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| Details |
| Author: | Aly |
| Summary: | Lathrik's curse progresses in a debilitating way. Reniya comes up with a plan. |
| Rating: | M for Mature 17+ |
Lathrik stands in a secluded alcove behind the Old Town barracks, counting. His hand is tight on the neck of a mana potion, the glass already warming from his touch. One minute down, one to go. He leans against the building for support, a familiar weakness working through his body limb by limb. It didn’t used to be this bad. Mere months ago he’d have said he could go on like this forever, but now he is stretched, like a string nearing its breaking point.
His shift starts in five minutes — no, three — and yet he is here, fighting to compose himself enough to seem normal. He is not normal. Nothing about today, or yesterday, or the day before was normal. The curse carved into his chest begins a dull, aching throb as it seeks his mana and finds none. What will it take next? His consciousness? His life? Thirty seconds. Lathrik drinks the potion.
The wave of nausea comes on so suddenly it’s almost startling, as his body immediately rejects it. Thirty seconds. Thirty bleeding seconds and he could have avoided this. He’d panicked.
Lathrik rests his forehead on the sun-warmed stones of the barracks in between heaving coughs. The heat doesn’t help, but at least he doesn’t have to carry the full weight of his head. It will be fine. He has another mana potion. Soon he can —
He is coming.
A chill runs down Lathrik’s spine moments before someone rounds the corner to this unlikely location, possibly drawn by the noise he’s making. He turns his head against the wall for a better view and catches sight of a familiar set of blue and gold leather armor, locks of wavy brown hair reaching the other man’s shoulders. There is only darkness where his face is supposed to be.
“Oi, Lathrik, what’re you doin’ back here? I was…” Ren slowly trails off. “Mate?” He steps closer.
He is one of them. He will lure Natalyah away from you. She will rush to her death.
Fear squeezes Lathrik’s heart. “I’m fine,” he says.
“Like hell you’re fine,” Ren objects, moving closer still. “D’you need to see a healer? You look bloody awful.”
The nausea fades enough to allow Lathrik to step away from the wall, even as fear tightens its hold on him. He waits until Ren is close enough to touch, and then…
“Whooph —!” says Ren, as Lathrik’s fist digs into his unsuspecting gut.
He doubles over, his hand settling on Lathrik’s shoulder, but with no real grip to it. Lathrik brushes it off. His shift is starting. He needs to appear normal. He drinks another mana potion.
Strength floods back into his limbs, but not enough. Not nearly enough. Gritting his teeth, Lathrik starts towards the front of the barracks to check his route for the day. He’ll have to make do.
Behind him, he hears Ren catch his breath. “Oi, Dinnsfield,” he calls. “Don’t you walk away from me!”
Lathrik keeps walking, his eyes on the narrow, shaded path between the side of the barracks and the wall separating it from the rest of the population. He can’t stop; he’ll be late. Swearing follows, then the sound of running. Lathrik turns just in time to see faceless Ren barreling down on him.
The two men collide, crashing to the ground where they grapple in the dirt, exchanging blows to the face, shoulders, torso, wherever they can reach. It’s almost an even fight. Ren might be more exposed, lacking Lathrik’s plate armor, but Lathrik is not fine, and each hit Ren lands takes him longer and longer to recover from.
Finally, Ren achieves the upper hand and hauls Lathrik to his feet, pinning him against the barracks wall. His left hand holds Lathrik’s sword arm still, while his right firmly grips the back of his neck. For a while, Ren doesn’t say anything, and the only sound is the two men breathing heavily.
After minutes of silence, Ren swipes a hand across his face, the back of it coming away red with blood before resettling on Lathrik’s, and his fingers tremble on the back of Lathrik’s neck. “Talk t’me,” he says.
“I’m fine.” The words are out of Lathrik’s mouth before he can stop them. An automatic reply whenever someone is worried about him. A lie.
“Don’t —” Ren’s fingers twitch on his neck, his voice shaking with emotion. “Don’t lie to me, mate. It’s been rough, I know that. Captain of the Guard bein’ what he was, the mess in the Cathedral, the Archbishop disappearing, what happened to Elle’s father…”
Ren breathes out, a short puff of air, almost a sigh, as he continues. “Tides, Lathrik, y’know I’d do anything for you, right? Don’t tell me there’s nothing before you’ve even said what’s goin’ on.”
Don’t tell him. She’ll die.
Ren speaks again. “Has it got to do with the mana potions? You had too many?”
“Aye,” Lathrik says. His voice sounds weaker than he expected.
Relief floods into Ren’s own voice. “Aye, okay. They’re not doing enough for you then? The curse is gettin’ worse? We could prob’ly ask ol’ Swallowtail about the —”
Lathrik’s free hand grabs desperately at Ren’s side, clamping onto and holding him tightly enough to elicit a sharp breath and a noise of pain from Ren. His head bends towards Lathrik and he says, his voice a low murmur, “Not there, mate… please.”
Lathrik must have struck him there during the fight; he loosens his grip, and Ren pulls back a little, composing himself.
“You’re hidin’ this from Natalyah,” he concludes after another breath. “Y’have to know by now she’ll find out sooner or later. Sooner’s better for a number of reasons, especially if later means you’re bedridden. At least right now y’can —”
“Ren,” Lathrik interrupts, seeking the other man’s eyes in vain. The empty void stares into him, clawing at his mind until he looks away again. “I can’t… see your face.”
A pause.
“Just my face?”
Lathrik nods.
“Well, first off, I can see why that might bother you, considerin’ how attractive we know my face is,” Ren says. “Is it only me? How long’s this gone on for?”
“Three days. It’s only my friends. And…” Natalyah.
It’s possible she’s already noticed how he can’t seem to make eye contact when they talk, or the way he waits for her to kiss him before being able to reciprocate. He’s done everything he can to avoid or stall that conversation, but Ren’s right. If he waits much longer, he may be bedridden. Like he used to be.
He remembers lying on the street as a child, covered in a flimsy newspaper, watching Peril struggle to sell enough papers for them to get by. Back then he could barely talk, let alone stand. It was a miracle he even survived.
“And Natalyah,” Ren finishes for him, straightening. “Right. Well, here’s what we’ll do, aye? I’m not sure about the faces thing, but the mana issue we’ve still got options for. For now, I’ll rough you up, bring you back to Swallowtail so she can heal you and get you mana that way. We can find a druid, meantime, and get on findin’ your mother. I’ll come up with something to tell Pennings, and we’ll go from there.”
Options. The word rings like hope in Lathrik’s mind. A druid. Of course. And Natalyah can heal him. If he fights, constantly fights, maybe… It occurs to him that this must be how death knights feel, forced into battle after battle just to stay alive.
“Aye, alright,” Lathrik finally says, surrendering his tension, his fear, his mask. He runs a hand across his own bloodied face, then separates from Ren, takes off his armor, and stands ready. “Don’t do anything unnecessary if ye want Natalyah to keep ye in one piece.”
He stares up at the sky as the first blow lands, trying to distance himself from the pain. If, somehow, this doesn’t work out, all he stands to lose is everything.