#Chath POV

[seadeepywrites]

Arrow

Characters: Basil Noctis Words: 2121 tw: violence, blood, Chath’s fucked-up headspace

I don’t even recognize the sound at first, a sort of sharp thrum. Basil isn’t kneeling in prayer like the rest of us – he never does. He makes a noise, but the impact of his hundred-odd pounds against my back is hardly enough to knock me over. I rise to my feet, twisting to tell him off for disturbing our prayer. It isn’t until he does something he almost never does – falls to the ground – that I know something is very wrong.

“Basil, what—” Then I see the blood.

The arrow is sunk into his chest nearly to the fletching – his front, which means he had time to turn and read the threat. That much time, and he didn’t dodge like I know he can? From the way he collided with my back, I have a guess why. He’d moved fast enough to put himself into the path of an arrow.

Around us, the circle is breaking up into shouts. Some of us pull weapons – others start weaving magic – and all I’m doing is staring at the dark stain spreading over my friend’s white shirt, fabric almost as pale as his skin.

I drop to my knees again, this time for much more secular reasons. I grab Basil’s shoulders. The stupid blue bastard is trying to get up, everything in him pulled irresistibly towards the fight, but for once I can keep a hold on him.

“Don’t move,” I say urgently. “You’re hurt.”

Basil opens his mouth, but his half-formed syllable becomes a gasp as the ground shakes under the force of somebody’s spell. His skinny frame convulses, and he grabs for me with one hand. He tries to talk again, and his thin lips are outlined scarlet with blood. I feel a kick of fear, deep in my stomach. I stand, hands swirling to shape Mage Armor around me. Even as I cast, I am searching for Auwenn. Her shiny high ponytail bobs like a skipped stone on the other side of the clearing as she spins her knives, slashing out at the attacker harrying her.

There are half a dozen people between us, most of them the ambushers in green and brown that have rushed on us from the woods, though there are one or two of my fellow cultists. I don’t hesitate, flinging out my hands and sending power rushing through them. Purple fire roars out, over Basil’s prone form, and consumes everything in its path. As soon as the magic releases, I bend and scoop my friend into my arms. He’s so light, so fragile, and far too still. Basil isn’t himself if he isn’t a blur of motion, a whirlwind of fists and kicks and quarterstaff.

The Burning Hands spell did what I wanted: cleared a path. I duck my head, clutch Basil close to my chest, and sprint. The Mage Armor flares bright around me but it can’t stop everything. Weapons take chunks out of my shoulders and magic stings my sides, but I’m strong and I keep going. I arrive at Auwenn’s side – her attacker turns to look at the enormous dark shape in his peripheral vision – and Auwenn darts in, leaping onto him and dragging her blade across his throat. He drops, and she lands on her feet. Almost as gracefully as Basil can.

I hold out the crumpled pile of light blue in my arms. “Fix him,” I rasp out, straining to raise my voice above the grunts and screams of battle. Basil’s eyes have rolled back in his head, and I don’t know if he’s shaking or my hands are. I set him as gently as I can on the ground at Auwenn’s feet.

 Auwenn glances down at him, and I see the sneer as she wipes down her knives, sharp metal flashing in her hands and in the twist of her lips. “Chath, now is hardly the—“

“Fix him,” I say, tone flattening to a hiss, and light my hands up purple. Trying not to sound desperate: “Or I’ll kill you right here.”

Auwenn’s mouth gapes open. She doesn’t like Basil, which isn’t surprising – not many do, especially after he crippled Saralure a few years back. I don’t care what she thinks. I don’t care about my threat to kill the highest level cleric within fifty miles. All I care about is Basil, and how far too much of his blood covers my hands and the front of my robes.

I go down to one knee, collect his head and shoulders in my hands. My palm is the size of his narrow face, which is turned up towards me as he struggles to breathe. His braid is half undone, silvery strands tumbling free to be smeared into the dirt and blood around him.

“Stay with me,” I growl, glad my already broken voice will hide my oncoming tears.

One of his eyes, half-open and glazed with pain, fixes on me. I can see him try to capture the air for a sarcastic comment. I bend closer.

“Shut up,” I beg him. “Please.”

 It seems like minutes I kneel there, watching the life pump out of him with each slow beat of his heart. Basil’s supposed to outlive me by centuries, not die by an arrow that was clearly meant for me.

Hands, almost as pale as Basil’s, appear above his chest. Fingers, spreading over the bloody hole punched through his ribs. The flesh around the injury begins to shift, glowing an eerie purple-blue. As the arrowhead moves toward the surface, Auwenn yanks it out with callous disregard for its serrated edges. I have to hold Basil down as he chokes on a scream, and I resist the urge to make good on my promise to melt Auwenn’s face off. She barely sees me as she hunches over him, eyes a luminous purple and fixated on the wound. I think she’s also forgotten who she’s treating, alive with the power surging from our goddess and through her. And under her hands, the wound knits shut, beginning to scab over. Her sneer is gone for the moment as she sponges away the excess blood with what’s left of Basil’s shirt, white fabric darkened with dust and now stained with scarlet. Some of the tension eases from Basil’s frame, and his eyelids flutter.

Auwenn rises to her feet. “There. That’s as much as I can spare for now.”

My jaw works for a second before I can say, “Thank you.”

Auwenn looks down and nudges Basil with her foot. “I hope the bitch is grateful when he wakes up.” Without waiting for a reply, she unsheathes her knives again, spinning them in her hands before darting back into the fray.

Basil is looking at me, green eyes glinting under half-shut lids. “Hey,” he breathes.

I lean closer, fighting off a giddy smile. “You dumb motherfucker.”

A single crease appears between his eyebrows. He says hoarsely, “I knew what I was doing.”

“Tell me,” I say, supporting his shoulders as he sits up. He feels so fragile in my hands still, all bony edges. “Did you get a look at who shot you?”

Basil reaches for his braid -- I don’t know what I expected. His hair spills down for a brief moment, still shimmering despite the muck. His movements are jerkier than usual, less fluid, but his expression is sharp as he scans the field, fingers weaving quickly through his hair.

“I don’t see him,” he says. “Brown hair, a little taller than me. Half-elf, maybe? Maybe someone else got him.”

“Stay here,” I say grimly. “I’m going to find out.”

Basil runs his fingers down the length of his braid, then flips it back over his shoulder. He actually doesn’t argue, just nods. His breathing is shallow, but regular.

I nod back, and I fix his description of his attacker in my mind. With my worry for Basil eased, I find instead a violent black rage. It has been simmering since I saw the arrow, and it is beginning to froth and roil. My muscles tense as adrenaline floods me again, but it is a misplaced instinct – that’s not the way I choose to fight. I can hear my pulse in my ears as I begin to channel power. My holy symbol burns on my chest, sending streaks of fiery energy throughout my body. I am boiling, burning. I am Chath. I am Fire.

I am only conscious of snapshots, single moments that pierce through the purple haze hanging in my vision. My fire burns me a path again, twisting and charring anyone who stands in my way. They die screaming, and I laugh, a shrill high-pitched sound.

I don’t remember finding Basil’s attacker or fighting my way toward him. A ranged fighter, a coward, standing with his bow at the edge of the clearing, sending green-feathered arrows humming into the chaos. I am in front of him now, reaching out, smiling a terrible smile. He turns to run, maybe reading his death in my face, but my grip closes on his upper arm. For this spell, I have to get up close and personal.

The next thing I know, the clearing has fallen quiet. There is some scrap of leather clinging to my hand, and I wipe it away on my robes. I am still breathing heavily, and there is something at my feet. Some pile of rotten meat, with bones cracked and gleaming among the decay. I look down at it and my lip curls.

“Well, that’s repulsive,” says a prim voice behind me.

I smile, not even looking over my shoulder. “That,” I say with satisfaction, “is what happens to people who hurt my friends.”

“It makes for a compelling example,” Basil remarks, appearing as a pale blur at the edge of my vision. “What the hell did you do to him?”

I rub my fingers and thumb together, feeling only skin against skin now that my rage and my magic are both spent. “That one is a gift from our Lady,” I say. “Didn’t know I had it in me until I arrived at the monastery, actually.”

Basil is quiet for a moment, the way he often gets around me when I get religious. I used to wonder why someone so agnostic, so obsessed with the physical, lived in a monastery, but by now I’ve watched him enough times in the training yard to understand. We all serve our goddess in different ways.

“I’m glad you’re okay,” I say, turning to him.

He smiles, still looking a bit pale. But doesn’t he always? “I’d do it again,” he says. I know it’s true, because Basil doesn’t tell lies. Not lies like that.

Still, I frown. “I’m pretty big, you know. I could have taken it.”

Basil rolls his eyes and scoffs, “Please. You didn’t even know he was there.”

“Yeah, yeah.” I wave my hand. “You’re so clever and perceptive. Fucking elves.”

Basil squints. “Wasn’t your dad—“

“Shut up,” I say, scowling, and he smirks. A starburst of warmth fills my chest, very different this time, as I try to swat him and he dodges easily out of the way. Where would I be without the snarky bastard? Dead in this clearing with an arrow in my back, I suspect.

“You have Auwenn to thank for the blood you got to keep inside you,” I tell him reluctantly.

He sighs. “And she’ll be insufferable about it, too.”

“You could try being polite to people other than your direct superiors,” I suggest. “You would probably get further in life. Literally.”

I expect him to make a joke about my own manners, but instead a muscle in his jaw tightens. His tone is still light as he says, “I try not to find myself in the position of needing assistance in the first place.”

“Mm,” I say skeptically. “Might want to stop jumping in front of pointy things, then.”

“You’re absolutely right,” Basil deadpans. “Next time, you’re on your own.”

But he and I both know that’s not true. I resist the urge to hug him, because it would probably get me punched and his punches hurt. Or maybe I’d get electrocuted. I know my friend’s boundaries.

Instead, I say, “Got it. Shall we go see who wasn’t as lucky as us two?”

Basil quirks an eyebrow. “You’re all heart.”

“That’s me,” I agree as we make our way back to the group. We leave the withered corpse behind us, to rot further and eventually become part of the forest around us. Unlike him, it would seem the Starshadow has decided to let us live for a few more days to come.

[seadeepywrites]

find the wrong within the past

Character: Basil Noctis Words: 2508 tw: Chath and Basil's fucked-up headspaces, references to childhood abuse & neglect

"Has anyone ever told you," I ask Basil, "that there's something really wrong with you?"

Basil blinks at me. "Yes. Many times."

"I don't mean that in like, an insulting way," I add as an afterthought.

"I didn't think you did."

I stir my bowl of gruel, and actually take a moment to think before I speak. "Have you always been like this?"

"Like what?"

Basil sits further from the fire than I do, cross-legged and unassailably composed. I served him a third of the portion I ladled out for myself, but he set his bowl aside after taking only a few bites. If I nag him about it, he'll just retreat into a frosty silence.

Frowning, I say, "You know how high elves are supposed to be all calm and repressed?"

"I've heard that's the stereotype, yes."

"Well, most of the ones I've met still have emotions under all that," I say. "They just don't want to show them. Or something."

Basil arches an eyebrow.

"But you..." I shake my head. "Did they like, beat them out of you really young?"

"The emotions?"

"Yeah."

Basil's thin lips twitch in amusement, but he seems to be actually considering the question. Eventually he says, "Something like that, perhaps."

"Wait, really?"

Being Basil, he doesn't exactly relax, but he does shift his weight, settling into a more neutral position. The green of his eyes glints gold as he studies me in the firelight, and shadows snag along the sharp edges of his cheekbones.

"I can tell you that there was certainly no place for emotion in my relationship with my family," he says, as matter-of-factly as discussing the weather. Then again, I've heard him use that same tone to detail the gruesome torture of innocent civilians, so maybe it's not a great metric for how fucked-up his childhood was.

Hence the topic of this conversation, I guess.

Basil adds, "But I would be remiss if I didn't acknowledge your point about elven society. It's true that many elves are bred to hide their stronger sentiments beneath a veneer of civility."

I stare at him. "Ignoring the fancy vocabulary words, you're saying you're an exception?"

He sighs. "Yes. That's most definitely a possibility."

"Say more about that."

Basil tilts his head. "You mean 'elaborate?'"

"Okay, now you're just doing it on purpose."

"I am," he agrees placidly. Stretching out his fingers, he flexes them once or twice before continuing. "I would say that I saw many, many small dramas play out over my years in Bastion. Rivalries and politics and heartbreak. I had my own share of challenges, but I never got involved in that side of things, exactly."

"But do you think that has more to do with your position in the household or who you are as a person?" I ask. "Was it because you weren't," I gesture, "you know, a proper noble?"

"Partially. I never had any honor to defend in the first place." Basil's clear-eyed gaze fogs over a bit. "But I was aware from a very young age that I didn't tend to pour energy into relationships the way that others did."

"And by young age," I say, "you mean, what, thirty-five?"

A sliver of a smile from Basil, just a flash of his pearly-white canines. "Yes."

"Elves," I grumble, motioning for him to go on.

"I don't know that there's much more to tell." He looks at me with a courteous degree of interest. "Was it like that in your childhood? With everyone getting involved in petty squabbles and all that... yelling and crying?"

I grin, baring my own canines, and toss my mane of black hair. "The other kids were pretty scared of me. A lot of people still are."

"So I've noticed."

It's one of the things we bonded over when we first met -- how even in a monastery full of murderers, thieves and outcasts, we are considered unsettling. Me for my violent emotions, and Basil for his complete lack of them.

"I did a lot of yelling and crying, yeah," I say. "Are you telling me you didn't?"

"Not particularly. There were things I wanted, to be sure, but..." Basil's eyes narrow, before he shakes his head. "No. Not that I remember."

"You little freak," I say, but affectionately.

"To your earlier question," Basil says, "it wasn't as if I had many peers of a similar social status to myself. There were the servants, and then there were the members of the nobility, and neither group really saw me as one of their own."

"Oh." I stir my gruel, aching with a sudden sense of connection between us. "It was kind of like that for me too. With the orcs and the dark elves."

"So while I don't have any comparisons I can draw to other Noctis bastards in the same position as myself," Basil says, "I also believe myself to be predisposed to... tranquility."

"Is that what you'd call it?"

"It seems more descriptive than 'something really wrong,' don't you think?" Basil says, looking at me meaningfully.

I grumble, conceding the point.

Basil is silent for a few seconds before he adds, "I have not found myself capable of the, ah, attachments that others form. Nor any kind of powerful emotion like love or hate."

Even having known Basil for over a decade, there are times that he makes my skin crawl. It's some kind of visceral physical reaction -- quite separate from the attraction I've felt towards him, though both are primal instincts I cannot control.

As I look at him now, I shiver. Something about the emptiness in his expression as he says it unnerves me, the unnatural sharpness of his elven features. It sets my teeth on edge, though I have trusted him unquestionably since the day he disobeyed Hieram's orders and saved my life.

"Well, maybe you're better off that way," I say, weakly, not really believing it. "It's a lot less messy, huh?"

"I suppose. I don't have much to compare it to, aside from observing people for whom the opposite is true." Basil fixes his gaze on me, and I breathe in suddenly against the sensation -- like being impaled, a butterfly pinned to felt inside a collector's case. "People like you."

"Yeah..." I hold up one hand and murmur a word, setting my fingers alight with smoky purple flame. "I know my magic is a gift from Our Lady, but sometimes I almost think..."

Basil doesn't roll his eyes, but it's a near thing. His tiny blasphemy gives me the courage to continue.

"It feels like it comes from inside me," I say. "From my emotions. The angrier I am, the more powerful my spells get."

"Couldn't your Lady have given you magic that works in that way?"

It does not escape my notice that he refers to the Starshadow as my goddess and not the both of ours. All these years in the monastery, and he still clings to his impiety with the stubborn force of a mollusk.

I close my hand around the purple fire, which smolders out. "Yes," I say firmly. "I guess that's a better way to think about it."

"Glad I could help," Basil says, tone as dry as drought.

"What I'm saying is that for me, being emotional makes me better at what I do. Do you think the reverse is true for you?"

"It's possible." Basil blinks a few times. "I suspect the acolytes at the monastery would prefer a bit more rabid devotion and fewer level-headed decisions, but in the Spire? A Lieutenant who prioritized the organization over any personal influences was desirable."

I genuinely have to sit with those sentences for a moment, sifting through the ridiculously long words to get to the meat of what he's saying. Sometimes listening to Basil talk gives me a headache.

"So you were good at your job in the Spire, then?" I ask, hoping to entice him into dropping more details about his past.

Basil sets his bowl down and folds his hands neatly in his lap. "I would like to think so," he says. "Many of my superiors have also seemed to believe as much, over the years -- though unfortunately not all of them."

"Mmm. Where does Hieram fall on that list?"

"Above Adrian Crowstar," Basil says instantly. "For giving me a chance to work in the field instead of saddling me with babysitting duty."

I gape. "They let you near actual children?"

"Sixteen years old," Basil says with a huff. "Not a thought in that empty head of hers."

"Oh." I'm a little disappointed, actually. I say, "I was kinda hoping you meant like, a toddler. Because that would have been hilarious."

"I would have left much sooner, had that been the case." Basil's face has clouded over, stormy and disdainful. "It was out of respect for the others in the Order that I stayed as long as I did."

"And some of those..." I hold up my two hands and weigh them like balancing scales. "Better or worse than Hieram?"

Basil tucks his displeasure into the corner of his mouth as he considers.

"I won't tell anyone," I say hastily, realizing he might be worried about bad-mouthing his current boss.

"I have few objections to Hieram," he says after a moment. "It's simply that Magister Uthgart was... well, he understood my abilities on a level that few have, before or since."

"You liked him." I point triumphantly. "Admit it."

He glances at me, irritated. "As I have just finished telling you," he says, "I do not form attachments the way the rest of you do."

"Yeah, yeah." I wave my hand. "Whatever. You tolerated him."

"I tolerate many people."

"You..." I screw up my face as I search for the right word. "You wanted to hang out with him?"

"I do not ‘hang out’ with anyone." Basil glares. "Not even you."

I pitch my voice up and affect a godawful posh accent. "You preferred his company over the unwashed masses."

Basil flicks a pebble at me. He has annoyingly excellent aim, so it bounces off my forehead and lands in my gruel. I grimace and fish it out, growling a little.

"Okay." I say, relenting. "You worked well with him. I get it."

"I don't know that you do," Basil says.

I open my mouth to speak, but he cuts me off.

"I'm not saying you've never cooperated with anyone." His smile is thin and bright, like light off a knife's edge. Just a flash, and then gone. "Though I'm tempted to imply as much."

Glaring, I hold onto my snarl because I want to hear where he's going with this.

"But you... the best you get is agreeing with someone. I don't think you know what it is to..." Basil pauses, searching for words. "To fit together as a larger part of something."

My hand goes to my amulet, curling around the cool enamel of the disk.

Basil doesn't miss the gesture. "I'm not talking about religion. Or perhaps I am, but the mundane aspect to it. The organization."

I think about this. Then I say, "What?"

"Chath," Basil says, pronouncing my chosen name with enough delicacy and care to make me shiver, "do you know what it's like to be one stone in the foundation?"

"I'm not sure what you mean."

There is a set to Basil's face that I haven't seen yet in this conversation, a glow beneath his skin's usual pallor. He says, "Like a stream joining a river. All flowing in the same direction, gaining force with every mile traveled."

I look at him. "Where are you going with this?"

He holds his hands parallel to each other, then rotates them a quarter turn and brings them down again, like he's outlining the sides of a small box. "There's a satisfaction to be found in order."

"Like, following orders?"

"That as well. But I meant clean lines and neat edges. A well-crafted object. Fulfilling one's function."

"I feel like my purpose is to follow the Starshadow," I say, stumbling over my words a little. "Are you talking about something like that?"

"No." Basil inhales through his nose in the way he does when someone is trying his patience. "There are many people involved in it, and your own purpose is... not as important. Submerged. Included, but not given particular emphasis."

I frown, frustration licking up around the bottom of my ribcage like a dozen hungry tongues of flame. The thing is -- I can almost figure out what he's getting at. Not because of anything I've experienced, but because I've seen how happy it makes him to be given an assignment, and then carry it out. It's the closest he gets to real joy, the only times I see him make true, lasting facial expressions. Most of the time, Basil reminds me of a wax figure -- animated by magic to move and bend, but lacking some essential component of life. I look at him, and I wonder what's missing. Maybe that's why I asked. I thought he might know the answer, after a century and a half inside his own head.

"And that's a good thing?" I say doubtfully, picking up the thread of the conversation from where I dropped it a few moments ago. "That doesn't sound very appealing."

"Not to you," Basil says with subtle emphasis. "Because you and I are very, very different."

"Hmm. I won't argue with that. But what does that have to do with the feelings thing you were saying earlier?"

Basil stares into the fire, so I do too. I look at it and I see life -- an animal that cannot be tamed, and yet one I love with my whole wild heart. To him, it's probably just a campfire.

Basil says, "I liked what I was doing in the Spire when I was working for Magister Uthgart. Because it felt like that. I don't think any kind of personal feeling for him entered into it."

"I don't really understand the line you're drawing there, honestly." I shake my head. "It sounds the same to me."

"One more comparison," Basil says, mouth firming into a flat line. "Before I give up my attempts to communicate entirely."

"Hit me," I say. "Not literally."

"A piece of woven fabric," Basil murmurs, unwinding the cloth strip that binds his left hand. He tugs at the end, pulling it loose from between his knuckles. "The threads in it are small, but pulling one loose can affect the integrity of the whole garment."

I stare at him helplessly. "You want to be important."

Basil says nothing to that, but I can see his jaw clench.

"I give up," I say, holding my hands up in surrender. "Sorry, little man. You lost me."

"Call me that again," Basil says pleasantly, "and I will snap your neck."

I believe him. But I do light up my fingers again in purple flame, and grin back. "You can try, Basil. You can damn well try."

[seadeepywrites]

leave behind your heart and cast away

Character: Basil Noctis Words: 3132 tw: blood/violence, Chath’s fucked-up headspace

There’s a place Basil goes, sometimes. I can see him retreating there now, as my voice gets louder. If I weren’t so blindingly angry, I might know the right words to bring him back. 

Instead, I spit, “You backstabbing piece of shit,” fists clenched so tightly I can hear my knuckles creak. 

Basil looks up at me, tension draining out of him, and somewhere underneath my fury, I am frightened. I barely recognize him. 

“One could argue I am the one demonstrating appropriate loyalty, actually,” he says, voice as cool and polished as marble — and just as emotionless. There is no reciprocal anger in his face as we face off. There is nothing at all. He’s barely a person, just a handful of crisp polysyllabic words and a blank expression. 

That’s how I know how bad this is. 

“I thought we were friends,” I say, as harshly as I can. Wanting to see some kind of flinch, even a flicker. I want to know that I hurt him.

But Basil stays infuriatingly, disturbingly calm. “I’m not sure that’s relevant,” he says. “We both report to Hieram, when we are outside the monastery.”

“It’s not about Hieram!” I stomp across the tent, needing to vent some of my rage in movement before I say or do something I’ll regret.

My path takes me closer to Basil, and he steps smoothly out of my way in that uncanny way he has. Like he knew where I was going before I got there. There’s nothing subservient in his posture, and I should be grateful for that, at least. I know how he can bow and scrape when his superiors yell at him, and it would definitely only piss me off further.

He just stands there, hands folded together behind his back, shoulders squared. Symmetrical, balanced, and perfectly, shockingly empty. Like a vacant room. Like a barren field.

I stalk closer to him, towering over him by a foot and a half. His head tilts back to look at me, and I’m reminded of those automatons they make in Ailion.

“I knew you would be angry,” he says.

I snort. “Oh, you did? Great job figuring that one out. You’re a bright one, Sylvaranth.”

For the first time since I started yelling, an expression flickers across Basil’s face, but it’s gone before I can read it. 

“I told you what I was planning because I trusted you.” I jab a finger at him. There’s depressingly little resistance as I stab into his shoulder, nothing but bone and sinew. “I trusted you.”

“I don’t really know why,” Basil says tonelessly. “My first loyalty has always been to the monastery. I’m surprised you thought I’d behave any other way.”

“Yeah,” I say. “I guess that was my mistake, huh? That I thought for one fucking second,” I growl, low in my throat, struggling for words, “that you cared more about me than this whole charade.” I wave my hands at the tent around me, at the countryside beyond.

Basil cocks his head. “Charade? Do you not agree with Hieram?”

And fuck, there I go running my mouth again. “Please. Like you couldn’t tell I thought this was a stupid idea. Because unlike you, I actually speak up when something’s wrong. I stand up to him.” I give him my best scathing look. “Not roll over like a dog.”

I didn’t think it was possible for more of the life to leave Basil’s gold-green eyes, but it does. He inclines his head a few inches, and says nothing.

“Holy shit.” I scoff, loudly, the sound just an ugly gurgle as it scrapes past the scar tissue. “Look at you.” Then I lapse into silence, because he won’t yell back at me and he won’t even give me one of his snippy, sarcastic replies, so what’s the fucking point, even?

I fume for a little bit, and Basil continues to stand statue-still. Abruptly, I recognize the position: parade rest. It’s a strange habit for him to have, given everything I know about him. Over the years, I’ve collected a million tiny pieces of his past. I know he came to the monastery from the Spire. I know that while he was there, he was part of the Order Arcanum’s shadowy twin, some illegal organization I’m pretty sure is like, the mafia. And I know before that he did a lot of criminal shit, some of it with a guy called Dorian, whom Basil clearly never means to mention, considering the way he swallows the ends of his sentences when the name comes up.

Earlier than that — Basil’s childhood — things get a little foggy. His accent is clipped and proper and perfectly ordinary for a high elf, but there are times when it lengthens out, vowels stretching into a drawl I don’t recognize and can’t place for the life of me. He never talks about his family. He never explains how he became so prissy and yet so bloodthirsty.

My point is that this little blue bastard has no reason to have military training that I’m aware of, and that means he picked up this behavior because somewhere along the way, his superiors expected it of him. And that means that even without words, even without outward signs of submission, everything about him right now is manufactured to appease me. It punctures my rage, leaving me off-balance, and I scowl at him.

“Look at you,” I say again, quieter this time. “Fuck, Basil.”

Basil says nothing.

I rub at my eyes, a syrupy darkness rising up to extinguish the bright heat inside me. It tastes bitter, and poisonous. I wonder for a second if it’s a bad thing that I’ve cooled to match Basil. 

“You think you’re better than me because you don’t have any feelings,” I say. Softer and calmer, but with a vicious edge to it. My hatred has grown spider legs and is scrabbling across the surface of my skin. “But that just makes you more of a freak. At least I care about things. At least I care about people.”

Basil says nothing.

I point at him. “I care about you, but you...” I shake my head. “I’m not sure you’re even capable of loving me back.”

Basil’s eyes widen a fraction, but the rest of his pale face has hardened like a porcelain mask. He says nothing, and continues to say nothing.

I say more. Of course I do. I’m hot-headed, passionate, spirited — all the words that mean fire, that mean chath, because that’s what I am and will always be. So my rage re-kindles, and I rant at him. Just once, I wish he’d lose his cool and raise his voice, but instead he takes it in eerie silence. I insult him until I run out of ways to try to hurt him, until my ragged voice is even more broken than normal. And then I slam my fist on the table, splintering the wood, and storm out.

It takes me less than a day to regret my actions, but the damage is already done.

***

It’s been two weeks. And it’s not that Basil isn’t speaking to me, exactly. There’s not enough of us in Hieram’s little group for him to get away with that and still obey dutifully — and as I’ve found out to my displeasure, that’s really important to him.

When Hieram summons us both to his tent, I can tell he knows something’s happened, but he doesn’t comment. He just raises an eyebrow, instructing us to find the village elder’s house and retrieve the tome inside.

“Feel free to use any strategy you see fit,” Hieram remarks, smirking.

I grunt, seeing that for what it is: permission to get violent. If it’s meant to cheer up Basil, it doesn’t seem to have any impact, as he simply inclines his head in acknowledgement. Then again, with the amount of emoting he’s been doing these days, maybe he’s fucking ecstatic. Who’d be able to tell?

After Hieram dismisses us, I race to catch up to Basil. My legs might be longer, but he’s ridiculously speedy, and he’s not trying to match my pace at all. Almost like he’s avoiding me.

I’m not even angry, anymore. Not after two weeks. My anger burns like my sorcery: hot and fast and bright. And then I’m left with only the cold ashes of regret. Fuck, it didn’t even take two days. Of course I didn’t mean those things I said to Basil, and I certainly didn’t expect them to hit him the way they did. I was just firing blind — I didn’t expect he had any weak spots for me to twist a knife in, in the first place. 

Maybe someone who didn’t know him like I do would still think that, but I can still see the blankness in his face, which persists as we pack our gear and head out.

“Ugh, I hate when it rains overnight,” I try saying, grimacing as my boots sink three inches deep in the mud. “It’s like all the bad parts of rain without even getting the storm, don’t you think?”

“I suppose,” says Basil tonelessly. He continues to look straight ahead.

“You wake up all cold and damp, and then there’s all the shivering and sneezing...” I’m rambling at this point, barely aware of what I’m on about. I’m hoping for a sarcastic response, an eye roll. Anything. “But you never really get sick, do you? I don’t know how you manage it. It’s not like you’ve got a lot of body fat to keep you warm. You’re like a fuckin’ scarecrow. What’s your secret?”

Basil shrugs, not dignifying that with a response.

I growl, and give up for the time being. I’m gonna get this skinny bastard to crack, one way or the other. Because I fucking hate this.

The retrieval mission goes wrong — of course it does. Instead of a helpless old lady we can knock around, we find what must be half the men in the village, armed to the teeth, waiting for just this kind of theft. 

I don’t have time to wonder how they found out, as I stumble back into a corner flinging spells. From this angle, I could take a good chunk of them out with Burning Hands, but I’m worried for my friend — even if he’s still not really speaking to me.

Basil is getting the worst of it, honestly, which is pretty normal. He’s up against four heavyset villagers with various blunt weapons, ducking and weaving, braid flying. I wince as one of their maces collides with his torso and he gives a pained grunt, stumbling sideways. Another man takes advantage of the distraction to get him across the shoulder with a knife. Dark blood blooms, staining the edges of the long tear in his precious blue coat.

Now that ought to piss him off. Sure enough, Basil bares his teeth and homes in on the guy with the knife, a blur of staff and fists and feet and elbows. Takes him out in a few seconds, heedless of the other wounds he’s accumulating from the rest of the villagers. I grin at the sight of Basil in action — it’s really quite beautiful.

I help where I can with a few well-placed Firebolts, but my savage glee turns to alarm as one of the village men decides Basil’s got enough to worry about and turns his attention on me. I try to back further away, but bump up against the wall in the semi-darkness. I swear vehemently, crabbing sideways, but it’s not enough. I raise my arms, but even my Mage Armor isn’t enough to deflect the blow.

The man’s shortsword is pretty blunt, as far as these things go, but it hurts plenty as it bites into me. Again and again he strikes, as I cry out, reaching for him to try Inflicting Wounds. He dodges easily enough, though, and I can’t quite get a bead on him with my cantrip.

The pain blurs the room around me, and I stagger. Drop to one knee, clutching my side. Am I going to die to some pissed-off merchant with a pointy stick? Because that would really fucking suck.

I can feel my grip on my senses fading, the world turning white around the edges. There’s the distant sound of someone calling my name, and the threatening presence above me vanishes. More sounds of violence: gasps and yells and the crack of metal on wood. I can’t tell anymore what’s me and what isn’t. 

Then there’s a hand on my shoulder, green-gold eyes swimming in my vision. Basil’s thin lips shaping words that I can’t really hear, pale eyebrows drawn together. Huh. That’s more emotion than I’ve seen on him these past few weeks. Wish I knew what it was about.

I didn’t realize someone in the room has a sling, but I become aware of it at roughly the same time a fist-sized rock collides with my temple and I drop to the floor, losing my last vestiges of consciousness.

***

When I wake up, I am lying flat on my back amongst tall grass, staring at the glittering canopy of stars above me.

“Ouch,” I say, because everything fucking hurts. I try to sit up, and immediately regret it.

“I wouldn’t move too fast, if I were you.” Basil’s tone is dry and clinical, but that’s pretty typical. He sounds like he’s nearby, and I roll over to try to get a glimpse of him.

He is crouched by a campfire, poking at the embers with a stick, and he looks pretty banged-up. There is a bruise high on one cheekbone, and the slashing wound on his shoulder appears to have bled quite a lot, including through the white bandage he has wrapped around it. He isn’t wearing his coat, and his spindly arms are mottled with more cuts and bruises.

I sit up more carefully this time, ignoring the throbbing in my head. “Ow. How did I get here?”

“I dragged you.”

I laugh a little at that, because the mental image is hilarious. I expect Basil to come back with a pithy reply, but he says nothing. Doesn’t even look up. It reminds me that things are still bad between us, even if we.... even if he...

I put a hand to my head. “Uh, okay. What happened? Did we get the book?”

Basil points with his stick to our bags, where a thick leather-bound tome is balanced atop the pile.

“That’s awesome,” I say with genuine relief. “And are you... um, are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Basil says, voice as colorless as the night air.

I do not believe him. I know his ki does some weird healing shit for him sometimes, and sure enough some of his cuts already appear half-healed, clotted and scabbed over. I know they won’t even scar — that his skin will remain disturbingly unblemished, and his recovery time will be half of a normal person’s. None of that makes me worry any less.

“I have some healing potions in my bag,” I say, wondering what the chance is I’ll pass out again if I try to get to my feet. “Or we can get back to the main camp, and we can find Auwenn to—”

“I’m fine,” Basil says again, a little sharper this time.

“You’re clearly not,” I snap, then regret the fraying of my temper as he goes still as stone. Not this shit again...

Basil says, “I’ll take watch,” and rises from his crouch, dropping the stick. He gestures. “You’re lying on your bedroll. Weather looks fine, so I didn’t put up the tent.”

“Oh.” I look down, confirming that I am indeed sitting in my blankets. “Uh. Thanks.”

Basil strides over to the nearby rise in the ground, settling himself so he has a good view over the crest of the hill without breaking the horizon with too obvious a silhouette.

“What are the chances we’re being followed?” I say, tentatively. He seems more likely to respond if I ask practical questions rather than personal ones, and I’ll resign myself to more strategy discussion if it means he’s answering me. I hate this frosty silence, this purely professional relationship. I want my bastard back.

For a moment, I think Basil won’t reply at all, but then he tilts his head to the side a tiny fraction. “I imagine the alarm will be raised in the morning,” he says without looking at me. “Everyone that was in the room is dead.”

I smile. “Great. And the old lady?”

“Searched the house. Couldn’t find her. She may be staying somewhere else.” Basil shrugs. “We likely have a few hours to get some sleep before they come after us. I’ll wake you, and we can move on to keep the head start.”

I notice one gaping hole in his brilliant plan. “And when are you going to rest?”

“I told you,” Basil says, “that I will be perfectly all right.”

“Basil,” I say, nearly hissing with frustration, “you’re bleeding like a stuck pig.”

Basil does turn to look at me now, twisting to gaze over his shoulder with an unreadable expression.

“I know I was mad at you,” I say, and fuck, my voice is close to breaking. I will not cry in front of him. Not now. “But I’m not anymore. And I never wanted you to die. I don’t want you to die.”

“I’ve had worse,” Basil says coolly.

“Fuck this,” I snap. “Is this what it’s going to be like now? You shutting me out? Pretending you’re not hurt until you pass out from exhaustion and blood loss?”

Basil makes a noncommittal noise. I have never wished more that I knew how to throw a punch, if only because he really needs a good smack upside the head. Maybe I’ll have him teach me, if he ever forgives me.

I don’t have the energy right now to argue the point. I lie back again and shut my eyes, fighting a wave of dizzying vertigo and noticing the way the ground spins beneath me even when I can’t see my surroundings. I’m no cleric, but that’s probably not a great sign.

I drift into a fitful sleep, and in the fragmented dreams that slip by, Basil decides to go back and slaughter the village. I dream that I wake up back at camp, not a scratch on me. I dream that Basil’s body is delivered back to us in pieces, wrapped in that stupid blue coat he loves so much.

When a firm hand on my shoulder drags me from the nightmares, I surface to find my face is wet with tears. Unsurprisingly, Basil doesn’t comment on it.