RE: Monarch - Chapter 196: Fracture III

What happened?

The question hung heavy in my mind as my regiment escorted Gunther back to the castle. There wasn’t really a chance to talk to him. As much as I would have liked it to be a happy reunion, it was more of an arrest than anything else. He’d run from the first soldiers that approached him—run more of a juddering walk on account of his injured leg—and when they’d caught up to him easily, he fought with the ferocity of a feral animal backed into a corner.

It took three full-grown men to bring him down, spitting and swearing, cursing their mothers in language more colorful than anything I’d heard from the kindly man.

I would have preferred to take him back to the palace, but there were drawbacks to that approach. Thaddeus had eyes everywhere, and while Gunther didn’t have any secrets they’d care about, that didn’t mean they wouldn’t try to ferret something out. Failing that, the risk of someone potentially alerting my father that I was housing ‘unwashed topside degenerates’ in our midst was too great. Now that I’d found him, the last thing I wanted was for him to be harassed by would-be spies.

In something of a compromise, I placed him in the residential section of the Grand Laboratory I’d reserved for Eckor. While the rooms weren’t as opulent as the palace proper, they were still luxurious, and when Gunther realized he wasn’t being thrown into the dungeon on trumped-up charges, he’d reportedly calmed some, though there was still a wildness to his demeanor that made the servants nervous. Even so, they attended to his every need, feeding him until he was full, then bathing and clothing him.

While I waited, I used the grand laboratory’s facilities to pass the time and brewed myself several potions of iron-lung. There was nothing better for underwater traversal, but I was more interested in the lowered heart rate and sensation of calmness that accompanied the dose. The process was laborious and required complete attention, and the work distracted me from the turbulence that plagued my mind.

I’d just finished the first batch and sampled it, savoring the feeling of calmness that washed over me when a servant brought word that Gunther was ready.

I knocked once and entered with a tray of tea.

Gunther pulled his legs up to his chest immediately, taking up a small amount of space on the bed, his eyes narrow and distrusting. I could see more of him now that my servants had cut down on the muck and grime, but despite their efforts, he still carried a hard edge that hadn’t been there in my memories of the man.

“Who are you?” He growled.

I placed the tray on his bedside table and pulled up a chair. “A friend.”

“Oh? I find that hard to believe.” Gunther snapped.

“Why?”

“What sort of friend has you tackled to the ground and dragged somewhere against your will?”

Fair point.

“The kind that feeds and clothes you after?” I tried.

Gunther grunted. He panned the room suspiciously before his gaze landed on the tray of tea. “All this luxury supposed to distract me from the fact that I’m a prisoner?”

“You’re not a prisoner.”

“Then I can go?”

“Yes.”

The old man—it was strange to think of him that way, but that was how he looked—stood and limped from the bed. “Then pardon, but I’ll be skipping the tea.”

It took all the self-control I had to let him go, standing from my chair and trailing after him as he threw open the door. Alten was posted outside, and the two looked each other up and down in an awkward standoff.

“Gonna try to claw my eyes out again?” Alten asked. There were dark bags under his eyes from the drinking and lack of sleep, and he was sporting three vivid scratch marks high on his right cheek from their previous encounter.

“Planning on throwing a hood over my head and tossing me in the back of another wagon?” Gunther challenged.

Alten shook his head. “Not today.”

Gunther stared him down, skirting around him towards the door he was brought in through and trying the handle, finding the door locked.

Alten shot me a look before he returned his attention to Gunther, mouth quirked. “Servant’s entrance. Gotta go through the front if you’re leaving.”

With an irritated huff, Gunther picked up the pace, crossing the residential common room and throwing open the door Alten had indicated.

“Gods.” He whispered, awestruck.

I took a place beside him. The room was lined with glassware and equipment, a mix of alchemy and apothecary equipment of the highest quality. There were lines of worktables with several robed practitioners hard at work, giving us little more than a momentary glance.

Gunther stumbled forward, looking everywhere at once, his expression dreamlike. “What is this place?”

“Welcome to the Grand Laboratory.” I said.

He frowned in displeasure. Everyone in Whitefall knew of the Grand Laboratories, and the many alchemical wonders that were created there. I suspected, from my memory of his issue with alchemy, it was the latter part that was giving him pause. He scanned the many tables. “Anti-scarring salve… mother’s respite… why are alchemists doing apothecary work?”

I nodded. “Despite the reputation, more than alchemy happens here. The Royal Alchemist sees the two practices as intrinsically linked, and ensures that anyone who carries out their work here thinks similarly. Part of his ethos.”

Gunther’s gaze landed on glassware bubbling above a violet flame. He frowned. “He also encourages his charges to leave their projects unattended?”

Despite the gravity of the situation, I chuckled. Even in the most dire circumstances Gunther hadn’t lost a hold on his vocation, and the methodology that accompanied it. He was right of course, but considering the high failure rate, I was intimately familiar with the worst an iron-lung potion would produce. A violent fizzle out and an unpleasant odor.

“If that’s what I think it is, the worst it’ll do is bubble up and raise a stink.” Gunther continued. “Still bad practice.”

I raised an eyebrow. A potion of iron-lung required key ingredients from the sanctum, and lacking demon-flame, the only way to raise the temperature high enough was through alchemical means. In my hurry to attend Gunther, I’d left it exposed to the flame without rotation for too long and an acrid scent was already rising from the glass.

As if driven by an outside force, Gunther jolted forward, turning the dial beneath the burner that would have snuffed the flame if it was normal fire. When that didn’t work, he swore, snatching a thick cloth and wrapping his hand in it before using it to lift the glassware off the burner completely. Instinctively, he grabbed a rousing rod laying nearby and plunged it into the concoction, stirring it with animus.

This was unexpected, because as far as I knew, there was no way to save a batch of iron-lung once it started to turn. The best a practitioner could do was get it right on the first shot.

Almost automatically, I moved to his side, slipping into an old rhythm. “Empty hands.”

“Check the temperature of that fire.” Gunther’s face was a mask of focus as he continued to stir. “No idea what it’s running on, but it’s not oil, and if it’s too hot, this batch is done anyway.” He took a whiff from the glass and grimaced. “Scratch that. Belfry Salt first, temperature second.”

I did as he asked, fishing around in a nearby cabinet for the salts and sliding the jar across the table to him. He caught it, upending the jar, eyeballing the quantity, distributing fine blue powder evenly across the mixture. Then alternated placing and removing the glass on the burner and off the burner.

Time slipped away as we worked in tandem.

If Gunther hadn’t plied his trade in a while, it didn’t show. He was every bit as sharp as I remembered. Physically slower, perhaps, but just as sharp. I wasn’t sure why this was happening, why he was suddenly so keen to save a small batch of potions. It felt like we were two strangers who both ended up running in the same direction, finding a small degree of camaraderie in the coincidence.

The process of saving the batch was tedious and labor intensive, taking nearly as long as it would have to complete a second round. If I were alone, I likely would have scrapped the whole thing and started at zero. But Gunther wasn’t wasteful. He’d always been that way.

He was fastidious, prudent, and clean.

Which made his disheveled appearance even more alarming. He was healthier looking now, after my servants efforts, beard trimmed and hair tamed. But they couldn’t do anything for the hollowed out look in his eyes and the hunch to his posture.

Once we finished saving the batch of iron-lung, I leaned back against the table and stretched out my arms, absentmindedly snuffing the small tuft of dantalion flame still ignited on the burner.

Gunther noticed. He cleaned his hands with a damp cloth and gave me a look. “So. You’re the lazy practitioner.”

I smiled. “Guilty as charged. Though I’m really more apothecary than alchemist.”

“Iron-lung is an alchemical solution. A difficult one. Yet you handled it just fine.”

It was borderline. Since demon-fire was dangerous and rare, the easiest shortcut to achieve the necessary temperature would have been to use an alchemical catalyst. Technically, it could have been either, or both. What felt more significant was that Gunther held that opinion and still intervened to save the batch, regardless.

“As did you.” I pointed out. “From the reports I heard, you’re not fond of alchemy.”

There was the smallest trace of a smile on his face as he shook his head sadly. “Few years back, that wasn’t far off the mark. In retrospect, it was foolish. Just one of those arbitrary lines we draw that add up to nothing in the grand scheme of things.” There was a poignant silence as he placed the rag down and leaned on the table with both hands. “I’m not sure why you sought me out. Me specifically.” Gunther indicated the lab. “If this is part of some aggressive recruitment drive, I have to decline.”

“Why?” I asked. He’d misunderstood my purpose, but I was hesitant to correct him. It was obvious that he still had a passion for the work.

“Rusty. Not nearly as good as I used to be. Whatever you’ve heard.”

I raised an eyebrow and glanced at the batch that he’d saved. “Really. Because the work speaks otherwise.”

“Really.” Gunther said. His forehead wrinkled as he frowned. “And if this is how you rope in outsiders? It’s a little confrontational for my taste.”

There it was. The end of the line. In the back of my head, there was still a voice that whispered that it wasn’t too late. That if I simply accepted his refusal and let him leave, there was a chance that I could still claw back what little denial remained in me.

That I could live in ignorance.

Before entertaining that long enough to seriously consider it, I found myself speaking, my voice quiet. “Not long ago, the work of an apothecary and work of an alchemist was indistinguishable to me. Byproduct of a sheltered upbringing, perhaps.”

“You’re not alone in that.” Gunther rolled his eyes.

I nodded. “My family is well-positioned. Highly enough that I was afforded a shocking degree of autonomy in my studies, which naturally was used to shirk them at every turn. Instead of applying myself, I ventured out into the city every chance I could. Explored. Ended up in Topside more often than not because I found it interesting. Different.”

Gunther’s mouth tightened. Lacking context, the picture I was painting for him wasn’t benevolent. Folk in Topside were beset by nobles on all sides. Some were simply prospecting and window-shopping, while others got a thrill out of leaving their manors and mansions in common garb for more questionable delights. But I wanted to be as honest with him as the nature of my resets would allow.

“Lucky you didn’t get yourself killed.” Gunther said.

“It was foolish. And stubborn. I could have been mugged and beaten within a span of my life and I still wouldn’t have stopped.”

“Is this… leading somewhere?” Gunther asked. It wasn’t unkind, or rude, though I wouldn’t have held either against him. Just blunt. Same as he always was.

I laughed. The sound was harsh, and brittle. “It is. I have questions only you can answer. Was just… working my way up to it, I guess.”

For the first time since we’d reunited, Gunther seemed to sense my pain. I’d done my best to hide it from him. But the facade was slipping.

“What sort of questions?” He asked.

The version of events I’d composed and recited in my head to prepare for this was abridged, with the timing adjusted so it made sense. But it was as close to the truth as I could give him.

“One day, I ventured out to the edge of the Everwood. Found a girl there, gathering plants. Ingredients for apothecary work, or so I discovered. She had this smile that just… made you want to know everything about her. Compared to noble children my age, she was riveting. She was trusting and kind, and seemed to enjoy my company, and I hers. In almost no time we became close. She had no idea I was a noble. Who my family was. Yet she offered her friendship freely, just the same. The first person to ever do so. I was so grateful to her for that. And being grateful, I’d help her with her work, and in turn, she would teach me. We spent a year that way before I had to leave.”

All at once, Gunther’s legs gave out. He sat down hard on one of the pullout stools beside the worktable, his head bowed, his mouth tight. “How… long were you gone?”

“Five years.” I answered.

“Gods.” Gunther buried his face in his hands. “You’re him.”

“What do you mean?” Slowly, I reached out to put a hand on his shoulder, then let it drop. At first it made little sense. While I derived the story I told him from truth, it was a truth that hadn’t happened in this timeline. And even in my first life, I hadn’t met Lillian until after my mother died.

“Let it go.” Gunther’s voice was forceful, raw. He supported himself with one hand as he staggered to his feet. Slowly, he limped away, his shoulders slumped.

“Wait. Why?” I called after him, frustrated with the sudden turn. He didn’t stop, didn’t so much as look back.

“She was my daughter. It’s no business of yours.”

I chased after him and raised my voice, a hair away from shouting. “I loved her.”

Gunther turned with a sneer, a cutting remark likely at the ready. But when he saw me, he stopped. Grew somber. “Aye. Maybe you did.” He looked down and bit his lip. “If… Lillian… taught you our craft, I’m guessing at some point she gave you a lecture. Something about the line between poison and palliative being difficult to distinguish.”

If memory served, she had. One of our first lessons. I nodded slowly, wincing as her face swirled to the forefront of my mind.

“This is the one that kills you.”

Gunther pressed a shaking hand to his forehead. “What did my daughter say on the matter?”

“A good thing can be a bad thing in high quantities. How the reverse can also be true, though more rarely. And that the only real key to discerning the difference is research and experience.”

Gunther chuckled. “She was always good at that. Boiling down complex concepts and yawning texts into something more digestible.” He grew somber again. “When everything went to hell. I wanted to know why. Because it seemed so… senseless. We’d only ever tried to help people. Sure, we made some gold, but not much. And I had some debt, of course, but my payments were always on time. There was no reason for it. No justification that came remotely close to making sense. So I asked. Fully expecting it to be the end of me.” Gunther’s face grew pale. “I was told that the reason for my—for my daughter’s… misfortune… had nothing to do with us at all. That everything that happened that horrible night was thanks to one person, and one person alone.”

The warmth I’d felt working side by side with Gunther retreated, leaving me numb, cold.

“What was the message?” I asked.

“Poison.” Gunther watched me sympathetically for a moment, before he looked away. “Pure and vile poison in the guise of spoken word. And she coated me with it, to one purpose. If you’d found me a few years earlier, I might have still been angry enough to pass it along. But that fire has faded. And look at you. You’re no villain. Barely a man now. Half a decade ago you must have been little more than a child. I won’t lower myself to forwarding her agenda. Just let it go.”

He was right, of course. Given his state, and the way he talked around it, it was simple enough to divine what happened from context. Lillian was gone. Whatever ‘message’ Thoth left me was little more than salt in the wound.

I wanted to listen. But ignoring this, letting it fester, would make it even more potent when Thoth threw it in my face later. I needed to know.

“Tell me what happened.”