After Party

“Hello, rulai.” Champion clears his throat awkwardly, shifting the arm draped over his face. “Ah, I do not think you can actually hear me, now, but… I don’t know. You have the far seeing eye, thing, the scrying marble, and there is always a chance you could be… anyway.” He sighs, loudly. Almost like praying, he thinks, speaking to someone and hoping they’re listening… ugh. “I hope you are listening,” he adds quietly.

There is a long, quiet moment, where the only sounds come from the soft rustling of the blanket beneath Champion, his slow even breathing, and the occasional creak of the conjured house settling.

“I love you, you know,” he says, finally. “I think I do, anyway. I’m not- you know, very good at this. Loving people.” His left arm raises, gesturing to emphasis his point, light glinting off the silver ring around his finger. A universal symbol.

“I didn’t… I’m sorry. I think I’m sorry. I don’t think you’re okay right now- I found your trident, by the way, it was in the bag of holding. I hope I can get that back to you. I know you have- a lot, to do with people leaving you behind, and that… gods, prekork axle dosth-!” he snarls, throwing his other arm over his head, rolling his body over and curling in with the movement. His hands now covering his face, scars on his arms and horns aligning as he gathers his words again.

“Rulai, little one, you are… I’m sorry. You weren’t supposed to be left behind. It wasn’t… agraibai Vilaigvl, it wasn’t even something I did, it just… gods.” Again, he sighs, this soliloquy taking it’s toll, forcing him to stop and reconsider every other word he says, not helped by the fact he clearly isn’t sure of what he wants to say. Again, he speaks, “This isn’t what was supposed to happen. You are worth more than it may seem, and I hope you know that. You, little one, rekisulai, are my friend. I don’t know if that means anything to you, anymore, but- it’s true. It is so true, rulai, I wish that I could show you the depth to which this thing is true, but instead I have shown that you don’t matter, that you are to be left behind, my gods-!” he yells, throwing himself upright on the bed and slamming his fists ineffectually into the mattress, letting his hair fall to hide his face from where it slipped its knot. “I wish they hadn’t followed me,” he whispers, so quiet that he himself can barely hear the words. “It shouldn’t- I could do this alone. I would be fine, I am the champion of gods, I can talk my way into or out of anything this stupid fucking plane throws at me, I am alright working by myself, I am the one interfacing with people anyway, and you-“ he cuts himself off, taking a deep breath before continuing, “… you, rulai, need your friends around you. I am sorry. I am so sorry, we are here and you are there, because of the- the gods I have chosen. This is not your fault, Koru, rekisulai, you are not to blame for this.”

He laughs bitterly, tilting his head back. “I am, if anything.”

Champion’s eyes close, his face falling flat as his body very deliberately stills, feigning relaxation. Eventually, his head drops to his chest, his arms leverage his body upwards, and he begins removing the last vestiges of the Gala from his self. First come off the shoes, toed off at the heel and carefully stepped out of, left in the middle of the floor. Then the hair, his hands moving up to the half done knot at the back of his head, fussing with the ties and pins and twists now tangled together. He is so tired, and it would be easy to get angry, to begin tearing at the strands that won’t come undone, the tangles and knots and little snags holding the whole rats nest together, but as his fingers tease at each point he is reminded of how his mother taught him this— how to take his hair that he never wanted cut, how to lift it away from his neck and shoulders, to keep it out of his eyes; different twists, simple braids that when put together looked very complicated indeed, when to use different ties— and he finds that the anger doesn’t come. It ripples at the edges of his mind, offering its services, like a friend that thinks they know better, but it doesn’t boil over, doesn’t push. He runs his hands along the different strands, the locks of hair that he knows can be undone, and in doing so runs his mind through all the times he had help with this. Instead of becoming overwhelmed with frustration, Champion remembers every time he has been loved, and lets his hands wander with the patience of Memory.

Finally, (finally,) the tangles in his hair get to a point where he could brush them out, and he lets them tumble down his back. He begins undoing the decorative corset of his dress, pulling at the laces to get it over his hips, getting to the point where the dress starts to slide off his shoulders before remembering— this is what he wore. He doesn’t have his tunic on, nor his comfortable leggings, or his coat. He spins, wracking his brain as he stalks to the bag of holding, trying to remember if he stored his clothes conveniently within or if he’d have to sleep in this fucking tattered mess, and nearly falls face first when the hem dips below his feet, tripping him.

For an instant, the world is loud— the rustle of fabric, the whistle of air, the thud of his bones as he hits the floor— and then all at once, it is quiet again, only the harsh sound of his breathing to give a sense of time. He stares at the floor, mere inches from his face, right hand in his periphery as he struggles to take control of his brain. A deep breath, then another, and another, until his legs slide underneath him and he stands, carefully and all at once, making sure not to let his gown get underneath him again. Another breath, and another, hold it. Let it out, slowly, one, two, three, four… that’s right. He visibly steels himself, before opening his eyes and carefully picking his way towards where he left the bag of holding. He stares at it. Deep breath, in and out, in and out, then he closes his eyes and his hand darts inside, image of his heavy black coat clear as crystal in his mind.

Nothing comes out.

Champion is a sorcerer, yes. This is a creature of magic, of trickery and lies and bright smiles, of telling people what they want to hear. He is not a stupid man; he’s not a man at all. He is also, however, a barbarian. He follows many gods, one of which is simply angry. There is a place deep in his heart, his mind, that is always asking him to give in; this is the part he taps in battle, in a rage. He is so, so angry, and it is very easy for fear and anxiety to swirl and mix with the little voice that whispers in his mind, break it, break them, it’s what they deserve, make them suffer, and very, very difficult to hold himself, to prevent his mouth from opening and letting his lungs push air through his throat in a scream that could melt glass, to hold his hand still even as it itches to rip and rend and tear at the magic of the bag for failing to provide, at the fabric his mother so lovingly stitched for leaving him exposed, at his skin and face and arms for the crime of being part of him— instead, he runs his tongue over the sharp planes of his mouth, carefully feigning relaxation as his eyes burn a hole in the wall.

A deep breath. Another. And another. Again, and again, until he can stand, slowly, carefully, each movement precise and controlled, until he can stand and slip the dress over his legs, leaving him in his underthings, until he can pick his way to the bed and lift the covers back, gesturing as the lights of the room extinguish themselves.

And then, in the dark of the room, a pillow muffled scream. Then nothing.