6 Zenozarax II (Warrior)

20.01.2024

The Edge of the Universe. Hidden well beyond any curious eyes, lost within the eternal darkness in between the stars. In the limitedly known infinity of this universe, it was a place that came the closest to the place Zenozarax once, countless mortal lifetimes ago, had called his home.

But where the thought of Mezchinhar spawned vile hatred in his guts, returning here now he felt nothing but relife.

His body ached. The skin on his arms still burned and his back was hurting badly. He felt exhausted. Only the tactical choice of dark clothing hid most of the dark staines now soiling his robe and cloak. A quick scrub had cleared most of it from his face and hands, but he hadn’t been as thorough as he should have been. He felt too tired to walk, but he also felt too tired to attempt another portal or worse a teleport — and since only one of those options didn’t bear the chance of him accidentally jettisoning himself out into space, he walked.

Those he passed on his way didn’t speak to him. The people here didn’t fear him, but they knew him well enough that they could read clearly in his face that he wasn’t in the mood for idle chit chat and especially not pointless comments nor platitudes.

The doors to his quarters opened as he approached and first when they closed behind him he allowed himself a sigh. The lights were turned on, embracing the large room in a warm glow, and he was greeted with the enchanting glimmer of the splendour around him. The light reflected on polished ornaments and shimmered on the masterfully woven tapestry and drapes flowing like colourful water from the walls. Silver waves lined the ceiling’s edges, fading into the sparkling darkness of space far away. There was too much of everything, and his eyes rejoiced in the comfort this place conveyed. A familiar sense of safety.

The many mirrors scattered around the room just confirmed his sorry state of appearance, but for once, for now, he dismissed it as he approached the sprawling bed. The relief settled firmly in his heart.

Zenozarax smiled lightly as he sat down at the side of the bed. He was dirty and bloody and the first thing he should have done was get a bath and change into clean clothing. Instead he was leaving dust, dirt and crumps of dried, black blood on the spotless sheets. Ravalor wouldn’t like seeing him like this, the more Zenozarax felt it necessary that he did.

There was a weak sense of irony in the thought that especially here, between the copious amounts of rich pillows and ornate blankets Ravalor looked the most lost and so terribly out of place. Sleeping the way he always did, flat on his back, as if barred for his own funeral. At least — it would look so for any human. For him and any other wizard it was the opposite. Because it was the way they came into time. The pose each of them had been in when they first opened their eyes, laying flat on their back on cold metal and glowing magic, staring into too bright lights, before hearing their own name for the first time. Zenozarax couldn’t stand it, as it did always remind him of Mezchinhar, but to Ravalor it must still be comforting. A longing for the clarity and comfort of the prescribed life inside those cold walls. A longing for order.

Zenozarax raised his hands and shoved some of the hair from the sleeping wizard’s face. It was so long, much longer than he had ever worn it before. Once upon a time Ravalor had scoffed at anything much longer than shoulder length as impractical at best. Since their hair didn’t naturally grow longer unless they wanted it to, wearing it this long was a very deliberate choice and so he wondered if it was just this Part of Ravalor that didn’t mind, or if it was just yet another reminder that Ravalor too had changed.

Ravalor stirred lightly. Sighed. His eyelids fluttered for a moment, almost hiding the light gleam in his eyes before they turned black. Just his subconscious mind struggling to accept that he was to wake up before he was able to synchronise his memories with the rest of himself.

“You’re back—” Ravalor mumbled, quite obviously not wanting to be fully awake yet.

“And you’re still here.” Zenozarax pulled his hand back, “How are you?”

“Good.” Another drowsy mumble, telling a lie in hope that one day it might be true. Slowly Ravalor seemed more awake, meeting his eyes, dragging himself up just a bit, sitting halfway against the pillows. He still looked tired.

In turn Zenozarax saw Ravalor’s eyes muster him, his dreadful appearance, the state of disarray of his usually pompous image. And they lingered where he knew he spotted the dark traces of blood even against the dark clothes. Probably he even smelled it. The scent of dead magic and burned izthra.

There was a sense of numb pain in Ravalors eyes. A quiet but dreadful acceptance. Zenozarax knew he wasn’t approving of what he did, he never would because he couldn’t. No matter how much he’d explain it, be it necessity or vengeance, and no matter how practically dispositioned Ravalor himself was, he was still fundamentally good. And kind.

And he would always be. No matter how much Zenozarax needed him, he would never be able to change that. Nor would he even want to.

And he knew that Ravalor was only here because he no longer believed himself to be good. Doubting his own heart that had been broken under the pressure of guilt and grief. Now it was up to Zenozarax of all people to remind him of the contrary. He felt obligated to, because the wizard more important to him than anything else in the multiverse was hurting, even though should he be successful, he knew Ravalor could not stay with him. The thought alone tore him apart.

“How many?”

“Ravalor—”

“Tell me.”

“There were only three wizards,’’ he said calmly. “They were overseeing a mining operation. We took their Parts. Not their lives,” he stressed, but Ravalor stayed quiet, looking down and away from him. Maybe it didn’t even make a difference to him. He only heard what he needed to hear. Zenozarax was still out there, killing wizards.

Now that he was here, they would be slowly but surely working towards the inevitable realisation of the fact that Ravalor still, may it be stubbornness or in willful ignorance, didn’t seem to fully accept that he, Zenozarax, wasn’t good. Not in the orderly world Ravalor had accepted as true, not in his perception of good and evil. After all that had happened, not even in Zenozarax’ own anymore.

And he would always be that. His own consciousness was burdened with the death of too many. There was no way of taking that away. It would always be a part of him. No matter how much Ravalor needed him in turn, Ravalor would never be able to change that.

Even though he’d want to.

Ravalor’s eyes fell on Zenozarax’ hands, still not looking him in the eyes, and after a brief moment he reached out. Taking his left, gloved hand, slow and gently, and yet Zenozarax flinched back at the touch against the sore skin under the glove’s fabric. But just for a moment.

“Does it hurt you?” Ravalor asked quietly, his fingers hovering just barely over the clear visible bright lines of the ancient marking on Zenozarax’ exposed wrist. There the damage was visible where the intense magic had burned through and scorched through his skin. It would heal again, fade away eventually if he stopped channelling chaos for a while.

“Yes,” he answered truthfully, fully taken by the tension of Ravalor’s fingers so close to the danger he embodied to him.

“Why do you let it?”

Zenozarax stayed quiet for a moment. “I don’t know.” he finally answered, but wasn’t sure that was quite true. He didn’t have to feel the pain, that was true, it was quite possible to achieve. But he never even considered it. Because each time he felt the magic setting his nerves aflame and the pain exploded from his hands up his elbows and drawing all the way to his shoulders — when that chaos barrier tore through him, or when he saw the light in a wizard’s eyes vanish and the gaze turn dark — he needed to feel it. Once it carried a sense of purpose, marking one more step towards his goal. Now it was something else. The pain was agonising — but he couldn’t bear the thought of not feeling anything at all.

He didn’t know how to actually explain all that to Ravalor. “I guess it makes me feel like I’m winning.” he said instead, a false smile on his lips.

“Are you?” Ravalor looked up at him. “Can you?”

Would it have stayed at the first question Zenozarax might have considered a lighthearted answer, but at the added second one he swallowed it and the smile vanished from his face. Because Ravalor just looked at him, and even though the faint expression of being lost never left the young face, he asked in earnest and honestly wanting to know the answer.

“Maybe,” Zenozarax said quietly, grasping both of Ravalor’s hands, looking down on them. “One day. For now we just take small victories, one at a time.”

“That doesn’t sound like you.”

Zenozarax looked up again, desperate to see that weak smile he thought he heard in Ravalor’s voice. It wasn’t there. “I know,” he said soberly. “But I think that it will be the best course of action, to keep a low profile for the time being. To gather our strength. Figure out a course of action. Just keeping things stable.” He couldn’t hide the tiredness from his words. He didn’t even want to consider any grand plans anymore. Not while his heart was still full of grief.

A brief moment of silence as their eyes met.

“How long will that last?”

“I think I can squeeze in another month or so, before flying off the handle as some put it.” He answered the familiar judgmental tone of Ravalor’s question with a bitter sarcastic sneer in his own voice. It wasn’t like his own volatile nature wasn’t unknown to either him or Ravalor or anyone else for that matter. A fact some seemed very eager to point out to him as of late.

But his own irritation over it was soothed by finally a light smile on Ravalors face. Only that it seemed impossibly sad, and even worse, Ravalor pulled his hands away again.

“What is it?” Zenozarax withstood the urge to reach for him again, worried Ravalor would slip away from him as he knew from Pelagius. By the lord’s he wanted to rip those blasted gloves off. But he wouldn’t do that. Not again.

“I just thought…” Ravalor started, fell silent for a moment, then began again. “You haven’t really changed. I had convinced myself that you had gone mad. That your judgement was impaired, that this… all this, wasn’t you.”

“I’ve been called mad long before I left earth — but I don’t feel like the wizard you knew once anymore. Not since we had to part ways,” he said, knowing that it was true for both of them. He saw Ravalor’s eyes lose themselves into distance again, being swallowed by his own thoughts. Withdrawing from him, trying to find confort in the solitute that was a constant and agonizing torture on his mind.

Probably after having taken that bath he longed for he would find Ravalor asleep again. Tempted by the exhaustion of his body and mind that would find no rest. Nevertheless, he shouldn’t keep it from him. And he feared, if they were to talk more now, they would inevitably need to talk about things he didn’t want to talk about. Not yet. Not when he himself felt as tired.

“I’ll take a bath,” Zenozarax said quietly, standing up. A low grunt of pain escaped him as he straightened up, and he was surprised as he noticed that this got Ravalors attention back in genuine concern.

“Have you been hurt?” he had raised halfway.

Zenozarax looked away, feeling a distinct longing for that hot bath and the frustration over his own lack of attention that had indeed injured him in the raid, “I guess I could use your assistance.”

“Of course.” Ravalor stood up, being right at his side without hesitation, and still it made his heart arch.

He signed him to follow him and they entered the adjacent bathroom. Though the word barely fit what could be considered a personal spa. He heard the sharp breath as Ravalor finally really paid attention to the mess of cloak and robe hanging from Zenozarax’ back.

“Help me get this thing off me… I think it half melted onto my back,” Zenozarax said quietly, turning his back fully to Ravalor.

Hesitantly, Ravalor took hold of the shredder cloak and Zenozarax took a deep breath.

“What happened?” Ravalor asked while he carefully pulled on the dark fabric and Zenozarax felt it tear from his skin, ripping it open. It felt revolting.

“What always happens.” He pressed through his teeth. “I was too focused on one thing to notice another. Damn plasma charge went off right behind me… Might as well could have killed me. Blasted Lords could you imagine what a shameful end. Getting blown up by you, fine, killed by those clowns you dragged around, okay, but killed by the lack of attention — dreadful.”

“Those clowns are good men.” Ravalor placed the scorched pauldrons aside and removed the cloak fully, maybe not as gently as he could have. Zenozarax felt it tear from himself at a few places.

“I know...” Zenozarax said, his voice had turned soft. A lingering pain flared up in his heart.

“Open the shirt,” Ravalor said and Zenozarax did as he was told. Carefully Ravalor continued, shoving the uniform jacket down, pulling the fabric from burned skin, trying to not cause more harm. “I think I have been wrong.”

“How so?” Zenozarax asked back, both held their voices quiet as if more than a whisper would interrupt the sorrowful peacefulness of the moment.

“You seemed to have had a lot of time for… self reflection.”

“That’s a serious accusation,” Zenozarax said almost seriously before hissing through his teeth as a particularly large piece of his shirt was pulled from his skin. Faintly he smelled the scent of his own blood over the scorched smell of his clothes. An almost sweet note compared to the metallic scent of human blood, carrying a hint of a chemical smell.

But it felt all wrong. Still too distant. And he understood that it may always be like this. He had torn a rift between them, and it was so deep and so wide that it seemed impossible to cross.

Ravalor stayed silent.

The jacket slid to the ground and Zenozarax felt the tentative touch against the battered skin of his back, plucking away at his burned skin. There was no danger to him from doing so as only the izthra on his hand, arms and parts of his head was even able to establish a connection.

“When did he rebuild you?”

Zenozarax’ eyes lingered on the floor, only focusing on the now careful touch, peeling away more scraps of fabric from his wounds, but even more so he focused on the sound of Ravalors voice.

“Actually, even before I was trapped on Charon. I lost this Part on earth in 992, right at the beginning, and I knew that was very likely to happen, so I had a backup build. … but I wasn’t awoken until recently. That’s when I finally could free the Wizard. I was there at the battle at Mars too. Standing back because I knew what I was doing had a great chance of tearing myself to atoms before achieving anything. Never expecting it to happen by your order — even though I might should have.”

“I had to.”

“I know.”

And there was an absurd sense of acceptance from both of them. Zenozarax didn’t blame Ravalor for his multitude of attempted murders on his life and Ravalor had long accepted that this was how it was.

“You need to get this fixed. The weave is damaged quite badly.”

“And you need your leg fixed propper. You’re still limping.” Zenozarax turned back to Ravalor, already missing the other’s touch this close even though it had hurt. “We’ll take care of it later.“

Without another thought he stepped out of his boots and pants before shrugging off the rampaged base layer, and he felt disturbingly old as his back ached at doing so — a sentiment centuries of living among humans had imprinted onto him even though it was nonsense in his case. This body was still too young as to feel the actual wear and tear that came with a long age without being rebuilt.

The warm, almost hot, water promised comfort when he stepped into it but by the time it passed his waistline the pleasing sensation turned to stinging pain. Nevertheless he just let himself sink into the water, a painful groan escaping him as he leaned back. The water burned against the fringes of missing skin, leaning against it naturally didn’t improve it, but he just didn’t care.

He closed his eyes with a sigh.

“Do you need anything else?“

He heard Ravalor ask, not a tone of submissiveness or obligation, just the question of an old friend asking to help.

“Would you stay for a moment?” Zenozarax asked without even opening his eyes. He just listened for Ravalor.

A sense of almost unfamiliar peace took over his mind just knowing that Ravalor was here in the room with him. Lazily he opened his eyes again, seeing Ravalor who had sat down at the rim of the small pool, unashamedly watching him. His face was calm, thoughtful, but beyond that he could see the pain.

He had only ever seen that look once on his face, back in the tower. And he had hoped to never see it again. But in a twisted kind of fate, Ravalor was back in the same situation again. Having lost the trust in him and unsure of what to do about it. Even when he didn’t remember it, Ravalor had already once come to the conclusion that they would have to part ways. That same conclusion was now inevitable again. Maybe not today, but eventually.

“I missed you—” Zenozarax said, it was the only thing he really could say.

“I know,” Ravalor replied quietly. He didn’t have to say more. The fact that he was even here, for now, said enough.

Why must he think of him leaving again? Why was it the only thing that came again and again back to his mind? Why couldn’t he just enjoy that he was here, with him, again after all this time? From what he had been told it had been over 2000 years. And only a bit over a thousand since they had briefly talked down in the caverns beneath Treva. The short encounter after, before he tried to open the portal, he barely remembered as the Wizard’s memories were hazy by the dreadful influence of the elder gods and his own death.

2000 years.

Sometimes, when the Wizard’s memories were the most prominent, it felt longer than that, sometimes, when it was the Warrior’s, he couldn’t believe it had been that long.

“When will you leave again?“

The question that was seemingly straight ripped from his own thoughts saved Zenozarax from drowning in his own grief and bathwater. He looked back at Ravalor who now leaned against the wall behind him, the endlessly dark eyes laying on him with that familiar sense of regret and pain.

“I think I’ll stay for a while,” he finally answered quietly. “If you would like that.“

“I think that would be good.”

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