Darkness seeped from the edges of the armour, wisping away into the dead of night.
He had seen this before.
He had seen this darkness when he had first encountered the Daemonic Spirit, Lark.
These creatures, hollow, were full of something far more insidious. Something dangerous.
How many more Daemonic Spirits were left in the strange otherworldly city?
He immediately fell to his knees, scraping his nails along the harsh metal of the armour, dragging lines through the bloody seal on its back.
You motherf-cker! Die! Leave this place behind, you f-cking scum!
The armour trembled and thrashed as he did so, but slowly, it became limp, and the rest of it crashed to the ground unceremoniously.
He huffed, trying desperately to catch his breath.
He couldn't bear the sight of these creatures. He watched as they wisped away with great pleasure.
I was… correct.
But was this my own intuition, or was my success the result of Lark's Gambit?
Must I rely on that Demon…?
Now, keeled over the armour, Artemis finally came to terms with how much damage he had suffered during the fight. He had been too enamored with the idea of survival by defeating the hollow armour that he had forgotten that he also had to survive after the fact.
Cuts littered his arms, shoulders, and face, and his leg had been torn to shreds by the skeletal beast previously, not to mention that he had suffered the dagger wound to his hand. There was nearly as much blood on the ground as there was water, and considering the makeup of the armour, it was certainly all his own.
Is this really all I can do, rely on the one thing that ruined me…?
And still yet, falter...?
He collapsed into the black water, feeling its cold sting lapping up against his tattered leg. He grimaced, burying his forehead into the ground as he stifled a sob.
There might have been some severe punishment for those who mistook their privileges and shunned them. Maybe that was what he had been experiencing in that moment. But he hadn't been trying to shirk the life of a Royal, he only thought that he would lose it all if they had seen what he had become.
And now, he truly had become a Frail Prince. A weak, broken man lying in the wet soil.
What was Prince-like about him now?
It was likely because he wasn't even the King's real son. He was only some stray dog that had been picked up, taught to obey the real Prince's orders and commands at all costs. And that boy had become his brother, someone he truly considered the most important to him.
But the King had always been sure to have him know he was nothing like that boy, his brother. That was because they did not share the same blood, the same lineage. He had no lineage, he was only here because of Fate.
And because of that cruel, bastard teacher of his, that Fate was bound to be solitary, lest he become the ire of anyone who took notice of his particularly Daemonic nature. Or, at least, the Spirit he harbored.
And a Spirit Contract was signed for life. It wasn't as if he could take it back. If it were possible, Artemis would have done it a thousand times over.
The irony in it all was that he had been brought up fearing Daemonic influence. The Church of Saint Cade and Saint Sonetto were very clear about their teachings regarding Daemonic Spirits. After all, these churches were havens for Spirits to gather, and were often a hub-point for those licensed to Contract with them to find what fitted their needs best. Of course, this was usually due to luck…
But what was certain was that there was never a Daemonic Spirit present, not anywhere near those Churches. They were the sort of things that were said to dwell in ancient, abandoned ruins— in dark, mysterious places that no sort of child should go. They were terrifying bedtime stories, terrible creatures.
And they all had a vile, malicious cost tied into their Contracts.
If Artemis had known this, he never would had gone along with his Teacher's will.
But over time, his fear had become different. It wasn't a fear of being called Demonic in nature, it wasn't the fear of being vilified or hunted as a Beast by any sort of Church. It was the fear that he was truly, slowly becoming the useless Prince.
No matter how much he trained in solitude, how his body grew with age, this never left him.
And it had become far too late for him to go back. He could never return to how things were beyond that day.
Footsteps echoed in the puddles of muddy water as he fell to his hazy contemplation, a lithe silhouette gradually approaching before kneeling down beside him. He felt a warm touch caress his wounds, barely, through their gradually numbing state. Then, there was a cold bite, a sting that seeped deep into the tattered flesh of his leg, then arm, then his side.
Out of the corner of his eye, through the haze, he watched as the vermilion-haired woman scooped up handfuls of the murky black water, spilling it over his wounds.
W-what is she…?
Even his own thoughts fell silent. The roaring wind ceased, the memories of the rainfall on his bedroom window resurfaced. It was calm, peaceful, elucidating.
She stroked her hand through his messy hair, spilling water over the cuts on his forehead and cheek with her other hand. It was cold, bitter, vile. But she was gentle. That made it seem all the more... bearable.
He reached a hand up, weakly, grasping at her wrist. It was thin, almost frail, as if she would break with the slightest touch. A glass woman.
"What-what are you...?"
"What do you mean, Maester? I'm helping you... saving you, as you did I..."
He suddenly felt a sudden sharp pain across the length of his wounds, like tiny needles sinking into his flesh. Glancing up towards his hand, he saw that the gash in his palm had been coated over with a dark-obsidian sheen. Touching against it, it felt tough, firm, and gravelly. The water had… turned to stone…
It was the same for his leg, which had been effectively torn to pieces. Black lines of craggy stone ran across where blood had been spilling, now completely sealing them off. His entire leg was coated with these stones, where the water had bathed over him.
But why? What had caused the water to turn to stone? Would it harm him further?
He felt weak, and the pain was still significant. He was sure his face had grown pale, and the dark circles underneath his eyes were already constant, so they couldn't exactly worsen…
…but he was no longer bleeding out.
He felt some odd, messed-up sense of relief surge through his heart.
Even if the stones were harmful, they were at least helping him in the short term.
She really had helped him, somehow, however she had done so.
"…thank… you…" He muttered, releasing her wrist as he sunk deeper into the puddle, his entire body feeling like it were made of mud. He wanted to stay collapsed, to become one with this soil, just to rest for a moment.
"It's no problem, Maester. I would have done this for anyone, even if they didn't help me first. Well, perhaps not everyone… that is just a saying, I think. I might not help a murderer, or a prissy Lord."
I am certainly… a Prissy Lord…
"Why do you… keep calling me… Maester?"
She tilted her head, uncertain of why he was asking that particular question. There were certainly more important things. "Where I am from, we call all skilled men 'Maester'."
"From the Blackbaast…?"
He had never heard of such a tradition. Was this a Southern trait? He had never really been South of the Capital.
"What is the Blackbaast?"
Artemis's face paled. He let out a slight chuckle, a faint smile placating his earlier expression.
Not… from the Blackbaast? Where then?
Then again, this was an Otherworld from his dreams. What else could be possible? Pretty much anything at all.
He glanced towards her out of the corner of his eye, observing her. She was calm, docile, like a lamb in the midst of a burning barn. But she didn't show any fear over her surroundings like she had when she was being attacked by the wolf-like beast.
What was with the sudden change in her attitude? Was she some sort of crazy person, someone with two sides that would suddenly turn cold and violent when he wasn't paying attention?
"Will you… kill me, if I sleep…?"
The woman shook her head, replying just as quickly. "No, but I will keep other things from killing you. Well… maybe not, I'm not a very good fighter. But I will pretend to watch out for you, if it makes you feel better."
Artemis chuckled, shutting his eyes.
His whole body was wracked with pain.
He could accept such an answer, risk such a thing.
He only wanted to rest.