Argrave blinked open his eyes. As he stared at the bloodstained purple blanket before him, mind blank, it took a few seconds to realize he’d just woken up. And not in pain, too—the aching was there, still, but hollower. He was used to being woken up by spikes of pain, so it was a welcome feeling.

He took the rare moment of respite to look around. After Galamon had arrived, the place had become much cleaner—the vampire was absent, now, probably getting food. Anneliese slept peacefully on the couch. Argrave stared off into space for a few seconds, then was reminded that he had no time to rest.

Argrave sat up, retrieving the book he’d been writing his reports on. Some blood had gotten on some pages, but such was life—if the Alchemist gave him flak, he wasn’t sure he’d care anymore. He wrote, passing the time, observing his own body.

It wasn’t his imagination. Though the dull aching was still present like boiling water beneath his skin, the spikes of pain were far less frequent, and infinitely less acute. Enough to sleep through, evidently. He was able to focus on the writing better than he ever had, he found.

After a time, he judged there was nothing more to write. He tapped the writing instrument against his cheek, thinking, then set both the book and the tool down, satisfied with himself. The hunger still gnawed at his stomach, and he looked around.

There was a platter of fruits—they looked like dragon fruits. They were too far to reach. He looked to Anneliese, then opened his mouth. He stopped, furrowing his brows. After a long while of indecision, he scooted quietly over to the bedside.

He wreathed himself in the blanket to cover himself, then slowly rose to his feet. He supported himself cautiously at first, almost afraid to leave the bed, but then rose up, back rigid. He shuffled over, then retrieved one of the fruits. It had been peeled already, and as he ate it, he found it tasted all the sweeter than the day before.

Feeling some joy for the first time in a long while, Argrave walked about the room, careful not to wake Anneliese. Walking brought him immeasurable joy. After a time, he spotted a pile of clothes. They’d been cleaned, he realized. He bent down and retrieved the simple underclothes he wore beneath his enchanted leather gear.

Argrave watched Anneliese to be sure she was asleep, then quietly clothed himself once again. It made him want to cry, strangely—he felt human again. Much of the deformities marring his skin had mostly faded, but he still felt the soreness as the clothes brushed against his skin. He tossed the blanket back on the bed, then let out a long, self-satisfied sigh.

Anneliese stirred at the noise, and Argrave froze. When she lifted her head, locking eyes with him, he relaxed—no point in staying tense if he’d been caught.

“Argrave,” she called out with a slight early-morning slur, quickly moving to stand. “What in the world are you doing?”

“Preparing for an admonishment,” he shrugged.

“Well...” she stood up, laughing slightly. “Then you know as well as I do that you should be back in bed.”

“I’ve got bed sores from laying there for so long. I need to move about, for my mental health if anything. Standing with my back straight on hard rock has never felt so satisfying before,” Argrave looked down.

“You have no bed sores,” Anneliese disagreed, striding up to him. She grabbed him by the shoulders. “Come on.”

“Please, I need to walk about. Gonna go mental,” Argrave pleaded.

She stared at him for a bit, surveying him for damages. Her gaze finished wandering at his eyes, and she let out a long sigh. “Alright. I will come along. Hesitate none in asking for help if things get worse.”

Argrave beamed. “I understand how a dog feels, now, feeling this excited for a simple walk.” Argrave took steady steps towards the threshold.

“Take it slow,” Anneliese called out exasperatedly, then quickly caught up to him.

Argrave felt considerable trepidation, but he pressed onwards as though he didn’t. It felt immeasurably satisfying seeing different sights once again, even if they were the same bleak obsidian walls all around.

Despite feeling a boiling pain within, Argrave felt full of vitality. His steps were easy and quick, and he almost felt the urge to run. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt this good, at least physically. Normally, he’d always feel heavy-stepped and fatigued at all times. Part of that was insomnia—most of that was his body. His old body, that was.

“Think I’ll go and see where they pitched camp outside the place,” Argrave spoke to Anneliese. “Never thought I’d say this, but it’ll be nice to talk to Garm again.”

It took a few seconds for Argrave to notice Anneliese had stopped. He paused, looking back. He said nothing, examining her. Her arms were crossed, and she stared at the ground.

“What is this?” Argrave stepped towards her. He came to stand before her, and still she said nothing. “Come on, spit it out. What did they do?” he demanded.

“Argrave…”

“Asked about them, not about me,” Argrave shook his finger. “Did Garm provoke the Alchemist more? Is he that stupid? I have a hard time believing that,” Argrave shook his head.

She looked trouble, mulling over phrasing in her mind. Argrave tried to be patient, but soon enough that patience vanished.

“Where are they?” Argrave questioned. “Come on. Where are they?”

“They’re… he’s… he’s here,” she couldn’t look up.

“Here? In the Alchemist’s place?” Argrave confirmed, and when Anneliese nodded, he turned away, shaking his head.

After letting out many obscenities, Argrave leaned up against the wall. His brain worked, trying to put together what might’ve happened. Then, as if in epiphany, he lifted his head up. In another second, Argrave took off, walking speedily down the hall.

“Argrave..!” Anneliese called out, chasing after him.

Argrave wound through the complex palace of the Alchemist, passing by and ignoring many rooms. Whether by pure dumb luck or accurate deduction, Argrave entered an open room, striding in and moving his head about.

Durran had been laid across one of the tables. Argrave jogged towards him and grabbed his wrist, firstly—he felt heat, assuaging some of his concerns. He looked around the room for Garm. He saw a large stack of white books, but… other than that, not a single sign.

Argrave leaned in, studying Durran. He reached up and slapped his face, lightly, hoping to rouse him—no response. He heard footsteps behind him and turned around. “What happened to him?” he demanded.

Anneliese walked closer, and said heavily, “Durran will be asleep for some time.”

“Yeah? And I assume this is no nap. Why?” he demanded, trying to keep calm.

“Garm is…” Anneliese looked to the side. “Garm decided to merge his soul with Durran’s.”

Argrave stepped away from Durran, his mouth agape. He didn’t know how to respond to that. His mind ran through old lore that he knew, conjuring things he knew of the matter.

“So they’re… Durran and Garm are…” Argrave looked back at Durran.

Anneliese stepped to another table, then picked up a book. Beneath it was a letter. She handed it to Argrave. “Garm wrote this for you,” she explained. “It’s a…”

Argrave took the letter from her hands, staring at it. His face stayed still for a long while, staring down at that letter without action. His breathing started to get a bit faster… and then he ran for the door, heading for the distant light of the outside.

#####

Durran opened his eyes, seeing the blue sky above. He wiped at his face, trying to wake himself up. He felt the all-too-familiar feel of hot sand beneath him. Sometimes, heat could persist in the black sand of the Burnt Desert all through the night, especially during summer.

But his thoughts caught up to him, and he quickly sat up, realizing the disconnect. He had expected to see endless sand dunes, but instead, he saw an endless field of black roses. His head darted around, taking in his surroundings in a half-panic. The terrain was split in half—on one side, a field of black roses. On the other, dunes of black sand, with wyverns flying all about the sky.

He stood, utterly confused, head darting every which way. Then, he spotted a figure wearing red robes. This man sat on a large rock amidst the field of roses, looking down at Durran.

“Pretty sight, isn’t it?” the man questioned.

Durran sized the man up. He wore luxurious red robes. The sleeves had a strange sewn pattern on them—they looked like a rose’s thorns, and his shoulder pads were a rose’s petals. The man’s hair was brown, slightly wavy. He had a casual and cynical air to him, with bright blue eyes that made a handsome face sharper.

“Your half of this place… a little mediocre, honestly. I can’t say I feel all too sorry for you, though.”

Durran stepped closer. He was starting to realize the voice was familiar.

“Garm?”

“Sharp as a ball, I see,” the man smiled.

“So that’s… what you used to look like,” Durran realized. “Before your run of bad luck.”

Garm spread his arms out. “I was always all there… inside, at least. Feast your eyes on a High Wizard of the Order of the Rose… laid plainly before you.”

Durran said nothing, clicking his tongue as he watched. “Your other look was eye-catching. Now… you’re just a man.”

“Always was, despite what happened,” Garm spat, leaning back.

Durran looked around, sizing up the place. Slowly, he shifted on his feet.

“You said that our souls would fight for dominance,” he said carefully. “This is our arena?”

“Indeed. We stand amidst both of our souls, manifested completely,” Garm nodded.

“Gods above…” Durran looked about. “You say ‘soul fighting,’ I pictured two balls of light wrestling, not… this.” His eyes locked on something standing amidst the sand—a glaive, stabbed into the ground.

“Balls of light—pfft. Still as ignorant as ever about the soul.”

“Whose fault is that?” Durran turned his head back.

“Mine. But it’s not a fault—at least not from where I’m sitting. It’s just an advantage, now. Obscuring information and giving half-truths are what I’m best at when I’ve only a brain and a mouth.”

“And this place…” Durran turned around, staring off into the distance. He could still see wyverns in the distance. The sand dunes seemed to move on endlessly, stretching out like an ocean in a starless sky. Durran could see figures dancing on the edge—vague and indistinguishable, yet simultaneously familiar.

“For some, it’s a reflection of their personality—I’d say mine takes that side of the coin. For others,” Garm pointed out, “It resembles the place which embodies them most. A boring, dry, and hot desert. I suppose it is fitting, in a way.”

Durran snapped back to attention. “The insult means less coming from you with the field black roses. What is that? Some kind of childhood fantasy?” Durran pointed out. “That’s a representation of your personality? Romantic like a rose, but black in the heart? Wilted, battered? Please. Spare me.”

Garm let out a long, dry laugh, and slid down the rock he sat atop. Durran watched as he walked forward.

“I’m getting the inkling I should grab that glaive,” Durran called out, stepping towards it.

“Hmph. Maybe you’re a little sharper than a ball,” Garm admitted.

“So, we’re to fight?” Durran questioned. “No submission, give me the win? That was what we’d planned, anyway.”

“I told you our souls would fight, and that’s the truth. I’m not a fan of suicide, despite what I said. I told you my soul was damaged—who’s to say? Could be a lie. Could be the truth. How would you know? We’ve established I’m a pathological liar… that I can’t be trusted.”

Durran’s jaw clenched. “Was kind of expecting such a thing, frankly. You give off the vibe.”

“Why’d you go through with it, then?” Garm held his hands out.

“A whim. The Alchemist wouldn’t have gone through with this if you fed me lies. Argrave said that monster loathes deception—he’d correct you if you were wrong. I’m sure Argrave wasn’t lying, at least. That means… nothing has changed.”

“A fair point,” Garm conceded.

“So, then…” Durran grabbed the glaive.

“One more thing to take care of, first,” Garm held his hands up.

“No tricks. I know them all,” Durran pulled free the glaive from the sand.

“So paranoid… bastard after my own heart,” Garm shook his head. “Have it your way. Perhaps we can talk as we… take care of things.”

Durran held the glaive at the ready. Garm stared back, blue eyes veritably gleaming.