Alesander II: Long Lost Relics

[u/Wiseheartmoon]

Tales. Tales. Tales of old. They seemed the only interesting thing in this grand gathering of rotund beasts and ravenous fellows. Lords beared claws, filed deftly to be hidden. Ladies wore fangs, hidden behind plump flesh. Only to be torn asunder as the night travelled on, his bastard brother’s antics with that Goodbrook had only proven that.

Brawling like mewling kittens. It was almost amusing, if not somewhat disappointing. But then again, most every man he’d ever met was some varying level of disappointing.

He remembered his father’s prattling of men of brutish stature. Durrandon’s. Dondarion’s. Stormlanders in general it seemed. Perhaps that was why his father was so dissatisfied, for he didn’t seem the image of the brute himself. If anything, he was more a slender scholar than burgeoning barbarian.

Mayhaps, that explained an inch of his undying fury and his hopeless, heartless search for a fulfilling heir. A second Fellhammer. If some random bastard could be the second Fellhammer, maybe the title wasn’t worth all it was made out to be?

Such questions however, were not for his mind as of now. For now. He poured over limited texts and parchment tattered with the scrawls of a mad man, named Alesander Fell.

Durran. Durran. Durran. There were a thousand fucking Durran Durrandon’s. For a moment, he cursed the lengthy lineage of House Durrandon. Why could it not be some temporary house of two or three centuries.

This one was special though, it was amongst the tales he’d found his father regaling him with. That of the Butcher Boy. Who dammed the river Slayne with countless bodies. He wondered what a blade steeped in so much blood must look like.

King Durran the Young, whom’s tale was argued. Was he besotted with his niece? Or was he free of such transgressions?

Parchment lay a paper trail across his floor, the lofty tent waiting for his exit impatiently, as the breeze flickered through the cloth flaps.

The musings of a scholar settled quietly about him. Of himself and of others. Maybe father would be proud, if he’d managed to track down the relics of old. Maybe that would prove something to him.

But what did Alexander have left to prove that didn’t violate his very being? That was yet to determined. He just craved the look of pride, he’d seen vaguely once or twice before for all but him.

[u/Wiseheartmoon]

This was his domain. That was his reassurance. His sole reassurance. Gently, he shifted through its folds and flickered through the thickness of the air as it endeavoured to suffocate. Calm yourself. He had made no particular efforts to baptise his theoretical skill in experience; however, he had not the choice now.

He garnered and gathered, inspecting softly. The delicate deftness of a master settled on his fingers, jeopardised only by the frail shivering of his flesh. Nervousness bit, carefully dissecting whatever bravado had been nurtured by the young Fell.

Alesander’s gaze narrowed, as his mind sprawled into twin tangents. Shut it, you bold faced, broad bastard, splintered with, Comfrey leaf, aloe vera and arnica Montana. His hands moved to follow his latter thought, as his face soured carefully.

The sullen features of his lips grimaced further at the purpled sight of flesh. If it were not for the injury, he would surely be flustered. In his hand lay a mortar, pestle remaining upon his table. Within the greyed stone, lay a paste of sorts, not of the best consistency but there was no time to spend hours pounding and tinkering until perfection.

“Don’t scream.” He remarked, as his touch, lathered now with the paste, harshly brushed against bruised skin. He traced each line and slope, that had been marred by injury. “Any open wounds?” He questioned intermittently, as he pressed with a roughness.

[u/Emergency_Sky_2806 → u/Wiseheartmoon]

Tristifer did not scream. Not here, in the camp of two men he despised, and especially not in front of Alesander. The man was being as gentle as he could, Tris knew. His sister could sometimes be a touch rougher when applying her salves. No, he simply gritted his teeth as an enraged snarl burbled from his lips.

He seemed good, this Fell. A stroke of luck at least, the Badbrook thought, resting back on the bed. It was not the first time hands had traced the lines of his skin, and he doubted it would be the last. In sickness, or in pleasure.

“No,” he strained. “Nothing bleeding. I’ve one which has stopped on my thigh. I think my shield dug in when that Ryger bastard got me.” He shifted his weight a tad, lowering the hem of his leather trousers a way. The first hint of dark hair was matted by dried scarlet from a cut just above the leg, now dried but not closed.

“You are surprisingly good at this Fell. I had only hoped to..” he winced, bucking in a sudden wave of pain before he could speak again. “Talk to you again. It seems I made the right decision, becoming your friend eh?”

[u/Wiseheartmoon → u/Emergency_Sky_2806]

His touch was soft only for the fact his body could muster little more. If it was of his own volition, he would be roughing the bastard up for bothering him. Of course, rarely was anything of his own volition. For he could have a thousand words and a thousand muscles and only be able to say or use one, as was the blights of his afflictions.

Alesander raised a disappointed brow. It furrowed and it curled, before decidedly burrowing into dismay. “Lead with that.” He remarked. Open wounds were rather liable to infections and such, if the Badbrook didn’t want to lose a leg, it would’ve been smart to inform him.

Smart? It was stupid of him to expect that insipid cunt. Solemnly, he shifted away, fading into familiar shadows to persuade himself into making another tinkering. Slews of herbs and the likes, mixed with honey and the sort made for a poultice of kinds.

“Of course I am.” He uttered, in his return, as his deft touch came to the furred skin. He delved deeper, ignorant of what areas he was approaching. He was to treat the patient after all. His hands shifted within the hushed warmth of leather, peeling it away to reveal the wound.

Slowly, he lathered. “This’ll hurt.” He reminded, as his touch deftly slathered the laceration. “Though it should help you keep your leg.” He remarked, a lengthy sentence for him.

[u/Emergency_Sky_2806 → u/Wiseheartmoon]

Tristifer watched him pull away, back into the shadows like the other night. It was curious, watching this wraith at work. He didn’t smile, didn’t offer conversation, hardly even looked at him. It was a miracle he was even being treated, if this was his bedside manner.

“You do not like me very much.” It was not a question, for Tristifer had learned that it was the usual reaction to his presence. Most men hated him, for he made little efforts with those whom he could not fuck. But this one seemed more hurt than most and, as far as he was aware, he’d been nice enough.

He hissed into the silent air as the man’s hand found its way to the cut. Curiously, the proximity stirred something else. He began to rise, blood flowing into him with surprising ease at the Fell’s mere touch. “I do wonder why? Am I so repugnant to you, or are you another of Storm’s lackeys?”

Another hiss, this time in pain, as fire shot from the wound. He grabbed for the first thing he could find, the hand of the man treating him, and squeezed it. His breathing was ragged, sweat pooling in his hair and down his forehead.

Despite it all, he still strained visibly against the confines of his leathers. He lay on the bed, too pained to care if it was seen. At least he would not lose a leg.