#fakebedo

“have you ever tried to create life from nothing?”

for a woman of science, rhinedottir was acting rather scatterbrained, frantically pulling bottles from shelves. each of them was twisted, and eventually returned to their place, the small plate above them marked with red.

“to sprout a seed with no water, to make a flower bloom within your hand?” it was a wonder she was still talking to him, crazed eyes always searching for his. did she think he’d run off? it wasn’t as if he could, with the doors bolted shut. “impossible. impossible. the slightest of changes in the ley lines ruins everything- have not one of these survived?”

that was new. he’d thought the lab was low enough no elements flowed, or at the very least the rest of the city blocked it. that’s what he’d always believed, as it was the only solution for his failure.

or was it him that was the problem? he didn’t know. he may have been her first success, but he was also her first failure.

bottles stopped returning to shelves, glass shattering on the floor and sending thick sludge all over the floor. fragile bones cracked on impact, half formed bodies crumpling with splats that made him cringe.

it wasn’t rare to see her so angry, but it was rare for her to take it out on her work. still, he did his best to ignore her, bringing his legs onto his chair and twiddling a pen between his fingers. it didn’t make it easier to block out the sound, but he did feel better when he could focus on tracing a square over and over, trying to keep the lines as thin as possible.

“stupid, stupid stupid stupid! i told them this would be revolutionary, but all they think about is their god-“ their what? “-and they don’t even try to listen to me! of course they didn’t, because what do i know? i’m only the-… the…”

he did look up, then, seeing her staring at a bright bottle. at least a hundred shattered bottles lay at her feet, yet she didn’t seem to notice, transfixed by the single flask in her hand.

“the greatest alchemist in the world,” she whispered.

all at once, she turned to him, boots crunching over flesh and bone as if it were nothing. he winced back slightly when the squish of her boot made some of the sludge splash up, landing halfway up the leg of his chair.

“look.” he didn’t want to. her eyes were wide and crazed and he was terrified. the bottle itself was harmless, the organism inside curled underneath and far from consciousness, but she.. “he lived.”

he gripped his pen tightly, forcing a nod.

“he’ll be perfect.” that’s unrealistic. “i just know it. look at him.” you’re being irrational. “he needs a name.” you don’t even know if he’ll survive.

she walked away and began to pace, seemingly not noticing the tens of half-formed corpses beneath her feet. “a name, a name…”

what a sight. for someone so set on creating life, she disrespected so many.

he looked back down to his paper, continuing his exercises. around the square, then the other way, then the hexagon. the lines grew thicker as the amount of sides increased, his pen slipping on the page. still, he kept his hand as steady as possible, breathing slowly. he could just ignore her. it’s not like she’d ask for his input, so he can just focus on the shapes, keeping each angle as sharp-

“hey!” his pen slipped as his shoulders jumped, dark ink soaking through the page. he turned, and found her frowning at him, bottle clutched in her hand. “pay attention. this could be groundbreaking; whatever you’re doing doesn’t matter in the face of perfect alchemy.”

he was doing as he was told. practicing his lines, slowly taming the tremors in his hands, stopping every half hour to train with the ball she’d given him for that exact purpose. ten squeezes with one hand, ten with the other, ten between the palms, and a quick massage of the muscles. as he was asked.

“i’ve decided on a name, if you care.” she turned back to the bottle, all traces of anger dissipating. she smiled at the bottle, carefully twisting it in her hands. “he will be nigredo.. the first stage of my magnum opus.”

his eyes flicked to the bottle, a small ember of resentment burning in his chest.

“as you wish, master.”

‘nigredo’ didn’t last long. within a month or so, his bottle blackened, eventually cracking altogether. he was there when she came back, finding the bottle leaking on her desk. she’d panicked, frightened, her concern eventually bubbling into anger.

the bottle had hit the wall just beside his head. something soft trickled down his cheek, landing on his paper. he lifted his hand, feeling dust fall from a small slit in his skin. he looked over to rhinedottir in shock, but she wasn’t looking. she was pacing angrily, glaring at the paperwork on the desks around her like it would be the next thing thrown. he didn’t want to bother her, he didn’t, but whatever sand was pouring through his skin was making him panic.

a breath in, a breath out. she didn’t seem any less upset than the last time he looked.

“..master?”

his hands flinched tighter when she whipped to look at him, his pen skidding across the page again.

“what?”

“my.. my cheek.” he took his hand away from it, but the dust continued to fall. “the bottle hit me.”

she stared, confused. “what bottle?”

“nigredo’s.” his chest burned, bitter, but he pushed aside his feelings. “i.. don’t believe this is normal, is it?”

another stretch of silence, her eyes flicking between his and the wound on his cheek.

“why would i do that?”

“i’m not suggesting you’d hit me on purpose-“

“why would i throw him? no, i.. i was going to fix him. i wouldn’t do that.”

it was his turn to stare, shocked. “but… you did.”

the dust hitting his page was the only sound in the room, neither of them moving.

“don’t be ridiculous,” she eventually said. “i wouldn’t hurt him like that. i have no reason. why would i waste so much of my time like that? all my effort into imitating the div-….”

“…you were angry. people say and do uninthings when they’re-“

“and what would you know about people?”

that was cruel.

his synthetic heart beat in his ribs like it wanted to flee, the dust continuing to pour from his skin in a stark reminder of his inhumanity.

“…master-“

“i’m leaving. i expect this place to be clean when i come back.”

he didn’t even flinch when she slammed the door. such things were regular occurrences.

“…what’s this, master?”

“he has a name. durin.”

another one with a name. when would he earn his?

“i see. my apologies.”

“whatever. go say hello.”

“pardon?”

“you heard me.”

sand was still trickling from his cheek, a brief wave coming quicker when he frowned. “master, i don’t think-“

“he doesn’t bite, it’s fine.”

and to her credit, he hadn’t.

(“rhinedottir! what have you done?”)

(“i’ve done many things. could you clarify?”)

(“w-what’s this?” his body was dead, but he still felt the way durin grumbled and hissed. “what have you made? we’re willing to look past a lot of your experiments, but this-!”

(“watch your tone. he’s perfect.”)

(“rhine-“)

(“why can’t you all just trust me? you act like i’m touting myself around like a god-“)

(“you are. your hubris will get you killed-“)

(“by who? what? who’ll dare to touch me? …nobody. exactly. nobody, not even that thing in the sky that calls itself the creator.”)

(“rhine-!”)

(“no. get out. you’re disrupting my work.”)

(“you know how celestia is, they’ve already started approaching the gates-“)

(“then let them come. you’ve seen my work. we’ll survive the battle.”)

(“what of the innocents? what of the kids and the elderly, those that did nothing wrong? do they deserve to die for you?”)

(“…if i deserve to die, then nobody deserves to live.”)

in his opinion, there’s only one thing worse than dying: figuring out you hadn’t.

the constant beat of a dragon’s heart had finally dulled, and with it his uncertain stasis ended. he was brought back to life, surrounded by bones that weren’t his, unsure which way was up.

the bones were tough to break, but a small sliver off the end made it easier to cut through flesh. he didn’t know why he was alive, or how, all he knew was the red blood oozing around his hands and a drive in his chest that told him to survive. his skin was hot, his clothes clinging to him and adding to the feeling of being trapped, the sludge around him unrelenting in its quest to keep him there, inside, stuck in the chest of this beast-

the air was cold. his heart was colder. the ground was hard where he fell, humming with energy from the core he just escaped. he looked up at the heart, his own beating frantically, and watched the space that he had carved for himself seal up, as if he was never there to begin with. the blood and flesh left on his clothes—he was still wearing the same thing from that day, torn and flimsy—soaked into the ground, making the earth burn a vibrant red.

durin had died too, just as nigredo had. he was the only one left. the only one left of rhinedottir’s creations, accused of killing the first and nearly dying to the second.

or…

well, he certainly wouldn’t be surprised if she’d kept her other projects quiet. he was hardly allowed to leave the lab, let alone the palace, so who knew what she was up to? it could be any number of things, knowing her.

he pushed himself up on shaky limbs, uncharacteristic anger fueling his thoughts. he never hated rhinedottir before, but now that he was betrayed, what point did he have to try and care for her? she never gave him her love, so why did she deserve his?

with a hand on the wall—flesh melded into stone, he didn’t think about how long durin had been sitting here lest he be paralyzed by time—he began to stumble toward the exit of the cave, his legs stiff. he felt like when he was first created, shaking and confused, except now he knew that he was weak due to muscle atrophy and not his nerves struggling to fire.

(“there you are,” she had smiled. “let me help you down, i’m sure it’ll be hard on your own.”)

(it was. he clung to her as his lifeline, hands shaking and knees wobbling. the room was bright, loud, his mind pinging from object to object as he reached for anything he recognized. how strange, to be formed fully conscious and yet without any knowledge of the world around you. no words to describe the softness of the cot she sat him on, no name for her eyes as she gently picked up his hand, tracing the tremors.)

(“are you scared?” he didn’t know what that was. the lab was confusing, emotions he didn’t know how to handle bubbling and overflowing. “i’ll take care of you, it’s okay.” a hand to her chest, a soft call of her name, the first word he ever knew one that belonged to her.)

(he’d done his best to learn to say it, but he was imperfect. his hands quaked, his tongue was stiff, and by the time he’d managed to say it in full she had corrected him to ‘master.’ he only learned the concept of time when he was told he was using too much of hers, sequestered to a corner of the room where she didn’t have to look at him.)

(maybe that was why he wasn’t given a name. why would he have one when he couldn’t even recite it?)

with a shake of his head the memory was cleared, mind once again centered on the cave. perhaps he should sit, try to clear the fog over his head… the air was getting colder the further he went from the heart, white dust flickering in the air. ash? no, too bright…

he lowered himself to the ground carefully, leaning against stone. already he was tired, and he’d barely made it halfway out. how long was he… not asleep, perhaps unconscious? he didn’t know.

something was—howling? calling? what was the word? was all that time spent with a dictionary was for naught?—loud, crying out and filling the whole cave. maybe whatever was moving the white… what was it? it looked soft where it piled on the ground, yet to survive in the cold air… all of it melted before it reached him, but he wanted to know what it was.

(curiosity.)

the ground was rocky, but he had plenty of practice in pulling himself where his legs could not take him. across the lab, into a chair, to the shelf when his master was too busy to get it herself. he guided himself around a sharp stone, stopping a few inches away from the substance. already some of it was beginning to land on his clothes, settling into the creases as he pulled his legs up to his side to sit more comfortably. he lifted his hand, watching as a few of the particles landed in his palm. they were small, details too fine for him to fully pick out. they melted slowly in his hand, fading away, but many more soon took their place. they were cold, but he hardly felt the chill anymore, transfixed by the sight. they had to have a name, right? something soft, to adequately describe the gentle fall when they weren’t whipped around by whatever force lay outside the cave, had to…

“have you never seen snow before?”

snow. snow. ah, that was a nice word for it.

“i haven’t.”

he looks up, finally, and sees another man standing there. he has light hair and a blue shirt, a white lab coat overtop. an odd orange crystal sits at his collar, just below a diamond shaped mark on his skin in the same color.

“who are you?”

they both ask the question at the same time, and he’s surprised by how hollow he feels when asked. he doesn’t have a name, not even a designation or title. anger began to spark in him again, but was cut short by the other man putting a hand to his chest.

“i am the chief alchemist of the knights of favonius, here to determine any changes resulting from the uncharacteristic ley line activity recently.” an alchemist… his master was an alchemist, wasn’t she? was she still alive? maybe she knew this man- could he see her again? would she remember? maybe him being eaten by durin was a fluke, maybe she’d say sorry and maybe his survival was enough proof of his worth that he’d get what he’d longed for for so long.

“my name is albedo. what is yours?”

the world stopped turning. the snow stopped falling. everything froze, his world sharpening to a pin, his breath pausing as he looked into the eyes of the man with a name.

the creation with a name. albedo.

“…her magnum opus.”

albedo blinked, but didn’t seem all that surprised. “so you are another of master’s students.”

‘student.’ he was lucky she afforded him a spare pen, but he was taught?

(what did he know? he wanted to know too. what did his master do? what else was there to learn? how many books of knowledge existed beyond the four walls he’d grown to hate? could he finally put the sights to the names? what was the sun and how did it rise, what was a day and how did it end, what was the world and how did it work?)

(curiosity.)

“how interesting. she told me of a few trials before me, but i didn’t expect you to be-“

“were you created too?”

say no. say no and tell him he wasn’t the only one. say no and say it wasn’t his fault. say no and say he wasn’t a failure.

“…yes. i was.”

anger was bubbling and beginning to rise, irrational and yet uncontrollable. he shouldn’t be angry at albedo, he’d done nothing wrong, but his heart refused to obey.

“did she speak of me?”

“i don’t know. she spoke about durin, sometimes, and mentioned one of my predecessors. are you nigredo?”

nigredo died. nigredo died, and yet he was worth more of her time.

how?

what made him so imperfect? what was wrong with him being a first attempt? that didn’t mean failed. first didn’t mean failed, it meant first.

he was the first. had she not completed what she set out to do? synthetic life, an abiotic creation, proof of her knowledge and ability, proof it could be done at all. what part of him made him so inherently worthless? why did she want perfection? why couldn’t he be perfection?

albedo walked closer, more details coming into focus. the buckles on his coat—not a lab coat, then, or perhaps an altered one?—and the lines on his boots clear enough he could see them. when he crouched in front of him, he could see the gem on his collar sway slightly, the spikes on its inlay now visible. he leaned away, one hand tightening into a fist where he’d set it in the snow, the cold sinking into his palm. it rushed up his arm and into his chest, settling right next to the burn of his anger.

“when did you get your name?”

“when i was first able to ask for it.” albedo took his hand despite how he tried to pull it away, easily overpowering him. “interesting. you don’t appear to have any body heat of your own, and yet are shivering.”

(anger.)

“are you scared?”

(rage.)

“has she sent you? is that why you’re here?”

“not at all.” he let his hand fall, idly swiping a bit of snow from his shirt. his hand was warm. “i came here to inspect durin’s heart. did you come from there?”

(righteous fury.)

the snow in his hand packed together, the swirl of flaming anger and frigid resentment making his chest heaven as he took in air he didn’t need.

“i was eaten by him.”

“you survived being eaten by a dragon? a commendable feat. did you dig your way out?”

with hands that shook and eyes that couldn’t cry, supported on weakened legs and with bones barely able to keep me up. were you fed as often as i was? you look much less wiry.

“is that why your hands are shaky? perhaps i should take you to my lab…”

yes, the lab, take me there and fix everything that’s wrong with me, give me writing exercises and assure me it’ll pass, that i’m something broken, that you know better, that i was never and would never be what you wanted or strived for. tell me often enough and i’ll believe it, i’ll believe you when you say i’m wrong, believe you when you say it won’t hurt, believe you when you promised it would be okay, for you were the master and i were the slave-

a string that wasn’t his snapped, another’s anger channeled through him. all he could see was red, a chalk heart in his ears demanding he hit before it was returned. who, he didn’t know, nor why, a torrent of thoughts released through him, years of anger melting the ice around them.