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The Prisoner ran. He ran as fast as he possibly could with his body maimed and injured as it was. His fight with the Collector - the Alchemist - had been brutal, but he survived. He survived, and in his fist was a vial of the panacea the Alchemist had created, bright blue and glowing with energy. He held on to it as tightly as he could, not daring to loosen his grip even slightly, lest it slip from his hand and shatter on the ground. He didn't know if he'd be able to go though everything again just to get a second vial. All of this - everything he had worked towards - had been for him, and time was running short. He couldn't fuck up now.
After what felt like an eternity of running, climbing, jumping, and rolling (all the while clutching the vial like it was the most precious item in the world), he arrived at the Prison Depths. He had exterminated all the monsters and mutants that had prowled the halls his first run through the place, and now it was eerily quiet save for his footsteps. He allowed his pace to slow from a sprint to a jog as he navigated the cold, stone pathways, past iron cages and the remains of old corpses and festering monster guts. The route he took he knew by heart; it led him to an iron doorway, set at the end of a hall far away from the others. This cell, he happened to know, had been reserved for the worst of the prisoners back when the building was still in operation, making it one of the safest places on the whole island. He approached it slowly, glancing at the vial as if for assurance.
The warden's keyring, which the Prisoner had stolen off the Concierge's corpse, was kept safely in a pocket. The iron keys jingled as he sorted through them and grabbed the right one, and the door squealed as he pulled it open for the first time in a while.
It was as if a spell had been broken. Immediately there was sound: a terrible and deafening screech shattered the remaining silence, followed with the sounds of iron chains thrashing about. The Prisoner's grip on the vial tightened, and he willed himself to stay calm as he stepped into the cell.
It was dark. The cell was vacant save for what was still screeching at him: a monster, horribly deformed and mutated from the Malaise. It was on the ground, with iron cuffs chaining its arms to the wall and its legs to the floor. It thrashed against its bonds, spittle flying from its teeth-stuffed mouth as it howled and screamed and made an awful racket. Its body was covered in large, crystalline cysts that were a sickening turquoise in colour, and what little skin that could be seen was cracked and peeling, a sickly, pasty blue. One of the cysts had grown over half its face, but the other half was still very recognizable, which is what made the Prisoner freeze up, a lump of fear and guilt and hate sinking to the pit of his stomach. The single remaining eye, black as coal and rimmed with red, stared hungrily at him, and the monster's lips curled back in a snarl, revealing sharp teeth that glinted in the low light. That thing, that horrifying monster, had once been a very dear friend - more than that, it had been a lover. It had been the Blueskin the Prisoner had met, who started accompanying him and joining him in his fight, who would bandage his wounds and kiss his fingertips and laugh at his jokes. It had been Drifter.
The Prisoner had murdered uncountable mutants and had seen all sorts of unspeakable, fucked-up things, but this was the one that made him want to curl up in a corner somewhere and never move again.
The closer the he got, the more agitated it became, and he again had to stop and collect himself, taking a steadying breath. This thing wasn't Drifter. Not anymore. Not since the day he had attacked the Prisoner, completely mad from the Malaise feasting on his body, and tried to kill him, clawing and biting off chunks of flesh. The Prisoner had had to lock him up for both of their safety while he searched for the cure alone; a decision that pained him greatly, but he had to remind himself: that thing was not the same as the soft-spoken and bright-eyed wanderer who had stolen his heart. At least, not on the surface: he had to believe that Drifter was still in there somewhere, alive and waiting to be cured. He had to believe that; he couldn't have come all this way and have it all be for naught.
Purpose reaffirmed, the Prisoner knelt in front of it, confident that its chains were tight enough that it wouldn't break free and tear his chest open. For a moment he just stared, slowly uncorking the vial while it writhed and hissed. Then, with no warning, his arm shot out and grabbed its jaw. The skin flaked and crumbled under his fingers, but he forced himself to be ruthless, forcing the monster's mouth open and pouring the panacea down its throat. It sputtered and hacked, but there was nothing it could do. The medicine had been drunk.
For a moment, nothing happened. Then, everything happened.
The cysts burst. All at once, with a sound like glass breaking, and the Prisoner reared back as shards of crystal exploded everywhere. He heard the monster give one last, ear-shattering scream, and then there was silence. The Prisoner forced himself to look back at where it had been.
What met his eyes was a raw and bloody corpse. Where the cysts had been were now open, gaping wounds that began seeping blood. The Prisoner scrambled for his flask, thanking his past self over and over for not having wasted the final serving on his own injuries. He tore the cork out and again opened Drifter's mouth - gentler this time - and carefully tipped the golden liquid in.
The wounds healed themselves instantly, which brought about a bit of hope. They left behind fresh pink scar tissue, which still looked raw and painful, but was no longer bleeding. The body still chained to the wall was no longer a monster, but Drifter - unmistakably so. His clothes had been torn to shreds and he had wasted away, bones clearly visible beneath pale and chalky skin. He still only had one eye; the Prisoner supposed he shouldn't have expected the panacea to completely reverse the damage the Malaise had caused. It wasn't ideal, and Drifter most likely wouldn't be happy about it, but at least he still had the one. That was something they could adjust to - the Prisoner didn't know what they'd do if the Malaise left him blinded. Losses aside, he was Drifter again. Uncorrupted.
Unmoving.
Unbreathing.
And the Prisoner felt his heart break. I was too late.
He wanted to take the sword he'd stolen from the Hand of the King and drive it deep into his chest, just like how he killed the King.
Then, suddenly, right as he was about to condemn himself to an eternity of grief and mourning, Drifter gasped. And then again. He gasped repeatedly, desperately, as if he had finally come up for air after having nearly drowned. Each one rattled painfully, and his tiny chest heaved with the effort. He wheezed in between gasps, which soon turned to dry, hacking coughs that made his whole body convulse.
The Prisoner scrambled for the keyring, clumsy with haste, and unlocked the cuffs around Drifter's wrists and ankles as quickly as he could. Once he was free, the Prisoner carefully pulled his shaking body into his lap, with their chests pressed together and Drifter's chin resting on his shoulder, and he rubbed a hand up and down his back, trying to comfort and support him through the fit. Drifter continued to cough, and something warm and wet ran down the Prisoner's back - he didn't want to find out what it was.
After far too long of Drifter's lungs trying to rip themselves from his body, the fit began to subside. His coughs grew quieter and less violent, and eventually he stopped altogether, until he was only breathing heavily - still harshly, but it was an improvement. He still trembled pathetically, and the Prisoner wrapped his arms around him. He felt cold.
"...Cell?" a tiny, hoarse voice asked, and the Prisoner's heart leapt to his throat. Carefully, he moved Drifter, just enough so he could see his face. Drifter's remaining eye stared listlessly at him, looking like a sad, empty hole, completely devoid of any warmth or soul. "Is that you?" It sounded like he could barely speak, and the Prisoner nodded hurriedly. He felt like he could cry, and wished he could, so Drifter could see how ecstatic he was. The panacea had worked. He was alive.
But then Drifter shuddered, and his body went limp, head falling against his shoulder. The Prisoner panicked; but then realized that he could still hear Drifter breathing. He nestled his head against the Prisoner's shoulder, using his scarf like a pillow, and took a deep, shaking breath. The Prisoner lifted a hand to stroke his hair; a lot of it was missing, and what was left really needed a wash, but he didn't care in the slightest. How could he, at a time like this?
"I wanna go home," Drifter mumbled, and his voice was choked. He sniffled, and when the Prisoner reached up to rub his thumb along his cheek, he felt a teardrop, which he gently wiped away.
The fight was far from over. The Malaise might have been cured, but it left its marks. It would take time before Drifter was back to his old self, the Prisoner understood that. But for now, he nodded, wanting to get out of that awful prison as soon as possible. He stood up carefully, lifting Drifter up in his arms. He felt small, light, and fragile, and the Prisoner watched fondly as he made himself comfortable, curling towards him and closing his eye, sighing softly.
Let's go home.