himself up onto his elbows, confounded by the abrupt change. "Woah. What just happened?"
"Soundproofing spell," she heaved, catching her breath from the effort of getting the both of them up the stairs, "on the tag. It affects the interior of the room—I got it so we could talk without anyone overhearing us, though I guess it's nice to not have to hear any of them, either." She shimmied the strap of her bag off of her shoulder and placed it on a hook on the door's inward face, then slipped her hand inside to retrieve his journal and place it on one of the side tables where he could find it later.
She could watch on Quill's face as his thoughts bounced back and forth between intrigue and suspicion. "Entirely soundproof? That sounds...like an obvious tool for murder."
Saruya shrugged tiredly. "I don't understand the magic well enough to tell you why it is or isn't." She took a moment to kick off her shoes and remove her outer layers of clothing, reducing herself to the undermost bodysuit for comfort. Even with only half of a drink in her system, it had been a strong one, much stronger than the pale ales in which she indulged on rare occasions in Bethara's company, and she could feel the heat of it at the ends of her ears and the pit of her stomach. Finally settling herself at the edge of the mattress, she poured a glass of water from the carafe and nudged him to get his attention. "Drink this. And maybe tell me more about what exactly...caused all of that downstairs? Now that we're alone."
He brought himself upright slowly, gingerly, and Saruya offered her spare hand behind him for support before passing over the cup in her hand. He downed about half of it before opening his mouth to speak. "I suppose it can be best described as a breaking point."
As far as Saruya could tell, it seemed some amount of his regular vernacular was returning amid the calm, even if the consonants were still less distinct on a heavy tongue. Unsatisfied with the vaguity of his answer, she prodded, "Right. But we've known things have been getting bad since that day in Llora, what makes it so much worse now?"
The pained pinch in his brow earned by her question indicated that the recall of information was disagreeing with the headache he'd been staving off. "The accident and subsequent destruction in Llora marked the first time I'd lost my hold over Fyros, at least at such a scale. I reigned him in for the remainder of the summer to the best of my ability, but now he's fighting against me at every turn and I am losing my grip."
Another non-answer, practically a repetition of what he had already established at the bar downstairs. She had no choice but to push again. "What do you mean by that, though?"
"He's mobilizing. Wanting to line the borders of every city and region with scouts, and troops soon after. If he and his generals focused their efforts, they could take over Phenomina in a day. Their army is not ready to stop them." Any glance at her was chaste, holding only for a moment before darting away, like he couldn't face her and offer her a glimpse into the constant nightmare that was his reality at the same time. Focusing instead on the surface of the water in the cup between his hands, he continued, "And Phenomina is where they will start, either that or they will finish the job in Llora, first. People are going to die, and they will be blindsided."
Saruya chewed on her lip, finding herself equally unable to look at him as the grim news landed upon her shoulders. Her eyes compensated by darting all over the room as she took in and processed the information. "How soon is he planning on doing any of this?"
"Were he to have his druthers, any day now. And as always, I am urging against the action, but Saruya, he doesn't listen to me anymore, and it is that I fear most." The bedframe shook and the water in his cup rippled as his knee began to bounce, slowly at first, but picking up speed as distress circled his thoughts once again. He finished the other half of the drink. "I have run out of time. I can sabotage neither the soldiers nor the elites any further. I rack my brain night and day for a solution and I find nothing. I wonder if everything that I have done up until now has been enough, but it isn't. I know that it isn't. And knowing that the Sordid will strike with all of the information I once gave over freely, knowing they could kill indiscriminately until they are certain there are no Guardians left to stand in their way, I know that..."
Saruya watched his legs and hands fidget as his rant trailed off, his eyes conversely unmoving as they stared aimlessly into the wooden siding of the opposite wall. When he finally opened his mouth again, his eyes pinched shut in exchange, biting back the burning pain of emotion left unabated.
"...it's all my fault."
The pit in her stomach grew another mile deeper. "Quill..."
Though she had tried to respond, more words bubbled out of him like the overflow of a dam, being pushed from his chest without any limitation. "There are so many who will die without cause. People who matter, to each other, to their loved ones and their communities, and for what? So that I, a nobody, could be spared on the mountainside all those years ago? Were it not for me, the Sordid would not have nearly the foothold they have now. What have I done? Who am I now, to be given the privilege of regret?"
Saruya's ears stood at attention, detecting the changes as his dialogue spun in a concerning direction. "Privilege? Quill, what are you—"
"I have been such a coward, thinking that I could play both sides in this way. Fyros will expect me by his side as he goes forth with his reckless conquest, his so-called "reclaiming" of a world that he does not rightly deserve." He set the empty cup behind him on the mattress, his wringing hands redirecting to his midsection and wrapping around himself in what Saruya assumed was either a bid for support or self-soothing, or perhaps simply nausea. Whether the nausea stemmed from his libations or his disgust at his own behavior, she was left only to guess. "He will look at me expecting me to revel in their success, will tell me that they have won it all, but I will be left with nothing! Not when he leaves this world in ruin. Not when he slaughters the only things I have grown to care about. The centuries of knowledge and experience, this land protected by its inhabitants, and you," the last word emerged choked, "he would destroy all shamelessly and call the world better for it."
"Quill, stop it! Stop!!" She decided she had had enough of his spiraling, grabbing his shoulder with merciless fingers and digging into his skin until the stinging of his nerves could get his brain's attention. Her other hand operated with more grace, cupping the side of his face opposite from her and gently urging it in her direction. The skin was damp where her palm made contact, streaked with sadness guided by whiskey.
His neck loosened enough for her to turn his head towards her, but still couldn't hold his bleary eyes on her for more than a moment. Saruya couldn't know that in looking at her, he could see what her fate held, the same as the fates of everyone else under a Sordid reign, the same as the fates of everyone who had already been made victim in secret by the Sordid so far, and the very idea hurt more than he could bear. Opening a trembling jaw, he could only whisper, "I'm so sorry."
"Listen to me," Saruya implored him, her other hand reaching to pry one of his away from his body. "Don't you see what you're doing?"
He relinquished one hand, leaving it limp so she could move it as she pleased. His arm felt heavy as she lifted it, pulling it to her own cheek and holding it there, leaving him no choice but to face her head-on.
"If there is anything I know about the Sordid, it is that they feed on despair. And look at you! You are giving it to them wholeheartedly and leaving yourself vulnerable. You're playing right into their hand!" Her eyes bored into his, irises jumping back and forth as she shifted her focus from his left eye, to his right, and back again. "Don't you think that Fyros himself thrives off of this? You're talking as though the world has already ended, and it hasn't! And all of this about it being your fault—good gods! You're carrying the entire weight of the war on your shoulders as if the Sordid hadn't already been preparing for a hundred years or more before you!"
"I'm sorry," he croaked out a second time, mustering the courage to hold her gaze, but not managing much more than that.
"No more!" Saruya gave his hand a squeeze, trying to pull his attention back to her words. "I know you feel guilty for your past deeds, but they were committed at a time when the Sordid had full control over you. There was nothing else you could have possibly known to do. You have to let that go."
"You don't know what I have done," Quilleran interjected, his tone grave and surprisingly even.
"I know what you do now. I know that you care an overwhelming amount about the people down here, enough to grieve them before anything has even happened. But right now, you have to accept and believe that you've done everything you can, and that it wasn't for nothing. By convincing Fyros to hold off for this long, for wasting their time remaking their weapons and armor over and over, you have single-handedly managed more than any army could ever hope to accomplish right now. And you would look at all of that and say this is still your fault?" She shook her head, feeling the heat of her own impassioned rant rising in her cheeks. "It's selfish!"
The word was jarring enough to catch his attention. "Selfish?"
"Yes! It's insane that you think you alone should have the answer to all of this, when the whole point of the Guardians was that we were all supposed to come together!" Saruya took a breath, quieting her tone and bringing her forehead forward to rest against his. "Quill, I know that all the logic in the world says we're doomed, but hope doesn't always obey logic. For as long as the cities are not yet razed and the Guardians may still come forward, there's still a shred of it. I'm not saying that we should stand by and do nothing, but I am saying that we can't give up yet. Okay?"
The exhaustion seeped so heavily into Quilleran's features that Saruya could track its spread, watching it drift down his body like the preliminary pebbles of an impending rockslide. She knew he wouldn't be satisfied with letting hope be the answer—at all—but the hollowness of his eyes told her he lacked the energy to fight any further. When his eyes drifted shut, his reply was nothing more than a weary, "Okay."
The combination of shut eyes and the abject silence of their enchanted space made the time they spent with hands and skulls pressed together feel endless. She wished it could be, wished that the summer could have lasted forever, with multitudes of lazy sunny days free of the burden of Sordid threat. She had drummed up every scrap of goodwill she could muster to rally him onward, but if she were truly being honest, she was not immune to the gravity of his report, feeling fear lick at the back of her mind without her own words to distract herself. But if he had managed to carry the weight on his own this long, she could carry a brave face for a few hours more, or at least until he fell asleep.
She could feel his cheekbone gradually slipping from her grasp as he lost the will to keep himself upright, drifting lower and lower until his head landed in her lap and his arms snaked around her hips. Her fingers threaded into his hair out of what had now become habit, a move so natural and thoughtless as breathing, and she pet and scratched down the length of his scalp in soft, soothing swipes.
It coaxed another saddened sigh from him. "This is the only place where anything feels even remotely okay."
"I know," she murmured back. She understood, having taken her own fair share of refuge in his company over the past few months. Though she'd known from the start that they were operating on borrowed time, though they'd discussed it extensively, she'd always put off the thought of when his freedom to spend time with her might come to an end. Hearing it now, bundled with the news of humanity's plight, she could feel her heartbeat protest. She wasn't ready to let go of him yet.
It was clear he wasn't ready to let go of her, either.
Saruya's hands continued to operate on autopilot, running over any surface of Quilleran's body that she could touch, while her mind settled into a fatigued numbness. She closed her eyes again, struggling to put distance between herself and the bleak energy in the air that kept the her and Quill trapped in place. She was so distant from her own consciousness that she failed to notice him as he propped himself on all fours, only returning to the present moment once his lips sealed around hers.
His breath was still just as awful as it had been downstairs, if not worse. It thrust her from her wistful reminiscing back into the harsh reality of Quilleran's lapse of judgement, especially as the first kiss gave way into a request for another, and another after that. She could feel his jaw pushing against hers, pressuring her backward until her shoulders hit the headboard and then driving further still. It was no time at all before she was fully on her back, her pulse knocking at her throat as she opened her eyes to his massive form hovering above her own.
She twisted her neck, wrenching her head to the side in an attempt to break herself free of the onslaught. "Quill," she stammered, suddenly realizing how much breath he'd stolen from her, "what are you doing?"
He stared back at her with flushed face and unfocused eyes, his expression still manifesting the burdensome weight of his troubles, before crumpling beneath her gaze and burying his face in her neck. "Please," was the first word he managed, "a moment. I just need a moment where everything feels okay, and then I will be fine."
Saruya grimaced, pressing a cautionary hand against his shoulder. "What you need is rest, you're already going to feel shitty enough in the morning as it is." Then, as a new thought occurred to her, she added, "What are you even going to do in the morning, anyway? There's no way you'll make it back in time for work, and you'll be in no shape for it."
"I've been gone for days at a time before, it's fine."
She rolled her eyes, having a feeling he was somehow downplaying the truth of the statement. "...Sure."
He continued mouthing at her neck, pressing his lips here and there in an attempt to appeal to her. "This is more important."
"Making sure you don't die of alcohol poisoning is important," she deadpanned, feeling around the surface of the bed with one hand. "Where did that cup go...?"
His hand moved with a precision unexpected of his current condition, capturing her wrist and keeping it in place. "Later."
"Stop messing around." She made a move to pull her hand away casually, but rather than give way to her, his grip tightened. Her eyes shot downward to the point where their limbs met, then back at him, appalled. "Quill, let go."
"I don't want to. I'm afraid that the next time I let you go will be my last." His head began to travel, sinking lower to her chest, his lips pulling at her breasts through the fabric of her bodysuit.
Her biology betrayed her as her nipples stiffened into peaks from the contact, just as visible through the clothing as the pounding in her chest. "Quill, you're drunk. If this really were the last time, which I'm sure it isn't," she added, giving another try at squirming out from his grip, "this isn't how you would want to leave it."
He brought himself back upright on his fours so he could look down at her, and it was here, framed by all four of his limbs, pinned by one, and bathing under the looming shadow he cast upon her, that Saruya came to terms with a terrifying truth: she wouldn't be able to escape him if this kept up. She couldn't have imagined that the broad, bulky arms that had held her so tenderly over the summer would come down upon her with such force as this. Flashbacks jumped up from the back of her mind like the spring on a bear trap. So many times he had cautioned her about his strength, so many times she had attempted to alleviate his anxieties of somehow harming her—and now, her thoughts played those memories back, so vividly that it was like the words were hitting her eardrum all over again, each one taunting at her spirit as if to say I told you so. He had been right to be afraid of himself. He had known all along.
She hadn't felt this small in his presence since the day they had met.
"Saruya."
His voice rasped like scorched grass, the sound of her name enough to draw her back from the whirlpoolish swirling of her thoughts. The dim light in the room warped the proportions of his face in strange dimensions, but through it all, a pinpoint of light in the corner of his eye told her that the Quill she knew was still in there somewhere—just drowning, at present. In her heart, she couldn't truly blame him. On the contrary, she could empathize all too well. With how terrible the news was, with how terrible her own past few days had been, she wanted to drown just as badly. Anything to be rid of the burden.
If she never saw him again after this moment, would she look back on this with regret?
His eyes were still wet as he looked down upon her. "I can't lose everything. Not yet."
Her limbs drew in closer to her body—the ones she could still move, anyway. As the quilted blanket topping the bed shifted beneath her, she could faintly detect the sound of the discarded water cup as it slid off the edge and hit the floor below with a hollow thud.
Saruya sighed. The depression of her chest that accompanied the exhale felt heavy, as though a great weight had pressed it out of her. Perhaps it was the heaviness of her heart. Perhaps it was the very literal feeling of her will caving in.
"Okay."
Quilleran didn't question it for even a second, too uninhibited in his current state to bother. The hand holding hers in place eased and lifted, his arms instead scooping her up by the waist as he buried himself in her chest again. And now the only thing hanging above Saruya's head was the ceiling, where the only thing to ponder was whether or not she had made the right choice.
There was a clamminess to his palms as he handled her, pulling eagerly at her shoulders, her hips, her thighs. Even through her clothes, Saruya could feel the hot blood beneath his skin, spurred to the surface by the alcohol and the uptick in his pulse. She pinched the back of his shirt collar between her fingers, a mere tug enough to give the impression of where she intended it to go, and some manner of instinct within Quill responded as he raised his arms and slid out beneath. Her bodysuit was the next piece to work around, as something in the back of her mind told her he was likely lacking the finer motor skills required to finagle it away from her. But within moments, both garments had made their way to the floor, and his lips their way back to her neck.
She wanted to enjoy the contact, to enjoy the searing heat of his mouth against her skin like she had numerous times before, but she found herself barely able to look at him. Not because she despised him or because she was disgusted by his actions, not at all, but rather because her heart hurt harder for him every time she caught his eye, saw the redness crisscrossing the whites like thick branches and the deep lines of worry surrounding them. Even as she felt his touch upon her, even as hums of something that sounded vaguely like pleasure left her lungs, her mind was somewhere else entirely, distracted and distant as she recalled everything he'd told her that evening. Everything he'd said, in one way or another, had been a cry for help, a white flag waving frantically through a broken sky, directed at the person he had come to trust the most: her. It was nice to be trusted, certainly. Nice to be valued. It would be nicer still if she were truly able to help him, and she wanted to, more than anything.
She had never been able to stand to see the people she loved in any amount of hurt—a fact which had often in the past made Bethara's choice of career a great source of stress for Saruya, and which made the discovery of Bethara's condition a couple of days ago even more shocking. For years across their friendship, there had been a pattern: if one isn't okay, then neither is okay. When Bethara was uncomfortable, any manner of coping skills that Saruya used to manage her own emotions went out the window, overpowered by a distress that only eased whenever Bethara smiled again.
It seemed she had fallen into a similar trap with Quilleran. So tonight, upon seeing the suffering written so plainly across his features after months concealed, she had felt the damage down to her very core. Easing the pain in his heart would be an easy ticket to ease her own—and it was for this reason that she let him have what he wanted, even if it was uncertain if he would remember it in the morning. Even if she wasn't certain she wanted to give it to him like this.
Quilleran's shoes and trousers found their way to the floor next, a task he could luckily manage just fine on his own. When he sat back on his knees, Saruya's eyes coasted over his body—the sturdy shoulders she had clung to many nights before, the chest hair she nestled into at any opportunity, the cut of his hips that guided the eye downward. Her hand moved without her again, fingers curling around his length, about half-height at the moment, and encouraging it higher with subtle tugs and touches. His eyes squeezed shut in response, and the way he melted into her touch was clear by the drop in his posture and the desperate sound that emerged from his throat. He leaned forward again until he could press his forehead against hers, in search of the closeness and comfort he had felt from her minutes before, and sealed his placement with another kiss.
Saruya closed her eyes, fighting with her brain not to focus on the taste. If she closed her eyes, she figured, if she could take herself to a place where the two of them had partaken in each other with hearts unburdened, perhaps then she could find some amount of relief in his presence. Her other hand snaked between her own legs, holding out hope that she could salvage the experience for herself.
If this night were any other night, if Quill were any more himself, she would have had more luck. But as it turned out, a drunken Quilleran was a selfish one—just as selfish as she had called him out for being at what had, at the time, been a spur of the moment. He was only proving her more correct the longer this continued, the closer he got, the further his tongue pushed into her mouth and the more his hips ground into her hand. The head of his cock prodded and bumped blindly with the undulations of his hips, seeking her out but finding only the back of her knuckles as she attempted to get herself anywhere close to ready. With how quickly he was moving, it felt more and more like she was the one running out of time instead of him.
She tore her mouth away from his again, wrestled a hand out from between the two of them, swirled her fingers gracelessly around her tongue. Then back between her legs they plunged, trying to catch him before he barged in any further and just barely managing.
His hips curled into hers forcefully, his member catching and pulling against the delicate tissue as he pushed his way inside. It stung terribly, and a choked sound escaped Saruya's throat before she buried her face against his shoulder and bit down to stifle the noise and cope with the discomfort. Quilleran retained at least enough consciousness to slow down momentarily for her, to pump in and out a couple of times to better spread the slickness around, but was absent of stress or worry beyond that and likely numb to any pains of his own. If anything, he only sounded relieved to be inside of her.
The fit was almost tighter than their first time. She knew her position wasn't ideal—underprepared, under-aroused, and shit, at this point, not enough under the influence to be on par with him. The name of the game was no longer to seek enjoyment, but merely to hang on.
He gradually brought himself into more of a rhythm, and Saruya relinquished the grip of her teeth, grimacing regretfully at the prominent half-circles her jaws had left behind. Quilleran, however, seemed to take it as encouragement, surging forward into the sweet-smelling skin of her neck and locking his lips around it. His teeth scraped against her with a fervor uncharacteristic of him, like he was so desperate to have all of her that he was ready to eat her alive, incapable of stopping himself. One bite became two, became ten, traveling from her neck to her chest to her breasts and back up again, and the yelps earned from the firmest ones make Saruya glad for the spell over the room keeping their cover. In glimpses stolen between the frantic, hurried movements of Quilleran's head, she could spot the red and purple splotches and splatters forming on her body in his wake.
All the while, their hips continued to collide with enough force that she could hear the smacking above her own voice. The movements were jagged, uncoordinated, but most of all unbridled; a mindless, thoughtless expression of need that Quill could communicate to her without getting hung up on the words. She's almost certain that all trains of thought had long since departed, clouded over by his own panting, but someway, somehow, she could always find a way to understand him, even now.
The jerking and swaying of his movements increased as he pushed himself further, up until one thrust fell out of timing with the pattern and his cock abruptly slipped from its place. It ground not into her but instead against her, sliding back and forth along the mess they had finally gathered between them, slick and hot from their combined body heat. The sound that emerged from him next was guttural, primal, truly like an animal seeking a means to an end, as he bucked against her and fed himself from the pressure. Saruya could feel the pressure, too, could feel the tension beneath his skin and the heat they had built together as he rubbed and slid atop her folds. If she reached for it, she could just manage to appreciate the texture of him, every bump and bulge and ridge and vein, though her skin still burned and stung from the fierceness of his prior entry. Somehow she still found herself striving to be the perfect vessel, the source of tonight's comfort, the solution to an aching heart, even as hers ached alongside.
The end was as abrupt as she had been anticipating, borne on a hitch of his breath and a rugged groan. Saruya could feel the warmth between them spread further, spilling over her stomach in heavy surges and spreading as he rode out the final strokes. It had covered him, too, sticking to the trail of hair between his navel and groin, but any evidence soon disappeared from view as Quilleran collapsed into her chest with the fullness of his weight. She could feel her face flood with heat as she caught her breath, fighting for every expansion of her chest beneath the heft of his torso.
Bringing one hand to her cheek, she could feel a wetness to the corners of her eyes, too.
They laid there in silence for solid minutes, the room practically echoing their breaths back at them without the sounds from downstairs to fill the rest of the space. A brief recovery before the return to reality. For just a moment, Saruya found herself too exhausted to doubt, neither him nor herself, and allowed herself to disappear beneath the pressure of his body on hers.
Finally, Quilleran stirred, making an uncomfortable noise.
"...Saruya?"
"Yes, Quill?"
"I think...I am going to throw up."
Saruya nodded. It only made sense, with the amount of panting and thrusting he'd done, that he'd stirred himself up more than a little. It would be far better to get it out now than to risk choking in his sleep. Pointing at the doorway on the room's right wall, she directed him onward. "Washroom. Go." Then, questioning whether or not he had ever utilized Phenomina's plumbing system before, added, "I'll come help you."
"Saruya?" he asked again as he worked himself upright.
"Yes?"
"Thank you."
...
The morning was unwelcome as Quilleran opened his eyes. It was thankfully dark, with curtains drawn across the windows in the back wall, but even the threads of light that peeked through the corners were enough to thoroughly agitate the headache that had now taken over his entire skull. His body, too, ached terribly, overcome by dull pain broken up in steady intervals by a powerful throbbing, a throbbing nearly aligned with and just as inescapable as his pulse. His stomach and his brain seemed to be working together to revolt against him. Unsteadily, he brought himself to his feet, stumbled into the washroom that some part of him must have known was there, and voided the contents of his stomach again—whatever was left.
It took him a while to reemerge. Eventually, he made his way back to the bedroom side of the suite, took stock of his surroundings. Bed, dresser, desk and chair, side tables...his journal. Open, with a page torn out, laid on its surface and kept in place with his pencil resting overtop. He gingerly lowered himself onto the side of the bed and picked it up, smearing his other hand across his bleary eyes in an attempt to make the words read clearly.
The page had been removed from the book's binding with careful precision, and the writing it bore was nothing like his own. But even without reading the name at the bottom of the page, he could tell who had written it within the first few lines.
Quill,
It's morning as I'm writing this. I stayed with you for as long as I could to make sure you were safe while you slept, but I can't stay any longer since Bethy is expecting me. She doesn't even know I went out last night, or at least I don't think she does. So I'm really sorry to disappear before you wake up, without the opportunity to say goodbye, but I hope you can find it in your heart to understand.
You'll probably be feeling pretty awful this morning after how much you drank last night. Drink lots and lots of water, and get something hearty on your stomach if you're not too nauseous. Salty foods especially can help a lot. Welcome to your first hangover.
I don't know how much you'll remember of last night, if anything at all, but we talked a lot about the current state of the Sordid and where it's all headed. I won't lie and say I'm not scared about it, but I still have to hold out hope, and I hope you can, too. You aren't fighting alone—I've been doing some searching of my own in regards to information about the Guardians, and I think I have an idea of where to look next, but it requires that I go out of town for a couple of days and I wanted to let you know before you start worrying. I was going to wait for Bethara to get back on her feet and take her with me, but frankly, if things are advancing as quickly as you say they are, I may just have to be brave and set off on my own. We'll see. But if us two are the only ones who truly know what's going on, then I can't very well sit around and wait for someone else to do it, can I?
Stay safe. I promise to do the same.
And most importantly, do NOT let yourself fall into despair. Do not let them win.
