The Weight of Legacy

Once—in his youth and ignorance—Anselm Rīsan might have found the prospect of spending almost an entire day in bed to be unbecoming, a poor showing. Laziness at its fineness, when in life, there were so many tasks in need of completion.

In present times, this was simply reality.

For what had to be the fifth time in the day, Anselm shifted to the side, to the edge of the bed. He hoped such proximity would get him closer to his goal of finally getting up.

Said hopes had been misplaced.

It was an uncomfortable position, to the point he might have been better off crumpling on the floor than so twisted atop the mattress, but not a muscle would move for him. The fact that the room wasn’t anywhere near bright enough for him to feel awake didn’t help in the slightest.

Physically, he could walk still. He was certainly capable of, at a bare minimum, getting up. Nothing weighed down on him beyond the fact that he could not bring himself to stand.

With each passing day, Anselm felt worse off, that endless exhaustion that wasn’t purely a problem of the body clawing at him. He would tire far sooner than could ever be reasonable, and resting alleviated nothing.

He barely even had the energy to wonder why.

Each day, he got up. It was merely a matter of eventuality and patience, but the latter was running thin.

Anselm hated this. He believed himself a mature individual—he accepted the consequences of his actions. He knew he had to live—and perhaps die—as dictated by the choices he made.

In that moment—what felt like an eternity ago but had not yet been two years in truth—Anselm had been more concerned for Hanne being found there should he die than for the fact he’d believed he was dying.

He did not doubt, not for a second, that his father loved his family.

But his father was not a kind man, and if Anselm had died, he’d have been looking for someone to blame. Anselm’s own participation in their so-called experiment would not have mattered to him.

Hanne had left close to the start of the month, without a word. No doubt, out there in her repeated quests for solutions.

Anselm no longer lied to himself—he found he did resent her slightly.

He’d appreciated her help after the deed, however, and had since begun to wonder whether her healing might have been the only thing keeping him going. He’d certainly weakened in her absence.

This inn, nested among shops within a relatively quiet part of Beuzaheim, had become his temporary home.

And perhaps his last.

Perhaps he should have taken the innkeeper’s feelings into consideration—a thought that did cross his mind—but numb and lethargic as he was, he found he refused to hold it against himself to admit he frankly didn’t care.

It hadn’t cost that much to hire a carriage that would go as far as their estate’s gates.

He wanted to be far from home, for that feeling had returned.

A gradual thing, at first, like the waning of a candle, a herald of the darkness soon to descend—and in truth, he’d grown to despise darkness terribly. That finality, the deprivation of light it represented by definition, it all terrified him in a way he couldn’t put to words.

That fading of the light had returned in full, like an imminent threat, a looming force beyond himself that lurked within, and would tear him apart at any moment.

Anselm had run off, in part, because hiding almost felt like enough to forget how close the end had to be.

Yet once again, he’d awoken in the morning.

He was almost angry—he was alive, yet lacking in the energy to live.

The wall barely offered Anselm any support, his stumbling steps bordering on a crouch. The time of his most recent meal was lost to him, though the distant awareness that he was famished remained. He needn’t cook a meal for himself, as he could have something brought up, yet…

None would see him like this. He simply refused to surrender what little dignity he had left.

Anselm knew not what to call the burning in his chest—a twisted thing that rang of desperation, a panic running far deeper than the real thing, so many indistinguishable feelings pressed into one.

As though everything he’d ever done, everything he’d ever achieved, everything he’d ever been, meant nothing—like he was nothing but someone who was unwell, a being without personality, without deeds, without hopes.

Just a thing waiting to die.

The room was well-appointed enough, bearing even a small enchanted stove and many implements. He wouldn’t clean them after he was done—that, he would leave to the inn’s staff, by sliding them to the designated area.

Anselm fumbled through his inventory. Not everything he carried was edible, but enough things were, and his inventory held the necessary perks to avoid decay.

Some minced meat usually reserved for when animals needed to be given medicine, a few precut herbs and spices meant for when picky clients would only accept concoctions that were mixed into a meal. The ‘concoction’ sizzling in front of him might not have been a culinary delight, but it wouldn’t be bad.

Yet he could barely stand by the time he deemed it ready, disabling the stove as an unsteady hand moved to serve the meal.

It slipped from his grip in an eternal instant, the slow-moving image of shattered ceramic and spilled soup replaying in his mind, even as Anselm managed to take a step back, then another and another.

The back of his legs hit the edge of his bed, and he crumbled forward, half-kneeling and half-falling.

Whether he’d somehow managed to irritate his eyes or he truly was this hopeless, he found he felt the tears streaming down before he’d even registered he’d begun to cry.

At least he was alone.

He’d been far from exceptional, but he’d been objectively good. For all he’d have loved to drag himself back to rationality, he instead allowed himself to whine, for that was all he felt he had left to do.

It wasn’t fair.

He’d tested things on himself before, but all had been controllable—as even that day’s attempt should have been.

Yet this had gone so catastrophically wrong that he could no longer deny it had ruined his life.

Whatever the combination of his and Hanne’s tonics had all but invited in had ruined him—no doubt the whims of a god.

Being finally left alone for long, Anselm found he could think clearly. Without the constant, inevitable thoughts of the blessing crossing with whatever he’d been thinking in relation to present company, he hadn’t blacked out in days.

For all the usual posturing, the Crown and its nobles served a purpose—the secrets they kept, the Affinities they shared only among themselves, were meant to keep outside influence from interfering with the lives of the mortals who lived in their lands. Beyond the limited power Saints wielded, no higher power should be able to touch anyone beneath the waves, and deities were the example of that.

Seafarers sometimes worshiped gods, though Anselm did not know of any, had never asked. The only connection he could make, the only conclusion he could draw, was that some seabound god was involved, had for some accursed reason decided to latch onto him when he lay dying after taking the tonics.

Recalling whatever the deity had said during the encounter itself proved impossible, with the experience having amounted to little more than recollections of a fever dream to him. Each attempt to remember only worsened it, what little clarity he’d once held on to, fading.

Long-lasting—let alone permanent—Status Effects were said to be ridiculously difficult to apply, be they for good or ill. One’s very being would resist having something else’s will be enforced on them so decisively, even if one was a mortal with no Affinities to speak of.

It was certainly within the power of a god, however—and only gods could bless.

That numb helplessness at just how outmatched he was there had settled quickly. There would be no way to go around it, and no way to remove it. He was stuck with the blessing, and its undisclosed effects. What stumped him was its categorization, for it felt nothing but insidious.

Anselm knew almost instinctively by now that while he certainly could speak of it, he’d lose consciousness before he could even open his mouth, were he to actually make the attempt. Worse yet was how all memory from shortly before the lapse in awareness would leave him, but only for a time.

Prior to this solitude, again and again, he’d find himself recalling how, hours earlier, he actually hadn’t just fainted in the middle of a conversation, no. He’d simply drawn a blank so overwhelming he could only describe it as an absolute—if momentary—cessation of thought.

He’d started to wonder, quite often, whether it would be his condition or the blessing that’d get him first.

In his stupor, Anselm had managed to miss how, at some point, the innkeeper had presumably heard him crying, and decided to intrude—it was admittedly her property, but it still had him a bit irked.

“Thank you.”

She had brought someone in to clean up the mess, and even had some bread and broth brought up for him, a far larger meal than he’d have managed to make for himself. Surprisingly enough, the innkeeper hadn’t actually asked what was wrong.

Anselm didn’t know her, not personally, beyond having paid for the stay—having some passing acquaintances in Beuzaheim did not mean he knew all proprietors, contrary to what certain relatives seemed to assume.

Still, the elderly lady lingered after even the bowl had been taken away, eying him strangely. She looked like a tutor about to start a lesson outside the assigned hours, and he did not look forward to it. “There is nothing wrong with asking for help, you know.”

“I do know,” Anselm agreed, desperately thinking about the tiling of the roof to keep his thoughts from wandering to the one place that would leave him adding fuel to the fire of her concerns. “Thank you for your concern.”

“I have friends,” the elderly lady continued, fidgeting. “No mages, but capable people still. I am aware coin is of no concern to you—but even if it were, I’d insist.”

“Again, thank you for your concern,” Anselm replied, leaning on the bed, partly as a show of his intention to go to sleep and partly because he genuinely could not have stood for a minute longer. “I simply require more rest. That is all.”

“I see,” the innkeeper nodded, but at no point did her glares desist, her eyes not leaving him until she was gone from the room entirely.

Anselm would have chastised himself for making such a fuzz that it drew attention, but he didn’t manage to stay awake for much longer.

Of course that woman had actually brought a quack.

Sea above, Anselm was a mostly qualified alchemist. He’d grown up with a close friend who could heal with a touch.

He respected professionals, but heavily, heavily doubted there was anything a mortal doctor could do when neither his own brews nor Hanne’s efforts had even come close to making a true difference.

“For the last time, I am refusing treatment.”

“And I heard, young man,” the similarly-elderly doctor the innkeeper had dragged in insisted. “I simply do not believe you are in any condition to decide that for yourself.”

“I am unwell, that is true,” Anselm acknowledged. He was no doubt being somewhat abrasive, but the last thing he needed was a stranger examining him—the cause of his current status was not something he could allow to become known. “It is simply not something I need aid with.”

Unrelenting, the elderly doctor pushed a heavily-inscribed metallic object closer to him. Compared to the irritating darkness of the room, it was almost stunningly clear, as if it were the only object in the room touched by the light.

“Is this…?”

The doctor pulled the object back, pointing it at his own face before jumping back with a yelp. “This thing is working!”

“Of course it is,” the innkeeper was alternating glares between them with her arms crossed, looking at them both as though they’d lost their minds. “Jericho, you are a fool beyond measure.”

Grumbling, the doctor blinked repeatedly, before leaning forward and closer to Anselm. The doctor—Jericho, apparently—was not particularly fast, but Anselm wasn’t exactly capable of fending off even such a relatively slow invasion of his personal space.

Jericho pulled at his eyelids with force that had to qualify as the sort none should ever use on a patient, unwilling or not, and Anselm found himself wondering if the man was a real doctor, all the while the object continued to be waved in front of him.

At last, the old man stepped back, giving him the side-eye.

“Young man, do you know what month and year it is? Do you know where you are?”

Whatever could Jericho be getting at with such questions? It wasn’t lost to Anselm that perhaps the man believed him somehow impaired, but while he certainly had severe problems to deal with, he held confidence in the fact that he remained sane.

And, truly, if he’d known someone else acting this way towards him would have been all it took for him to be too irritated to wallow in despair, he might have willingly gone to a doctor sooner.

“It is currently the time of The Cold, the year is 5801, and I am staying within the assign quarters of this very inn, in Beuzaheim,” Anselm frowned but answered, nonetheless. “I know not what you believe, but I am of sound mind and simply seeking repose.”

“I believe you,” Jericho lied through his teeth—it was blatant. “Nonetheless, would you perhaps permit me to examine you? You see, old Gertraud here is an old friend, and she cares deeply for all her patrons. It would break her pruny little heart if any ill befell a guest and she did nothing to avoid it.”

“The only pruny thing in here is your ass,” old Gertraud colorfully commented. “But indeed, young man, the doctor speaks truth—it would assuage my nerves if you would allow him to take a look. Just a look.”

Anselm heavily doubted all a doctor would want would be ‘a look’. Would it kill either of them to just let him be? This was beyond intrusive.

He unfortunately had his doubts about avoiding any examination altogether—at this point in his life, two people, no matter how old or seemingly frail, were more than enough to manhandle him if it came to that.

It was slightly offensive—at least Hanne was strong individually. In this case, it was simply a matter of Anselm being ridiculously weak at the moment. Even attributes mattered little when his body itself was failing him.

When I view it in that way… Perhaps there would be no loss to allowing this.

As though he’d truly stood a chance of resisting in the first place.

“Fine, but you shall be as swift as your needs allow.”

“I will be as swift as possible, yes,” the doctor conceded. “But be mindful this is for your benefit, not mine.”

Anselm suppressed a scoff. He wasn’t a child—he could control himself.

…It was a tenuous thing, however.

“The details of my affairs are mine alone to care for,” Anselm said softly, and that was already pushing it. There were only so many boundaries he could set before people’s imaginations did as they always did.

Jericho gave a mumbled assent, instead pulling even more implements from his bag. They were undoubtedly enchanted, but beyond that obvious fact, Anselm couldn’t guess their use.

“Might I ask how you’re feeling?” the doctor asked, lifting what appeared to be something that both resembled a scalpel and remained attached to a vial. “Beyond it not being my business.”

Well, he was asking politely enough, even after that entrance. “Tired. As I have mentioned often and repeatedly.”

“I’m aware of that,” Jericho nodded, then swung for Anselm’s face. He pulled back before actually touching him, with the entire sequence having gone by so quickly Anselm hadn’t a chance to even flinch.

The doctor didn’t even address what he’d just done before asking another question. “Do your limbs fail you at times? Have you any trouble getting manual tasks done?”

“Admittedly, yes. It’s part of the reason why I need more rest, you see.”

He would be a liar to deny a nascent curiosity bloomed in him—what did the doctor think this was?

“May I see a hand?”

Anselm frowned, nonetheless raising his right hand until it hovered around the height of his belly. It took perhaps more effort than it should have.

“Close the fist?”

That much was considerably easier than lifting it had been.

“Open it?”

His fingers staggered softly, but he got it done. Unprompted, he repeated both motions, until he was opening and closing the fist evenly.

“That’s enough,” Jericho declared, moving the device he’d been holding closer. “May I have a finger to prick for a sample? It’ll be quick.”

Anselm disliked the request on principle—he didn’t understand all the potential things the man could do with one’s blood, and that made him distrust it. However, Jericho was a mortal doctor. The easiest answer would be that he did indeed simply wish for a sample as part of his examination.

Slowly, he positioned his hand, exposing his index finger for the doctor. Jericho wasted no time, grabbing his hand outright and all but jabbing the scalpel-like object into his skin.

It was somewhat mesmerizing to behold—Anselm hadn’t truly felt pain in a long time, the cut merely a dull and distant ache. The numbness left him free to watch as thick blood left the wound at a snail’s pace, slowly making its way to whatever liquid the vial contained.

If Anselm had to guess, there’d be some kind of reaction the doctor could interpret.

For now, he continued to stare. The sight of this shook him far more than the countless fainting spells and falls, and he found he couldn’t recall a single time he’d been injured since the event. He’d have charted it off to his limited activity, that he hadn’t been at risk of injury often, but he would have noticed this before, had this been occurring for long.

Or could he truly have not noticed this? Would even a minor injury that drew blood have been enough?

He gulped. Jericho was practically squeezing his finger, and the cut was not a shallow one.

He’d known something was wrong, that he grew weaker by the day, but at no point had he been as close to panic as he was now, watching this horribly muddled crimson with the consistency of gel pour out.

“Breathe,” old Gertraud patted him in the back, and he found he couldn’t even be annoyed. Anselm wasn’t even hyperventilating—he was just unbelievably giddy.

As the sample he’d wanted settled, Jericho wiped the wound, applying a cream that carried with it the scent of tree bark. His hand went to Anselm’s neck, which he started prodding, at one point pushing as far as behind his ear.

Something began to build within Anselm’s chest, a product of panic. This man had to leave.

“You look scared,” the doctor said, a mere statement. It would have been perhaps a disturbing contrast, to see how somberness had replaced the demeanor of the relatively pushy man. “Your body isn’t reflecting that.”

Anselm did huff then. He wasn’t sure as to how long his composure may yet last. “Is your examination done?”

“Until the result grows… clear, yes. I will return soon,” Jericho said, beckoning Gertraud closer. “You were right. You need rest, lots of it.”

Anselm narrowed his eyes. That sudden agreement to his own earlier insistence bordered on suspicious. “I do. What brought on this change of mind?”

“I confess I misread the situation, and disregarded your… input. Yes, that. If I were in this situation again, I would repeat my actions. But I meant to neither disrespect you nor imply you were not of sound mind, and if it came off that way, I apologize.”

The doctor’s words had gone from bordering on it, now being truly a cause for suspicion. Yet as he continued to move away, Anselm hesitated—he did want the man to leave. Should he really argue back when he was getting what he wanted?

Though still hesitant, he sighed slowly and watched them go, legs still dangling from the edge of the bed. He’d barely managed a woefully cold bath before their arrival, and found he’d burned so much of his little energy on arguments. A better, warmer bath would have to wait.

As he lay in bed, he revisited the doctor’s words—Jericho had changed course in an instant. Had the very same thing that had Anselm unnerved somehow changed how the man was approaching this?

If nothing else, both the doctor and the innkeeper had treated this with far more seriousness than Anselm himself had—he cared, obviously, but what was he to do?

And it wasn’t as though the doctor aborted his plan, as he clearly still meant to use that sample to conclude something. It had mostly been his attitude that changed, coupled perhaps with a swift retreat.

Anselm was perhaps… worse off than he’d have liked to admit. But hadn’t that been exactly the point Jericho had wished to prove?

He glanced at his finger, slowly lifting the hand back up as he laid back. It was already barely a line of new pink skin, with the flaked outer layer being the only more overt sign it had happened. It certainly didn’t look like a deep wound, let alone one that had drawn blood.

That cream the doctor used had to be among the most effective he’d ever witnessed, of the sort perhaps only old Martin would have made, at least back then.

Sighing again, Anselm pulled on the blanket. Everything was getting uncomfortably cold again, and the combination of lightheadedness and lack of lighting put him in a position where the only way to avoid the discomfort was to simply close his eyes.

That ubiquitous lethargy of his only helped as he closed his eyes, as for yet another time that would slip from him, he didn’t even notice the moment his heart stopped.