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—”

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

there, as still and shiny as a nightstand lamp. Argrave stayed silent, doing his best to make even

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

of the way a chicken’s head could stay totally still as it moved. After a long while where Argrave cast uncertain glances at Anneliese, the Alchemist finally

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

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

hesitant to stop the Alchemist. Before he could make up

with brows furrowed and eyes wide,

Alchemist said. “Words fail half the time.

room for a while. Argrave figured it was a rhetorical

thinking. Answer,” the Alchemist commanded, and Argrave

Argrave trailed off, before finishing, “…got

connected to a brain by systems so complex your words fail to describe them. They render you ambulatory, not words. You walked here. Words, be they on

need this right now, Argrave thought, brain dancing

a metaphor,” Argrave

a sign of anger. “Words are a veneer—metaphor

the irony that the Alchemist had used a metaphor to

the titan looming above his bed. “Words are

smoke started to rise up into the high ceiling. He walked

he was about to experience an elaborate eviction because he lost a debate he didn’t

the constant apathy. “No different from assault. Why must I suffer your thoughts? I have my

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

“Talking is an assault. Yet it is the strangest form of assault, doing no genuine harm. The spoken word plants itself within your mind like a parasite, worming and changing and feeding on the valuable thoughts within. Corrupting. Morphing. Violating

insidious killer. Harmless, fools say. But in time, the words batter at the mind, until the ‘you’ that once was is only a

to justify their lifestyle, Argrave thought drolly, finding some amusement amidst the tense atmosphere and pain wracking his

each other, spite in their

doing nothing. Argrave could not relax his vigilance. He sat there, alert and awake,

another word, the Alchemist turned and walked out of the room. Argrave

Finally, Argrave collapsed back into the

the god

bed. Argrave kept his eyes on her. She reached out, then touched the back of

pulled her hand away, blood was on her fingers. Argrave kept his eyes on that

grimly. “Sweating blood. I guess… time to find out if

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