Thanks for reading. I know I took a few liberties but I tried my hardest to remain true to the character. Aloth is my favorite character of all time and I have spent years agonizing over writing him. I hope I did him justice. I was inspired by a picture of Aloth by a person on Tumblr who goes by oldshittydog. Fanfiction won't let me post urls.
Aloth studies the cover of the large tome sitting on his desk. Thaumaturgical Practices of Eora: A Complete History. This book is a favorite, combining two of his greatest loves under one cover. Years have passed since the book was required reading for his studies, but still he enjoys it when time allows, and especially when he needs the comfort of something familiar.
He traces the title with his index finger, enjoying the feel of the embossed leather against his skin. Golden flecks of ink can still be found in the hollows of each letter, like an old wizened woman with hints of beauty beneath the age.
Aloth opens the cover, noting the lack of resistance. The broken spine makes the book feel weak and fragile, and yet it has withstood the abuse of more than two generations of students. There are scars of course, signs of wear and tear, but nothing that could render the text obsolete, and he admires that, as if the book is too stubborn to give up.
The yellowed pages and faded ink remind Aloth of… something. The beggar, he realizes. Every day on his way to the academy he passes the old man. Yellowed teeth, faded clothing, someone who has been forgotten. So many times he has promised himself that he will not give the drunk another coin. But the moment the beggar asks, Aloth fishes out a copper and tosses it into his basket— a terrible habit. That coin and the others people give, it's not charity, but relief from the guilt that they feel for a man they cannot help. When the beggar has made it to the bottom of his bottle, what then? Who will pay the price for the unhappiness he drinks away? People may think that the old drunk is hurting no one, but Aloth knows better. There are demons at the bottom of every bottle and they give nothing for free.
The tears are almost gone. Aloth sniffles and takes a deep breath, but his breath catches and staggers back out. The sound of his own whimper upsets him and he is poised to cry anew. He turns a page to distract his mind and the familiar smell of sweet musk and earth greets him; the smell he associates with knowledge. His mind focuses, and his emotions, the painful ones, are torn asunder and buried in a place he imagines to be barren: a place of nothing.
Why couldn't he be a source of happiness for his father, Aloth wonders as he reads. Why must he be beaten? He knows the answer of course. He has become the embodiment of his father's disappointment, a man who would rather take his frustration out on his child than accept a world where his expectations are not met. That's the price Aloth pays to the demons at the bottom of the bottle, and that's the demon that will stay with him for the rest of his life.
Aloth stops reading, distracted by the pain in his side. His eyes are drawn to the first letter of the chapter. His finger traces the colored vines wrapped around the length of an L. Blue from dyer's cotton, green from verdigris, and red from madder, all the colors of the flowering vine. The drawing is ordered, precise, detailed; illumination is the work of a dutiful mind, he decides. Aloth obsesses over the ornate letter, the hours of labor it must have taken to produce such fine work, and he is reminded of his own responsibilities.
The pain is less now. Magic has reduced the ache to a dull throb. But the bruises… those cannot be hidden by magic. Questions will follow. There are always questions. But Aloth does not worry. He is not the best liar, but this is a well practiced lie and it has become a natural one to tell. An ill timed cast of the wand, lost footing on the staircase, a rambunctious pet… the list is as convincing as the hollow concern people will show for his well being. No one wants to know. The truth is uncomfortable. It is far easier to laugh at someone's misfortune than consider the real reason behind it. If only there were a balm for the shame he carries.
Aloth caresses the edge of the page, his fingers drifting to the corner of the book. A childhood memory plays in his mind. He thinks back to the days when his mother was always home and his father was not the source of his pain, but the man he wanted to be. He flips a page over and stares at the text, forcing his eyes to acknowledge the words even if his mind remains stuck fast to a memory that should be forgotten. He reads aloud, fighting through the sting in his ribs. He reads— in defiance of what has been done to him.
The memory of his mother and father fades and the words flow. Reading is his escape, a place where life is ordered and predictable and expectations are nonexistent. The tome is home now. The words, comfort, and the world his own.