Chapter Three: The Golden City
Anders awoke with a start. He bolted upright, but hissed and rolled back down as pain crawled up and through his middle. He cursed, feeling nausea twist his stomach into knots at the unexpected stress and he lay still for a moment, forcing his breath into his palms as he waited until he could move again.
He had forgotten. About the attack, about his injuries, about—the others! Again Anders sat up, gingerly this time, and glanced around the room. He was still in the cabin—the remains of, anyway—and from where he lay tucked away in a dry corner, he could see Naoya sleeping opposite. His black jacket was unzipped and Anders could see the white shirt underneath, but noted with relief that there was no blood on any of his clothing. Remus was nowhere to be found, and Anders swallowed.
He propped himself up on one wrist, now turning to himself. But his blue robes were undamaged and there was not a single red stain to be found. But—how? The wolf-beast had attacked him, sliced across his front. Pressure from exploring digits confirmed the tenderness of the area, but Anders slipped his fingers through the jacket and down to his bare skin. Where he expected to meet with rigid scabs and torn flesh, he was met with sore, tender skin—unbroken skin, at that. He wondered how that could possibly be.
"Maker's breath," he whispered, dragging his free hand over the thickening scruff on his face. He felt a quick burst of relief, and Anders frowned. "We're lucky this isn't worse," he told Justice with a low voice. "We have to be careful."
But Anders was in no mood to relive that fight so soon. On top of having lost, Justice taking over was... disturbing. To be completely self-aware and yet incapable of acting, watching himself through his own eyes and yet not... It was not a sensation Anders liked.
He pushed himself up, feeling the need to move his cramped and aching body. Careful not to stir his wounds, Anders wrapped his fingers around his staff which had been set next to him and slowly made towards the gaping hole in the building's side. The pinkish hue of the morning sky made the shadows look purple, and thousands of tiny drops of leftover rain collected on the millions of leaves turning the forest into a gathering of diamonds. Anders could hear the sounds of the birds flocking through the canopy. They scattered water droplets as they searched for food, sending miniature rainshowers tumbling over the leaves. Scratching his stubble, the mage leaned his shoulder against the wood and closed his eyes, merely listening to the sounds of encroaching morning. It was serene, almost. The air was thick but full, overflowing with the peaceful scent of mossy woods and wet bark. Anders inhaled deeply, tight shoulders loosening with a powerful sigh.
"You're awake," a voice said, and Anders turned to see Remus sitting beside the cabin, back pressed to the wall. "How do you feel?"
"Like shit," Anders admitted, but he pointed to his undamaged clothes. "I assume this was your doing? Thank you. You might make for a fine healer," he added, and Remus returned a half-smile.
"Don't thank me," he said. "Those wounds probably won't heal properly. They'll leave a scar."
"Better a scar than a body," Anders commended, and Remus shrugged. "How?"
Remus took his wand from his belt, holding it loosely in his hand. "I know a few useful spells," he smiled, but it was empty.
Anders watched him for a moment, catching the dark circles below his eyes and the shake in his limbs. "Did you sleep at all?"
"Oh, yes," Remus replied. "A few hours. But... my sleep comes in cycles." He avoided Anders' eye, staring at the grass and the wolfsbane growing in front of him. "It's always been that way."
Anders shifted on his feet. He understood the struggle of insomnia very well indeed, but without his clinic's supply of herbs he was helpless to do anything for Remus. So he changed the subject, hoping to at least distract him. "What happened after I...?"
Remus explained the events with Alastor, and Anders felt sick. "When will they come to collect us?"
"Sometime after dawn. Soon."
Anders let a strained breath leak through his teeth with a hiss. "This is probably a trap," he said, leaning up against his staff. "Some kind of set up. There's no way this Lord Reaver means us any well-wishes."
Remus nodded in agreement, but he peered through the forest to the fading moon. He watched it sink below the horizon, slightly more swollen than it appeared when it rose. "But there isn't much we can do."
"I know." Anders saw the pink sky slowly turning blue through the boughs and fought back a curse. He hated feeling trapped like this, and Justice bristled inside. We'll kill them if they try, he said. No one will torture you again. But Anders bit his lip, feeling the weight of their circumstances pressing on him like a cage. They had been spared, for now. And with any luck, they could get some answers. And, he told Justice soothingly, if all else fails, there was always a well-placed spell.
"But," he heard Remus shift his position, turning to face him, "speaking of the balverines, what was that? I've never seen that sort of magic. What did you do?"
His tone was curious, but Anders tensed. Having explained it to Hawke not two weeks ago, he thought it would be easier if he had to do it again. How wrong he was.
"I... this is hard to explain," he started, and Remus seemed more than willing to wait for him. He wasn't scathing or fearful. He was calm and patient, and Anders shifted the weight on his shoulders as he realized that he had no idea what this man would think of him once he finished. How could he explain everything to Remus in a way he would understand? Maker knew that he might not even have spirits like Justice in his world at all. Would he even understand? Should he just lie?
"That was Justice," he said finally, though the words felt like rubber on his tongue. "I met him years ago in my travels, and learned that he was a spirit trapped in our world. Spirits like him are from a place we call the Fade, which is... harder to explain. But, in order to survive outside his realm, Justice needed a body. A host. It was well after we had formed a friendship that I learned he would soon be in desperate need for a new one. And I thought—a willing host, a friend... I thought I would help him."
Anders forced himself to meet Remus' eye. But his expression was curious, and Anders almost took a step back. Having just explained that he was an abomination to another mage, he expected Remus to run. But—not this.
"So you... have a spirit, inside you?" Remus asked with a raised brow.
"...Yes and no," Anders replied, thinking desperately for the right words. "He's... part of me, I suppose. We can't have a conversation. I feel his thoughts as my own."
"But it was not you who took on those balverines."
"Not... er, directly, no. There are moments of clear separation, when there is a divide between us. But for the most part, he is me just as I am him."
Remus paused, searching Anders' eyes. If he was confused, Anders couldn't blame him. From what he'd gathered, Remus had no idea what demons or spirits were at all, let alone abominations or shades, or—anything that might help sew the picture together. He was almost lucky.
"Is he listening to us?" Remus asked. "Right now?"
"Of course," Anders said, but he brought his hand to the back of his neck. His ears were burning. This was becoming awkward.
"I..." Remus started, his mouth moving to form words that never came. "Fascinating," he said finally. "I've never heard of such a thing. I can't imagine what it must be like."
"What?" Anders stared at him. "I—thought you would find it—normally, I encounter resistance— Resistance was such a mild word, Anders thought, but he found himself too shocked to really worry.
"The magic involved must be astounding," Remus said, and Anders was lost for words.
Anders opened his mouth to respond, but a crack of branches up above sent them searching the sky. With unmatched grace, the alpha balverine announced his return, landing silently in front of them and brushing off his front with mild disinterest. They needn't know he had been listening to them for well over an hour, watching them—studying them.
"Mr. Lupin," he greeted, hands tucked behind his back. "Are you and your companions ready to go?" The only things different about him that day were his black leather gloves and the purple cravat.
"Alastor," Remus returned the greeting, albeit rather stiffly. Alastor rested his hands behind his back, Remus noted. A sign of non-aggression, yes - but also dishonesty. Behind him, in the trees, he noticed several black shapes: more balverines. How long had they been there? "We are—almost ready," Remus added, realizing that that was nowhere near true. Naoya was still asleep as far as he knew, and none of their supplies were packed. He nudged Anders' ribs. "We'll be seeing to that now," he finished, heading straight inside.
Anders followed, glaring at Alastor as long as he could manage. Although the man's pale face bore no obvious expression, Anders swore there was the hint of arrogance, or confidence: he had been victorious in their combat, and now Anders was the one at a disadvantage—and they both knew it. To Alastor, Anders was just another meal. Remus had already begun stuffing the sack of supplies with everything they hadn't used, so Anders took to waking Naoya. Outside, he caught glimpses of the balverines watching them.
"Naoya," he breathed, shaking the boy's shoulder with a rough tension. "Wake up. The balverines have returned."
At first, the teenager's eyes just barely cracked open. After a few more shakes, Naoya's eyes opened further and he blearily looked up at the blonde. He exhaustedly glared at the mage, though it seemed more the expression of a two year old and not a seventeen year old. Even with sleep glazing over the boy's gaze, Anders resisted a shudder - there was something off about that boy. It was an almost inhuman quality nagging the back of his mind, but he couldn't place why.
The psychic staggered to his feet, rubbing his eyes as he took in the sight of the mage and the wizard. With the added bonus of daylight, he could actually see the traces of terror on the edges of his companion's expressions.
"I don't get what the big point is, why this Reaver guy has to put on a show like this," Naoya spoke as he stretched. He put a hand on his hip and used his other hand to emphasize his words. "Think he's compensating for something? Shows force, but he's, like, this tiny little guy?" He was trying to take some of the stress off of them; his empathy senses felt almost pre-migraine from feeling their paranoia. "A little guy with a little hat." He mustered up a sure smile and walked past them, zipping up his jacket, ready to at least try to be the brave one.
Outside Alastor stood patiently waiting, the balverine's incredible height as a human almost dwarfing the young EGO's own stature.
The walk through the forest was silent for the most part, accompanied by the sound of trees moving as balverines jumped freely from branch to branch. They gibbered, they howled, they roared; but there was no threat in their tones. If Naoya didn't know any better, he'd have guessed they felt... happy? Or at least as happy as a bunch of monsters frolicking in the sun and tree boughs could get.
Somehow, the boy strolled along as if it were just an average day.
"So, uh, you're a thing," Naoya started, thinking about how to word himself to sound the least threatening. Loose hazel bangs bounced as he walked along, trying to keep up with Alastor's long strides.
"Balverine."
"Yeah, a balverine. You're their king, the alpha balverine? Or is that Reaver?"
Alastor didn't reply. He didn't even look at Naoya, just kept his gold eyes glued on the path ahead; scanning the treeline for the sign that they were getting close to the city.
"So is this Reaver the head balverine then?"
"Reaver is not a balverine," Alastor replied, calmly, but also strangely bitter.
"So... you're just his soldiers? Why do the balverines follow him?"
"They don't," the way he said it was strange. Naoya sensed something hesitant, angry; deep-rooted. Alastor turned to the older two. "Does he know how to be quiet?"
"I'm sure he does," Anders toned dryly. His arms were crossed and he glared at the balverine at his side as it escorted him through the unyielding woods. But he was nonetheless listening to the exchange. "But I think the more appropriate question is, 'Does he know when?'"
Anders thought about going on, because in truth the psychic was pressing on his nerves. His already heavily taxed, pounding, nerves. But he thought better of it: it was a stress response, and he knew it. He needed to vent a little steam, but this was not the way. He let out a stiff breath through his nose, flexing his fingers against the body of Freedom's Call as he held it close. He was thankful that no words had been said with regards to their weapons. It probably meant that the balverines were confident that they would overwhelm their "guests" in the event of the unexpected. And, they were probably right. But the comfort it gave Anders as he was once again pressed in on all sides was beyond compare. Despite the vast differences in circumstance, Anders was still reminded of all the times he was returned to the Circle in chains by an escort of brutish Templars. Being taken to face an unknown enemy, crowded in and shuffled onwards—Anders was on edge, and his stomach turned in knots. Justice was silent in his mind, and he knew the spirit was watching everything, the same as him.
"The city must be quite impressive," he forced as he shuffled on. Charm was his first defense, a necessary survival tactic he learned quickly as he fell hard and fast as a new apprentice. Now, it was an automatic reaction most of the time, and his silver tongue had saved him from many a dangerous encounter over the years. He just had to find the right opening. "And this Lord Reaver must be rather powerful to send such an entourage—one splendidly dressed entourage, at that."
With a monotone, Alastor responded: "One would assume so."
A wry smile twisted Anders' lips, though he did his best to hide it. "Yes," he agreed. "But then, one would assume a lot of things about someone who sends his hounds to fetch his prize. So far, I'm almost reminded of home. I assume the dog shit is just as much a problem here, as well."
Naoya's pouty lips drew into a twisted little smirk as he contained a laugh, but Alastor gave a short, dry chuckle. "A long time ago, I came from lands of ice and snow. How proud you must be to come from a land of dog waste."
"Very. I never had to guess what people thought of me, and the smell turned away most of the bandits. It's a shame, though: I was always more of a cat person. Do you have any of them around here? You must need something to snack on from time to time."
Alastor didn't respond, and Anders didn't mind. He cocked his brow with casual dismissal and refocused on their path ahead of them. It was gnarled and windy, and had a great deal more in common with an animal path than any trail made by civilized feet. It was wide in some spots and single-file in others, and filled with roots and rocks, forcing those on the ground to choose their next step with care. The balverines in the trees flew through the canopy like shadows, darting from trunk to trunk with a grace Anders hardly expected from their bestial forms. It was something he noted with a curious sense of fascination, but also contempt.
But the trees were beginning to thin, and the floor of the forest was beginning to carpet with ferns. Vines had begun to snake their up the length of the trees, blooming in odd lily-like flowers in any spot touched by a beam of yellow sunlight. The clouds were beginning to break through the endless green, and more of the daytime stars popped in and out of focus. Their destination was very near.
On the horizon, coming into view, was a reflective surface - and as the traveling party got closer, it became quite apparent that it was a large wall. A large golden wall. Shingled rooftops could be seen peeking over it in places, and from the distance they were at it was possible to make out a large, forested but classic manor sitting atop a hill in the distance. The gates to the city were as high as the wall, a thick hard wood of some kind, detailed by ornate golden designs – and they were wide open.
Remus, who had taken up a position closer to the rear, slowed slightly to take in the sight. It was... shocking. Such a richly endowed city, fortified by a solid gold wall—to emerge from the center of what he likened to a jungle was something out of The Tales of Beedle the Bard! He hadn't expected this. Not from this place, and certainly not from the balverines. Approaching the gate, the city gleamed like a jewel against the sea of green. It was encased in the mouth of the sky by vast snow-capped mountains in the distance, isolating it from all else.
The balverines travelling with them jumped high, seemingly disappearing into the sky for the moment; all save for Alastor, who continued to lead them into the city. The open gates lead them to quaint cobblestone streets and rows of Victorian-style townhouses and shops; golden fountains in small parks and gathering areas. Alastor lead them through the city, where people stopped and looked at them. They dressed fairly enough, they were well-clothed and seemed well-cared for, for the most part. But the most notable things about them were their collective yellow stare - they all shared those familiar glowing golden eyes. They murmured and whispered, paid no heed to the balverines who landed from on-high and mingled among them; some of them even patted their heads, like they were old friends or beloved pets. Remus watched the displays of affection with a strange, hollow sensation building inside him.
They were so like werewolves. But, so absolutely foreign and strange that they couldn't possibly be—and yet, Remus felt here as if he were walking into Greyback's clan once again. All of his internal shields were on high alert, and as his eyes took in the scene Remus felt his shoulders relax even as his gut tensed, taking on the role of spy once again even without a mission. Very aware of the balverines closing in behind them, Remus widened his paces ever so slightly, coming to walk beside Anders and Naoya again. It was good to have allies this time around.
The city was a masterpiece, each building a carefully constructed stoke of paint to further the image of a healthy utopia. Prosperity bled through all of the curtains and drained into the streets. It was unreal. Remus flexed his fingers, uncertain if he were truly awake. But Remus couldn't help but smell death beneath the roses. There was no such thing as perfection, and those who had professed it were monsters under the skin. This city was a mask. It was an illusion. And golden eyes peered through the cracks, hunger and longing in their demonic stare. Remus noted the golden-eyed children with particular attention, and any sense of wonder was replaced by a sadness far deeper than he knew.
Alastor continued to show them the way, only stopping to remind them not to wander away. "Please don't wander," he said, politely. There was no venom in his voice, although it carried its usual aloofness with it.
Eventually they came to the large manor they had seen from the outer rim of the city; just as magnificent, clean, and pleasant to look at as it seemed from afar. Alastor led them up the ancient stone steps, and even his footsteps were silent. But his guests were hardly concerned, as they craned their necks in all directions as they soaked in the expanding grounds and gardens. It looked pristine - as though it had been tended to for many generations in exactly the same way. Not a single blade of grass was out of place and the blood-red flowers lining the beds shuddered gently in a slow breeze that passed over the land. More stone steps lead up to a cobblestone terrace, decorated by red and yellow flowerbeds and a large statue of a beautiful man wearing a suit with a large stovepipe hat and palming a fancy cane while fingering a pistol of some kind with the other hand.
Naoya stopped and tilted his head, looking up at the statue. He had been wrong about the hat.
"Seems like a humble fellow, doesn't he?" Anders sneered, glancing up at the statue with disgust.
Remus eyed the statue, and he had to agree with Anders: this was no mere manor house - it was a temple of narcissism.
Alastor indicated they should follow him now, and they climbed the polished marble steps to the arched wooden doors that led inside. The ancient hinges creaked in objection as the balverine pushed them open, holding the massive weight with hardly a complaint as he ushered them through. Remus felt his lips part as he stepped into the room: the foyer was positively enormous! The sound of their footsteps echoed across the checkered floor, and their reflections gazed back at them from underneath the floor polish. The walls were red with golden trim, lined with thick, tall candles and several gated doors topped with odd symbols. On one, a dog's paw. On another, a question mark. In each of the room's four corners was a statue similar to the one outside, depicting (Remus assumed) the Lord Reaver himself. There was a sense of loosely ordered chaos here: that one false step could crack open the glass and release Pandora's Box. It was with heavily bated breath that the three men waited for whatever would happen to them next.
Large, heavy mahogany doors swung open at the top of the marble steps, and in strolled the man seen posing as the various statues. He was tall and with dark brown hair, neatly coiffed in a suave and posh manner; wearing a finely-tailored white suit with a thick black fur collar, and a stovepipe hat donning, for some reason, a pair of gear-shaped goggles. On his hands he wore black leather gloves, and he fingered a cane; his palm resting completely on the large gem head, that glittered like a night sky splattered with shining golden stars. He saw the newcomers and smiled; a saintly sure gesture that was dripping with a dark sense of vanity. The way he sauntered over to the railing overlooking the foyer, it was very clear that he didn't need the fantastic cane. "Welcome, dear guests!" Reaver chuckled. "My, my, Alastor," he said, even his voice coming off as grand, posh, and smug. "Are these the three, poor lost souls from the forest?"
"Lord Reaver," Alastor spoke up in response. "These are Remus Lupin, Naoya Itsuki, and Anders." He gestured a gloved hand to each in turn.
Reaver looked them each over, running his hand along the intricate metal railing as he made his way down the grand sweeping staircase. As he came closer to greet them in a more personal manner, his steps were elegant but somehow poshly demeaning. Something about him seemed far older than the late-twenty-something looking man that stood before them; one look into his eyes and it was clear he wasn't a normal human. "I trust that Alastor didn't give you all too much trouble when I sent him out to see you last night." He feigned a scolding pout and glanced to the great white balverine. "He has a bad habit of being a tad too harsh, positively icy sometimes. Don't you, Mr. Grienwulf?"
Naoya watched Reaver, not quite sure what to make of the strange, selfish man. "So are you—"
"Naoya," Anders breathed, interrupting him before he could begin. It wasn't a gesture of anger or hostility, but caution. There had been no telling what to expect from Lord Reaver, but from the minute he had appeared at the top of the stairs, Anders could recognize a predator. Whatever this Lord Reaver wanted from them, it was nothing good. He couldn't be certain, not yet—but it wasn't merely Justice whispering in his thoughts that put Anders well over the edge: perhaps it was something in the Lord's dark, hollow eyes, or perhaps it was simply the cold and calculating tone of voice. Maybe it was none of those things save the simple fact that this man appeared to be quite capable of ripping flesh with mere words alone. He was more than capable of taking on any Kirkwall noble, and the flamboyance of his dress and possessions—even his mannerisms—Anders thought they were best considered a warning rather than a hospitable invitation.
At the cautioned tone, The Skill Hero cocked a fine brow.
"Oh, let the boy speak. You're only young enough to question all the world once, you know." Well, in his own case he was always young. Always. He looked down at the hazel-haired boy, his eyes were blue but somehow shallow and dark; run under by expertly-applied eyeliner. "Itsuki, was it? Exotic name, compared to your friends here. Do you prefer Naoya or Itsuki? Makes no difference to me, I just want my guests to be comfortable."
Reaver paced the floor slowly, taking them in. Anders felt a stray twitch in his free hand as it dangled limp and empty beside him, and it was every effort he had not to let his staff sway in the other. It itched to feel the hum of mana, to be held outward protectively against the scrutinizing stare of the new powers that be. This examination—it was all part of the game. Part of the pleasantries, of course, but something deeper. A sizing up of opponents. A crease had formed in his brow as he shifted his weight from side to side, growing more restless and paranoid with each tick of the clock. The constant scrutiny they were sure to be under now was—so eerily reminisce of the Circle, Anders thought with a difficult swallow. But now, the outside was no longer the freedom he sought when it was an endless, danger-filled unknown. They were trapped here with the balverines that tried to kill them; here with their leader, the Lord who spoke with venom dripping down his smile. Lord Reaver was to be his ruler now, nothing short of Greigor or the First Enchanter all over again. Anders held himself very, very still.
Remus watched silently beside him. The grandiose statues had failed to capture Lord Reaver's essence, it seemed, because to Remus, his arrogance seemed to just billow in his wake, wafting over the room like a cold breath and oozing from his lips as he addressed Alastor with lowly regard. His attire was positively flamboyant despite the neutral color scheme, and Remus found his eye drawn to the tall, spectacle-adorned hat and to the staff he waved about in his hands. The latter was a simple black walking stick for all intents and purposes, but at its tip it was crested with a large gemstone cut into a polished sphere. It was milky white with veins of blue that wafted through the body in tendrils of crystalized smoke, so very like the purest of moonstones. But there was something odd about the stone. It was hard to gather from between his fingers, but Remus watched as the Lord paced across the floor. Did it... sparkle, or glow, perhaps? It was entrancing to watch, and Reaver must have noticed him, for he stopped right at Remus' feet and held the rod aloft.
"It's a rare and precious gem," he said, and Remus could hear the deep grin in his voice. "There are no others like it," the Lord went on, "and it is, dare I say, rather... alluring."
Remus looked from the gem to Reaver, and then back again. It was striking, indeed, and it had drawn him in with singular skill—something that had surprised him. As Lord Reaver turned and continued down the line they formed, Remus felt his knees begin to shift and buckle under his own weight. The world was much heavier, the air he breathed thick and dry. His exhaustion had returned, and it demanded to be known. He stiffened, allowing his shoulders to broaden with formality.
"If I may," he said to Reaver, "We were made to understand that there was a reason you wished us to be brought here?"
"Ah, that. All in due time, Mr. Lupin. All in due time." He decided to settle for surnames, seemingly feeling that it was the safer bet with this trio. "Come now, I'm sure you all must be hungry, tired - in need of a good rest and hot soak after wandering those wild woods, hm~?"
"How long before you run out of distractions and have to give real answers?" The agitation of Anders and Remus played heavy on Naoya's senses. Part of him wanted to escape, if but to make the older two more at ease; another part of him was annoyed at how over-protective Anders was. What was he, some princess in need of saving from the wicked villain?
The immortal turned his head, glancing at Naoya from the corner of his eyes. A sizable pout flickered to an amused smirk. "Ah, a sharp lad you are, Itsuki, my boy." He turned and offered a pat on the head as a prize, quickly catching Anders's annoyed gaze before shrugging it off. "But really? Can you blame me for wanting to entertain you? It's rare to have company from outside these wonderful city walls." It was with slight sarcasm that he said that; he couldn't hide his own displeasure with the walls. He swiftly moved away before the irate mage standing behind Naoya could deliver any retribution. "Feast first, answers second." He wagged a gloved finger at them. "I can certainly tell you that there's no better a man than myself to explain why you were all yanked from your respective worlds and brought here, to this plain, to produce plants in your footsteps."
"'Feast first, answers second,'", Anders muttered, following Alastor down the darkening hallways of the Reaver estate. With their short dinner come to a close, the Lord had insisted upon their getting some rest. "Much to discuss," he had said as he waved them off with a flitting hand, but about what he refused to mention. Anders held his staff close, and as he was led further into the winding, exotic corridors of the mansion he kept his ears open.
The feast (as Reaver had called it, though it was hardly so grandiose) had been—stiff. Awkward, and unusual at the very best. They ate a small meal in silence, broken regularly by Reaver's voice as he regaled them with high-flung tales of his past and the tedious details of being in charge of a veritable hoarde of balverines. Anders felt better with something inside his stomach, but the sound of Reaver's voice threatened to end that peace the longer he was exposed. Ever present, Alastor wandered in and out of the dining room like a flickering shadow, tending to their needs. It was a position that seemed unsuited to the man. He possessed the grace for servitude of such high caliber, but his demeanor was as icy as his frosted hair. And more than that: there was something feral about Alastor that went beyond his true, canine form. A certain flame burned inside him, one that Anders recognized: discontent. Restlessness, seething below the surface, but refined by incredible self-discipline that Anders could never match. But the underlying cause was unmistakable: Alastor was not happy. That put it mildly.
But if Reaver noticed, he made no indication of it. In fact, Alastor was Reaver's go-to man, by all appearances. Save for the repeated jabs of the Lord to his butler about his perpetual frown ("Oh, come now, Alastor, smile for the guests!"), all seemed well. The household was a well-oiled machine. Alastor had come to collect them and shepherd them onto their next destination without so much as a word from Reaver, and their soles tread over finely polished hardwood as Alastor guided them through. Up a set of marble stairs, past what seemed like a library, a trophy room, past various portraits and busts of their oh-so-accommodating host - the most notable examples being two paintings, one involving a woman's dress and the other depicted a hunt for a unicorn - and to another wing of the mansion. Anders had dragged his feet in following, taking his time to examine his new surroundings in detail. Normally, the lavish paintings would have made him laugh with a twisted disgust. But he couldn't shake his unease, and blinked in surprise when Alastor came to an abrupt stop and he almost didn't notice.
"These," the alpha balverine stated coolly, indicating three neighboring hard-carved oak doors with an idle wave, "are your rooms for the night. There are sleeping clothes in the bureaus should you be interested in them. If you require anything else, please ring the bells on the end tables and I'll attend to you." Alastor stepped aside, so that Remus and Anders could choose their own sleeping quarters. "I will bring the boy up when he's finished with Lord Reaver."
They nodded at him, muttering small words of thanks. Alastor took the opportunity to dismiss himself, disappearing into the black beyond the candles lighting the hall and leaving an awkward silence in his wake.
Anders crossed his arms, staring down the hall after Alastor. "I don't like this." It was a small statement, but the only one he could think of at the moment that could adequately describe his feelings. So many emotions tugged on him at once that to individualize them would diminish their impact.
"No," Remus agreed, and Anders saw that he had crossed his arms as well. His focus wandered up and down the sculpted doors and across the hall. Together, the two men seemed a strange mistake in such a glamorous picture. "I don't care for this, either." He reached for the doorknob nearest him and pushed the door open with a slow creak.
Red walls, splashed with a silky pattern made of golden leaves, proved a warm and welcoming sight. The ceiling was high, but not dreadfully open—in fact, the room was downright cozy in all matters of size and shape. The furniture was elegant and dignified, serving their purpose without a single scratch to testify their age. Made of darkly stained hardwood, the furniture stood boldly against the wallpaper. There was a bookshelf scattered with a few scrolls and hand-bound titles of unknown make. The bureau stood opposite of the bed, topped with a polished mirror and crested by personal grooming supplies. The wash basin was of particular interest, and Remus curled his nose as he remembered just how long it had been since he had enjoyed a true and proper bath. But even then, his eye was drawn by the lush canopy bed that commanded the room. It was adorned by a billowing pile of down pillows, and the comforters cascading over the mattress pulled on something deep within him—a part of him that had not seen the comfort of a bed for many, many months. It was primal, whispering to him like an unholy craving. It took everything he had just to turn away from it.
"Should we wait for Naoya?"
Anders' voice issued from the room next door, which at a glance told Remus it was very nearly the same. "I want to. But we have no idea how long he'll be, although I daresay he probably won't be too long. I don't know for sure, but I don't think he's much of a challenge for the Reaver's 'trial by firewater.'"
Remus snorted, and he was thankful no one was around to see. The image of a drunken Naoya draped over the shoulders of the frigid Alastor was not something he thought he could take straight-faced. Remus sighed, rolling his eyes and blinking the ridiculous thought away before it caused him any more trouble.
Making his way over to the bed, Remus let his fingers run over the soft blankets and a deep sense of longing nearly drove him into the sheets. But he only allowed himself another moment's grasp before releasing them to explore further. There was a writing desk on the wall parallel to the bed, and he lifted the roll-top slowly to see a piece of parchment ready and waiting, beside an ink reserve and a sharp quill. Silvery moonlight peeked in through the cracked floor-length curtains, and Remus was finally able to see the celestial body as he pulled apart the fabric to catch a glimpse of the moonlit gardens. It was so very familiar, and Remus felt his brow twinge as he examined it closely. Pale white and gray, the moon of this realm was larger than Earth's but only slightly so, like a Hunter's moon magnified by the atmosphere. The face bore heavy scarring as well, but there was no "man in the moon" here. Rather, it bore deep craters and immense grey plains that whispered through the heavens about a cold and brutal world. Catching himself in the reflection on the glass, Remus nearly jumped. He hated the way his scars looked in the moonlight. It was hard enough to hide them during the daytime, but they almost glowed in the bath of silvery light coming from above. So did the rest of his scars—the normal ones, he corrected himself—so it was not a trait of his affliction. But he noticed them. His eyes were drawn to them and it felt as though the cause of such horrendous wounds was self-evident. Everyone could see, and everyone must know, of course—even if it were not actually so. Remus frowned, pulling his clothes a little tighter around him.
He hadn't really paid it much mind in the chaos of the last day, but now questions he couldn't ignore tore to the forefront of his mind. What did this mean for him, if anything? Would he still undergo the transformation in less than a week's time, even under a new moon? Would it even happen on schedule? He covered his face as he imagined being forced to transform at random. It was a foolish thought, certainty—but, not totally unfounded. He had no idea what this meant for him, and the thought send a cold chill racing down his spine. Remus shrugged it off, pacing at the foot of his new bed thumbing his chin with an idle hand. He had to be safe—that could not change, no matter what. But the situation was seriously dire now: there was no shack far away from humanity where he could transform in peace any longer. Now, he was alone. Alone, save for Anders and Naoya. And, save for the Lord Reaver and his massive, private estate.
This was a ticking time bomb.
He was a ticking time bomb.
"Sorry, what?" Remus blurted, spinning on his heels to see Anders in the open doorway.
The mage leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. "I asked: what do you make of all this?" he said again, waving a hand about. "The rooms, the Lord—all of it."
Remus smiled. "You don't like Reaver."
"Was I so obvious?" Anders shrugged. "No, I don't like him. I don't like this place. I don't much care for any of this." Remus invited him in with a gesture, and Anders sank onto the foot of the bed with a frustrated frump. "No," he went on, staring fixedly at the spot of floor between his boots. "This reeks of something—off. I don't know what yet, but I don't think we should trust Reaver."
"What makes you distrust him?" Remus had no love for the man either, but so far he had done nothing but feed them, house them and promise them information. Other than the incident with the balverines at the cabin, which may have had nothing to do with the Lord directly, Reaver had so far been a gracious, albeit arrogant host for three complete strangers with strange plants in their footsteps.
Anders raised his brow with incredulity. "The balverines, for one. Reaver doesn't have the glow to his eyes. He's not one of them, and yet he's in charge of an entire pack of the beasts? I sense a story there. And this estate, in the middle of the woods? It just—", he sighed, his lips twisting into a crooked frown, "—there's something off about this place that I don't like. And Justice agrees with me."
"Hm." Remus nodded. "I think you're both right, but it's too soon to say anything for certain. The fact remains that we need his information. For the time being, I'm afraid there isn't much we can do."
"... I know," Anders said, but his shoulders sank. "I feel—trapped. And if you knew my history, you would understand why I hate that feeling above all else."
"I'm sorry," Remus said, and he was. But he didn't know what to say, either, and the silence lingered.
"What are we even going to do with his information, one we have it?"
There it was. The question that nobody could answer, and yet it pushed the air from their lungs with its weight.
"I don't know," Remus answered, and he shifted his weight. He tired of leaning against the bedpost and allowed himself to sit beside Anders. "Go home, I suspect. That is the ultimate goal of this, is it not?"
Anders shrugged, and a humorless grin creased his lips. "I never thought I would find myself trying to get back once I was actually free. This is quite ironic."
"If it helps us at all," Remus said. The brief jolt of life the small meal had given his exhausted body was quickly wearing thin. "For now, I think it best that we focus on recovering. Whatever tomorrow morning holds, we should be ready. We should rest."
Anders agreed, if somewhat hesitantly. Waiting for Naoya might simply be a waste of time, and Remus was right: whatever the Lord or his dogs had in store for them, they needed to be ready. Accustomed to trouble falling asleep, Anders left the door to his quarters cracked. He fully intended to be ready as soon as he heard any movement from the outside. But as he lay back on the pillow his body felt as though it weighed several tons. As soon as the mage closed his eyes, Justice had taken over his sleeping host to protect them in the night.