"Wilson, do you have a moment?"
Wilson's heart sank in his chest, even before seeing Wickerbottom's drawn face peek into his tent. He had learnt to recognise the tone that required his presence because someone had been more or less mauled by something. Wilson had gone to great lengths to teach all the other survivors what little useful knowledge and technique his education and admittedly very limited practice in the medical field had granted him (because it was only a matter of time before he'd be the one in need of assistance, he knew that), but he was still the first person everyone would address when such problems arised. He may not have the tools or ability to perform miraculous life-saving procedures, but in a world without painkillers a little extra speed and skill could spare everyone unnecessary stress even for the most trivial injuries. He put down the broken compass he was trying to repair and immediately reached for the small emergency bag he had always ready.
"What happened?"
"I'm not quite sure. Webber just came running to warn us that... well, he was rather distressed and I couldn't grasp the whole story, but there must have been an accident near the spiders' nests. Maxwell appears to be injured and Wolfgang is bringing him back to the camp as we speak."
"Maxwell? What on Earth was he doing there?" Wilson asked, more than just a little surprised. Maxwell hardly ever left the camp, and he especially avoided going anywhere near any sort of monster den or pond or beehive, with caution that bordered on cowardice.
"I was planning to ask Webber later, once he has calmed down. I've settled him in his tent and there's already some water boiling in the furnace. Shall we go and meet the others halfway?"
"Yes, of course- oh, thank you." Wilson stepped out of the tent and Wickerbottom offered him an umbrella. She was already standing under her own, and Wilson just noticed it had started to rain. He must have tuned out the noise while he was working. He had gotten used at tuning out things while he was working, especially Maxwell's frequent complains about the quality or purpose of said work. Speaking of the man, he'd better have some really brilliant explanation for going out on his own without warning anyone. Or- well, he must have warned at least Webber or Wolfgang or someone else, but- not Wilson, which used to be the only 'anyone' around before- oh, never mind. He'd better have a good explanation, and he'd better be fit enough to give it personally.
Wolfgang was already visible from the perimeter of the base, strutting towards it with a fierce step, Wendy and Abigail in tow and Maxwell inelegantly balanced on his shoulders like a sack of potatoes. That didn't bode well. Wilson and Wickerbottom hurried towards the group, calling them as they got within ear's reach. It was with unexpected relief that Wilson saw Maxwell's head turn toward the source of the voices, and an arm awkwardly waving towards them.
"For the love of God, tell this oaf to put me down!" He barked, his voice somewhat rough. "I can walk."
"He's been saying that all the time, but I doubt it's true. He's losing quite a bit of blood." Wendy replied candidly. Wilson couldn't help but shiver slightly. That little girl could be more terrifying with a single innocent remark than Maxwell had ever proved to be with all his demonic magic and trickery. They were related all right, and she seemed to have inhereted all her uncle's spookiness and some more.
"Wolfgang is faster than limping frail man! Do not worry, camp is close!" Wolfgang waved at Wilson and stopped in front of him, pointing at his unhappy burden. "I bring him to his tent, yes?"
"Yes, but wait a moment." Wilson ignored Maxwell's inane grumbling and walked around the helpful mountain of a man. He quickly checked Maxwell's pulse and breathing, finding them steady enough. There was a visible bloodstain on his side, that had also spread to the shirt covering Wolfgang's back. He couldn't see the wound, as it was covered by a rough square of silk, completely soaked in redness and kept in place by a thin rope tied around the man's waist. Maybe not the most comfortable solution, but Maxwell seemed well enough to withstand two more minutes of bumpy jogging without bleeding out. "All right, let's go."
"Wait! Damn you all- oh, thank you." It was Wickerbottom that disrupted Maxwell's tirade, once again offering her services against the bad weather and holding her own umbrella above him. The bizarre group resumed its stride towards the base.
"Is anyone else hurt? Wolfgang?" Wilson inquired.
"No, no! All I need is something to fill my mighty belly."
"I'm sure there are some leftover meatballs in the ice box."
While Wolfgang unloaded his troublesome baggage, Wilson retrieved the steaming bucket from the furnace, paying close attention that no raindrops fell in it. Wickerbottom followed him into the tent, observing carefully as Wilson opened his bag and prepared the few tools he had at his disposal before starting to peel the blood-soaked silk and clothes from the wound. Maxwell was already groaning in discomfort; pain tolerance had never been his strongest suit. At first glance, the two gashes running along Maxwell's side towards his navel didn't look terrible. Before doing anything else, Wilson carefully washed his hands with the smelly soap he had fashioned out of monster fat and ash. The water was still a bit too hot, almost to the point of burning him as Wickerbottom poured some from the bucket on his hands, but he didn't complain. Surely Maxwell was going to do it enough for the both of them.
"Ow! Watch it, will you?"
"I can't fix it by just looking at it. And I'm sure it doesn't hurt that much either, considering how lively you are."
"You'd be sore too if that brute had forced you to lie on it while he jolted you around on his back for fifteen minutes. I swear he just wanted to use me as a raincoat-"
"You can thank him for saving your life later." Wilson cut him off curtly. "Now kindly be quiet."
The cuts were indeed less worrying than all the blood suggested. They only got as deep as the muscle layer, leaving the peritoneum intact all the way through. A considerable luck, considering that Maxwell's skinny build didn't offer much in terms of protection of inner organs. Wickerbottom adjusted her glasses and cleared her throat, interrupting their squabble.
"Is there anything I can do to help, dear?"
"Uhm... I think I can handle this on my own, it isn't as bad as it looks." Wilson scratched his chin on his shoulder. His chin always itched when his hands were busy, God knew why. "Could you throw a blanket over him and fetch a warm thermal stone, if you don't mind?" He added, chiding himself for not realizing sooner how thoroughly soaked Maxwell was.
"Of course. I'll be back in a minute."
Wickerbottom carefully tucked the beefalo fleece around him, leaving only the injured area uncovered. Maxwell strangely didn't object. When she left, Wilson finally got to work, dipping a piece of cloth in the water and starting to clean the slashes.
"Ow! It's hot!"
"Oh, drop it. It's just warm now, and you've been through much worse than this."
"Has anyone ever told you that your bedside manners are downright abysmal?"
"Yes, you. Anyway, care to explain what you were doing by the spiders' nests?"
"Is this really the right time for that?" Maxwell hissed as Wilson applied the healing salve along the edges of the wounds, trying to delicately smear some along the inner sides too.
"I don't know, you seem pretty eager to run your mouth for someone who-"
"Maxwell! We're so sorry!" Wilson almost dropped the whole bowl on the wound as a loud, high-pitched voice suddenly burst out behind him. He turned to see Wickerbottom, Webber and Wendy standing on the threshold of the tent. He suddenly felt unpleasantly under the spotlight. He never liked having an audience while he was working.
"My apologies, Wilson, they rushed in before I could stop them." Wickerbottom said while she slid the hot, glowing orb under Maxwell's blanket. Wilson instictively worried about the children having a full view of the bloody wound, but then he remembered that those specific kids had more experience with gruesome injuries, assorted mutilations and horrifying deaths than many adults living out of the Constant.
"Uh, it's not a problem. Maxwell might benefit from some quiet though-"
"We-we just thought we could tell her to leave us alone, but she didn't listen..." Webber mumbled shakily, with such genuine compunction that Wilson didn't have it in him to ask him to leave. Instead, he busied himself with preparing the sewing kit.
"Let this be a lesson to you, boy. Grown-ups don't listen to kids. Both humans and spiders, apparently." Maxwell grumbled.
"Wait. She?" Wilson blinked, finally processing Webber's words. "You weren't attacked by a spider queen, were you?"
"She burst out of the nest all of a sudden!" Webber whimpered. "Her spiders were nice, but she didn't like Wendy and-"
"Oh my God." Wilson barely prevented himself from pinching the bridge of his nose, almost splattering blood all over his face. "Maxwell, what the hell were you doing near a fully developed nest? With the kids, of all people?"
"From what I understood, Maxwell spontaneously offered to accompany Webber to visit the spiders, when he expressed such wish earlier this afternoon." Wickerbottom interjected. "Wendy decided to tag along, and Wolfgang... well, I think he sensed he might be of help in case something went wrong."
In other words, Wilson thought, either Wolfgang didn't believe Maxwell would inconvenience himself so much just to make the kids happy, or he didn't deem him capable of keeping them safe from potential dangers. Both extremely accurate reasonings, as the events of the day had proved. Wilson squinted at the oddly silent infirm.
"How generous of you. I'm sure you had no ulterior motives for chaperoning them there."
Maxwell's glower could have melted a glacier. Luckily, Wickerbottom continued before the budding argument could escalate.
"While Webber was introducing his friends to Wendy, a spider queen spawned from the nearest nest, and she didn't take kindly to the girl's presence. Wolfgang was keeping his distance from the nest - you know how antsy he gets around monsters - and Maxwell had to step in to avoid a much more unfortunate accident. He was injured in the process."
...That was unexpected. Wilson glanced at Maxwell again, but this time the old man avoided his gaze, opting to stare intently at an irrelevant spot on the side of the tent.
"And I guess Wolfgang is the one to thank for helping any of you to make it back afterwards." Wilson sighed, gently pulling the two hems of the first cut closer. "I'm still curious to know why you decided to go there in the first place."
"...I wanted to have a look at the graves."
"The graves? What for?"
"Could we please save this conversation for when I'm not actively bleedi-" Right on cue, Wilson decided it was high time to start with the sutures, and he stabbed Maxwell with the needle without warning, maybe a tad less delicate than he could have been. Maxwell flinched sharply. "AW! YOU GODDAMN SON-"
"Language, Maxwell." Wickerbottom scolded him with a stern scowl that would make a grown man squirm like an embarassed schoolboy. And indeed, Maxwell did bite back the rest of his invective, albeit ruefully. "We should stop bothering these fine gentlemen, children, if you feel reassured enough."
"We apologize for intruding. We were curious to know if death was going to claim you today, that's all." Wendy's tone was just as blank as her expression as she stared straight at Maxwell. Abigail's blurred shape flickered momentarily through the tent, effectively reinforcing the meaning of her words. "It appears that shall not be the case."
"...Better luck next time, I guess." Despite the pain, Maxwell's lips curved into a genuinely amused smile, and Wilson made a mental note to always keep those two as physically distant as possible. Somehow they managed to feed into each other's creepiness way too effortlessly for comfort. Wickerbottom sighed and gave Wilson a sympathetic glance.
"I'll be bustling around out here. If you need anything, just call, Wilson."
"Thank you, I will."
The weird group finally left, and Maxwell and Wilson both sighed in relief, in almost comical synchronicity. Neither of them particularly appreciated the coincidence. Wilson gave Maxwell just a couple of stitches' worth of time to recuperate before resuming his questioning, without lifting his eyes from his work.
"So. Why were you interested in the graves?"
"You aren't going to leave this alone, are you?"
"Nope. I mean, I can't force you to answer, but I do work more quickly with some background noise, so unless you want this undoubtedly painful procedure to take the rest of the afternoon-"
"Wow. That is some dastardly blackmail even by my standards."
"What can I say? I guess your bad habits must be starting to rub off on me." Wilson frowned, hit by a sudden, unwelcome thought, but he pushed it aside for the time being. "Well?"
"...I was looking for gems. I'm almost out of fuel and I need a new nightmare amulet to gather some more."
"Again?" Wilson scowled at him, momentarily lifting his gaze from the wound. "You made a new one just- wait, really? You went there to dig up graves, which can cause all sort of troubles and even summon wrathful ghosts, in a place riddled with spider nests, and you were planning to bring a single child as your escort? What if Wolfgang hadn't come?"
"A single child with the power to pacify all the hostile creatures in the area." Maxwell corrected him, gritting his teeth both in annoyance and pain. "And I did have enough fuel for a couple of duelists, had something unexpected happened. What I did not expect was for Wendy to ask to come along, and to basically walk straight into the queen's fangs."
"What?!"
"I honestly have no idea what she was trying to do. Maybe she just wanted to stir trouble so that her flower could bloom, as it happened. I think I did see her smile when Abigail appeared. Barely."
"You have no idea? Really?" Wilson mocked. "Have you spent five minutes with her? That girl is borderline suicidal. I wouldn't be surprised if she was trying to- oh, heavens..."
"And you're an idiot if you can't see that hers is clearly an act." Maxwell took advantage of Wilson's pause to take a deep breath before continuing with a lower, somewhat wearier tone. "I'm surprised you haven't noticed yet, but there's literally nothing easier to do than dying, in the Constant. Had she the tiniest real death wish in her, she'd be a pile of bones by now. But here she is, after successfully surviving on her own for... I forget, three months, maybe? Trust me, she may not be especially bothered by the thought of her own mortality, but she isn't in any hurry to rush to an early demise either."
Wilson pondered on Maxwell's admittedly sensible points as he wiped some trickling blood from the half-sewn gash. Maybe the man had indeed spent more than five minutes with her. Their respective, peculiar sensitivities seemed to be somewhat attuned, in a sort of morbid and perverse way. Saying that there was any sort of reciprocal appreciation would be a gross overstatement, but there surely seemed to be much less animosity between uncle and niece than between Maxwell and any other member of the group, save Wickerbottom, maybe.
"...Why her?" Wilson whispered, his voice just as silky as the thread he weaved in the other man's flesh. "Of all the people you could have possibly decided to kidnap, why your own niece? Why?"
"Please, don't start again with this."
"And why involving her sister in this too? Her dead sister, for heaven's sake. If she asked you to reunite them, couldn't you at least give Abigail a body instead of making her a ghost that can't be revived? It's just- it just sounds like a cruel joke like this!"
"I did not make that ghost, for the love of God!" Maxwell burst out, irritation flaring in his eyes. Wilson had the striking feeling that he wasn't the first one to inquire about that specific topic, and not even the second. "You lot really have some exaggerated assumptions about my former powers. I never had the ability to bring back anyone from the dead. Once a soul is lost, it's lost. There's no coming back, not even with the strongest shadow magic. Amulets, touch stones and even your creepy meat statues work by preventing the destruction of the soul, not by undoing it. That's just not possible."
"Then what's the deal with Abigail?"
"I don't know." Maxwell shrugged, and winced in pain immediately afterwards. "She was already haunting Wendy by the time I contacted her. And Wendy was aware of it, to a limited extent. She asked me for a way to communicate with her twin, and I gave her just that. I brought her in a place where their connection was stronger and perfectly perceptible to the both of them. And, if you want my honest opinion, I'm fairly sure Wendy isn't particularly displeased with how her deal turned out."
"I can't believe you. You keep talking as if you've genuinely done her a favor. You lie to her, you trap her, you endanger her... and then you save her life, and then you still-" Wilson stopped and shook his head sourly, side-eyeing Maxwell. There couldn't possibly be a brain under that oddly elongated skull of his, no. Had Wilson sawed it open, he would have found a veritable labyrinth inside, he was sure of it, one the likes of which not even Daedalus himself could have created. "...I don't understand you. I really don't."
"I know." Maxwell sighed again and closed his eyes. He suddenly looked and sounded really tired. "If that makes you feel any better, I don't understand you either."
The soothing drumming of the raindrops on the tent was the only sound breaking the silence for a good while. Maxwell seemed to have lost the will to complain vocally after his lengthy speeches, his only reactions to pain being some rare grunting and the occasional twitch on his face. Wilson proceeded smoothly once he was fully focussed on the task, with an easy steadness born from familiarity. Patching up wounds and tending to bruises was indeed a familiar situation, and not an altogether unpleasant one. If there were treatments to be administered, it meant that there was room for improvement, for the solution to the problem. Not always, but often enough. It meant that the worst possible outcome was only one of the many, and not an obligated path. The sullen silence was reassuringly familiar too, in its own way, a small, joint effort to bury the hatchet at least temporarily. Soon he was delicately prodding at the fully sutured wounds, making sure the seams held tightly and the surrounding skin wasn't tense, then he washed his hands.
"All right, I think I'm done with the stitches."
"Thank God." Maxwell muttered feebly. A sudden concern stroke Wilson. Blast it all, he had been idly wallowing in his own thoughts while his bleeding patient had gone progressively more silent and less responsive. He swiftly felt Maxwell's wrist as he shook the man's shoulder, gently but firmly.
"Hey, are you doing all right?"
"Yes." His pulse wasn't abnormal, his skin was a tad warmer than earlier too and he seemed oriented enough.
"Are you sure? Are you feeling dizzy or-"
"I'm tired, Higgsbury." Maxwell complained, tilting his head in annoyance. "Just get on with it."
No signs of shock then. Better that way. "You aren't injured anywhere else, right?" He uncovered a larger portion of Maxwell's torso, in order to clean properly the outer margins of the blood stains before bandaging the wound. As he did so, his gaze fell on an oddly bulging inner pocket of the man's jacket, and on the brief glint of the red gem lying therein. "...Oh. You did find one."
His hand veered automatically towards the pocket, curiosity getting the better of him as it always did, but suddenly Maxwell caught his wrist in an expectedly vicious grasp. His eyes weren't any kinder, either.
"Don't you dare."
"What?" Wilson blinked in confusion, before frowning in genuine offense. "What, do you think I want to steal it? When have I ever stolen anything from you?"
"You haven't, but I have." Maxwell testily retorted. "And considering your particularly petty and resentful mood lately, I'd rather not take any chances. You do nothing but complaining about the lack of resources for life-giving amulets-"
"What? I- I wouldn't-" It stung. Badly. For reasons and circumstances Maxwell probably wasn't even considering, yet he had managed to land a blow exactly where it hurt the most. Wilson felt blood creep to his own cheeks, and he lost track of the volume of his voice for a moment. "I would never do that! Especially after you almost died to obtain the darn thing! I'm not like you!"
If Wilson's outburst had shocked Maxwell, he certainly didn't show it. It did shock Wilson though. He pulled his arm from Maxwell's grip with a snappy gesture and promptly turned his attention back to the wound. He blinked at it for a couple of seconds, rage still thumping in his chest, before remembering what he was supposed to do next. He fetched the healing salve and applied some more on the stitches, for good measure, then he finally started wrapping the injury in clean bandages.
So Maxwell didn't trust him around his possessions now, apparently. The sheer nerve of the man. If there was anyone who had all the reasons to have trust issues, that was Wilson. In fact, anyone in the camp had excellent reasons not to trust Maxwell as far as they could spit, yet they all gave him another chance, and this was how he repaid them. Dragging children to their possible deaths and badmouthing his literal saviors. It made Wilson's blood boil, the fact that, despite all this, Wilson still couldn't bring himself to turn his back on him. The fact that apparently Wilson couldn't help but trusting Maxwell more than Maxwell would ever trust him, apparently. The fact that this whole issue about trust was just an euphemism for a much more inexplicable feeling.
Wilson tore the fleece off Maxwell, ignoring his displeased whine.
"Get out of those drenched clothes before you catch your death of a cold. I'll bring you a dry mat and blanket."
He left as Maxwell struggled to get his jacket off, not out of modesty but simply to let him stew in his own juices for a minute. He fetched his own mat and blanket as replacements, and hung the soaked ones near the furnace: they'd be dry by night so that Wilson could use them. When he went back to Maxwell, he had barely managed to divest his own torso. Without a word, Wilson helped him with the rest and with wearing a clean pair of trousers and a shirt. Modesty had indeed been thrown out of the window a long time ago, after too many accidents and injuries to count. Nevertheless, it was always a bit of a shock for Wilson to see Maxwell's bare body. The man was exceedingly thin, long bones jutting out at every angle and far too less flesh than his eating habits seemed to justify. It may just be his natural build, or it may be another physiological consequence of the prolonged use of shadow magic. It was hard to tell. Wilson could still remember the first time he had had a taste of the former King's frailty, when he had accidentally stepped on a frog during a vicious bout of spring rain. He had been swarmed with a veritable army of angry amphibians before Wilson could attract them to a patch of aptly placed traps. The attack, that would have been a painful but ultimately forgettable accident for Wilson, had left Maxwell, caught without armor or weapons, absolutely devastated. His recovery had been unexpectedly lengthy, and Wilson had had to consistently help him perform even the most basic and private tasks. One would think, Wilson couldn't help but gripe, that after such ordeals a modicum of respect and trust ought to arise between two gentlemen, but apparently that was not the case.
Yet, Wilson reflected as he run a rough cloth on Maxwell's scalp to dry his hair, all this seemed to matter little on his own side of the equation. Maxwell's consistently appalling behavior, and whether or not he was actually deserving of trust, did not factor in Wilson's decision to trust him. In fact, it was not a decision at all, it was merely a fact, a happenstance that had already taken place without him noticing. He had grown to implicity confide in the ultimately positive outcome of the man's shady actions and plans, that had effectively saved the scientist's skin more often than he'd care to admit. He had started to sleep more soundly, knowing that there was someone always up and about in the camp ready to warn him in case of danger, and that said someone wasn't going to spend his nightly vigil plotting against him. He had especially come to value Maxwell's unshakable mental balance, which was exactly what Wilson had needed on one particularly horrifying occasion, during a harrowing insanity-induced breakdown that he still couldn't remember without heavy discomfort. Maxwell had offered, in that and in many similar circumstances, the pragmatic and dispassionate steadness of mind that Wilson needed to reign in his own fears without being swallowed by self-pity. He honestly could not remember how he had survived certain episodes before having Maxwell at his side. Truth to be told, he did not remember having such bad episodes at all before reaching the throne, and that could also be due to-
Wilson balled up the cloth and juggled it in his hands as he finally let Maxwell free from his ministrations. He could not keep going like this, questioning every little thought and feeling that crossed his mind. There was only one person with the knowledge to dispel or confirm his doubts, and it also happened to be one person he trusted, as illogical as the notion may be. He had already trusted Maxwell once, and the consequences of his blunder had been drastic. He could not bear to think of how devastating it could turn out to be betrayed again. But then, he was already in a position where he felt he could trust Maxwell's judgement more than his own. If that wasn't tragic enough of a situation, which one was?
"...Say. There's something I've been meaning to ask you." Wilson finally said, as Maxwell heavily flopped down on the mat and closed his eyes with a sigh. He just let out a vaguely inquisitive hum, and silence stretched again between them as Wilson struggled to decide exactly how to word his question.
"What is it?" Maxwell eventually mumbled, before Wilson could be tempted to drop the topic.
"What does the throne exactly... do to people?"
"What do you mean?"
"Well, it sort of... changes you, doesn't it? You aren't the same person you were before sitting on it, even after you're released. Isn't that what you said?"
"...In a way." Maxwell conceded, opening his eyes again and glancing at Wilson with clear suspicion. "Why do you ask?"
"No reason. I was just curious." Wilson replied quickly. Heavens, way too quickly, he immediately realized, and Maxwell's eyes narrowed even more.
"...Is this about me or you?"
"N-neither! I was just wondering-"
"Let's say about you. Let me guess. Something strange happened to you and you think the throne might be the cause, right?" He paused, scrutinizing the stuttering scientist for the briefest moment, then his brows perked up in visible, disquieting fascination. "Ah. Interesting. What was it?"
God, was Wilson really so easy to read? He was tempted to look away, he wasn't sure that would work in his favor. Instead, he shook his head and collected himself enough to muster a somewhat steadier tone.
"Nothing much. I'm probably just overthinking things. But if you were so kind to tell me how exactly the throne affects humans instead of needling me for fun, it would be easier to distinguish between clear signs and overactive imagination."
Maxwell seemed to weigh Wilson's statement for a moment. In the end, he decided to humour him. He relaxed back on the mat and stared at the ceiling on the tent pensively.
"Again, you assume too much about my knowledge. As far as I know, I'm the first human who ever sat on the throne, so my personal experience would be the only information I could give you. It wouldn't be a good term of comparison for your case though, since our experiences have been so different. I've been bound to the throne for far longer than you have, and I've widely experimented with its powers and let them affect me in turn. Moreover, by the time I got here, I was already somewhat... changed, as you put it. On the other hand, if I remember correctly, you said absolutely nothing happened to you during your brief time as King."
"That's true." Wilson nodded. He had seen no one, heard no one, done nothing until the moment he was freed by his unexpected savior. The whole experience had been unsettling for a grand total of maybe two hours, and then it had quickly descended into utter boredom. "But even if I didn't notice anything, it doesn't necessarily mean that nothing was happening."
"Hm." Maxwell pursed his lips. "What got you so worried about this anyway? What happened?"
"I..." Wilson sighed in defeat. Nothing hindered a diagnosis more than a patient who was secretive about his symptoms, he reasoned. "I've been having... strange dreams. Nightmares, I suppose."
"...That's it?" Maxwell's brow arched in ill-concealed disappointment. "Pal, this whole place is built on literal and metaphorical nightmares. When you close your eyes here, you shouldn't expect to see anything less than the worst horrors your limited mind is capable of conceiving, and much more than that. I'm sure you had nightmares before the throne too."
"Of course, but lately they've been... different."
"How so?"
...All right, there was no way he could put that into words. He could barely make sense of the whirlwind of irrational and incoherent emotions that dominated his dreams in his own head, let alone trying to explain it to another. What he knew for sure was that they almost constantly included Maxwell, and that wasn't exactly surprising. Another thing he knew for certain was the astounding degree of violence involved. Not only with Wilson as a victim, as it was per habit before reaching the throne, but now also as the perpetrator. The scenarios varied widely, from the classic Constant-inspired grotesque torture under the Shadows' supervision, to more mundane and homely beatings in filthy city alleys, to the most creatively abhorrent misuse of every ounce of medical knowledge stored in his brain. All these characteristics may have passed as normal given Wilson's current situation, if it wasn't for an increasing percentage of dreams featuring a different kind of dynamic, one far more mystifying. One where Wilson's hands did not land on Maxwell's body for rage or vengeance, but for pleasure. One that caused him to jump awake in a sweat not with his heart frozen with horror and fear, but with his flesh burning with vim and desire. Sometimes the two circumstances took shape in his brain within the same night, or even in the same dream. Those times were the hardest to dismiss as harmless oneiric nonsense.
"...I wouldn't really know how to explain it. You're probably right anyway, dreams are what they are here." Wilson cut his own thoughts short before they could spiral into further confusion. Maxwell clearly wasn't satisfied with the answer, but Wilson swiftly moved on before he could question him further on the topic. "There's more though. In regards to the darkness. I... I have a strange feeling about it."
Wilson was expecting Maxwell to interrupt him. Instead, he just waited for the scientist to elaborate.
"When I stray too far from the fire, it feels almost... familiar? In a sort of personal way, I think. Like someone I've met. I know there's a monster in there, it has attacked me more than once, but it never felt... like this. It's not just familiar, it's... inviting, even? Distracting, in a captivating sense... Ugh, I really don't know how to explain any of this. And then there's the smell! I feel some sort of floral scent coming from the darkness almost constantly, and I'm sure that's never happened before. I'm starting to wonder if I'm hallucinating everything..."
"You haven't talked about any of this with the others, have you?" Maxwell suddenly inquired. "Or, now that I think of it, about rising to the throne in the first place. You never told them you've been King, however briefly, am I correct?"
"...No, I haven't. It didn't seem... necessary. I may very well be perfectly fine, I didn't want them to worry pointlessly or to think that..." He trailed off, an unpleasant feeling gnawing at his stomach.
"...You didn't want them to look at you like they look at me." Maxwell finished for him, his tone oddly neutral. Wilson gulped, unable to hold Maxwell's gaze any longer. It was a strikingly blunt and simple way of putting it, but an undeniably apt one.
"Can you really blame me for that?"
"No." Maxwell's lips curved into a small smile. "But if you had asked around, you would have spared yourself a headache. This... allure, this magnetic force you sense in the darkness, as well as the rose scent... I feel them too, and not just because I've been on the throne. I'm sure everyone in the camp is susceptible to them. They're not in your head, they're perfectly real. The darkness has indeed changed lately, and I have strong reasons to believe it's due to our new management, so to speak."
"Charlie, right...?" Wilson whispered, trying to recall what little tidbits of information Maxwell had let slip about this mysterious other person trapped by the Shadows, roughly around the same time the former King himself had been captured.
"Yes. At any rate, this is another non-issue on your part. Any more substantial anomalies?" Wilson didn't reply. Maxwell's expression darkened visibly. "...You're leaving the worst for last, aren't you? Out with it, man! It can't possibly be worse than being a werebeaver, and everyone seems to just roll with that without any problems."
...If Wilson didn't have the guts to talk about the dreams, he definitely couldn't come even close to discuss the crux of the matter. Dreams were allowed a measure of oddity, they were an overworked brain's playground devoid of any logic, rules or consequences, everybody knew that. It was an entirely different issue, however, when certain features of a dream started to trickle into a man's awake and cognizant thoughts. It wasn't a glaring phenomenon, it was so subtle that Wilson couldn't even say when it had started. But he had eventually noticed how his thoughts seemed to take strange directions, when Maxwell was involved.
That Wilson's opinion of the man had changed since he had fallen from the Shadows' grace was undeniable, but understandable: despite his many wrongdoings, there was no denying that Maxwell wasn't the real enemy in the Constant, and that the King benefitted from much less control and freedom over his reign than he liked to boast. He wasn't quite as much of a victim of the circumstances as everyone else, but he deserved a fairer judgement than one driven by pure resentment. That Wilson's tolerance had turned into some sort of appreciation was also indisputable, but that could be explained by loneliness and necessity. The harsh environment and the desperate need for all the help one could get could justify the bizarre sort of trust, and even friendship, that could arise between former enemies. Barely, but it could. This brilliant reasoning had started to crack when more survivors had entered the equation, and Wilson was both surprised and unsurprised to notice that he didn't especially care about any of them. They were all sociable enough, helpful enough, capable enough - hell, they were all those things in much greater capacity than Maxwell himself was - but he hadn't felt the need or pleasure to bond with any of them. He was beyond thankful to have more backup and help, and he would unhesitatingly put his life on the line to protect each and every one of them, as any respectable gentleman should in such circumstances, but he didn't quite... care for their company. Not nearly as much as he cared for Maxwell's, despite his foul moods, his cutting remarks, his twisted ways. Or maybe because of all those things. And still, still, all of this could have been labelled as a negligible eccentricity in Wilson's admittedly eccentric character, if strange wishes hadn't started to worm their way into his brain. The wish not only to keep him safe from harm, but to ease his troubles too, by taking care of the heaviest tasks himself, by letting him use the warmest clothing in winter, by consistently taking the brunt of attacks from any monster while Maxwell safely whittled away at it from the sidelines. The wish to outwit his retorts and scathing remarks not to prove the superiority of his own eloquence, but to raise a genuinely amused smile from that perpetually grim face. The wish to inquire about his past and the reasons for his behavior, not out of idle curiosity and not even to garner information that might lead them out of the Constant, but in the hope to find proof that the man's sins might be fewer and less damning than evidence suggested. The wish to offer comfort, in those exceedingly rare occasions when Maxwell's rigid illusion of self-reliance seemed to falter, with something more tangible than words, with a friendly pat on the back, a soothing touch or hug or even-
And therein lay the problem, because this was truly unnatural, in more than one way. Wilson was not a demonstrative man by a long shot, he never had been. He positively loathed pointless effusions, and he had not even remotely missed human contact in his self-imposed isolation in the middle of the thick woods of New England. That he should start to feel a craving for it all of a sudden was puzzling. That he should, at the same time, start dreaming of a much deeper level of intimacy with the same person was suggestive. That such unforeseen development should be centered around a man was shocking. That said man, out of all the possible male creatures his preference could land on, was Maxwell bordered on outrageous. Hence his doubts: was this peculiar development really a genuine preference of his, or were there darker forces at work to twist his mind into such directions for no other reason than sadistic amusement? He couldn't help but feel there was something terribly wrong about it. It simply wasn't how his head worked. While he was no stranger to intimate relationships, his experiences had been few and brief, spurred more by juvenile curiosity than any real engagement. It must have been almost a decade since the last time he had entertained the idea of growing even marginally close to someone. A generic 'someone' that had always been a member of the opposite sex, it bore noting. Should he take all these changes at face value? Even when the object of his predicament was, how very coincidentally, the only other human being who ever sat on the throne? Should he not question the possibility of an underlying connection among this trail of oddities?
... But then, how to explain all this? It was embarassing, and absurd, and private, and delirious. It was the last thing he'd want to discuss with anyone, especially with Maxwell. It was- it was-
"...It's nothing."
"Oh come on, you're a dreadful liar. What is it? Have you been hearing disembodied voices in your head?"
"No- well, aside from the usual whispers when I stay awake for too long, but-"
"Have you experienced blackouts? Unexplained memory loss, signs of possession? Found yourself somewhere without any notion on how you got there?"
"No, of course not-"
"Have you been feeling violent without a reason? Felt like attacking or hurting others for-"
"No! However I do start feeling unreasonably violent when I spend too much time talking with you!" Wilson snapped. "I'm not an idiot, Maxwell! If something that alarming had happened, I'd have spoken up sooner. It's not anything remotely that concerning."
"Then what is it?"
Wilson shook his head, picking up his scattered tools and cleaning up the place. "It's nothing. You needn't worry about me turning into a werepig, I assure you."
Maxwell scrutinized him for few tense moments, then he simply shrugged and plopped back down on the mat.
"...Suit yourself. Judging by the exceedingly vague information you've shared, it sounds like you aren't suffering from anything worse than your average Constant-induced paranoia. Sleep on it and have some mushrooms, doctor."
Wilson ignored the sarcasm dripping from that last epithet. Why had he even brought up the topic in the first place, if he wasn't willing to discuss the most important parts?
...For fear, plain and simple. He was afraid of not being able to trust his own mind, which was the only thing that had allowed him to survive that long. He was still afraid, despite Maxwell's 'diagnosis'. Was there a way to soothe his worries without exposing himself too much?
"...Can I ask you a favor?"
Maxwell's silence felt both like a kindness and an insult.
"Could you... keep an eye on me?" Wilson managed. "Just in passing. If you notice something off about my behavior, could you just... bring it up privately? Just to make sure I'm not overlooking any strange signs."
Maxwell studied him for a long moment.
"Why are you asking me? I barely see you. You spend much more time away from the base with the lumberjack and the arsonist."
"...I'm not really well acquainted with them. I don't think anyone in the camp has known me long enough to notice if my manners were to change, subtly or not. You've been watching me for a long time, though."
"And you would trust me, if I told you so?" Maxwell went on, tilting his head slightly. "If I told you to do or not to do something because it's 'off', you wouldn't assume I'm just trying to manipulate you into doing or not doing something simply because it benefits me?"
...He really didn't get the whole trusting thing, did he?
"I guess I don't have much of a choice either way."
Maxwell kept observing with an unreadable expression. Then, he shrugged and closed his eyes again.
"All right."
"You will?" Wilson couldn't help but asking, surprised by his compliance.
"Sure, why not? It's not like I don't already enjoy every occasion you offer me to point out any and every harebrained idea that goes through your fuzzy head. How's this any different? If you do something stupid, I'll tell you it's stupid."
Wilson blinked. That wasn't exactly what he had envisioned, but he guessed he should take what he could get. And there, just like that, he already felt a little better. He already felt the weight on his chest lighten a bit, just because someone else was informed of the problem (even just a little part of it, a blessedly little part, God forbid Maxwell ever found out about the rest) and had somewhat agreed to lend a hand. It was nice to have a safety net, however flimsy and rude it may be.
"...Thank you."
The rain had stopped. Wilson picked up his supplies and tapped on Maxwell's shoulder.
"Don't fall asleep yet. You've lost a lot of fluids, I'll bring you something to drink."
"I don't sleep and you know it."
"Then why are you lying there in silence and with your eyes closed?"
"Same reason as always. I grow tired of seeing your face and hearing your voice, at times."
Wilson couldn't hold back a small smile. He had already asked that same question, and got that same reply. That was familiar too, even reassuring in its predictability.
"Right. Try not to faint, then."
He walked out of the tent, his smile growing with the irked grumble he got in response.