/n/jackal-among-snakes-1520/c-152
chapter-151

Ringing metal echoed through the obsidian abode of the Alchemist. Galamon took slow, heavy steps, eyes glancing around everywhere. He followed a trail of purple lights, though he didn’t seem to trust them completely. The uniform hallways and sterile atmosphere of the place seemed to disquiet him.

He’d still not had the opportunity to repair his armor after the arm had been severed in the battle with the Lord of Silver, so he raised a bare hand to block his nose as though something ahead smelled foul. He stared down the hall, hesitating to move forward. He reached for his side, retrieving a flask and draining it utterly of the blood within. Once it was gone, he inhaled deeply, and proceeded uncertainly.

Ahead, someone breathed through clenched teeth. The breaths were shaky, but strong. Galamon kept his hand to his nose as though the smell was unbearable. He neared the threshold, steps quiet. He looked into the room first, eyes peeking around the corner, then stopped at the doorway.

Galamon’s head turned slowly, drinking in all of the sights. The place was, bluntly put, horrifying. Sheets and blankets were piled up in one corner of the room. Some of them had enough blood on them to be called ‘soaking wet.’ Anneliese had set up a makeshift washbasin in another section of the room, which Galamon judged she was using for laundry.

And though Galamon had been worried he had drawn the ire of the Alchemist by hunting so many of the creatures in the jungle, the food waste remaining evidenced that had not been the case. Bones had been picked clean and piled neatly. Galamon recalled collecting fruits—he saw none, so he presumed they had been eaten fully, seeds and cores included.

The centerpiece of the room was the centerpiece of the horror. The bed was the stuff of nightmares. Bloody handprints marked the bedposts, the walls nearby. The bed… if the blankets had been bad, the feather mattress was worse. Galamon knew from experience that no man possessed that much blood. It was dark blood, too, looking infected. The obsidian floor was covered, some of it dry, some of it fresher.

Galamon would have been certain he was approaching a dead man had he not heard the breathing in the hall. He stepped into the room tentatively, Argrave’s form obscured by the tapestries hanging from the four-poster bed. When he came into view, it took a moment for Galamon to notice Argrave was writing in something.

Argrave spared a glance upwards, then looked back to his book. He double-took, lowering the book.

“Galamon,” he said, voice surprisingly steady given the state of the room. “Thought you were Anneliese.”

Galamon surveyed Argrave. His skin was the palest it’d ever been. His lips were blue. His eyes were bloodshot and sunken. He was missing all of his nails. Strange, jagged abscesses lined his body. The list of symptoms went on and on. Despite this, Galamon felt an intense vitality radiating from Argrave—it was like the heat of a forge, the strongest of any living thing he’d ever seen.

“It’s been, what, seven days?” Argrave continued. “Hard to tell. No windows. Even if there were, we’re in a damned cave…”

Galamon nodded in confirmation.

“Seven days…” Argrave repeated. “First time I see you in a week. What, you finally get thirsty?” he questioned with clenched teeth. “Followed the sweet aroma, looking for a drink?”

Galamon lowered his head.

“Lying here in blood puddles and you’re provoking the one guy I told you not to engage with!” Argrave shouted and tried to point a finger, but he couldn’t raise his arm up. The movement seemed to dislodge something, because he started coughing. It was a terrible, wet hacking, punctuated by Argrave spitting blood out.

“There’s your drink,” Argrave pointed, then let out a long wheezing laugh. “Christ. I’m losing my mind,” he muttered.

“I have no defense,” conceded Galamon.

Argrave stared up at Galamon, breathing a little heavy. He adjusted his position, then endeavored to catch his breath, calming himself. As he wiped the blood off his lips, he seemed to be assaulted by pain, because he winced and put his hand to his chest. Galamon furrowed his brows and stepped forward, concerned.

“Listen,” Argrave continued. “Listen. No—don’t listen. Don’t listen to a word I have to say. I’m in pain, I’m bitter beyond belief, and I’m saying a bunch of words we’ll both regret,” Argrave outlined. “I know you’ve been helping with the food. That’s… Christ, that’s been very helpful. Even eating makes me hungry. It’s like I’m trying to gain 200 pounds this month. It’s hell. So, forgive the ranting and raving, please.”

Galamon stepped a little closer to Argrave’s bed. “I make a mistake… and you’re asking my forgiveness?”

Argrave snorted, but then winced as though the action hurt. Footsteps drew both of their attention, and Anneliese entered the room, hefting a sack behind her back.

“Argrave, I—oh,” she paused, spotting Galamon. She stared for a bit, then smiled. “You have come. Good.”

“You make her carry the food in?” Argrave gestured. “Couldn’t have carried it inside on your way in?”

“…didn’t want to attract attention,” Galamon excused weakly.

Argrave adjusted his book. “Maybe you are an imbecile. I’m starting to question.” He moved as though to write again, then stopped. “Durran and Garm, they’re…?”

Galamon looked off to the side, thinking about how to answer this.

“Oh, I see. They’re still running scared from the big guy.” Argrave hefted the book, then laughed with a shake of his head. “Morons and cowards. I’m bleeding out my…!” he began, then stopped himself, taking deep breaths to calm. “Gotta relax…”

Galamon looked dissatisfied, like he had something more to say, but he elected to leave it unspoken. He looked around the room.

“I’ll help clean,” he decided.

“Scavenge for food, you mean,” Argrave called out.

Galamon shook his head, a bitter smile seizing his face.