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—”

quieting and sitting up in the bed. Wordlessly, the Alchemist came to stand before Argrave. He held his hand out, an eyeball forming within his palm once more. His

this, the Alchemist stood 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

low. “I see it now. You descend from that golden serpent. Vasquer. She

remaining stationary. It reminded Argrave of the way a chicken’s head could stay totally still as it moved. After a long while

surprisingly rough, despite being white and smooth-looking. Argrave tried to keep his face firm, but his cheeks were soon squished by an indomitable force—not enough

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

raised his hand up, hesitant to stop the Alchemist. Before he could make up his mind, Argrave was released suddenly, falling back to

furrowed and eyes wide, massaging his

many in the world,” the Alchemist said. “Words

Argrave figured it was a rhetorical question, and so he

Answer,” the Alchemist commanded, and Argrave scrambled

trailed off, before finishing,

to describe them. They render you ambulatory, not words. You walked here. Words, be they on paper or spoken, carry no one

right now, Argrave thought,

a metaphor,” Argrave

was a sign of anger. “Words

a metaphor to disparage metaphors, but he focused

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 understanding—that’s a powerful

groaned once again, a vast mouth on his stomach opening up. Black smoke started to rise up into the high ceiling. He walked to the wall. It parted like burning twigs twisting from a

he was about to experience an elaborate eviction because

all,” the Alchemist said, pure contempt showing on his voice—a rare divergence from the constant apathy. “No different

make the same mistake

plants itself within your mind like a parasite, worming and changing and feeding on the valuable thoughts within. Corrupting.

killer. Harmless, fools say. But in time, the words batter at the mind, until the ‘you’ that once was is only a memory, and your thoughts of the past

go to any lengths to justify their lifestyle, Argrave thought drolly, finding some

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

a long while, doing nothing. Argrave could not relax his vigilance. He

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

Finally, Argrave collapsed back into

the god

the bed. Argrave kept his eyes on her. She reached

was on her fingers. Argrave kept his eyes on that

Argrave said grimly. “Sweating blood. I guess… time to find out if I’d crack under

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