Garden Of The Abyss

"Apologies, it's just difficult not to recognize that hair of yours. That, and it's not often one sees white lightning being wielded so casually," the youthful knight smiled, "I'm Markus."

He stared at the man's white-gloved hand for a moment before begrudgingly accepting his greeting, shaking it firmly.

"...Thanks," He said genuinely this time, "I probably would've done something a bit unsightly."

"A bit?" Markus laughed, "Argonauts really are something else, aren't they?"

"You think so?" He replied, still holding sparse care in his tone.

After a moment, he began to continue on his way before stopping after just a single step as a thought came to his mind.

"Hey, knight."

"It's Markus," The youthful man replied wryly with a chuckle, "but what is it?"

"You know this city pretty well, right? I need help finding somebody."

By the reassuring smile that inhabited Markus' lips, he got his answer without a single word needing to be said as the knight simply nodded his head.

It didn't take more than ten minutes of strolling through the bustling city alongside Markus, passing by dragonewt performers, demi-human bards, and all attractions of the magical city, to find Gisela.

After running off, she was found happy as could be, with boxes of clothes she had just bought in hand, stacked up high.

"Oh, there you are, Andraste!" Gisela greeted him with a smile.

Though as he loaded the many boxes onto him, he understood well that her happy smile was indeed still angry with him.

Markus wasn't exempt, either, having a dozen items dropped onto his arms as he looked over wryly at the white-haired man.

"I'm glad everything seems to have ended up alright…" Markus said with a small smile.

"Sorry, man…" He sighed out, "I should've known she'd do this–she always shops to cope with her emotions. It always results in a ludicrous haul like this."

He chuckled quietly–something caught both by Gisela and Markus, who stopped and looked at the white-haired, stoic man, who quickly hid his laughter.

"Did you just smile?!" Gisela asked with a beaming smile on her face.

"Pardon me, but I didn't think it was possible!" Markus added.

"Ah, cut it out, both of you!" Andraste huffed with an embarrassed hue to his cheeks as he walked past the two.

It was a time of joy; a respite from the violence of his job as an Argonaut…a time before the one who embodied bloodlust itself was born.

Of course, whether he openly admitted it or not, a friendship was born between the three of them; one unlikely–between Argonaut and Knight.

[Voyager Keep, Three Months Later]

"You're saying you find your own personality troublesome, Andraste?"

He stayed silent for a moment as he stayed seated on the wooden chair, looking down at his own hands.

The question arose from a middle-aged man, wearing a long, white coat as he fiddled with colorful vials.

"...That's one way to put it, Doc," he replied gloomily, "I just feel empty lately. My head's clouded. It's gradually become worse over time. At first, I thought it was a gift–a gift I used to hunt enemies of the throne without hesitation. All because I simply didn't feel anything when I killed. But, that didn't stop me from feeling…something. At this point, I don't have any motivation. I feel like any day now, I'll simply drift off, someplace else."

The coat-wearing, silver-haired man twiddled with the cork of a bottle for a moment as he remained silent, finally turning to face Andraste as he sat on the chair across from him.

"I see. That's troublesome, indeed. You won't be able to continue your work as an Argonaut like this," the man told him.

The doctor peered at the man through the circular lenses of his clear glasses, fixing them on his nose as his lightly-crimson irises fixated on him for a moment.

"I believe I have something that will help," the doctor told him.

"You do? I'd appreciate it, Doc," He said.

Sinking his face into his palms for a moment as he cleared his sinuses, he listened to the doctor rummage through the assortment of concoctions on display in the neatly, metallic room.

Doctor Vira, he's the head doctor of the Argonauts. He's a miracle worker, in all honesty. I guess that's why Bulsteighn brought him in. I heard he used to be a diamond-ranked adventurer, but he stopped, for some reason. We'd be lost without him, he thought.

"Ah, here it is," Doctor Vira said with a small smile.

From the top shelf of the stygian, metal cabinet, he retrieved a tall, slender bottle that contained a clear liquid.

"What's that stuff?" He asked.

Doctor Vira smiled, fixing his glasses once more as he rationed the contents of the bottle into a smaller jar, sealing it as he shook it lightly, "A concoction I've made myself, recently."

"Really?"

The doctor nodded in response, "Your case is not an unseen one, unfortunately. It's to be expected this line of work comes with drastic tolls to the mind…we've lost many, valuable men. However, I believe that will all change with this."

"It'll help?" He asked, accepting the bottle that the doctor handed to him.

"Without a doubt," Doctor Vira answered with a smile, "it'll return the joy to your life. More precisely, it'll allow you to find that joy for yourself."

After leaving the Doctor's quarters, he stopped down the hall, unable to be patient with the newfound hope in his life, held right in his hand.

He only looked at it for a moment, taking a whiff of it after popping the cork of the bottle; it had a burning aroma of spices, but also the coolness of mint mixed in.

Here's to a new "me", he thought.

–Drinking the contents, he immediately felt something alter inside of him.

His rationality, the way he perceived things; it all felt as if it was being twisted. The stems of his mind, the bridges that connected his experiences–all contorted into something sinister.

I should've known something was up.

"Clear Crimson", they called it. It was a mixture created by the doctor to turn those of the Argonauts labeled as "weak of mind" into ruthless killing machines.

It wasn't long after drinking that…I found my joy, in bloodshed.

Not long after, I found myself alone.

She looked at me with horrified eyes, looking at me as if I was someone else, somebody completely unrecognizable.

[Outskirts of the capital, Mastorn – One Year Later]

"You don't have to do this."

He knew his words were moot as he watched Markus stuff clothes into a set of bags, clearly not his own by their feminine nature.

"You asked me to do this," Markus faced him after closing the bags.

"You don't have to do it," he told him again.

"I'm a knight, Andraste. It's the one thing in this world I know that I am. If this is your final request to me, as your friend, of course I'll do it," Markus assured him with a wry smile, lifting the bags.

They stood in the lavish room of the small, but exuberant cottage–the home that Andraste and Gisela bought together.

It was the dead of night; so quiet that the chirps of the birds filled the era of stars with an ambience of its own. The only light originated from the orange lamps set on the log-formed walls.

Markus, holding both of the compact bags, stopped for a moment just before reaching the front door of the wood-built cottage.

"You should say goodbye to her, Andraste."

"I'm the last person she wants to see," he responded.

He kept his hands tucked into the pockets of his black cloak, averting his eyes as the heroic charm embedded in Markus' eyes struck him painfully.

"I couldn't believe it myself when I heard it, you know?" Markus spoke, facing the door.

Andraste remained silent, leaning against the wall as he kept his gaze down towards the wooden floorboards.

"..."The Massacre of Yurisel": five-hundred dead, no survivors. All because one otherworlder was found stowed away in an old woman's cottage. She didn't even know he was an otherworlder; in her wizened age, she mistook the boy as her grandson. Nonetheless, you didn't hold any mercy, did you, Andraste?" Markus' voice trembled a bit as tears lined his eyes, keeping his eyes on the door, "you didn't, did you?!"

"Leave," he replied under his breath.

Markus' words came out harsher, "I couldn't bring myself to accept it: the man I called my friend was a twisted murderer. When I came out here, I was half-ready to take your head back with me, Andraste."

"Go," he replied again, quietly.

"The only reason my sword is still in my sheath–the only reason I don't enact justice myself, is because I believe somewhere inside of you, my friend still exists. The moment I walk out of this door, I don't want to ever see you again. You will never see Gisela again, either."

"Leave–!" Andraste finally shouted.

Markus didn't speak another word, not even looking back as silence befell the cottage as he left through the door.

In silence, he stood there against the wall, listening as the carriage wheels spun against the dirt outside of the home, being pulled off by horses.

After hearing the carriage grow more and more distant, becoming fully silent from his ears, he slumped down against the wall.

They're gone. That's good. I don't know how much longer it would've been until I snapped on them–it's already too much. I can't control myself anymore…these urges, my emotions, they kettle and boil, seething from seemingly random.

I'm losing it. I can feel it: my mind unraveling itself, my memories and experiences growing distant, becoming unimportant, grayed-out aspects of a faded past.

Soon, I won't be the man I was yesterday.

I'm just glad…they could leave before they met the man of tomorrow, he thought.

After Markus took Gisela somewhere far away, somewhere my fangs couldn't reach, his spot among the Seven was relinquished.

It wasn't soon after that I found myself filling that void: "Victorious Seventh, Andraste, The Supreme."

What a load of horseshit.