[Rhys/Victor] - Veracity

[pulledunder]

Who: Rhys and Victor
When: Early Monday morning, 6/20
Where: Undertow
Before/After: After this log
Warnings: oops Yoiko is self logging again

In which everything has a price.



Victor slept. His dreams were hazy and pain was only a distant threat. In the Dark, he had dreamed between moments of blind stumbling, but so real. That day, again and again, and tragedy and guilt no matter the choices he made. Zachary. Ravindra. His comrades. Someone always had to die. There was a right choice. He was supposed to find it. He needed to know.

But he had been pulled away.

He woke to sunbeams cutting through the window, finding himself not dressed in bloodied, tattered hunter's gear, but a long sleeved, black tunic and thick trousers. The length was right, but the fit was loose. Maybe that was part of the cold. His teeth chattered if he did not clench his jaw.

When he stood, the world spun with a blotch of ink. After his vision cleared, he noticed Rhys' armor hanging on the wall, and then, quite suddenly, Rhys himself, sleeping against the door with his head bowed forward, body barely propped up on a sword.

He reflected on the night before numbly. He knew why Rhys was here. Victor stumbled through the room, catching himself on the growth Rhys used as a desk, and noticed the parchments there. He was already trying to make out the names before he remembered he shouldn't be reading Rhys' mail, or that it was Rhys' mail.

Ravindra. All respect for privacy was cast aside. Victor shuffled through Ravi's responses with a tightness that turned to immediate relief. Ravindra was alive. Mana burn (Victor's fault), but alive. Victor had made sure of it.

He spotted blank parchment and a quill in a coiled root, but thought better of it. If Ravi received letters from a traitor who was supposed to be dead, there could be a problem. He'd need to send it inside something.

Victor stepped to the door, watching Rhys sleep for a silent moment. Gently, barely touching, he placed a hand to Rhys' shoulder to keep him upright as he cracked open the door just enough to slip outside, closing it behind him with as much care.

He didn't have a plan, but was drawn to the water basin in the kitchen. His reflection was pale, and his hair... brown. Victor ran his fingers through it. Yeah, it was. He remembered that it was. But it felt so Wrong, conjuring a twisting nausea inside him.

He searched the cupboards for soap and found one better: silver-grey alchemist's dye next to a half used bottle of dye remover.


Rhys' eyes fluttered open as he stirred to waking. His neck and back ached from how he slept, and grogginess sat in place of any restfulness. But that wasn't unusual.

He blinked his eyes for clarity, looking to his empty hammock, then shot up and rushed out of the bedroom.

He didn't have to go far, almost running past Victor before he saw him, and grabbed onto the door frame to stop himself from flying outside. Rhys' breath had gone erratic with panic, but began to slow as he took in the sight of Victor standing over the basin. Victor's hair was blond again, hanging wet as he stared downward. A droplet slipped from his bangs and fell into the water, breaking the silence that had fallen over the room.

Rhys stepped to the basin and placed his hand on Victor's shoulder.


Victor watched the ripples hit the murky surface, his reflection now obscured by the stripped dye spreading through it.

"It doesn't matter," he said. "They already know."

The Spenta knew. The Vahishta knew. Gertrude and Whitehall stood witness. Somehow, someone on Aerveas' side knew. Alex? The rogue guild? It did not matter.

They knew. They would find him and he would be dead again, as it should be. Except that he had not repaid what it cost to bring him back. It was not only money, but opportunity. And...

I need you.

He clenched the edge of the basin, frustration rising again. His jaw tightened and he began to tremble.


Rhys squeezed Victor's shoulder. He dragged the slate across the branches of a counter, writing slow. Each word was heavier than the last.

They think you're dead.
You could start over.

It was a cruel suggestion. Victor had already adopted a false persona and gone into hiding, and Rhys was asking him to do it again. But he had been killed. Victor had died. There was no better opportunity for his freedom. There never would be.

They could start right now. The grey dye from Rhys' need to go incognito in Bastan was still here. Scars. Tattoos. A mask outright if they had to. Rhys could make Victor a berserker. No one would have to know. Ashtaroth. Virelai. Rhys. None of them would ever tell.


Victor looked to Rhys and recognized the desperation in his eyes, sparking another surge of ire. Rhys had been there with Victor that day. Rhys knew. But even Rhys did not understand.

And to ask him to start over? How? They knew. They knew. He would be seen and caught eventually. Inevitably.

"I'm a traitor," he snapped, still not understanding how Rhys failed to grasp that. That Ashtaroth did not grasp that. That no one seemed to get what they were speaking to. "The moment they see me, that's it. There is no starting over."


Rhys flinched at the anger, but his grip only tightened for it. He tensed, looking to Victor, eyes pleading. There was no storytelling here. There were no perfect endings and well tied conclusions. That wasn't his role anymore. The solid blacks and whites were only possible in fiction, and everything was a murky, messy grey Rhys still couldn't understand. It had to be the same for Victor.

And why, why couldn't Victor blame Rhys? Wasn't Rhys just as guilty for the suffering caused? More? But Victor wouldn't let go of a fraction of the responsibility.

Please.
Not Victor. Not Rayu.
We'll come up with something else.


Something else? Victor glared at the slate, but confusion relaxed his face. Rayu. Yeah, he had been called Rayu, but that wasn't his name. It felt wrong with a twisting nausea the same way brown hair had.

He smudged his fingers over the chalk clumsily. Rayu. It had been a name he answered to, but Victor couldn't understand why. The way he behaved was more puzzling. The things he said... All of them were impossible. His thoughts came up slow, struggling to find a connection. How had he...?

When the anger started to fade, Rhys hoped it was a crack in conviction. He fell to his knees, taking Victor's hand in both of his. Rhys pressed his forehead against it, shameless in his begging-- anything to make Victor rethink turning himself in for what they knew would be waiting for him.


Victor flinched and stared. The Ahura was kneeling in front of him. His creator was kneeling in front of him. Begging.

He didn't understand. There was nothing to beg for except that reality be changed. Victor was Victor. What he had done would not change and who he was could not change.

But it had once.

The more he thought on it, the more he found he had no thoughts at all. His mind clawed into a void and found nothing, Victor staring mutely at the slate.

His body was shivering again.

"It's so cold," he said, unable to think over it and wrapping his free arm around himself.


Rhys looked up with guilt. It was too soon to have this conversation. Victor needed rest and shouldn't have been standing. Rhys rose and curled an arm around Victor's shoulders, trying to lead him back to the bedroom. Victor stumbled in his steps and grabbed a chair by the table for balance, refusing to move. Relenting, Rhys helped him sit down. Something warm to drink, maybe...

He found his clay teapot and misshapen cups. Rhys didn't make much time for tea, and he only had one small stash next to a note he had kept: Congratulations on winning. -- Gunnar

He reread it, feeling the paper between his fingers, then set it safely away before collecting the rain water that drained through the tree's tendrils.


Victor slipped foreward, resting his head against the table as he hugged himself. His pressed his jaw shut to quiet the chattering, closing his eyes, and only looking up at the soft clink of tea being served.

He wrapped his hands around the cup, absorbing as much of the heat as he could before taking a long sip. Warmth started to spread, but fell woefully short as if it had simply died in his veins.

Rhys joined him with his own cup, watching. Victor spared him a glance before staring into tea. It was almost better not to drink it. If it were gone, there would be nothing warm left to hold.

Thinking... he needed to think about something else. Good news, maybe.

"It was a success," he finally said, managing to lift his head.


Rhys relaxed when Victor's shivering appeared to subside, but was still tempted to grab furs from the bedroom. Then Victor spoke, his face still carrying unreadable grimness.

Thanks to you, Rhys wrote on his slate.


Victor read the words, slow to realize them, and kept silent another moment.

Rhys hadn't been well before they began and tried to suggest he not be on the frontlines. Because of the Spenta, Victor thought initially, but there was something else. It was not failure Rhys had been terrified of, nor what made him stare at that new sword of his for so long.

"How do you feel?"


How was Rhys feeling? The question caught him off guard. He reined in his surprise and managed a smile for Victor before taking his own sip of tea.

He was-- he would be fine. Worried, but fine. This situation wasn't all Rhys had on his plate, but it was all Victor needed to think about right now.

One thing at a time.


Victor's eyes narrowed in irritation. It was a tired, forced kind of smile, and a silent I'm okay that wasn't true. Rhys always had them, some of them better played than others, but this one especially weak. It came with a stubborn refusal to give the truth, and he knew because he--

He

Numbness, again, and a weak nausea. His thoughts simply stopped.

Victor turned to Rhys suddenly. "Ask me how I'm feeling."


Rhys blinked back at Victor, trying to parse the question in context of Victor's startled tone. It seemed all too obvious how Victor was feeling, and Victor wasn't one to play this sort of game.

Regardless, he erased his slate for a new message, not daring to change the words of the request around.

How are you feeling?


Terrible.

Terrible. Cold. Wishing he wasn't here. Numb, on the verge of not caring one moment, then wanting to grab his chair and hurl it the next if only he had the strength.

But that wasn't how Victor answered that question. Even before Rayu, Victor the paladin had a different response. People worried. Rhys was worried now, and would be all the more guarded for Victor's answer. It wasn't the answer. Not the right one. But what else was there?

He pressed his hand to his mouth when his stomach churned again. Every thought clawed at nothingness.

"Ask me for a story," he said between his fingers.


Rhys shook his head, his chair sliding back as he stood up and took hold of Victor's shoulders again. Each passing moment, Victor grew more frantic. He needed to be in bed.


Victor pushed Rhys away with what power he had. "I'll tell you one," he decided. He had been a bard by trade more than a hunter. Victor knew stories. There were templates in his mind, each easily adjusted to appeal to a given audience. Rhys, this time.

"Once there was..." His words came slow and thick. "Lived in... there was..."

Nothing, nothing. Why couldn't he think? His thoughts failed for form and his heart slammed against his ribcage. The more he tried to find it, the more he sank into a void.

Stories. His livelihood since leaving the paladins. They were gone. He couldn't--

Start over. Victor snapped his eyes on Rhys, realizing now what he meant. Start over. Become someone else. Tell a story. Pretend, again, as he had with Rayu. They all thought him dead and he was safe as long as they believed it.

But for them to continue believing, Victor had to--

He grabbed his chest and clenched his fingers over his heart, trying to claw into the nothingness, trying to pinch his void shut. "I can't--" he started, stumbling over his words. "Start over-- I can't-- stories. I..." His trembling turned violent.


Rhys watched Victor, helpless. He reached for him again, and not shoved away this time, squeezed Victor's shoulder's tight, desperate to get his attention away from wherever Victor had gone.

His mind tried to grab at the pieces of Victor's questions and broken speech. A question Victor didn't answer, a story that didn't start, the inability to start over...


Victor pressed his eyes shut a moment before he suddenly latched onto Rhys. Desperation turned his weak grip into a vice, his nails breaking Rhys' skin.

"Ask me to lie. Specific-- give me something specific."


Rhys winced. That grip wasn't something he was expecting, and despite the pain, Rhys was reluctant to pull back and get his slate. It was a surprise Victor released him at all.

He sat back down, confused at first, then worried again. The pieces were all coming together and he wondered if it were a good idea to keep going. But Victor's eyes were on him, intense and desperate. A quick lie. Something easy and straightforward.

Tell me my hair is green.


Victor breathed a sharp hiss and grabbed his tea again. Warmth. Any scrap of it. Victor turned the focus to the slate, quiet and calmer. He read and reread the message.

"But your hair is red," he said, slow and allowing himself to feel around his answer. Rhys' hair was red. There was nothing green about it. No matter how long he looked at it, it remained impossible to interpret any sort of greenness.

Victor gripped the teacup until it hurt, trying to reach for more of its fading heat. He told people his name was Rayu and that he'd grown up in Safta. His mannerisms shifted, but not because he wanted them to. He could remember that, recognize that, but he could not grasp it.

None of it was the truth.

He sank back in his chair, feeling his fingers through his scalp. "My name is Victor Bristol, traitor of Bastan, and that's all I can be."

Not Rayu. Not even a bard.


Rhys stared at Victor and set the slate down. That's what Victor had meant. But how did--? Why? It didn't make sense-- the resurrection...? Even if he-- if Ashtaroth-- could convince him not to face Bastan, it wouldn't even matter--

No. No, there had to be something. Time. Rest. Victor had been dead two days, and rested barely a night. If Victor slept more and rested up, he would find himself thinking more clearly. He had to.

Rhys stood up, taking hold of Victor. Rest. Please. Please just come rest.


Victor looked up at Rhys, his anger and frustrations all faded and taken up by the chill in him. He hugged himself for warmth, bewildered by the surrealism of a nothing inside him, a nothing he had kept close, that he'd made a living off of, that kept Zach safe with...

Gone. Numbness, again. His hands were all pins and needles.

Finally, he relented, agreeing to stand with Rhys. Victor's vision went black and his legs failed to support him.


Rhys wrapped his arms around Victor to keep him from hitting the ground, afraid for a moment he wouldn't manage before Victor collapsed. There would be no leading back. He scooped Victor into his arms and carried him to the bedroom.

The hammock had been barely disturbed. He set Victor there and felt over his skin. It was no cooler than before, but that did little to ease Rhys' nerves.


Victor grit his teeth, shaking and frustrated. He couldn't walk. He couldn't so much as stand. He couldn't have justice. And now he could no longer protect himself, support himself, while owing more than he knew how to pay back.

The last of his dignity left when he felt tears stinging his eyes. He turned in the hammock when he was laid there, burying his face in the furs and cushions in shame.

It didn't matter. He had to go back. He already knew that. It was what was right and what was just. His death had been an accident, so perhaps he had been brought back by fate for those who were wronged to properly deal with him.

But there was that weight again, tugging on him, telling him he owed more. He owed something else-- someone else.

Even with the anger that awakened, his body wouldn't listen to him. It wouldn't move or get up. It only shook. Even if he could stand, Rhys was here as an impossible obstacle.

Wait. He had to wait. Strength would return and Rhys would drop his guard. The Ahura could not remain on a personal errand forever. Once Victor found an opening, he could begin to wade his way through this.