Chapter Text
Dread crawls up from the pit of his stomach, wrapping around his throat and making it hard for him to breathe.
Luca stands in the foyer, trembling hands curled tightly into fists. It can’t be. The walls feel as if they’re closing in on him, but he can’t bring himself to move, can’t bring himself to do anything but stare at the man walking towards him from the dark corridor.
“Luca? Luca, is that you?”
It’s Alva.
Luca sucks in a shaking breath. No, not only that. Long hair absently pulled into a low, loose ponytail, carefully pressed shirt, slacks and vest, no scars…It’s not the Hermit. He’s Professor Alva Lorenz, alive and in the flesh. But how?
“What happened to you, my boy?” Alva asks, somehow already right in front of him. His eyes—perfectly normal white sclera and deep brown irises—flick quickly over Luca, taking in his prison uniform, the chain around his neck and certainly the permanently bruised eyelid. There is a worried crease in his brow, adding to the fine wrinkles already present on his face, and suddenly Luca feels a pang of aching nostalgia in his chest.
“You’re hurt. We should take you to see a doctor as soon as we can.” Alva’s hand is warm as he brushes over Luca’s hair, careful not to touch his damaged eye. A little bit awkward, but gentle and always thoughtful. He is exactly how Luca remembers him, in the shattered pieces of his memory that he slowly and painstakingly pieced back together after the Hermit entered the manor.
The Hermit.
Luca jerks away from the touch, eyes wide. This can’t be him. Alva Lorenz has already died because of him, and then resurrected in an eerie form to chase him down in the manor’s nightly games. He served time and suffered in prison as punishment for killing this man. Fear grips his voice, squeezing it out in a wheeze. “You can’t be here.”
The way Alva looks back at him, hurt written clearly in the way his eyebrows dipped and his lips pursed together, drives the ache deeper into his chest. This is the face Luca saw on the night of the accident.
“I know you’re still upset at me, Luca,” Alva says softly, withdrawing his hand. “I meant to speak to you about…well, about everything. There is much I need to explain to you, many of them about your father and the projects the two of us collaborated on.”
No, Luca wants to scream, it’s already too late. Nothing this—this perfectly maintained memory of Alva says can change the things that already happened.
“Are you alright, my boy?” Professor Lorenz leans down slightly, concerned.
… What happened?
Luca swallows, fighting hard to calm the pounding in his heart and the pain lancing through his head. He thinks briefly about brushing it off, scrambling to put on a strong front, but the fear is overwhelming. A whimper spills from his lips, and Alva immediately reacts. The older man fusses over him, worriedly asking if he wants to sit down, insisting that he should rest if he’s feeling unwell.
“I-I’m…just nervous, sir,” Luca manages to breathe. Even at a time like this, he holds tightly onto his pride and refuses to admit to his mentor that he’s scared out of his mind.
After all, they’re in a place he doesn’t recognise and doesn’t ever remember coming to. The foyer is grand, not unlike the entrance to a cathedral, but dark and foreboding. He can’t see anything outside of the boarded up windows, and the door behind him is firmly locked. At a glance, he would think they’re trapped in some abandoned mansion outside of town, but he can’t remember how or why and that terrifies him.
“I understand,” Alva smiles a little, apologetic even though it’s hardly his fault they’re in a place like this. At least, Luca doesn’t think it is. It shouldn’t be. How would the esteemed Professor Alva Lorenz get himself into such a strange situation? “Stay close, alright? We’ll find a way out, and then we can talk.”
It’s a sound plan of action. Luca takes a few deep breaths to calm down as much as he can, and resists the sudden urge to hold onto Alva’s arm. He used to do that when he was little; hold his mother’s hand and let her lead him through the scary, dark hallways of their home.
Alva sets a hand on his shoulder, level-headed as always, and guides him to follow along as they venture deeper into the mansion. Luca would never say it out loud, but it comforts him greatly at times like these when he can’t find his footing amidst racing thoughts.
As he walks, Luca feels weight around his neck and frowns when he looks down.
Why is he wearing chains and a dirty, grimy prison uniform?
There is something very wrong in the air.
As Alva emerges from prayer in the cold, lonely chapel beside the Hunters’ manor, he sees the miasma drifting about in dark wisps around the yard. It feels deeply foul. Unlike the omniscient, watchful presence of the Eye of Darkness, unlike the unseen body of Yidhra slithering through the halls, the miasma exudes hunger. Ravenous hunger.
A throaty meow calls out, and he looks down to see the Apostle padding over to him at a leisurely pace. Behind it, Ann approaches in slow, thoughtful steps, her eyes fixed on the drifting wisps.
“The servants of the dead ones are restless,” she murmurs. “The Master is displeased.”
Dead ones. Some humans would have called them gods once. The Apostle flicks its tail impatiently and sits down between Alva and Ann, watching the miasma as well.
The symbol of the Eye weighs heavy against Alva’s sternum, and he feels a pitiful scraping at the fringes of his mind. Something is trying to worm its way inside, and it is only by the power of his Saviour that it fails to break through. But there remains a nagging pressure, like a child incessantly tapping on the glass of an aquarium to provoke the fishes inside.
Alva watches the miasma slowly congeal into a familiar silhouette at the far edge of the yard.
It doesn’t quite manage to maintain its form, warping and bending, but he knows what—who it’s meant to be. A crooked grin, a sharp little canine, a messy ponytail. As if to taunt him, the distorted silhouette smiles and waves.
The Apostle hisses.
“It seems to be using Mr. Balsa’s appearance to beckon to you, Mr. Lorenz,” Ann says, her voice soft but barely hiding her abhorrence.
With his gaze squarely fixed on the miasma, Alva’s lips thin and his grip around his staff tightens ever so slightly. “So it is.”
“Will you go?”
He pauses to think. “...I am rather curious what these stragglers want from me.”
“I see.” Ann bows her head respectfully, and still stands two feet taller than him. “Please allow the Apostle to escort you. I sense ill happenings ahead, but it is not my place to approach servants of the dead ones.”
“Thank you, Ann. Your gesture is appreciated,” Alva says and means it truly. Something about this unsettles him, and he can’t help feeling a stirring of dread in his chest. It would be good to have the Apostle, an extension of the Eye, with him while he investigates.
The Manor is an isolated world cut off from time, where old gods walk amongst men, amongst the resurrected dead. Why is a remnant of forgotten gods here, peering into his mind and taking the form of his former student to beckon him? Alva feels the scraping again, annoyingly persistent, and he hasn’t the shadow of a doubt that he might fall prey to the illusion if it weren’t for the Eye of Darkness warding him from it.
He still smells the acrid sting of hunger in the air, getting stronger as he approaches the doppelganger, the Apostle trailing behind him.
“Good day, Professor Lorenz! I’ve a new prototype I’d like your opinion on.” The distorted smile is an echo of his memory, a mirror of painfully happier times when Luca looked up at him with nothing but utter admiration. Alva misses that, sometimes.
“What do you want from me?” he asks calmly.
“Luca” smiles wide, and offers his hand. “Come with me, I’ll show you.”
Alva wonders if it’s sapient. It surely doesn’t seem to regard him the same way the real Luca does. There’s no recognition in the false eyes, no spark of life. Uncanny. At most, it feels like the creature is struggling to peek into his mind to find his memories of Luca, to build a stronger illusion. Combined with the terrible feeling of hunger in the air, Alva feels sure that this miasma would have eaten his memories to sustain itself if it could.
He sighs and waves the hand off. “Lead on, boy.”
Either way, his morbid curiosity is piqued. It will be interesting to see where this would bring him. Should things come to it, he may have to cleanse this rot for his Saviour.