When Erebus awoke, it was a physical strain to simply open his eyes, a great weakness upon him the kind brought on only by a botched accelerated healing. His own body’s energy reserves were pillaged to fuel the spell, breaking down muscle and fat to do so.

In many ways, he supposed he should feel fortunate to have woken at all, but all he felt was guilt at the lives that would be lost due to the events now set so very inevitably into motion. When news of his survival finally reached Lutan, and it would, be it a week or a year from now, this vicious cycle would begin anew.

With an iron will he crushed his self-pity; it was beneath him and beneath the memories of the victims that had been consumed already by this idiotic feud. Slowly he sat up, opening his eyes by determination alone as he began the slow process of funnelling magic into his now feeble muscles. A week’s disuse was bad enough, but magical consumption had reduced the hardened traveller’s physique to little more than that of soft cheese.

The room was at least familiar, the Circulus Seruatis infirmary, had once been almost a second home for him for over a year. In the dusk of night, the room was lit by only a single beeswax candle which cast a warm, comfortable gloom over everything, including the occupants of the other two beds.

It was with a saddened heart he observed Holly in the bed next to him, the blackened, burnt flesh of her neck rendered all the more ghastly by candlelight. That was another mistake he’d struggle to atone for. For a child to be tortured in his care… once again, the iron will was brought to bear, this time upon his self-doubt. Short of prescience, there was nothing he could have done and thus no blame he could lay at his own feet for this crime.

Those thoughts turned his gaze to the other occupant, Lutan’s stooge, beaten black and blue, although, with the limited light, it was more black and really dark grey for alas in darkness, all hues were rendered equal. Erebus frowned darkly; whilst he had no love for the mercenary or his trade, he’d always believed The Swordsman to be above torture.

Somehow simply staring at the man was enough to wake him — a useful skill for those few with the capacity to learn it. There were few visible signs: a slight deepening in breath, the barest change in body tilt — just enough to obscure one arm from view.

“That won’t be necessary,” Erebus assured him from across the room, mildly wounded as the man laid his sword across his lap regardless.

“Considering I helped pioneer a murder plot against you, you’ll have to understand if I don’t take you at your word,” Saiko informed him smoothly, eyes focused upon his face. Erebus knew the look; he’d seen it in the mirror sometimes, constant calculation behind the eyes.

“An understandable caution,” Erebus admitted evenly. “Now why are you carrying a sword?”

“I was granted parole,” the mercenary replied briefly, not liking the necromancer’s tone.

“Curious. And why would he give parole to a known torturer?” he enquired sweetly, though with a dash of venom in it.

“I’m not going to even speculate on his motives,” Saiko responded honestly enough, a hand still on the spellbreaker’s hilt.

“Where is The Swordsman right now?” Erebus demanded, getting out of bed with great difficulty.

“Asleep most likely.”

“He doesn’t sleep.”

“Then I’ve not the faintest idea,” the merc snapping, laying back down to try to sleep, sword still across his lap.

Erebus staggered over to a half-full water jug, “I’m going to need some assistance with this.”

A single eye cracked open, “You want me to pour you a glass of water?” he asked in disbelief.

“No,” the magician replied as if it were the most foolish question he’d ever heard. “I need you to hold it still.”

“Why?” Saiko obliged by asking the obvious question.

“Because I rather suspect my hand will catch fire when I trigger his wards,” the necromancer said flatly. “Or rather all of me will, I can just limit it to the hand.”

Erebus flourished a hand, which true to his word caught aflame, a brilliant blue flame which, fortunately for his continued health, extinguished when plunged into the jug of water; with exceptional reflexes, Saiko managed to get to the jug before the sudden movement could tip it.

“You called?” The Swordsman asked quietly from the corner of the room.

The jug smashed as Saiko practically leapt from his skin, though Erebus merely turned to glare at the man, “I told you not to save me.”

“This coming from the man who considers orders as simply a form of formal advice?” The Swordsman cajoled. “I had a choice; save a friend or kill an enemy. And I’ve lost too many friends and killed far too many enemies.”

“And thanks to your blind altruism thousands may die!” Erebus half-shouted.

“And I will have to live with that,” the tattooed man replied with utmost solemnity. “But given the choice again I would change nothing.”

“You aren’t the only one who’ll have to live with it,” the necromancer declared bitterly.

“If your burden is too great you know all you have to do is ask,” the victim of his ire replied calmly.

“And do what? Spend the rest of my life here reminiscing about ‘the good ol’ days’?” Erebus snapped, clearly feeling less than generous towards his host.

“You don’t really think that,” The Swordsman states with irritating serenity.

The necromancer seemed to collapse in on himself, “You’re right, I don’t.”

“You do know there are less risky ways to contact me I hope?” The Swordsman asked as he began to help his friend back to the sickbed.

“Less risky perhaps, but a summoning spell was the quickest available and I was prepared for the backlash.”

“So I saw.” The ancient creature chuckled to himself, “What do you intend to do now?”

“Whatever I need to,” Erebus informed him, “this has to end.”

“So what’s your next move? And if it involves leaving before you’ve recovered then forget about it.”

“My continued presence here endangers everything you’ve built. What sort of creature would I be to allow this sanctuary to come to harm?”

“One in need of said sanctuary,” The Swordsman declared from the heart. “Situations like yours are why I founded this place, and I won’t abandon my principles at the first signs of danger.”

“And if he brings an army?” Erebus tested, going straight for the worst-case scenario as if in the vague hope that his benefactor might decide to withdraw his protection.

He appeared to give the question due consideration, “I fully expect him to bring a full legion of men. As do half of the other residents.” He gave a minimalist half-shrug, “If it’s any help most of them are fine with standing and fighting, though there’s the usual minority who just want to hand you over as soon as the enemy is at the gates… not that we technically have gates, but there’s nothing to worry about on that front. The last person to suggest it, Dus told in no uncertain terms, if they tried anything she’d personally shove their gladius where the sun shineth not, handle first so they have to cut their hands getting it out.” The immortal laughed darkly, the threat clearly appealing to his sense of humour.

“She always did have a fiery temper,” Erebus agreed with just a touch of ambivalence.

“Not to mention a soft spot for you and yours,” The Swordsman added, pleased he seemed to be getting through to the old necromancer.

“How long was I unconscious?”

“Just over a week.”

“Ouch…” The necromancer winced, “Combine that with a double dose of magic-induced fatigue, we’re looking at a rehabilitation period of months.”

“That’s fine. We’ll simply have to put together some semi-permanent accommodation for yourself and Alec.” Once again, there was the half-shrug, somehow failing to indicate any single emotion.

“How is the boy settling in?” Erebus enquired, concern creeping into his voice.

“Quite well, quite well,” he was assured, “though he may be slowly driving Dus insane, she’s been serving as a living dictionary and encyclopaedia as he tries to read the entire library. She says she’s never met such a prolific devourer of literature before.”

“What’s he been reading?”

“I’m told he’s already gone through half our texts on stonegazers, oh and he’s also started swordplay lessons.”

“I was rather hoping to keep his exposure to violence at a minimum,” Erebus admitted, massaging his forehead as if trying to stave off a headache. “Who’s the teacher?”

“You’ve said it yourself, Lutan will, eventually, discover you’re still alive, and, unless you plan to leave the boy with us for the rest of his natural life, you’ll have to take him with you, and we both know he deserves better than what a life here can offer him. All I can ever hope to do is to give him a small chance at survival should Lutan catch up to you before you reach the safety of the Necropolis.”

“You forgot to answer my question,” the necromancer pointed out, making no further protest against the training itself.

“True enough. Let us just say that I’ve given the job to one of my most promising students.” He answered with an enigmatic smile.

“That isn’t an answer,” Erebus complained, not overly fond of receiving cryptic answers even if he enjoyed giving them, a mild hypocrisy that was hopefully forgiven when compared to all the other vices available.

“No, it’s just not an answer you like,” The Swordsman pointed out. “Why does it matter?”

“It didn’t,” he replied. “I was just curious if it was anyone I knew, but now you aren’t telling me and that means I want to know.”

“You truly are more stubborn than is good for you,” his ancient friend observed calmly before relenting. “Very well, the child’s tutor is young Saiko here, he’s got a surprisingly skilled teaching technique for a former hired killer.”

“Him‽” Erebus exclaimed incredulously, barely able to believe his ears, the necromancer’s shout sufficiently violent to make the observing mercenary loosen his sword from its sheath, Saiko having listened to the conversation unfold with fascination. He’d always wondered what was meant by the term ‘verbal sparring match’ and had been pleasantly enlightened by the answer; he’d never expected it would have the potential to be as vicious as the regular variety.

Fortunately, from Saiko’s point of view, Erebus did not annihilate him with a blast of necrotic energy, instead launching into a furious, if somewhat justified, tirade at the immortal.

“Have you lost all sense of humanity? You’ve assigned as the teacher of a traumatised child, one of the men responsible for the murder of his parents, the destruction of his home and the deaths of every man, woman and child he has ever known and you can’t see how this might be cruel?”

“Well, I’ve received no complaints from either of them,” The Swordsman replied mildly. “And Alec’s progressing well.”

“Have we become nothing more than a game to you?” he asked gravely. “After millennia of protecting people have we finally become nothing more than toys or pieces on a board?”

“Of course not,” the venerable warrior protested, deeply offended at the implications, “but the boy is too young to let hate fester upon the tongue. Best to kill it now before it has time to grow. Besides Dus has made it quite clear what the consequences of upsetting the boy will be.”

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“You knew?” Saiko exploded, not excessively impressed at this revelation, “Why didn’t you intervene?”

“As your teacher, I felt it to your benefit if you were forced to fight your own battles,” his tutor replied sagely, as eyes that had watched the rise and fall of civilisations regarded the, by his reckoning young, with an almost parental warmth.

“How can I possibly fight a battle when murder is forbidden here?” the irate student demanded.

“In your question lies your answer,” The Swordsman replied, practically riddling poor Saiko by this point. “Now I suggest rest whilst the necromancer and I move our conversation elsewhere.”

Something in the tone told Saiko that the suggestion would only remain so if he complied.

The very idea of being sent to bed like a disobedient child was insulting and, in any other circumstances, would have qualified as an incitement to violence for the mercenary. Still, the chance he’d been offered here was too great to be squandered. Clamping firmly down on his pride, Saiko resigned himself to going back to sleep whilst his mentor and the necromancer departed for regions unknown.

Erebus remained silent for the duration of the journey, bearing with good grace the indignity of having to be supported on the way there; the necromancer wise enough not to overexert himself magically or physically in his weakened state. He’d simply have to learn to rely on other people for things physically beyond him; as a healer himself, he’d advised the same to many patients over the years and was surprised to find himself treating his own advice with the same resentment as his former charges.

The library was dark as they both stopped outside it, the only sign of life the faint glimmer of a single candle in a single window of the top floor.

“Interesting place to hold a meeting,” the necromancer remarked. “Public buildings aren’t exactly renowned for their privacy.”

“Perhaps they should be,” The Swordsman suggested, “but this particular example is an exception regardless, especially at night.” He smiled with a tender warmth reserved only for his long term charges, “Besides the pool of eavesdroppers here is limited to just Dus unless someone’s suicidal enough to risk listening in while she roams the shelves unmasked.”

“She still wanders at night?” Erebus asked, a touch amused at hearing his friend remained predictable in her habits.

“Not so often these days,” the immortal admitted, “ever since someone had the gall to write her biography for the most part she’s spent her nights writing her own version.”

“Sixty years is a long time to be writing a book,” Erebus observed. “Particularly for so prolific an author as Dus.”

“She’s led a very long life,” the immortal said diplomatically, not specifying whose lifespan he was using for comparison. “I even found her reading books on how to retrieve old memories and improve long term recollection.”

“Has she looked into oneiromancy or hiring a psychomancer?” the necromancer asked, professional interest piqued.

“Problems with both I’m afraid, deep memory retrieval requires eye contact and learning dream magic has far too many risks without a mentor to perform a shared dreaming,” The Swordsman explained, clearly having pursued these lines of enquiry himself.

“If it’s a lack of a dream mentor, I’m able to set up a shared dream,” Erebus offered. “I spent a couple of years with the astral projectors of Velag’daum.”

“A kind offer, though alas that is not the issue. A dream sharing is a more intimate experience than Dus is willing to undergo, still, I suggest you offer regardless, the gesture will certainly be appreciated and there’s always the chance she would make an exception for you.”

“Hmm… certainly a conundrum,” the mortal mage mused, dredging the depths of his knowledge for a solution. “What about using polarised or reflective lenses to mitigate the risk of transmutation?”

“Doesn’t work, both parties need to be able to make eye contact.”

“Damn… what about using an immortal?”

“Most of us lack any intrinsic magic,” The Swordsman answered, calmly shooting down just another suggestion.

“Some of you do,” Erebus objected. “The Artist, The Enigma… at the risk of going off-topic, I’ve always wondered, why do immortals take titles rather than just keep their names?”

The Swordsman chuckled morosely, his own name long lost to the annals of history. Deep down, he was surprised it had taken his friend this long to ask, “At first, it was for our own protection.” He laughed at the quizzical glance this earnt him, fully aware of the dichotomy inherent in that answer, “Not physical protection, emotional. Back before my time, a particularly fiendish man discovered an easy way to leverage an apparent immortal. Our families.”

The ancient creature sighed deeply at the existence of such calculated evil before resuming his narrative, “Back in those days, or so I’m reliably informed, a lot of immortals spent a lot of time with their descendants, it was their way of not distancing themselves from their humanity, or goblinity etc. After a couple of particularly world-shaking blackmail schemes, the man responsible was killed and his army butchered to a man. Cruel perhaps but the example was enough to buy time to call a Confluence of Immortals where the decision was made to write our mortal identities out of history. It was felt at the time that titles would be sufficiently impersonal to prevent us forging close personal ties in the future.”

“Well, that certainly failed,” Erebus remarked, committing the pertinent details to his borderline encyclopaedic memory.

“As it inevitably would,” the immortal agreed, “though I suspect there was a certain childish turn of mind which took great pleasure in the idea of calling themselves ‘The Destroyer’ or similar. Alas, a lot of history’s immortals have had a flair for the excessively grandiose. In the passing aeons, it simply became traditional, though, fortunately, the titles have become a touch more modest.”

A companionable silence fell as Erebus took this explanation in, the pair entering the library quietly, their footsteps light enough to be ghosts even as Erebus’ leg muscles protested viciously at this continued abuse, though, like most protests throughout history, the response was to crush it with extreme prejudice. Without a word, both men headed for a private room on the top floor, its four walls the only witness to many a whispered plot; The Swordsman, a man who took his paranoia seriously.

It was only once they were both safely ensconced within the room’s walls that they resumed their conversation.

“The mercenary is more than just a student,” the mage stated, certain enough in his own observations, that he didn’t bother making it a question.

“Yes,” The Swordsman agreed, “he has a rare natural talent.”

“You’ve never taken on an apprentice before.” Another statement of fact, Erebus’ method of interrogation sublime as he let the person opposite fill in the details, avoiding questions where possible.

“I’ve been waiting for the right person. Someone with the same love of the blade.” The answer was bizarrely defensive, the warrior aware that Erebus disproved of his choice for personal reasons.

“His moral compass is skewed.” He didn’t try to hide his dislike.

“More amoral than immoral,” The Swordsman defended smoothly. “Not unexpected given his line of work.”

“And if at the end of this apprenticeship I am proven correct?”

“I will kill him myself.” He assured gravely, giving his solemn word upon the matter. “Now what of the boy?”

“What of him?” Erebus countered, seeking clarification of exactly what he was being asked.

“Out of an excess of a hundred people, why save only that one?”

“I didn’t save any of them. Alec survived by his own merits alone.” The failure one he would take to his grave with a heavy heart.

“Is he your son?” The Swordsman demanded, being far more direct in his enquiry.

“No!” Erebus protested. “Do you really think I’d leave my own child within the dominion of that mage hating bastard‽”

“It would be an ideal way to keep such a child hidden,” he observed; the interrogation now reversed as the necromancer was caught flat-footed by the line of enquiry.

The magician snorted in triumphant amusement though, as he spotted a flaw in the immortal’s theory, one sufficient to bring the entire house of cards built on it crumbling down, “That would only be a workable plan if I stayed out of the boy’s life entirely. I’ve visited and wintered in that village in search of Ente’s tomb every year for the last two decades; I saw it as a way of redeeming myself.”

“And yet the boy claims to never to have seen you before the massacre,” The Swordsman perpetuated, echoing Erebus’ own ability to turn simple statement into a damning accusation.

“Of course he didn’t. Do you truly think me so foolish as to walk within my enemy’s own province wearing my own face?” he replied without hesitation, calmly clamping down upon the sense of affront this evoked. He knew his friend had to be thorough and explicit in his collection of the evidence.

“Then how did he find you?” The Swordsman abandoning his theory to ask the vital question.

“I wish I knew,” Erebus confessed. He’d been quietly puzzling over that question ever since he’d first fled the village and had been drawing a blank upon it.

“Who knew where you’d be?” Seruatis’ ruler asked, smelling betrayal like a bloodhound.

“Absolutely no one,” the magician declared with certainty.

“You’re sure?”

“Completely. I’ve avoided mirrors, my wards against scrying don’t run out for another two months and I’d have noticed a telepathic bond or if someone had altered my shadow.”

“You’re assuming the means by which you were tracked were magical.”

“I took precautions on that front,” Erebus assured, bemused at being treated like a complete amateur at the dark art of shadowplay.

“Elaborate for me,” The Swordsman demanded, seeking the flaw in Erebus’ plans, something to explain how Lutan had located his lifelong foe.

“I never wore the same face for more than two days on the way there and kept my head down, the usual.”

“You know how to keep your head down?” the immortal jested lightly.

“Naturally.”

“And in Nusquam-in-ore?”

“An alias, well established and with no ties to myself.”

“Then we may never know short of asking Lutan himself,” The Swordsman concluded, “I assume you’ve no way of getting a message to the Necropolis?”

“None I would trust at this distance,” Erebus replied calmly, “besides it’s merely my word against his unless I submit to a memory scan.”

“A dangerous task certainly.”

“I don’t think they’ll react quite that badly,” the necromancer said, though not with any great confidence.

“You killed a lich” the ancient being pointed out.

“He was out of his mind, I had no choice,” Erebus protested vehemently. “Besides, it’s not as if I’ll volunteer that information. That particular incident will remain between you, me and the dead.”

“You’re not that naïve. There have been people dying for an excuse to get into your head for over a century, if you submit to a memory scan they’ll pick your brain clean.”

“If that’s what is necessary to end this fiasco once and for all then so be it.”

“It’s nice to see someone with the courage of their convictions.”

“Perhaps. But until I actually back my words up with action then all they are is words.”

“Have you any other options?”

“Two come to mind. Either track down and kill Lutan and his supporters or travel to the Citadel at New Pax and present charges against Lutan to the High Paladin.”

“Very risky, do you still have friends on the Council?”

“There are still one or two who would look upon me kindly for services rendered.”

“Do I even want to know?”

“Nothing immoral, I just stopped a fae attack back in my youth and helped hold the line in the siege of Gerhultz.”

“You’ve never told me about those incidents.”

Erebus smirked, “The problem with being a confidante old friend is that you don’t get to hear the things I don’t mind people knowing.”

“Are you going to tell the boy the truth about himself?” the change in subject exceptionally abrupt.

“This truth being?” the necromancer asked, hoping The Swordsman wasn’t referring to his theory once again.

“He has power and a lot of it.”

“I’m not going to tell him,” Erebus said firmly. “And nor should anyone else. Magic needs always begin as a journey of self-discovery. He must choose his own path, only then may I, or anyone else, guide him.”

“You’re playing a very dangerous game if his powers have awakened. He could lose control at any time.”

“I would hardly call it a game,” the magician declared solemnly. “But Alec is the only one with the right to decide his future, and I doubt he’ll lose control, the boy is one of the most naturally self-controlled individuals I’ve ever met. Possibly too controlled.”

“So you won’t set him up on your path?” The Swordsman asked, apparently convinced that the magician would, with sufficient questioning, admit to some deep-seated psychological urge to mould the teenager in his own image.

Erebus’ laugh was dark and bitter, “Have I ever told you why I chose to become the man I am today?”

“You know you haven’t,” The Swordsman replied, calm in the face of melodrama.

“So no one else would have to,” he growled. “I’ve thrown myself into every warzone and plague available so no one else would be forced to carry those choices around with them, to decide who lives and who dies, and though I’m pleased to say that the lives I’ve saved are at least tenfold the lives I failed to save and a hundredfold those I’ve taken, I would never ever wish this life upon another.”

“Perhaps now is a bad time to point out that by path I meant school of magic,” the immortal clarified with sheepish embarrassment.

“Still his choice,” Erebus stated succinctly.

“Did you mean that speech just then?”

“Every word. I’ve made horrific decisions in my life, as you well know, often because the other options are even worse. Why?”

“Sometimes you worry me, I wonder what would happen if that immaculate self-control were to one day slip.”

“You needn’t worry about me. Ever. I’ve already taken precautions against that eventuality.”

“I’m worried for you,” his friend replied cautiously stressing the difference with great care.

“I’ve done nothing you haven’t. Picked a code of honour and lived by it.”

“Perhaps but people who live by a code of honour tend to die because of them.”

For an instant, the universe seemed to hold its breath as Erebus held the immortal’s gaze, allowing the ancient being to stare directly at the dark, writhing turmoil within.

“Only if they’re very lucky,” the necromancer declared as he left the room.