Disclaimer: Don't own it.

Notes: Minor spoilers and speculation ahoy. Long one-shot with follow up potential. Set sometime between leaving Elicoor II and recruiting Albel as your seventh character.

OOOOO

The Wicked

OOOOO

In a fit of frustration following the chaos of The Darkest Night, Albel had unwittingly bared his soul to the Crimson Scourge, and, during that bout with his boundless arrogance, he came to realize things about himself that he would not have acknowledged otherwise, as his shield to the weak child still within him that had been writhing around in pain for the past nine years while screaming for his father and burning, burning, burning had fallen to the inquisitive nature of the sacred sword and left him exposed, naked, and shamed. He could not recall a time in which he had felt so useless, the world falling apart around him as he paced the castle's cold corridors like a caged animal, dutifully awaiting his next order, a beast tamed by his past foolishness. The sword resting by his side had not spoken since their encounter, and Albel was becoming restless in his neglect.

Much to his dismay, that rotten old man took note of Albel's agitated state almost immediately, casually glancing over to his godson and opening his mouth: "Do have a bit of patience, boy. I daresay your snarling can be heard in Kirlsa."

Albel pivoted to face Count Woltar, his eyes blazing and nostrils flaring. "I. Am. Not. Snarling," he snarled, shaking his head furiously, as if dislodging a creature of a thought that had somehow wormed its way through his tousled mane and into his jumbled brain in a futile attempt to make room in a constantly occupied space, his two hair ties flailing about behind him. For a moment, he thought himself to be going mad.

The elderly man raised his right hand in front of him, his palm silencing whatever other inconsistencies the swordsman would spout. Albel looked at him blankly and then frowned. "Well?" he questioned as the wrist of his gauntlet folded inward to rest against his hip. "I know you didn't come here just to visit. That would be too simple of you. How many words of wisdom can you possibly have to offer today, old man?"

"Oh, I assure you I do not intend lecture or otherwise bore. As you already know—due to the heavy losses suffered by the Black and Dragon Brigades—" Albel snorted at this, interrupting, as he did not like hearing about the defeat of his third of the Glyphian military, even if he was incarcerated during the time in which the Celestial Ship attacked their army. Woltar offered him a sympathetic look (to which Albel scowled) and continued, "the Storm Brigade has been tasked with the defense of the kingdom while the other two branches recruit, train, and eventually recover. As I'm sure you've already heard, strange creatures appeared outside of Kirlsa's western gate following The Darkest Night. They do not attack unless provoked, but I am still here to request more men should their humor change. As captain of the Glyphian Defense Corps, I think that it would be best to allocate most of our protection outside of Kirlsa, as the mountains will adequately protect the Royal City."

"Ah," Albel answered, "It's funny, really, now that I think about it." He shifted his weight and let his gauntlet fall to the side, exposing the hilt of the Crimson Scourge. "Falling to a third party, I mean. Tell me, old man, are these monstrosities present in Aquaria? I hope this isn't some treachery brewed by those useless witches."

"I believe they are. Perhaps not the exact same creatures, but they, too, have suffered due to the effects of the Vile Wind—and don't be so suspicious, Albel. Both of our armies have been reduced to nearly nothing. I should hope that…" Woltar trailed off, the torchlight glinting off of the razors the swordsman called fingers, illuminating the ornate hilt of the sword once wielded by the deceased Glou Nox and catching the eyes deep-set in Woltar's wrinkled face. "Oh my."

"What?"

The count shook his head and smiled wistfully, his eyes misting slightly at the familiar sight of a sword he had not seen in almost a decade. Although Albel had lost his father in the failed ceremony, the older man had also received a crushing blow to his heart—through Glou's death, he had lost a man that might as well have been his son. "It—it's good to see that sword again after so many years. Perhaps it is a sign of better times, eh boy? I'm sure your father would be very proud."

The swordsman bristled at the mention of his father, but said nothing. He looked away, almost but not quite ashamed, studying the torch to the right of him with a faked interest, the crackling of the fire permeating within his ears and exacerbating the intensity of a memory that he could never seem to put to rest. He mumbled something that might have been a 'thank you', but it was lost in the void of the cold and imposing hallway which was as dimly lit as the dragons' dwellings and permeating with a heavy air that was as stagnant as the brine that pooled in the dungeons following an unrelenting storm. Albel had never before noticed how hollow the castle felt until now, devoid of life outside of the staff and remaining soldiers, all of whom made it their priority to tread lightly in the presence of their superiors. Albel shivered, but not of his own accord—this place was a crypt, and an idle man was as good as dead.

"So, are you leaving soon?" Albel asked, now absorbed in the flickering of the light against the stone walls. Changing the subject was a pusillanimous move, but he did not want to be congratulated for his recent acquisition. As a child, he had dreamed of his father presenting the sword to him as an old veteran, both he and his dragon heavily decorated for their service to Airyglyph XIII. Although it was Albel who had approached the aforementioned monarch in regards to the kingdom's most sacred of treasures, a nauseous feeling washed over him when he had first touched its hilt. There was no war-weary idol to beam at him through wrinkled and tired eyes, glittering emblems adorning his regalia as he stood tall, another mountain in the serenely falling snow. This was wrong to him. Very, very wrong.

"Yes, yes. No need to rush me, boy. His Majesty has allowed me several Dragon Brigade soldiers that will deploy within three day's time. However, I do not wish to wait for their preparations and will be returning to Kirlsa by myself. Seeing how the situation is, I feel dreadful about leaving the area, even for a few days." The old man shook his head, his bald spot catching the muted glow of the torches and flashing in turn with the movements of his neck. He wrung his exposed hands together and blew into them, as if to accentuate his next sentence: "Besides, I'm getting on in my years, and this cold may see me to my grave." He laughed heartily, but it escalated to coughing moments later and he bent over to catch his breath, which was intermittent but warm upon hands that covered his mouth.

Inadvertently, Albel made a move to catch the old man should he fall, acknowledging his own actions with widening eyes only seconds later. Recomposing himself following his involuntary panic, Albel came to stand by the older man, offering him a firm touch on the shoulder with his flesh hand, feeling how thin and bony the Storm Brigade captain was under his wine red mantle.

"Ah, thanks for your concern, m'boy, but it's just a cough—I'm not so weak as to keel over just yet," Woltar teased lightheartedly, having caught the swordsman's initial reaction.

Albel's eyes narrowed and he quickly removed his hand from its resting place as if it had been burned. "Rotten old man."

"Yes, well… I suppose I will be leaving now. I have already had the stable boy prepare my lum—I just wanted to check on you before I returned to Kirlsa," he said, nodding good-naturedly in Albel's direction and turning to leave.

"Wait."

"Yes?"

"I…," Albel began, not meeting the count's eyes. He frowned a little, mulling over his thoughts and how to express himself without sounding as if he was at all concerned for the health of his elder. "I'm going with you," he said steadily after crossing his arms, a childhood habit that was a prerequisite to his incontestable (or so he liked to believe) declarations.

"There's no need. I—"

"I can't stand it here, anyway," Albel interrupted, catching up with Woltar and then passing him with the intention of beating the man to the stables. "There's nothing here for the commander to command—and was I ever even reinstated after that unsightly worm had me thrown into the dungeons?" He was nearly babbling now, leaving no room for the other captain to protest. "Perhaps I'll go off and train—I have a sneaking suspicion that that other worm has something to do with these new eyesores flitting about as they damn well please. I suspect he'll be back soon…" The swordsman stomped through the hallways, his hair tails swishing behind him as if sentient and somewhat frightened, taking care to not suddenly whip against the small of his exposed back (perhaps for fear that he would yank them out for the offense).

Woltar lagged behind him, not as a victim to his old age but because he was in no particular hurry. Albel, however, rounded the corner and disappeared while the flaxen tips of his hair waved goodbye, the metal tips of his shoes clack, clack, clacking against the stone floor at a brusque pace, accompanying his mumbling in a discordant melody, fading slowly as he advanced. The old man smiled and laughed a silent laugh, an amused puff of air exiting his rather large nose as he shook his head. Albel, Albel… Woltar couldn't help but think of the first time he met the boy, wrapped in a blanket and secure in his mother's arms. Glou had gently shut the door behind his mentor and father figure as they had entered the room, the Lady Nox's blonde hair catching the fading afternoon light as it filtered through the white and lacy curtains, dust motes floating about her and glittering in the golden ambience. Had I known… He simply thought, although it was unclear as to what he would have first changed about the fate that would befall the baby cradled in the demon woman's embrace.

OOOOO

"You know, Albel, I did not need an escort. I may be old…"

"…'but I'm not that old'," Albel finished with a drawl from beside the older man, kicking his black lum into a light trot to pull ahead of the roan beast upon which Woltar sat, his cloak billowing behind him as the lum hustled forward. The armored plates adorning both steeds gleamed in the light reflected by the white on the ground and rattled quietly as the two proceeded through the wispy veil of falling snow.

"Boy, I've had enough of your sass to last me until the harvest," Woltar said, cuffing the young man upside the head as he sped up to ride abreast to Albel.

"Ow!" Albel's right hand shot up to cup his throbbing head. "You—you!"

"Tread lightly, boy," Woltar warned, holding back a laugh. "You will always be an unruly child in my eyes."

The unruly child glared daggers at his attacker as he massaged his head. He hadn't been disciplined like that in nearly a decade. Over the dull ache he was aware of a familiar tugging at his heart and, for a moment, he felt as if he would prefer to be chained in the dungeons once again should he be given a choice between the two punishments. He hated how he was still under Woltar's control. It puzzled him, their relationship—obedience yet not quite subservience. Albel growled and allowed his hand to slide down to his right hair wrap as he tugged on it idly. "And you will always be a rotten old man…" he muttered under his breath, turning his gaze back to the front and exhaling loudly, a puff of condensed air dispersing to either side of his face as his mount moved forward.

"Will you be gone long?" Woltar questioned after minutes of silence, looking over to Albel (who, not knowing he was being observed, had his tongue extended in an attempt to capture a snowflake).

Startled, the swordsman nearly bit his tongue in an attempt to compose himself before Woltar committed his lapse of conduct to memory. "I'll return," Albel quipped through pursed and chapped lips, looking up to the sky as he let his head fall backwards and to each side, effectively popping his cramped neck.

Woltar chuckled. "Ah. Tell me boy… where will you train?" he asked, running suitable locations through his mind even before his own question was answered. The Traum Mountains were out of the question—throughout their journey, the few kobolds that Woltar could spot fled in fear of the two Glyphian officials, their doglike howls warning others in the area to remain out of sight. The mines were also not an option, as Albel would only enjoy making a game out of squishing insects if he were about twenty years younger. The Kirlsa Training Facility had been abandoned by the Black Brigade following the arrival of the Celestial Ship. That left only one gate in Kirlsa through which Albel could find worthy opponents. "Before you insist, I forbid you from single-handedly engaging those fiends in the Kirlsa Hills."

Albel visibly bristled, and Woltar half expected the younger swordsman to hiss at him while his hair stood on end, a sort of humanoid hellcat.

"You may assist should they attack," Woltar continued, looking away from Albel and examining the clouds in the distance—the Royal City was in for another storm and therefore Woltar was more than likely not going to receive the reinforcements he sought until the blizzard had passed. "However, I will not have you out provoking them simply because you are bored."

"Hmph. I already had a place in mind, anyway," Albel grumbled.

"Oh?"

"Yes. I believe I shall pay the Marquis a visit."

"The Marquis!" Woltar exclaimed, nearly dismounting in what would have been a manner most undignified. He composed himself nary a moment later, looking his charge over with an odd mix of disbelief, pride, and curiosity. It would be an interesting meeting, to say the least. Although Crosell had been defeated once before, it was a seven-on-one fight, a joint effort by representatives from nearly every kingdom on Gaitt—the boy, that Menodix child, Nevelle's daughter, the Aquarian veteran, and the three engineers from Greeton (although, Woltar suddenly recalled, they were revealed to have arrived from beyond the sky). "Did you not just say that you would return?" the old man questioned, grinning.

Albel snorted. "Certainly. Perhaps with a new pair of dragon skin boots," he boasted, closing his eyes and nodding his head knowingly. "There is really no other place on Gaitt that I could better myself. Even if I must deal with his high and mighty yammering, the old lizard will put up a good fight. Besides," Albel muttered to himself, his voice hushed as his breath puffed out in the cold, "I'm already used to such useless prattling."

Woltar let out a languid sigh, the wispy air akin to that of a dragon's fiery breath as it exited his dry mouth. Briefly, he wondered if the Crimson Scourge could ever disown its master for such grandiose boasting. The old man knew that Albel's wounds were still open, bleeding and oozing and burning as if fresh. It hurt him to see Glou's son in such an awful state. It was by no means self-destructive, but it was a sort of pathetic self-loathing that made Woltar want to grab his charge and shake him until he forgave himself. Glou's sacrifice was given as a gift—not an encumbrance, something for which his son must seek atonement. Woltar only hoped the day Albel would realize this happened before he was dead and buried and unable to bear witness.

Perhaps it was selfish, but Woltar wanted to relive the feeling of his glory days with Glou through the man's son, if only for a moment. He remembered happiness—not necessarily the euphoria of true love (for that feeling had died decades ago along with his young wife)—but a sort of full happiness, a feast in which he would indulge and walk away lethargic and content. He remembered walking abreast to the Nox family on a stroll through his compound, Albel, being the lively rapscallion that he was (And still is, Woltar thought wryly), running ahead of them with his wooden sword and swatting at wayward vines and branches. He remembered taking quick and intermittent glances out of the right corner of his eye at the two who traveled beside him—the Lord Nox and his Lady—while smiling sadly as he watched the lady's health spiral downwards. Years prior, she stood straight and tall by her husband's side and matched him stride for stride, the infant in her arms cooing and idly tugging at the blonde hair that was not secure in the braid of her coronet. Then, as Albel grew, she fell behind slightly, falsely accrediting this to the toddler who would almost never stray far from her side, his shorter legs unable to keep up with her usual pace. At that particular time, with Albel far ahead and accosting the flora in the name of king and country, she held onto her husband's arm and withheld all signs of discomfort, a placid yet contemplative expression on her face as she watched the child of the so-called "unholy union" between herself and Glou declare victory over the "Kingdom of the Old Man". Woltar knew that she would die soon, as she adamantly rejected the only two things that could save her—either to return to the Daemonium, where she would be imprisoned or otherwise executed as a traitor, or to siphon the life out of a human, which Glou had begged her to do to him as her life-flame dwindled.

When that day came, there was no body to bury.

Her bed was made, her basin full, and her windows open, as if she had left for a stroll that beautiful morning, for the air was crisp and cool against Albel's face as he barged into the room with a handful of frail flowers (the spoils of war, as he called them) whose struggle for life in Woltar's rocky and desiccated compound was ended earlier that morning with a swift tug from the boy's hand, their tiny yellow and white bulbs drooping slightly as he squeezed them in his sweaty palms. Woltar was not too far behind him, having chased Albel up the stairs and into one of the guestrooms with the intention of boxing the child's ears ("Refrain from gallivanting about like the hellion you are, Albel Nox!" he had yelled as the boy bounded noisily about the manor). A calm breeze wafted in through the curtains, lifting the fine lace away from the window slightly and gently brushing against the occupants of the room as Albel shivered. Woltar had placed a firm hand on the boy's shoulder and quietly led him out of the room.

Perhaps it was her pride as a demon that led her leave so abruptly, slipping out in the quiet before dawn to die alone in the mountains with her thoughts, leaving no trace of her existence. It was not until later, however, that Woltar discovered the lady's pendant resting on the boudoir in the guestroom Albel occupied, sparking faintly in the dim glow of the morning sun that filtered into the room through drawn curtains. It was a startling crimson (the color of the eyes that she and her son shared, he noted) and as Woltar approached it he felt an uneasiness rear itself in the depths of his very soul. Curiosity getting the better of him, he picked it up and was surprised to find how cold it was, the frigid jewel cradled in an icy bed of golden metal, smooth on his hands and almost painful to hold. He pressed his palms together in an attempt to warm it, but the chill did not yield. Although the pendant troubled him, he knew that the woman who left it behind would not have done so with malicious intent. Woltar nearly had to peel the pendant off of his hands in order to return it to its original place, the two round reddish spots of raw skin left in its wake taking a few weeks to heal.

Woltar had not seen the pendant since that incident. Idly, he wondered what Albel had done with it. Perhaps he kept it squirreled away in his room, hidden in a box under his bed or maybe even somewhere on his person, possibly behind the metal collar that never left his neck. He glanced over to the accessory in question, the upper rim and chain barely peeking out of the swordsman's cloak.

"What is it?" Albel hissed at him, looking at Woltar inquisitively and frowning.

"Well…," Woltar began, not really knowing what he should say. "When your moth—" he cut himself off, unable to bring up the incident in question—if Albel was difficult to deal with when his father was mentioned, then he was impossible at the very thought of his mother. Licking his dry lips, Woltar tried again: "You do not like the cold, correct?"

Albel snorted. "I've only been saying it for the past two decades, old man. Why do you ask?"

"Oh, no reason. I figured I should make the most out of your being here. Sometimes, Albel, I feel as if I barely know you." There was an awkward silence, and Woltar continued: "It seems as if you are no longer a person, but a shell. You operate on instinct—consume or wither, kill or be killed… What can this old man possibly do to make you happy?"

Flinching at the inquiry, Albel gave himself no time to ponder the question as the answer left his mouth: "Nothing." He had never dwelled upon happiness—he figured as long as there were battles to be fought and challenges to be faced, he would continue to be content, which was good enough for him (and perhaps all he deserved). Happiness, to him, remained undefined, as whatever meaning it had taken when he was a child had been lost with time.

OOOOO

Woltar, being the nosy old man that he was (or so Albel liked to think), had insisted upon seeing Albel off to the Kirlsa Mines. It was, of course, to make sure that his charge did not sneak into the Kirlsa Hills and get himself killed (as if training in a lava cave would be any less dangerous). Gregory greeted them with his usual salute, lowering his head to the Lords Albel and Woltar. He led Albel to the carriage that was strapped to the back of a green hauler beast, taking special care to not say anything offensive to the young hothead (which, frankly, was tantamount to saying nothing at all). Albel, pleased to be rid of the old man, gave the soldier what might have been a nod of approval as he left the mines and stepped into the sunlight.

It was an annoyingly long walk up the Bequerel Mountain Path, the mid-morning sun beaming down upon the nape of his exposed neck like a cruel master. Grumbling, he adjusted his collar to cover the offending spot, the unnaturally frigid metal somewhat alleviating the irritation. He slithered into the mountains early that afternoon, undetected by the few dragons that nested around the base of the foothills. He would have been happy to make an example out of an unruly drake, but none disturbed him as he ascended the mountain and slipped into the cave behind the waterfall, his eyes barely adjusting before he was forced to slash out at an unseen opponent, the scratching of claws in dirt the only preamble before the beast attacked. It charged at Albel, its head down with the intent of goring him where he stood. Albel, not one to waste time, swiftly crouched and thrust himself forward, swinging his blade back and forth in a series of low slashes akin to a scythe, catching the dragon's legs and knocking it to the side, exposing its pale belly as he whirled around to slash the creature's abdomen in twain, innards hitting the ground with a miserable flop. Albel waited a moment before sheathing his sword, closing his eyes and listening to the sounds reverberating around him, the drip, drop, drip of the ground water as it slowly eroded the rocky floor, the roaring of the waterfall near the mouth of the cave as it echoed through the hollowed cavern, the chattering of smaller creatures as they slowly crept down the walls and converged upon the corpse of the fallen creature, their beady eyes lowered as they pulled apart the rough hide to seek the meal within… Albel opened his eyes and continued forward, retracting his weapon as he rounded the corner and entered the Ruins of Barr.

It was the same as he remembered while traveling with those infuriating outsiders, their hearts rife with derring-do and so far out of synch with his own, their ridiculous outrage at the dragons' slaughter only adding to their hypocrisy—and their foolishness, considering they had been worked up over beasts long dead. Idly, Albel wandered into the experimental area of the ruins, observing the preserved bones and body parts with mild interest. Vaguely, he wondered why anyone would want to dissect a dragon. It was as if to suggest something was important about a corpse.

"Hmph," Albel grumbled, putting his hand on his hip, "Why am I defending these stupid lizards, anyway?" He thrust his boot through one of the containment jars, the glass shattering as the preservation fluids burst forward, whatever body part that had been stored flopping outward and coming to rest at the swordsman's foot. He smashed it without a second thought, a satisfactory squelch reaching his ears as the organ oozed from beneath his foot and seeped into the cracks of the stone floor. Grinding the toes of his boot into the gooey organ one last time, Albel turned around and left the room.

He crossed the glowing emblems with little event, a red square coming into view as the open doors allowed him to see into the heart of the cave, a scorching wind brushing across his face and blowing around his sarong as he moved ever closer. As he approached the threshold between the refuge of the cool stone and the hell of the lava caves, he came to halt where the tips of his toes met the very edge of the ground of volcanic rock. "You had better be in here, you dammed dragon!" he announced, stomping boldly onto the heated floor and making his way to the Lord of the Air Dragons' nesting place.

Fortunately, the rocks that the group had cleared earlier had not yielded space for even more barricades. Releasing a breath he did not realize he was holding, he kicked the stone door open with unnecessary force, the scraping it made against the rocky floor piercing Albel's ears as he grimaced at the sound.

"O presumptuous demon-child, how dare you disturb my rest!" Crosell boomed, opening one eye and locking onto the intruder immediately. He uncrossed the enormous claws upon which his head had been resting, arching his back and raising himself. "Do remember that such arrogance will lose you more than an arm."

"And you would enjoy it, I suppose," Albel hissed in response, walking forward to the beast of all beasts and craning his head upward to glare into Crosell's scaly face. "I have a request to make of you, Marquis."

"Oh ho! Formalities from the Wicked One! And what could I—the king of your most hated—possibly do for one as powerful as you?" he laughed, remembering what he had heard about the Accession of the man who stood before him, the pitiful, conceited boy.

Albel snorted, yet had this been a year ago, he would have screamed. "I know you have felt it, the force that had engulfed this land. Creatures from the sky—another world, as those in the company of the Aquarians."

"Ah, yes," Crosell interrupted, lifting himself to his hind legs. "The calamities that followed the absence of heaven, a vile wind that permeates even this sacred ground. The children of my children's children are frightened; they do not leave their nests unless to feed." He shook his head woefully and continued: "So, man of Edyglyph, do you seek my power?"

"I do not wish for your power, but for my own, which will grow through you." Albel told him bluntly, his voice unwavering as his intentions were made known.

"Oh? So, you will slay me as you have so many?"

"I will survive your fury."

Crosell laughed, a deep rumbling high above Albel. "We shall see," he answered before lunging toward the man with his mouth wide open, a fire building in the very back of his toothy maw. Albel sidestepped only to be swiped back into the fire's range by a swift claw, two of the dagger-like digits brushing against the swordsman's side and opening red slits upon the pale skin. Thinking fast, Albel rolled under Crosell's mandible as the fire exploded into the dragon's dwelling and blossomed out to its corners as Albel ducked under the beast's head. Unsheathing his sword, Albel sliced at Crosell's underbelly, the Crimson Scourge splitting apart the skin with a swift slash. Though the pale flesh peeled back like two white lips, Albel's eyes widened as the dragon did not bleed.

"A pittance!" Crosell mocked, pushing Albel out from under him with a flap of his wings, the gust throwing the swordsman to the side. He panted heavily as he slumped back against the nearest pillar, the rough surface scratching his exposed and already abused back. "You alone are not fit to protect this land!"

"Protect…?" Albel questioned. He had said nothing of the sort!

The Lord of Air Dragons tensed as he rested upon his haunches, lowering himself back to the ground and resting his head against the cool stone beneath him. "Even in my weakened state, you alone are no match for me."

Albel made a move to reach for his sword, which had fallen a little ways away from him. Crosell followed his hand, casually observing the weapon before recognition crossed his face. "Ah. The sword of the traitor."

"What are you talking about?" Albel hissed, picking himself up as he stuck the sword back in its scabbard.

"Yes, I remember that day well. When that boy came here with his mother, a maiden loathed by Aquaria. Airyglyph and Edyglyph… Perhaps the only two humans who understood their worth."

"Yeah—that they're worthless!" a voice screeched, echoing throughout the chamber.

Albel swirled around to meet the intruder, following the ball of light until it was hovering just above Crosell. "You!" he hissed, his hand moving to the hilt of the Crimson Scourge.

"Oh, I remember this guy…" Robinwind said, his face falling in disappointment. "Not so tough without your pals around, huh?" he teased, flitting around Albel like a gadfly. The blonde boy whirled around and laughed while the swordsman's gauntlet swiped at him, nearly knocking off his green hat. "Missed me!"

"Robinwind…" Crosell warned, lifting his head to look at the ethereal boy.

"Geez. Sorry!" He flew over to the stairs to sit by the dragon, crossing his legs as he leaned back to rest upon his palms. "I never get to have any fun…"

"I thought we killed you," Albel said, looking down his nose at the boy and narrowing his eyes.

"Well, you thought wrong! Nothing can kill me! N-o-t-h-i-n-g!" the sprightly child sang, becoming progressively louder after each letter.

As much as Albel wanted to test this theory with a swift stomp of his boot, he restrained himself and cleared his throat to address Crosell. "Listen, dragon, I care not for whatever opinion you may have of me. I will remain here until I am satisfied."

Crosell examined the man that stood before him, the sound of his deep breaths reverberating in the enclosed area like an earthquake. "Very well."

"Aw, man!" Robinwind chimed before Albel could get a word in, shooting himself up into the air with an indignant grunt. "You'd better be ready to work for this privilege, human!" he shouted with a red face, pulling out his bow and flinging a bolt of light in the swordsman's direction.

Albel sidestepped it and readied his claw should the boy decide to charge.

"Robinwind…" Crosell warned again, raising himself slightly to stare down at the child.

"Fine!" the boy in question huffed, spinning around to face the dragon. "But don't blame me if this pissant overstays his welcome!

Albel moved his hand to the hilt of his sword, eyeing Robinwind. "And what of your welcome, maggot? How long have you been here?"

As if struck with an arrow, the boy tensed and lowered himself, visibly drooping. He clinched his fists a couple of times before shaking his head and flitting away.

"Hmph. Good riddance," Albel grumbled to no one in particular, letting his hand return to his side. He tipped his head in Crosell's direction before he turned to walk toward the empty space of the antechamber.

OOOOO

Time was lost to Albel as the sweat that spilled down his body carried away all perception of the world outside of Crosell's lair. Only when he left the blazing confines of the heart of the mountain did he ever acknowledge a difference between night and day, as both nocturnal and diurnal creatures had been skewered and later consumed by the swordsman. Presently, he was once again in the bowels of Elicoor II, frantically slashing at the shadows engendered by the sporadic lava flow. He could barely hear Crosell's deep breathing as the Crimson Scourge whistled through the heavy and blistering air.

"…Are you wounded?" Albel asked out of the blue, days (or was it weeks?) after he had arrived. He continued to swing his sword and sidestepped away from an invisible foe without missing a beat, his head tilting ever so slightly in Crosell's direction. As if to punctuate his inquiry, he dragged his gauntlet through the rocky floor, the intermittent stonework beneath it giving way to his claws and the sound it made screeching vociferously as it reached the dragon's sensitive ears. The beast flinched as he was drawn out of his contemplative state, lifting his head slightly and examining Albel.

"I said," he irritably began again, unceremoniously cleaving a rock in half as he sheathed the Crimson Scourge, "are you wounded?" With a sigh that did not belie his exhaustion, Albel slowly walked towards the steps that led to Crosell, taking a seat at the bottom next to where he had placed what few belongings he had claimed as his own while exploring the ruins of the civilization that had once occupied the area. He had filched a satchel from the nearby operating chamber and had since filled it with the dried meat of various animals he had slain in the mountains and some greens he had recognized as edible during his excursions to the surface. He jammed his flesh hand into the leathery bag and wrenched out a pathetic looking creature that he had previously skinned and cooked, giving it a once over to check for dirt before voraciously biting into its round and protruding belly.

"Do not think for a moment that that scratch you gave me upon your intrusion has done anything to alter my being," Crosell stated, somewhat offended at the implications of Albel's inquiry.

"…That's not what I meant, and you know it," Albel replied around a mouthful of meat, his expert articulation an indicator of his abysmal table manners. He took another bite and used his gauntlet to impale another creature that waited in the bag and halfheartedly flung it in the dragon's direction. "For a while, I will admit I was offended that you would not deign to fight me after your initial attack, but I believe that something…" he paused to swallow and set the half eaten carcass beside him, "That something else prevents you from allowing me the pleasure of eviscerating you."

"Oh, and I did so hope that you would be content with waving that stick around until I was in right form to devour you," Crosell returned in kind, turning his head to Albel. "If you must know, the Celestial Ship was nearly the end of me; furthermore, it was all the Aquarians could do to keep me alive. They could not completely heal the damage I sustained from those fay-zers." he explained, his mouth opening oddly as he pronounced the foreign word.

Albel frowned at this revelation and looked at his meal. Having momentarily lost interest in eating, he asked Crosell if there was anything he could do to better facilitate the recovery. Crosell's subsequent laugh bellowed throughout the antechamber, his dagger-like teeth reflecting a dull orange glow as they were exposed to the dim light of the molten rock bubbling nearby. The swordsman opened his mouth again, but Crosell interrupted him:

"You need not worry about ruining your reputation, oh Wicked One. I am no fool, and thus will not take your desire to fight me as something as foreign to you as kindness. Truly, there is nothing I need but time." He extended claw to the creature Albel had thrown at him minutes before. "However, as nice as I find snacks, I will not be so cruel as to cannibalize fledglings," he said darkly, frowning at Albel as he dug his claws into the rock and dirt below him, placing the body of the tiny dragon into the hole and covering it in one motion.

"Hey!" Albel exclaimed, standing to stare down Crosell, "I could have eaten that!"

"Hmph. You humans. And I suppose it would not offend if I were to snatch a child away and swallow him whole?"

"Not me it wouldn't." Albel held his chin in the cradle of his thumb and index finger, contemplating. "Well, perhaps I would be mad at the loss of a boy, for Airyglyph will need more soldiers to replace those lost. Would it trouble you to find a girl to eat instead? There are many in Aquaria, I hear." He chuckled at his own morbid and somewhat stupid joke, imagining that wench Nel having her entrails strung about her like festive ribbons.

Crosell examined the swordsman with raised eyelids, not entirely sure how to gauge his brutal response.

Albel caught this inquisitive gaze and opened his mouth to explain: "The weak have no claim to the right of living. In fact, there is no "right" to life. Only the strong survive."

The dragon could not help but laugh again. "Perhaps there is some truth to this statement. However, I have seen many of the same mind perish, leaving behind fleshy legacies which only maggots could appreciate. Your heartlessness will bring you the strength you desire but it will fade with time and, when you are a husk—no heart to feel and no strength to move—you will pray for death from gods you have denied your entire life. It will be pathetic how you will beg. Oh, Albel Nox, I only hope you live so long."

"You sentence me to longevity then, you giant lizard?" He laughed softly and shook his head. "And I suppose you will also hope that I lose my hair and hearing? Perhaps have to hobble around, my sword a cane!"

Crosell lowered his head. "And to think, for a fleeting moment, I felt you had changed. Something inside, a cooling of whatever irreverent fire burns within you."

"And just what are you mumbling about now?" Albel questioned, having heard nothing but the displeasure and irritation in the dragon's tone.

"What do you think of Robinwind, Albel?" the beast countered, ignoring the swordsman's question.

Robinwind had made several appearances during Albel's stay. Albel, of course, found his presence offensive and practiced the speed of his swings on the cloven-hoofed boy (and was pleased with his progress, for he had managed to cleave the feather out of the boy's green hat and had not seen him since). Prior to the boy's departure (if it was indeed an actual departure), he would frequently announce his presence with a few taunts before making his way over to Crosell, perhaps to talk. Generally, Albel tried to ignore the extra body in the cavern, but after a while the blonde imp would tire of the dragon's company and begin to physically provoke the swordsman, flinging bolts of white light at his feet.

"I believe him to be a waste of air and will promptly dispose of him should he ever return."

"I'd like to see you try!" Robinwind chimed in from above, comfortably perched upon a natural rock shelf. He had retreated to the safety of the canopies of the cavern a week ago after Albel had nearly cleaved him in half. However, despite the bravado of his statement, he made no move to give Albel an attempt at harming his person.

"He hasn't been there long, if that is what you are about to ask," Crosell said, noting Albel's opening mouth. "Just ignore him. He does not really wish to anger you. He will never say this, but he is thrilled for the company. You and the others were the first ones to venture so deep in centuries. Well, the first ones to venture and survive."

"That and Vanilla was just no fun," Robinwind interrupted again, floating down to sit under Crosell's head, a place Albel would dare not attack. "Said he wanted me to pay him for his time! Then when I wouldn't he made a damn door and locked himself in that part of the cave!" He looked up at Albel with a grin on his face, perhaps expecting a laugh on the swordsman's part.

"I'd do the very same. Except I wouldn't just hide the key behind some stupid statue—I'd destroy it."

"Yeah? Well, I'd—I'd… Oh, screw you!" Robinwind screamed, launching himself into the air and disappearing into the forest of stalactites that dotted the ceiling.

Crosell sighed.

"What? Did you two conspire to get him a new playmate or something? I am not some damn nanny."

"I will not lie to you. I had hoped you would take him with you, wherever you end up after this."

"Ha! Hoped to pawn the little brat off on me, did you?"

"Allow me to explain." Crosell suggested while he adjusted himself, taking special care not to disturb the impromptu burial mound over Albel's lost meal. "The people that lived here—I know you have seen their surviving ruins, or else you would not be here—were alchemists. They lived here with the dragons in hopes to further their prowess in the art. At first, there were only insignificant things taken from us. A scale willingly donated by a curious onlooker, a broken claw or horn better off in a cauldron than in another's foot, a body too cumbersome to bury… Due to what they called the "magical" nature of dragons, our bodies were suited to their alchemical advances and they were happy to take what they could get. Apparently, we were "worth" more than iron to whatever divine forces govern alchemy. Eventually, these alchemists wrote an iron base out of their recipes entirely. That's when the slaughter began."

"And how did they go about killing so many of you, then? I've seen that room—the one with all of the body parts."

"They were only indirectly responsible for the killings. They used all of the body parts they salvaged to create creatures to do that for them. They called them homunculi."

"Hmph. I get it now. Well then, if they killed all of you, why are you so tolerant of that little monster?"

"There are only three of us from that time left alive. All of the dragons here descended from eggs hatched after the fight, Misty Irisa, whom I slew myself, is no longer around to control Robinwind and the one surviving alchemist—Irisa's daughter—has finally left the mountains after decades of skulking about. There is no reason for me to kill him. Everyone who could ever convince me otherwise is dead."

"I'm sure I could find a reason," Albel quipped, taking another bite out of the creature he had bent down to retrieve in the middle of Crosell's tale. It was all rather trite to him, a tale of the loss of all one holds dear. He found the pity that it would often elicit revolting. Too often had he been under the scrutinizing gaze of gossiping fools, their hushed whispers only serving to exacerbate the loathing within him.

"I would just like for him to leave—to live. He has made it his duty to guard this place. He feels as if there is a debt he needs to repay. I can see him yearning for a life outside of this prison, but he will not go."

Their similarities were not lost on Albel, but if the dragon was trying to make a point, the captain would not deign to allow the tale to affect him. "Let him do as he pleases. You're beginning to sound like that rotten old man. You are not related to him, so why do you feel this responsibility?"

"These particular homunculi drew their power from the dragon parts that bore them. Because of this, his aura is familiar to my senses, and I know for a fact that beneath his chest beats the heart of one of my children."

"So he is a fledgling to you, eh? No wonder I am so vexed by his presence," Albel scoffed. "Whatever fire within me you sought to quell through that little history lesson still burns. I see what you're trying to do, dragon, and I'll have none of it."

Crosell narrowed his eyes, perhaps for being accused of such chicanery (or perhaps for being caught). There was a rumble in is throat and he opened his mouth to snarl: "You are the lowest of each race that bore you."

Albel opened his mouth to retort, but Crosell's gravely voice boomed over his fluid drawl: "Men have no sense, and demons have no heart. I will say this again, Albel Nox: You are a shell—a creature as mindless as the maggots that will dine upon your flesh. No man can escape the fate of this mortal coil, from a man dangling in the gallows to a man who dies for his child. They will peel the skin from your bones, scrape the gums from your teeth, burrow in your eyes…" Crosell's voice became louder at each action, and his neck stretched out to Albel, the hot air from his flaring nostrils ruffling the swordsman's hair.

"SHUT UP!" Albel screamed. He moved to pull the Crimson Scourge from its scabbard, but it would not budge from the sheath. He pleaded with the sword, yet there was no answer.

"Does it somehow pain you to accept these truths I offer? Judging by the sword that you adorn—yes," Crosell reiterated upon seeing Albel's furious scowl, "it is you who are an embellishment to the sword. I had assumed that you had parted ways with that vile and simple beast known as The Wicked."

Albel recalled his bout with what Crosell had named The Wicked, a sort of angry and pathetic side to him that he had only acknowledged as "another" when the Crimson Scourge had forced the two apart with its soul searching. "That worm is dead," Albel claimed coldly. "I have no bloodlust, for there is no one person on this entire planet whose death can bring me strength. To kill you as you are now, as happy as I would be to silence your incessant prattle, would only hinder my progress."

The dragon laughed, his lips flaring back as he bared his grinning teeth. "Perhaps you are learning. I knew a demon like you once. Perhaps the apple does not fall too far."

If Albel was surprised, he did not show it; however, he did open his mouth to question Crosell.

The dragon's smile only widened, and Albel knew the answer before it was even articulated: "Wouldn't you like to know."

Feeling that the conversation was over (and if it was not, he was going to end it anyway), Albel grumbled curses to himself and turned his back on the dragon, stomping down the steps with the intention of resuming his training. He had no idea how his simple question had digressed into a history lesson and intrapersonal conversation, but he was going to make it his duty see that it never happened again.

"…Albel," Crosell began, and somehow the swordsman knew it was not him the dragon was addressing. "He would be somewhat proud, had he a heart."

The swordsman paused mid-stride, his stance uneven as his feet rested upon two different stairs. He turned around to look at Crosell strangely, the red of his eyes glowing dimly due to the reflection of the molten pools nearby. "This progenitor of mine… Does he still live?"

"To my knowledge. There has not been any activity from the gate here in years. It was sealed from the other side before you were born."

Albel lowered his head, thinking for several moments before he spoke: "…I see. My mother," he began, surprised at himself as the words left him freely, "used to tell me stories. A world guarded by a dragon. Although," he paused again and looked up at Crosell, a wry grimace on his face, "she did not tell me which world the dragon protected."

"And perhaps there was a lesson in that," Crosell grumbled, his head lowering to rest upon his forearms. He blinked heavily, his eyelids slowly closing and reopening to a half-lidded gaze. "You know better than to fall into the temptation of black and white."

"Of course. Only a fool would be so stubborn," he said, and for a moment obnoxiously bright eyes and blue hair invaded his mind's eye. He chuckled to himself and once again turned his back to the beast. "Speaking of fools, I believe we have guests," the swordsman said, walking back up the stairs to stand next to the dragon, just barely out of the light streaming in from the ceiling. He eyed the only opening into the atrium.

"Destruction," Crosell said flatly. "That is all I sense."

Albel eyed the dragon for a moment, perhaps validating the implications of his previous statement. "You don't think the gate—"

"No," the dragon answered before Albel could finish. "We would have heard it hours ago. There is a maze of caverns over there that leads down to the portal," he said, moving his head to the left to indicate an opening to another section of the mountain. "The deeper you go, the more bones you will find."

Albel gave the dragon a curious look, and Crosell began to elaborate:

"The demons had a skirmish with the alchemists centuries ago. Demons make better homunculi than dragons. Well, in theory. They might have succeeded in killing a few, but I do not think they ever retrieved a corpse. I swear to you the echoes bounced around in those catacombs for decades." Crosell shook his head. "Anyway, if the gate had reopened, the sound would have gotten here before the demons. Also, it would have only arrived from the left."

The sound of footsteps began to come in from the heart of the mountain, the distinct scraping of multiple pairs of boots scratching the rocky ground rising above the bubbling of molten rock and the hissing of steam.

Albel released the breath he did not realize he was holding and relaxed his face as the unknown party entered the room, his flesh hand folding outward as he placed it on his hips and gazed down at his next opponent. "Hmph, you. What brings you worms here?"

Fayt rolled his eyes, a nearly natural reaction that was as accustomed as it had been when he was at the swordsman's side all those months ago. Looking the taller man in the eye with a determination and strength that piqued Albel's curiosity, the boy from the sky opened his mouth to speak.

OOOOO

Comments: …aaaaaaaaaand continue with the game. I apologize if you wanted more. Hellooooo, anti-climactic ending.

Yeah, I think Albel's a Demonoid. It's the eyes. Sorry Boyd, but I totally ganked your interesting background. That'll teach you for being so hard to recruit.

Woltar's godson? Made it up. I think it's a reasonable statement, and it amuses me.

Concerning Robinwind… There's my explanation as to WTF a little boy was doing in a lava cave. This game was rife with random-ass bosses.

Reviews are welcomed and loved. This also was written as an exercise in details and whatnot, so tell me what you think. My writing is generally rather flat (and now it appears to be a little bulky…).