Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Bolderfall is a naked, bared city, just like the naked, bared red rocks that separate the Cliftlands from the rest of Orsterra.

Whoever built this city did not even try to hide their absolute disregard for the downtrodden, dividing the city into two squarely separated sections and arranging them, both physically and socioeconomically, in a descending order. The stone arch of a city gate installed for the slum area has absolutely no defensive value[1]. After all, the outrageously dilapidated cliff road connecting the two districts alone is enough to fend off any potential assault from the lower half—should that day come, the nobility of Bolderfall would burn the bridge—literally—without hesitation.

Therion snorted when Heathcote informed him, via a note slipped under his glass by the barkeep, that Lady Cordelia insisted on seeing him off and, to avoid unnecessary attention, he should meet them at first light under the stone arch.

Wow. Of course Cordelia Ravus is that type of highborn ladies, who love to prove their empathy and compassion on any available occasions, and who, in this particular case, wants to sing him a most poignant song of bid-thee-farewell. Him, Therion Redstone[2], the thief that got caught breaking into her house, whose services are nothing but forced labor mixed with a grudging acknowledgment of his own slip-up.

Amazing. Even the most disgusting hypocrite he had encountered couldn’t pull this off without blushing. 

After downing the last swallow of his ale, Therion walked out of the tavern, listening bitterly to the sound the Fool's Bangle periodically clinking on his sword as he walked.

At least Heathcote had the decency to cuff him on his non-dominant hand, although Therion would like to think himself ambidextrous. Nevertheless, for someone with such nimble and sensitive fingers as Therion's, any additional weight on his hand—so much as that of a feather—will severely hinder his accuracy, if not the delicately coordinated balance of his entire body.

Yet the short-term physical inconvenience was nothing Therion couldn't handle and eventually adapt to; what was gnawing at him was the burning sensation of shame leaking out of his hurt pride.

Never fond of humility, Therion was quite a celebrity in his line of work—not that anyone can recognize him when they see him, mind you, but the tales on his heists were constantly being told and retold at taverns big and small. It is one of his guilty pleasures to secretly nod and shake his head at the details and the veracity of those tales, enjoying the fact that only he knew what exactly happened.

Despite the variety of versions, all the stories would tell you that “Master Malus”[3] is one of the most wanted thieves across Orsterra, who has the mischievous habit of leaving an apple in the place of stolen treasures. Therion never took a liking to the moniker of "Master Malus"—for him, it's just a pretentious, Atlasdamian way to call him "Apple Man"—but, yes, he enjoyed being regarded as a legend of the age.

The dark-shaded glory attached to this name allowed him to take a brief respite from his incessant nightmares of incessant falling, where his body bumped between the cliffs, cut and broken by the sharp stone edges. The only thing in his sight had always been a smirking face that watched him fall, auburn hair almost indistinguishable from the surrounding rocks.  

"We are not equals! You're re nothing but a stepping stool!"

"You're worth less than the scum beneath me daisies, and I’ll prove it!"

"Farewell Therion! It was nice knowing you!"

He never liked the idea of clinging to the past; in fact, he wanted to believe that he didn’t resent Darius—to resent that man is to give him credits, and that would be the last thing Therion wanted to do—yet every day in his sleep he was forced to recollect every syllable spat out by Darius on that ominous day, and the cuts left by them never healed. They scabbed, for sure, but the rot underneath only went deeper and deeper into the emptiness of his heart.

It was the dull pain of such infection that drove him to keep training himself assiduously on his already god-gifted skills, to go after growingly challenging heists, some of them bordering on impossible. He hated labeling it as an urge to prove himself—on what?  He is a natural, a genius, and that is exactly what made him a pain in the ass for Darius; for whom? As if Darius, who must be kicking somewhere in Orsterra, would think that the famous Master Malus was the same person as the sixteen-year-old naif he pushed off the cliff.

Yet, he couldn't stop. The thrill of sneaking past well-equipped guards and magic-infused sentinels had been the only thing in the past six years that made him feel alive, and, in the darker corner of his mind, he knew that the closer it got, the more excited and satiated he was—until the Fool's Bangle clanked closed on his wrist.

What shocked him to the core was not Heathcote's ability to sneak a bangle on his wrist—oh no, in order to do this under his waves of attack, the old man paid his price—but the fact that he didn't see it coming at all. The fact that, seducing him with tall tales, snaring him with that metallic mark of shame, and then using him as a domesticated retriever was Ravus's plan all along—and he played into it, craving too much for the thrill and priding himself too much on his skills to heed all the obvious signs of a trap.

Just like he obliviously ignored all the signals suggesting a changed heart in his former partner-in-crime.

The aftertaste of cheap ale melted into something bitter and sour on his tongue, and the pleasing tipsiness turned into a puff of icy mist, cooling his head off and leaving some throbbing headache. Sitting on the bed in his hideout located in the labyrinthian alleys of the slum district, Therion tried to unlock the bangle in one last attempt, only to find more proof that the lock is impenetrable and forcing it open will completely ruin its inner structure, turning the bangle into an irremovable ring of steel forever attached to his forearm, unless Master Malus, a lone wolf though he had been, wants to go literally single-handed.

Dragonstones? So be it. Let it be a secretive heist of Master Malus unbeknownst to his professional peers until decades later, when they finally find his journal—should he start to keep one from now on—hidden away with a rotten apple in the treasure chest originally holding the Eldrite gem so prized by the famous pirate Baltazar. Of course, he would omit the part about the Fool's Bangle. Instead, it would be a fine tale of how a master thief decided to help a damsel in distress and gallantly retrieve her family heirlooms for her without seeking payment.

"Hmm…not a bad idea." Therion laughed self-mockingly, letting himself fall flat on his back and waiting for the first light to come, eyes wide open.

—————-

He knew he was being followed the instant he could no longer see Bolderfall from behind his back.

Heathcote's guys? Unlikely, the bangle is enough to make sure Therion would do as he said. That old coot had some understanding of a thief's pride, as much as Therion hated to admit.

Then the possibilities were reduced to two: the stalkers were either after Therion and his hidden treasures, or after the House of Ravus and its Dragonstones. His money is on the latter—after all, for those who look, the lady of House Ravus appearing at the stone arch was, ironically, inviting all the really unwanted attention.

But the nobles just can't let other snobs know that they deal with a lowly thief, can they?

Therion looked around him, cursing silently at the lack of obstructions he could use to get rid of the followers. He happened to be in a relatively open area that was not so common in the Cliftlands. The increasingly louder footfalls of at least four grown men suggested that he was being encircled, that this had been planned, and that this was the spot where the net got closed.

Only that Therion never fancied himself as a big, slimy fish. Not without a good fight.

His hand moved discreetly under his shawl, reaching for a throwing knife stuck in his belt and holding it firmly in his palm. Fighting is not his strong suit, nor to his liking, but he knows how.

He brought himself to a halt. The footsteps following him abruptly silenced.

"So, what do you want, mi'lords?" He casually asked in a voice loud enough to be heard for his still distant interlocutors. "You see, I'm just a poor traveler with not a single leaf in his pocket."

Nobody answered him, but the footsteps suddenly returned to motion, much faster and louder than how they were previously contained, suggesting the determination—to kill.

Therion reacted quickly to the sudden rush of sound, the throwing knife piercing through the air and planting itself into the calf of a man who just appeared behind a rock. A shrill gasp escaped the poor bastard, whose attempt to move failed in a heavy thump as his knees fell on the ground.

"It's soaked in sleepweed juice, so sweet dream to thee. It's still early in the morning." Therion drew out his sword, turning his body so his back was facing the mountain rock. He started to eye the situation with battle-tested composure.

His ears did not betray him. The number of his followers was four, and the remaining three were surrounding him with their weapons drawn. By the blue reflection on them, Therion knew he's not the only one who coats his blades. The assassins—the only logical conclusion when they showed no interest in talking—were all dressed in black with heavy hoods above their heads. Although black attires are kind of the industry standard in their line of work, the clothes they were wearing showed uniform designs.

So an organized group of assassins, dispatched only to kill.

Okay. Therion breathed in heavily to suppress the annoyance in his chest. Just what in Aeber's name did Heathcote get him into?

His left hand went for the satchel hanging on the side of his pants, grasping something in his hand while becoming annoyedly aware of the weight of the bangle as he moved.

This is really a bad time to be chained.

"You are good. I'll give ye that." Who appeared to be the leader of the gang flashed his teeth at Therion, motioning the other two to tighten the circle around him.

"Why, I'm most honored. Pray tell what I did to deserve such hospitality?" Therion mocked with a theatrical flourish of his sword, his left hand nimbly preparing his only chance at winning this three-on-one, full-frontal battle.

Lucky for him, the leading assassin seemed to be in the chatting mood, probably because of Therion's unimpressive lanky frame.

"Don't know, don't care. The higher up wants ye dead and me and my pals got good leaves for it." His hood fell, revealing a scarred face with a stereotypical sinister smile, his stance shifting to a pre-attack pose. "And dead as a bug you will—"

"We'll see about that!"

Therion whipped out his arm, hurled the smoke shell in his left hand onto the ground, and quickly raised his scarf to cover his nose—the scarf was already smeared with the antidote to the lachrymator, a daily habit of his in preparation for a rainy day.

The little porcelain jar dropped on the ground and broke into pieces of shards, pale blue smoke spreading quickly to fill the air surrounding the four. The three assassins were taken back by the sudden change of battle and the leading guy was the only one quick enough to cover his nose with his collar, though fumes of smog had already found their way into his nostrils.

Deep down in his heart, Therion was more sour than smug at the effectiveness of the smoke shell. This is one of his more valuable gadgets—thick in its smoke and pungent in its odor, stolen from an apothecary that used to serve the royal army of Marsalim. It is not every day that you run into a top-notch apothecary, who happens to carry one of the best thieving apparatuses.

"What a waste of fortune…"

He dashed forward, disappeared into the smoke, and began to take full advantage of the renewed element of surprise.

The assassin closest to Therion had not yet recovered from tears and coughs when a cold dagger stabbed into his back, warm blood gushing out from the cut. The only thing he glimpsed before he lost consciousness to the sleep inducer was a tuft of pale-colored hair and a shadowy apparition quickly dissolved into the blue smoke.

The other lackey watched as his companion fall and started to wield his sword frantically around him, trying to block all the possible directions from which that phantom of a thief would attack. Indeed, his sword clashed with Therion's in a loud ringing sound and he almost laughed at the contact, preparing to face Therion one-on-one in close quarters.

Yet before he could parry the next swing, something heavy and blunt smashed the back of his head, paralyzing pain rushing in from the point of contact. Since when did that white-haired whoreson run to his back? He thought, so puzzled and bewildered before he fainted into the dirt on the ground.

Therion looked at the Fool's Bangle on his wrist, amazed by its handiness.

"Well, who would've thought." He put down his left hand and grasped his sword firmly in the right. "Two down, one to go."

The smoke had all but dissipated, and the leading assassin had already fully recovered from the lachrymator and put himself into a riposte stance.

"Not so easy, little thief."

The clash of the swords sent numbing pain down his arm, and Therion knew immediately that he couldn't get any advantage in a full-frontal encounter with the guy. And the weight on his left arm was not doing him any good.

Well, but swords and daggers are not all that there was in his repertoire of offense.

A thief as he was, he was blessed by Aeber with the force of fire[4].

He stopped counterattacking and turned to focus on parrying and defending with his sword-wielding hand, while he started to summon the elemental force of fire into his left palm.

When the magic was ready, Therion threw his entire weight on a strong parry that knocked his enemy a few steps back—and that moment of instability was all Therion needed. He sprinted forward and reached out his left hand, a flickering fire rising from the palm, meaning to devour the enemy in flames.

However, before he could reach the leading assassin, a crippling pain ran through his entire body, forcing him to stop mid-air in his attack. And it took him one or two seconds to find that the source of the pain was the bangle on his wrist, boiling hot with a sheen of bright blue light covering the steel. It was then he realized the magic power leaking from his left hand had also triggered the self-defense mechanism of the Fool's Bangle, designed to preclude all imaginable ways to force it open, including spells and sorcery.

Well, fuck.

The experienced killer didn't miss his brief pause. He steadied himself from the previous knock and darted forward to thrust his blade into Therion’s abdomen.

The tip reemerged from his back, blood red.

[1] The stone arch is actually in the upper district in the canon. But oh well.

[2] A “public” surname used by orphans and bastards in the Cliftlands. Lol. I know.

[3] I don’t know shit about bio but the binomial name for apples is Malus Pumila. Or thus says Wikipedia :P.

[4] BS time: everyone can learn to use magic if you know the incantation (but the power of it depends on your magic power), but only the lucky ones are blessed with elemental forces—they can summon the gifted element without having to chant.

Chapter Text

Today is bound to be a great day.

Alfyn Greengrass stepped outside of his little shack of a house, arms akimbo and pleased to see the sky finally cleared up after a few days of hard rain.

"And that means ol' Alfyn is going out for some herb-picking!" He declared loudly and raised one hand to form a fist of determination before his chest, winking amiably at…[1]

Nothing.

It was at first light in the morning and nobody had woken up except him, even though the people of Clearbrook were famous for their diligence.

The window of the house next door snapped open and from it an angry old man still in his pajama reached out his head, apparently woken and annoyed by Alfyn's monologue.

"Alfyn! It's too early for your loud nonsense!" Grandpa Alec yelled from the window, totally oblivious to the fact that he, by yelling at Alfyn, was exactly making some loud nonsense himself.

"Sorry, sorry…Go back to sleep Old Alec!" Alfyn raised both his hands to gesture his apology, secretly laughing at the old man's pajama hat—it had stars on them, of course a masterpiece made by his granddaughter.

He hummed softly and went back to his house. He quickly ate some stale bread left from yesterday, strapped a large handwoven basket onto his back, and wore his satchel across his body. After he latched his favorite hand axe and a light sickle onto his belt, he contentedly patted on his satchel and walked to the doorstep. Before he made his exit, he turned around and shouted toward the inner room.

"Ma, I'm…"

He stopped abruptly in the middle of the sentence and sighed heavily into the air.

It's almost been a year, but he's still not used to the nothingness and the quiet, nor did he fully register the knowledge that nobody would respond to any messages he left.

Alfyn was not unfamiliar with death. On the contrary, he was almost too familiar with it, far too much for any twenty-something in Orsterra. His father died of a dog bite when he was but an infant, and he himself almost didn't make it through the Great Pestilence if not for the kind traveling apothecary. The science of medicine was still in its infancy, and so much as a little cut could easily take a man's life should the wound fail to receive proper treatment.

But this time, it felt different. It's one thing to watch someone die because you don't have anything at your disposal to save them—such was the case when his father passed away and when so many people of the Riverlands died of the Great Pestilence. He was but a child, himself struggling to survive.

However, when his mother fell bedridden one year ago, coughing blood into her handkerchief while Alfyn stood and watched, he was already a man fully grown and an apothecary by profession. It wasn't a common disease in the Riverlands, but it did recur throughout its history. The folk here called it "Consumption" and it was regarded untreatable—once someone got sick with Consumption, it was a declaration of pain and death. And separation, since Consumption can easily transfer from one victim to another, and in remoter towns in the Riverlands, the disease was associated with evil spirits and the patient would be burned at the stake for the safety of the entire village.

The moment he realized it was Consumption, he locked the door to his house and communicated with only Zeph via a small opening on the window. Of course folk at Clearbrook would only express sincere concerns instead of burning his mother at the stake, but he knew the hazard of spreading Consumption, especially in a water town such as Clearbrook. Zeph brought him the strongest spirits he could get his hands on to help Alfyn disinfect the house.

"Alf, please let me in to help." Zeph annoyedly knocked on the door.

"No, Zeph. It's my Ma and I should be the only one who bears the risk…" Alfyn tossed some used wipes out of the window and motioned Zeph to burn them immediately. "…and Clearbrook needs at least one village apothecary to stay functional."

Zeph fell into silence, knowing fully well out of his professional knowledge that Alfyn was right.

"…If you say so." He collected the rags on the ground and set off to the village furnace. "I will be back with all the herbs we can spare from the shop, and…"

Alfyn stopped his old friend's habitual nagging and laughed. "Okay just leave already. I got this."

Did he? Alf flinched at the thought.

But there is no time for self-doubt. He went to soak some clean gauzes into the colorless liquor.

When he finished tying the cloth around his mouth and nose, he closed his eyes and took a deep, alcohol-infused breath. After reopening them, he didn't shut them again for the next ten days, reading every single medicine book he and Zeph could gather in such a small town, within such a short time. He brewed every antitussive, every elixir that were said to be even slightly effective in certain cases and he carefully balanced their doses to prevent incompatibility. Their humble house was filled with discarded stems and empty bottles, the pot forever heated for the making of the next vial.

But all of the efforts were only slowing his mother's withering, not stopping it. And he knew at a certain point that he needed to stop, that any additional medicine would only worsen the condition.

On the tenth day, his mother called him to the bedside, her hand scrawny and shaky in his.

"It's okay…Alf…I've lived longer than most…" She planted a soft kiss on her spare hand, and pressed it lightly on Alfyn's, in fear of giving Alfyn too much exposure to the disease.

"Our time together was borrowed. It was given by that kind apothecary, and…seeing you become one…it is all I can ask of…" Her sentence was cut short by another burst of vehement coughs and, as if saying those words cost her all her remaining energy, she dozed off into a slumber.

From which she never woke up.

Alfyn always believed that he knew the exact moment that she left—it was the moment when the image of a fire going cold suddenly invaded his mind, sending a shiver down his spine. He reached out to feel her pulse. Her flesh was still warm, but nothing was pumping through the veins.

It's one thing to watch someone die because you don't have anything at your disposal to save them.

But it's an entirely different matter if you fail to save them because you are not good enough.

It took him a whole month to present his older cheerful self, at least on the surface, and the entire Clearbook let out a sigh of relief when they heard the familiar merry tone in his voice.

Only Alfyn knew that something had changed. Whenever unoccupied by apothecarial duties or other mundane tasks that kept him busy, he could no longer be at ease with himself. He could hardly sleep at night, a stream of hot anxiety circulating inside his body and churning the content in his stomach, making him want to retch.

He knew what he wanted. He wanted to know more, to become better, to be able to save…

To be as good as him…

"I saw someone in a bind, and I helped him out. Simple as that."

"Oh man…you made it sound so easy…" Alfyn collected his thought and finally set out on his herb-picking journey.

If it was the noble ideal presented by those words that made Alfyn long to follow in his footsteps, it was the well-founded certainty of one's skills behind them that made him restless at night.

He thought he understood what it takes to become a top-notch apothecary, he thought the endless nights spent with Zeph under his father's tutelage would be enough, and he even dared to think himself diligent and talented, learning faster and reading far more widely than Zeph.

However, when that flicker of fire turned into cold ember inside his mother's body, he felt a heavy punch falling on his chest, breaking him apart and forcing him to accept the weight of life, so brutally pressed against his heart. He used every single muscle of his trying to bear the load, but before he realized, he was already on his knees.

Yet he hasn't given up yet. He hasn't collapsed. If anything, the hot stream of anxiety constantly gnawing at him was the best indication.

————————————

The dry wind unique to the Cliftlands made Alfyn sneeze despite himself.

Clearbrook almost sat squarely on the border between the Riverlands and the Cliftlands, and for an apothecary, this is nothing short of a blessing from Dohter himself. Alfyn and Zeph had been able to procure ingredients from both areas without having to pay good money for them, since Alfyn always enjoyed going out and picking herbs himself.

Recently, he almost enjoyed it too much, leaving Clearbrook for herb picking more often and coming back later than he used to. If Zeph had noticed—Alfyn was sure he had—he didn't bring it up.

"Well, I guess I will just make up some shitty stories of how I was spellbound by some rare species if he ever does bring it up…" Alfyn murmured to himself.

Thinking about Zeph provoked a rising sense of guilt inside Alfyn's chest. The small water town that had been his home for the past twenty-two years held both his fondest and darkest memories, but the former by all means dominated the latter, especially those about Zeph and the time they spent together apprenticing for Zeph's father, Mr. Zachery. It was rare that a small village such as Clearbrook had its own skilled apothecary and even rarer that the said apothecary was willing to take him in and teach him all he knew. Him, Alfyn Greengrass, a troublemaker who couldn't sit down for more than five minutes and who had been good for nothing except lumberjacking. He didn't have a father or a brother, and yet he never felt lacking in that aspect since Zeph and Mr. Zachery were always there for him.

Yet he wanted to leave. He was forever indebted to Mr. Zachary for guiding him into the art of medicine. But the knowledge he had obtained and would obtain in foreseeable future by staying Clearbrook no longer sufficed…not after he was grossly defeated by Consumption. 

"Oh Alfyn Greengrass, you ungrateful, self-centered bastard…" Alfyn covered his mouth with his hand and groaned painfully under it, absolutely horrified at how low he could get.

It was then his nose picked up a hint of blood in the air, and his hair bristled.

He followed the scent to a rather open area rarely seen in the Cliftlands, and it was next to a mountain rock that he found the source of the smell.

A pale-haired man was reclining unconsciously against the rock, his hand covering an ugly cut on his abdomen, blood leaking through his fingers and convening into a pool next to his legs.

"Holy shit!..."Alfyn rushed to his side and checked the wound. Whoever did this was not a first-timer, whatever the weapon was—most likely a blade—it went through the abdomen in one thorough thrust meant to kill. But somehow the angle was a little bit off—the only reason that Alfyn could still feel the breathing on his fingers under the wounded man's nose, shaky and slow as it was.

But there was something else—the color of the blood was too bright, which suggested poison. Alfyn picked up a smear of blood on his finger and sniffed at it.

"Phew…just some noxroots…nothing that can't be fixed." Alfyn let out a sigh of relief. He cleaned his hand on his pants and quickly searched in his satchel. When he found what he wanted—a bottle of antidote to noxroot poison, a jar of ointment to stem bleeding, and some gauzes and bandages to wrap the wound—Alfyn removed the man's purple mantle and carefully tore off the blood-soaked white shirt tightly sticking to the man's abdomen until the cut was fully exposed for treatment.

"Okay, this might sting…" Alfyn applied the ointment onto a piece of gauze. "A little."

With a quick and decisive move, Alfyn pressed the dressing onto the still bleeding cut and kept adding pressure before he wrapped the bandage so tight around the man's waist that a pained gasp escaped from his patient, whose eyes snapped open, green as emerald.

"What…Who?..."

"Oh gracious Dohter! You are back to consciousness!" Alfyn chirped happily, "Rest assured! You are in good hands."

Talking didn't slow down Alfyn's treatment. After tying the bandages into an unbreakable knot, he gave the patient a gentle but skillful knock on the side of his face—this could make someone reflexively drop their jaw, a small trick he learned from years of experience feeding children the bitter medicine they don't want to take—and poured the antidote into his opened mouth.

"Wha..no.." The patient's protest was stifled by the sudden presence of liquid in his mouth and Alfyn was pleased to see the movement of his throat suggesting a solid swallow—most likely a reflexive swallow that the patient would have refused should he have full control of his muscles, judging by the wary look in the emerald eyes. But lucky for Alfyn, his patient had lost too much blood to do that. 

Alfyn was kind, not dumb. He noticed the dagger and the bundle of throwing knives hanging from his patient’s belt and he didn't miss the blood stain on the apparently poison-coated dagger. Whoever this white-haired man was, he was in a fight, a fight where he succeeded in hurting someone but was ultimately bested...and killed if Alfyn hadn't arrived in time.

The pale-haired man was no goody two shoes, if not downright dangerous. And that was why Alfyn kind of forced the antidote into his patient. For one thing, someone who just nearly got killed wouldn't trust anything a stranger offered, but poisons made from noxroot, as common as they are, could be fatal if not treated immediately. Yet his intention was not all holy and lofty—Alfyn added a good spoonful of sleepweed powder into the antidote, because he didn't know who his patient was. Or, more precisely, what he was.

"Well, well…"He gave his patient a complicated look and tried to decide what to do with him, while the subject of his thinking had already fallen back into unconsciousness under the effective sleep inducer.

The blood-stemming ointment was one of his best concoctions, and the bleeding had already stopped. But the man was by no means out of the woods yet—the toxin inside his body still needed some cleansing, his wound could easily pick up an infection and Alfyn didn't have any disinfectant with him at the moment, and the vultures in the Cliftlands were bold enough to prey on the wounded.

Alfyn moped for a while before he finally let out a heavy sigh, dropping his shoulders in defeat. The basket strapped on his back fell on the ground, slowly rolling away, as he went down to lift the wounded man up and, with some exertion, steadied the smaller man on his back.

"Zeph is gonna kill me for this…bringing a dying swordsman back to the village…"

He then started his trek back to Clearbrook, but the moment he started walking, something dropped onto the ground from the man's fisted left hand.

Alfyn knelt to pick it up. It was a round piece of obsidian with a crow carved on it, apparently a pendant dragged off a necklace. His eyes traced from the pendant to the left hand of the white-haired man, and it was only then that he noticed the bangle on his wrist—and he happened to know what it was.

"Whoa wait a second, is this a Fool's Bangle?"

Alfyn had been a notorious chatterbox who had the habit of chit-chatting with everyone he encountered, and, lucky for some old people who just couldn't shut up about their enriching life experience and all the fanciful anecdotes they accumulated through the years, they could always count on Alfyn to be their loyal audience. And it was old Alec who told him about the existence of such devices, delicately designed by a spymaster who used to be a thief himself to mark and control the thief-turned-spies in his squad.

Completely in awe, he slightly turned his head to stare at the unconscious man on his back, whose head was resting on the crook of his neck.

"So I saved a master thief moonlighting as a spy?…Yikes."

Chapter Text

Therion opened his eyes and woke up from what felt like a century of dreamless sleep.

And that felt…nice.

Before his professional instincts kicked in and reported to him the latest update on his status quo, that is.

He was under a strange ceiling, sleeping in a strange bed, in a strange house; based on the style of this house, he must be somewhere in the Riverlands; the fact that he was alive suggested he received proper medical attention, and the clean bandages around his waist proved this point; his blood-stained clothes were gone, and he was wearing someone else's linen tunic, slightly oversized for his frame.

He would've thought something really good happened to him, if not for the fact that all his limbs were tied to the nearest bedposts, and his assortment of gadgets was of course nowhere to be found.

A thousand possibilities quickly went through his mind about the potential identity of his savior and gaoler: necromancers? Human traffickers? Bawds (goddamn he knew he was too good-looking for his own good)?

Nah.

He mentally shook his head, still too stiff to move at all. Those guesses would've explained the time investment entailed for saving him from the grave condition he was in, but they failed to explain the care he received, ironically from the way he was tied--whoever did the job made sure that the rough straw ropes wouldn't chafe or irritate Therion's skin by carefully wrapping them in soft  linen, and the ropes were kept just tight enough so that he couldn't wiggle out of it, but also loose enough to not hinder the blood circulation.

Okay. What the fuck.

Therion tried to recollect what happened after he was stabbed and left to rot by the small gang of assassins.

The moment he was stopped in his movement by the pain on his wrist, he knew he wouldn't have a second chance and was about to take a hard stab, so he turned his body just enough to prevent the thrust from killing him on the spot--but he pretended that it did and the leader of the gang was too confident to notice, waking all his lackeys up and disappearing into the mountains.

He remembered crawling to recline against a mountain rock after the assassins left--the rest of it was a blur. He must have lost too much blood, since he even recalled a lionman with brown mane who somehow forced some bitter liquid down his throat.

Come to think of it, the bitterness of that liquid weirdly tasted like the antidote to noxroots…

Before he could draw any conclusions from this realization, the door to the room creaked open, admitting the exact lionman he got a glimpse at in his blurred memory.

Except, it--or really, he--wasn't a lionman.

Oh.

Yeah, what had he been thinking, Therion deadpanned silently. Of course it wasn't a feline humanoid that helped him stop the bleeding and fed him the antitoxin, but a big guy with broad shoulders and disheveled brown hair that stuck out in each direction and formed a small ponytail on the back of his head. Judging from his build and size, it was his clothes that Therion was currently wearing.

The guy whom Therion thought to be a monster five seconds ago brought in a tray of food with him. The sweet fragrance of vegetable stew incited a soft rumble from Therion's stomach. It must have been a while since he actually ate, although, by the look of the half-consumed porridge on the end table, he had been fed.

The noise startled the big guy, who turned around and beamed when he realized Therion was awake. To Therion's surprise, for a guy with such messy hair, he didn't look half bad and, for someone who tied Therion to the bedposts, the big bright smile on his face upon finding Therion awake was almost too sincere to be faked--but then, what does he know about judging others' character.

"Oh in Dohter's name! You are finally awake!" He rushed to the side of the bed. His natural voice was in fact of a low pitch, compatible with his build, but the lilt in his voice watered down the bass just enough to add a whole lot of boyish amicability to his bearing.

Dohter? The only people he knew that would worship the Healer were apothecaries, witch doctors, and alchemists. Well that explained a whole lot, except for the ropes on his limbs--Therion knew witch doctors had quite a few bizarre healing rituals, but, he didn't think his being tied up was one of them, based on the conspicuous lack of feathers and bones on his healer.

Totally oblivious to Therion's deduction, the healer lifted open one corner of the blanket to check the wound; seeing everything was okay, he sat down on the chair next to the bed, arms folded in front of his chest.

"Name's Alfyn, Clearbrook's resident apothecary. Found ye on the South Bolderfall Pass three days ago," The self-proclaimed apothecary reminisced. "Quite a tough fight, eh? You lost a lot of blood and were poisoned by noxroots."

"I took the liberty to…disarm you, but rest assured, all your stuff is here and…"

Then he abruptly fell into silence, the bright, uncontained joy upon finding Therion awake and well dwindling into something that Therion couldn't be more familiar with.

Wariness.

Ah. That makes sense. Nobody in their darn right mind would bring home a blood-soaked stranger armed to teeth without doubting who and what he was. It’s not like helping a stray cat--and even that much kindness could invite ill fortune, should the cat carry any deadly diseases.

If Therion didn't know how to make of the contrast between his tied limbs and sincere happiness oozing from the apothecary upon seeing him recover, he now found himself much more at ease after the apothecary displayed signs of distrust and vigilance. Of course he was not happy about his current situation, all tied and exposed and vulnerable, but at least everything made sense now, and the soft touch of the linen on his ankles somehow made him believe the apothecary meant no harm and was only doing what was necessary for self-protection--he could even give a nod to that, since that had been his code as well.

Eyeing the constipated look on the apothecary, Therion knew he had a lot of questions and was trying to find a proper way to start. And Therion decided to do him a favor and break the silence. After all, this medicine man saved his life, even when he must have known--or at least had a sense of--Therion's profession. It was really not that hard of a deduction if the apothecary went through Therion's equipment.

But somehow what was intended as a gesture of gratitude came out prickly and sarcastic.

"I would've said thanks," he spoke up, surprised at how hoarse and raspy his voice sounded. "If I hadn't been tied."

Truth be told, he didn't mean it to sound like this, but, old habits die hard.

To his surprise, the apothecary only laughed.

"Yeah, I know. This is pretty awkward." The tall man went to pour some water into a waterskin with a thin wooden tube reaching out from the inside. He corked the waterskin and returned to the bedside, and he suddenly froze, as if he just realized a mistake of his.

It took Therion a while to realize what was wrong. The apothecary must have been feeding him water with the specially made waterskin, which, with a soft squeeze, can pump water through that wooden tube into his mouth while he was still unconscious. But seeing Therion awake, the apothecary must have felt…disrespectful, invading his personal space while he was tied to the bedposts.

"It's okay. I can talk." Therion spoke and watched the apothecary sit down again with an if-you-say-so shrug. "But I do want to be able to hold my own cup."

The apothecary embarrassedly rubbed his nose.

"Look, I meant no harm or disrespect, I just have to make sure that…"

"That I am not a felon on the run." Therion interrupted him. "I understand."

His frankness seemed to catch the apothecary off guard, but it did ease the tension out of the taller man's shoulder. Years of time spent in taverns milking information from all kinds of people had given him a practical mastery of the art of talking--that is, if he was willing to use it. In most of the cases, he didn't bother.

Unsure about how much the apothecary knew, Therion threw the question back to the apothecary before he could even open his mouth.

"So, what do you think?" He looked at the apothecary with a challenging glint, and the other man didn't back off from the dare.

"I know that you were up against at least three people…there were other blood stains rather distant from where I found you." The apothecary named Alfyn spoke matter-of-factly, surprising Therion with his acute observation. Well well, can't judge a book by its cover. "They can't be yours since they didn't cross with that ghastly trail of blood you left when you crawled your way to the rock. And they smelt of some crudely-made sleepweed juice, which I also found on your dagger--amateur work, mind you, you should probably find a new supplier."

"Four. And I made my own coating. But go on."

"Ha. So amateur work it indeed was, not that I'm gonna tell ye how to make it better, not before I can be sure of what you are." Alfyn carried on, unapologetic in his tone, but he softened his voice when he spoke again. "The fact that you chose sleepweed instead of other fatal poisons…like the one used by your opponents…made a guy believe you are no ruthless killers who murder in cold blood, but then I've been told I am an incorrigible trusting naif."

There was something deeply disturbing about what the apothecary said--it was a hint of…

Approval. Even appreciation. As if not killing is the noblest thing. But at the same time, the phrase "an incorrigible trusting naif" stung him sharply in the middle of his chest, making his heart sink back into that black swamp he had been trying and trying to get out. He couldn't help but let out a sarcastic laugh.

"You indeed are, medicine man. What do you know about the thinking process that goes behind my decision for the coating? Maybe I love to torture my victims while they are alive."

He regretted the moment he finished his sentences. On the one hand he sounded like a pouty brat. Besides, he shouldn't have lashed out on the man who went through great trouble to save his life, and the poor guy didn't really say anything that crossed the line. It was his own baggage that spurred him to acid and acrimony--and he hated being haunted by an old ghost.

Before he did so much as to entertain the thought of apologizing, the apothecary laughed again--for Aeber's sake was this man on laughing gas--and he shifted to sit more comfortably on the chair, fully relaxed.

 "And I thought you would want me to untie you, eh?" The apothecary said in jest and casually winked--actually winked--at him.

Oh fuck. This is embarrassing and annoying on so many levels--the apothecary must have grasped something from that little emotional breakout. Therion started hating himself once again for failing to control himself. Definitely because of too much sleep.

"Look, I don't know what got into you all of a sudden. None of ol' Alfyn's business. But no vicious, calculating bastards would've lashed out like that instead of playing along my default optimism in people." The apothecary stood up to loosen the tie on his feet and started massaging his stiff ankles with the professionalism of a physician, and Therion almost jumped from the sudden touch. "Can't untie your hands, though. Not until I can be certain that you won't pilfer the entire village. Not that I think Clearbrook has anything worth your time, Master Thief."

Therion almost choked. He quickly retraced all the events that took place in the past six years, one hundred percent sure that not a single soul in the continent of Orsterra knew he was the one and only Master Malus, nor had he ever met this lionman of an apothecary before.

"Surprised? Ha. I would be as well, if I were you." Alfyn straightened himself from massaging and gave Therion a smug smile. Having successfully drawn a strong reaction from Therion, the apothecary seemed pleased with himself, and that characteristic lilt returned to his voice, the solemnness hovering the space between them vanishing into thin air. "Who would've thought that a backwoods apothecary can recognize the Fool's Bangle when he sees one. That's the perk of talking to the elderly! You will be amazed by how much they know."

Okay. Now that gets interesting. It is common knowledge among professional thieves--not just random street pickpockets, mind you--that a Fool's Bangle meant a disastrous blunder and whoever bears the bangle will be avoided by all the information dealers and provisioners, since an all-too-visible identifier basically spelled doom for a thieving career. However, for laymen and common folk, Fool's Bangle was nothing more than just a bangle. Yet this small town apothecary was able to recognize it, and, for Aeber's sake, an old person in this village knew about them? Maybe he had long been underestimating this town after all.

"For the record, I don't have anything against badass thieves pulling off exciting capers as long as they leave the poor people alone." Interpreting Therion's thoughtful silence as something else, the apothecary rushed to explain, with both of his hands raised up. "And I guess snatching empty coin purses from the common folk ain't really your profession."

Hearing that from Alfyn the apothecary somehow made Therion relax a bit, albeit a tiny bit. "I do like to fancy myself a man of principle. I don't steal from children's saving boxes."

"You don't say!"The apothecary grinned widely, and he sat down on the chair again and leaned forward.

"So what does it feel like? To moonlight as a spy?" His voice full of curiosity.

Now what is he talking about?

"A spy?" Therion blurted out despite himself.

That seemed to take the apothecary aback.

"Um…huh? It's not like that?...Shucks…The tales I heard said that those bangles were designed by a thief-turned-spymaster to mark and control the thief-turned-spies under his management…"

"That was its use 200 years ago." Therion was rather amused by the thought of how Alfyn had been thinking him as a royal spy. It was regretful that he blurted out his own puzzlement. It would be fun to just play along the story and see how this one would react. Goddamn.

"Awwww, shucks! Not everyone timestamped their tales though! I would bear that in mind next time." The apothecary conceded, yet he didn't stop his inquiry. "So what is the use of those bangles now?"

Therion gave him a complicated look. This conversation is getting too friendly and…natural. And in the past six years, he had never let a conversation carry on to this point, always shutting it down before the other interlocutors got all buddy buddy with him. Usually this principle is bad for business, since information is always milked out of intimacy, but he was good enough with other means to get away with that.

But this brown-eyed apothecary has saved his life, to say the least. And, as much as Therion distrusted his own judgement of others' character, the apothecary had been almost meticulous in his way of treating him, giving him as much respect as he could when he knew Therion was no goody two shoes.

Maybe it was because of the clean scent of herbs or maybe something soothing and sedating in his food, for the first time in a while, Therion decided he was in the mood to let his guard down a little bit, just enough to repay the apothecary with some disclosure. He owed him that much.

"It's now a mark for those who fucked up." 

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

Since when did it begin?

Therion pondered as he took his clothes, mended and washed, from Nina--Nina was Zeph's eleven-year-old sister, and Zeph was Alfyn's best friend and the other village apothecary in Clearbrook, and they both learned their craft from Zeph's father, Mr. Zachary, who almost failed to save Alfyn from the Great Pestilence if not for the help from a traveling apothecary, whose motto was…

He abruptly stopped his mind from babbling on and realized, much to his chagrin, that he remembered everything Alfyn had said, because of that lionman's indefatigable repetition. He would be a great teacher if he ever considered switching to pedagogy. He could simply nag until your ears bleed and make everybody learn by rote.

"Therion! Alf said you are leaving tomorrow, right?"

The candied voice of the little brunette snapped Therion out of his imagination of Alfyn Greengrass as a village teacher. He turned to look at the girl, whose pretty little face was of a peaches-and-cream complexion.

She is going to be a great beauty, Therion thought. The homespun dress and the slightly calloused hands couldn't prevent her from outshining all the well-groomed highborn ladies Therion had seen--and thanks be to Aeber, he had seen quite many in all those manors and castles.

And this little beauty was looking at Therion with something unnamable swelling in her almond-colored doe eyes. Maybe it was anticipation for him to leave, since that was what to him the most reasonable explanation. That was what that made sense.

But he knew it wasn't. As much as he tried to tease out even one thin trace of detestation, he couldn't find any. Whatever was pooling in her eyes just simply couldn't be compatible with anything vicious. It was something that Therion had seen frequently in the past few days, mostly on Alfyn, whenever he thought Therion wasn't looking.

Whatever it was, it was warm, and translucent, and…torturing.

"Yes. I will leave tomorrow at first light." Therion said to Nina and the brightness in her eyes visibly dwindled.

"Okay…will you come back and visit? And would you bring me more of those glass marbles? They are so beautiful! And you are so good at shooting them, too! "

Yes, I will. His tongue almost betrayed him with those words but he held it just in time.

Since when did it begin?

He remembered the first time he saw someone other than Alfyn in Clearbrook.

It was five days after he woke up. When he heard unfamiliar footsteps ascending the stairs, he immediately returned to his full-on aggressive mode, his fists clenched and his eyes frantically searching for anything that could function as a makeshift weapon, despite the fact that he couldn't move without bleeding again. But the moment he saw the visitors, he realized who they were and let go of his clenched fists—they must be Zeph and Nina whom Greengrass couldn't shut up about when they started to get more familiar with each other--of course, that was Greengrass's one-sided definition of familiarity; all Therion did was to give him some disclosure regarding why he was chained and some anecdotes he collected during his thieving career, part of him feeling rather complacent when the messy-haired apothecary turned star-eyed at the mention of herbs and diseases he had not heard of.

Even though another part of him constantly scolded and laughed at him for being engaged in such…exposing conversations.

But, whatever, he couldn't really do anything at this point. If the worst case scenario for any involved interpersonal relationship was death--which he was not a stranger to--then this possibility was already eliminated in this case. After all, he was saved by Alfyn Greengrass, who could've killed him a thousand times if he wanted to; besides, however vigilant Therion wanted to be, he simply couldn't due to his physical condition.

This self-abandonment in the face of complete lack of power was, weirdly relieving.

However, his brief return to his full-on aggressive mode reminded him that he was no longer powerless.  Despite the price he would pay in blood, he could move, and Zeph was small in size and skinny in build, as befits Therion's mental image of an apothecary--only Aeber knows how Greengrass was an apothecary, not some axe-wielding sellsword or frontline soldier. And only Aeber knows how Greengrass would let a frail apothecary and a child come this close to an untied Therion. As weak as he was, he had at least three ways to incapacitate the apothecary and hold the girl hostage, in exchange for his equipment and maybe some potions and salves that didn't come easy when he was now shunned by provisioners.

Zeph must know this as well, since Therion can smell his nervousness even from afar.

And that reminded Therion--not everyone was Alfyn Greengrass, and maybe his best friend wasn't happy about the blood-soaked outlaw he brought home. And, just as Therion had three ways to incapacitate the apothecary, maybe he had potions and dusts to deal with Therion as well. The little girl was of course oblivious to all the concerns of her brother. She was hiding behind Zeph's back and studying Therion curiously with her large, innocent eyes.

Therion's mind was set to an accelerated race toward the best solution to this situation, until it was suddenly interrupted by a cheerful exclamation from the little girl.

"Oh my! You are as good-looking as Alfyn said!"

"What?!"

"Nina!"

"What? He is good-looking!" Nina pouted. She waltzed out from behind Zeph's back and walked toward the bedside, before Zeph could stop her.

"Oh no! This is some bad wound! But no worries, Alfyn is out of town to pick some herbs but my brother Zeph here will help you change the dressing today!" She cheerfully chirped, and her face slightly reddened when she spoke again. "My name is Nina, by the way."

This all happened too fast for Therion to process. He didn’t know whether he should dwell on the fact that Greengrass complemented his look in front of his best friend's sister, or be simply amazed by Zeph's ability to not faint on the spot when he saw Nina come this close to Therion, a potentially dangerous guy.

So instead, he resorted to his small talk instinct and managed a nod.

"I know. Greengrass wouldn't shut up about how much he adores you two."

Either that, or the fact that Therion did not attack Nina, seemed to ease out the tension in Zeph's stiff shoulders, and he walked to the bedside and dragged Nina back to his back.

"Of course that dork did. And I apologize for my sister's lack of manner." His body was still tense from the protective instinct, hiding Nina as much as he could with his small frame, but when he started treating Therion's wound, the professionalism of an apothecary kicked in and, by the time he started to apply new poultice, his facial expression was one of concentration--a look Therion had seen so many times on Alfyn's face that his body, much to his protest, habitually eased; even though he was still unsure whether this guy would poison him or not, the familiar sensation of the slightly heated poultice touching his skin told him it was futile to worry at this point.

" I do hope you did not poison that poultice." He felt he had to say that, to prove that he had thought of all the possibilities, lest someone would think him…trusting and oblivious. Exactly who that someone is, he wasn't sure.

"Zeph would never!" Nina blurted out, looking offended. She had been helping Zeph and passing him the tools he needed.

"No, Nina. I would have. If you were hurt." Zeph replied matter-of-factly in his gentle, soft voice, and turned to Therion. " Probably not poison, but sedatives."

"Fair enough…Nervous when you entered the room, eh?" The frankness made Therion start to take a liking to this guy and the steel beneath his small frame, and that put him into a chatting mood, as he had nothing better to do.

"…Yes. I meant no offense."

"None taken. It's only a natural thing to feel." Therion hissed and paused when Zeph tightened the bandage to form a tie. "When you have to treat a man who was blood-soaked when brought in." He deliberately omitted the thief part, unsure whether Alfyn told them about his occupation.

"Alf told us what happened and…what you do for a living. He refused at first, saying that it wasn't his place to reveal your information." Zeph sighed deeply. "But we forced him to do so, or I wouldn't have…let him continue your treatment. Again, no offense."

"Once more, none taken…and here I am thinking that Greengrass's best friend would be an incorrigible doormat as well."

And that induced a string of soft chuckles from both the apothecary and the little girl, genuine fondness overflowing from their quirked mouths.

"…and, who are you calling a doormat?"

The familiar cheerful voice arrived before its owner. And just an instant later, Alfyn Greengrass showed up with a basket full of herbs.

"Awwww, shucks. I see everything is going well between the three of you."

"Alfyn!"Nina happily rushed to Alfyn and was effortlessly picked up by that lionman of an apothecary.

The rest of it was a blur. It was probably a lot of bantering and laughing and story-telling. It seemed to end with Therion promising to give Nina some of his most treasured glass marbles (and he did, when he could walk). He didn't know what he was thinking; he must have been delirious. Zeph definitely doped the poultice.

Was it when it began?

No…it was earlier than that. Or he wouldn't have so easily let Zeph treat him.

"Nina! You can't ask Therion to bring your stuff! That is up to him!"

The familiar cheerful voice, now with a scolding tone, once again arrived before its owner. And just an instant later, Aflyn Greengrass showed up with an assortment of stuff--and Therion instantly recognized these were his gadgets and equipment. And this time, Nina didn't rush to Alfyn to be picked up. Instead, her eyes became red-rimmed, and she silently nodded. Before Therion or Alfyn could say anything, she already rushed out.

"Hey, Nina!!" Alfyn tried to stop her, but he was too burdened with the stuff in his hands. He then turned to Therion, apologetically. "Sorry about that…she seems to really like you."

"…She is a good kid."

"Ha. I guess years of not stealing from children's saving boxes bring you some kind of aura, eh? You know how children just know through instincts who likes them and who does not…" Alfyn walked to put things down and never stopped nagging on about children and however much they loved Alfyn they wouldn't take the medicine, until Therion made the comment.

"You seem extra talkative today." He said as he checked his belongings, put them back to all the hidden pockets on his pants and strapped his sword back to his belt.

That brought the apothecary into an abrupt halt.

"…Aw shucks. Sorry…I was just…"

And there it was again, the warm, translucent substance he just saw in Nina's eyes.

Was it fondness? Was it reluctance to part? Just what about him that made this doormat of an apothecary and arguably the sweetest girl he had seen to bestow such torturing blessings on him? Was it compassion and sympathy? Was he so visibly broken? Was he a subject of others' messiah complex?

The thought of these made his chest tighten. For an instant, he thought he would fall back to that black swamp in his heart again, unable to get out, unable to breathe, surrounded by Darius's mocking laughter and sinister eyes.

But he didn't. He didn't want to. He wanted to do better. He needed to do better. Whether he could was another story, but he had to try.

"…I would bring the marbles." He heard himself say. "They were from Goldshore. Not so much of a detour if I go from the Coastlands to the Flatlands."

The apothecary beamed like a fool, just as he did when Therion said yes to the invitation to hit the tavern together.

And that reminded him that this would happen today.

He still remembered the day he received the unexpected invitation from the apothecary, and he froze, the black swamp calling to him, ushering in memories of chatting, laughing, and drinking with the auburn-haired man who he thought was his best friend, the only person he could unconditionally trust in the entire world, in this lifetime. They met in the gaol when Therion was twelve, and alcohol was too early for him, slumdog and undisciplined as he was. Darius was five years older, so he had his share of drinking and whoring, but Therion didn't get his first cup of ale until they celebrated their first grand caper--the one with the Ciannos--one month before he was pushed down off the cliff.

After six years of eavesdropping and information dealing at the alehouse, he was no longer a stranger to hard liquors, but he was still inexperienced at the concept of "hanging out" at a tavern and boozing together solely for the purpose of enjoyment.

Yet, he said yes.

Since when did it begin?

Since when, he wondered, had he become able to not fall, to not submerge downright into the black ooze--more than half of his body was in it, but he could breathe, his head held high and his hand firmly grasping on the twig of a small tree. The twig would break at any second, but not yet, and he could breathe. Yes, breathing makes him unprotected by the shell of hardened black ooze. But breathing is good. He wants to breathe. He wants to die breathing instead of staying alive suffocating.

"So…tavern?" He heard the apothecary speak.

"Yes. Let’s go."

------------------------------------

To Therion's surprise, Alfyn was a quite a regular at the alehouse and the barkeep was more than happy to give him discounts and even put it on his tab.

"Didn't take you to be the drinking type." He quietly observed, taking his liquor slowly.

"Aw, shucks! This is me, full of surprises." The apothecary chuckled and guzzled down half of his mead. "Nothing like a flagon of mead to ease a man's cares!"

"What do you care, Greengrass?"

"Well, a lot of things. Old Alex's lungs, Nina's height, how much money our business is losing because I give out too many discounts and whether I could--"He suddenly stopped, and that piqued Therion's interest.

"Whether you could?..."

"…um, shucks, whether I could…find the panacea to all diseases!"

"Hmph. I thought you pride yourself on sincerity." Therion downed the rest of his ale, and the apothecary visibly reddened and was seemingly trying to say something to explain himself, but Therion didn't give him the chance--he didn't really want to force Alfyn to say anything he didn't want to, even though he enjoyed flustering the apothecary just a little; it was just fun to see an aggressively friendly guy blush.

"I'm a regular at more than a few alehouses. Though I go for the rumors more than the drink."

"Rumors? What has anyone in an alehouse to say that'd interest a man like you?"

A man like him? Therion couldn't help but think of the fact that Alfyn told Nina his patient was good-looking, but he didn't dwell too much on it because, well, he was.

" Who's wealthy, for example, and who’s not. Which lords pay their guards well, and which don't…" Therion dutifully replied.

"You can final all that out at the tavern?" The apothecary looked at him agape, the same look he had when Therion let him in, a little bit, on his retirement plan. And the thought of that made Therion secretly chuckle.

He actually enjoyed telling the apothecary about his work, maybe because he was too good at it to not want an audience--something that is inherently at odds with the thieving industry--and Alfyn was the best candidate: the way he looked at Therion when the latter talked--attentively, respectfully, non-judgementally, and admiringly--was just the best massage a man's ego could possibly receive.

"That and more. There's quite some profit to be had in an alehouse, if you know how to listen. Not to mention, thieves themselves often drop by to share secrets and tips." He continued with a smirk. "Mead loosens tongues and gets men talking."

He gave Alfyn a meaningful look, and the latter instantly understood what he was hinting at and decided to pretend that he didn't.

"Yikes, I'd best be careful next time I'm quenching my thirst." The apothecary looked into his mug to avoid eye contact.

Therion didn't push, even though part of him was dying to know what it was that the apothecary wanted to do, other than finding the panacea.

"Heh…You can try."

"Either way, I'll be countin' my mugs if you and I ever go drinking again!"

Again. That made Therion tighten his grip on the tankard, and he couldn't ignore the hopeful tone in Alfyn's voice. His heart at the same time lightened and sank, the black mud pulling him in while the twig of that small tree growing thicker and stronger.

He was at a loss for words when someone barged into the tavern yelling Alfyn's name.

"Alfyn! You must come quickly, it's Nina…!"

------------------------

Twenty minutes later, they were on their way to the Cave of Rhiyo.

Neither of them talked; they just advanced as fast as they could without startling the vipers and slugs hidden in the bushes. Whatever creatures dared to appear in their sight would either be chopped down relentlessly by a well-oiled axe or get repulsed by some sulfuric dusts--Therion hardly had to unsheathe his sword, and he repeatedly held his urge to speak as he watched Alfyn chop and concoct, his brown eyes dark with solemnness and his lips pursed into a hard line. The apothecary might be untested by battles, but he was a natural, skilled with an axe and quick in judgment about the best concoction to use in a particular situation.

But Alfyn was by no means calm. He was trembling, and Therion noticed that, however much the apothecary was trying to hide it. The air of amicability characteristically surrounding the apothecary was nowhere to be found, snuffed out and replaced by something dark and dangerous, as if a miasma made of vice and venom had fallen.

This doesn't suit him. Therion thought. Yet he didn't know what to say. He was never one for comforting words. Besides, he himself was not any better.

Nina got bitten by a blotted viper when she was picking waterblooms in the cave.

For him. Therion Redstone.

When Lily told them the truth under Alfyn's insistent inquiries, Therion's mind blanked out for a whole minute and he forgot all about his bullshit principle of not getting attached to people and building a fucking wall of paranoia to prevent hurting. He no longer gave a damn, when he saw Nina lying on the bed, all purple and swollen and feverish, because she wanted to show him kindness.

Aeber be damned, if he doesn't even steal from children's saving boxes, he sure as hell was not going to let this child die for his sake.

He and Alfyn finally arrived at the depth of the cave, and there he saw the dazzling ocean of waterblooms, cerulean blue blossoms gleaming under the sunshine that pierced into the cave through a crack in the rock, motes of dust mixed with shimmering pollens swirling in the air.

Yet neither of them had the leisure to marvel at the beauty of the sight, because their target was right there on a huge rock, an amber mass in the middle of a blue sea of flowers. The blotted viper startled at the presence of invaders. It stood up from its resting coil and hissed in admonition.

When it opened its mouth to brandish the threatening fangs, both of the men saw a piece of green cloth stuck on one of the fangs, pierced by the poisonous blade in the middle and stained by fresh blood.

Homespun. Coarse Linen. Clumsy floral patterns sewn on it.

And that sent both Alfyn and Therion into a rush of bloody rage.

It was a one-sided battle with one-sided dominance weaved by sword, axe, fire, and frost--to Therion's amazement, Alfyn was blessed with the element of ice as he with fire--and the beast soon fell onto the ground into an unconscious coil. Alfyn went on to hold open the mouth of the viper and gave its huge jaw a hard squeeze, pitch black venom slowly dripping into the empty vial Therion was holding.

When Alfyn was corking the vial, Therion carved out one of the fangs--the one with the green cloth on it--and put it into his side satchel.

Alfyn watched as he did that and Therion only shrugged in response. Alfyn gave him a light pat on the shoulder, which Therion miraculously did not feel the need to protest, and they hurried back to the village.

It was until late evening that Alfyn finally walked out of Zeph's house, and Therion had been waiting for a while.

"She's out of the woods now…Thank you…for coming with me to the cave." The apothecary looked fatigued, but the darkness in his eyes dissipated, and the familiar gentle glow returned to the honey-brown eyes.

"Don't mention it. She went to pick the flowers...for me." Therion waved his hand in dismissal. A block of weight disappeared from his chest. He hadn't felt so...peaceful, for the longest time. He heard himself continue to say the most human thing he had said in the past six years, and it felt awkward on his tongue. "And they were indeed…beautiful. I'm glad she's okay."

They then fell into a comfortable silence on the little bridge in the center of Clearbrook, until the apothecary heaved a huge sigh in defeat and broke the silence.

"You wanted to know what I want to do back at the tavern, eh? What I really want to do…not that panacea bullshit I made up on the spot." Alfyn--Therion realized he started addressing him as Alfyn instead of Greengrass in his mind--looked at him, eyes full of determination.

"You don't have to tell me if you don't want to."

"No, I want to let you know…and I am ready for whatever reactions you would have." Alfyn went to the side of the bridge and rested his elbows on the cold stone parapet. "So you know all about that traveling apothecary who saved my life when I was ten--shucks, I don’t even know his name--and how that prompted me to become an apothecary."

Therion nodded, not sure what to expect. His reactions?

"What you don't know is that…I couldn't save my Ma one year ago. She died of Consumption. I knew what disease it was, but I failed her. I tried everything I could, but I wasn't able to save her."

He heard of the disease and he knew it was usually regarded untreatable, but before Therion could say anything, the apothecary continued on his own.

"Therion, I don't know if you know how rudimentary the art of medicine is…it took apothecaries nearly one hundred years to realize that, the cadaveric substance we got on our hands when we dissected corpses would cause deadly blood infection, if we don't wash our hands with strong liquor before treating a wounded patient..laughable, eh? Yet that was how little we knew. And what we know now is built upon the death of too many people, who could've lived, and it's still too little."

"I know you are not a man for a sob story…everyone has their share of hardships, and I saw the cuts on your wrist." That startled Therion, yet again Alfyn didn't give him a chance to speak. "I just..really don't want to see another life slipping through my fingers, just as my Ma's."

He looked at his hand, wind running through his messy brown hair. "That was a hard feeling, man. To be completely powerless in front of an illness…all the harder when I know I could have done better, should I know more about it…and today that sense of powerlessness got its grasp on me all over again. What if I didn't get the venom in time? What if I didn't make the right antitoxin? What if Nina…"

"Alfyn." This time Therion caught the chance to cut him short, assertively. "You are talented at your trade. I don't say that enough, but it takes more than just a random village apothecary to save me from that nasty condition of mine. And trust me, I've seen my share of quacks and charlatans."

That made the apothecary smile, and although Therion couldn't see it clearly under the moonlight, he doubted the darkened shade on the lionman's cheeks was some overnight tan.

"Shucks! Thank you, Therion…this...means a lot coming from you, but I didn't say all these to seek compliment." The apothecary turned to face Therion directly, eyes bright with freckles of moonlight. "My point was…I…want to travel, practicing medicine as I go and seizing on every single opportunity to learn more about illnesses and their cures…I love Clearbrook. I most certainly do! But it just…no longer suffices…not after what happened to my Ma and Nina, not after I...met you and realized what is out there and I…"

He took a deep breath, as if what he was about to say required all the courage he possessed in his entire lifetime--and Therion, inadvertently, started to hold his own breath as well.

"I..I am wondering if I could travel with you."

The twig he was holding onto grew to be a huge branch, surrounding him on the waist and trying to lift him out of the black swamp, whose pull was still too strong to be warded off, yet he had never felt so…steady and firm. The sense of stability was exhilarating, to the point that he couldn't move or talk for a while, and his lack of reaction made the apothecary jump into a fit of complete panic.

"Shucks!…sorry, what was I thinking…you are on some really important mission and I will only be a burden to you. But I just thought you could use an apothecary as your traveling companion…I…I don't know how to make smoke shells--yet! I checked the one you had and it wasn't that hard to make as long as I had the ingredients and could test and experiment with it a little…"

"Alfyn."

The apothecary shut up and was looking at him with a look that was half expectation and half fear.

"...Don't screw up. I'm expecting a constant supply of the best smoke shells in the realm."

Chapter Text

"Whoa, this is nastier than I expected." Alfyn wiped his sweat with the green shawl around his head and was extremely grateful that Therion forced him to bring it. Without the shawl, he would have swallowed a substantial amount of sand and dust brought forth by the warm, coarse wind, if not scorched and burnt first. "Your water town-reared ass can’t survive in the desert without it" was what Therion said when he shoved the green fabric into his satchel before they were about to trespass the border between the Riverlands and the Sunlands--only Dohter knows where he got that stuff in the first place and how he had been hiding it, but Alfyn knew better than to ask.

"Humph. Told you so. It's not too late to go home, you know." Therion walked by him with his purple scarf covering his mouth and nose and the hood on his lilac mantle pulled up, his voice muffled by the makeshift mask.

"Nah, Master Thief. My water town-reared ass is still going, and going strong--" He almost bit his tongue as soon as he realized the double entendre he just offered to the thief, and the latter of course caught that and laughed.  

"Sounds tempting." Therion gave him a sideways glance, only one derisive eye visible under the hood and the white hair, emerald intensified under the direct sunlight. "On second thought, water town rear would be more succinct…"

"Shucks, Therion! No more butt jokes!"Alfyn wasn't sure whether the heat on his face was a result of the sunlight or some unspeakable embarrassment, and his mind went back to the night he and Therion successfully saved Nina, the same night that he decided to say goodbye to Clearbrook.

It was easier than Alfyn thought, partly because Zeph made it easy. It turned out that Zeph noticed a long time ago, just as Alfyn had been secretly suspecting. He didn't even pretend to act surprised, when Alfyn walked into his house, sat down next to him by Nina's bed, and, after a lot of chitchats and beating around the bush, brought up his travel plan with a detailed list of reasons.

"Ha. I've been wondering how long it's gonna take you to finally say it." Zeph didn't even look up, focusing on wiping away the sweat on Nina's forehead as a result of the fever. She was already out of the woods, but it took time for the body to heal itself and recover. "Just go. Whatever inescapable duties you think you have here, I will take care of them. "

"I will take care of them all." Zeph looked up to face Alfyn directly and put a reassuring hand on his shoulder and smiled gently at Alfyn. The pungent hotness that was the prequel to tears rushed to the rim of his eyes, but before he could let his tears run wild and cry over the kind heart of his best friend, Zeph suddenly put on a teasing smile.

"I assume you are leaving with Therion?"

That caught Alfyn off guard and successfully intercepted the flow of tears.

"Umm, yes. He agreed to let me tag along. He cannot really get provisions with that bangle of his still attached so I offered to help…" He inadvertently started to scratch his head, feeling exposed by Zeph's inquiry, as if he was caught hanging out with someone else while he told Zeph he would be busy doing work. "He's so well-traveled and knowledgeable. Heck, do you know that medical scholars in Atlasdam made a  set of rune-inscribed mortar and pestle that could revive dead herbs and could break down the hardest seeds with one press…! You know, I'm glad I know how to concoct potions and all that, or I don't know why he would ever say yes…"

"Oh…my friend…you are so head over heels for him, aren't you."

Alfyn almost fell from the stool.

"Whoa, slow down Zeph. What are you suggesting--"

"C'mon Alf. You know the village lasses always have a thing for you. I believe 'ruggedly handsome' and 'kind' are the most frequently used adjectives." Zeph looked amused. "And yet you never reciprocate."

To be fair he hadn’t really thought about this kind of stuff since he had been really busy studying, especially in the past few years. But now that Zeph brought it up, Alfyn Greengrass started to seriously look into himself and retrace the past 21 years.

“And remember you said you were going to marry me when we were seven?” Zeph’s timely reminder coincided with his own memory flashing back to that afternoon, and he immediately laughed.

“Awwww, shucks! That was such a long time ago! Gaaahhh, this is embarrassing. And we were but kids!”

“We were.” Zeph looked at him, eyes fixated into his to force a confession. “But did you say that because you mistook me for a girl?”

Zeph is a pretty man with delicate features, some of which he shared with Nina. And the similarity was much more pronounced when Zeph was a child, and he had always been smaller and skinnier than boys of the same age.

Yet the answer was no.

“Besides, the second thing you told us about Therion was he’s good-looking, after you finished talking about his wounds and your guess about his identity.”

Okay this is the last straw.

Alfyn snapped out of the memory and looked at his—technically Zeph’s satchel, they exchanged their satchels as keepsakes before he took off with Therion—and non-viciously cursed his best friend for complicating the situation, and his silence seemed to startle the thief.

“You can’t be seriously mad at butt jokes.” The thief looked at him in exaggerated disbelief, but Alfyn sensed a hint of apologetic unease under that insincere look of surprise. He let out a silent sigh.

Be it a friend crush or romantic infatuation, he really liked Therion, both for his expanse of knowledge and his personality. More for the latter, since the former was marvelous, yet not irreplaceable. Therion might be the snarkiest person he’d met, probably also the hardest to get close to, but there was a gentle light so carefully hidden beneath all the barbs and prickles and, as if unhappy with the spiked cage, it always found its way out through the seams and cracks, warm rays leaking out and illuminating the air. When they went to find the venom for Nina, it almost broke free, and it was absolutely dazzling, as much as he was not himself due to the urgency of Nina’s condition.  Even the afterglow of that brief moment of brightness was enthralling, and that was what gave him enough courage to ask, and maybe that was what made Therion agree to let Alfyn tag along in his journey.

And that’s why he was afraid that one day the magic of that flickering light would deplete and he would become a burden and a liability. He bet Therion had a thousand ways to get rid of him and leave on his own, and he wouldn't notice till it was too late.

Well, then he had to prove himself useful. Maybe drag the light out of its cage one day, if he was ever allowed to be so pompous and so sure of himself.

Yet he wasn’t really sure he could make the scars on his wrist disappear. Heck, he didn’t even know the stories behind them.

If he suddenly felt gloomy and frustrated, he didn’t let the thief know. Instead, he gave an reassuring grin to Therion, who was observing him attentively.

“Of course not! For Dohter’s sake, just how low you think of me, Therion?”Alfyn wiped his sweat again, in a deliberately theatrical way. “I was just moping that my magical power was too meager to make us some iced drinks right now.”

He technically could, with his elemental blessing, but using magic frivolously can easily deplete the caster’s energy, and that would be dangerous considering they were already on the brink of heat stroke.

Therion gave an understanding nod. Although they were both blessed with elements, neither of them could cast more than basic elemental magic without draining themselves.

“Remind me why we were taking the southern route to Noblecourt again? I told you, you don’t have to worry about getting marbles for Nina in Goldshore. She can wait.” Alfyn jokingly complained.

“Well, first of all, I prefer to travel lightly and the Frostlands require additional clothes and provisions. Besides…” The thief rolled his eyes. “The dark forests in the Woodlands and the heavy snow in the Frostlands would be too much for a rookie like you.”

“Hey! No need to get personal here! I thought you wanted new smoke shells!”Alfyn pretended to be mad and failed, and Therion suddenly raised his hand to point at something.

His eyes followed the lean fingers into the distance, and through puffs of dust and sand in the air, there he saw, a city with fiery red walls standing at the foot of a gigantic mountain in the middle of low, gentle dunes, and the shadow projected by the peak of the mountain was just enough to cover the entire town.

The City of Sunshade.

—————

“Gracious Dohter! Isn’t this firebloom, the key ingredient to fire resistant potion???!!!" Alfyn inspected the pouch full of small, orange blossoms in his right hand and screamed out loud. He then turned to look at the bottle of blue liquid in his left hand and screamed even louder. “And by the names of the Twelve, this is none other than an entire jar of Mariolla essence, the ultimate basis for almost all types of antitoxins!”

He held them close to his chest as if holding a newborn baby, and Therion rolled his eyes.

Before they ended up in the local bazaar, they had spent the day wandering around the city--Alfyn of course wanted to look around, but he didn't really say it out loud, since he supposed Therion would want to find a room at the inn and settle down. But maybe he was just overflowing with curiosity and excitement, and the thief smelled it, who let out an irritated grunt and conceded. "Okay Alfyn, stop looking at me like a puppy. We will look around before we go to the inn. Happy now?"

And Alfyn returned an unapologetic toothy grin.

When they just left Clearbrook, Alfyn was severely self-conscious and gingerly about making any requests of Therion, especially when it came to taking care of his curiosity as an inexperienced Clearbrook lifer. Yet he gradually learned that as much as Therion appeared annoyed, he was always willing to entertain Alfyn's inquisitiveness, and by this point, Alfyn had grown comfortable with this occasional slip into shamelessness, enjoying Therion's rare services as a guide.

Sunshade got its name because it was shaded by the shadow of the great peak, but it still got a large amount of sunshine since the sun changed its location during the day. The roofs here were flat because of lack of rainfalls, and according to Therion, local families would dry their fruits on their roofs, producing Sunshade's famous mouth-watering dried apple chips that are usually served with a cinnamon dip--in fact, everything here has a hint of spices and fragrance; even the silky gowns and breezy attires worn by the locals were perfumed with cactus flowers and desert jasmine. He thought he must have been acting stupid, looking at and asking about everything his eyes touched or his nose caught, but it really didn't matter, since he was absolutely mind-blown by the variety of goods offered in the bazaar, especially spices and herbs, and even Therion seemed interested, frequently checking out figurines and jewelry that were rather peculiarly styled. 

The traveling merchant whose goods Alfyn was holding gave out a belly laugh.

“Well well. It’s not every day that I’m honored by a customer who appreciates the true value of my goods! Sir, you are absolutely a connoisseur of valuable ingredients!” The merchant took out more pouches and jars from his enormous bag. “I also have the regular herbs that are more suitable for everyday uses: curious blooms of the highest quality, high-grade pomegranate essence, and some good packages of purifying dust. Do you want to make your purchase?"

Alfyn's head cooled off at the mention of monetary exchange and he realized his purse wasn't exactly full.

"Um…how much?"

"7000 for the Mariolla essence, 5000 for the fireblooms…You know what, 10000 leaves and both are yours!"

"What!"

Alfyn looked at the merchant, mouth agape, and the complete shock he was in made him reflexively loosen his grip on the jar of Mariolla essence, which slowly slipped down to the precipice that was Alfyn's fingers and, with a decisive move, started its accelerated descent onto the ground.

Luckily, before it could reach the destination, a bangled hand got ahold of it just in time.

"There's no way the Mariolla essence is this expensive." Therion held the jar in his hand and looked at the merchant. "You might be able to trick this Riverlands bumpkin, but careful about his company."

"And who the hell are you for Bifelgan's sake?"

"Someone who can tell when a merchant is full of shit." Therion turned his body just enough to reveal the sheath of his sword. "The Mariolla essence was 3000 leaves top."

The merchant's face turned into a bloated tomato, but Therion's next move  surprised both him and Alfyn, who was half expectant that the real price would go down from four digits and was now in a state of deep regret about his years of financial irresponsibility--the thief snatched the pouch of fireblooms from Alfyn and put both items back on the merchant's stand.

"But it's not like this idiot can afford it anyway and I am not paying. So, Godspeed." Therion finished his sentence and started walking away, beckoning to Alfyn to follow with a slight tilt of his head.

Alfyn rushed to catch up and started walking side by side with him, a little crestfallen.

"Awww shucks!!! For a second I just wanted to take them and run away…how are herbs so expensive?" Alfyn complained to Therion.

"You mean this?" Therion produced something out from under his mantle--a small orange flower pinched between his lean fingers.

"Therion!!" Alfyn froze on the spot. A small part of him was ecstatic and wondering whether Therion got the mariolla essence as well, yet the larger part was screaming with a guilty conscience and was begging for Dohter's forgiveness.

"Okay chill, Mr. Goodie-two-shoes. I only took a handful, some just desserts for trying to fleece you…" The thief suddenly shut up, and when he spoke again, the tone was changed into one full of mock and sarcasm. "Are you gonna preach to me the amorality of stealing, Father Greengrass? I wasn't the one who begged to travel with a bottom-feeder, a lowly thief."

An indecipherable look crossed Therion's face under all of his sneer and jeer, and it took Alfyn a few seconds to realize he was probably too accusatory in his tone. His cheeks instantly flamed up, ashamed about his own hypocritical instinct.

"No that was not what I meant! Why do you have to say such horrible things about yourself?"

"Oh? Then pray tell, Mr. Apothecary, what did you mean?" The thief raised high a little pouch, apparently filled with a handful of fireblooms, and shook the pouch challengingly. "Wanna return it to its rightful owner?"

Speed was never Alfyn's strong suit, but yet he managed to grab the wrist that was dangling the pouch, and that made him realize that the thief was not as viciously composed as he looked, or he would have easily dodged the grab.

"What the…let go, Greengrass."

"Listen, Therion…Shucks…I am sorry…I didn't mean to get on the high horse…." Alfyn tried to suppress the struggling hand without hurting the thief, and he tried to reach for the thief's shoulder with another hand and was now easily dodged. Panic rushed through his blood since the last thing he wanted to see was Therion's eyes getting cold as they were now. "It was…very nice of you, for taking a little revenge for me and…heck…I was even wondering whether you got the mariolla essence too since that would be extra handy in our journey…"

His confession seemed to soften Therion a little since the struggling stopped. He took that as a good sign and continued his apology.

"I was just…ashamed of myself for thinking about that…it was like I was thinking of you as a tool, a handy instrument to get what I want for free, and besides, that merchant probably has a family to feed…and I…I took the shame out on you. I know fireblooms mean nothing to a master thief, and you did that solely for my sake. I…am sorry, really."

Something about what he said must have struck the thief, who painfully closed his eyes, as if suddenly haunted by some ghost. And Alfyn was immediately tense, his legs trembling, waiting for a final sentence from the pale-haired judge.

The thief finally reopened his eyes and snorted.

"Hmph. He's well loaded with leaves; don't worry about him."

A silver lining in a dark grey sky.

"You would be too, if you sell your potions and charge clueless people twice the price." Therion added.

"So…are we good?" Alfyn gingerly asked, voice trembling with expectation.

"Will you let go of me already you boor?"

"Not until you say we are good."

"This is getting on my nerves I might stab you."

"I will buy you dried apple chips. Extra dipping. I know you like apples, Therion."

"….What a fancy bribe. Why aren't you a politician already, Greengrass?"

"Whatever you say. Are we good?"

After an entire minute of silence, the thief yelled in defeat.

"OKAY! WE ARE GOOD!"

Alfyn beamed and let go of Therion's wrist; he also handily took away the pouch of fireblooms.

"And I will keep this. Get ready for some finest fire resistance potions."

"Hypocrite."

"Well. I need to adjust my moral standards now that I'm traveling as a henchman for a master thief." Alfyn patted on the shorter man's shoulder and put the fireblooms into his satchel. "Let's go hit the tavern and get some mulled wine. I bet they have some good stuff since they really got decent spices here."

"Hm. Based on what I know, the good stuff they have here is not spiced drinks."

"Oh? What else can a tavern offer?"

The thief again rolled his eyes.

"Alfyn, we are talking about a tavern in a large city."

Alfyn didn't really mind the tone or the large expanse of the white of the eyes, since he noticed the switch from Greengrass to Alfyn again, and never had his own name sounded so musical to his ears.

"C'mon, master thief. Just tell me already."

"Just see for yourself." Therion opened the door to the tavern--and by Dohter's name this was probably the largest building Alfyn had ever seen so far--and there he saw, a large wooden stage in the middle of the tavern. Beautiful lasses wearing nothing but colorful gauzes danced on it, tiny bells on their wrists and ankles jingling as they move. Every table was taken, and customers in all sorts of attires were crowding the space.

"Wow…" Alfyn could simply marvel at the sight.

"Ugh, such a virgin."

"How do you kno--hey! Rude!" The thief chuckled and Alfyn was actually blushing, and he was fanatically trying to find a way to hide his embarrassment.

"Okay! No more laughing! Look at that table, there was only one mister sitting there. We could ask to share." He spotted a hardly occupied table and the one who was occupying it was a man in his thirties. He was wearing a blue tunic with a white cravat around his neck. Although he was sitting, it was obvious that he was almost one head taller than Alfyn. His broad shoulders and bullish build, together with the shoulder guards, the bracers, and the huge sword strapped on his left hip, were all suggesting this was a fierce warrior, and an aura of almost solidified pressure was emanating from him--probably explaining why most customers would rather stand than share the table with him.

Yet there was something about him that was noble and...familiar. His black hair was pulled back neatly and was peppered with grey strands here and there. His stoic square face and heavy eyebrows were seemingly tortured and confused by something unspeakable, and even when drinking at a tavern, he was sitting with a straight back.

But Therion would not agree with his judgment.

"Alfyn. That's a really big fucking sword. We should just stay in the dark corners and avoid unwanted attention. Look, everyone is secretly eying the big guy."

"Aw, come on Therion. It wouldn't hurt. Trust me."

Before Therion could stop him, he grabbed Therion's arm and dragged him through crowds of people to the half-empty table, ignoring Therion's vocal objection.

"Good sir, do you mind sharing the table with me and my pal here? Name's Alfyn. I'm a traveling apothecary."

The man looked at him and gave them a polite nod.

"You are more than welcome, Mr. Alfyn. My name is Berg. A traveler as you are."