For a place that stands as the midpoint between the only two places he's ever called home, Kvasir's visits to Sol City have always been awfully sparse.

It isn't as if he actively avoids the place or anything; he ventures there on those rare occasions when he travels by boat, usually to transfer from one vessel to the next, seldom ever staying for more than a night or two at a time. In the years following his departure from the White Sand Sea, ever since he slipped from beneath the watchful eye of the Goddess of Lotuses, it wasn't as if he had much of a desire to spend much time near any kind of settlement, let alone a place as crowded and vivacious as the very capitol of Charon. Despite bearing every kind of medicinal component he could need in its markets, despite bearing the temple of the one deity he may actually revere, despite every shining beacon that could draw him here, he's never been able to stomach lingering for long.

It's only now, after some indistinguishable number of years, after being dragged forth into undeserved companionship after undeserved companionship, that he feels like he can step beneath the light of the sun, into the most populous city in all of Charon.

Really, it's a damn good thing this sudden burst of willpower came when it did; considering the Hall of the Golden Consortium is located in Sol City, he's going to need to make a fair number of trips out this way. In fact, that's what's brought him out here for this particular weekend; he's left the Desert Rose in his intern's hands all for the sake of traveling out to discuss some future work for the Consortium, and... while he's out here, he figures he may as well make a few purchases for the house.

And so Kvasir wanders the streets of the Market District, gaze roving over myriad stalls from myriad places, with innumerable treasures from all different places and walks of life. Considering he's spent years as a nomad, it isn't as though he had much to furnish his home with, which means the actual for-living sections of the house are a bit... barren, despite his efforts to fill the space as well as he can. So he's keeping an eye out for little trinkets, something nice that Nyr or Wit might enjoy having around-- it's just a question of what.

He pauses at a stall offering pretty little lantern-like trinkets from the Moonglade, his tail swishing contemplatively back and forth before he continues walking along, so lost in thought that he doesn't notice a figure standing right before him-- not until he bumps right into them, that is. The collision isn't enough to knock anything loose, not enough to knock anyone over, but an embarrassed heat rises to Kvasir's face all the same.

"Ah, my apologies, friend," he says quickly, sheepishly. "I... didn't see you there."

Killian Glae did not lead a life full of pleasure. Perhaps one could say the sparsity of joy that he allowed in his daily existence was a form of self-punishment. If one were to say that… Well, they’d probably be right. Killian probably was punishing himself, and he knew it. He may have had no choice; He may have done the right thing; If presented with the choice again he wouldn’t change anything… But still. One cannot be a Kinslayer and go unpunished. So Killian didn’t allow friends into his life. He didn’t go to parties, he didn’t seek out love, and he never played music anymore.

Music…

The inn was quiet in the morning, as the few people who hadn’t gone off to work yet ate their breakfast in silence. In the corner, a bard was playing a light tune on a harp, without even a cup out for collections. He’d have no paying audience at this hour; he played more for fun than any other reason. Killian wasn’t sure what made him go up to the bard, maybe it was the woman on his mind, maybe a touch of nostalgia that snuck into his bones… He tossed a solar to the bard.

“Let me accompany you?”

The bard nodded pleasantly at the question, and Killian said: “Play Ol’ Man Raggedy.” It was an old tune, well known throughout Charon, with a simple beat and uplifting melody. As the bard began to play, Killian cleared his throat. He hadn’t sung in a long time… Since before his time in the Seven. When he finally began, his voice was pleasant; not too high nor too low, he remained in the middle, where his voice was the most comfortable. While he wasn’t perfect- he occasionally slipped off-key- for the most part his voice was enjoyable enough for the small group of people still around. The words were not familiar though, for Killian sang new lyrics to the old tune:

“She walks with the light of the sky in her eyes,
And when she goes forth, the sun dares not rise,
For the shame that it feels in the face of her beauty,
Keeps the sun down, and the moon from it’s duty.
Wherever she goes, she spreads healing and light,
To watch her at work is a beauteous sight,
I pray that my memory never will fade,
She is my north-star, The Witch of the Moongla-”

His song was interrupted by a man standing up from his table. “I know you!” The man called out. Killian glanced at the man, and felt his blood go cold. Invieg Petrov. They had served in the same unit. Killian stood there, the blood rushing to his head in panic. Finally he nodded thanks to the bard, walked to his table to recover his travel bag, and exited the inn. Invieg was right on his heels.

“Hey, hey Glae!”

Killian felt a hand land on his shoulder, and suddenly he was being swung around. He stood there silently as Invieg stared at him wondrously. “I heard a rumor they let you out, Blood Spiller, but I didn't believe it.” Killian said nothing, and Invieg’s expression soured. “I can’t believe they’d let a filthy murderer like you loose on the world. You’re a stain on the fabric of Charon, and you tarnish the name of the Royal Army.” Invieg spat on Killian’s shoe. “If you had any dignity left, Kinslayer, you’d fall on your sword.”

Invieg continued to abuse Killian, but after that the words blended together. When he finally left, Killian didn’t move, rooted to the spot in the middle of the street for… gods know how long. He might have stayed there forever if someone didn’t bump into him.

He turned slowly as a Foxman apologized to him, though he barely heard the words. His face was a frozen mask of emotionless horror; Blank, yet full of anguish. As his senses came back to him, he wiped the expression off his face and muttered a quick “It’s alright,” before he started back down the street.

It is inevitable for one as deeply entwined in the medical field as Kvasir that there are some things that are just impossible to miss.

Medicine gives you an eye for the minutiae; from the subtle coloration shifts between potions, what differentiates a major healing potion from a minor healing potion, to the slight differentiation in the branching of veins across leaves of plants, some of which can mark the difference in toxic and rejuvenating. It extends to human features, too-- he knows the different ways pain is worn on the face, from the shift in one's eyebrows to the pinch of lips, tension in a jaw, so on, and so forth. Even with half the vision he used to have, these are things Kvasir doesn't miss.

So when he studies this stranger's face, noting the lack of tension held in his facial muscles, the looseness in his jaw and brow, the contrast between the resignation drawing his lips into a tight line and the solemn horror in those azure eyes, Kvasir becomes quickly aware that there is something indescribably wrong.

The man hides it well, with all the expertise of someone who's accustomed to wrapping their heart up tight and burying it beneath the earth, but it may as well be concealed within a glass box to someone with an eye as trained as Kvasir's. He knows he could-- and probably should-- just leave it be, leave him be, as this man turns and meanders off down the street, his gait carrying that same blank resignation, but Kvasir has hardly ever been the kind of person capable of letting someone suffer alone. It isn't like he became a medic for any other purpose.

He pauses for a moment and a moment only before slowly following along, not wanting to cause the stranger any panic, but he gradually quickens his pace until he's by the man's side, his expression one of clear concern.

"...are you quite sure you're alright?" he says, tilting his head just so. He doesn't reach out, unsure if it would be welcome, though the temptation does linger. "You seem a bit... out of it, friend. There something you need?"

Killian slowed to a stop and stared at the Foxman in surprise. His first instinct was to tell the other man that he was fine, that everything was okay. Just like he always did. Just like he had learned to do.

‘You don’t deserve compassion.’

‘LIKE HELL I DON’T.’

Damn it, but Kamille’s influence weighed too heavily on him. Her kindness was piercing through Killian’s defenses, and now this new person looked at him with kindness and compassion too. Killian stared for a while, not saying anything. Then, “I don’t need anything.” He turned and walked away. He didn’t make it five paces before he doubled over, the image of Velaru flashing before his eyes. He almost fell to his knees, but just barely managed to keep his balance. Invieg’s words kept reverberating through his head.

If you had any dignity left, Kinslayer, you’d fall on your sword.

Velaru, red curls bouncing as she ran through the little stream- Velaru, blood on her hands, blood on his sword-

Killian felt like he was going to throw up. His chest felt tight, his heart was beating too fast therewastoomuchnoisetoomucheverythingvelaruvelaruvelaru

'Calm yourself. Are you a swordsman or a milksop?'

Killian took a deep breath, and brought his emotions back under control, lifting his shaking hand and watching until it became still and unmoving. The discipline of a swordsman.

It is never easy to immediately appraise a stranger, to piece a whole image together from the patchwork given by a first meeting, but Kvasir can already tell this man is likely not a great liar.

His voice is flat, delivered with the effort of someone all too accustomed to painting a stoic picture, cutting through conversation with smooth steel, but the blades have grown dull, serrated from all the places metal can no longer hold itself together. There is a tightness to his words, a hesitance, and though he does not stumble or waver between the syllables, it is easy to hear how difficult maintaining such shield-smooth composure seems to be for him.

But then the bolts fly loose and the metal panes fall apart for just a moment, the carapace as fragile as a kingdom's crumbling walls, the stranger doubling over, scarcely able to even stand on his own two feet. Kvasir takes a few slow steps forward in a sweeping angle, not wanting to approach too quickly, watching the way this man's breathing hastens unnaturally, watching all the telltale signs of panic as they claw at him, and he's just about to offer his help all over again when the man forces a deep breath, lifting a hand up and staring at it as if his eyes alone can deliver some divine command for panic to leave it be.

"...there's no shame in asking for a hand, friend," he says softly, thoughtfully, something like sorrow lingering in his eyes. "I won't ask any questions you may not wish to answer. But if you need a hand calming down, then I am a trained medic. I'm sure there's something I could do for you."

Killian slowly moved his gaze from his hand to the stranger. A million thoughts raced through his head. Why are you following me? Who the hell are you? I don’t need you. Leave me alone. I’m not looking for help. I’m not looking for… help.

“A medic?” he finally said, weakly. He straightened up, slowly, and stared off into the distance. “I suppose…”

Killian was no fool. Something was wrong with him and he knew it. And here he was was, presented with a perfect opportunity. A stranger, one that could maybe help… one he would never see again. Nothing to lose, everything to gain. He cleared his throat.

“I don’t need to calm down. I am calm. What I need is for this to not happen again.” He still didn’t turn to face the stranger. “Can you help with that? Is there… I don’t know, some herb or something that can…” He trailed off. No. He didn’t want drugs. He’d seen too many men lose themselves to such things. In the army, there were men and women who had seen some serious shit, people who used nature’s remedies to forget those things. He didn’t want to become like one of them.

He slowly turned his head and stared deeply at the stranger, this medic. “Can you cure the soul from the sins of the past, doctor?”

It was a long shot, but then, Killian was on the brink right now. Desperate measures, and all that. Killian continued to stare intently at the man, gauging his every action and expression.

Killian was no fool. He needed help. But he also knew that predators existed even amongst Man. And if this man was just such a threat… Killian searched for something, anything, to get a glimpse of his intentions. To know if he was a friend… Or a soon to be dead foe.

There are a lot of things Kvasir has been given the ability to heal; Solaria blessed his hands with the ability to turn back time, to sew together flesh and blood and bone beneath a spring morning's light brought forth from his fingertips, to restore limbs and organs and... severed nerves. Beyond that, the one thing Kasra cannot seem to pry from his mind is his medical knowledge; a veritable encyclopedia of knowledge about plants is etched into the lines of his mind. He knows the properties of countless flowers across Charon and the best ones to use for powders, the best way to combine components from the Frost Gale with ones from the Moonglade to get the best potency, the best way to force plants that are designed only to harm to give life instead.

He knows sickness and pain and death better than he knows anything, better than he knows himself; he knows how to fix it even more so. It is his greatest pride, truly, to be able to feel as though he can live up to his title. He has healed countless, brought people back from the brink of death, driven off sickness and bound brittle bones back together and kindled the desire for life back in the eyes of those who had long-since given up, and that knowledge, those unforgettable fragments of memory, are the one thing he has left to be proud of.

So it is a strange thing to hear this man ask him if he knows how to bleach the heart of sin, how to suture the persistent scars of the heart like they're any other old cut, how to save the present from the ghosts of the past. For a moment, he falters, mind veering around a corner, drawing a blank.

Kvasir Sigurros has healed many things, but he has never healed a soul.

"...ah, so that's the problem," he says quietly, giving the man a somber look. "I... I will say, I'm a lot more familiar with stitches and bandages and the like, but I would be a dreadful doctor if I turned down any patient's request. Still, friend, I will say, if this is a consultation, I may need a bit more to go on."

The words he speaks are light with humor, but he delivers them quietly, his eye dark with understanding.

"...so, stranger, fill me in-- what old sins are ailing you today?"

A harsh laugh emanated from Killian. “Oh, it’s that easy, is it?” He suddenly sighed. Here, on a random Sol City street, surrounded by the traffic of the day, nothing could be said. “If you truly wish to hear the tale… Come with me.”

Killian led the doctor to the one place he could think of: His room at the Brass Dragon. After exchanging names, Killian indicated to the one chair the room came with. “You can take it.” Killian sighed heavily. It was strange, preparing to open up to a stranger, but also strangely exciting. Maybe this would help. Maybe…

He undid his sword belt and laid it carefully against the bedside table, then sat on the bed, arms on his knees. He was quiet for a very long time. Then he looked up, locking eyes with Kvasir.

“You want to hear a story, Doctor? Well, here goes…”

                                                                             

Killian couldn’t help but feel excited. It had been just over five years since he’d been home. Oh, sure, he’d seen his family now and again, but to be properly home… He grinned as the wagon approached Kenting. He was wearing his soldier's armor, all blue fabric and bright steel. He adjusted the sword at his hip, then the strap of his bag. He was excitedly fidgeting; He couldn’t wait to see all the old friends he’d left behind when he’d gone and joined the Royal Army.

The wagon came to a shaky stop in front of a rickety sign at the entrance to a long path that led into the Kingswood. “Far as I go.” The wagoneer rumbled.

“What? You were paid to get me to Kenting!”

“Mate, I ain’t taking this cart into them woods. Hard to drive in there, innit?”

Killian glowered at the wagon driver, then picked up his bag. “Fine.” He said, and vaulted over the side, landing on the hard earth of the road. As the wagon rattled off, Killian flicked the rotting wooden sign. It proclaimed, in proud if faded letters: Welcome to Kenting.

“Good to see you too.” he said softly, then shouldered his bag and started down the road and into the woods.

It was about forty minutes later that the small village of Kenting came into view. The houses were mainly wood, though strong oak, taken from the very trees that once stood here, and they were well maintained by a loving community. As he approached, he heard a murmuring of voices. Along the side of the road sat three of the young men of the village. Killian raised his hand.

“Halfr! Cordon! Oros! Since when did you three get old enough to grow beards?” He greeted the familiar faces. The three men exchanged glances, strangely muted, then Cordon leaped up, a sudden smile spreading across his features.

“Killian! That you?”

“Ay! Back from war and glory, kid.” Killian reached the young man and clapped him on the shoulder. “Much as I would love to catch up, family comes first.” The other man nodded. “Of course. They’re waiting for you.”

They were? Killian frowned at his comment, and glanced at Halfr and Oros. Both men still looked somewhat emotionlessly at him, though when they noticed him looking, they both smiled and waved. Killian waved back somewhat hesitantly, nodded to Cordon, and continued past him.

The streets weren’t full of the energy he remembered, no kids running back and forth, no neighbors yelling out greetings. He did see some old faces, friends, though most just nodded to him and continued on their business.

‘Did something happen? I hope none of the Elders passed away.’ Killian picked up his pace, and soon found himself in front of a familiar door. A sudden grin on his face, all strangeness forgotten. He raised his fist and rapped sharply on the door, then let himself in.

“Ma! Pa! I’m back!” He pulled up short. His father, mother, and little sister were all sitting around the table, and looked at him expectantly, like they’d been waiting. His mother turned and pulled some meat from a spit in the brick oven in the corner. His sister, Velaru, jumped up right as he walked in.

“Killian!” she squealed, and threw herself at him with a big hug.

“Oof,” Killian gasped as her arms wrapped around him, “Hey there, Vel.” He ruffled her red curls, then grinned at his father.

“Welcome home, son.” His father greeted him warmly, standing up from the table and pulling both him and Velaru into a hug. His mother put the meat on a plate and came around the table to join the hug.

“It’s so good to see you again, Kil.”

Killian smiled, and pulled away from the press of family. “It’s good to be back.”

“Here,” his mother motioned him to the table, “I’ve prepared a small meal for you. Come, eat.”

KIllian sat down at his mother’s urging, a confused smile on his face. “How… wait, how did you know I was coming today?” He had sent a letter ahead, but there was no way they could have known exactly when he would arrive. Unless she just had a meal prepared every day?...

“Tsk, don’t worry about that, dear.” His mother dismissed the question with a wave. “Just eat up. It must’ve been a long trip.”

“Uh… yeah, it was. Thanks.”

Killian didn’t leave his house for a few hours, spending the time talking to his parents and Velaru. Yet every conversation he had left him feeling stranger and stranger. None of the conversations felt natural, none of them flowed the way they should. ‘Have I become such a stranger to them?’ he thought, bitterness blossoming in his chest. But he kept the feeling hidden, and continued to smile and laugh.

As the sun began to set, he excused himself from the table, and left his home, intent on looking around the village he had grown up in. It was only partly the reason; he felt a desire to free himself from the awkward feeling in his house.

The village outside was empty. ‘Where is everyone?’ He remembered there being… More to this place. More energy, more ruckus, more kids running around. Mothers calling for their children to return home… Babies crying loud enough for half the village to hear… But none of that remained.

So he walked, the silence strangely eerie to him, despite the nostalgia that rose up within him as he roamed the familiar paths. He stopped as he passed the butcher’s house. The butcher’s son, Rodney, was a friend of Killian… Killian glanced at the darkening sky. It was getting late… No need to disturb the parents. He snuck around to the back, intending to knock at the back window which led to Rodney’s room, but pulled up short. Across the length of the backyard, a massive undertaking had clearly taken place. The entire yard was upturned silt. A massive stretch of worked land. Killian might have thought it had something to do with planting grain if it didn’t look more like… A mound. ‘A burial mound?’ Killian had seen enough graves in his time in the army for the sight to send a chill down his spine. ‘What did they bury back here?’

Suddenly not in the mood to see old friends, Killian left the property, and started to head home. Old man Trook was sitting on his porch as Killian passed by. He eyed Killian suspiciously, which brought him to a stop. He’s grown up listening to Trook’s crazy stories, there was no reason the old man should give him such a look…

“Hail, old Trook.” He said pleasantly, despite the tension he was starting to feel. “It’s been a while. How are you, my friend?”

The old man squinted at him for a moment, then suddenly shrugged. “I’m fine. It’s you that’s not doing too well.”

What? But before Killian could respond, the old man stood up and retreated into his house. Killian stared after him for a minute, surprise and unease mingling together in his head. He finally shook his head and continued on to his house. ‘Maybe the old man has gone mad after all these years.’

Sleep that night was simultaneously the most restful he’d had in years, back in his bed of twenty years, and also the roughest. The strangeness of the day was almost too much, and he tossed and turned for over an hour before sleep finally claimed him.

The morning began with more strangeness. A hasty breakfast was served, then he was sent out with Velaru. “Take your sister to the river.” His mother commanded. Killian was surprised at the task, Velaru needed no escort at 20 years of age, despite her diminutive size, but he went with anyways; He had a special place in his heart for her, and was happy to spend the time together.

As they walked together, Killian once again noticed the silence of the village. ‘Where are all the kids?’

When they got to the river just outside the village proper, Velaru kicked off her shoes and sat at the little fishing pier constructed on the banks, feet splashing in the water. After a moment, Killian joined her, though he kept his shoes on and his legs crossed in front of him, out of the water.

He and Velaru spoke for a while, and Killian was once again struck by how stiff the conversation felt, despite how bubbly and energetic his sister was. It almost seemed like an act. Killian finally looked around. “Vel. What are we supposed to be doing here?”

Velaru tilted her head as she looked at him quizzically, curls hanging past her cheeks in a curtain of crimson. “What do you mean, Kil?”

Killian threw his hands up, indicating the river. “I mean, what is our chore here? I thought you’d be… Catching fish or something, but we’re just sitting here and… and talking.”

Velaru laughed. “Oh! Oh no, no fish today.”

“Then what are we doing here? Why did Ma send me with you?”

“Oh.” Velaru paused, looking out at the rushing water. “I… I think I'm just supposed to keep you here while the adults discuss what to do with you.” She said the words so casually, but Killian’s blood ran cold. He stared at his sister, sitting there with a pleasant expression on her face, feet still kicking up water.

“What?” He finally asked.

She looked back at him. “What?” She asked back. Killian slowly rose to his feet, and with a confused look on her face, Velaru rose too.

“Why do they need to talk about… me?” Killian finally said. Velaru stood there, not responding, a suddenly somber look on her face.

“I didn’t mean to say that. She must have slipped it out.”

“What?” Killian was completely flustered. “Who slipped what out?”

Velaru looked up, suddenly smiling again. “Nothing! Ignore silly me!” She laughed, and motioned to him. “Wanna swim, Kil? Let’s swim.”

Killian stared at her for a long moment. “Sure, Vel… Sure. Just, uh… Give me a minute, yeah? Just have to… relieve myself.” He turned and walked into the trees without waiting for a reply, and when he was sure he was out of sight, he turned to the village and started running.

He got to the edge of the village and slowed to a walk, looking around nervously. Every instinct he’d honed in his years in the army was screaming at him. And like a trained soldier, the first thing he did was make sure he had his weapon at his side. A quick stop at his house fixed that. The house was abandoned, and Killian got an uncomfortable feeling.

The adults are discussing what to do with you…

With his sword on his hip and some confidence returned to him, Killian set out looking for his parents. The first person he saw was the butcher, Klevin, standing in the middle of the road. When he saw Killian, he smiled. “Been looking for you, boyo.”

“I’ll bet you have been. What’s going on?”

“Nothing. But ditching your sister like that…" The butcher shook his head in disappointment. “I expected better from you. Did the army beat all the good manners out of you?”

Killian’s eyes narrowed. How did he know about that?

“Hey, Klev…” He asked suddenly, “What’s in your backyard?”

Klevin tilted his head, then smirked. It was only a moment, but Killian could have sworn his eyes went black for just a second. The big man shrugged. “Nothing important.”

“... Right.”

They stood there, looking at each other, Killian tense, Klevin calm, relaxed. And then Killian’s mother was there, and she was approaching him with a smile, and Killian’s father was putting a friendly arm around the butcher and everyone was laughing.

Killian wasn’t left alone for the rest of the day, his mother or his father always by his side. He didn’t mention to either of them the strange thing Velaru had said.

They’re discussing what to do with you…

That night, he didn’t get undressed for bed. He lay there, fully clothed, his sword still by his side. When the door creaked open, he bolted upright, hand going to his hilt. He didn’t relax when Velaru came in, carrying a candle for light, and made her way over to his bed. Settling on top of the covers and sitting cross-legged, she leaned in, small pixie face illuminated by the flickering flame.

“Killian.” She whispered. She stared at him with large, wide blue eyes. Killian didn’t respond. She seemed different than she had been earlier. More… agitated. When she spoke again, it was in between short breaths, as if every word was being forced out.

“Listen… Kil.”

“What?” Killian responded bitterly. “I don’t know what in the hell is going on.” Nothing about his home felt like the place he’d left half a decade ago.

“Kil…” Velaru said again, voice catching in her throat. “Kil…”

“What?” Killian finally snapped. He was at his wits end, and Velaru had only acted stranger and stranger, and this was getting too much. Now she was just sitting there saying his damn name. “What do you want?”

“Kil…”

“Velaru…” He warned, and edge to his voice.

“Kil… Kil… meeee.” Her voice whined out at the last word.

“What?”

“Kil… Kill meee… KILL ME.”

The words sank in slowly and dreadfully, and he looked into her eyes, the eyes of his sister, those beautiful blue eyes, and suddenly blackness filled them, until the entire eye was filled with inky blackness.

“She’s a real bitch, isn’t she?” The voice was calm and easy now, and Killian’s heart froze. He’d seen enough in his time in the army to know what was going on.

He didn’t cry. He didn’t panic. His training was kicking in. Before he knew what he was doing, he had the creature possessing his sister by the throat and was pushing her off the bed, onto the floor, hand tightening, a snarl on his face. “Leave her!”

Velaru’s body smiled, showing teeth, and the creature gasped out a laugh. “Impossible.”

“The hell you say??”

“It’s…” Velaru gasped in a ragged breath through his clenched grip on her neck. “It’s permanent.”

“THE HELL IT IS!”

And suddenly it was Velaru talking again, blue eyes wide with pleading. "It’s… it’s true Killian.”

Killian gasped and released her, falling back against the bed. Velaru sat up, rubbing her neck. “Killian…” She said softly. “Killian… they’re planning on…” She seemed to struggle for a moment, then continued on. “...On destroying… everything… all of.. Charon. You have to… stop them…”

Killian scrambled forward, grasping her hands in his. “I… I will. I will! How do I free you? And… and how many people are possessed?”

She shook her head. “No.”

“What?” Killian stared at her blankly.

“There is no freeing us. It’s… permanent.”

Killian felt his heart sinking, started getting tunnel vision around the edges of his sight. “Vel…” He whispered wretchedly, voice cracking.

“The… children…” Velaru strained. Killian didn’t respond, just stared at her. “The… babies… the kids…” There was a haunting silence, then Velaru finished her sentence. “Behind… the butcher’s…”

Oh, no. Oh no no no. Oh hell. Killian could feel his senses fading away.

“They’re waiting for you, you know.” The creature was back, looking at Killian with amusement. Killian looked up, a deep numbness enveloping him. The creature inside Velaru tapped her head. “We talk up here, you know. And they’re waiting for you. They’re surrounding the house.”

There was a moment of silence, then Killian replied coldly, “I don’t doubt it.” He stood up, reaching for his sword. Velaru rose as well, a small smile quirked on her face.

“What are you doing, Kil?”

“Fulfilling a final request.”

His sword went in easily, and Velaru gasped, stumbled back, hand going to her stomach. The blood poured out past her hands, and she gave him a surprised look, before collapsing to the floor. Her blood dripped off the tip of his sword.

He stared at the wall for a long moment. He didn’t cry. He didn’t blink. He hardly breathed. Then, finally, he opened the door to his room and stepped out into the kitchen. His parents were waiting for him. As his mother started to indicate that he should follow her outside, he cut her down. It was only after his father opened his mouth to speak, only to be run through by Killian’s sword, that Killian started crying. It wasn’t the wracking sobs he felt he should be releasing; Instead, the tears simply slid out of his eyes, running down his cheeks in an endless parade as he slowly opened the door. What remained of his village stood amassed out in the street, lit by torches placed on poles along the avenue.

Only adults.

The mound behind the butcher’s house.

The burial mound.

They looked at him with anger on their faces, eyes black with shadows. One of them, the midwife that had delivered half of the village, Killian included, charged at him, holding a knife. She died first, and then Killian was slashing, stabbing, blood, slicing, cutting, BLOOD, chopping, hacking, blood, BLOOD EVERYWHERE.

The last few tried to run, finally convinced that they could not beat him, but he did not let them escape. He hunted them, impaling them from behind as they fled. The last one was an old friend of his. She was young, blonde, and once upon a time, Killian had fancied a future for the two of them. She made it to the edge of the village and a few steps into the trees of the Kingswood before his blade found the back of her neck.

He returned to his house and sat down heavily at his family’s table. He remained like that when the sun rose. He remained like that when a trader rode into town, screamed, and rode off again. And he remained like that when, as the sun began to set, the Guard arrived.

He never said a word. Never protested his innocence. Never explained why he did it. They branded him a mass-murderer, a Kinslayer, slammed an iron collar around his neck, and sent him to the Seven, a mountain prison, for three years, keeping him in isolation.

And Killian never said a word.

                                                       


There was silence as Killian finished his story. He hadn’t cried at any point in the telling of the tale. At some point he had laid back on his bed, swinging his legs up before continuing to talk.

“Anyways, eventually I was offered a deal. Bodyguard some princess in exchange for my freedom. I took it.”

“... Obviously.”

Killian finished talking. He didn’t feel any better. Well, shit.

 He couldn't stop the heavy note of bitter sarcasm in his voice when he spoke again. “Well, doc? Any words of wisdom?”

Kvasir Sigurros has heard myriad stories in his time.

He's not fond of most of them, really. He's never been the sort to go chasing the clouds, to crave unattainable things, to go dreaming up in higher planes of existence when he's perfectly content with this one. Even so, it is inevitable, as a doctor, that there are patients of his who will want to fill the awkward silence that comes with treatment somehow, and talk is the only way they know how to do it.

A lot of the time, it's young children, parroting the fairy tales their parents read them or the folklore passed down in their villages, eager to chatter away about monsters or miracles while Kvasir stitches up their wounds. Sometimes it's old and weary adventurers who have seen too much and had too few to hear it, desperate to have their stories be known to someone, whether there's a grain of truth to a word they speak or not. Sometimes it's just ordinary people, talking about their day, talking about their lives, wanting nothing more than for someone else to know and witness the mundane little intricacies of their place in the world and all the beauty that comes with it.

The wilder things tend to linger, though, inevitably, however hard Kvasir clings to the little, simpler ones. He's heard tales of grand wars from old soldiers with military histories, of the strange and wild battles they and their lineage once faced, the eerie monsters they stared down-- sometimes they speak of the fact that no one believes them, that they'd seen countless die at the teeth of some unfathomable beast and leave no trace, and they'd come back alone to a place that offers them no verity. He's heard tales of heroes who live and perish for love, from the man who loved Solaria's light so deeply he wished to hold it himself and fell in a spiral of wax and feathers for it, to the folk hero of some settlement in the Frost Gale who escaped a tyrant's frozen land to bring flame to his people, dying every morning and living every night in a hellish cycle all for his crime of love. There's tales of monsters and men, tales of death and life and plagues and miracles and everything in between-- he has well and truly heard them all.

And even so, for every wild and fantastical and horrific thing Kvasir has heard from adventurers and mundane men alike, he has never heard anything quite like what the man who introduced himself as Killian Glae has to tell him.

It is a long, harrowing story, and Killian tosses forth each word briskly, solemnly, a thousand old scars laid bare for Kvasir to assess, to comb over and analyze with a medic's keen eye. And yet, for a moment, all he can do is sit in silence, contemplating every dreadful detail that's been provided to him, from a town full of nightmares to possession, wicked and cruel and inevitable, the only peace and escape found in merciful death.

Oh, most would recoil at this tale, flinch away from the solemn-faced man before them, see the ghost of old bloodstains against steel and skin alike and run, but Kvasir does not move. He sits there, silent yet intent, brow furrowed as he thinks it all over-- as brutal and wild as it all sounds, it... it is not impossible. Monsters tend to root in human skin, strangely favoring the crevices of mortal vessels for their grimmest tasks, and so it's no wonder that a monster with its sights set on ending the world would lay claim to a village full of innocents as its puppets. It always seems to come down to making marionettes of men with the beings who sleep in the dark. They root and fester, macabre weeds, unable to be pruned unless their host is laid to waste.

Somewhere in the depths of Kvasir's herb satchel, a lotus seed burns.

"...that is quite the story you've told me, Mister Glae," he says quietly, sternly, still turning it all over in his mind. He drums his fingertips against the arms of the chair. "I thank you for your honesty and transparency. I know that could not have been easy."

He hums quietly, pensive, a golden glimmer of contemplation settling in his eye as he looks Killian up and down.

"...it sounds like you were never really given the chance to... process all of that properly," he says. "Mister Glae, you were rushed off to prison quite readily, yes? And... you have not been back to that village since?"

Killian stiffened at the very thought of returning to Kenting. He clenched his teeth together tight enough that his jaw started to hurt. He breathed in through his nose, then let it out slowly, releasing the tension in his body at the same time. He sat up, swinging his legs back over the side of the bed, and sat there, looking at Kvasir.

“No. I have… Not. Not been back. But you’re making a mistake, Doctor.” Killian stood up suddenly, and began pacing in what space he had in the small room. “You think I haven’t… Processed it? Please.” He whirled to face Kvasir. “Sir, I had three damn years to process it!”

He stopped, hands held behind his back, and took another breath.

“Sorry.” He said shortly.

After a moment of quiet, he began again. “Do you know what solitary confinement is like, Doctor? It’s emptiness. In every possible understanding of the word. There is nothing there but what you think. So I thought. I thought until it became easier to stop thinking and let the darkness be my only reality. So trust me, I've processed what happened.”

He collapsed back into a sitting position on the bed.

“I’m not in denial about what happened, if that’s what you’re thinking. I know what I am well enough. They may call me Sworddancer, but they’d be better off calling me Kinslayer.” 

Even as Killian raises his voice, grief and anger and years' worth of despair poured into climbing volume, Kvasir does not flinch, his face set solidly into a solemn, illegible set of lines, lips drawn into an unwavering half-frown and that gold-ringed pupil firmly focused on the man pacing before him. He nods, the corners of his mouth quirking in a sad and understanding attempt at a smile as Killian lays forth an apology for his shattered composure, but he can tell that he is struggling to piece it together, can tell that he's trying to sew himself back together with a fresh needle and fraying thread, as if it's enough to make him whole.

"You have no need for apology, Mister Glae," he says simply, still studying the look in those steely eyes, studying the way they rust with old wounds, no matter how hard this man tries to scrape it all away. "But I assure you that, in terms of wounds of the heart, three years is... hardly the stretch of time it sounds like."

Three years can heal so many physical wounds, can bleach gashes from skin and seal bone back together, but oh, for the soul, three years is just a free stretch of time for things to fester. It is a fact Kvasir knows well, has known since he left the heart of the White Sand Sea, left the watchful eyes of his goddess and the arms of what was once his second family, knowing he would only return when he was finally ready to attend his own funeral. He has still not processed those words, that mass dismissal, after nearly four years-- how could he?

If his wounds still burn after all this time, sickly and rotting with ugly feelings he still does not understand, how can Killian claim he's achieved any clarity?

"...I did not say you were in denial, Mister Glae," he begins carefully, quietly, something pensive clinging to his tone. He clasps his hands together in his lap, drumming his index finger against the knuckles of his other hand. "I am saying there is a difference between being aware of what we have done and... understanding the feelings that follow it. I will not answer your question about confinement-- what I have and have not been through does not matter, as I am a stranger to you, and this is not about me."

Kvasir lifts his gaze once more, intent burning strong.

"This is about you, and I certainly hope you don't believe it's healthy to continue living as though 'darkness is your only reality.'"

Killian was a little shocked by the sudden intensity to Kvasir’s voice. The other man was almost glaring at him, such was the strength of his gaze. Killian didn’t respond for a moment, but sat and thought, processing everything the medic had said.

When he finally looked up again, he spoke in a calm voice. “I don’t care.” It was simple. It was final. “I’m not seeking health- let me live in darkness, that doesn’t matter. But what happened earlier… The… uh, intensity of what I felt… It nearly brought me to my knees. That… could be dangerous.”

Killian took a deep breath. “And one more thing… I don’t view what I did in any kind light, believe me. It was a sin, and one I will carry with me until I meet the Creator and receive my punishment… But, and understand this well, I do not regret my actions. It had to be done. If I could live the moment over, I would do it again.”

He looked down, and his next words were a whisper. “It’s just that sometimes… Even the right thing can cause irreparable damage.”

He closed his eyes, and let out a sigh. Then he slowly opened them again and fixed his blue eyes on Kvasir, two pools of crystalline water filled with his pain. “Let’s… take a break, Doctor. Tell me about you. It’s only fair. Besides… Your reaction to a rhetorical question was… enlightening.”

If Kvasir had thought Killian to be a simple man, he would be surprised by his perceptiveness, as suddenly Killian was examining him with deep, almost knowing eyes.

Trauma recognizes trauma. 

It is a strange thing to hear Killian admit that he does not regret the blood he's spilled.

Kvasir does not fault him, not when the well-being of the world was at stake, not when it was either the blood of all Charon or the blood of his loved ones, but it is vexing to hear him say that not a single vestige of regret clings to his soul over it all. There is nobility in it, lost somewhere in the shadows of a massacre, sacrifice of spirit forged just the same as a sacrifice of body. Kvasir cannot imagine it, himself-- his hands are made to hold surgical instruments, to pour forth healing light, to mix medicine and stitch people together and guide them forward. He would not call himself a pacifist, no, but if the world demanded he turn a blade against everyone he's ever loved and he could not say no...

...well, there is nowhere he could run that could spare him from the snapping teeth of remorse.

"I am not a priest, Mister Glae," he says with a quiet sigh, his expression softening just so at all the words of sin, of the absence of repentance, of the point of no return. And really, he is not-- this is no confession, no place to discuss the weight of sin; Kvasir is hardly an expert in ailments of the mind the same way he is ailments of the body, but he knows he must be objective. "I am a doctor. I know you did what... had to be done. I do not fault you for it. But you cannot strip yourself of your own humanity so easily."

He leans forward just so, a few wisps of alabaster-streaked black hair sliding forward over his shoulder as he moves, old and faded petals sitting idly against the strands.

"What you had out there was very likely what we call a... panic attack. They are common for those who've undergone severe trauma in their lives, especially when suddenly reminded of it." Kvasir keeps his gaze firmly set on Killian, no matter how eager the man seems to shift away from the question of his own emotions. "I hate to tell you this, but those very well could continue, especially if you're so hellbent on proceeding as you have been."

It is blunt, he knows, and perhaps he should soften his tone, but Kvasir has never been one to sugarcoat, not with men like these, who shy away from the problem because they think they can outrun it. Still, the gentle sharpness of his tone evaporates as soon as Killian calls for a break, as soon as those somber eyes, dark with vulnerability, turn to him, and...

He asks to know about him. A story for a story, perhaps.

Kvasir stops in his tracks.

"...you wish to know about... me?" he asks, the words slow. "I... well. I. Ah. I suppose that is... fair enough, considering all you've shared, but I... what specifically?"

“Well, let’s start with something easy, I guess. What happened to your eye?” Killian asked, indicating the flower on Kvasir’s face.

He didn’t really care about the eye. Kvasir had acted quite… Affronted, almost, when Killian had asked if he knew what solitary confinement was like. Now it could be that the man had simply disliked being asked any question at all… But Killian very much doubted that. He had accidentally hit a nerve.

And he intended to pry deeper. But… Baby steps. Get the man talking first, speaking of simpler matters. Now that Killian had turned the conversation away from himself, he found that he was quite eager to unwrap the mystery that was this strange fox man that had helped a stranger in the street.

That had followed a stranger to a secluded place just to help them.

That could listen to a tale like Killian’s and not flinch.

If all the gods above and devils below tried to stop Killian from satiating his curiosity over this man, they could not have levied enough power. So Killian settled in to listen to the medic talk, a stern but neutral expression on his face, and prepared to ask much harder questions when this story was finished. 

Out in the streets of Sol City, the sun began to dip lower in the sky, a line of pink and red fire stretching across the horizon.

"My... eye?"

A short laugh spills from Kvasir's lips at that, his gloved fingertips straying to his cheek, gently nudging at the beadwork sewn into the magically-preserved flowers that mask his left eye, beneath layers of anemone petals and blue hydrandea blossoms. It's almost... amusing the way Killian refers to it as something simple; for most, all that lies beneath an eyepatch is a mass of twisting scars, a story of horrid combat and wounds too old to heal. Most would not be so keen on telling such a tale, not to a stranger.

"...you know, Mister Glae, for all you know, I could be a former combat medic fresh from war," he says, a smile pulling at his lips, a few traces of that vulpine impishness settling solemnly in his face. Another, emptier chuckle follows the words as he reaches for the back of his head, minding his ears, sifting through braids and wisps of flowers to find the clasp for his eyepatch, working at the chain with deft fingers. "I could have some dreadful scar here, some ancient secret I must hide and never tell, some terrible story... It is strange to hear you refer to such a thing as 'simple.' Still, I suppose you are not incorrect. For me, it is quite simple."

Flowers fall, then, and all that remains behind it is another eye, perfectly intact-- but this one shines gold, sickly gold, sulfuric, the pupil ringed in red, an ethereal glow seeming to settle within it. Despite no scar or haziness settling within it, it focuses on nothing, no light affecting the size of the pupil, nothing.

Unseeing.

"You've been quite truthful with me, so I suppose I owe it to be truthful with you," Kvasir says simply. "What happened to my eye is that it simply isn't mine anymore. It's, ah... I can't see out of it."