#ohh poor conrad

[jasperlion]

[ This drabble is based on the iteration of Anthiese by @indumasname and is a novelized version of an RP with them ]

The Zofian capital hums with activity and color, cheers ringing out with the fierce energy the people are renown for once the Queen calls for the opening of the festivities. With the hustle and bustle, the calls of the vendors, the vibrant decor and the crowds of excitement, Albein briefly finds himself torn between regretting his acceptance of Anthiese’s personal invitation for him and being very thankful that he had not contained himself to his quarters to mope yet another failed courting attempt instead. Still, it’s clear as day to know which is the better, finding himself among such a ruckus that he can’t even focus on his woes… nor does he want to. Good riddance to that woman, good riddance to his duties! The thought brings a smile to his face and a scoff.

Waving off Berkut and his family (it’d be very awkward to just follow them around like a lost dog; he’s an adult and his cousin has a wife and child, thank you very much), he wanders off instead by himself, eyes roving for the sight of someone familiar. Mathilda, perhaps? Or even Conrad, Anthiese, Lukas or Clive…

After all, there had been another reason for his acceptance, but he wasn’t about to finally have his first recreational taste of alcohol all by himself! … Nor was he too keen to have his first try of the drink in front of Rinea or her child! Zofians knew their way around alcohol better than any Rigelian ever would, anyway, and it is with this in mind that he sets off on his quest. A harmless shot or two… the very idea of what alcohol did was simply very alluring to him at the moment.

He finds the private drinking tables before he manages to find himself a drinking partner, a little ways from the main event are several tarps serving, but his attention is drawn immediately to the most crowded of all. Chants of ‘CHUG!’ resound, among the raucous yells and stomping at what seems to be a competition. Eyes lit with curiosity, the Emperor finds himself drawn to see exactly what’s going on. Even just observing was fine—

A burly man collapses upon the floor after he drags his pint as the crowd goes wild, a loud voice rising among the rest that has his attention snapping from the unfortunate victim to the table he fell from, calling out,  “CAN NO ONE DRINK HER ROYAL EMINENCE UNDER THE TABLE?!”

… What?! Oh Gods, Anthiese— was she alright? Did she even have supervision? With a start, he pushes his way closer to actually have a good look at the table. The poor sod gets carted off, and as the crowd of seedy individuals and even some nobles alike cheers and hollers, Albein’s roving eyes finally make contact with Her Royal Highness herself, face almost as red as her hair. With absolutely no one seemingly besides her to make sure she’s alright. The voice calls out again, bellowing with the power of a general amongst his men: “BELLIES UP TO THE BAR!! WHO'S NEXT T'FILL THEIR MUGS AND LAY THEIR COIN DOWN 'GAINST HER MAJESTY?!!”

He’s not sure where the sinking feeling of horror came from or how it gripped at him so fiercely, but it spurs him into action and strides quickly to Anthiese’s side with concern. Well, sure, he came here to drink, but wasn’t this dangerous? 

Opting to not take a seat beside her, he instead leans forward to speak with her once he arrives. “Queen Anthiese! Are you holding up alright?”

“Whuh...? Ohh, 'f it issn't His Imperial Majessty…!” The slap on his back from his friend is the last thing he expects, barely managing to stay in place as she pulls herself to try and stand. “Looky here...!” A ‘hic’ interrupts her slurred words, and all he can do is turn to look at her. “Th' royal opp'sition's finally arrived!!” Oh no. “What'ssay one 'nd all t' a round of drinks... a bout 'tween rival nations?!!”

As he breaks into a cold sweat, and the Queen's words are met with a raucous roar of approval, it's clear his sentiments aren't shared by anyone under the tarp. Gods, he’s an Emperor, a General, he ought to have more dignity than this! Trying to help her stay steady in some sad attempt at solidarity, he tries to instead talk his way out of it. “...I’m afraid it wouldn't be much of one, Your Highness. I've not had much alcohol in my life.” He pauses, brows knitting in concern. She definitely looked like she was about to fall over at any given moment. “Shouldn't you have some water...?”

… It doesn’t have the desired effect. The woman’s smile turns sly with a knowing glint in her eye. “When'ss a number ever stopped you...?” And Gods, he wants to prove her wrong and— “Ser Sshaber, pour him some juice'nd start th' betting pools...h!”

Hands grasp at his arms, pulling him to the other end of the table, and while he tenses and almost buckles down to stay in place, it is the knowledge of where he’s being taken that keeps him docile, competitive fire blazing in his chest. There is no need to sit him down— he shrugs them off and sits himself, pounding his left fist onto the table with a widening grin on his lips. The sheer excitement in him is hardly contained at the thought of a competition, despite the nagging feeling that he should probably not be doing this. “... Very well.” Well, he had practice ignoring it.

Cheers and the clink of coins deafen his ears as the owner of the loud voice, a large, red-haired man with an eyepatch over his right eye, sets a mug before him. It’s an oddly purple(? The lights were dim) drink with a bitter stench that was definitely some sort of alcohol… his nose scrunched in distaste (Gods, it smelled awful), and he almost doesn’t catch the man’s words. “Good luck, lad.”

Anthiese grabs her own mug then, and he spots the fire in the woman’s eyes that mirrored his own as she raises her mug in the air. She is quickly mirrored by their fellows with drink, and he feels compelled to follow suit— he has little time to ponder upon the other’s words.

“... To Valentia!” She calls.

             “““TO VALENTIA!!!!!”””

They're words he cheers in kind despite drawing so many questions to mind; questions he has half a mind to save for later. The other half instead makes him take a hardy swig from the mug, sputtering a cough once half is down his gullet and setting it back down onto the table with a wheeze, left eye twitching in distaste. “Gods above, this is awful.”

… Why was the room spinning?

Anthiese’s mug slams down near his own with a BANG, pristine and empty, and she calls out bravely, “Another!!”, among the even louder cheer of the crowd around them.

He wasn’t about to be left behind—! Albein’s hand grips the mug tighter, swiftly bringing the drink to his lips to finish it up; flavor and nausea be damned, he was winning this! Banging his mug back onto the table as he finishes, his eyes hold a challenging gaze towards the redhead serving them. If this was a test, then bring it on!

… Yet, somehow, she’s still going strong, no matter how hard he tries to match her drink to drink. The second leaves her unfazed and cheering for more as he struggles to keep himself on his seat, and, by the time he’s done with the third, he has no choice but to admit defeat. 

With a spinning head and an urge to heave, Albein finally lets himself slump against the table, head smacking the wood slightly with a groan. Slowly, he raises his left hand after releasing the mug. “I yield… h…” He slurs, even if the act makes him feel worse. The piercing roar of the crowd feels like a punch to his head, and there’s a hardly distinguishable ‘congratulations’ among the noise before gentle hands grasp at him, lift him from the stool.

“...lright,Your Highn…” The alcohol and nausea delay his reaction, weak growl at his throat as he tries, almost pathetically, to squirm out of the grasp as his vision spins and spins. It’s the last he remembers before his world fades to black.

…

…

Nice as the plush covers and pillows feel, Albein groans as he awakens entangled with a pounding head, an awful lot of nausea, and more thirst than he ever felt in the Zofian desert with a rancid, awful taste on his tongue.  Gods, what happened…?

“There's a bucket on your side of the bed.” 

The voice is familiar and awfully close by, but he doesn’t even allow himself to think about who it was before he finds himself rolling to the edge, fumbling to grab the bucket as he continued to lie on his stomach and—

          “Hrrgh….” Drinks… cheers… oh right… he had a drinking contest with…

“Gotta never…” he chokes out between coughs, “—do that...” a wheeze interrupts him, followed by more coughs and a groan. “—Again.” Oh, Gods, his throat… — and it seems that he’s lost most of his garments at torso level aside from his gloves—

“Probably,” Anthiese says as she enters his line of vision to sit on a stool nearby, mug of water in her hands. Pulling himself to sit with shaking hands after several dry heaves, he waits until he feels steady enough to grasp the offered mug, cradling it in his hands with the realization that, well, Anthiese has likely been looking after him after that… stint. There’s a scent of soup in the air, yet try as he might the more he looks around, Albein can’t quite discern where, exactly, he is. “Then again, no one drinks it straight as much as you did,” she adds, expression as collected as always.

‘As much as he did’…? Wasn’t she drinking too…? He takes a sip of water and then nurses the mug to his chest, scowling at the aftertaste of his own bile, and directs a questioning gaze in her direction. “So you're saying you had something else?” He asks, befuddled, then shakes his head— (oh, ow! He shouldn’t have done that). “Ugh…”

Regardless… “Sorry about that. I… I got in over my head. At your festival, no less.” At the very least, Albein manages an apologetic look. Knowing she’s here, she likely missed a lot of it. Because of him. “Uh… how long have I been…?”

“I’d say about five hours, give or take,” she replies, and it doesn’t help him feel any better. “The festival is over, and your family has accepted the offer to stay at my estate until the healers say you're well enough to travel back without incident.” 

She then chuckles, shaking her head slightly. “There’s no need to be sorry— you... didn't know. Drunkards like that always pay good coin to see if someone can topple me... instead of seeing to the future of our people. So Sir Saber— the, uhm, gentleman who gave you the drink— and I occasionally... set up pools where that money is certain to go to better places. Poor-lit areas and a goblet you can't see through makes it easier for me to sneak in a glass of water or juice every so often.”

Maybe it’s because he’s accustomed to it by now, having been used by her ever since they met, but Albein can’t even muster anger at the knowledge that he had been deceived. It was almost what he expected by now from her, and so he exhales with a chuckle, as what fills him for the most part is relief. “I suppose I didn’t need to worry, after all.” He says, amiable, and nudges her leg with his own before drinking a little more water, trying to just get rid of that awful taste in his mouth. “Well, if I had to be one of the sorry sods downed for a little more funds, then... ”

It’s frightening how easy it was to accept what had happened. Even so...

“I doubt you intended to spend your night here, though— did you at least have a good time?” At the very least, Albein hoped she did. You know. After he passed out while being carted off unconscious— he was lucky he had been too drunk to accidentally hurt someone. He was going to hear it from Berkut. He was going to hear so much of it from Rinea.

Perhaps she spotted the sudden distress on his face as he thinks of his family, or maybe she didn’t. “Outside the requirements as a healer, I shall spend my night here if you'd like me to…” she says as she stands up and heads to a nearby table, where there are bowls and various other items of medical aid. “Your appearance at the drinking tables was certainly— unexpected. But clearly not unwelcome, given the money we earned. I will ensure that Sir Saber transfers the funds to the maintenance of the trade routes— or wherever you wish the funds to be used, My Lord.”

She pauses. “Lord Berkut and Lady Rinea think you had a bout with a drunkard who had ‘dishonored me’ and barely won, if it... helps your case.”

“Ah! Well... thank you for your care, and I apologize for the inconvenience. You… you don’t have to stay.” Albein replies hastily, bowing his head a little with a slight flush on his cheeks. Well he... didn't really think she’d have spent her festive time at his bedside, and he certainly didn’t expect her to continue to do it, even with the festival already over. 

Of the other matters, however, “... Direct the funds where you wish. I did lose, after all.” He tells her. Even if she had cheated, it is still a loss, and one he would honor. He slowly lifts himself from his bow to instead exhale dramatically. “I only thought to give it a try— and got dragged off after three kegs instead.” He then sighs. “It does help, though, the… story. I... sorry for the trouble, My Lady.” She’s done him far too many favors. Favors he doesn’t think he can really return. “And, well, thank you for the invite, even if I seem to have… misused my time and yours. It was most kind.”

Albein cannot keep himself from asking any longer, however, and once more his eyes rove around the place, curiosity gleaming stronger now that he doesn’t feel quite as… nauseated. “And, ah... these are nice accomodations, but... may I ask where I am...?”

“This… used to be the safehouse where Sir Mycen kept Conrad and I. When we were younger.” She explains with pensive pause, taking a sprig of herbs into a bowl and shuffling to the cauldron at the hearth to sprinkle them in, stirring gently after the fact.  He takes this time to look around, really take the place in, now that he knows what it’s for (it’s quite homely, if he’s honest, although the plush covers and pillows are rather extravagant). It is a short time after that a ladle is poured into the cauldron, and she brings this to him along with a pitcher of water, drawing his attention back to her.

“Not to worry for the trouble or inconvenience, My Lord,” Anthiese says, placing it down on the stool where she sat previously with a gentle huff. “...... Consider it a debt repaid, if you'd like.”

“... I see.” Albein’s words are colored with his surprise; a weight had been lifted, a weight he had carried ever since the abrupt termination of their courting in what felt like a lifetime ago. His cheeks tint with color as the surprise turns to relief, and it lifts a bright smile onto his face “... Then I shall.” He feels, perhaps, even his joyful tone can’t truly express how much better he suddenly feels.

Honestly, had he not been so weighed by his antics five hours prior, he might have had a far more physical reaction— an embrace, or perhaps even grasping her hands in excitement. Maybe, just maybe, they can finally move forward. “I can still say thank you, can I not?” He asks with an enthusiastic gaze, and it certainly feels like his smile is not going away anytime soon.

“You may, My Lord,” she says, her own smile soft. “Now... unless you require me for anything else, I shall be in the other room there.” The Queen gestures to the door adjacent to the hearth wall. Oh… he hadn’t quite noticed that.

“Thank you.” Perhaps she will understand that he means for far more than just this— even if it is a massive favor in itself to look after someone so diligently. 

Even so, he’s taken enough of her time.

“...Rest well, My Lady. I will be fine with the care provided.” Albein says as he shifts in the bed he sits on, then moves to eat the food offered with a final thanks.

Wordlessly, Anthiese leaves the room.

Unwilling to call for help for simple tasks, when Albein finishes his meal in a pensive silence, he stumbles to wash the dishes and his face himself, then forces himself to return to the bed with what little strength he has left.

He does not remember his head hitting the pillows.

…

…

The next time he wakes, she’s at his bedside again. The air still smells of soup and it seems to be the morning… although which day it is, he has no idea. She notices he’s awake and speaks as she always does, unflinching. “Morning. ...If you’d like breakfast, you can help yourself to the soup in the cauldron.”

It sounds like a simple enough instruction.

“Good morning.” With a brief nod, he pulls himself to sit without complaint, despite the difficulties and onset of nausea, then slowly forces himself onto his feet, stumbling forward just as he had the night before.

However, unlike the night before, her hands drag him back to bed stubbornly after the first two stumbles, and there’s little he can do to stop them (embarrassing as it is, he feels awfully weak still) aside from an undignified noise that sounded a little more like a squawk. Giving up the struggle before it truly begins, Albein merely sighs, allowing Anthiese to help him back onto the bedding. Had he failed something…?

“It’s alright to ask me to help you, My Lord.”

Words that confuse him, considering what she had just asked him to do. Still, he can’t help but let out a soft laugh (and Gods above, it hurts his stomach more), and perhaps air out his conception of the matter so it may be clarified. “I assumed it was a task to aid in my recovery, My Lady.”

Her response serves to confuse him all the more, spoken in a tone that he can’t quite tell if she’s being overly haughty or joking. “And you would make that task more difficult on me? For shame.” Enough that despite the nausea, Albein tilts his head a little in confusion at her words. She gives herself pause, then… softens her tone. “... You may speak frankly, if you wish. No one else is here.”

His confusion doubles, both for her starting the formal talk yet telling him it was alright not to, and for the earlier incident. Albein is quiet for a few moments, trying to figure out how exactly the pieces fit together, before coming to the conclusion that it was yet another Zofian mannerism he didn’t quite comprehend.

 “...Sorry, Anthiese.” He says, adhering to her request for less formal speech. “We just do things differently at home, I suppose. You know... ‘if you can talk you can walk, so do it yourself’... that kind of thing. It didn’t occur to me to… ask for help.”

“I understand, Albein.” She says, wiping at his forehead with a cloth. He closes his eyes, and while his hands twitch, he lets her do as she pleases. “I merely jest.” … Oh. “You know, Conrad used to be the same whenever he was sick. ... Suppose even that young, your people tried to build up that tough skin.”

He gazes at her now that the cloth leaves his forehead, finding in her tale an oddly nostalgic feeling. “... Yes.” Albein answers distantly, thoughts drifting from her and her brother, to him and his... “And even if Father tried to act different... well, I suppose some things are harder to escape and unlearn.”

… He missed his father still. With an exhale, he shakes himself from his thoughts and smiles for her. “Apologies for being a trouble patient.”

She seemed to have been observing in pensive silence, a contemplative look in her eyes. With an exhale, the spell is broken, and she speaks once more. “You're forgiven,” she says, “so long as you get better. You wouldn't want to worry your niece, after all.”

Her bemused expression brings one of his own to his face, mind wandering to the child, his adorable little niece, and sticks out his tongue playfully. “That little gremlin's already asking where her uncle is, huh?” He asks with amusement in his tone, then huffs with a determined flair. “Very well, I am up to the challenge.”

Rollling his shoulders as if about to partake in a fight, he then pauses and… shifts slightly where he sits in mild discomfort at what he’s about to say.             “May I, uh... get help with retrieving my meal?” … he’s still not used to that.

His request is met with a pleased smile, and the Queen of Zofia stands to do just that.

…

…

It’s been days.

He still doesn’t feel much better.

With a groan after yet another pseudo-foiled attempt to eat, he immediately lays down onto his back, only for Anthiese to prop him to sit up. “Lie down like that and you'll choke on your own bile.” She scolds with her usual biting tone.

All he can do is groan in complaint, taking deep breaths and trying so hard for this to not be yet another failure to keep his food down. “I-is the goal simply to not... hurl?” As Albein asks, a feeling in his torso informed him he would most likely be failing today as well.

“If you feel you still need to heave, then do so.” Anthiese says, surprisingly patient with him, all things considered. “But I’d rather you didn't accidentally swallow it back while you're at it.”

… Well, she was the healer, here. “... Alright. Just…” Inhale. Exhale. Maybe he would defeat his body once and for all— 

Once more the bucket receives its offering; another loss for the Emperor.

Tentative hands place themselves onto his back, and she rubs in circular motions with what he’s sure is a salve on hand. Breathing in felt like the cold air in a Rigelian mountain, it was… it was almost enough to make him feel homesick. 

Inhale… Exhale… it was surprising how much relief came with those actions now. “It isn’t good to keep it down. It would keep the poison in, so to speak,” she explains. “You'll need to expel as much of it as possible if your body can’t break it down.”

Well… that made sense. Somewhat. “I... alright.” Nodding, Albein closes his eyes and breathes in and out again. “I do not have much experience in... this.” He admits to her. Most of his time in the sickbed had been from injury rather than sickness — he had always been quite hardy. “Whenever I fell ill…” He paused after a few moments, recalling Anthiese’s words about Conrad and the fact that she had a Rigelian step mother. Surely, she already knew. “Well, you can guess.”

She smiles sadly, and he’s certain there’s a story there she will not tell him. “I can… Sometimes your body can fight it off without aid, but other times, it will do anything to push it out wherever it can... It's usually not pleasant.”

… He doesn’t want to know, actually.

Momentarily, she leaves his side to fetch more water. “I recall the first time I had wine... It was made in the village I took you to. Liked the flavor... At first. My body…” she quietly chuckles. “Not so much.”

Despite how miserable he feels, Albein nods as amiable as he can, even if he certainly cannot relate. Still, he is curious… “The flavor... was it bitter like that, uh... other drink...?” Brows raised in curiosity, he looks to her, genuinely curious if Anthiese found the flavor pleasant. He hated it, personally, just as much as most wines he had sampled in Rigel.

“Sir Saber told me that it was from Rigel,” she said while handing him some water. “No, the wine from Ram was... Much sweeter than this. Palatable.”

He takes the water gratefully, but makes sure to drink it slowly, if anything to avoid… another disaster. “Sweet, is it...?” He asks, then chuckles softly. “I am not too fond of sweets either, maybe I should just send any sweet treats your way instead.” He’s… joking for the most part, his own family was just indifferent or disliked sweet food, so he frankly had no one to give those to aside from her. “Perhaps I'd try it... just once.” For her, and very carefully. He was, after all, curious to taste an alcohol that Anthiese genuinely liked.

Anthiese’s eyes seemed to have lit up at the thought— “If you feel inclined to, I'd be happy to...! — Indulge in whatever sweet treats you'd like to send me.”, —only for her to turn and cough away from Albein. “If... It isn't intrusive to ask, Albein... But what sorts of things do you like to eat, if neither sweet nor bitter?”

The enthusiastic reaction widens his eyes in surprise as he observes her curiously, but it is quickly replaced with a fond sort of smile as he nudges her shoulder with his own, a small smile on his face. A weakness, huh? Well… he didn’t see why not. “Then it shall be, by my power as Emperor.” He says with as much pump as his miserable state can muster, and while that last bit was clearly an exaggeration, there was sheer honesty in Albein's tone. She chuckles at his exaggeration, and he can see amusement in her eyes so clearly.

“As for the food I like...? Well, I'm a little fond of spicy things myself.” He says after few pensive moments. “And meaty dishes…” He nods to himself, even if the very thought of any meal right now was making his stomach flipflop in horror. “I quite enjoy those. Are there any other flavors you enjoy, Anthiese?” … It was easy to talk about food, wasn’t it?

“Only if you wish to send something to me, all right?” She tells him, but he has a feeling she might be looking forward to it. Still, she turns pensive, likely thinking on what food she prefers. “Meaty dishes are ok... and spicy ones aren't too bad... There are a few fancy dishes or two I really like, but most of Zofian cuisine is, admittedly... a little rough. A-admittedly, I much prefer Rigelian dishes…”

Albein feels a little surprised at the revelation, although he should have expected it, knowing the Queen had a stepparent from his land. If he remembered correctly, one of the more prominent ones in her life before she passed. “I see.” He says with a nod. “Rich and refined foods are alright with me, and I suppose I can handle rough if necessary, but it's not exactly my favorite…” He trails off, then chuckles a little as a thought comes to mind. 

“Whence did Conrad's mother come from? I wonder if she made for you both dishes from outside her region.” He was curious, of course, and not at all malicious. “I fear most of my experience with Zofian food has been within your property and in Ram.” Of course, he was certain neither of them counted the food they ate during the war as anything but a mixture of cuisines and whatever else they could prepare— they weren’t exactly proper dishes.

“I... can't remember,” she says after a few moments of her nose scrunched in thought. “I’m sure Conrad would be able to tell you, though...!”

“I shall ask him, then.”

She lets out a breath before glancing at her hands, still coated in some salve residue, and moves to wash them in a nearby basin before motioning towards the bucket. “Do you... feel a little better, Albein?”

He offers a wry sort of smile. After all, he still feels absolutely miserable and exhausted, but…

“Aside from disliking the taste on my throat…” He starts, rubbing at his throat gently and trying to not think of the raw feeling he has. “I do feel better. Your treatment has been... most helpful.” At the very least, he’s fairly certain that, without it, he would not have been healing so well. Nor keeping down half of his meals. 

Besides, it was always nice to… be with a friend in times like these.

…

…

It is when Anthiese finally deems him fit enough for travel that Albein departs, family and entourage in tow, with firm instructions for his recovery. Gods, he’s never drinking again in his life.

Still, his mood is high — a bridge he had thought long since burned with a friend had been mended. He almost does not mind his family’s fierce questioning on the way home, nor how much he has to manage his diet for the oncoming weeks upon his arrival.

(He minds a little bit).

It’s not long before he sends his first of many gifts to Zofia of sweets.