The first half-hour passed without incident.
While the Deathguards poured drinks and exchanged jokes, Marché remained as still as a statue. As the alcohol in his system dispersed, a worrisome lucidity emerged, and he began to comprehend the true danger of the situation.
His grip on the candle remained tight. The flame hadn’t descended more than an inch or so, but it would only be a matter of time before the melting wax would reach his fingers. He hoped that the anticipation would be worse than the pain. He dared not close his eyes for fear of interrupting the careful balance needed to keep the cup from spilling.
He half-expected Roland to breach his honourable promise and begin prodding Marché’s side with a stick or something similar, but the young man was more than content to sit idly by and observe the show. Marché passed the time by counting the seconds into minutes, becoming lost in a trance of concentration.
He felt the first pricks of heat against his skin not long after the first hour. It wasn’t painful in the least - in fact, it was almost pleasant. But he recognised it as only a taste of what was to come. Even that slight sensation was enough to breach the careful discipline required to escape death.
There was nothing stopping him from lifting the cup with his free hand and ending the initiation right then and there. But he knew that he couldn’t - not if he desired any amount of respect from Roland and his Deathguards. For the sake of his own comrades, he had to endure the pain.
15 minutes later, he was struggling to keep his fingers in one place. Globules of dripping, crimson wax lapped as his flesh like flecks of cooling magma. His breathing quickened out of mortal instinct. His body protested, demanding at once that he allow the candle to slip out of his grasp, but Marché pressed his tongue against the roof of his mouth and endured.
“You’re starting to struggle now.” Roland spoke for the first time in more than an hour, “That’s how it is for everyone. In order to understand the way of a necromancer, you need to toe the line between life and death. Only when you’re teetering on the brink of oblivion does the fearsome determination needed to fulfil our goals emerge.”
Marché exhaled, “...What was your initiation?”
Roland leaned back in his chair, “I was forced to take a bath.”
The absurdity of his answer almost made Marché lose his concentration, “A bath?”
He nodded, “A very hot one. I sat in a tub of freezing cold water balanced on some firewood. Sokalar himself took a torch to the bottom. I wasn’t allowed to get out until the water had been boiling for 15 minutes.”
He placed an arm down on the table and pulled back the sleeve of his robe. Clusters of twisted flesh ran from the tips of his fingers right up to the elbow. The sight reminded Marché of Lieze’s body, only palid and veiny instead of pitch black and rough.
“My skin was red from the shoulders down for an entire week.” Roland continued, “Then came the blisters, the lesions, the infections… I couldn’t stand, lie down, or sleep. Even my own breaths were a source of constant agony. Of course, I was never allowed to simply die. I’d completed my initiation, after all - Sokalar suddenly had a use for me.”
It was an unbelievable tale, but the scarring on his body proved that it was no exaggeration. Compared to Marché’s trial, Roland had endured nothing short of plain and simple torture. Torture that he was all too eager to participate in.
“I despised Sokalar for that.” He admitted, “We all did, really. I’m thankful that I can finally say that out loud without fearing the consequences. That was how he kept us in check, by forcing us to understand that the best we could expect from him was torture, and the worst was something even more deplorable.”
“Hm.” Marché smiled, “-So I should be thanking you that my own initiation isn’t anywhere near as bad?”
“Don’t relax too much - you’re still one twitch away from death.” He replied, “I will admit that you’re handling it better than most, though. But you’ve yet to experience the worst of it.”
Their short conversation had been enough to tide over the worst of it, but as the room was dominated by silence once more, Marché found himself alone with the pain. By the time another half-hour had passed, the candle flame had descended to the point of freely lapping at his skin, and the mere thought of maintaining his hold for a second longer was difficult to entertain.
He was beginning to tremble then - a natural reaction to the possibility of death. His tremors only heightened the difficulty of keeping his head still. On more than a handful of occasions, a droplet or two of the Dragon Spit was sent flying from the cup, transforming into balls of fire if they came anywhere within a few feet of the candle’s flame, eliciting gasps from the enamoured crowd.
Marché lost track of time. His grip tightened, leaving imprints of his fingers in the soft, melting wax. His hand was losing strength as the agony paralysed his nerves. He dreaded to peer down, knowing full-well that his digits would be plastered with ugly blisters. His endurance was reaching its breaking point faster than he could have anticipated.
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Then came the pivotal moment. With a gasp, his body shuddered ferociously, unable to tolerate the pain for one moment longer. He knew then that he was almost certainly going to die.
“That’s enough.”
Something was ever-so-gently lifted from his head. On pure reflex, Marché shook his grip loose, causing flecks of molten wax to spray across the table as the candle dropped to the floor. He cradled his damaged hand in the other, desperately wiping the sticky remains of wax free while clenching his teeth.
“An hour and fifty-two minutes.” Roland said, “Roughly.”
He had failed. The pain was too much for him to bear. Mixing in with the lightning strikes of pain was a deep self-loathing in his gut. Someone took the Dragon Spit over to the bar so it wouldn’t catch fire. Marché was so preoccupied with nursing his wounds that he didn’t notice Roland standing up from his seat.
The pain worsened and softened with every passing second, never allowing Marché to adapt or cope. When he raised his head, Roland was extending a hand towards him from above.
“You’ll end up with more than scars if you don’t get that treated right away.” He said, “Lüngen will patch you up. He knows a thing or two about ointments.”
“But…” Marché sighed, “I didn’t finish…”
“Let me tell you something.” He replied, “When I first laid eyes on you, I had you pegged as a coward. I didn’t think for a second that anyone born and raised outside of the Deadlands could ever have the guts one needs to survive in the Order.”
Marché took his hand and allowed himself to be pulled to his feet. Even the stale air’s gentle kiss felt like knives shaving through his damaged skin.
“I half-expected you to run when I brought up the initiation.” Roland continued, “You’ve seen it already - the way commoners sit still and await death like livestock. They expect that a hero will arrive to save them. They treat death like some faraway dream, never fully comprehending how quickly it strikes until the very last moment. I thought you would be the same.”
“There was a time… when I was the same.” Marché clenched his teeth between bouts of paralysing pain, “I didn’t recognise death… until it was staring me in the face. That’s how I lost my eye. In a single moment, I was enlightened to the true cause of our suffering - the chains of mortality that bind us to a coil of madness and tragedy…”
Roland listened to his spiel with rapt attention. Marché recognised something else in the young man then - an unwavering but dignified understanding. He was not evil or unreasonable, but a product of fear and discipline. He was kindred and seeking.
“Lieze was right to see something in you.” Roland placed a hand on his shoulder, “Yes… I always thought it strange, but there’s a strange fire in your eye. I was wrong to assume that you were a product of this world’s devotion to suffering. You resist the natural order of things just as we do, through innumerable hardships and isolation demanded by Tonberg’s despotic rule.”
“You don’t seem too bad yourself…” Marché tried his best to smile, but it was difficult to maintain, “-But don’t think I’m going to give up my spot in Lieze’s hierarchy just because you’re a member of the old guard.”
“Prove those words with your actions, and I’ll gladly allow it.” Roland said, “We’ll see who’s deserving of the spot in these months to come. I’ll be expecting much from you, Marché Hopper.”
Did they part amicably? Fairly? Marché was certain the answer wasn’t ‘yes’, but he couldn’t bring himself to claim that his opinion of Roland had been soured by the encounter. The man could have easily claimed his life without any fuss, but chose to spare him at the last moment. There had to be something worthwhile in that decision, if only to prolong Marché’s life long enough to dethrone him.
Was there respect between them? Perhaps. Tolerance? Absolutely - and Marché had earned that right, not only for himself but for those exiles who had so selflessly followed him into the depravity of necromancy all those years ago. Each and every one of them could now call themselves authentic members of the Order.
For the time being, all he cared about was ensuring that his newly-acquired burn wounds wouldn’t be hosting any terrible infections in the near future. A few Deathguards were kind enough to escort him to Lüngen’s dwelling, a quaint terraced home in the south within leaping distance of the castle.
The old scholar was absolutely not pleased about being woken up an hour before midnight, but a quick glance at Marché’s hand was enough to dissuade him from any scolding - at least for a while. It came as a great displeasure to learn that, while Lüngen’s ointments would prevent any infections from taking hold, he could do very little about the pain.
“I could lend you some hawkwood oil - that would numb you well enough to get some sleep.” The pom-pom upon his (stolen) nightcap danced around as he leaned backwards and forwards to collect and apply a multitude of greasy balms, “You’d have to be careful, though. Too much of it, and you won’t be waking up at all. Terribly addictive, too.”
“I think I’d rather just cope with the pain…” Marché replied.
“What happened?” He asked, “An initiation?”
Marché tilted his head, “How did you know?”
“This isn’t the first time I’ve treated a necromancer for burns.” He said, “Was it Roland? I’ll bet it was. Still, you’re alive, so you won’t ever be expected to do it again.”
“Were you forced into an initiation, Lüngen?”
He chuckled to himself, as if recalling a fond memory, “Indeed I was - around the time it became popular, I recall. Ignas and I were forced to spend a fortnight on the frontier, where the Deadlands met the Wildlands. I’ve had my fair share of brushes with death, and those 14 days comprised most of them. The stories I could tell of the terrible beasts that linger on the outskirts of our world…”
He finished applying his medicine, stuffing the tins and bottles back into his pack.
“I was very young then. A different man, almost.” He said, “Now - don’t allow that hand of yours to get dirty if you can help it, and for the love of all that’s good, keep clear of [Blood Magic] for the time being.”