Killian stared into that golden eye, the red ring encircling it seeming to safeguard the pupil, letting nothing in… or out. A vague feeling of disturbance settled over Killian. This unseeing eye was not natural.

“Huh.” Was all he said. What sort of eye doesn’t belong to the person who’s skull it rests in? Even stranger is the cavalier way Kvasir referred to it. As if it would be more difficult to explain away a wound or scar of some sort. As if the natural, the mundane, was a subject of complication, whereas this eye of gold that… "doesn't belong to him", is of the simplest things under the sun.

Kvasir, he was beginning to realize, might just have a very warped perspective on things. He seemed so calm while listening to Killian’s horrific tale, had even seemed understanding. And now he equates this strange eye with simplicity itself. He had also acted very defensively when Killian mentioned being confined all alone. Looking into this golden, unseeing eye suddenly made Killian uncomfortable. He looked out the small window, a ray of red sunlight lighting up his face, accentuating his cheekbones.

For a while, he didn’t respond to Kvasir. Then, “So who’s is it?” He turned his head slowly and looked back at the medic. “And where is it looking?”

There are moments in a person’s life where destiny guides them, moving them across the board of life, setting up for the checkmate ten steps ahead, and no one, not even the person, the piece, can see where it is heading. If this is so, then Kvasir was most certainly quite the step in Killian’s journey. But…

…What part did Killian have to play in Kvasir’s life?

And what was the checkmate for the medic?

Ah. There it is.

Killian Glae is a man who veils the minutiae of his emotions well, packs them up neatly, clinically, only letting what he wishes to surface float to the top of the sea. But not even he seems fully capable of masking his discomfort with the sight of the eye of a god locked into the skull of a mortal man, even if it can behold nothing in this moment, and Kvasir cannot blame him; he is hardly the first to lay eyes upon Kasra's first claim to a part of him, and hardly the first to recoil. Memory is not kind to him, but oh, he can still remember the pained look in amber eyes, the feeling of calloused fingertips gently pulling bandages down over the left side of his face, that whisper--

"Leave it, Kvasir. Please."

He knows it is eerie and otherworldly and distinctly Not His, a relic of a deity long-lost to time who's desperately trying to pry his way out from beneath sand and stone. He knows how wrong it looks. Kvasir cannot stand the sight of it himself; that is why he covers it, buries divinity's touch in flowers so he can deceive others and himself into thinking there's some beauty in what he's lost.

"I... apologize if it's made you uncomfortable," he says quietly, voice low, gaze falling to the ground as though the dark shadow of his lashes can properly shroud that sulfuric iris. "If it puts you more at ease? It sees nothing. It looks nowhere. I can only see out of this one, and... at this present moment? This one cannot see a damned thing."

Kvasir manages an empty chuckle as he taps his cheek beneath that sand-gold eye, falling silent for a long stretch of time in the aftermath. The workings of the mind have never been the forefront of his medical studies, but he dabbles in them, understands the things that bring comfort and forge understanding and can make discussion a little easier; he knows, deep down, that if he's going to properly give Killian any help, it may require forging trust. And... bundling all his secrets beneath silken veil and flora will do little to let anyone listen to him.

This is necessary, however it stings.

"...this eye belongs to a god," he finally whispers, voice raspy even as he forces a sad little smile. "A lost, ancient deity of the Zeinav Desert. They once called him the God of Remains."

Killian listened as Kvasir told him that his eye belonged to a god, and knew in his heart that the other man was telling the truth. More than that, as Killian observed Kvasir, he knew this was no happy claim. Kvasir was no champion, filled with a god’s light and glory. No. No, Kvasir had spoken with a deep sadness when he mentioned the god of Remains.

Killian was suddenly struck by the thought that he didn’t know who had the more horrific story to tell in this little room. And when killing your entire village was one of the options, the mere consideration of Kvasir’s past carrying that honor was testimony to the trauma he had lived through.

“You know what?” Killian finally responded. “Let’s go get some sodding drinks.” 

With Kvasir in tow, Killian led the way downstairs to the main room of the Brass Dragon. Killian indicated a table in the corner, and went over to the barkeeper after getting Kvasir’s order. “A bottle of King’s Valley wine, and a bottle of… Uh, Spiced Arancello.” The barkeeper nodded, brought out the bottles, and reached under the bar to bring out tankards. Killian glanced at them. “No need.” He said shortly, and gripping the two bottles by their necks, brought them over to the table, where Kvasir had taken a seat.

Killian sat opposite him, and slid the Arancello over. The swordsman leaned back, tilted his wine back, and took a long swig of the alcohol. Then he lowered the bottle and looked Kvasir in the eye.

“You strike me as someone who would insist on using a cup. Well, tonight you're drinking from the bottle. Now…” Killian leaned in, arms on the table, still clutching his bottle.

“... Tell me more of this… Deity of Leftovers, or whatever the hell he’s called."

Of all the things Kvasir had expected to come out of Killian’s mouth in the wake of the words he’d so tentatively spoken, a bitter insistence that the two of them should go and get some drinks was… not at the top of the list.

He blinks listlessly as he watches the swordsman rise and start for the door, looking at him expectantly, waiting for him to follow along, not laying a further word forward about the subject of lost divinity, and Kvasir… Kvasir simply reaches for his eyepiece once again, locking it back into place with fingers that certainly do not tremble beneath the weight of the admission they’ve laid forth, and he rises from that armchair to follow in stunned silence. His fingertips ghost over his cheek once more, over the solidity of beads and softness of petals, all to be sure they are truly there, that they are covering what they must, that no one can see that wretched trace of a long-faded deity desperate to exhume himself.

The walk down to the tavern room of the Brass Dragon feels longer than it truly is, each step heavy with silence and trepidation. Kvasir does not know how he feels about the idea of carrying their discussion to a place where they can be overheard, but this is not a busy hour, and this is a vast room, and he knows how to keep his voice inaudible to others all around him. He’s quick to dart off to a table in the corner as soon as Killian points to one, leaving him with a nod and a whispered request for some spiced arancello– one of his favorites, truly– so he can go and settle in.

Killian’s return does not take long, but he arrives accompanied by two full bottles instead of tankards or the painted cups or intricate glasses Kvasir expected or is more accustomed to; he opens his mouth to speak, to protest, but those sharp eyes and words allow no room for any such thing. He stammers uselessly for a moment before pulling the bottle close, carefully removing the seal and sliding off the lid. The aroma of citrus and cinnamon and cardamom creeps out in a slow, serpentine slide, the familiarity of the scent enough to ease the bristling of his tail, the coldness jolting down his spine. He takes a deep breath before lifting the opening of the bottle to his lips and taking a sip, sugary-sour-bittersweetness washing over him in one divine wave.

“At least allow me to pay you back for a whole bottle,” he murmurs, swiping his tongue over his lips to catch any lingering traces of orange and cinnamon. His gloved fingertips sweep over the neck of the bottle, nails dully dancing across the glass, circling the shadow of opaque amber contained within. “I hardly abstain from alcohol, but I would not say I’m the sort to drink an entire bottle of it in one night…”

He pauses, though, as Killian asks for more information.

…Had he heard that correctly?

“...D-Deity of Leftovers?” He nearly chokes on a laugh. There’s a sudden spike of pain behind one eye, doubtlessly a silent protest from a silent god, and Kvasir knows he will suffer for laughing over that, but it is worth it. “Ah– Well– The… God of Remains, from… what I’ve read, was the patron to a long-disbanded nomadic tribe in the Zeinav Desert. No one knows what really happened to them, and… it’s hard to say what happened to him.”

“Hmm.” Killian swished his wine around in its bottle, thinking over what Kvasir said. Then his eyes shot up, intense, piercing into Kvasir’s. “No one knows… But you. Or did you somehow gain his eye as one picks up a coin from the cobbles? Slipped it in your pocket and went on your merry way? Or rather, slipped it in your socket.” He took another swig of his wine, then placed it down hard enough to make a loud clanking sound on the table.

There was a pause. Then, “I’ve met beings of power before. I…” He swallowed. “I know what it’s like to be in the presence of something that so outstrips you that comparison is so irrelevant as to be almost comedic. So, know that whatever you wished to say… I’ll listen without judgment. Besides…” He raised his bottle in a slight salute to Kvasir, “I owe that much to you.”

“Now. Drink.” With that, Killian took a long drink, adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed several mouthfuls before finally slamming the bottle back down. He stared moodily at the bottle. King’s Valley. The wine of his home town. The drink of his youth. The only wine he truly enjoyed, yet also a drink filled with memories. He could feel it already starting to affect his mind, a slight tingle in the back of his senses as he swung his gaze back to Kvasir and waited expectantly.

A hollow chuckle slips from Kvasir's lips at the morbid picture Killian paints, as though he'd merely swept up a remnant of the Archivist King and let it settle into his skull-- it's comically macabre, really, a far cry from the truth of the matter, from the searing light that had split his skull when his fingertips brushed against gold and glass, from the gilded ichor that had spilled down his cheek as the memories of a long-dead deity bled into his, as a pain so intense rended his mind apart and stole a week of time from him. He remembers little of that day, of the moment itself, beyond light and pain and the fusion of his own memories with those that were Not His, beyond his first introduction to the name of Kasra as shadows claimed his consciousness.

He bites his lower lip, drumming his fingertips against the bottle in front of him, the noise resonant but dulled by the fabric of his gloves. It is odd to share these things with a stranger. It is odd to share these things at all.

"It is less that I took his eye and more that he took mine," Kvasir sighs after a moment or so, his expression shadowed by an old bitterness, the kind that roots deep and refuses to let go. "Damn thing is useless now. Makes archery a bit of a pain, but I will admit to the fact that I continue to pursue it primarily out of spite."

Another bitter laugh follows the words as he trails off, his expression twisted by ancient remorse, though a touch of genuine amusement does color his gaze as soon as Killian insists he should continue drinking. Gods above, the whole bottle, really-- such a thing seems so very unnecessary, but he's not going to turn him down, he supposes. He tips the arancello toward him again, sipping at the aromatic citrus liquid, savoring the taste of Zeinavian spices and orange and the bittersweetness that follows any kind of alcohol.

"...I must ask, Mister Glae," he begins after a moment, Killian's words about facing down something so intense and powerful weighing on his mind. "Why are you so interested in the God of Remains? In me? I'm supposed to be the one helping you out, you know."