Jackal Among Snakes

“Garm mouthed off to the Alchemist?” Argrave questioned while rubbing his chest, taking deliberate and heavy breaths. Anneliese had placed some accommodations in the room—the end of the bed had a chair to accommodate Argrave’s dangling feet, and she had placed a large couch just beside the bed for herself. In addition, some food was ready and stocked.

The pain was beginning in earnest. It was a constant dull ache, rising ever upwards in intensity. It had been manageable at first—ignorable, even. But it kept growing and growing, becoming all-consuming. It reminded Argrave, strangely enough, of having eaten something incomprehensibly spicy. The pain appeared tame for a time—half a minute, maybe. But the fire would keep growing, consuming one’s throat, one’s mouth, with such a steady pace that the moment seemed to last forever.

Unlike a hot pepper’s spice, there was no respite from this pain. No milk, nothing to offer temporary relief. It was just an ache rising ever higher, like a room slowly flooding. The worst part was that Argrave saw no ceiling in sight—it stood to keep growing, eating away more and more at all other sensations. The uncertainty bred nervousness, fear.

A month of this, Argrave told himself mentally. This is nothing. First step on the stair. Gotta be better.

“…and so they refuse to enter,” Anneliese said.

Argrave looked at her, realizing she’d been talking while he’d been lost in thought. “Sorry, got lost in my own world,” he confessed.

“They ran into the Alchemist, and he told them to get out of their sight after some words,” she summarized what she had said quickly. “Now, they fear retribution, so they stay far from the castle.”

A stab of pain seized Argrave’s head, and he inhaled through clenched teeth, veritably hissing.

“Useless imbeciles,” he said loudly, his own voice echoing in his head. “What good are they?”

Anneliese looked off to the side, saying nothing.

“Damn it all,” Argrave cursed. “No… they’re not imbeciles. Pain… pain makes your irritable. Forget what I said.” The stabbing subsided in his head, and once it did, he interrogated further, “What the hell did they say to the man?”

“They avoided the subject,” Anneliese crossed her arms.

“Christ. I might be pissing blood soon, and they’re playing about with our local twenty-foot-tall psychopath!” Argrave stroked his head, his shouting making his headache worse. “I can’t catch a break? Even now?!”

Anneliese stared at him patiently. “Is there anything you need?”

“Yeah,” Argrave nodded. “Choke me until I’m unconscious, see you tomorrow,” he gave a salute.

She lowered her head, unamused by his joke.

“I’m sorry,” he apologized. “Maybe you… maybe you shouldn’t be here. I’m just going to be a moody prick for days on end. No one deserves to be subject to that, least of all…” he shook his head. “Just go, join Galamon.”

“I made up my mind, Argrave,” she said simply without a moment’s hesitation. “You expect me to leave you to fend for yourself? Could you? We know not how bad this will get,” she pointed out.

“But—”

and sitting up in the bed. Wordlessly, the Alchemist came to stand before Argrave. He held his hand out, an

there, as still and shiny as a nightstand lamp. Argrave stayed silent, doing his best to make even his breathing quiet as he waited for whatever the

it now. You descend from that golden serpent. Vasquer. She had a union

walk around the bed, hand remaining stationary. It reminded Argrave of the way a chicken’s head could stay totally still as it moved. After a long while where Argrave cast uncertain glances at

smooth-looking. Argrave tried to keep his face firm, but his cheeks were soon squished by an indomitable

towards the bed, her expression morphed by surprise. She looked

in your face—signs of non-stop chatter, laughter, smiles,” the Alchemist noted. Argrave felt some strain on his neck as he was lifted upwards somewhat. He raised his hand up, hesitant to stop the Alchemist. Before he could make up his mind, Argrave was released suddenly, falling back to the bed. “Every time I listen to this room, I hear your babbling. Inane complaints. Witticisms. Delusions of grandeur made grander by

stared indignantly with brows furrowed and eyes wide, massaging

words—there are too many in the world,” the Alchemist said. “Words

figured it was

Alchemist commanded, and Argrave scrambled in

trailed off, before finishing, “…got me

a brain by systems so complex your words fail to describe them. They render you ambulatory, not

Argrave thought, brain dancing to

metaphor,”

it was a sign of anger. “Words

the irony that the Alchemist had used a metaphor to disparage metaphors, but he focused on what

up Argrave’s arm, and he winced, but kept his thoughts focused on the titan looming above his bed. “Words are the best way for the common and the grand to understand each other’s thoughts. And universal

Black smoke started to rise up into

worry that he was about to experience an elaborate eviction because he

rare divergence from the constant apathy.

to make the same mistake as last time, Argrave answered,

spoken word plants itself within your mind like a parasite, worming and changing and feeding on the valuable thoughts within. Corrupting. Morphing. Violating the sanctity, the purity,

killer. Harmless, fools say. But in time, the words batter at the mind, until

any lengths to justify their lifestyle, Argrave thought drolly, finding some amusement amidst the

time for words has passed, and mindless hordes charge each other, spite in their gut… everything blends into the song of war, and

there for a long while, doing nothing.

of the room. Argrave stared at the threshold like the man might reemerge at

collapsed back into

god

bed. Argrave kept his eyes on her.

was on her fingers. Argrave kept his eyes on that

“Sweating blood. I guess… time to find

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