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arboren-and-loke · 9 months

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Good Intentions: Three

"We are like islands in the sea, separate on the surface but connected in the deep." ― William James

If their first encounter had been by chance, spurred on by whim and volatile emotions, and if their second encounter had been unbelievably improbably from start to finish, then the fact that they ran into each other for a third time was such a farfetched fluke that Arboren found himself feeling somewhat suspicious of it.

How did the saying go? Once is chance, twice is coincidence, but three times is fate?

Then again, he is sneaking back into the Fort, so maybe it isn't as unlikely as one might think.

Why is he sneaking back into the Fort, one might ask?

Because the night before, while he was stumbling about—heavily concussed— in the labratory of Braccus Rex he had picked up a pair of gauntlets and he had once again had his thoughts intruded upon by a disembodied voice, which had eerily and forcefully requested he seek out some thrice cursed study which was, of course, sitting right above the prison which the fugitive most desperately did not want to return to.

Quite frankly that in of itself was no longer quite the impactful incentive it might have once been, on account of the fact that of it having has lost its mystique. Arboren was rather starting to wish that all disembodied voices, omnipotent figures, and cryptic portents could mind their own business. It was like he had become errand boy for all of creation, and being as tired as he was, and having witnessed yet more horrors beyond the scope of his imagination, he wasn't in a particularly accommodating mood.

What kind of demented ego takes three people, somehow moulds them into one distorted sack of flesh, and then curses them and tosses them to the bottom of a dry well, just so they can starve and thirst and never die, anyway?

Anyway, what is truly driven Arboren's interest in pursuing this fool's errand is the memory that had come with the gauntlets. The heat on his skin, the ash and flankers raining down from the sky. The ink on his fingers, the brush of parchment on his skin. It was the convoluted, impossible mishmash of a nightmare but it had stolen his breath away. For a moment he had not even realized it was someone else's memory.

Long after his vision had cleared, and long after they'd left the mad king's dreadful laboratory, the thought of it lingers in his mind, a pull that buzzes in his ear like an insect's persistent whine.

It is because of his accursed whims again, the call of emotions he can't ignore, and empathy that pulls him towards other people—or the memory of them anyway. The need to meddle in things drives him ever forward and will probably drive him straight to the grave.

Maybe that is why every mysterious force under the sun and otherwise seems so inclined to drag him into their business. Because he is too damn obliging.

Otherwise, he would never return to the den of monsters that he had worked so hard to flee from. The Hollow Marshes are bad enough, crawling with undead, patrolled by Magisters, trapped with all the curses and ill will of a madman who refuses to let anyone have any peace even after his death hundreds of years ago, dotted with tortured, cursed, and mutilated souls and altogether a foul and deadly place. Yet still it was better than Fort Joy. At least out there he can pretend he is free, or at the very least crawling inch by agonizing inch closer to it.

Creeping through the hall of the Fort proper is an exercise in willpower for the elf. Every sound sets him on edge, and every time he is forced to bodily haul himself into a collection of crates and barrels so as to avoid the bored eyes of another Magister that will be all too eager to break up the afternoon tedium with a little blood sport, he is sure it will be his last.

He has no back up here. They'd discussed it at length, but ultimately it is such a low priority mission in the face of all the things they need to do that he has opted to go on his own.

And anyway, it should be easier this way. The smaller the infiltrating unit, the easier it is to hide. Of course, he is not the stealthiest choice, especially since the missing collar around his neck will raise a lot of questions should he get caught. But it is something that he wants to do and can't see having someone else risk themselves for yet another one of his whims. Not when they all have their own goals.

So should he fall, there is no one to catch him and hustle him to a safe corner. There is no one to shove healing potions down his throat or pound his heart back into action. No, should he fall, chances are he will be mounted on a pike; a warning to all.

Should he be caught, he knows death will be the lucky outcome.

This is different than creeping passed a patrol of Magisters out in the marshes. If he is seen there; chances are he is facing off against three or four soldiers who are just as out of their element in the treacherous wilderness. There, if things go badly, he could vault himself into the trees, and get clear. That is not so here, where one alarm will bring the entire Order stationed on the island down on his head, and escape means fighting his way out.

The fort is built like a maze, with all the important rooms nestled deep within a network of hallways and alcoves. It is designed to withstand invasion, to slow trespassing forces from ever reaching the heart of the building, forcing their numbers into tight confines, and limiting their movements. Doorways are placed at seemingly random intervals, and it is often a gamble whether they lead to just another supply closet, or a room filled with Magisters.

Needless to say, making his way down a narrow corridor with only tapestries and the recessed windows to break up the empty wall feels like Arboren is already marching to his death. He has no cover, and his eyes flick frantically around the area trying to scan for something he can use to his advantage in case a Magister shows their face.

When he does hear voices coming from behind him, gruff and accompanied but the familiar clanking of armour like the thunder that heralds a storm, his heart leaps into his throat, and the fugitive flings himself down the hall and around the corner.

Unfortunately, Arboren is probably destined for a tragic ending because what he sees is another long corridor. His mind nearly blanks, overcome by the wailing conviction that he is an idiot who has forsaken an incredibly hard-earned chance at escape at the behest of a voice in his head.

However, he is not completely out of options, because at least here, on one side of the hall opposite of the metal grated windows, are a handful of doors. There is a good chance that if he is not careful, he will simply be flinging himself into a nest of vipers, but he dares to risk it, if only because they look to be awfully unassuming doors and a good old fashioned supply closet is what he desperately needs right at the moment.

At the first one he listens closely, and when he hears a grumble of voices, accompanied by a burst of laughter he moves on to the next. That one is locked and sweat begins to bead along his upper lip as he hears the voices getting closer on the verge of rounding the corner and seeing him. The third door (three times the charm they say) is quiet, and while that's not a guarantee of safety, he hazards a frantic jiggle of the handle.

Not locked.

With a hasty prayer to anyone or thing that might be listening, Arboren heaves himself behind the door, trying for quiet and hoping to be met with dust and mundane things rather than the tip of a sword and a cry of battle.

He shuts the door behind him, hand on the latch as he desperately turns to face whatever is waiting for him.

"Hello?"

For a second Arboren doesn't recognize him. Mostly because of the missing armour, but also because of how very much he was not expecting to see this particular man at this precise moment.

"Hello?" The voice slips from inquiring to confused quickly, as Jace Loke stands there in the middle of what appears to be a small, private room. He looks… clean. His hair is damp, and loosely swept back from his face, revealing that his bandages are missing, although one hand is lifted to partially cover his eyes, and his face is turned away slightly. A simple white tunic hangs forgotten from his other hand.

And what is Arboren supposed to do now? There is no way that Jace Loke won't recognize his voice if he speaks, but he can't just stay quiet, however tempting the idea is.

"Who's there?" Now Jace Loke is beginning to sound concerned. His brows furrow, and his hand lowers slightly as he turns to face in Arboren's direction.

For a second Arboren considers retreating out to the hall, but he can hear the voices. They've stopped outside the room he'd heard other people in and are apparently having a chat. Because of course they are. So, Arboren clears his throat, and prays that this Magister will hold some measure of leniency for the escapee after their previous encounters.

The irony.

The elf clears his throat. "So. Any way we can pretend you know a Magister Groate?"

There is a pause. And then the man surges forward a surprised step, his hands lowering even further. "Arbor—how did you find—What are you doing here?" His voice remains blessedly no higher than a sharp, shocked hiss.

"Um, so..." Obviously Arboren can't just say that he snuck in to search for a pair of magical gloves. Well. Maybe he could, but he certainly doesn't want to lead with that. He's not sure admitting to planning a theft of sorts will go over well, and his situation is precarious enough as it is.

"Did you get caught again?" Jace asks, his voice growing somewhere near to demanding. Urgent, even. His hand tightens into a fist around the shirt.

"No! No, no. Not that. Well. Cutting it close actually. Hence why I ducked in here." Arboren can hear the casual flippancy in his voice. It's the opposite of what he is feeling in the moment, and although there is a time and a place for bravado, he wonders if this is it. Maybe a more sincere display of how on edge and panicked he is feeling would be more effective at the moment.

The Magister's face twists into something aghast, and reproachful. "You can't be here!"

Arboren grimaces. "Look. I just. Maybe this is a lot to ask. But just. No one has to know?" Perhaps it is unfair that he is using the Magister's words from the last time they met against him.

"No one—you're lucky it was me in here, and not someone else! You could get killed!"

Arboren hesitates and considers that. Considers Jace Loke. It was one thing when they were out in the wilderness and Jace had no other recourse, but now, with Arboren clearly crossing a line, it would not have been surprising for their fragile bond of alignment to turn to ash instantly. Except that is not what is happening. Jace Loke is acting as if he is genuinely concerned for Arboren's well-being. It is baffling, but it does put the elf's mind at ease.

"I'm getting unhappily used to having my life in peril," Arboren sighs, and sags slightly against the door.

Across the room Jace's face twitches, and he takes another step forward. "Are you injured?"

"No, not as of yet." And the elf finds himself smiling. "What about you? Not injured as far as I can see, but how are you?"

"Oh! Oh, uh, just let me—" the man jolts and tugs on his shirt, before turning to his right, hand swiping through the air until his fingers brush the top of a chest that is doubling as a nightstand. There are a few odds and ends on it; a wash basin, a comb, some soap and a razor, a candle that looks unused, some smooth rocks and a couple of seashells, and a strip of cloth. The cloth is what he reaches for, and he hastily starts to wrap it around his eyes.

Arboren winces as he watches the man struggle to tie it in place, the knot tangling in his hair, leaving it snarled and caught. "It's going to get damp" the elf observes.

"That's fine. Its warm here anyway. It'll probably keep me cool—damn it," the man cuts himself off with a curse as he tugs on a few stray hairs that he has tied into the knot.

He's rushing, and it's making him clumsy. Arboren doesn't really see the point when he was the one who had healed the injury to begin with, had seen it at its worst and most ragged. But, then again, everyone has their compunctions, the little things they just can't stop themselves from doing no matter how trite they might seem to others.

"Want a hand?" the elf asks, stepping further into the room, and lifting his hands automatically.

Jace falters, and the blindfold loosens so it drops down over the bridge of his nose. "That's… you don't have to."

Arboren takes that as consent, and steps forward still further. "I don't mind."

Stiffly, Jace turns around, and lowers his hands. "Go ahead," he says, but his voice wavers with uncertainty.

There is a lull of silence as Arboren swiftly sweeps the man's hair straight and pulls the wrappings into place. The cloth is smoother and much softer than the bandages Jace had been using before, though they had not been especially rough. It was just that this material was clearly expensive—some sort of silk, perhaps. It's dyed an appealing umber colour and the faint scent of incense wafts from it.

Arboren ties a knot—one which lies relatively flat, and can be removed with relative ease—deftly, and without thinking, gives the cloth a quick, soft pat. "There we go."

"Thank you."

"Sure."

Jace clears his throat and steps away at the same moment that Arboren rolls backward on his heels and catches himself scratching the back of his neck awkwardly.

"You never answered my question," Arboren comments, trying to ignore the stifling warmth of the room.

The other man's head lists to the side in confusion, before realization quickens across his face. "I'm fine. They've taken me off duty."

"I'll admit," Arboren observes, looking around the small room, "I'd have thought they'd have you guys packed in barracks. But you've got a room to yourself."

Jace huffs half of a laugh. "Normally we would be, but they moved me here after I got back. They say it's because I've been retired, but…" his voice softens with self-consciousness. "I think it's because I've been keeping the others up."

Ah. Nightmares then. "I'm sure this is nicer anyway," Arboren comments, though he can't stop himself from picturing this man when he'd woken up, confused and unable to see and so very afraid. He probably wakes up like that now, except he is alone, in the quiet with none to tell him that he's still here, still alive, and safe. "No listening to anyone else snore."

"Right," The Magister agrees, smiling vaguely. He fidgets, locking the fingers of his hands together, and smooths a thumb across the knuckles. "You never answered my question either. What are you doing here?"

"Chasing clues that I found in some old ruins out on the shore."

"What do you mean? Clues?" For a second Jace seems nonplussed, but then he straightens. "You're not digging up Braccus Rex's things, are you?" there is warning there, and fear more reminiscent of when they had first crossed paths.

"Not in the way you're thinking!" Arboren tries to assuage. "I've been trying to undo some of the curses left on this island. Horrible things. He killed so many people and did worse to so many others. I—I've seen awful things, and I can't get them out of my head. It's like he hated everything. All of it. Anything alive and he wanted to-to violate it. Purge it from the world—no because he's left so many things to just suffer. They scream and scream, and they don't even want to be saved any more, they just want to be let go."

"You can't do this," Jace argues. "You could make everything so much worse!" His words are incredibly harsh. There is prejudice, superstition and fear routed in his words.

This time though, Arboren does not get angry. It's not about source this time. This time its about magics so dark, so utterly repulsive even he has hesitated to get involved. There really is no guarantee that he will be able to fix any of it, and every time he is risking a curse befalling him or his comrades. It has turned the mad king into a looming figure of suffering and endless nightmares in Arboren's head. Whenever he must wade through the pile of corpses left by the unhinged experiments, he feels like he will never be free of the blood that clings to him.

"I know," Arboren agrees, and he slumps onto the edge of the narrow bed pushed into the corner of the room. "I know. It's… Sometimes I wonder if it's not this whole island. If he didn't somehow turn this entire thing into one pit of torment to fuel some as of yet undiscovered, incomplete curse. Everyone here is either cruel and mad, or suffering and broken."

"The Magisters are investigating the ruins. We'll—they'll get it sorted."

Arboren scoffs and presses his forehead into his hand. "Do you know what you and that caravan were bringing back?"

He doesn't need to look to know the Magister is bristling. "Purging Wands. Verne inspected the crates. He said there was nothing left," Jace reprimands, his voice sharpening as he recalls this.

"Right. Purging wands. Made by Braccus Rex. Do you know what those things are? What they do to us? That's what they're using to purge Sourcerors of the source. What's been making the Silent Monks and the Gheists."

Arboren hopes against all hope that this will be news to Jace Loke. He even hopes that Jace Loke won't believe it, will think it too cruel of his order. He would rather the man simply be ignorant to the darkness of the Divine Order, and not actively complicit. Because if he is, then Arboren will end up regretting ever getting involved with the man. Will regret any comradery that has ever passed between them, no matter how misshapen. He closes his eyes and holds his breath and waits.

"You—you know you're dangerous. We're just trying to find ways to cure you—to fix this!"

"By hollowing us out of everything that makes us who we are? By making us your empty-headed slaves?!" Arboren voice soars in outrage, in hurt, before he can stop himself.

That won't do. Getting emotional now will only get him caught.

Arboren breathes out a long, slow, controlled exhale. He thinks that the Fort is small and wonders how anyone could remain so deluded. How could no one question what happened to the Sourcerors who were being 'cured'? How could anyone see the empty husks the Silent Monks have been turned into and think that it's a viable cure? How can no one notice what the madman in the dungeons was doing to the victims of his sadism, what he was creating? How could anyone remain so blind?

But he reminds himself that soldiers have a hierarchy, have different duties. Jace Loke is clearly not an enforcer of the genocidal madness being inflicted on those with Source. He is a guard, sent on expeditions out across the island, assigned to protecting caravans and digging through old artifacts. He is low on the pecking order, told nothing but where to stand and when to swing his sword, fed on a diet of carefully worded lies that dress up all the horrors so that they don't look so ugly.

"From where I sit," Arboren intones, because for all that he cannot—will not—let this man's willful obliviousness stand, "your Alexander is turning out to be no better than Braccus Rex. Is what you've been doing to us any better than the things he has done? You're even using his tools. Him, the epitome of everything your order is supposed to be standing against."

There is a hiss of breath between teeth, but Jace Loke says nothing.

The fugitive glances up at the man from between his fingers and sees that he has turned away slightly, and his face is twisted up in some deep thought. "I can't let myself—Jace Loke, I don't want to be erased."

The silence that builds between them is incredibly tense, filled with all the suspension of watching a tornado touch down.

"Look. It… Whatever. You don't need to concern yourself with these matters," Arboren gives in eventually. "Do you know when they will be shipping you out? How long until you get to see your mother and sister again?"

Slowly, and with great effort the conflicted soldier pulls himself together. "Not yet. They aren't letting any boats on or off the island. Apparently, a ship of Seekers landed, and they've been trying to hunt them down. The Vengeance is just offshore, and they're on high alert."

Of course, by this point Arboren is already aware of all of this. His response is vague and considering.

"You know." Jace discerns all the same. "You're trying to get off the island. You'll go with them if you can."

The elf's eyes slide shut again of their own accord. "Yes."

There is another pause, though it is brief and Jace breaks it with a sharp exhale. "It doesn't matter. Like you said, I don't need to concern myself with this. I've been retired." His voice lilts at the end as he feeds a thread of humour into his tone as one might thread a needle.

Arboren cracks a lopsided grin. "No one has to know?"

"No one has to know."

"I owe you one," Arboren declares. "I never would have expected this of a Magister."

"Well, I never would have expected a Sourceror to save my life."

"Ah. Yes. I'm told I have a habit of collecting people."

"Are you suggesting you've collected me?"

"Be careful. I'm a criminal. Next thing you know I'll be kidnapping you and holding you hostage while I demand the Divine Order comply with my evil plans to drag the world into the void." The comically sinister laugh Arboren tacks on at the end is wholly unnecessary, but he sees the former Magister's lips curl just slightly.

"You shouldn't joke about that."

"No. No, I really shouldn't," Arboren agrees with a tired sigh.

Jace starts to speak, cuts himself off and then, suddenly, the words are falling out of him in a jumble. "I—It never crossed my mind. That you were scared. You haven't come across that way all this time. I thought you—I thought none of you understood. I just wanted to protect you. But… its… like we're taking from you. I k-kept hoping it'd get better, that'd we find a way to fix it. So that it wouldn't be so bad. A better cure, one that works properly. If we could just find the right information, the right tools—the Voidwoken, they're so bad. But… we aren't making things better for all of us. It's not better for you."

Arboren blinks at the man as the words fill the air with a chaotic energy. He is pacing slightly, his hand pressing over his lips tightly, the other flexing at his side. For a second the elf deliberates, and then he stands, and steps towards the human and grips his shoulder.

"Of course, I'm afraid," Arboren admits. "Terrified. I… to have everyone look at you with suspicion and fear, like we're infected with a plague—like we're a trap that's about to explode. Like our mere presence is abhorrent…" he is trying to be clear and open, but the raw tension that is coursing through his body, tightening his throat, is making him even more honest than he had intended. "And on this island… we're alone. If something happens, if we catch the wrong eye… there is no one. Nowhere we can go." He exhales a breath that shudders in his chest.

"And I look into the empty eyes of the ones that you've purged, I see the desolation on their expressions… it's the face of a corpse, and I… they don't have any memory, Jace. They don't know who they are!" His voice cracks, despite how hard he is trying to keep it level, and he instinctively starts to draw back, away, into himself so he can pull on that reservoir of calm fury that had been born as he'd watched his home rot-whither-die. His hand goes to his throat, claws at it as if he can force the burning sick that has lodged itself there free.

He has not talked about this so directly. His companions feel the same dread that he does. They do not need to discuss it. They know just by looking in each other's eyes. And that has made it easier for them to hide the horror behind a flimsy curtain of indifference—no. Not indifference. It's just that they don't have the space to dwell on it. Or else they might go on a rampage and light the whole accursed place up—and he has thought of it so many times. Thought of unleashing all his rage and grief upon the Magisters here, but he knows it will do no good, will only turn every Sourceror, young and old, into a pariah to be hunted and slain.

"They're husks," he croaks. "Husks who have had their entire beings sundered from this world beyond even death. There is no legacy of them. No—" and how can he explain this to a human who does not understand memory the way that Arboren does, who is so much younger than the elf, a summer flower that does not know the rings of a tree. "It's an abomination. What you have taken from them is everything."

"I—" Jace reaches out, and snags Arboren's arm in a tight grip. "I'm sorry."

The fugitive quakes under the strain of the emotion that he is trying to reign in. "How… how am I supposed to turn myself over to that? How am I supposed to work with you when you want to unmake me—us?" He doesn't know if the human realizes just how wrong it is, the source-draining procedure, what a cataclysmic defilement of life it is in Arboren's eyes.

The soldier flinches and he has grown flustered. Rigidness stiffens the line of his shoulder and back, and he is holding himself still like a startled rabbit. His lips are moving with soundless, unformed words, like the trembling wings of a moth. "I'm sorry," he says again, eventually, with all the anxious pleading of a man who does not know how he is supposed to console someone who has begun to cry. Eventually he pats Arboren's arm, the motion hesitating on the precipice of encouraging, and soothing.

It's enough to pull a wet, awkward, half formed chuckle from Arboren, and he is surprised to find that he is on the verge of tears. They have beaded up along his eyelids and are threatening to spill over. It makes him question how far he has been pushing himself, makes him question how terribly thin and brittle the lid his has clamped down on all his emotions really is that they have surged to the surface like this. How desperately has he needed catharsis that he gives out in the middle of enemy territory, that he staggers the minute all the things he has been keeping only in the periphery of his gaze have been shoved out into the open?

The elf leans forward, in a mimicry of Jace Loke, from another time when the world had been far too dark and unkind. He presses his forehead against the man's collar and exhales shakily. "When I was younger—long time ago now," he begins, "I wanted to fly. I don't think its uncommon. Lots of children seem to find themselves wanting that, giving their parents such a fright when they try to forge wings for themselves and leap from rooftops, or tree branches."

Jace squeezes Arboren's arm in solidarity of this. Or perhaps he is simply encouraging him to continue.

"There was this stream that used to run through our forest, near where I grew up. The banks were steep… must have washed out in a winter melt off at some point. There were places where it would form these pools with the trees growing up and over the water—in the spring and summer it was like a deep green cavern, our own little lagoon away from everyone else. When the leaves turned it was like we were locked in a piece of amber in the sun. I spent so much time there it's a wonder I didn't grow gills. We used to tie ropes to the branches that hung out over the water, and swing on them. And then we'd let go and plunge into the water below." They'd score each other on who made the biggest splash, or pulled off the coolest mid-air maneuver, or who went the highest. "In that moment, when I let go of the rope, before I hit the water, I was… as free as I could be. I could fool myself into thinking that I was flying. For the longest time I was convinced that there really would come a day when I wouldn't hit the water. I'd just grow wings, and never have to land again.

"We had something similar," Jace murmurs quietly, and then adds; "wasn't deep enough for diving, but I used to catch eels and chase my little sister with them."

Arboren snickers and continues. "Eventually I started studying, and then they had a hard time dragging me away from my books." It only took the greatest tragedy of his people for that to happen. "But I always remembered it. It's still so vivid. It is what I think about whenever… well. Whenever."

The soldier holds still and waits.

"I always believed that memory would stay. It'd go on to my people when I died, the happiest thing I could ever give to them. But now…" Arboren squeezes his eyes shut tighter. "If I lose it, it's gone. Forever."

Jace inhales slowly, shallowly.

Arboren holds the moment, stretches it out, and then dredges up the same exhausted resolve that he has been relying on all this time. He straightens, and places both his hands on Jace Loke's shoulders. "I'm sharing it with you. It's not the same. You can't feel it. You can't picture the emerald leaves, or the drops of liquid gold on the surface of the water. You can't smell the mud and the life. Not the way we do. But if it gets stolen from me, then you're the one with the last fragment of it."

Jace clears his throat, head bowed under the gravity of the moment, but Arboren is not done yet.

"There are more. My entire lifetime," and oh how young he feels sometimes, and other times how incredibly old. "They are not all so kind. There is the first time I watched one of my people die. It was not a good death. She went mad at the loss of her kin. She wouldn't eat. Wouldn't drink. I held her hand and watched the light leave her eyes. She was the one who taught me how to write."

"But there is also the birth of my brother. It's so very rare of us to have more than one child. We celebrated for weeks. I didn't know what to do with myself. I wanted to go with all the others and dance and sing, but I wanted to stay by him and hold his hand. He was so very small. Hideous, really. Like a little beetroot." Arboren huffs a sad, quiet laugh. "I don't want to lose him to the source purging. If he ever has a family, I want them to have that memory. To know what a blessing he was."

Maybe what he is doing is manipulation. He doesn't care. He wants to strike out at the foundation of the Magisters, but not just with his hate and his rage and his desperate need for justice. He doesn't just want them to fall, though he will accept that if it is what it comes to. But what he really wants is for them to see what they have done. To see him, and his people, and the Sourcerors as people. As the incredibly precious lives that they are, and to regret what they have done.

Even if it is only with this one Magister who isn't even really a Magister anymore.

"I know not everyone passes on their memories the way we do. They are lost when you bury them under the ground. But at least they have their identity to take with them. At least they had a chance. A chance to see and taste and smell, and touch and love and laugh and sing, dance and cry and get angry and live. They had a chance to bloom and flourish, and they can hold all that close to their hearts, and it makes them real. Makes them a part of this world in a way that is ageless and undying."

He is trying to explain eons of culture and identity in minutes to a man he has met no more than thrice. It is likely a fool's errand. But that is the thing about Araben. He is driven by emotion. It burns in him like a fire, and sometimes it is an easy, tameable candle flame, but sometimes it is an inferno.

"And I'm sorry. I know the Voidwoken come. Them come and they are like termites, and it's us that they are decimating. People who can't defend themselves are being killed. I know. I would fix it if I could. But not like this. There are children on this island. Mothers and fathers and lovers. Who will remember them? Who will grieve for them as their lives are sacrificed? Thrown away like garbage? Don't they deserve better?"

"I—I wanted to protect you," Jace whispers.

"Are you sure?" Arboren whispers back.

"What—"

Whatever it is that Jace is about to say is cut off by a rapping on the door, and his face drains of colour faster than a hare leaping over the snow. "Hide," he whispers so quietly that his lips barely move.

Arboren is already dropping down and pulling himself under the bed, movement ghostly despite his haste. "Clear," he utters, breath hardly stirring the dust of the warm stone floor.

"Loke, you in there?"

"Uh, yes!"

The door groans open reluctantly.

"Hey. They've got me running errands. This is for you." A gruff voice is followed by the scuffing of boots and the rustling of cloth.

"Oh. Thanks. Sorry."

"Nah. We're short-staffed because everyone's out looking for those damned Seekers. At least I'm not at the doors. Captain Trippel's been dragged out there because of that bloody Paladin. They've been going at it so long it's a wonder they aren't blue in the face."

"Um, what paladin?"

"I dunno. Cork or something. Showed up to do a report on us," here, the other Magister scoffs. "Got a bee in his bonnet because of how we're treating the prisoners. Guess he's a Sourceror sympathizer or something. He's demanding to do a whole inspection of the Fort."

"An inspection? For what?"

"Apparently he is worried that we're hurting them." The other Magister makes a sharp tsk sound, making his disapproval even more obvious than his derisive tone of voice was.

"And Captain Trippel is arguing with him?" Ah, poor Jace sounds so puzzled, and there is trepidation there in his voice too.

Arboren wonders if the man is worried that he will burst from his hiding place and try to start a debate on the conditions the prisoners are being kept in, or something equally ridiculous.

"Well, yeah. He's overstepping, and we can't have him see the purging, can we? Gotta keep that under wraps so it doesn't get back to the mainland."

There is a beat that lasts long enough for Arboren to worry that Jace is failing to keep his cool.

"Uh, yeah. Right." Jace's voice wavers.

"You alright? You sound off."

"Oh, yeah. Just. You know. I've had a lot on my mind since I got back."

With all the emotional intelligence of a rock the unknown Magister offers up a few trite words of consideration. "Sure. They were good men we lost out there. And what happened to your eyes. Brutal."

"Yeah. It was a nightmare."

"Well, if you're feeling up to it, Hansa got his hands on a bunch of crab, and Kraus is breaking out that swill he's been brewing up. Might burn a hole through your stomach, but you won't be thinking about much."

"Ah, sure. I'll think about it. Thanks."

"Yeah. Sure. Anyway, I'm off. Got more errands to run for the bigwigs."

"Right. Good luck with that."

The other Magister quips something back, but its largely drowned out by the grinding of the door swinging shut behind him.

Both Arboren and Jace wait, listening with bated breath to make certain that they are once again alone. After several heart beats they release matching sigh of relief. Arboren pulls himself from under the bed.

"That was close," Jace breathes shakily.

Arboren agrees. His heart still feels like it is trying to pound its way right on out of his ribcage. "I need to get going." He has what he came for already. He'd been trying to get back to the dungeons when he had been forced to hide in this room.

"Right." For a second Jace Loke hovers awkwardly, as if he doesn't know what to do with himself. "I guess this is probably goodbye for real?"

Arboren can't help the twist of a smile that darts across his lips. "Who knows? We've already met more times than I ever expected we would."

"That's true." The agreement is accompanied by a matching expression of friendliness, timid and fleeting in the way of an early spring sun. "Arboren… I… should have known better."

His response plays along the lines of neutrality as best as he can manage, though the words are critical. "Because now a Paladin is saying its wrong?"

"No!" Jace winces and scrubs the back of his head in frustration. "No. Well. That too, to be honest. No. I just. I don't—" He huffs. "What you said—you were right. It isn't the right way. You—the Sourcerors—you do deserve better. I can't imagine what it'd be like. If my sister showed up on the island. Or if I got up tomorrow and you'd been caught... and if you were… I just. No. It's no excuse. But… The fear… It clouds my head. Like I'm in a fog, and I—well I can't see. I can't breathe. The damp digs right down to my bones. All I can do is run and hope that I'll get out of it."

"So you focus on putting one foot in front of the other, but you're not really paying attention to where you're going?"

"Yes. Yes, exactly that. I thought if I was doing something maybe I wouldn't feel so helpless."

Arboren reaches out and brushes a few stary hairs that have begun to dry from the man's forehead. "The next time we meet, let's talk of happier things. No arguing. You've got some of my memories now, Jace Loke. I would like to know some of yours." He says it with all the care of someone tying ribbons together in intricate braids, but inside he suddenly feels trepidation.

Jace holds still for a second, and then nods slowly. "Yes. I think I'd like that."

Arboren pulls back and can't help but peer at his own fingertips with uneasy scrutiny. "Until then," he murmurs, distracted.

There are only a few close calls on his journey out of the fort, and once he has safely crawled from the pipe spewing rotting blood and then immediately made his way to the shore to cleanse himself of the built-up grime, he breathes easy. He spends some time crouched in the shoals watching the sand be shifted by crabs and watching the sea foam froth and dwindle. There is a lot for Arboren to do, and much for him to figure out, but for a time he allows the emotions that have been stirred up like silt to settle on their own, allows it all to be carried out by the tide.

First Second

#dos2 #dos2 fanfic #Good Intentions #Arboren #Jace Loke

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arboren-and-loke · 9 months

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Good Intentions: Two

"…So on the ocean of life, we pass and speak one another, only a look and a voice, then darkness again and a silence." ~Tales of a Wayside Inn, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Evening falls quickly over the Hollow Marshes, the last rays of the setting sun swallowed up by dense foliage and the long shadows cast by both Fort Joy and the crumbling ruins which dot the landscape. The sea breeze grows unfriendly and cool, the humidity turning off to a chilling mist that coils like a serpent around the base of the rocks and trees. It is dark, foreboding, and the strange yowls and screeches within the undergrowth are a cacophony of danger.

Arboren shifts nervously where he is crouched in a narrow crevice between two massive standing stones, trying to figure out his next move. He is exhausted beyond words, and his stomach growls with a desire for food. More importantly, he is alone.

The ambush had been bad. Caught unaware, low on supplies and on the other side of a tussle with a deranged batch of undead bandits, Arboren and his companions were distracted and already worn down. When the Voidwoken Deep Dweller cornered them, they had tried to dig in, to hold out and maybe out last it by picking off the undead with it and staying clear of the creature's devastating attacks. But even the impromptu aid from on high had not managed to give them the edge they had needed.

In the end they'd fled the fight, splitting up in order to get clear of the bloody death eagerly awaiting them. The last Arboren had seen Ifan was hauling an unconscious Lohse back the way they had come, and Fane had managed to vanish entirely, making use of his ability to chameleon with the landscape. Arboren had pushed ahead, cut off from them by a burning patch of ground that threatened to guzzle down the last strains of his life.

Now the elf sits, trying to navigate the questionable mental map he has of the island so he can make his way to one of the many waypoints they'd marked as meeting places should they ever get separated.

He feels like there are beasts snapping at his heels and prowling just beyond his sight. He trusts Fane to have stayed safe, and he knows that Ifan will certainly get Lohse back on her feet in no time–after all Ifan had been carrying what was left of their health potions and had a good understanding of natural herbs and remedies. However, Arboren is keenly conscious of how much more danger he is in now without backup, of how much more careful he must be as he moves about. To encounter a Magister patrol at this point would end very badly indeed.

So of course, that's immediately what happens.

Arboren stands from his crouch, having convinced himself of the direction he needs to take. He is only a few footsteps beyond the shelter of the rocks he has been hiding in when he catches sight of the low flickering flames of a campfire. He hesitates, like a startled deer listening intently and on the cusp of running away. How had he not seen it before, he wonders. How had he not heard voices, movement, something?

He blames the heavy exhaustion turning his thoughts to a thick sludge, and his attention to a weak, wispy thing.

The most obvious solution is to steer clear of it, but the elf edges closer anyway. If he finds out later that he had managed to circle around and completely miss his companions, spending the whole of the night trying to meet up with them again, he is certain he will tear his hair out in frustration.

He cannot wait to be clear of Reaper's Eye, the miserable, most vexing place in the world, he is sure.

He sneaks closer, using the dark, dancing shadows cast by the flickering light of the fire as cover, and lets out a low lilting whistle that he knows Ifan will recognize. It is something the human Wayfarer does often, calling back out to the birds fluttering amongst the treetops with a cheerful sort of demeanor that belies his typical stoicism or wry humor. If he hears it, he will know better than to fire arrows into the underbrush when he becomes aware of Arboren's presence. He will alert Fane and Lohse not to be wary.

But the elf does not receive any reply… he pauses, and wonders if he should push on or give up. In the end he risks getting sight on whomever is resting at this bonfire. If it is a Seeker, it could be a valuable point of contact. If it is a Magister, or more than one, well… Well, that is why Arboren is being stealthy, something he trusts his skill in, particularly when in a forest. Certainly, he has greater faith in his hiding than in the Magister's perception.

He peers around the edge of the tree and feels a deep sense of irony swell in him at the sight beyond.

The Magister from before, the one with the eye injury and powerful naivety sits near the fire, a bowl of something delicious smelling cupped in his hands. Based on the packs around the fire, there should be another person in the vicinity, though Arboren sees no immediate sign of movement in the undergrowth.

Two is two too many though, and he begins to back away.

He slows though, as if caught by a current stronger than his own will, when the Magister sighs, a slow, tired, sad thing and sets the bowl aside to bury his face in his hands.

Arboren grimaces and glances around. He does not dare to approach, though some terrible desire to poke the sleeping bear stirs within him. He knows how bound by duty this human is, and the minute he makes his appearance, then the soldier is sure to summon forth the other Magister, shouting and bawling for help, and starting a fight that the fugitive does not think he can handle at that moment.

Of course, that is when his eyes happen to catch upon the skeleton in battered old armour shambling out from the undergrowth.

For a brief moment he hesitates. He travels with stranger companions, and he is not inclined to make assumptions about who the Magister could or could not associate himself with.

But then the skeleton began to raise its rusty saber.

Arboren glances at the Magister, who has at least pulled his hands from his face, and is looking around nervously, having heard movement. But his sword is laid to his side, and the hand that reaches for it waves through the air without success.

"Hello? Magister Verne?" Hope and trepidation war in the human's voice.

The skeleton's jaw rattles in some horrific mimicry of a laugh.

Arboren sees, even in the heated glow of the dancing fire, that the human's face goes pale, sees the human's hand that is frantically trying to find his sword begin to shake. The elf curses in his own native tongue, and then summons up a reserve of focus and tugs free his own weapon, the wand glittering with a pallid blue light as he begins to channel magic through it.

The skeleton staggers under the impact of the blow, and its mossy, weather-stained skull creaks slowly in Arboren's direction.

It is at this moment that the blinded human manages to catch hold of the hilt of his own weapon, and with a cry he leaps to his feet, the scabbard dropping with a thud to the ground. "Who goes there?" He demands, and Arboren feels a headache build at the ironic return to a familiar situation.

The elf almost wonders if some divine, or otherworldly force is dragging him back before this troublesome Magister, locking them in a cycle until one of them dies or gives way to the other.

The skeleton rattles indecisively between them, as if it can't make up its mind who should fall prey to the old blade locked in its boney grip. In the end, it seems to decide on the Magister who is nearest to it, and shambles closer.

A hiss of frustrated breath rushes between the fugitive's lips and he prepares another spell, the pressure continuing to build behind his eyes as he pushes himself beyond his limits. "Get back!" He orders, giving away his presence to the Magister. "It's coming to your fore!"

The Magister does not listen well, though his abrupt, startled spin towards Arboren's voice causes him to unbalance, and does make him stumble and trip backwards over the stump he'd been sitting on, just in time to avoid the Skeleton's thrust towards his gullet. He sprawls backwards with a cry that leaves behind indignant for panicked because he is once again vulnerable and at the mercy of anything that might wish him harm while he cannot defend himself. He does not even have his shield at hand this time.

Arboren grits his teeth and moves forward quickly, running through a mental list of his resources. He has no scrolls, and if he does anything too flashy, he risks bringing more foes down on their heads. Anything fire or lightning related is equally off the table because it will only fry the human as well. With a twist of his hand, mirrored by the wand in his other, he dredges up the fortitude to call forth a summon. It is twiggy and snarling bits of gravel and leaves, as it bursts up from the ground between the skeleton and the Magister.

The force of the magic winds him, but it will have to do for the moment because the skeleton has no desire to back down and tries to carve the summon up like a pheasant.

Meanwhile, the human is scrabbling backwards, away from the sounds of the skirmish, and seems to be doing a decent job of getting his bearings. Unfortunately, that means the clock is ticking for Arboren, because in no time the Magister will be calling for his companion and the fugitive will have to make a quick escape and hope against all hope his useless mercies are not going to get him captured or killed.

It is a familiar song and dance. One day it might even be funny.

The summon tears into the skeleton, its claws snaring against the tendons and whatever magics keep the thing moving, and the elf twines his magic through the air like he is spinning garlands around the base of a tree. With the motion comes a splash of water that tugs and erodes the pockets of bone exposed by the undead's decrepit armour. It does not actually take very long for the fight to end with the clatter of bones collapsing to the dirt amongst bits of rusty metal, but still the fight wears on Araben who has done little else but flee from one fight to the next all day, hounded by traps and vile Voidwoken, and viler Magisters.

The conclusion of the fight sees the elf sagging against a tree as he fumbles with his wand. At first, he goes to put it away, but he realizes it might be too soon for him to be at ease. He directs a wary glance towards the other occupant of the hollow.

The Magister is standing there, sword in front of him warily. He is surprisingly quiet, his face set somewhere between dread and vigilance. He casts about with sightless eyes, clear of the drying blood and tears that had stained his features when Arboren had last seen him. Now a bandage wraps around them, though the elf knows his healing spell will have cleared up most of the damage, so it is likely simply to protect the sockets and keep them closed.

"What's happening? What do you want?" The soldier asks into the night air. He has gathered himself, is lacing his words with more authority than before. Perhaps it is because he has back-up now and is no longer decorated by fresh wounds.

Arboren cannot contain his sigh. "I just…" he isn't sure what to say. He already knows that there will be no convincing this other man to overlook his misguided prejudices. "I mean no harm. I only happened to notice the creature."

"Have you been following us?" The Magister takes a step forward, and he readjusts his grip on his sword.

"No. No, I'm just…" Before he can mention that he is looking to reunite with his friends, Arboren stalls. "Just trying to skirt another beast looking to take my head," he ends up drawling, his voice laden with more exhaustion than he would have liked.

Of course, the Magister hears it. "You would be safer in the Fort. I must have you return."

The fugitive bites out a laugh that is bitter and short. "Do you think me more likely to be persuaded now? Do you think I have come crawling back with injured pride, and a new grasp of how very terrible the world is? That I will lay my hands in iron, and be dragged back where I can be abused, experimented on, and killed?" He snickers again, without any humour at all.

Memories of what he saw in the dungeons below Fort Joy seep forward like the blood that had stained the cracked stone floor and had eddied into gutters thick with lingering memories of torment, a horror so deep it had echoed in Arboren's very bones. He remembers the howling, and the weak, wet gibbering of pierced lungs and a mind too fractured by pain to be anything but an animal on the edge of madness and death.

The Magister opens his mouth, but Arboren cannot stand to hear denials or justifications now, with the exhaustion pooling in his limbs, and the ache behind his eyes, and the bile in his throat.

"Do not." The embittered elf cuts in, his voice like a wedge of cold stone. "For now, at least just… pretend. Pretend that your duty does not weigh so heavily on your conscience."

He is not sure what it is that convinces the Magister. Perhaps the human simply thinks that he will catch more flies with honey rather than vinegar. Either way, the human presses his lips together, sealing whatever it was that he'd been planning to say. His expression shows that he is unhappy, but he is blessedly silent and not trying to separate Arboren's head from his shoulders.

The elf smooths a few stray hairs out of his face, and glances around. "You met up with someone. Good. I wondered if you'd stay there, guarding those crates all night."

The soldier shifts slightly, his head angling like a dog cocking its ear at some strange sound. "You… worried?" He asks, the confusion colouring his voice like wine spilling across clean linen. His sword drops lower, so the tip is now pointing towards the dirt.

Arboren hesitates. Is it that he'd been concerned? He is not sure. When he had left the human, he had been thrown off by what had seemed like the utter derangement of the interaction and had doubted himself for interfering at all. Their brief encounter had lingered in the back of his mind as he and his fellow escapees had traipsed around Reaper's Eye, mostly because he'd been unable to stop himself from trying to think of all the different things he could have said to make the Magister understand why Arboren would not simply return to being a prisoner.

But concern? The elf turns the thought over in his head. Eventually he lifts his shoulder in a half-hearted shrug, more to himself than anything. "Not the kind of meeting that is easy to forget," he replies honestly.

"I—realize that I never said thank you." The human hedges, their brows furrowing over the bandages wrapped around their eyes. "For the healing. Magister Verne mentioned that I was… lucky."

Arboren grimaces, imagining how that conversation went. He is not sure he wants to think about how this other Magister reacted to the news of escapees scurrying about on the loose. One had been bad enough, and as far as interactions had gone it had not been the absolute worst, on account of no one having died, and Arboren and his companions not having been bodily dragged back to the fort.

He counts it as a blessing, that should all else fail, at the very least he is the only one who this Magister is aware of.

"On that note, I had better get going," he announces, some moral compunction that has yet to be thoroughly ground to dust catching on the idea that it'd be pretty rude to just vanish with no warning, even if it probably is the most sensible thing to do. "I'm sure your friend heard the ruckus and is on his way back, and—," well it went without saying that the elf has no intention of sticking around for that.

"Wait!" The Magister argues, stepping forward, his sword lowering to his side still further as one hand lifts into the air placatingly.

Arboren wonders if this human isn't just trying to buy time until the other Magister arrives after all. Even if the effort is clumsy, it still sends a whirl of frustration and bitterness spinning through his gut, and he straightens, the indignation steeling his spine. But his eyes drop to the lowered sword, which is different than the last time when the human had panicked and turned to violence. At least for now, though Arboren had seen how quickly that could change.

He sucks in a breath that hisses between his teeth and his eyes drag up to the bandaged sockets searching the area for him. At this point Arboren must wonder what it is about this particular human that compels him towards dangerous lenience.

He flexes the tension from his jaw, and his question is far lighter than his thoughts. "Yes?"

The Magister fumbles for a moment, one hand lifting to perhaps pick at the bandage around his eyes, but then flicking up past the injury to press his hair back from his face. It is clearly a tick in the process of forming, a gesture which will become a habit as surely as reaching for a sword will be. "That is... Have… you eaten?"

Most certainly a stalling tactic, Arboren concludes. This is far to outlandish an inquiry for it to be anything else. He cannot make himself believe that the Magister would offer him food at this juncture. The bitterness at the ruse turns to poison in his gut.

It is with a movement sharpened by years with an unwelcome weapon in his hands, rather than parchment or brush that Arboren sweeps in. He remembers drills—habits that had permeated his muscles the way poison had seeped between trees, sinking into wood and earth, and had clung just as resiliently as the toxic fumes.

Within moments, he is within the human's space, and it takes very little for the escapee to twist the sword free of the soldier's lax grip—it was a mistake to lower it in the first place. The length of steel clatters to the ground, and the human begins to shout as his wrist is wrenched by Arboren's grip. The fugitive clamps another hand tight over the human's mouth, the warning made blatant by the light shake Arboren gives the man's head, like a cat with its prey.

It's not a position Arboren will be able to hold for long, not once the human gets his wits about him. For the moment the elf is using his significant height advantage to his favour, as well as the suddenness of his attack, and the human's own lack of awareness. But when the Magister collects himself, he will use his sturdier frame—more burly than an elf's would ever be—and the tables will turn quickly. He will not even be all that hindered by his loss of sight, not in such close proximity.

Still, Arboren uses their position to his advantage.

"Eaten?" He asks incredulously, lips twisting in a cruel smile though its effect will be lost on the human. He tries to channel the feeling into his words instead. He knows the kind of slander many fools spew about his people; knows the horror stories the humans tell their children of the flesh-eating elves. When his people were obliterated, were cast by toxic miasma from their homes, it was why they were met with such unfriendliness, why they were so unwelcome.

The elf is not sure if the human realizes who he has been talking to. Perhaps he knows, perhaps he can tell by the accent buried beneath the island drawl, and the years spent trying to barter for the wellbeing of a people unfairly turned to refugees.

Somehow, Arboren doubts it. He can feel the human's heartbeat spasming in his wrist and feels the way his breath stutters in surprise.

All the coiled power of a person who is used to being backed into a corner, forced to snarl and thrash like an animal being chased down by hunters and their dogs seeps out into Arboren's limbs, the readiness to fight and main and kill to survive stretching like a mountain cat.

The Magister is forced to realize how mistakenly careless he has been.

Arboren does not give him the time to settle and chases the beat of intimidation he can feel from the man's pulse. "Do you ask me for a meal?" He layers a humored bite into his voice. It is not meant to sound friendly. This is not a joke between friends. This is mockery. This is a threat. This is the chuckling growl of a jackal at your throat.

The elf compounds it by letting his teeth clack together, not entirely dissimilar to the way the skeleton had minutes before. "Why? Does the human need an elf to eat the flesh of his enemies? Does the human need an elf to pilfer something from the dead for him?"

Arboren is not doing himself any real justice here, he knows. This human will not understand the derisive barbs that Arboren is levying at him, will not understand the landmine he has unwittingly triggered in an elf who has had too many hurts committed against his people. This human has not force fed flesh of the Divine Order's enemies to an elf and demanded answers. He has not had rotting meet his throat and been forced to mine for memories while still choking on death, without a care for the defilement of a practice that should be not be used in such a way, nor for the violation of the elf. He is not the symbol of all the systematic crimes The Divine Order inflicted on Arboren's people.

Sure, he may be a Magister, but there is no reason for Arboren to hold him at fault for every desecration, for every trauma, for every single tear that Arboren's people have shed.

But the fugitive is playing to the idea that he is a monster, a killer, a man-eater, even though his people consume the flesh of their ancestors for reasons far more sacred than something as simple as hunger. When they consume the flesh of others, it is never a simple whim. They honour the memories of the dead, friend or foe. It is about honouring the departed, and learning from them. The elves are not ravenous beasts, crawling from their forests to prey on innocent children, and hunt the simple folk living simple lives for their meals as the tales paint them to be. They are not thieves, they are not scavengers, they are not pillagers raiding the dead of their memories.

But, Arboren is angry. He is frustrated. He is tired of people trying to trick him, trying to corral him like cattle, trying to butcher him. He is tired of being used, and used, and used, and made into something less than a person. So some part of him wants to play at the part of the monster he has been made out to be.

He might have no real intention of killing this deluded soldier, as slaying him now would be a waste of Arboren's mercies, and overly twisted. He will leave the human's life intact unless threatens him or his comrades, that is. He is responsible now, for the harm this human causes, having spared him when he might have otherwise died. If it comes down to it, he will hold himself accountable.

But not for now.

For now, Arboren feels pettily inclined towards terrorizing this wayward fool in some petulant display of wrath.

Arboren watches as the human's throat bobs nervously, feels the way the human has grown tense and still, feels the way the man's breath trembles, and the elf wonders if he should start worrying that he is developing a fondness making himself feel in control, or powerful somehow, by menacing others.

It makes him feel nauseaous.

What is he even trying to teach here? He appears, advocating in some small way for neutrality, and then at the flip of a coin, he turns into a snarling creature with his teeth bared? The fatigued escapee wonders why it is he must even try to teach a Magister anything, why anyone must be taught to respect the rights of a fellow person who walks beneath the same skies. He wonders why he ever feels guilty for being wrought into a temperamental, scarred creature, who lashes out at the first sign of a threat, when that is what this place and its people have taught him.

Exhaustion swells in him, and Arboren sighs deeply.

The human flinches.

Arboren pauses, acknowledges the humor that twists in him, and releases the soldier. "Fortunately, I am a fine hunter, and have been eating well," he teases, ignoring for a moment that his gut is hollow and that they have not had a chance for such delays. His words are perhaps still not any less threatening he realizes, as he sees the shake in the human's hands, the pallor in his face. They are still very close to each other, and the human is still unarmed. "By the divine," he grins, "look at you. I don't bite."

The human's face is a picture of confusion. He has definitely picked up on the shift in the air. While it is not as if the undercurrent of animosity has entirely abated, not with Araben toeing the line of decorum as he is, the tension has eased slightly as Arboren pulls himself back from a cliff of aggression to something that is not quite so antagonistic.

The moment lengthens, the Magister trying to scent the air for pitfalls, for the trap he fears is waiting in the receding storm.

Arboren sighs. He can't say that he has not partaken of a meal of Magister, but he has not preyed upon them. Rather he has used the opportunity only to better understand the situation on Reaper's Eye. "By which I mean, my joke was in poor taste. I'm eating well of fish and bird. I've not been hunting the people of the island. We do value lives."

The human massages his wrist uncomfortably and clears his throat. He tries to do it in a way that is subtle, trying to keep a façade of some strength before the elf, but Arboren sees it anyway.

The fugitive grimaces. "I am departing. Do not try to waylay me again so that your back up might come to your aid. It makes me… unkind, and prone to unfairness."

"That isn't—" but the man trails off, and his head angles away from Arboren, knowing his lie will not reach the elf.

Arboren pauses, and then reaches for the sword that had been cast aside. "Here. It will do you no good if another skeleton should come upon you. I'd rather you not go and get yourself killed after all this." His voice is dry with the deep irony he feels. He reaches for the human's hand—ignoring the flinch—and wraps the man's fingers around the hilt.

He wonders if there is a metaphor to be found there, in him handing a weapon to one of his would-be oppressors.

He does not dwell on it for long, and steps back, away from the soldier and then decides to cut across the small little campsite. He'd been intending on going in that general direction to get back to his team anyway.

The Magister says nothing as he leaves.

Arboren has only gone so far into the underbrush when he finds it. He is far enough away that the pop and crackle of the campfire cannot be heard, nor is there any sign of the warm glow of the fire.

Smoke trails up from the abandoned torch that should have aided in lighting the path, and that is all that keeps Arboren from tripping over the corpse in the darkness.

He curses, and fumbles for the stub of a candle in his pack. When he has it lit, he curses again.

Arboren staggers back into the clearing, steps burdened by the dead weight that is slung over his shoulders, and the human glances up with a searching, bewildered expression as he tries to make sense of the sounds. There is the undisguised clanking of armour, but Arboren's footsteps are shuffling, and they both know that it is all wrong to be the return of the fellow Magister.

Arboren carefully lowers the corpse to the ground and interrupts the Magister before he can begin to ask questions.

"Before you make any accusations, this was not my doing," Arboren says, and pushes as much well-meant sincerity, and apology into his voice as he can. "He was like this when I found him."

He watches the flux of emotions rupture across the Magister's face. "No," The human begins, as he rises to his feet and staggers in their direction. "How—"

Arboren glances away, back to the cold body of the deceased Magister Verne. "An arrow. Right through the neck. He would have died—" Well. It wouldn't have been the fastest death. He would have choked on his own blood, suffocated, and bled out, trying to cry for help, to beg for someone to come save him, yet unable to make any sounds but a wet death's rattle. "—Quickly. No warnings. It was a kill shot. I'm sorry. I might have been able to do something if I'd been there, but I think he was probably already gone by the time you got attacked."

He hesitates, knowing that he could find out for certain, but knowing it would be an unwelcome offer, and likely not all that helpful.

The human who seems to be cursed with a lonely and terrible fortune kneels clumsily, his knee clunking against his compatriot's limp arm. The hands he uses to try and inspect the body are just as clumsy, trembling, and hesitant. He finds the arrow, congealed with drying blood, quickly.

There is a swell of heavy silence as Arboren waits for the human's reaction, but it is as if he has frozen.

Arboren knows the reaction. Has seen it so many times and has fallen prey to it before himself. This is the response when things have crossed a line just beyond horror, to despair. This is the reaction before grief strikes, the numb, whirling mind that is all hurricane and no thought. This is the moment when you start questioning the point. This comes when the world turns into a sick tormentor, stealing and stealing and stealing and you are past the point of anything beyond watching the demented joke play out around you.

He does not know what these Magisters meant to each other, does not know if it is this death in particular that is drowning the human's feelings in a tide of heavy fog, or if it's just one loss too many in too short a time span.

He feels nothing. It is another dead Magister. While he proclaimed his innocence in this case, it does not cleanse him of all the others—he barely even feels the shame of the blood that stains him. Sometimes he feels a little righteous when another corpse falls to his feet, another foe who would coral him and slaughter him overcome.

Distantly the fugitive reminds himself that beyond being Magister, this was also a person who had friends and a family.

It does little to stir up grief in him. Does nothing to chase away the memory of the bite of the collar on his neck, and the stink of rotting flesh and despair of the dungeons below Fort Joy. Nor does it chase away the cries of the children that have been imprisoned before they even know what it is to be free.

Arboren instead holds his eyes on the living Magister, the soldier who has a yawning woe hovering over him, a heartbeat away from devouring him completely. Here he feels something. That vile tangle of pity and sympathy, that unwelcome sense of obligation that had imprinted itself in him stirs like a constrictor snake, heavy and implacable, and persistent. It is a burden that Arboren does not wish to be beholden to but is all too conscious of.

He ponders his capricious need to adopt random wretches into his custody.

Perhaps it was born of a loss of clan, a loss of community, and the hole it left behind is one he is desperate to fill, no matter who the sentiment might latch on to.

Only he really has no business trying to mash this particular human into that place. Just because the human is a weak, and vulnerable thing at the moment does not make him some injured kitten to be taken in and nursed back to health.

Or so Arboren tries to tell himself.

He already knows it's a battle he won't win.

He presses a hand to the Magister's, where it lays on the sundered, bloody throat of the deceased. He does not say that he is sorry. It wouldn't really be true. Besides, there are no condolences to ease this situation. No words of sorrow to drag the human back to himself.

"Listen," he says, trying to pull the human back from the brink he stands at. The elf wishes he had a name, an anchor, something which will weigh this person down. He'd not thought of it before. Had not thought of the Magister as anything other than that—a soldier standing on the other side, injured, and strange. "Focus up," he tries, pouring the old command of a soldier into his voice, recalling that this human clings to duty in the absence of safety.

It has little effect.

Arboren grits his teeth, and grabs the man's face in his hands, leaving flakes of blood across day old stubble and white cheeks. "Do not go down that road," he orders. "It will not serve you well."

He wonders how this Magister has been trained, that he is more convinced of the dangers of Source than he is able to navigate this brutal truth of being a soldier. Does the order have no training for the grief, no form of support other than the hot-hot burning fuel of prejudice? That will not serve when the foe is circumstance and bad luck, the unexpected monster, and carelessness on the edge of safety.

The Magister weakly grasps one of Arboren's wrists, "Was it you?" There is no real vitriol in his tone. It is only searching.

Arboren sees it for what it is. The frail mortal mind seeks something to blame, someone to blame, anyone to receive the hatred and anger. He doubts the human truly thinks he is responsible for this death but is simply denying his innocence so that he might have someone to direct the focus of his grief to.

That will not work. No. That is how feuds immolate whole clans, sunder families from the earth, and turn peoples against each other. That is how battle maddened executioners are made. He will not adopt the role of the killer just so that this human can fuel himself with rage.

"No," he intones, dragging the human closer, as if to force their gazes to meet though he is met only by the fine weave of bandages. "I can't make you believe me if that is the story you set yourself to. But we both know that it is not true."

For a moment the human's grip tightens around his wrists, and then it grows limp. "I didn't know. I didn't hear anything."

There is no good way to convince someone to not bear the burden of guilt. That is a long and tiresome process, one that cannot happen overnight and certainly not between two near strangers. "No. You wouldn't have," Arboren says anyway, hoping to plant the seed all the same. "This island is a cursed place, still bound to the cruel will of the one who turned it ito his lair. The things in its shadows are nightmares the likes of which should not have been birthed into this world."

"I wish I'd not come to this place," the human admits quietly, the admission little more than a sigh upon the night air. "This bleeding, rotting, godforsaken, infernal bog."

"You and me both," Arboren quips. He pauses, hands still on either side of the human's face. "But you'll be free of it soon. You'll be on your way home in no time. Focus on that—let this be no more than a memory left in the dust and shadows."

The human breathes in shakily, as if startled by a thought he'd forgotten about. "My mother. My younger sister. They're waiting for me."

Arboren nods and chases this tidbit of information. "They will be happy to have you back, no matter what. Do not let the violence of what has happened here trap your thoughts and keep you from them."

The man sags forward, and releases a long, slow, tremulous breath.

"I will stay until morning," the elf decides arbitrarily. "Or until more of your people appear. The last thing I want is to find that you have joined the number of dead that this island will not release. And then, first light, you are returning to the Fort."

Thankfully, the Magister has abandoned his desire to argue or push some Divine Order agenda at Arboren. He nods shakily. "What about Magister Verne?"

The elf considers for a moment. "I can prepare some sort of gurney or sled for you to bring him with you, if you insist."

The human seems immediately inclined towards that idea. "It is the least I could do. We couldn't do anything for the others—we were going to request a squad accompany us back and clean up the area. But if it's just him…"

The elf releases the human and rises from his crouched position, casting his eyes about the small clearing. A thought drifts idly to the forefront of his mind, one that does not really need to be said given their circumstance, not really. He ends up voicing it all the same. "I'll keep watch—if you dare let me." He tries to bevel the edges of the sarcasm to create something closer to the banter he would share with his real compatriots.

The Magister clears his throat. He shows no sign of leaving the side of the corpse. "I—that's…"

Arboren raises an eyebrow and waits, though he is under the impression the individual across from him is hesitating because of bafflement, as opposed to ill-disguised mistrust. This is understandable, given the frenetic pace with which the evening has been tossing events at them.

Eventually the soldier blurts whatever it is that presses upon his mind. "Why do you make me your business?"

Of course, it's the very question which Arboren has been asking himself, at least in part. He rolls his shoulders and takes a moment to try and work out how to respond. "I'm told I can be fickle," he settles on, though he knows it's not likely to be an answer that satisfies the Magister. "In fact, just recently someone called me 'tempestuous. It's certainly better than some of the other things I've been called; addle-brained cannibal, voidwoken-shagging scourge. Tree boy." The last one he'd not taken a true offense to, but it eased the bite of ire that had begun to seep into his words.

There is something which quirks across the human's face, tugging at his lips and cheeks. It manifests into neither a smile or a frown and instead vanishes before it can truly form. "Then there is no reason?"

"I wouldn't say that." The elf sighs a beleaguered breath into the night. He presses a thumb into a faded scar riddled across the back of his forearm, old like the twisted knot in the trunk of a tree and from a time before he had the luxury of healing spells, and potions had been a luxury doled out to victims of greater trauma than he. "I'd say it's in my nature. But don't play at thinking me soft-hearted," and here his voice becomes wry, because he very much doubts the soldier would do such a thing.

"There's nothing wrong with being soft hearted."

"No, there isn't. But it's a virtue that has withered in me. I can only pay homage to it now with idle kindnesses."

The Magister falls into a contemplative silence at that, and after a few moments Arboren accepts that their conversation is done for the moment.

Quietly he uses the low smouldering flames to light his way as he carefully saws boughs from branches and begins to fashion a makeshift rig for the Magister to carry away the corpse of his dead compatriot. It's not difficult given that Arboren is used to crafting all manner of things from the resources of a forest. His first toys were creatures made of twigs bound together by grass. This is not so different in skill, though a far more somber thing than toy wolves and deer.

When he finishes, he approaches the corpse, where the Magister is still sitting vigil. He does not want to disturb the grieving process, so he catches himself hesitating, shuffling his weight from one foot to the next awkwardly.

The human tilts his head, bandaged eyes turning towards Arboren. "What is it?"

"I finished the gurney. You should get some rest. It's been a long day."

The human nods, and slowly pulls himself to his feet so that he might move to a distance away from the body for his rest.

Arboren watches closely as the human staggers across the clearing, observing the uncertain balance, the way the steps shuffle to avoid trip on the uneven ground, and feels his lips narrow into a frown. "Would it help if I found you a walking stick?" The Magister's sword might have worked just as well, but it was a weapon, and it would suffer for being used in such a way.

The human pauses. "That… I would appreciate that."

The elf nods, and while the human gets settled, finds another bough that will serve as a staff. It's a bit awkward, and layered with moss and bark, so he settles down little more than an arm's reach from where the human has reclined and begins to quietly whittle away at it, while the low embers crackle and dance their final dance.

"What's your name?" The question fills the silence between them softly, amidst the quiet scrape of the knife against wood.

His hands still for a moment, and then they resume carving, as his answer flits into the nighttime melody. "Arboren."

"I'm Jace. Jace Loke."

"Jace Loke," Arboren repeats, testing it out thoughtfully. And then; "Sleep. I'll wake you if something happens."

"Are you not tired?"

"Well. This won't be the first vigil I stand." The mist creeping between the shadows of the trees glows in the low firelight, and he struggles to keep his gaze from becoming snared by it twinging, drifting dance.

It takes some time before the human—Jace's—breathing slows and evens. Even when it does, it is obvious that his sleep is restless and disturbed. He pulls awake several times, muddled headed and asking in slurred, tangled language about strange noises, convinced of looming threats. His hands do not stray far from his sword.

Late into the night, long after he has laid aside the completed walking stick, Arboren sits in the deep dark. His eyes have adjusted slightly, and he scans the shadows with a coiled energy, listening through the sounds of the forest for hints of encroaching danger. Part of his attention lingers on Jace, who tosses fitfully in his sleep, but the elf is still surprised when he bolts up in bed with a sharp cry that pierces through the night more sharply than any of his previous awakenings have.

Arboren twists in alarm in time to see the man scrabbling madly at the wrapping around his eyes, panting and frenzied. "I-I-I can't-Why can't I see?"

The way Arboren's teeth clench is familiar, and unhappy. Honestly, he has almost been expecting this after witnessing Jace's agitation during the last few hours. He still feels uncertain as to what to do though and he rolls onto the balls of his feet, caught between trying to keep Jace from somehow injuring himself or giving him space to avoid turning himself into a threat.

"Jace," he says, trying to keep his voice low and steady, a reverberation deep in his chest rather than a shout, although it is difficult to keep from resorting to that. "Jace, I need you to listen."

"Where—I can't see you!"

"I know Jace. But it is safe here. We are safe. Breath."

"Where are you? My eyes, what's going on?"

The way the man's head is twisting about, his fingers still trying to tug at the bandage, although they are fumbling—as if they don't understand the obstruction—Arboren takes to mean the man hasn't even fully woken up and probably is even fully aware of his surroundings.

"I am here, Jace." The elf assures, moving closer slowly as he speaks. "Can you give me your hands?"

The minute he senses their proximity, Jace reaches out, casting his hands towards Arboren. His breath is a frenetic, gasping pull, his chest heaving as he tries to breath in, and in, without ever exhaling.

Arboren catches the fingers, and grips them in his own hands, relieved that they are no longer prodding recklessly at fragile sockets. He falls into a kneeling position next to the human, creating several other points of contact, letting his presence be steady and affirming. "Take your time. Breath. Listen. You're fine. Feel this?" He squeezes the hands, runs his fingers over the knuckles, trying to pull Jace into the present, to bring him back to his own body again.

He takes solace in the tight grip that Jace returns, even when it becomes painful. Still the man's hyperventilating hasn't abated, and whatever words he is trying to say are suffocated before they can even crawl from the poor man's throat. "Breath. Breath with me, Come on. In. Good, now. Out. Out, come on."

Jace exhales shakily, and for far too short a moment before he's desperately inhaling again, but the next exhale isn't quite so shallow, and he leans forward, shoving his forehead into Arboren's collar as if holding himself upright at that moment is too much, as if he needs Arboren to exist as a tangible mooring.

"That's it. Breath." Arboren's own breaths are exaggerated, and he allows his chest to rise and fall, letting the cadence of it flow through them both. "We're good. You're good. It's alright," the words are a chant, slow and steady between breaths and the elf waits for them to reach the man leaning against him.

Eventually, exhausted, the man sags slightly. His body quakes, an involuntary shudder overtaking him, and there is a faint chattering of his teeth although his hands are hot in Arboren's.

"You with me?" Arboren asks in a low murmur.

The human nods, though his head never leaves Arboren's chest.

Instinctively Arboren frees one of his hands and settles it on the man's nape, loose but heavy–another binding between the two of them. He is reminded again of nights when he was still choking on travesty, when all his family, all his friends, all his people (the ones who had survived, tragically few, and never ever enough) wailed and wept for their losses and for the horror, and he could do nothing but be there with them. He remembers the tear stained, dirt stained, grief-stained faces that had mourned with him on those long lament-filled nights. It echoes like a dirge in his heart.

"I've got you," he whispers into the quiet. "I've got you."

Morning comes slowly, but when it does there is an unspokeness between them. Arboren is not sure what it means but finds no desire in him to break it. Thus, as a soft, pallid blue greyness washes over them from between the gaps in the canopy, they pull apart, and begin to prepare for the day.

For Arboren, that mostly means loading the corpse onto the gurney, and politely giving Jace space to put himself back together.

And then he is facing this strange person, preparing to say a strange farewell.

"Ah," the elf starts, his voice crackling with weariness. "This is for you." He presses the walking staff into hands that have become oddly and unexpectedly familiar to him.

For a second it seems as if Jace Loke will not break his silence, but then he does. "Thank you," he returns, voice just as rough. "I'll… I'll never forget you."

Rather abruptly Arboren is forced to realize that he is reluctant to see this human go back to the place of Arboren's enemies. Somehow that irritating, unwelcome, unnecessary sense of morbid curiosity and pity has turned into sympathy and obligation. There is now a mutilated thread of connection between them, and it is telling Arboren that Jace Loke has become one of his people.

Except he isn't. The soldier belongs elsewhere. His path does not at all align with the one that Arboren walks, and there is still such a deep difference between them that there is no way Arboren can see those paths truly aligning.

"I—" Arboren hesitates, trying to figure out what to say. He knows the only answer he should truly give is a simple 'farewell'. But it doesn't seem quite right. "Not the kind of meeting that is easy to forget," he repeats himself from the night before, his lips curling in a smile that is dry and tired.

Jace's fingers twitch where they are curled around the walking staff. "I won't… we never met. Nobody has to know."

Arboren sees this offering for what it is; the Magister has no intentions of telling anyone about this encounter. He won't be sending the hounds of Fort Joy out to hunt for Arboren, and he has given up trying to force Arboren into cuffs. Perhaps he simply wishes to honour their encounter by respecting Arboren's wishes to be free of the prison. Perhaps he trusts that Arboren can, at the very least, take care of himself. Perhaps there is something else to it.

"Safely home," Arboren utters softly.

Jace Loke seems to stare at Arboren through the cloth of his bandages for a long moment, and then eventually nods, and turns away. His steps are halting, and Arboren feels a swirl of unease as the man begins to slowly haul the gurney with the body of his deceased comrade blindly through the underbrush.

He curses and jogs to catch up, reaching out to grip the handle of the makeshift rig. "Just until we are in sight of the wall," he warns, the words stiff, and a scowl of frustration directed only at himself tightens across his face. He has already wasted far too much time, and his comrades are certainly looking for him by now. "No further."

"You should go," the Magister warns. "Get out of here."

Arboren laughs begrudgingly. "How the tides have turned now, Jace Loke. Relax. I'm astonishingly good at going unnoticed."

"I find that hard to believe."

The comment is jocular in tone, and so much more casual than anything Arboren has heard from this man that he is caught off guard.

In fact, Jace seems caught off guard by his own words, and immediately backtracks. "I don't mean you're not capable! You just seem like the kind of person to draw attention. Not intentionally! I mean that you seem hard to ignore!"

The elf automatically reaches out to grab the man who stumbles on a bit of uneven ground, and blinks at him blankly for a moment. "Well. I'll take that as a compliment?"

The man's hand darts up to push back his hair, and he clears his throat.

When they do come within sight of the wall, Arboren keeps to his word. He falls back into the shadow of the trees, and the only reason Jace has any warning at all is when the gurney is turned over to him. The man spins, stutters out another farewell, but Arboren has already said what he wants to, and the closer to the Fort he gets, the more on edge he grows. So he melts into the deep verdancy of the Hollow Marshes with nothing more than a quiet hum of acknowledgment.

The trees absorb him as he turns to begin his search for his fellow escapees, and to renew his efforts to escape from this infernal place.

First Third

#dos2 #fairytale illustration #Good Intentions #Arboren #Jace Loke

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arboren-and-loke · 9 months

Text

Good Intentions: One

"I must be cruel only to be kind. Thus bad begins, and worse remains behind." Shakespeare, Hamlet.

The odd collective of fugitives step from the humid, deeply verdant shadows into a clearing that is only slightly brighter. Nestled between large standing stones, the ramshackle wooden ramparts and scaffolding, and the shattered remain of the great stone bridge that once traversed the whole of the island, Reaper's Eye, strains of sunlight filter down on the verdant pathway. It is still not as bright as the shores where they had washed up, not as bright as hot sand and glittering waves rolling out to a far horizon, but still bright enough to make them squint, and pause—just long enough to let their eyes adjust.

Standing too still in one place is to invite the hellish parade of things that want to chew them up a chance to come nipping at their heels, but to go forward blind is to walk into the hungry maw themselves.

And as with everything on the island, this place too had been sullied by violence.

Arboren's fellow fugitives fan out to survey the damage, and to pilfer supplies where they can. There is no space for them to be picky when they have been kicked and tossed from one skirmish to the next with hardly a chance to breathe. It was not difficult for Arboren to justify the looting, not when the elf's people consumed the flesh of the dead to see their memories (and even that had been horribly perverted by the endless fight—the memories were not precious treasures to keep loved ones in his heart but screaming, sickening clues on trails of murder and massacre).

No, none of the ones who follow him underneath the leaves of Reaper's Eye hesitate. Why would they? Fane takes the faces of the dead, while Ifan is too practical to overlook supplies that would keep them alive. Even Lohse, with all her good humour is driven by a will to be free—she has not yet put up a complaint and Arboren hopes to keep it that way.

He moves forward, scanning the corpses for signs of what had done this, and looking for intact parts amidst what appeared to be a thoroughly ransacked caravan wondering if it was worth absorbing another memory of a Magister, another memory of fighting and pain and death. It seems so painfully obvious what happened. He does not know the exact details, such as the perpetrator, but what did it matter whether it was Voidwoken, Seekers, the Undead, or the wildlife bucking off the unnatural incursion of people dragging their wars with them? They were still corpses, rotting in the mire, rotting in the sun.

Arboren hears him before he sees him, and the elf drops a hand suddenly tense with apprehension to where his wand is belted to his hip. He listens closely to the voice, weak and pleading, and his eyes drift to meet with the equally wary gazes of his companions who are now just as on guard as he.

Ifan has more experience, Arboren knows, and would make the better leader. But he has deferred that role, and somehow it became Arboren's. Fane could not be bothered, and it often seems as if he is simply following them because they were the first and most convenient option. Lohse is charming, but easily distracted by the companions that sometimes steal her mind and her eyes and her voice. They have come to move on Arboren's signal, to follow his decisions, and they do so now, expectant, and watchful.

The elf holds up a hand, cautiously. There is only one voice, and it is muddled and pitched by pain and fear. This is often a volatile combination, but there is also pleading in that voice, and Arboren will not aggravate a situation that does not need it. For now, he allows his companions to return to their looting, confident they will have his back the minute things turn dangerous.

He steps forwards, around the overturned cart, and his fingers are twitching with uncast magic.

The Magister standing there is a young human—perhaps it is too much to say that he is standing when it appears the only thing keeping him upright is the splintered base of the cart that he is leaning against.

Arboren feels conflicted at the sight of the armour, and the red uniform. It has brought nothing but pain to him for as long as he has known it. It is the colour of blood and fire and pain and every nightmarish mass grave and tortured corpse Arboren has seen.

But his pity and his mercy has always been a fickle thing. It is why the elf was more suited to the life of a scholar before he was handed weapons and made to guard his people as their homes and history were sundered by fire and cruelty. It is also why he wonders how anyone could cede leadership to him, when too often he feels a naïve need to stay his hand countered by errant surges of grief and bitterness that freeze his heart over like a deep winter cold. How temperamental his morality, his sense of justice must seem to others.

Arboren finds his attention pulling towards the distress that lingers in the soldier's tense shoulders, the quiver in the other man's voice. It is the mark of someone untried, and the human's vulnerability is almost embarrassingly exposed. This would-be foe has their back to a wall, both figuratively and literally, and his whole being cowers in the face of his own defenselessness—utterly forlorn but for the corpses of comrades that have been scattered like fallen leaves.

The young magister has not escaped whatever skirmish occurred unscathed, fingers fumbling with a frantic sort of tenderness at two obviously fresh gashes across his eyes and face. His fingertips hesitate just shy of his closed eyelids; he has been blinded.

Arboren decides to count this as a blessing, though he feels grim sort of loss to have had such a thought. Still, he stows that feeling away for another day, when he can afford the luxury to ponder on how far he has been twisted by this unfair and deeply cruel world. For now, he decides to take his chances, to gamble once again on something like goodness, or at least some form of hypocrisy disguised as goodness.

Anything to let him sleep better at night.

He lets his foot fall on a twig, allows the other one to scuff slightly against the dirt. It is Arboren's way of giving this Magister a chance to hear that he is not alone. To catch the human entirely off guard could only be read as a threat, and that is not what Arboren wants. Not yet anyway. Not if he doesn't have to. For now, he is seeking a well in his heart where he keeps his gentleness and compassion carefully hidden away so that it can't be completely poisoned by the things he has seen and has had to do.

The Magister spins, the motion fast and panicked, taking him a little too far, so that his ruined face scans the earth slightly to Arboren's side. He pulls his shield in front of him and Arboren knows from experience that it is too close to his body to be effective. If he got hit like that, he wouldn't be able to deflect the blow of an attack and only end up staggered. No, this is more as if the human is but a child clutching a blanket close, hoping it'll protect him from monsters in the dark.

Unfortunately, this is a world where monsters pour forth from the dark and care little for such petty securities. This is a world where people are often the more frightening monster than the things crawling from the void.

"Stop. Stop! Who—who goes there?" The magister asks, and if the near hysterical stammer had not ruined his attempts to be intimidating, the crack in his voice certainly does.

Arboren considers for a moment how to approach the situation without it catching like an oil flask and burning him in the end. He wants to indulge himself in mercy, but he has no desire to die over it. And so, he decides to choose deception. It will be easier that way. Admitting that he is a fugitive, that he is the very thing this Magister is duty bound to hunt will only poison the interaction before it can really begin.

"I am Magister Groate," Arboren lies, trying to recall his days as a soldier, when discipline and duty stiffened every voice he knew, fortifying them with authority. He chases away the tired drawl he has picked up on this thrice cursed island as best he can, and hopes it is enough. Hopes that this stranger does not pick up on the brief hesitation as he seeks out a false name to give.

"Groate? I don't… I don't know any Groate. Tell me the truth: Who are you?" The Magister is drawing back slightly, trying to settle into an exhausted battle-ready position. His face is turned towards Arboren now, as if he is trying to see beyond the mutilation of his eyes to uncover the elf's deceit.

Arboren straightens further, pulling back his shoulders, and settling his feet hip width apart. It is not an aggressive posture, but the formal drill-like stance of someone who has served in the military. There is no point in the performance as it goes unseen, but he does it anyway, dredging up the memory of a time that feels like both forever ago and like it is still happening. For a second Arboren smells the burning of trees, feel the memory of heat and fire on his face.

"Relax," the elf directs, dragging himself away from that time. Then wonders if perhaps had been too casual if it had been too telling. "I am Magister Groate," He insists, and then decides that sounds more defensive than he should be. He hurries on, hoping the man is too out of sorts to pick up on it. "Word got back to the Fort about the situation down here. I am here to provide aid."

The elf's prayers that his performance will be convincing enough go unheard, as so many of his prayers do.

"I don't believe that for a second. You're a prisoner, aren't you?" The Magister begins to move forward, groping blindly in his direction, each movement jerky with apprehension, and faltering under the burden of his recently deprived sight.

Arboren can't tell if he is impressed by this human, or if he thinks this situation deeply pathetic. For one thing, the Magister should have been disoriented from pain, blood loss, and from whatever other injuries he may have sustained. He could not even see—he had to know there was nothing he could actually do under his own power. Not at the moment. However, for him to be driven by the mad delusions of his vile organization, to be so thoroughly trained that even in such a situation he would push to fulfill his duty either said something deeply horrific about the Magisters and how they brainwashed its people, or something about the man's understanding of his own situation.

"Another step toward me, and it will have to be your last," Arboren warns, dropping his façade fully.

He knows that Lohse is making her way around the rim of his eye line, putting herself closer to the Magister's back just in case, but it is a casual, cautionary thing. She has no yet gone for her weapons, and much of her attention is focused on the corpse of the lizard-person which lies slumped over crushed barrel. Ifan is to the side of the clearing, on a slight rise, slowly loading a handful of grenades into his bags, but his eyes are dark and watchful. Fane is somewhere to his back, and he thinks he hears tearing flesh.

The Magister is unaware of this though and continues onwards, irrationally. "I… I can't let you go. It's my job! It's why I'm here!"

Arboren lets his eyes slide closed, if only for a moment. He just wants to shield himself in some way from the tide of regret that hits him. In the end, it comes down to purpose, and he knows the feeling. He knows what it is to cling to some mission long after it has fallen through, if only because if he didn't then what was the point of it all? It is a bitter, broken feeling to have, the feeling that came when there is nothing except for ash and smoke left and it seems as if nothing will ever grow again. Sometimes he thinks that is all which keeps this endless fight going—everyone had already lost too much to give up and turn back. It was too late for them, each and every one, far too late.

The compassion stirs in the shadow of that well where he kept it, like a sleeping creature yawning awake. "You have been wounded, very seriously by the looks of it. For now, you must trust me. What other choice do you have?" The tired escapee softens the reprimand with a voice that is placating, steering away from threatening as much as he can. The Magister is naïve, and ideally, he will not hear a threat there.

"Don't you understand? You're so dangerous. It isn't your fault, but you are." The Magister is so earnest as he tries to convince Arboren of what a terrible threat his mere existence poses.

And, to some degree, Arboren agrees, though for different reasons, he knows. He thinks of himself as dangerous because he is a weapon forged by dire circumstance, the same as the Magister. He is dangerous because he has been backed into a corner and has been violated so horrifically of a piece of himself and of his freedoms that he will turn into a beast if it means getting free. There is danger in his kindness too because it brings greater risk to him and those who put their trust in him. It is dangerous because he cannot take responsibility for it, not when he is threatened and pursued at every corner. It is dangerous because it is as wild as a storm, and selfish in nature.

"If you leave this place, you could bring a Voidwoken on your head at any time," the Magister presses, sincerity in every word he pushes towards Arboren.

And the elf feels a dreadful, sad smile on his face. It has been so long since he has encountered someone who believed that they were doing what was best for him. How long had it been since someone feared not the danger he would bring to them, but the danger he could cause to his own self? When had he last been viewed as a pitiful victim in need of saving rather than a malicious chaos-bringer to be reviled and persecuted?

He cannot remember, and while this impression leaves a sour taste in his mouth, a simmering exasperation that hides a much deeper resentment, he allows that to also be swallowed up by his distorted sense of sentiment.

The injured Magister continues to cast about, lurching forward unsteadily. There is a sword bared in one hand, a shield in the other, and the metal glints with a filtered sunlight, mirroring the carnage that Arboren sees, but which its' owner cannot. He tries, his eyes pulling open, tugging at coagulated blood and torn skin. It must pain the human, because they only open a fraction before he winces and, distracted, he stumbles. His foot catches in a rock hidden by the thick mud and he staggers, balance ruined by injury.

Arboren steps forward instinctively, reaching out a hand to steady the human with his grip. One hand braces against the chest plate of the Magister typical armour, and his other arm blocks the forward momentum, only faltering slightly at the weight. The fugitive feels a stillness overcome him, an apprehension, because now he is vulnerable too. It will be harder for him to retrieve his weapon if he needs to, harder for his comrades to aim weapons at the Magister without causing him harm too, and it puts him range of the Magister's sword, hand, and ill will.

Immediately Arboren feels the risk of his position.

But the soldier in his grip clings tightly to his forearm, making no move to strike as he gets his bearings on the marshy ground. And it hits Arboren that they are both in a precarious position here, mutually at each other's mercy.

And that's how things were supposed to be. Where one party had power in a relationship, the other surely became slaves to their whims. Better that people learned to trust each other with their weakness, better to respect the fragility of each life.

With a gentleness that borders on being tender, something the elf typically would have reserved for friends and trusted ones, he clasps the Magister's ravaged face in his hand, taking care to avoid the injuries and cup his jaw instead. Close inspection reveals the extent of the damage—Arboren has picked up an odd collection of skills as both a soldier and a hunted person, basic first aid being one of them. He is slowly adding to his healing abilities where he can, scrounging up the skill books any chance he gets; if only because it has been so vitally necessary given how he and his small band toe the line of death every chance they get. It is because of this that he can tell right away how bad the soldier's wound is. There will be no healing of his eyes. There isn't much left to heal.

When the human speaks, it is very quiet and there is an uneasy lilt to it. "How… How bad is it?" He hesitates, as if he dreads the answer he will receive and must steel himself against it.

Arboren wonders if the human knows. The elf wonders if he is already anticipating the return to his home, wherever it may be, with a stipend that will do nothing to replace what he has lost or ease the burden of what has happened. The renegade Sourceror wonders if the soldier is imagining the days ahead, as he tries to find a new way of living, as he tries to move forward as irrevocably changed as a tree struck by lightning.

It is a weak gesture of consolation, the way Arboren holds the palm of his hand gently to the Magister's cheek. It is a motion he remembers his mother using to hush him once, long ago when he was a still only a child. It means nothing here, when his presence is nothing more than a liability to the lone Magister.

He does it anyway, hoping it is soothing. "It's bad," Arboren utters, the words grave with meaning.

The human stands still, very still. The moment stretches, between the call of a bird, and a gust of wind. It yawns underneath the afternoon sun, slow and heavy in the muggy humidity, a gaping inhale of silent comprehension. And then a cloud passes over the sun, casting them in shadow. The grip on Arboren's arm tightens, and then the Magister is letting go, and standing to his full height.

"Look," the Magister begins, before clearing his throat of whatever emotion lingers there, and Arboren can already feel his heart sinking.

"Look. I have a job to do here. I need to guard this cart, and... and more than that I… need to protect people. You and the people out there. I… I can't let you leave." And then he pulls a pair of shackles out his bag, slow and awkward and clumsy. He holds them out, open.

Arboren stares, wondering if he is really expected to walk himself back to the gallows that waits for him, the hell that waits for him. He realizes that this poor, poor misguided fool is both blind, and blind. He does not understand what he is asking Arboren to do. He does not see the suffering that will await the escapee at the other end of his erroneous good intentions.

The elf feels disdain spike in him, savage and cutting, sharpened by the affront of having his care thrown back in his face. And beneath that is something more twisted, something darker. He wonders very briefly what this Magister would feel if Arboren were to turn the situation around, if Arboren were to force the shackles on him and tell him it was for his own good, that he was being rescued before he hurt himself and anyone else. Silly imbecile, out here alone, didn't he need someone to save him from his own foolishness?

What an ugly feeling it was to have, and Arboren's teeth grind as his stares at the cold cuffs sitting hungrily in the Magister's hands.

The fugitive steps back, preparing to fall back in with his comrades, and the soldier must sense the motion because he presses forward, back into Arboren's space.

"Please!" He insists. "Don't make this any harder. You're dangerous! I need to keep you safe. I need to keep everyone safe! Have you seen a Voidwoken? Have you?"

A laugh claws its way up Arboen's throat, harsh and unfriendly. He was making things harder? It was not his fault the world had gone mad! It was not his fault that this person was operating under the same delusion as most everyone else. It was not his fault there were still simpletons who thought it was their job to protect everyone, even those who did not ask for it and for whom such protection was nothing more than a cold cage.

The laugh dies as quickly as it was born (like so many things, too many things, weak and not yet fully formed, struggling to breathe). "I have seen Voidwoken. You can put me in shackles, but it will not keep them away." The Voidwoken cared not for such petty securities after all.

But it is as if the Magister cannot hear him. "They come in the night. They come by morning. They… they kill everyone. I've seen it. I won't let it happen again. Hold still!" He jerks forward, having realized that Arboren has no desire to submit.

However, the fugitive has not made it this far by being someone easily caged. He steps back lightly, and the desire to say something malicious swells in him. "They are no more a plague to my kind than yours is," Arboren hisses. "But I guess no one sees that. You've all blinded yourselves to the atrocity of what you have done!"

"Please! PLEASE!" the human begs, and he is letting the truth of his desperation slip into his words. His face twists with some mangled emotion, and it elicits a pained moan from him. "Come here!" He demands, a needy, anguished cry.

Arboren can see the pain trace through the ragged wounds on the man's face, and suddenly he is arguing with himself again. He tries to remember that this person was horribly injured, bleeding and suffering, and had no doubt been a victim to a horrible trauma as he was made to helplessly listen to the last of his squad. Even if Arboren cannot and will never forgive the atrocities that have been committed against Sourcerors, against Elves, against him, maybe for just this moment he can let go of the absurdity being spouted at him.

His group watches, waiting to see what he will do. Really there's no need to even entertain the Magister any longer. They have what they came for. They can simply walk away. Maybe the Magister will be collected by his people, and maybe he will tell them that there are escaped prisoners, but that is known already, and he can't even provide a description. He isn't even aware of anyone other than Arboren being present. There is nothing keeping the escapee there.

His fingers twitch and the magic pools in them, familiar and refreshing like holding cool water from a stream in in his hands. He twines it through the air, and then levels it at the Magister.

It hits the distraught human like a spring shower, and he hesitates, confused by the onslaught of regenerative magic. Likely, he had been expecting to be left. Or for Arboren to lash out at him, for his pleas to elicit wrath.

But Arboren was capable with responding beyond the wild thrashing of a snared animal.

"Stay," the Magister urges, voice quieting slightly.

"I won't," Arboren returns, and nods to his group that it is time for them to go. They return the gesture and begin to slink away into the deep green shadows once more, on to the next peril waiting to trip them up.

The Magister must sense that his chance is coming to an end. He panics, and hastily lashes out with his sword, the movement clumsy and sends his sword sinking into the mud.

Arboren steps to the side easily, and watches as the human tries to pull his weapon free for another swing, to defend himself, something. Again, he cannot think it is anything other than sad, and shakes his head quietly. He has fulfilled his desire to show an arbitrary kindness, and now there is nothing left for him to achieve. With a heart filled with frustration, and some other unnameable emotion, the elf begins to follow his friends.

He can hear the cries of the Magister, calling for him to come back, crying out that he has to protect them, and then turning to shouts for his own people once again. Arboren thinks he hears weeping, he thinks he hears names chanted like a prayer, and it chases him through the dense foliage.

#dos2 #dos2 fanfic #Good Intentions #Arboren #Jace Loke

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arboren-and-loke · 9 months

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Art Process of one of my favs 😊 Expect to see many of these honestly 😅

#divinity original sin 2 #dos2 fanart #process video #Jace Loke #Arboren

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arboren-and-loke · 9 months

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#divinity original sin 2 #dos2 fanart #Jace Loke #Arboren #Modern AU #Modern Good Intentions

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arboren-and-loke · 9 months

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Too Many Thoughts About My Blorbo, Have Some More (Or: Loke continues to take up all my brain space)

(TW: sensitive content, some of which addresses traumatic injury, and real world events of the last few years)

I've talked a little bit about why I like Jace Loke so much, and what I think of him. But I was asked this question elsewhere, on another site, which has the luxury of being (mostly) free of my rambling. While I tried to keep my response concise (and failed), I had a lot of thoughts on the matter. Obviously, as I have previously discussed, there is the level of emotional vulnerability which Jace Loke displays, but there are many other reasons. One, of course, is excellent voice acting. There's also the way he comes across as relatively mislead about the whole situation (something I have also already mentioned in a previous post, but upon further reflection gained deeper nuance), and also the technical role I think he was meant to play within the narrative.

First up, the voice acting. There's not much to say here, other than it was phenomenal. As someone with decently high anxiety, and a tendency to mark any increase or change in pitch as signs of conflict or emotional disturbance I can get pretty wound up by vocal cues, whether I'm perceiving the situation accurately or not. Loke sounded, from the start, astoundingly desperate and scared. The player walks in on a scene full of corpses and learns that another Magister has gone to get help, leaving Loke there on his own. Loke is virtually/mechanically defenceless due the status effect he has as a result of his injury. Now, I think most of us know the feeling of having the power go out, taking the lights with it. We presumably have the benefit of knowing that we are in a relatively safe environment, and that the lights should come back on, and that we are physically well. But does this stop the way we look up, eyes pulled wide, as we we try to figure out what happened? No. Often we might try to confirm the situation or discuss it with whoever is there with us out of some biological social mammal mindset, presumably (not a biologist). We know we can't do much about the situation except turn on whatever lights we can from candles to phones and wait for someone to fix the situation. However! Loke does not have any of these comforts, and you can hear it in his voice. You can hear the built up anxiety from isolation in the dark, with nothing but the pain of a fully fresh, traumatic injury (shock? infection? fever? adrenalin rush/crash? Bad chemicals make body feel bad), and the corpses of his comrades to keep him company. Many of you, anxiety prone or otherwise, might know what it's like to lie awake at night, and something about the quiet and the dark lets all your fears and hang-ups run rampant. All the uncertainties build and build and build, and you start to wonder if you've gone a little mad. You can hear that in Loke (or at least I thought I could, though I realize there is room for projection). His voice isn't just pitchy and shrill. It's rough from calling out. It's constantly on the verge of cracking. When you tell him that his injury doesn't look good at all, leaving the hard truth so blatantly unspoken, he doesn't even seem surprised. Just resigned. As if he'd already had that possibility prey on him. So. Major credit to the voice actor and the scripting for pulling all of that off. It hooked me into the scene immediately, and as I had my character walk away from him (speech too low to send him back to the fort, but unwilling to be cuffed or to fight him) that voice follows you into the surrounding undergrowth.

Then, of course, is Loke as a Magister and the impression I got from him. Again, for clarification this is all presuming the player didn't simply send him back to the fort with a decent enough deception. Through discussion with Loke, he seems to believe that imprisoning the Sourcerers is genuinely the right thing to do, as it protects both the common folk, as well as the Sourcerers. He truly believes that if the Source can be removed, the Voidwoken epidemic can be solved. Having witnessed an attack from the Voidwoken when he was still living at home, he has a lasting fear of them that sends him into a near panic just discussing (perhaps under a less emotionally tense situation he might not have been so close to panicking, as I imagine realizing he is newly blinded might have caused him some distress regarding his ability to defend himself against this supernatural invasion). Do I think he is right in that? Absolutely not. Even if quarantining the Sourcerer's and curing them could have been the solution (I've stalled out in my play through due to other creative endeavours don't come for me) the conditions they are being kept in in absolutely unacceptable. They have no power or agency or rights, and are actively preyed upon by religious zealots who essentially lobotomize them, or are sent to be experimented on and tortured in the dungeons. Never mind the fact that they have to bow their heads to a petty thug just for rations. Never mind the general aggression and paranoia they have to face from the standard guard. Never mind the lack of health care, or infrastructure on the island (plumbing, my dudes. Clean water? There were already sick people on the island, and they were basically asking for an epidemic to wipe out the population... but I suppose that would have suited the divine order just fine. It's not like they'd have to face the consequences) The atrocities they face are endless. So Loke is absolutely in the wrong (there a bit of poetic irony in the nature of his injury and how blind he is to what's happening).

(HEADS UP, PANDEMIC TALK)

However, I think many of us can relate to his position, especially "post" pandemic (there are other comparisons I could make of similar situations, but this one is in easy reach, so pardon me for poking at a still sore subject). When things first started to get bad several years ago, we barely understood the problem. We didn't know anything about how the virus worked or how to keep ourselves properly safe. We didn't know how much was enough, and some people remained willfully ignorant, and people were dropping like flies while some of us began hoarding items and growing panicked and convinced that This Was It. If someone grew sick, it wasn't uncommon for them and many of their associates to be entirely avoided. I won't say if this was right or wrong. That's not my business. It was human. We were afraid. And human's have great capacity for both kindness and cruelty. And in the tide of that, there came great floods of misinformation. It was hard to know what to believe and while there were some things that were obviously ridiculous, there were other untruths that were harder to identify, especially as our understanding shifted and changed with each new study. And as frustrating as it is when they might have caused harm or hurt, victims of misinformation are just that. Victims. I won't go on any further with discussion about that, since it is very nuanced and still such a raw wound for all of us, and I am just one individual who cannot possibly speak on matters of the whole world and its 8 billion odd people.

However, as far as Loke goes, I can understand him. An institution that he trusts gave him a solution. It gave him direction. It gave him orders he could blindly follow so he didn't have to take on the responsibility of thinking about it all. And that is a honeyed trap indeed. It's hardly like the world of DOS2 has an education system that teaches critical thinking (I don't think). And even that is not guaranteed to work, as we all know (education systems are so often mired in bias and bureaucracy). Did he most certainly overlook the terrible conditions the Sourcerers had to endure? Did he have to make justifications to himself? Did he have to convince himself they were both dangerous and needing protection? Most certainly. Was he actively a part of the problem, and may very well have continued to be with potentially the player character and their party the only exception he ever made? Seems very plausible. I personally like to believe in people's capacity to change, to grow, and atone for their wrongs. I like to believe that Loke realized he had been wrong in his judgement, and that the Divine Order had taken advantage of his vulnerability. Have I possibly rewritten the narrative in my head to suit my bias? Sure. Still, the fact remains that there is room to understand how Loke became as he was.

Whether one chooses to forgive him is their prerogative. These things can only be decided by the victims themselves, as their own personal values dictate.

Following this is the technical role which Loke played in game. I have seen a number of complaints regarding why it was impossible to heal his injury in a world with magic, and that it was unfair. Yes. I agree. I explain it away as the age old, 'mend but not completely regrow' logic. I am not a surgeon or medical professional in any sense of the word, and no one would be able to account for magical healing abilities but as I understand it, eye injuries are very complex. (HEADS UP GETTING GRUESOME FOR THE SQUEAMISH FOLKS) He describes the undead as having clawed at his face, and I imagine it was not a precise sort of attack. He could have any sort of injury ruining his vision, from severed optical nerves to literally crushed eyeballs. I'm comfortable letting myself believe that kind of injury is horrific enough that one would need a much higher tier healing ability to cure than what the character has at the time. You can cast a healing spell on him, and his health bar does increase, but the status effect remains. I imagine the wound heals over, leaving a healthy scar behind, but not restoring what is lost. And heck, maybe there is something in world that could fix the issue, contingent on the recency of the wound or otherwise. But ultimately there is nothing the player can do to fix the status effect when they encounter him, and do not cross paths with him ever after.

However, that is not the point. The point is what the story was trying to tell us in that moment. What was the purpose of having Jace Loke in the story? He only shows up once. You could almost convince yourself he is a random encounter. But that's not how this works. This was a written, scripted moment. So what was the point? Well aside from the dramatic irony of having a character willfully blind to the horrible things going on around him lose his site, I think Loke's role is a cautionary one. Up until that point I had not met a single Magister I liked. They were almost cartoonishly evil, and while I know there are people and groups out there who are effectively that callous and belligerent, I live in a position of privilege where I have never had to look that directly in the eye and thus can be a bit naive. So to me it seemed almost unbelievable how cruel they could be in the face of such obvious injustices. They did everything from torture and experimentation and imprisonment to being mean to dogs. And then you come across the magister who very pointedly is still trying to uphold his duties to the order and you might catch yourself thinking his unfortunate fate is karma. To each your own. But he has been a victim of a third party of evil, the remnants of an evil sourcerer whose war crimes still haunt the nation at large and whose mad, vile experiments continue to scream and burn and haunt the island. And the story works so hard to make you feel a shred of empathy towards Loke. Everything about him tries to convince you to feel a moment of compassion towards him DESPITE THE FACT THAT HE IS ACTIVELY TRYING TO CONVINCE YOU TO PUT ON SHACKLES AND THAT YOU ARE A DANGER TO YOURSELF. And if he dies, or you pick pocket him, the narrative continues to push this agenda by allowing you to find a letter to his mother and sister in his pocket. The narrative actively tries to shove it in your face that this is just a person. A misled person, but a person nonetheless. Because that is how things work. Someone might be standing on the other side of a line from you, but that does not mean they are any less human. I imagine this is especially interesting if you have played the first game, and it is also compounded further by your encounter with magister Sang (who I won't get into here, but suffers an even more inescapable, incurable fate).

(As a side note, I think the fact that the mega evil Sorcerer whose experiments still haunt this island, is the third party that enforces both violence against the player character through the curses and artifacts still on the island, and is a constant lynchpin in the suffering and hurt of magisters is a pretty blatant metaphor for the long lasting impacts that historical calamities can have on people and societies, but that's a topic for another time.)

Either way, Loke's role in the story is actually to bolster immersion. I'd rather make excuses about why I could not heal his blindness than carry on with the idea that every single individual of an order is wholly evil, and wholly irredeemable. Or even just so comically vile that I cannot relate to them at all. At ground level, the 'foot soldiers' of any organization are just regular civilians who don't have their facts straight and have been caught up in the riptide. And we can disdain that as much as we want, but that's how peer pressure works. That's how the mob mindset works. It sucks, but I presume it's an unfortunate part of a nature that tragically tends to get the best of us. It's not an excuse, and we can do better. But that means recognizing where we too can fail, recognizing when we can show compassion, even towards our foes. And so Loke, with his blindness, is a cautionary tale that we too should be careful to not blind ourselves, lest we become exactly what we are working to escape/subvert/overcome.

Anyways, this is very long winded, and there's a lot I could go into more depth on. It's not like I'm out here researching the biological, chemical reactions that makes human's default to mob mentality, or how traumatic eye injuries work (I suppose there's comment to be made on how many people with similar injuries in our world are also denied surgery and help for completely arbitrary reasons, but that's a topic I do not have the expertise to speak on either). Ultimately I stumbled on an NPC, and my brain went "ooh, shiny", because actually I'm pathologically prone to picking random minor characters to obsess over, get overly emotional about, and then come up with overly complex potentially made up literary discussions on. At the end of the day, I thought he was a well executed bit of the story. It didn't help that I decided Arboren (player character) had also very complicated feelings about this lone Magister what with his habit of adopting people to fill the hole left by his stolen community. Also I get super stressed about choosing party members (especially because I knew when and how that was going to get locked in place), but with Loke I didn't have that pressure. He's a NPC, a minor one, and it is a habit for people to project upon blank masks, to fill in the unknown with the imagined, and to project on hapless strangers.

Anyway.

As a reminder, I'm just some nerd sitting behind their computer screen, idly ruminating on a fictional character. I can only base this of my own flawed perceptions and understanding of the world, so it's just an opinion. But yeah. Here's why I liked Loke so much. Now if only I could have written about this while I was in school.

#dos2 #Jace Loke #arboren

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