“Did she remind you of Arid? She reminded me of Arid. At least, with how she died-“
Even Preston’s ghostly presence visible jumped at Lady Parhelion’s voice. He yawned as he pushed himself upright in the chair. Though his senses were frayed, he could feel the wood of the chair as if it were solid, as if he were truly there. It was a good sign.
“I was thinking about Baumen, not Arid. Baumen, and the zombies we saw today. Some things are a bit too familiar for comfort,” Preston clarified.
Lady Parhelion continued her work at the desk, with Preston sitting at the side. By the melted pool of wax glistening in the candleholder, Preston suspected that she’d be writing for several hours by this point. Even as she spoke, she barely broke stride in her quill’s strokes.
“So you travelled down using Dalot’s Heart, the artifact we’re going to use, and began searching for lieutenants. By Ashell’s stories, these lieutenants supposedly are imbued with fantastic powers which one can obtain by slaying them, and the intent was to return to the surface afterwards to cure the land of the zombie plague. The zombies which… as you say… bleed amber and have parasitic roots?”
“Some do, some don’t.” Preston said, leaning forward to prop his elbow onto the desk. “The zombies on the top of the world were Cthulhu in nature, with tentacles and water parasites. Those down here resemble Baumen’s magic.”
“Mm. I can only guess what that must mean for you.”
Preston rolled his eyes beneath the massive spectacles perched on his face. “Please. I’m not going to get sentimental at a time like this. So what if they’ve got sappy features and if she cried amber.”
“Who cried amber?”
“Cassiel,” Preston said quickly. “Ashell’s tolerable sister.”
“Arid did too.”
Lady Parhelion’s quill stopped for a moment, leaving her staring thoughtfully at the parchment in front of her. Preston waited, unsure of what to say or how to react. A moment later, however, and Lady Parhelion’s hand stretched towards the inkwell, feigning that the pause was unrelated.
“Cassiel’s dead now. No corpse, nothing. You can’t do anything about it, Preston,” Lady Parhelion said. “I’m sorry.”
Preston leaned back in the chair, studying Lady Parhelion. “I’m rather unconcerned with the matter, I assure you. Tai told me to keep the Drifters safe, and she was not one of them. She was the least concerning of our tagalongs, but I would not have considered her an endearing addition to the team.”
“Then why did you shoot the goblin?”
“Reaction. Punishment. In-fighting cannot be allowed at this stage, not among the drifters.”
“And your solution is to incite more violence against your friends?”
“My solution is that if we are bound to fight, then I’d rather have everyone against me than everyone against everyone. The easiest way to unite is through a common enemy, and I will end up in that role anyways so-“
“So that’s your plan then?” Lady Parhelion growled, slamming down the quill. “You’re going to pretend to be the big, bad, demon that everyone hates? You’re going to put a bolt through anyone who does you wrong to ensure you stay hated?”
“Hatred unites far faster than kinship,” Preston said, temper rising. “I know Ashell’s type, I’ve seen her a million times before. If she’s going to lash out for Cassiel’s death, I’ve got nothing to lose by digging myself in deeper here.”
“They’ll kill you, don’t you know that? They’ll kill you, and I won’t have you by my side any longer.”
Lady Parhelion continued staring down at the parchment, blistered hands spread across the paper. Preston spared a glance over at the candle once more, and found that the wax had burnt down nearly an entire inch since he had first woken.
“Ah, so that’s what you’re doing,” he observed, rubbing his eyes beneath his glasses. “You’re burning time on your own end, not mine. Why?”
“Because you need rest,” Lady Parhelion muttered. “And because I don’t want you to play this role. I don’t want you skulking around at night, drawing ire from the others. I want you to be the content soldier, returning home, like you were back in my battalion. No nonsense about being anyone’s enemy, just a normal man doing their job.”
Preston sighed and leaned back in his chair, rolling his head back. “…I’ll be happy when we’re home. When this is sorted out. Until then, let me do what I do best.”
Lady Parhelion clenched her fists, but relented and picked up the quill once more.
“Who’s even to blame in all this?” she asked with a pained laugh. “The gods of this world? The men?”
“I don’t think I can blame anyone who thinks me corrupt, at this point,” Preston said, feeling himself drift off once more. “I’m growing more convinced of it myself.”
“Don’t say that, you’ve saved plenty of people. You must keep hope.”
Preston leaned into the unfamiliar blanket of sleep around him. “And I kill so easily nowadays? Who knew being mad gave such strength. One bolt and death rips away the flesh. Such an easy escape-“
Lady Parhelion’s brow furrowed and she looked over to say something, but Preston was sound asleep once more. In the grey sea of slumber, he found himself sinking further from the paranoia plaguing him, and deeper into something else. Something more familiar.