Leto 21st, 874 F.L.
(50 years ago)
In the shadow of a tower ablaze, Garrick stood, the night air thick with the scent of smoke and astara. Flames devoured the structure with a hunger as ancient as the darkness within, painting the scene in contrasts of light and shadow. He’d been able to escape—though he’d been occupied in a lower level of the tower dispatching the tunnel drakes and farther away from the main conflict. The others…
He watched, heart hammering in his chest, as shapes emerged.
They made it!
He started.
No…no, what’s happened?!
Three figures climbed from the blaze—carrying a fourth in their arms.
It’s Vash…
Vash's limp form was dragged from the inferno by Carver's slender elven hands and Ronald's battle-hardened grip, with Violetta lending her strength to their desperate endeavor.
But wait, that’s not everyone! Garrick thought in a panic.
"Beatrix?!" His voice cut through the cacophony of collapsing stone and crackling fire. “Where is Beatrix?!”
"Still in there!” Carver yelled back. “Battling the Fiend Prince!"
The realization hit Garrick like a physical blow. Beatrix was still inside, facing down a nightmare made flesh. The tower, now a pyre, stood as a barrier between him and the clash of wills within its walls.
I warned them this was a bad idea…
Around them, the night was quiet, the usual chorus of nocturnal life silenced by the spectacle before them. But for his companions, the world had narrowed to this singular point.
Garrick raced forward and slid in the rocky soil to kneel beside Vash. He could see the soot from the blaze painting a mask over his friend's features. Despite the furor that had engulfed them, Vash appeared unharmed, save for the soft blanket of ash that covered him. He lay still, his chest rising and falling with shallow breaths.
“What happened to him?” Garrick demanded.
“We do not know,” Violetta said. “He collapsed as soon as the Fiend Prince showed up. Then Beatrix ran off to fight him and we were stuck in the hallway outside of the sanctum.”
“You left her to fight Mastrenok by herself?!” Garrick demanded, leveling his accusation at Carver.
He’d sworn to be her protector.
If he was forced to escape, Garrick thought, it must truly be a massacre inside.
“Didn’t have a choice,” Carver explained, shaking his head bitterly. “She leaped in ahead of the horde and they blocked us off. Have to be at least a hundred of them—no chance we were gettin’ through there to reach her.”
Ronald, turning back to gaze at the tower now fully engulfed in flames, cursed under his breath. His tusked erymanthian face, typically stoic, was creased with concern.
"Uf the Fend Prence donnae kall ‘er,” he rumbled in his nearly-indecipherable accent, “te’blaze well. Hoo caneny’un sufife’n thaw?"[*]
Garrick felt a spike of panic.
"The Howling Twelve," he gasped, "did anyone see them inside?!"
His mind raced, envisioning the worst.
Violetta shook her head, her expression grim.
"Saw no sign of them—nor those blokes from Washer’s Down—once the Fiend Prince and his horde appeared. It was chaos."
Garrick's thoughts whirled. He had convinced Feivel and his group to join this foray, to assist Beatrix and her team. It was supposed to be dangerous, but not deadly. Now, they were potentially trapped, or worse, lost to the inferno and the horde. Meanwhile, Beatrix, his strong and fearless mentor, was in the heart of that firestorm, locked in combat with Mastrenok—the Fiend Prince and the Imperial Fiend Lord's own son.
An unwinnable scenario…
He looked down at Vash, whose eyes remained closed, a deceptive peace amidst the turmoil. Garrick's resolve hardened.
This is not the end. It can’t be.
Beatrix. Feivel and the Howling Twelve. Laramie and Jote from the Healing House in Washer’s Down. In trouble.
He would not let this be their final stand. He stood.
“Garrick?” Carver said, his eyes tracking the young man’s movement even as he held Vash upright. “What’re you thinkin,’ kid?”
“I don’t know…” he said, but his body moved forward, toward the flaming tower. Toward a near-certain death.
“Stop, dammit!” Violetta shouted. “It’s death that way!”
But Garrick wasn’t paying attention. His eyes were watching the tower.
“Garrick…” a weak voice called. For whatever reason, that seemed to cut through Garrick’s focus. He turned, only to see Vash’s eyes fluttering open, a smirk on his lips.
“Vash,” he said quietly. “You’re alive.”
“Where…do you think…you’re off to?” Vash continued, his raw, fragile tone heartbreaking to hear.
“Inside.”
“But, Garrick…” he breathed. “You cannot go. I’m dying.”
“You’ll just have to hold on, then,” Garrick said.
Without another word, he shot forward into the burning tower.
---
Somrstad 12th, 924 F.L.
(Present)
“Garrick, did you hear me?” Vash asked, jostling the old man from his memories. “I said, ‘I’m dying.’”
“Yeah, I heard you, Vash,” Garrick sighed. “You’ve said that to me a lot in the years I’ve known you, and look at that—you’re healthier than ever.”
“Well…” Vash started, glancing around them. “This time is different.”
“Uh-huh. I just saw you a few weeks ago,” Garrick said. “Why didn’t you reveal your terminality then?”
“Because I didn’t know about it then,” Vash insisted, slumping against a wall. “Honestly, Garrick, you are taking the winds out of the sails of my reveal. I’d have thought you’d be devastated.”
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“I am,” Garrick said, dryly. “I’m simply waiting to hear what ridiculous scheme you’ve cooked up this time.”
“Cook?” Vash asked indignantly. “I have been mischaracterized—I’d never do something like that. I prefer all of my meals—”
“Everything alright?”
Both men wheeled on the spot to face the speaker who’d snuck up on them.
Garrick found himself staring at Fran. The gloam woman was standing a few feet from them, her arms crossed, as if she suspected foul play. Which, considering the nature of 'Old Shvar' and his antics, was likely the disposition that offered the most security.
"Ah, Fran," Garrick greeted, smiling. "Yes, I think everything is just fine. Old Shvar, have you met Fran? She's a Warden."
And keen to ensure that this project doesn't have any issues, he thought privately.
"A Warden, you say?" Vash asked, though his tone sounded as though he'd have been more intrigued if Garrick had just introduced him to a pile of laundry.
"Yes," Fran said. "I thought I heard arguing. Something about death?"
Garrick chuckled.
“Oh, just a bit of existential dread on his part,” he said, nodding toward Vash. “He’s lamenting over the fleeting nature of...well, things that apparently don’t flee fast enough.”
"Existential dread?" she echoed, giving Vash a critical once-over. "Have anything to do with that business with the chest?"
Vash, caught between maintaining his Old Shvar facade and addressing Fran’s unspoken accusations about the earlier explosion, seemed to sue for balance.
“Indeed, it's a rare condition, affecting those of us with...extended tenures. As for the disturbance earlier, a mere hiccup in my studies.”
Fran’s eyes narrowed.
“A hiccup that shook the ground we stand on.”
More like a belch, if we’re continuing the metaphor, Garrick corrected mentally. He wasn’t about to cover for Vash’s antics but couldn’t help but enjoy the situation. Watching Vash squirm under Fran’s gaze was its own kind of entertainment. Not that the woman would be able to do anything, per se, to his ageless companion, but, considering her apparent role—that of a caretaker against tomfoolery on the project—she could likely force him to leave.
That might be worth it, Garrick considered. Then things could get back on track.
He'd only been here a little over an hour, and already, the plan was getting derailed.
Vash, under the weight of Fran’s scrutiny, straightened up.
“As I said before, my dear, it was an unexpected result of my...academic curiosity. The object in question was far more reactive than anticipated.”
“Unexpected by everyone but those who know you, perhaps,” Garrick added.
Fran shifted her attention back to Garrick.
"You vouch for him?" she asked.
Odd, Garrick thought. Didn't Lord Montrose already vouch for him? Why else would Vash be allowed to fiddle-fart around this project otherwise?
"I wouldn't go that far," Garrick explained, smiling. "But, other than what you saw a few minutes ago with the chest, I don't expect we'll see many more antics—will we, Old Shvar."
"Oh, I wouldn't dream of antics," Vash said, nodding eagerly. "Mild kerfuffles, potentially—but only the variety one might expect from the regular folk in these sorts of endeavors."
Fran eyed Vash again, clearly unmoved by the charm he was attempting to deploy.
“And will your ‘academic curiosity’ pose further risks to this project?” she asked, the question clearly rhetorical.
I think I'm warming up to Fran, already.
“I shall endeavor to confine my curiosity to less...volatile subjects,” Vash assured her, though the glint in his eye suggested he found the whole ordeal more invigorating than regrettable.
“See to it that you do,” Fran said, her tone firm yet not unkind, a testament to her role as protector. “We can’t afford distractions.”
"Absolutely," Vash declared. "You have my word that…that I will be on my version of best behavior."
She sighed, then turned back to Garrick.
"Sir," she said, nodding what he could tell was a goodbye.
Garrick nodded back.
With that, she turned and left, leaving Garrick and Vash alone once more. Garrick shot Vash a look that managed to convey his frustrated exhaustion.
"By the gods, she's a terrifying one, isn't she?" his companion mused, his eyes wandering back to the gloam elf's retreating form.
"She's here to sus out potential issues," Garrick said. "So, I'd say you're cooked."
"Oh-ho! You jest, Garrick—"
"I'm not jok—"
"But I've a mind to be resolute in my convictions toward keeping my nose clean."
"Perfect," Garrick sighed. "Then, how about we start with why you claim to be dying—" seeing Vash open his mouth, he interrupted himself to warn him. " —and don't even think about trying to beat around the bush. Like I said, I've got to actually perform my job well here if I want to remain attached to this project—which, I don't think I need to remind you, is incredibly important to your own ends."
If this somehow stops me from reaching Utsuro City in time, Vash won't have to worry about potential death anymore.
"Fine, fine," Vash said, slumping. Garrick noticed his long white wig was slightly askew, but he didn't bother to mention it. "You win again, Garrick—congratulations, you have outfoxed a man not long for this world."
"That," Garrick said, pointing at him. "You keep saying you're dying. Why?"
"Because I am," Vash protested. "Why don't you believe me?"
Garrick pinched the bridge of his nose.
"Vash…" he said warningly.
"Yes, Garrick?" Vash responded jovially.
"Just get to the point before I launch you over the city walls."
"As if you would dare to do that to an old frie—" Vash suddenly cut himself off, seeing Garrick's simmering gaze. "Right…"
With that, Vash brought a hand to half-mask and tugged it off.
"See?" Vash asked.
All Garrick noticed was Vash's face. The same face he'd had for decades—never changing, always infuriatingly smug.
"I don't have time for this," Garrick said, and turned away.
"No, no!" Vash protested again, and Garrick felt his friend's hand on his shoulder. "Look closer, Garrick."
Garrick sighed and turned back to the man in his ridiculous getup. He peered into his eyes, then gave him a good look, his eyes scanning all the features he could.
"This would go faster if you just told me wha—"
"Wrinkles!" Vash suddenly cried out, jabbing a finger toward the corner of his eye. Garrick squinted. If he was really concentrating, he supposed he could see the slightest crease in the flesh.
"It's just some crow's feet," Garrick said, shaking his head. "What—"
"Exactly!" Vash explained, hastily replacing the mask over the upper part of his face—so quickly that it looked as though he'd almost smashed it back on. "I've never had them, and suddenly, right after you and I have our little parlay in your…charming and absolutely-not-dated abode, these appear."
Garrick had to consider that, he supposed. In all the years he'd known Vash, he hadn't noticed so much as a pimple or dark circle under his eyes, nor anything else that might indicate he'd aged even a day. If what he said was true…
"The timing is suspect," Garrick agreed. "Are we assuming your comments were overheard?"
"It is hard to imagine it being anything else. Which means we need to accelerate our plans," Vash said with a hint of urgency. "The Voided Vale. We need to venture there sooner than we thought."
Garrick frowned.
"How is that even possible? From what you've told me, the Vale is not a place one simply strolls into on a whim."
Vash shook his head with the kind of dramatic despair usually reserved for the moment one discovers their favorite tea has been discontinued indefinitely.
"I'll need to concoct some form of hasty plan," he declared. "We simply cannot dawdle, not with...this."
He gestured vaguely to his face, though the mask obscured whatever he was pointing at.
"Another wrinkle, or—gods forbid—a gray hair, and who knows what might happen? The very fabric of reality as we know it might unravel, leading to catastrophic consequences," Vash continued, almost to himself.
Garrick eyed the white wig again and fought back a snicker.
"And what happens when the curse lifts? Do you just...expire?"
Vash paused, then smirked beneath his mask.
"Hardly. I've never been one to leave anything to chance."
Especially not your appearance, Garrick mused.
"Especially not my appearance. But yes," Vash finished, "it might set me back a bit."
That thought seemed to weigh heavily on the costumed man for a moment before he brushed it aside with a theatrical wave of his hand.
"But no matter! We must focus on the task at hand. To the Voided Vale!"
As suddenly as he declared their next move, Vash turned and marched away, leaving the old man alone in the alleyway. Garrick watched as Vash dusted off, disappearing around the corner.
Does he even know where he's going?
Garrick turned and made his way back to the yurt, pondering their conversation. The risk of venturing into the Voided Vale, the potential consequences of Vash's curse lifting, and the ever-present question of whether any of this was just another one of Vash's elaborate ruses heavy on his mind.
Garrick re-entered the crowded yurt, realizing the mood had switched once more, and now there was the clear electricity of anticipation in the air. Fran, already back and looking slightly more at ease, cast him an inquiring glance. He met her gaze with a good-natured shrug and a smile, the universal signal of 'all is well.'
Dashiell was surprisingly chipper considering he'd likely been on the receiving end of an earful from the Surgemaster after Garrick had departed.
Perhaps due to an innate resilience to stress or just youthful optimism?
The young Montrose beamed at Garrick's return.
"Garrick, sir! Glad to see you're back! I do hope that everything is quite alright with Old Shvar?"
"Well enough," Garrick said. "With that one, it's less about everything being alright and more about everything not having fallen apart...yet."
Dashiell nodded, his eagerness barely contained.
"Well, now that you're here, we can finally share the plan going forward."
Garrick, momentarily puzzled, suddenly realized Dashiell's implication, and mentally admonished himself for his lack of awareness. He'd been so distracted by Vash's new conundrum that he hadn't noticed the additional presence in the tent.
Clearing his throat, he observed, "So, the gang's all here, then?"
"Yes, Garrick, sir," Dashiell affirmed, "Sir, allow me to introduce you to the eighth member of the Golden Lion…"
The young man stepped aside to reveal…
Garrick's eyes widened slightly as he took in the newcomer's appearance.
Well, I'll be, he thought. I guess I can spot someone from another world on sight.
---
[*] Ronald's translation: “If the Fiend Prince doesn’t kill her, the blaze will. How can anyone survive in there?”