Chapter Four: Anon The Dreadful Thunder

Forty-eight hours.

The full moon rode high and reflected silver radiance off the snow. If flashed off the katana's blade as Albel practiced his forms.

Forty-eight bloody hours.

A body could only go so long without sleep before it started wearing down. He was slow, off balance, out of focus. These sword forms should have come to him as naturally as breathing and he executed them like an clumsy amateur, without any precision or grace whatever.

The heavy cloak lay discarded and he'd broken out in a fine sheen of sweat. The cold stung and he was grateful for it. It would help him stay awake, and stay awake he must. What waited for him in the depths of sleep was a fight he couldn't win and an enemy that knew him better than he knew himself.

He stumbled through the sword positions, centering his mind, his body, letting his thoughts roam where they would. Perhaps they would chance upon an answer. He entertained a fleeting wish for strength of a different sort. If he had the Aquarian wench's skill in subtle strategies or Traydor's ability to approach any problem with mathematical dispassion he might find a solution. Even the Fittir's talent for improvisation and reckless luck would've helped.

But no, Albel's answer to every problem was to put a sword through it, and that was the one answer that would do him no good.

He stopped in mid-motion and let the sword point drop as he caught his breath.

And yet…take away the sword and what am I? He thought, rolling his head back and allowing his aching eyes to close. Take away my skill with a blade and what do I have lef? Nothing.

"Sleeping on your feet?"

Albel snapped his attention to the path and there stood Fittir with his arms crossed and wearing an infuriating half-smile that bordered on a smirk. "What the hell are you doing here?"

And how could I let anyone get so close without noticing? In this deep silence and given the way the cliffs echoed every sound, he should have heard the lummox coming a quarter of a mile away. I need to sleep. I'm so, so tired.

Fittir shrugged one shoulder. "I thought we could have a chat."

Their eyes didn't meet so much as clash, but of course the Klausian had the upper hand in a glaring match. Albel's eyes were dry and exhausted and he couldn't stop blinking them. "I have nothing to say to you, fool."

"Sure you do." There was a mischievous gleam in Fittir's eyes that Albel didn't like at all, and he sheathed his sword just to get the enticing grip of it out of his hand. The last thing he needed was to forget himself and kill this idiot. Fayt would shit a brick, and he didn't feel like dealing with that.

It took all the will in Albel's overtaxed body to turn and walk away.

"He only stayed with you out of pity, you know."

Albel stopped. The last frayed thread of his self control drew taut. "Watch yourself," he said, staring straight ahead at the craggy landscape.

"It's true, though. It wasn't out of respect or affection. He just feels sorry for you."

Albel shot a warning glance over his shoulder, which was more than this maggot deserved and more than Albel usually gave anyone. "You don't want to pull this with me. Not now." There was a limit to his patience—to the Klausian's too, he knew—and the two of them had made almost a game of testing the point of no return, the point where anger spills over into violence. Albel was so close to that point his head was buzzing.

"You're his project," the Klausian said, digging his own grave with every word. "You're like some poor, abused animal he's trying to nurse back to emotional health."

Flexing his claw, craving something his sword could bite into, Albel stalked back toward Fittir. Keep talking, maggot. Give me an excuse. I don't care anymore.

"He's a good kid. Got a good heart. I can't imagine what he saw in you. You're not even worthy of his friendship. But it's all over now. He'll come with us when we leave, I'm sure."

Albel stopped a sword's length away and drew. He took an assault stance that would let him bring the katana up in a sweep, cutting Fittir open from left hip to right shoulder. The man hadn't so much as moved from that spot. He still stood with his arms crossed, no defense ready at all, and Albel—stripped of all rationale and left with only his predatory nature—hungered to take advantage.

Go on. Send me over the edge.

"He'll probably forget about you as soon as we put this planet behind us. I suppose he'll head back to Earth, maybe marry Sophia." There was a pause, and then, "But not before get a good fuck or two out of him."

Albel's hand moved on its own. It brought the sword up just as he'd planned and he reveled in its deadly stroke, for he was beyond thought and in a place of instinct and reaction where nothing mattered but quenching his bloodthirst.

Fittir didn't even flinch. The sword passed through him as through a ghost.

Or an illusion.

He quirked his head to the side as Albel stared up at him wide-eyed, and the smile on his face turned sinister. "You didn't think you were safe from us just because you're awake, did you?"

The reality slammed Albel back into his senses and he sprang away, centering himself again, focusing. He held his katana with the understanding that he might as well be wielding a stick for all the good it would do him. But the sword was the only answer he had to give, and the thought of throwing it to the ground and accepting whatever this thing did to him was not an option in his mind.

He also understood he'd be fighting for his life with a smiley face drawn on his stomach and the absurdity of it made him grin humorlessly.

The illusion that looked like Cliff Fittir cracked his knuckles and advanced on him. "I'm gonna lay some epiphany on you, Alby. Hard."

It lunged for him, and Albel avoided the blow. What followed was a dance of feints and sidesteps, a display of such utter cowardice that he hated himself for it. He dodged every punch and kick, backflipping, keeping light on his feet and in constant motion, and he didn't once attack but neither did he run. The illusion rent the air with Acrobat Locus, and Albel threw himself to the side, actually marveling he'd managed to avoid injury for so long before realizing he was being toyed with.

As soon as that knowledge hit him, so did Fittir.

One instant the illusion was well out of strike range, the next its grinning face was right in front of him. A fist slammed into his stomach and he bent double. When the uppercut struck his face he went flying and landed hard on his back.

Rolling over onto his stomach, he spat blood and tried to rise up on his forearms, but a shadow fell over him and a boot planted between his shoulder blades pressed him back down.

Fittir chuckled. "Humiliation looks so good on you, Alby." The foot pinning Albel down was replaced by Fittir's full weight on top of him. A strong hand clamped around the base of his neck. "But let's talk more about Fayt."

This isn't real. He's not real.

Was that the trick? Was that the way to kill a night mare, by denying its reality? An insubstantial enemy required an insubstantial offense after all.

He's not real, Albel told himself again, clenching his eyes shut and willing to be so. Not real. But it felt real when the illusion grabbed his arms and twisted them behind his back. The heavy weight atop him felt real and when it leaned forward to speak into his ear, it's warm breath upon his face felt real also.

"No, I'm not real, but that doesn't make what I'm saying any less true. You think Cliff doesn't have a hard on for the kid? You think he wouldn't take the first opportunity to bend that boy over a bed and fuck him raw? You think Fayt hasn't realized you have nothing to offer but hurt? Dream on, fool. Dream on. You weren't worthy of the dragons, you weren't worthy of your father's legacy, and you're not worthy of that circle of friendship they've all forged. You'll never be anything but a sword arm to anyone. If you didn't know how to use that blade, even the king would have no use for you."

He's not real. He's not bloody real. Albel gave a reflexive, cursory struggle and got nowhere.

"Keep telling yourself that. It won't do any good. That's not the way to kill us." Its weight shifted again as it sat up and ran its free hand lightly down his back. "And now I have a decision to make. I have to decide exactly what I want to do to you." Another chuckle. "But I know what a masochist you are at heart. You could use a good hard fuck, but I think you'd enjoy it too much. Isn't that why you put yourself in Vox's hands again and again?"

Albel said nothing, tried to make his mind go blank.

"Anyway, I have a better idea," the illusion said, taking Albel's flesh arm in its grasp, one hand clenching around his wrist and the other around his upper arm.

And slowly, it began to twist.

Albel's eyes flew open in realization. I won't scream. No matter what I won't scream, he thought, and clamped his teeth together to make sure of it. It twisted his upper and lower arm in opposite directions, and his elbow ached as it reached its limit of turning. The mutilation was performed so gradually he felt every nerve scream as cartilage stretched…strained…held for one more agonizing moment and finally ripped with a wet, fleshy cracking sound. Tendons snapped and skin tore. Blood poured down his arm. He thrashed and bit his tongue and blood flooded his mouth. An awful noise reached him through the pain and he realized it was the sound of his own screams.

Laughing, the illusion finished its work and gave Albel's forearm a final good jerk to snap the last bit of cartilage connecting the bones. Albel howled into the snow and didn't notice or care if the thing left or stayed. There was nothing but the pain, nothing but the severed nerve endings and bloody sinew left hanging from his elbow.

It was hate that burned through that pain and forced his eyes open, forced him to spit bloody snow from his mouth and haul his shaking body up onto its knees. If he clenched his teeth in a snarl it was as much in blind fury as in agony.

Not…real…

It couldn't be. Not his arm. Not his one good bloody fucking arm. Blazing eyes looked down at the bleeding stump and he despaired.

No! It's there! It has to be!

Desperate, he clawed at the empty space where his right forearm should have been, raked his claws through the air trying to feel his flesh there. Fuck it all, it had to be there! He clawed and clawed at it and felt nothing, nothing but the brilliant pain of it and the sense that his mind was about to fracture, to sever itself from sanity in a horrendous tearing just as his lower arm had torn away from his elbow.

"Albel?"

A far away voice, bouncing multiple echoes off the rock faces. Albel looked up sharply at the sound of it and when he looked back down his arm was there. He'd clawed it to shreds in his distress, left long bone-deep gashes down it, but it was there and he let out a sound that was half groan, half mad laughter.

"Albel?"

It was his voice, Fittir's, and Albel struggled to his feet. Not again, he thought, snatching his cloak up from the snowy ground and flinging it over his shoulders. Not now. Not again. Shock-numb and dazed, he knew only that he moved forward. Direction, purpose, reality, they all faded in and out of clarity for what could have been hours or merely minutes. Onward and onward with thought only for reprieve. To be free of them for one night, to merely sleep for a few hours, that's all he wanted. Too much to ask for. No rest for the wicked. That was a saying he'd heard from them, from those star-vaulting fools, and he'd always liked it. It flickered through his mind now like a firefly on a dark night.

Through the cold moonlight he trudged until eventually the sense that he wasn't alone worked its way to the forefront of his mind and he stopped. When he blinked a few times, his swimming head cleared a little.

"Albel…careful."

Fittir, behind him. But not close. He looked over his shoulder and saw the older man a few yards away. This one's not real either. Just another torment.

The light of the full moon showed clearly the alarm on the Klausian's face. He reached out a hand and motioned Albel back. "Get away from there. Now. Albel, the ice is cracking!"

Ice? A quick glance at his surroundings and he understood where he was standing. He looked down and saw delicate white cracks spidering out from his feet, making a soft chinking sound as they grew outward. He had just enough time for one thought—oh shit—before the ice creaked beneath him one last time and gave, plunging him into water so cold it drove the breath from him. His head went under immediately; he didn't know how to swim. The water closing over him woke an animalistic, instinctive fear of drowning and he panicked, thrashing wildly, clawing for air. His chest, his head, his whole body cried for breath. Water flooded his mouth and lungs and he felt himself dying as the cold took him down, took his life, took him into darkness…

The rest came in flashes of sensation. Strong arms around his waist. Looking through wet lashes at the star-dusted sky above. A voice telling him to hold on. And he did. He clung with both hands and then he was on his stomach half in and half out of the frozen pond, choking up water until his throat burned. When at last he could breath without coughing, Fittir helped him up and slung one of Albel's arms across his shoulders, and though his first instinct was to jerk away it hurt his pride less to let the man help him than have to crawl on his hands and knees through the snow.

The shivering started, violent tremors that wracked both their bodies. Away from the treacherous ice now, Fittir raised a shaky hand. Symbology glowed brief and bright around his arm and twin Fire Bolts streaked out to ignite a cluster of dead shrubbery and turn the silver nighttime a brilliant, flickering orange. He drew Albel closer and eased him down before sinking to the snow himself.

Wide awake now, Albel caught his breath and stared into the fire. He knew as much about winter survival as any Glyphian; he really ought to strip his wet clothes off to be safe but he wasn't about to be naked in addition to all else. Bad enough the maggot had saved his life and helped him away from the water like he was some invalid.

Bad enough this may all be just another hallucination.

When he could manage it, he stood and ripped the sodden cloak off, moving as close to the fire as possible without singing his hair. The heat was glorious, purging, and he stood like that until the front him dried. Maybe when he turned, the Klausian would be gone, but no. The blonde ape was still there, looking up at him with concern.

He'd rather die than endure that look. He'd rather kill.

"Stop staring at me before I put your eyes out, worm."

Fittir didn't flinch, but then Albel hadn't expected him to. "Fayt was right. There is something wrong with you. Why were you so out of it? You know better than to walk out on ice like that."

The heat at Albel's back burned past the point of pain and he welcomed it. "You're imagining things."

"Am I imagining you clawed your own arm up? Those are no dire wolf's marks, you did that to yourself. Just what the hell is going on with you?" Burning embers floated up in the smoke and fluttered down all around them, dying before they hit the snow.

After watching the gleam of the firelight in Fittir's eyes for some time, Albel answered with a question of his own. "Just what are you doing out here?"

Another illusion? How would he even tell if it were? Asleep or awake, the mares commanded his perception. Dreaming, reality…all was the same to him now, and he'd never felt such a wave of helplessness as he did just then. If the Cliff Fittir before him decided he was in need of another epiphany, he'd have to resign himself to it. There was no fight left in him.

But the Klausian only climbed to his feet and dusted snow from the back of his pants. "I needed to tell you something. About Fayt…and about you. We'll be leaving again the day after the solstice. I'm going to offer Fayt a ride."

I'll just bet you are. "Good. Take him with you. I'm sick of the sight of him."

Fittir scowled at him in the glow of the fire. "And I came out here to offer you the same thing, but if you're gonna be a bitch about it, I won't even bother."

Albel was nearly dry, so he snatched up his cloak and held it out to the fire so it could dry as well. He needed to get the thing back on and cover up his stomach. Incredible that Fittir wasn't rubbing salt in the wound by laughing at him again. "Why would I subject myself to you fools any more than I already have? You're all insufferable."

"Well, excuse me for thinking you might want to get off this rock. I failed to notice just how deliriously happy you are here."

"Hmph." He'd had enough of this, illusion or not, and he pulled the cloak around him and tried to walk away, but Fittir grabbed his metal arm and he tensed immediately.

"Albel," Fittir said. "Let me heal you."

"Don't even try it, maggot."

The Klausian sighed, releasing him. "Fine. But the invitation's open if you want to come with us." He started to turn away then looked back. "And let Fayt help you, Albel. Give him something. He's worrying himself sick over you."

Albel turned his hood up. "I don't need anything from him."

"Well? Was he okay?"

"He was fine."

"That's it? Where is he?"

"He said he'd be back later. But Fayt…you were right. Something's wrong. I think you should talk to him again."

"Easier said than done," Fayt said aloud. That conversation with Cliff hadn't been especially encouraging, and when Albel had returned with the dawn, he'd dismissed any attempt at interaction and disappeared into his room. No amount of knocking or pleading got a response from him.

So Fayt spent most of the day pacing, moving restlessly from one incomplete task to another, deep in thought for the most part. When he got bored of his room, he wandered down to the air dragon cave, which was where he found himself now, replaying the events of the past three days in his head. Many of the Dragon Brigade soldiers remembered him and let him stay and watch while they groomed the dragons. It took his mind off things for awhile at least, but soon he found himself remembering something else Cliff had said.

I don't see what you get from him but aggravation.

"Nothing," Fayt muttered, watching the soldiers repair the dragons' tack and treat their injuries. "Nothing at all."

One more time. He'd try to get through to Albel just one more time. And if that didn't work he'd try again, and again, and again. Because whatever Albel said, they were still friends, and real friendship didn't give up so easily. No, real friendship meant you fought for your friends even if they didn't want you to, no matter how hard it was. They didn't go through the struggle of defeating Luther together to let something like this rend them apart.

Evening set in, and he left the dragons' cave with new resolve and determined hope, but he caught a change in the tenor of the castle that set him immediately on edge. The lower corridors were nearly deserted, and the two servants he did see were both rushing somewhere with alarm on their faces. They didn't even slow down when he tried to question them. Maria came bounding down the stairs and rushed to him.

"I've been looking for you," she said, and her usual calculating expression had a grim cast to it. "You need to come with me."

"What's wrong?" A dread had set into him, deep and foreboding. He knew what she was going to say. He just knew.

"Something's happened to Albel."

A/N: Raise your hand if you thought the fake Cliff was real. :) Hehe. Upped the rating to M for fake!Cliff's little speech about Fayt and for violence. This chapter is one of my favorites. One of the themes in this story is the tension between Cliff and Albel, and that'll really come to a breaking point later on. One draft and two minor revisions for this chapter. Took out a large chunk of it that wasn't doing any good plot or character-wise. It made it shorter, but also made it more relevant.

This is the chapter where I started developing an outline for the story. I never start with an outline. I begin writing without planning anything beforehand. Outlines and timelines are tools I use after the rough is done, mostly to catch plot holes and keep track of the passage of time.