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smolsleepyfox · 5 years ago

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GH Reverse!AU: The hermit’s promise

Next snippet! Zargothrax has recovered a bit, and he’s pissed. Even better, Ralathor has a plan...

Set after the night Ralathor spent pondering, written by @uupiic (I hope you don’t mind me integrating parts of your story into mine, the scene was just too good to pass up.)

——

The first gentle fingers of the morning sun woke Ralathor from his pondering. Had he slept? Or merely been so wrapped up in his memories that the night had passed without notice? He got up, groaning at the pain in his stiff back. He shook the cold off of his clothes and looked out over the highlands for a moment to refocus on the present. In the distance, he spotted the shape of a lonely unicorn on a hilltop. It seemed to watch him. How long had it been there, all by itself? The Questlords would not be happy. Though Cowdenbeath was merely two days away from Achnasheen, in unicorn terms, it was an unusual place for a lone unicorn to stray. Ralathor wondered if he should try to approach it, but the same second he had formed that thought, the unicorn turned and trotted away. Curious.

The hermit made a mental note, but did not see the necessity to act.

He returned to his cave, passing through layers upon layers of wards. He was greeted by an unusual warmth and the smell of fresh porridge. Frowning, he slowed his gait. Everything was exactly where he had left it, to the inch almost, except the kettle next to the fire.

More curious than angered, he passed what could most likely be considered the kitchen and advanced into the tunnels beyond. He’d assigned his visitor (he didn’t want to think of him as a protégée. Not yet.) a room he usually used for reading, but housed a comfy nook filled with pillows. As he had expected, Zargothrax - Z, as he liked to be called - was curled up between the pillows. The bandage on his face was stained with fresh tincture, so he must have woken at some time during the night. He shouldn’t feel any pain, yet his slumber was anything but calm. His eyebrows were furrowed deeply, face twisted in a snarl that reminded Ralathor uncomfortably of the last time he’d seen this face, older, but no less furious. The young sorcerer was muttering to himself, in the steady rhythm of an incantation. It took Ralathor a while to make out the words. Names. They were names.

Jelisia. Gideon. Alarin. Sylphea.

Over and over again, sometimes quiet and defeated, sometimes pleading, sometimes with so much anger the hermit nearly recoiled.

He had not been to Auchtermuchty in a long time, not before this day. But he was sure if he had taken to the archives, Proletius’ men had checked off these names at some point, a small tick on a list, accumulating four lives.

He could feel himself grow weak. He’d sworn to himself to not get close to mortals again. Not after what had happened to Proletius, not after what had happened to Angus the 13th. He thought seeing his old friends twisted by darkness had been a low blow. But knowing that this Proletius was not corrupted by any magic, that he was cruel because humans were a cruel species, made his heart wrench in a way he’d hoped to never feel again.

Ralathor sighed and touched the young sorcerer’s shoulder. He stirred, but didn’t wake. Ralathor shook him, a bit more harshly than necessary perhaps.

“Hey. Wake up.”

Zargothrax’ eyes flicked open, fogged by whatever world he’d just left, and yet full of relief. He sat up, clearly drowsy. “What time is it?”

“Dawn. Did you touch my kitchen in any way?”

Zargothrax stretched, wincing a bit at the strain it caused in his still sore body.

“Oh, the porridge? Yes that was me. You weren’t home when I woke up and I thought since you are so kind to let me stay I’d make you breakfast. I hope I didn’t disturb anything, I tried to keep everything as it was.”

“I see,” the hermit said slowly. Even later, “Thank you.”

By that time, Zargothrax had already peeled himself from the sheets and started to take off the bandages in front of a small mirror of air he’d conjured from the heat still trapped in the sheets. Ralathor couldn’t help but be impressed. Young as he was, this version of Zargothrax was no less powerful as his evil counterpart, and he didn’t even know it.

“Don’t touch that,” Ralathor reprimanded him. With a wave of his hand, he sat Zargothrax down in the bedside again and conjured a light to examine the injury. The young sorcerer winced and turned his head from the glare, but it didn’t compare to the reaction two days ago. The injury had healed well, leaving a pale scar that would most likely stay for good. The nerves though seemed still not back to normal, and that both worried and annoyed Ralathor. His tincture should have dealt with this by now.

“Still hurts?”

“Only a bit.” Ralathor wasn’t sure he imagined the sarcasm. He stepped back to gather himself. His view was still too intertwined with the old memories. Seeing the faces of his friends once more, so painfully normal and yet entirely foreign in their cold cruelty, had reopened wounds he had thought he’d never received. Going to Auchtermuchty had been a mistake.

“Do you think it’s healed enough that I can go?”

The question rudely ripped the hermit from his thoughts. He was not in any shape for conversation, even less than usual, and he hated it. Plus, he was getting hungry, the scent of the porridge tempting him.

“Go where?”

The anger young Z’s eyes worried him. It was too similar to-

“Well, pardon my honesty but you don’t seem to like visitors and I don’t want to bother you longer than necessary.”

“So you have somewhere to go?”

The sharp remark made Zargothrax flinch a little, but the determination in his eyes didn’t flicker. “A home? No. But I know what I will do. Proletius and the Hootsman murdered my friends in cold blood. They deserve to pay and I’m the last one left to make them.”

Dear gods, he couldn’t mean that. It wasn’t unexpected, yet Ralathor found himself stifling an incredulous laugh. “So you’re going to- what? Face the very king of Unst? Attack the royal citadel? Battle against the knights of Crail? You’re out of your mind. You won’t even make it past the gates.”

“In open battle? Sure. An ambush, though, or a trick, they won’t expect that. They attacked like cowards, they die like cowards.” He turned and started to dress, throwing on the red robe again, securing the belt, and clasping his woollen cloak. “I think I’ll start with Proletius, he seems to be the least protected. In case I survive the battle with the Hootsman, maybe it angers the prince enough to rush into battle personally. Thank you for your hospitality and healing me.”

He ran into the first massive shield of energy at the doorway. Ralathor’s magic was a bright blue in his magical sight, and he knew better than to try and push through the shield.

“Do you have an actual plan, or are you just trying to kill yourself in a way that makes you look noble?”

Zargothrax turned, lips pressed into a thin line, and Ralathor felt himself instinctively power up protective wards. The boy wasn’t stronger than him, by far not, but his anger was too reminiscent of-

“Does it matter? Why do you care? You don’t have any sympathy for the people of Auchtermuchty, and least of all for me.” Ralathor wanted to say something, but didn’t get the chance. “I see the way you look at me. My apologies for intruding your home, but that should be fixed the moment I leave. Whatever other issue you take with me personally or the fact I’m a student of Auchtermuchty, is frankly not my problem.”

Ralathor stared into space for a second, drawing an unnerving blank as to his next action. Eventually though, he powered down the shield to no more than a warning tickle, and sat down on the bed.

Strangely, the first words out of his mouth were: “Do you know what your name means?”

The out of place answer took Zargothrax aback, stifling his urge to leave immediately, before the hermit changed his mind.

“I apologise for my biased treatment. You merely remind me of someone I knew very long ago,” Ralathor said. His words bore the weight of many lifetimes, dropping to the floor like blocks of lead.

“What did he do, steal your cattle?”

Ralathor smiled. Angus the 13th had sounded like this. No matter what, he bounced back from difficulties as if it was the easiest thing in the world.

“He murdered a dear friend of mine and enslaved an entire country, but I suppose the cattle would be included in that.”

When he looked up, young Zargothrax had gone as white as freshly fallen snow, any retort stifled by sheer horror. “You know, you’re the first one I ever tell this. Except good old Hoots, but he stayed behind to fulfil his duty as their god...”

Ralathor threw his hood back and rubbed his face. “Sit down, I’ll tell you a little story about a young prince named Angus and a sorcerer named Zargothrax.”

Z plopped down on the floor, or rather simply dropped like a shot bird, without ever taking his eyes off the hermit.

Ralathor didn’t bother with all the universes he had seen, dearest no, that would have taken a lifetime. But he told of Angus the first, the first time Ralathor himself had been thrown into the mess that would consume his existence for centuries to come. He told of the unicorn invasion of Dundee, and his first glimpse at the man he’d come to hunt over and over. He told of Proletius, the hero who’d been resurrected just to die again in the destruction of earth, and who’d been killed and used for evil by the very man Ralathor saw in front of him right now. And lastly, he told of Angus McFife the thirteenth, who’d been thrown into another dimension that was nothing like his home, and despite having no stake in it sacrificed himself for a bunch of strangers.

When Ralathor had finished, it was quiet in the cave for a long time.

“That’s not me.” The words quivered, arrows shot to kill and stuck in their target now. “It must be terrible seeing the same people play the same game, over and over. But I’m not like that other Zargothrax. I’m not evil.”

Ralathor didn’t answer. His mind had caught on something, just out of his sight. If he could only turn to look at it...

“If you speak the truth, Angus and I switched places in the story, so to speak. But I’m not the hero they’re looking for. A hero would go and free the country, maybe heal the king, or at least try to take down Angus. I don’t have much left in life, so I may as well go avenge my friends. At least Proletius and the Hootsman don’t have some sort of magical ancient weapon that turns people evil.”

Ralathor shot to his feet. The glimpse at a thought had finally turned into a picture.

This dimension was unique. Of all the variations of the same tale he had seen so far, future and past, one thing had always stayed the same: the starlords’ ancient weapons.

But this dimension was different. The Hammer of Glory didn’t serve justice in this world. Before he’d seen its power in person, he’d doubted the stories, just like he’d doubted the existence of its counterpart.

Ralathor rushed out of the room and into his work chamber, rifling through the papers he had found, but merely stashed away for later, assuming they were mere fairytales.

“What in the name of the gods are you doing?”

Ralathor shook his head, not listening to the sorcerer the gods he had just called upon seemed to have chosen as a hero in this tale, if he wanted to or not.

“The Hammer of Glory was always a weapon for justice. It has never changed someone’s mind, not the way it does in this world. If your roles are switched, what if there’s a good equivalent to the Knife of Evil?”

“You mean the Blade of Virtue?”

Ralathor froze and looked up, his dark hair in his eyes from his wild search.

“Come again?”

Zargothrax raised an eyebrow. The deep scar crossing his features turned it into a more scornful look that he probably meant to give. “The Blade of Virtue. One of the three great artefacts. Everyone knows them, they’re a popular bedtime story. Though I doubt anyone believed they were real until Angus McFife suddenly turned up wielding that dreaded hammer...”

He shrugged his shoulders, uncomfortable under the hermit’s baffled stare.

Ralathor didn’t find his words for quite some time, his thoughts tripping over themselves. How in the WORLD had he missed such a detail, if it was so well-known?

...Perhaps by spending too much time in his cave, believing himself to know the story before it had even begun.

“Tell me everything you know about it,” Ralathor commanded.

Zargothrax, though a spark of defiance flashed in his face, obeyed. “Not much to say. It’s a story, and nobody even knows what exactly it is. I’ve heard a dozen descriptions of what it looks like. It’s supposed to be a magical blade of some sort that can only be wielded by the chosen hero. It’s able to dispel any evil, whether magical or mundane. Though I’ve always wondered how you’re supposed to turn someone good by stabbing them. As far as I know that only makes people dead.”

Ralathor leaned on his desk, a smile spreading on his face. Of course. It made absolute sense. Oh thank the gods.

Now he just needed to talk the kid into this.

“You said you’re not like the other cunt over in the dimension I last was, right?”

Just to make sure the message came through, Ralathor wove a tiny rune into the air, shimmers of the final battle, the destroyed Hootsforce, the madness of the sorcerer, Angus’ final sacrifice.

Zargothrax blanched, then shook his head so hard his locks flew. “Never.”

“Good. If we can find this blade, maybe you can turn Proletius and the Hootsman over to our side, and-“

“Wait, wait, hold on! Proletius’ knights slaughtered my friends, if I ever get a stab at him it will be to make sure he’s dead and nothing else!”

In his agitation, turquoise lightning had begun to glow around him. One more twitch on the power scale and Ralathor’s runes would jump into action and fry the poor lad on the spot. That really seemed unnecessary.

Ralathor powered down the runes to a degree and raised his hands in a calming gesture. “I understand your anger, but he’s a valuable asset. You don’t want him to hurt anyone else, right? If he’s on our side, we can get a shot at turning the Hootsman and possibly Angus too...”

The lightning around Zargothrax died. He looked at Ralathor with an expression that the hermit only much later would realise was pity. “There is no our side,” he said calmly. “I don’t care about this war. I’m not some great rebel leader, or a hero. I just want justice for the lives of my friends.”

Ralathor then made a decision, maybe the worst decision of his life. He lied. It was something he avoided like the plague, rather remaining silent than speaking falsehoods. Lies only brought bad luck.

“What if victory could bring them back for you?”

“What do you mean?”

“The Knife of Evil was able to resurrect the dead, possessing them with its dark energy. And you just said that the blade is able to bring people back to life as good versions of themselves.”

Zargothrax crossed his arms defiantly, insecurity and hope battling in his features. “By the time I get the blade - if it even exists - they’ll be too far gone. I know how necromancy works, don’t play me for a fool.”

Lie number two. “The blade is an ancient artefact of more power than you can imagine. It won’t be a problem.”

The young sorcerer’s reserve was faltering, and Ralathor played his trump card.

“Didn’t you say you had family in Cowdenbeath? The longer you don’t turn up, the more likely it is that the Questlords or the knights of Crail search them out. Are you powerful enough to keep them safe?”

Z’s so terribly young, terribly innocent face ran through a surge of emotion within seconds: realisation, shock, horror, guilt, fear, anger, and finally, defeat.

“What do you want me to do?”

“Go looking for the blade. There must be instructions in the tales, indications of how to get it. In the meanwhile I make sure you have something to return to. Sounds like a deal?”

Zargothrax’ shoulders sagged. “Deal.”

Ralathor nodded, relieved. Now where were those darned papers-

“You’re right. I shouldn’t be so selfish,” Zargothrax said quietly. “You didn’t need to be such a cunt about it though.”

Ralathor took the insult as semi-valid criticism. He had been brought here for a reason. He already had too much blood on his hands. He wouldn’t have his best shot at doing this right for once ruined by a teenager’s grief, understandable as it may be.

“You really think I can bring them back?”

Ralathor’s face betrayed no emotion, back to his usual calm self. “Yes.”

“Alright, what do I need to do?”

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