#khaggon

Efrain had visited his god’s temple more times in the last month than he had the previous three decades combined. He knew the brick and mortar of the temple didn’t contain the answers for his questions as they weren’t the sort of inquiries that could be answered with rigorous research. No amount of pacing through the halls or harassment of his old mentor would change that, but that wouldn’t stop him from trying. 

While the lower floor of the temple housed worship rooms and libraries, the upper floors were reserved for study spaces that could be used by local followers at their leisure, but Torlamarian had claimed one as his own centuries ago and no one was about to question his claim to the space. Efrain had been loitering since dawn and Torla’s patience had clearly worn thin as he had abruptly ushered Efrain out of the study with well-meaning but characteristically brusque admonishments along with a suggestion that Efrain acquire a “better” cat that would provide him better company. Efrain had also been roughly handed a binder of research regarding chronic nightmares and several books that looked to be newly printed adventures rather than anything academic. He shut Torlamarian’s study door behind him with an amused, if disgruntled, farewell. 

Efrain turned away from the office without looking up from his bundle, familiar enough with the halls that he didn’t need to watch where he was going to reach his destination. As he’d guessed, they were simply novels with adventures full of plights and daring deeds. All three of them were newly printed and still smelled of sour ink. They weren’t something Torla would ever be caught dead reading and Efrain frowned. He must be worrying his old mentor quite a lot for him to stoop to shopping in the fiction section. 

When one of the librarians at the academy had suggested that Hanna rent a cart for all the books they were checking out, Hanna had almost considered the idea before it became apparent that the librarian had been joking. Now, as they settled down with a cup of coffee at the closest café to the academy, a towering stack of books obscuring them from the streets, they were relieved they could get some reading done without the oppressive and claustrophobic walls that the campus seemed to have as of late. They were just taking their first sip of coffee, ready to indulge in bright, bitter taste, when the screeching noise of a chair being pushed backwards startled them just enough for their elbow to shoot out as their head turned towards the noise. With a clatter, the tower of books on Hanna’s table went tumbling down, cascading across the dirty stone street and flopping open on their bellies like lazy cats in the afternoon sun.

Gasping, Hanna put their coffee down and got to their feet, panic in their eyes. They should have known what a bad idea it was to take so many books out at once. The risk of one of them getting lost or damaged only grew the further away from the academy that Hanna took them, and Hanna could not afford to pay for most of these books if they were destroyed. Scrambling down to the ground, Hanna quickly tried to gather them up into their arms, checking them thoroughly for any tears or stains.

Thalra didn’t like leaving Nil alone and unprotected in her home, but after the conversation they’d had about Pyrope, and what she’d done in Arx while Nil was wounded and away from her, well, it did more than make Thalra’s blood boil. It was like there was a roiling tumultuous storm raging inside her, waves crashing against her bones and trying to break them to bits. Outwardly, she’d been calm, went to Jelxi to ask her to have someone watch the house while she was away, and then made her way to Khaggon. She’d kept her tone light and friendly as she’d messaged Pyrope to get her location, and let the storm continue to build. “Darling,” she’d said, the words flying through the magical ley lines of this plane to her intended recipient. “Could you tell me where you’re staying? I’d love to see you.”  

And now here she was standing outside Pyrope’s room in the tavern she’d indicated she was staying at. It had been easy to find out which room from the bartender. Genasi were as rare a sight as drow were, and that tended to make them memorable.

Thalra took a moment, her hands balled into fists at her side. She needed to remain calm, but all she could think of was Pyrope’s arrogance. Her cowardice. To go to Nil instead of attempt to face Thalra on her own. And how dare she threaten Nil? Thalra had given her so many chances, so many opportunities. Thalra had held her hand out and beckoned her to come closer and still, still she had slapped it away. Only to do this. Touching Nil was unforgivable. Whatever nostalgia Thalra had for her time with Pyrope was fully eclipsed by her anger now. And it was so difficult to keep off her face and out of her posture.

What did it matter though? Pyrope probably wouldn’t notice anyway, so caught up in her own misery and heartache. That’s how it had always been, why would it change now? Without hesitating any longer, Thalra knocked on the door.

Efrain had finally returned home after three days of panicking. There was no better word for it. He’d panicked. He’d hurt his dearest friend, his baby brother, and had learned that for all his attempts to help people, he’d simply hurt them. Anxiety coiled in his chest, around his heart, as he stepped through his own front door. He had only seen his parents briefly after the disaster, had mumbled something barely coherent about what had happened, and had fled their presence the moment they’d tried to comfort him. 

Only a week ago he’d comforted Avriel in Arx. He’d seen how hurt he’d been and how hollow he was afterwards and yet he’d still caused him more pain. Then he’d abandoned him to it. When they’d first met, he had feared that he would be a terrible brother, a useless one, and all he’d done since was prove himself right. He chewed his lip as he set his coat and things his own bedroom door before marching down the hall. He resolutely did not look at the study door. He’d disabled the lock, and the spell was gone, but the sight still made him sick to his stomach and caused his head to ache. In his absence, he had spoken to a high ranking cleric about the damnable geas and had been given a proper sling for his arm. They’d assured him that the pain in his head, the aftershocks, would fade eventually, but for now they felt inescapable and vile.

Too soon he was in front of Avi’s room. A door shouldn’t be so daunting, but Efrain would have preferred to face a dozen vampires and ghouls than to face his brother. He forced his breath to steady even as his heart continued to beat at a rabbit’s pace and knocked. “Avriel?” he called. “Avi, are you home?” 

It had been months since Efrain had ventured into the art quarter of the city. Every time he did, be it to browse the galleries or purchase more pigments, guilt churned in his stomach. He should be fighting or researching or working, not gallivanting after a silly fancy of his. Each time he’d pass under the brightly colored signs or look into gallery windows he’d hear his father’s cruel admonishments. They still echoed in his mind, but now they felt hollow and weak. The power behind them, the pain, had decayed. With the reveal of his father’s—Eobald’s—true self, Efrain himself had felt hollow. 

Remaining at home with the curious, caring gaze of his parents on him and the company of his brother had begun to feel suffocating. He couldn’t meet Immra and Orion’s eyes without shame and each time he looked at his brother while in that house he saw the terror from a few weeks prior. He’d fled, again, and like a coward he now ducked through the market stalls blindly. 

Wide panels were erected outside of galleries and in front of residential buildings and were all hung with paintings and art pieces. The entire street dripped in art and color and as he forced himself to look, to behold the talent of the city, the knot in his chest loosened some. He paused before a display of twisted metal, wires, and old, rusty weaponry twisted into wreathes and writhing shapes. He had no talent in sculpture, but he eyed them all the same. He wondered if Orion might like something from this stand and he stepped back to better see the sign of the shop, though he narrowly avoided bumping into another observer. “Pardon me,” he said, his brow furrowed. “I wasn’t looking where I was going. I was too taken with the pieces.”

It was odd, standing before the door of Eobald’s study in Efrain’s manor after all that had happened to her since she’d first laid eyes on it. She could remember the curiosity that had clawed at her stomach like a wild animal when she’d discovered the arcane lock on the door, and had spent days after that wondering what secrets Eobald had been keeping from her even in death. It had annoyed her. But then things had shifted, and as Efrain had become more important to her, the door had sunk deeper and deeper into the recesses of her subconscious. She never truly forgot about it, would even walk past it sometimes when she stayed in the manor and stop in the hall just to look at it. The door represented untapped potential; a secret so worth keeping that Eobald even refused Efrain entry.

And now here they were. Thalra had stumbled across a way to break the arcane lock on the door almost by accident. It was a surprisingly easy spell. She looked back over her shoulder at Efrain and gave him a reassuring smile, before taking another step towards the door that was only a handful of feet away. Her fingers started to trace through the air, leaving behind faint trails of purple light like the tail of a comet as she muttered the verbal components of the spell. It only took a few seconds, but then there was a small flash from the lock on the door as the magic surrounding it shattered. Thalra grinned.

She looked back at Efrain as she took another step towards the door and gestured to it. “Well, would you like to do the honors or should I?”

The cafe Efrain had chosen to meet Thea in was quaint and dripping in comforts. There were no spindly dining chairs or tables and instead the place was set up with tucked away nooks of overstuffed armchairs and ornate side tables. Throw pillows of every shade and fabric found homes on chairs and in baskets and at least one cushy blanket draped across each seat. They offered teas and cakes and all other sorts of foods meant to bring contentment to the consumer. All in all, Efrain felt rather smothered by the grandmotherliness of it all, though he had never actually had a grandmother and didn’t know what they were meant to feel like. 

He’d arrived several minutes earlier than the time he’d arranged with Thea, worry bubbling in his chest. Friends and foes alike often requested his presence for a meeting, but something in the woman’s voice had made him concerned. Perhaps it was the general, permeating unpleasantness of recent days that made paranoia cling to him. 

Regardless, he’d settled himself in an armchair by one of the front windows, the nook visible from the street and entrance, but secluded from the rest of the patrons with only two chairs and shared table. He’d ordered a plate of simple biscuits and a kettle of tea, black with notes of mint, that now stood on the small table and resigned himself to waiting the next few minutes with his eyes trained on the door for Thea. 

A field of muck and gore, churned into a swamp of anguish and ichor, surrounded Efrain. He knelt and the dampness clawed through his trousers and adhered to his clammy skin. He could feel the weight of his father draped across his lap, the fading heat of the man blanketing Efrain against the winter chill. With blood slicked fingers he felt the pulse of Eobald fade and stutter. Somewhere, and everywhere, horses screamed alongside men. The sweet stench of burning flesh from his father’s blade invaded his nostrils and it burned and burned and Efrain choked on it. The flame dancing across his father’s sword faded in the same moment the fire in his eyes flickered out and he remembered watching helplessly as they faded to nothing but hollow, frigid blue. He remembered what happened next and the pit of his stomach coiled and revolted with nausea and fury. The person who had loomed behind him, who thought they’d found a weakened target, had not lived to see the next dawn. Efrain felt the weight of his father in his lap and the weight was replaced by a needle-sharp pain in his thigh.

Efrain jolted up straight, his heart clenched to the point of crushed, and froze. Muscle by muscle he relaxed and breathed. In through his nose, slowly, and out through his mouth. Nightmares were his oldest friends and the only remedy to their lingering pain, and clinging panic, was to breath. His hair had become too long for his liking and the curls now draped boyishly into his eyes. He dragged a trembling hand through them.

He was in his home he told himself. In his library. At his desk. Weasel the cat was draped across his lap like a purring, furry anchor and had clawed him in the leg. No doubt the assault had been the source of his rude awakening. His tea had gone ice cold on the corner of his desk. His fingers were stained with grey ink and not blood and he’d fallen asleep while illustrating a turtle dove, one he’d seen on the way home from Dasratsel. No doubt that was what had sparked his nightmare, though they rarely required it. Dreams were a regular plague for Efrain, but the ghastly mirrors of the manor house had clawed him deeper than he was willing to admit. More and more he saw the faces of the dead, his dead, his victims, whenever he closed his eyes. 

He was in his home, he reminded himself, in his library, and his tea had gone cold. He had a cat on his lap, and a half-completed illustration before him, and—he wasn’t alone.

His attention snapped to where he’d felt rather than heard a figure approach and his tensed muscles eased when he saw who the intruder was. “Rinnil,” he greeted, his throat raw from disuse and lingering sleep. “Is everything alright?” he asked.