Chapter Text
Wall.
Wall.
Wall.
Wall.
Splintering.
Dark.
Gloves.
Glass.
The Mask should have never tried to best the lizard.
Should have never tangoed with death even with its desperation for a host. That sweet temptation of having someone strong enough that their mind was beside its own rather than beneath it.
At first it had succeeded. The lizard calm enough and following command as it led the creature out of the facility. The exit point had been layered red, a scar deep into the earth that could hide the facility within those striped walls so easily. It had bid the lizard to climb, and yet the beast hadn't wanted to.
No. It couldn't convince it, each step a struggle, and then, it couldn't control it either and everything went awry.
The Mask became well acquainted with those red and black stripes, slammed into them over, and over, and over, and over. Until it felt something give, and the wave of nausea spiking it to the core seemed to make the lizard falter if only for a moment. Long enough for it to release its hold and fall into a newly developed fissure in the stone. It didn't move. Not for a long while. Because the lizard had felt the crack too. Because the lizard wanted it dead and just kept going, ramming the wall over, and over, and over. The cracks in the stone wall spreading further, spilling sand and debris into the river below.
A loud, angered shriek, and the lizard was off, falling down below as its lower half severed in the efforts of the Foundation to recontain it. Longer, the mask did wait. Until the ringing in its consciousness drowned out the roaring of the beast's mind. Even then, even when it tried, it could not reach out to the minds it could still hear. As though its mental tongue of silver was frozen solid with the gripping realization that it had almost died.
It took hours of the research team that had so eagerly set it upon what it had thought to be its true, final escape to fish him out of the crack in the wall, thickly gloved hands held it far from where corrosive may have dripped upon weak, thin skin that would have given so easily, and simply dropped the Mask into a case of thick glass, leaving it at an angle that had it wedged into a corner, face tilted somewhat downward to look at the bottom of the case, and, eventually, the metal base it was set upon.
With no space now, for that maddening, pain-stopping adrenaline the lizard had nearly drowned it in, the distant ache now became something far more severe. Another spike of that awful nausea, the Mask's frown deepened, porcelain jerking and struggling to unfreeze until it simply gave up on moving it. The corrosive of its eyes lessened in viscosity and pooled at the bottom of the glass case, running along the fresh, deep crack now splitting the porcelain in a fissure that travelled from its left eye over its nose all the way to the top lip on the opposite side.
Disfiguring.
It would heal. Though. It would. It had to, but not for a long time. And certainly not now. Now, it would hurt, and badly at that. A tearing agony like the Mask hadn't felt in a long time.
Another wave of nausea. Hubris, a downfall once again. Anguish, to which the Lord returned.
The cell was dark. The glass was cold. The Mask, frankly, didn't want to be a part of this anymore, and began to drift into dormancy. Maybe. If it was lucky. The Foundation would be dead and gone when it woke up again.
...
...
...
Upon a chair within a fine court - a raised one, at that, a place of grand importance, though it was not a more elevated spot than the Hanged one. Propped more than properly sitting, neck twisted to rest upon one hand of many, all finely decorated in gold and onyx, the Lord did sit a-fore a silenced, wary crowd, the veil of sick shrouding a pale, liquid-oozing face with dark. On occasion, a lower seating would wince as the shallow, wheezing breath of the fourth of four rose into rattling, wracking coughs which destroyed cloth after cloth with the stuff dripping from behind the marking veil. The three others, matching in status and yet far more well, disregarded the one they assumed would perish and, at the peace of death, provide those hungry for power with yet more.
Exhaustion tugged at the Anguished Lord. Encroach did the Hanged one's advisor to pull him further from the imprison'd king upon command. His head lolled back, unpossessing of the strength to keep it held in place, to gaze emptily a'tween a place betwixt two draperies, a gilded clasp keeping the cascading silk in place. Gone were the people, it seemed, all too quickly. The clamor of audience echoing and then leaving the room to bounce back the labored breath of the ail'd aristocrat.
A loud, resonating click as the grand doors opened again. A muddied thought, a half thought. Who would dare encroach upon the Hang'd one's court? Especially after the dispelling of the public? Footsteps, and the Black Lord did force himself to move, returning to his forward hunch with his face solely supported by his own trembling hands, to observe the odd scene of a lower-Court earl leading in the oddest and most foreign of characters.
Their wear was simple, just black on black on black like one of his own peons. And yet he knew not this stranger. The fellow's chosen mask was long, elegant, and sweeping, yet animal, and an extra set of appendages that hardly seemed to be any more than decoration were kept back by the cheapest, ugliest looking wooden clip he had ever seen.
A walking contradiction. An odd contradiction was the Stranger. Every mark of nobility doubled back to clash with one of poverty. Perhaps it was some new fashion? Were it so, it should be one the ailed one did not understand in the least.
The one of lower Court came forward, bowing deeply before hurrying to whisper something to the Advisor whom, in turn, passed word to the King. A moment of silence, the air within the court oppressively heavy, and then words from the Hang'd one came through his advisory proxy.
"Thou art a heal'r?" the Common Language? Then the newcomer must have been low class. So why the palpable sense of decorum? Not that the Black Lord had such energy to question all that much, even if this was, by far, the most oddly entertaining thing he'd witnessed in a good while.
The Stranger seemed confused, and looked to the earl, "Thy sayeth translat'r? Where is?" The accent the newcomer spoke in was so thick the Anguished Lord could barely understand it, and yet, thick as it was, he could not hope to place it, either.
"I shalt translateth," the Advisor claimed tiredly, "Answer whatfor my king doth inquireth"
"Ah," the Stranger realized, and then a flurry of an odd language the ailed one, most decidedly did not know nor had heard anyone within the vast, sprawling empire of Alagadda use even once. "Parlez-vous français? Bon! Oui! J'ai été sollicité ici par celui-ci. Je ne sais pas ce que j'ai fait. Certainement rien de mal. Je suis ici pour... pour... poursuivre mes recherches. Oui!"
The Advisor was quiet, and leaned over towards the Hanged King, murmuring quietly before speaking once more. "Speaketh Common, prithee. Yond one thy hath used is't nigh practic'd 'ere."
The stranger tilted his head, then turned on the earl, clearly displeased. "Thy sayeth some-one translateth?"
"Aye, from Common to our language."
"English? Nay, non I sayeth French. Ask-ed about French."
"Of that I knoweth not."
The stranger huffed in exasperation, the odd, seemingly furred 'scales' the extra appendages on his back were made of raising like an animal's hair standing on end (feathers... The Mask knew that now. They'd been feathers. Awfully pretty ones, at that. Iridescent and a little translucent near the tips Twin voids with touches of greens, purples, and blues). What an intriguing foreigner this was, somehow having the audacity to be stand-offish with someone of an obviously higher seating, "I hath much ado with what language this is, still. tis... tis... compliqué. Und'rstand, aye?"
The advisor didn't respond to the question, instead reiterating, "I ask'd of thee... If thy wert a heal'r."
The stranger looked over at the earl again, who, at this point, likely having realized that whatever inconvenience this stranger caused at such a late hour would result in their head on the chopping block for bringing along a false positive, immediately began desperately trying to rephrase the Advisor's statement into something that could be understood by this languageless creature.
"A heal'r? A medic?"
Silence, the foreigner's eyes flicking away towards the Advisor, and then back to the earl as though certain that the fellow was completely insane.
The earl grew more panicked. "The must knoweth what something is. Come hither and verily hark, Doth thou know'st clinician? Practition'r? Doct'r?"
The Stranger's eyes lit up, then, with recognition. "Aye, I am a doct'r!"
More whispering , and then, speaking for the Hanged one once more, the Advisor continued. "Valorous," they hissed impatiently, pointing towards the King's binds, "Fixeth thy rul'r, then. Thee shouldst hath from the starteth. Wend 'long"
The Stanger seemed confused, "But yond. Yond ist did-stick. I am a doct'r. We doth not cureth did-stick. Yond is f'r a... a... a serrurier."
"Then why art thou herest?"
A shrug, and a nod over to the earl, "That gent telleth me 'come hither and go along'" the stranger tapped his mask in consideration, "I hast a... a thing to doeth. More surg'ry, thee concure? I might wend?"
"... Cashier'd." The Advisor murmured, holding a hand up as the earl turned and began briskly striding towards the door. "Not thee."
The stranger, meanwhile, bowed and began to round the table to make a far less direct trip to the door, then paused, face going blank and swaying just a bit as though on the verge of some sort of trance. Then the foreigner turned, looking the Anguished Lord directly in the eye and stated simply "Thou art... art sick."
No prompting to speak. No formal permission. It took the ailed one aback, and the other nobles, seemingly curious as to how the weakened high-seat could possibly manage to handle this. "...Aye?" the Black Lord agreed simply, not willing to expend the energy it would take to make an example of the stranger when no one was there to witness it.
"Well then thee shalt do none but cometh with me," the foreigner decided, confidently walking right up to the ailed one's chair, and sticking out a hand, "Cometh anon, aye? this shalt cureth"
Taken somewhat aback, still - after all, disregarding the status of an earl was understandable, but the fourth of four humors? This foreigner was either stupid, crazy, or using far too many drugs. In any instance, the so called 'doctor' was by far not someone he trusted to be permissed a hand in fixing his current condition. By the King, for all he knew the Stranger would do little more than beat him the rest of the way to death with a dirty shoe the moment he was out of the grand court. "I shalt waiteth. Methinks. To becometh bett'r," the Anguished Lord heaved between shallow gasps for air.
"Nay, nay. Not a sage idea. Tis le Peste. Thee und'rstandeth? thou art sick"
"I-" the ailed one broke off into wracking coughs, doubling over some in his chair. It took the Lord a good while to recover. "I shouldst not. Thee might cureth someone else. Wend forth."
Without so much as skipping a beat, the Stranger waved off the protest and took the wooden clip off of his extra pair of appendages which fell most awkwardly out to the sides before straightening a little and suddenly snapping back and forward again like the wings of an insect, carrying the foreigner off of the ground and closing the distance upward to perch upon the arm of the great chair. That odd, elongated mask came yet closer, the wearer seemingly unawares of the blatant invasion of a far higher seat than where the 'doctor' belonged. The Anguished Lord, by all means, should have been offended. In reality, he didn't know what to think. This, to be fair, was not by any means a common occurrence, and a part of him very much wanted to see where it went. Not to mention that it was rather nice being so close to someone, after the progressing illness had pushed him farther and farther away for such a long time.
"Ah. I seeth!" the Stranger exclaimed suddenly, "Thy art so sick, thee can-not standeth! Fret ye not, oh most wondrous gentle. I shalt carryeth thee! Come hith'r"
"Begone, foreign'r," the Advisor warned, "or we shall beest forc'd to-"
"Thee doth not cureth. Pray tell what dost thy knoweth?" The stranger interrupted, clearly peeved, fluffy bug-wingish things shimmied a little, then flared outward, fluffing up again. The tip of one brushed one of the Anguished Lord's many arms. It was quite soft. Pleasantly so, in fact. "This- this gent? needeth aid, thou art nay doct'r. Thee doth not knoweth language. Und'rstand m're and closeth ye art that jabb'ring thing ye speaketh from"
Silence of a court shocked still. Disregarding the Advisor was practically - no, it was treason. To lack so much regard for they whom spoke his majesty's words. To think, that such a creature lacking in anything notably remarkable beyond the odd manner of speaking - a sculpted frown twitched rather oddly, why was it doing that? It was meant to be affixed to anguish, as was the burden bore by the fourth Lord of the court- the simple fact of it was... was... something beyond entertaining, to be sure. The Black Lord had no word for it, and yet did so a feeling. One that soon had his shoulders shaking not with a cough, but a laugh so lacking in cruel irony his fellow three did turn their wide eyed, appalled stares to him.
It lasted not long, only a few seconds at most before it turned into coughing, but it left the ailed one without anguish even with the rib-wracking hacking. Meanwhile, the Advisor had recovered enough to speak the king's words once again.
"t is not w'rd from me, but from his most wondrous majesty. Halt this odd insurgency betimes and leaveth h're! Thou art welcometh nay longeth'r"
"Learneth what a french is and what we doeth to kings, and mayhap thee shalt findeth where I carest," the Stranger shot back, putting a hand on the back of the Black Lord and trying to urge him out of his seat, "Cometh anon, gentle sir, we maketh haste bef're ailment goeth round"
Electing to help this odd fellow avoid the oncoming wrath of a insurgenc'd council, the Black Lord slowly began to stand, assisted some by the wild, uncoordinated fluttering of the malformed insect-wing things of the foreigners as an attempt was made to push him up more quickly "Halcyon yourself, thee insane dram sir. I'll hum'r thy ramblings," he assured before switching into the language of the High Court to assure the rest that he'd merely get this odd, endearing little pest out of the building.
The going was slow. The Anguished Lord's steps shaky as they'd been for some time by now, and his struggle to simply breathe certainly not helping the situation. The Stranger, meanwhile, did appear to be trying to assist, but seemed uncertain about which set of limbs ought to be supported, finally figuring out what to hold somewhat near the door.
The outside air was cold and still, and the ailed noble quickly turned to go back inside and leave the odd 'doctor' to their business, only to discover that two of his wrists were soundly trapped in the strangers grip. "I canst standeth fine. Thee wilt alloweth me wend. "
The foreigner shook his head and continued to try and lead the Black Lord away from the court much to his dismay as he swiftly realized that this stranger was far stronger than initially let on. "oh. Nay, gentle sir!" The Stranger said "thee wilt be did-cure! thee shall. Cometh 'long. Cometh 'long. This way. "
The Anguished Lord pulled back while the foreigner pulled forward, many hands eventually scraping across the pavement as sickness-weakened muscles gave to the deceptively strong creature opposing them. Bit by bit, meter by aching meter, the ailed one was dragged away from the door and into a somewhat secluded alleyway nearby where the stranger froze for a moment, looking off into nothing for a split second before, suddenly, a peasant with twisted, strange limbs and many mouths rounded the corner with a bag and what appeared to be a cane which was handed to the Stranger.
The cane was closer now, a cursory glance over revealing the odd, shimmering off-ness of it. A Wand for what he could only assume was a Wands-man. He'd never payed them much mind. In fact, until now, he'd never met one. The strange, otherworldly creatures were a problem for the poor. He knew they were dangerous, though, and that much concerned the weakened noble enough that his struggle to escape that odd, vice grip renewed. The muscle didn't even give. As though the bones themselves were locked into place.
What in the name of the King had he gotten himself into?
The Stranger, who by now had used those odd not-quite-insect-ish wings to cone to eye level with the Black Lord who had barely realized he'd been released. "Hm. Bigg'r amnestic, aye? still moving, still moving, such ado! Constance! I am wanteth the poke! bestow t! bestow t!"
The foreigner landed, taking an empty syringe and jabbing it into his own arm, pulling out a dark, viscous substance not unlike the ooze of sick the Anguish Lord secreted. "Holdeth still," the Stranger insisted, brandishing the needle and backing the weakened Lord into the dead end of the alleyway.
Stand ho! You Crazy bastard! Stand ho!" The weakened Lord shouted, catching the wrist with the held syringe and keeping it pushed off in spite of trembling, protesting muscles.
He should have known that that strange audacity was only a warning sign of something far more dangerous. He knew not how long his resistance dragged, only that his grip was broken by the malformed peasant the Stranger had employed, "What is this insurgency? Stand ho this anon! keepeth thy insanity hence! begone from me!"
By all means, he should have been capable of fending off these two lesser beings. Plagued though he was, the Black Lord was still of a higher seat - hence a higher power than these smallish, feeble-looking things. The malformed peasant held fast, though, and the Angush lord was able to get a good, long look at the fresh surgical scars marring a pallid, almost deathly pale face before the Wandsman pushed in the plunger of the black blood-filled syringe and everything seemed to fade into a frigid, dark nothing, his awareness chasing behind the rest of him until that, too, was gone.
When he finally returned to the world of the living - far more literally than he would have liked, the Anguished Lord was somewhat splayed on a pile of thin, white blankets far more befitting of a hospital than an alleyway. He was certain he was dead, still. He didn't know what was in that syringe, but it MUST have killed him.
"Oh! valorous m'rning, gentle sir! thou art did cure! con-gra-du-lation!"
The Anguished lord flinched, looking up with a wild adrenaline flowing through him. "Thee... What didst thee doeth to me?"
The stranger's head tilted, the being remaining, unmoving from where he sat perched upon a nearby stair, "Thou art did cure! Tis val-o-rous, nay? Thee feeleth um... um.... Bien?"
The Black Lord's brow furrowed preemptively, bracing for that dull everywhere-ache he'd grown so used to, only to be met with... Nothing.... He was able to get up again without issue, a new, vital energy flowing through his very core. "oh. "
"Ta-da! I sayeth I am doct'r," said the Wandsman, cheerfully. I doeth a cureth. Tis valorous cureth, aye? most effective!"
"I... Supposeth so. I hath not felt liketh this in so longe. "
Seemingly encouraged by the Lord's lack of hostility, the Wandsman came down, close enough that a sof wing brushed against one of the cured noble's many arms "you didst panic. So I stayeth to checketh. Thou art well now anon?"
Frankly, the whole soft appendage thing was terribly distracting. Perhaps it was a tactical thing to get people to agree to that odd cure more easily. "Fine, I... Bloody King! Thee can't wend 'round doing yond to people without telling those folk first thee crazy bastard!"
"I sayeth I cureth the sick?"
"I supposeth. Wherefore thee not cometh inside? I'll payeth thee for thy service. "
"No timeth! Nay timeth! I might not but maketh haste. So much is sick with pestilence. "
"well, still I-" the Anguished Lord never got yo finish, the Wandsman picking up his stick and simply vanishing without a trace.
Such an odd creature. An anomaly. He missed the fucker already.