Summary: A sympathetic study of a monstrosity. Albel-centric. AlNel

Author's Note (READ!): Hello all you happy people. I'm relatively new to Star Ocean 3 and the Albel/Nel pairing, so feel free to nitpick at my lack of knowledge, though I was nerdy enough sift through of the game's dictionary for two hours taking notes. This fic was inspired by...well, Steppenwolf by Herman Hesse, and the quotes from the original novel at the beginning of the chapters play just as vital a role as the bare narrative. I suggest you read them. (Pretty please?) Writers here seem to enjoy picking apart and playing with Albel's complex caricature of a character, so I applied another caricature to help explain his character in a way that's hopefully unique as well as true. Nel gets less attention, but the same should apply to her—sans the caricature of a caricature of a character. Critique as you wish, but know that in the heart of every writer is a monstrous ego that wants to impale you on a stake with every criticism you make; rhyme intended.

Written for Sorceress Myst who, for the most part, had Albel's personality pinned and wriggling on the wall. I only wish she had gone further...

"TREATISE ON THE STEPPENWOLF

There once was a man called the Steppenwolf. He went on two legs, wore clothes and was a human being, but nevertheless he was in reality a wolf of the Steppes. He had learned a good deal of all that people of good intelligence can, and was a fairly clever fellow. What he had not learned, however, was this: to find contentment in himself and his own life. The cause of this apparently was that at the bottom of his heart he knew all the time (or thought he knew) that he was in reality not a man, but a wolf of the Steppes."

--Herman Hesse, Steppenwolf (pg. 40)

"I am a sick man. I am a wicked man."

–Fyodor Dostoevsky, Notes From Underground

Albel drew his sword from the wolf's blood-soaked body and watched it die.

The animal let out a weak snarl as it writhed upon the wet ground. Albel bared his teeth at it.

He couldn't smile even if he tried; the pleasure had left him as he knew it someday would. Life had given him other things to think about and unwittingly spoiled his fun. Rather than returning to the Black Brigade, he wandered the countryside like a vagrant, slaughtering thieves and wild animals to reawaken his blood lust, for what use is a man who does not love his work? The king did not mind—all was well in Airyglyph.

His travels led him to Aquaria, where the inhabitants still shrank in fear of him in spite of the truce that kept the peace between his country and theirs. He avoided towns more often and roamed the wilderness, choosing to face monsters over white, terrified maggot faces. He could not duck away from the bright skies in the streets, but the trees in the forests clotted the lucid blue light like the clouds of his home.

His home did not need him. That's why he was there. His use had begun to wane like his thirst for red death.

At the beginning of summer, during a spell of exceptionally hot weather, he reached the town of Arias while traveling south along the border. The tattered town had few supplies to offer him, and those that remembered his face among the many that attempted to burn their village to the ground were reluctant to give him any. The Crimson Blades stationed in the area gave the Arians an attitude that he despised, but they were what kept him from gutting every villager that spurned him.

Albel scowled fiercely down at a shop keep who refused him service. The shop keep scowled back.

"You heard me. I know who you are, and not even Apris Himself can convince me to give you one damn berry. Get out of here."

Albel growled, but held his sword arm steady. With a final glare, he turned heel and left.

Outside, the air clogged his throat like cotton. He paused just outside the door as a vivid image of metal claws sinking into the shop keep's throat drifted through his mind. He loved his monster more than anything; it gave him guiltless ecstatic rage in the face of his enemies, but it was never enough. He couldn't kill the weak, the defenseless--even scum as insolent as the Aquarians. He was the weakling.

"Albel Nox?"

A female voice carried down the street. Albel noted the authority underlying its softness as he glanced up to see Clair Lasbard make her way towards him. Her expression appeared curious rather than wary, her silver braids clinging to her damp neck in the afternoon heat.

"Hmph. And who are you?" he asked, feigning ignorance to put her off her guard.

"Odd seeing you in these parts, Nox." she said. "What business does the Black Brigade have here?"

"None of your concern, scum."

"Is it? Even with the truce, a Glyphian captain in Arias doesn't give off the best of signals..."

"Fool. Do I look like I'm here to ravage your worthless town?" He fired his sincerity into her eyes with a glare.

"So you've come to visit Nel then?" Clair replied indifferently.

"The wench is here, eh? Not likely. I nearly gutted her twice without the least bit of remorse." His face split into a wry grin as Clair's gaze hardened. "She wouldn't want to see me anyway."

"She already has," said Clair, "And she asked me to be hospitable to you in spite of your... history with us."

"Hmph. Why didn't she come out herself?"

"Work. She's leaving for Peterny tomorrow."

Albel was silent. He recalled what it was like to fight the Zelpher fool in true combat. She was weaker than he had hoped, but she fought well. Perhaps he could taunt her until she snapped, renew the exhilaration that had left him. His mind emptied when he moved to kill a worthy opponent, and it was that emptiness that he killed for. When their lifeless body hit the ground, he was hardly aware, lost in the feel of his breath seething through his teeth. Those were the battles he lived for.

But could he kill Nel Zelpher? She had done nothing to him that he had not done to her, and it was all business; bloody business, but business nonetheless. His honor weakened him, made him merciful. The monster snarled and rattled it like a cage.

Albel looked at the girl in front of him and wondered why she wasn't dead. The Scourge was at his side, and his claw flexed for the strike.

Weak. It grated.

"You're welcome to stay in the mansion, as long as you don't cause trouble, that is." Clair said.

"Don't bother." Albel growled. "I'm leaving this godforsaken town as soon as I can."

"Very well then. I'll inform Nel."

"Bah, what does the scum care?" He said to her back as she turned away from him.

"She's convinced that she trusts you, though I'm still puzzling at why." Clair shot him a final look over her shoulder, heading up the cracked street. A short breeze passed through the town and cooled his matted hair. He felt a familiar hatred boil in his gut.

Now he stood over the wolf's corpse, contemplating the blood that dampened his boots. Peterny rose above the horizon, white and round with its stone walls; a giant maggot pregnant with smaller maggots crawling over the bones of the city as if it were worth something more, as if their lives mattered.

The grass was green and bounced against his step. What a Glyphain snow wolf was doing in Palmira plains he could not imagine. He had put the beast out of its misery, before the heat or a pack of Aquarians killed it in a humiliating way. The wolf was his to claim in death; any other fate for it would have been a perversion of natural rights.

Albel stepped away from the corpse, the faint scent of smoke from the city perceivable over the sweet odor of gore.

Closing note: Eh, it's short and I'm not entirely satisfied with it, but it works. Other than a raw outline I'm diving blindly into this one.