Chapter Text
It is not even a snare that captures him, but vines, and Streibough soundlessly snarls as he trips, falls, and falls further- into the river where he had been planning on gathering more food and fresh water. He grits his teeth, yes, but he does not scream. Screaming would only cause more issues, so instead of allowing a yell to pass his throat, he pulls himself out, hissing as the thorns dig into his skin. He-
Then, there are footsteps. Familiar footsteps.
Streibough freezes, praying to gods he knows either do not listen or no longer exist.
“Well… look what I found, on the ground and covered in mud from his own hubris,” An unfamiliar voice mocks with a familiar tone.
Like always, none answered his prayer.
Streibough looks up at the face of the demon, slowly twisting his feet to remove the vines, glaring in way he knows masks his other emotions.
“To think, you survived…” Streibough flinches at the sudden unfamiliarity of tone. Oersted rarely used a tone like that, and hearing it with the demon’s voice brings him anything but comfort. Despite knowing how poorly his next words could be, he forces himself to speak, needing the demon to remain focused on his face and nothing else.
“What do you want, Oersted?” He bites, and the demon does not flinch like it usually does at the name of the human. In fact, all it does is lean closer, reach closer, and-
-Frown?
“You still call me by that name.” A statement. Nothing more, nothing less.
“You are Oersted,” Streibough continues to slowly, ever so slowly, move, “It’s your name, and the one you once chose before throwing it away.”
“You’re right, but Streibough…” The demon’s voice holds no rage, and that just makes the situation more unnerving, “Did you really think I wouldn’t notice you trying to escape?”
Streibough grimaces, grabbing a handful of mud before he can think better of, throws it towards the demon’s eyes, and jumps into the river-
Only for something to hold him-
-Gently.
Streibough gapes as he realises that the demon’s vines- an ability he has never been able to completely make sense of- have gripped him before he could hit the water and attempt his escape, yet- there is no pain. There’s a grip, and a firmness, still- no pain. There are no thorns on the vines that hold him, no branches, and there are leaves that hold no sharpness.
“I see you are surprised,” The demon says, almost softy, “They change with my will.”
Streibough winces and narrows his eyes. The vines begin to pull him back up, slowly, and he knows the demon is enjoying drawing out the fear as the vines continue to twist around him, limiting his methods of escape.
The demon frowns, “You’re thin.”
In any other tone, he would have taken that as an insult, or mockery, but instead it just makes him-
-stop.
He gives Oers- the demon a flat stare, making his displeasure and thoughts of the demon’s statement apparent, “I have been running for seasons, and every Lucrecean will kill me on sight to appease you.”
The vines reach his collarbone.
“I do not want you dead.” The demon’s voice is plain, and Streibough bares his teeth. He knows that. He knows, he knows, he knows-
The vines reach his neck.
“I know. I would rather the guards find me.” Streibough forces out, and the demon- pulls back? It’s an action that’s so Oersted that Streibough almost flinches in turn, only to realise that he can barely move, and yet- the hold is gentle.
It makes him feel sick, knowing how much control the demon has.
He breathes, testing the grip. Soft, to an extent, as if the further he pulls, the more difficult it is to move. Slow, small, slight movements allow himself to move, but the further he does, the more the vines pull back, as if his body had simply gotten tired. It’s disgusting, how easily the demon can command what feeds on his blood, something that would take any human spellcaster decades to master.
The vines reach his jaw, leaves tickling his nose. Streibough sneezes. The leaves smell of- mint? He sneezes again, and-
It smells of mint. It smells of ash. It smells of the perfume that Alethea uses. It smells of the oil Oersted used for his armour. It smells of the herbs in his cousin’s home. It-
Then, Streibough knows nothing.
Streibough wakes.
That is not what shocks him, of course. Waking is expected, even if it only takes half a moment after regaining awareness to remember how he lost it in the first place. The demon found him, and if simply killing him is not enough for his hunger to be satisfied, then of course he would wake to suffer again.
So when Streibough wakes, he is not surprised, but when he realises he’s lying on a bed that he could call comfortable in a room that looks little like a cell, for several more seconds, he is half convinced he is dreaming.
Without thinking, he presses his hand into his sleeve, and-
His wristband is still there, along with the crystal that lies beneath it. It digs into his skin with a familiar discomfort that could only come to him in wakefulness.
Streibough bites the inside of his lip, and breathes, glancing around the room, trying to spot a weakness in the illusion. Something small, something insignificant, that didn’t fit with the rules that the world runs on.
His eyes pass over a desk and chair near the foot of the bed. It sits against the same wall as the bed, and the grain of the wood that it is made of does not change, nor fit wrong, and the candles and containers on the desk reflect the light as they should. Next to the desk, a pile of papers have nothing written on them- but the books next to those have letters that fit to form words. The bed itself is simple wood and furs, a cover made from cloth that weighs as much, and the floor and walls stone that clearly meet and hold as it should.
He turns. Near the head of the bed, there is a small opening- the window is not large enough for most to fit, but if he were to lose an arm, he would be able to make it through. Opposite the desk, there is a door of dark wood, and all of the nails fit in a way that would hold it.
Streibough stands, and when his feet hit the ground, he can hear how the walls send that sound back. He moves to the desk and chair, and does not dare touch it, but he does hit the ground near it with his heel.
At the very least, there is something wooden there.
Streibough closes his eyes. Not even Oe- the demon would be able to create an illusion this detailed, even if he recalled, for once, how to spot them.
Likely, this room is real.
That concerns him little. What raises his worry is that this room feels comfortable . Perhaps the demon was simply relying on it to fool Streibough into a false sense of security, but he has not lived- or visited- any place this luxurious in years. All the familiarity does is unnerve him, and that gives him more than enough energy to prepare for most ideas the demon would have.
He taps his heel again, sending enough pain through it to convince himself that this is real, and stands. If his previous noise did not capture attention, this will.
So, he waits.
Like always, Oers- the demon is not patient, and it only takes a few moments for the sound of creaking to accompany the door opening.
He bites the inside of his lip to stop himself from using a spell- everything will be for nothing if he uses magic here- and forces himself to be grounded from the pain.
This is real, and he will find a way out, by any means necessary.
The demon stands there, and moves slightly, so he is properly facing Streibough. It leaves some space to access the door. Streibough stares back. As much as he would love to sit or move closer to the escape, he would rather not show weakness to the self proclaimed “Lord of Dark”. He is a threat, despite how absurd the name is.
Oe- The demon says nothing, strangely, and Streibough leans slightly on the desk- Oersted would never notice, nor care to notice it.
He waits.
Streibough has always, always, been good at waiting.
“You are awake.” As expected, the demon speaks first, when the ache in Streibough’s legs is barely noticeable.
“So I am,” He replies, keeping the thought of Stay alive, get out, in the forefront of his mind. He cannot afford to add Not in the mud where I belong, to his words, nor a bite to his tone.
“I have not come for violence,” The demon continues, “Would you not feel more comfortable sitting?”
“I am fine to stand, your highness,” Streibough allows himself to feel some pride at saying that without sarcasm or throwing up, even if the words leave a disgusting taste in his mouth.
There’s a burning in his chest. He swallows it down.
“I would prefer it if you called me by my name,” The demon says, tone catching Streibough off guard. He sounds almost… miffed.
Streibough narrows his eyes. The demon looks… weaker, now. Less regal, less powerful and self-assured- although, that may be caused by the fact that Streibough himself is no longer filthy or below him.
He blinks. The demon had appeared before without any illusions, and he has done the same now. The only difference is that here, the demon is not wearing Streibough’s own travel cloak.
The demon is using no illusions upon himself.
The demon is still slightly shorter than him, like Oersted was when they parted ways.
Streibough considers for a moment, recalling his memories of how the demon responded to Oersted’s name during his capture. He takes risk with what little luck he’s always had, and keeps his tone calm as he speaks, “The only name I will call you by is Oersted.”
He waits. He feels icy hands press against his lungs, and forces himself calm despite the room spinning.
“That is the name I wish to hear.” Is what the demon responds with, tone strangely small, and Streibough-
Streibough stops himself from laughing, stops himself from crying- he is too drained for it to take much energy, thankfully- stops himself from showing his shock, stops himself from slumping in relief or snarling with fury-
He simply keeps his mouth shut, and stares. If he opens it, he would not leave this room in one piece.
He still remembers Archon's Roost, after all.
“That is why I have brought you here,” The demon has the lack of decency to look away from Streibough and gesture to the room, “I was… short sighted, when I had declared war on all of humanity. I underestimated them… both in strength and character.” Streibough bites the inside of his lip to stop himself from speaking, “I… know that I have done many great wrongs, and I am endeavouring to change that. I have no desire to spend the rest of my life amongst demons that turn on me as easily as any other.”
Streibough keeps his disgust in the pit of his stomach. There is more. Streibough knows there is more. There is always more, so he waits. Oersted waits. Streibough waits longer.
The demon continues, clearly expecting something from Streibough, “You may stay in this room for as long as you wish. It, and everything within it, is yours.”
What happened to “on the ground and covered in mud like I belong”? Streibough does not say. It is clear that the demon is holding back his fury, that he is holding fast to a script that Streibough has not read. If the demon wants human company, it makes sense- the script is practiced, their meeting was not.
Streibough does not speak, but in that moment, he does not know what emotions possessed his body, or if it was an emotion that possessed it at all. All he knows is that he stared the demon in the eyes- and the next moment he had heard the sound of metal on stone.
There is stunned silence, and Streibough realises that he had moved his hand across the desk, and deliberately dropped the candle holder, bending it, breaking the candle, and snuffing the light.
He wants to laugh.
“...I did say everything in this room was yours,” Oerst- The demon’s voice is- not hollow, but not frustrated either. He sounds as shocked by Streibough’s actions as Streibough himself, “However, that does not mean I am replacing what you break.” The shock of his voice gives way to resignation and familiarity.
That, of all things, begins to ignite Streibough’s resentment when nothing else was able to.
“I am leaving,” He states. There is blood on his tongue. He must have bitten through the flesh of his inner lip. He needs to be calm. He should be calm. Of all their history, this should mean nothing.
Oersted tilts his head in confusion, and only the knowledge that he cannot use his own spells stops Streibough from attacking. The bastard almost looks amused with bafflement, “You would rather be alone in the wilds and starving?”
“If the alternative is being with you? Absolutely.” He should stop. He needs to stop. He cannot afford to- “You cost me everything, Oersted. Do not forget that, even if you forget everything else. My companions' blood is on your hands, and no amount of blood gold will change that.”
“Whose fault is that?” Oer- The dem- The one in front of him bites back, and there is the disgusting self righteousness that Streibough has always known to be Oersted’s defining trait.
“I-” It’s bubbling beneath his skin, and Streibough should be calm, calm, calm, but all the icey hands do is make it burn, “-Was speaking of before this!”
There is silence, finally.
Streibough knows his own voice is weak from misuse, but that does not yet make it silent.
“I was not talking of after, nor referring to Archon's Roost,” Streibough forces himself to breathe, “I had companions long before you, and you were not my only ally, nor only person I referred to as my- friend,” He grits his teeth, forcing himself to continue. Suddenly, the pain in his leg is little in comparison to the pain in his throat, in his chest, in his lungs and heart, “Those were lost because you, as a Lucrecen knight, always rushed in without thinking.”
Streibough should stop here.
He cannot.
“The night of the king’s death, when I cast that illusion, the emotions and power that the mountain brought forth did not cost me my sense, nor did they cost you yours when you razed our hometown. The illusion I cast that night was very clearly different to the one- to the Lord of Dark- of the mountain, and very obviously not attacking, and you-” Streibough does not stop himself, not quite, “It was a test. One that you failed, and I am- done, with everything we were and are.”
Streibough moves towards the door.
He leaves.
Oersted lets him go.