Chapter Text
Six of cup (laid down)
Page (reversed)
King (unreachable)
Edgar never believed in cards, or any prophecies in general. But perhaps he should have believed Fiona this time. Or maybe not at all.
It’s not that he doesn’t notice in time, he just hardly pays any attention to it. Even though his vision starts to swim. One would think that he would be well versed in spotting symptoms after so many times, but clearly, as with everything in his life, Edgar just keeps disappointing himself. And they dare say that a burnt child dreads the fire. Clearly, he personally never learns.
The problem is that it starts like normal dizziness. The weather is a bit hot today, so Edgar thinks there is no artificial reason why his head feels dull, and the eyes refuse to focus. When he blinks a few times it disappears, so he doesn’t overthink it.
Just to be sure, he takes another drink to prevent possible dehydration. That’s where his skin gets a bit itchy.
By the middle of dinner his calves are on fire, he is covered with a way too familiar cold sweat as his blood rushes up and down through his body, and his head is spinning so much that he thinks it is going to explode. Like an idiot, he stares at the cup of his wine and wonders how the hell could he miss that unmistakable fragrant, fruit-like odour. He supposes he deserves it for being such an idiot.
It is hard to think rationally with his blood boiling, but it shouldn’t be hard to pretend to be unaffected for a while. After all, this is hardly an unknown situation to him. Right now, he cannot show any weakness. Not when whoever did this to him is probably watching, stalking him like a razor-toothed beast, waiting for his opportunity.
He quickly sweeps his gaze over the other table guests, as unobtrusively as his state allows, but if anyone notices his temporally hesitation, it doesn't show on them. Around him dinner goes on as if nothing had happened; yet Edgar’s vision is getting progressively fuzzier, and when the fire of his body finally reaches his loins, the room shrinks as if he had drunk not one glass of wine but an entire barrel. He subtly pinches his finger under the table and, as expected, feels no pain. He barely registers any sensation at all, which makes his frown set even deeper in his forehead.
It is one of these then.
Helplessly, Edgar bites the inner side of his lips. He was in this position a bit too many times to his liking. Not that he's learned his lesson, because if he did, he wouldn’t be downing his goddamn wine without checking it first. Mentally, he curses himself. He has always been a little too confident in himself for his own good. This place is a nest of vipers and yet he let his attention slip so carelessly.
All these days of harmless bickering and stupid meaningless games left him ignorant to signs of real danger, yet he cannot even name a single person who he would not suspect of playing a part in this. He scans the room again, considering his chances, but doesn’t get any wiser. Whoever did this is either hidden, or just really good at it, although Edgar knows they will show themselves sooner or later. Because that is exactly how it goes every time.
Unfortunately, the situation is not unfamiliar. Way too many times he got slipped something in his drinks by people who were either too cowardly to face him or just thought it funny. Usually, he should be able to fight the drug for a while, at least if the effects have been moderate, but whatever he had drunk was a pretty strong dose, and time only makes him feel worse as it allows the drug to set in his body. Just like that, he is left with the only option; he needs to get the fuck out of here as quickly as possible, because regardless of whether he is surrounded by people who normally maintain a mask of moral standards, or at least pretend to, a drugged aristocrat is dead meat.
The issue here is, he is not sure he can make it to his room on his own. And that’s probably the intention here, Edgar realises. If someone catches him up on the way to his room, he will not be able to fight them off, or resist them whatsoever. Not with his legs weak and head spinning like he’s just left a boat after a month-long voyage. He even doubts he’s going to remember it later. He mentally curses himself again. Just like that, at the end of the day, he is once again the author of his own misfortune.
There is no doubt that he cannot really count on others to help him. Passed out nobles don’t really ring the alarm bells like an unconscious young maiden would, especially not with wine in front of them and friends surrounding them. If he blacks out here, he’ll be dragged somewhere by an attentive acquaintance, a good gentleman perhaps, although there is hardly anyone around here who would genuinely give a shit about Edgar. Of course, he must admit, he has only himself to blame for that - but screw him sideways if Edgar Valden will ever force himself to be polite just to please his surroundings. People should learn to deal with honesty rather than expecting hypocrisy under the guise of politeness.
Nothing he doesn’t deserve after all.
He allows himself to close his eyes for a second and takes a deep breath to force the creeping panic back to his personal Pandora box of his mind, but it does not change the fact that he is fucked. Back then, no one stood up for him, and no one will stand up for him now. Edgar thinks he definitely should be used to it by now, but as his head keeps spinning, it is becoming harder to stay calm. The truth is that everyone in this room has at least one reason to get back at him for something. He never aimed to be likeable after all.
Nevertheless, he doubts that anyone could have slipped the drug into his drink without being detected. He’s been careless, yes, but not blind. Victor sitting on his left, doesn’t have the balls to do anything like this, and the gardener’s arms are too short to be able to reach his glass and stay unnoticed. They can be positively crossed off his mental list of potential accomplices. Naib in contrast--
No, Naib is a veteran. A soldier, a hardened man through and through. He even carries a knife. He is one of the few people around the manor who are allowed that luxury and maybe the only one who actually knows how to use it. Rationally speaking, using something like drugs is in Naib’s case highly unlikely. If this man wanted to fuck Edgar, he wouldn’t care for anything as sophisticated as aphrodisiacs and sedatives. That’s for pompous cowards and hypocrite weaklings who like their victims to be pliant. Naib is an honest man. He would just bend Edgar over the nearest flat surface, and it’s not like Edgar could ever oppose him. Not even if they were both unarmed and sober. Their strength difference is way too great for that.
A little shiver runs down Edgar’s spine as he watches the man out of the corner of his eye, but he decides that Naib would have gained nothing by drugging him. At least not personally. He would, however, probably be able to do it if anyone paid him enough. He’s a mercenary, after all. But then Edgar was sitting close to his drink for the entire dinner. It would be unlikely that Naib would be able to put sedatives in his glass between the short time Edgar got his wine and then started to actually drink it.
There must be another accomplice. Someone who can get close to beverages without suspicion.
He scans the room once again, and his brow furrows as he sets his eyes on the maid serving at the other side of the table. If he was to accuse someone of being a rat here, it wouldn’t be Naib, but that little servant bitch, the blue-robed gremlin. Not that he would suspect her personally of being capable of conscious poisoning, she is too dumb for that. No matter how sly her expression is, she is basically nothing more than furniture. Edgar would bet that whoever poisoned him just straight up came to her, threw the drug into his drink and she watched it without a single thought in that damned knife-eared head.
From pure spite, he takes pleasure in looking at the set of scars on her left cheek. Honestly, if he wasn’t above smashing the property of the household, he would beat her as well. Unfortunately, even knowing who delivered him the poisoned wine now does not help him.
Quickly, he considers his options. He cannot rely on the goodness of others because he does not deserve it, and no one will help him out of goodwill. At times like this, there is only one advantage Edgar has left to use. If there's something he can always count on, even when he's vulnerable, half-conscious, and effectively cornered, it's the certainty that there will always be people who will answer the call of his obscenely huge amount of money. A large enough sum makes a reliable man from a hired killer after all.
With more desperation than he would ever admit, he tries to ignore the creeping panic that threatens to overcome him when he thinks about the man by his right side. He forces his remaining functional brain cells to focus on a rational path of thought. Edgar is not a timid man and can hardly be considered respectful, but the idea of being targeted by Naib makes his stomach knot, something that can hardly be blamed on the drug. It’s not exactly a plan, it would be a stretch to call it that. He simply takes his last chance. Slipping a hand under the table, he digs his nails into the strong muscle of the mercenary’s thigh. In his peripheral vision, he sees the man straighten up, but he does not look at him directly.
“Take me to my room.”
His voice is surprisingly steady for someone who’s on the verge of fainting and hard as granite for half of the evening. If nothing else, he should probably thank his late teacher for giving him the opportunity to get his self-control to that level. When Naib turns to him with his mouth already half open, he sinks his nails into the firm flesh again.
“Don’t look at me,” he barks silently and fortunately, Naib obeys without further questioning. Edgar mentally thanks God and the Queen for trained soldiers who know how to obey a command when they hear one. He takes a second to check the room, pleased to find that no one is watching them.
“Don’t get any ideas,” he whispers. He is at the verge of his strength and what escapes his lips is more of a sigh than coherent words, but from the way Naib’s shoulder flinches, it is clear he understands.
"Someone has spiked my drink. I need to get to my room.”
“Are you serious?”
As if he could make something like that up. Edgar clenches his teeth. However, it’s not like Naib has to trust him.
“You are a mercenary,” he demands. “I’m going to pay you.”
There is silence for a second during which Edgar stares at the table, which has been heaving for the last few minutes, and waits tensely for the mercenary’s reaction. He wonders what the fuck takes the man so much time. He offered money; he did not actually set any price, which means Naib can demand from him whatever fee he wants for his services later - what else can a mercenary ask for - but the man still does not move.
This time it’s Edgar who lifts his head to look at the man, and despite the shortness of breath and the urge to flee that is crawling through his body, he opens his lips in question. Naib stops him before he can speak up, casually leaning closer as he sets an elbow on the table. He covers his mouth before speaking, and Edgar realises that it must look like he is merely supporting his head in boredom.
"Show that cup near mine," he says in a simple way.
“What?”
Naib does not react visibly, but his voice drops into darker tones when he repeats himself. “Show it near my cup.”
It sounds threatening. In any other situation, Edgar would not let anyone talk to him like that, but the seriousness of his condition does not give him much choice. After checking that there are no eyes on them, he brings the nearly empty glass to his lips and puts it down again, this time right next to Naib's.
The mercenary immediately repeats his gesture, conspicuously absent, making it look like he really just mistook the glasses. Then, unlike Edgar, he tilts the cup so high that it looks like he genuinely drinks the remaining content. Before Edgar can say anything, the man slaps the emptied cup back on the table and practically throws his entire upper body against the chair backrest.
“Fuck.”
He looks tired. There are wrinkles on his forehead and the corners of his mouth Edgar has never seen before, however, Naib is older than him, and his life was clearly harder. Even so, it doesn’t make Edgar less annoyed.
“You could’ve just believed me,” he criticizes the mercenary, maybe a bit too harsh for someone who is asking for help, but in his defense his dizziness is getting worse every second and Edgar’s never aimed to be a particularly pleasant person.
“I did,” Naib replies simply, and before Edgar can react, he stands up. “Let’s go.”
Contrary to his words, he leans for some sweet buns in front of Victor, efficiently shielding Edgar from the rest of the people. Despite not having any functional part of a brain, Edgar recognises an opportunity to escape undetected when given one. He staggers on his feet as quickly as his trembling knees allow and slowly goes towards the door. A quick glance back tells him that there is no one watching him, a few people look at Naib as he takes another bun to his mouth, but they quickly return their attention to their plates when the mercenary pats Norton’s shoulder, saying something Edgar doesn’t really register. It hardly matters.
With the last of his strength, he staggers out the dining room. The world is spinning, and he has to try his best to keep his gaze straight. Whatever it was that he drank, it must have been very potent. It could not be that long, and he is already steaming. His inner clothes are damp with sweat, sticky, and utterly disgusting.
There would be no greater relief than to let go and simply fall, his back first on the cold nearest wall, but although he doesn’t see anyone following him, Edgar cannot afford this luxury. He needs to look unaffected because the more normal he looks, the safer he is. That's the game, and he doesn't play it amateurishly. Yet the drug is stronger than usual, he’s all hot and dizzy, and this is all wrong, because he shouldn’t be alone in this state. Because he can feel the pressing unconsciousness approaching. Because if there is anyone waiting in the shadows or by the corner--
He pushes that thought away and swallows the last salvia in his dry mouth, trying to regain any composure in case the approaching steps don’t belong to a friend. After all, this is nothing he hasn't experienced before. It must be the drug that dulls his rational reasoning. Even if he gets caught, what does it matter? Edgar Valden is not known for his chastity, so what is one more bastard carving another notch.
Still, he can feel a wave of relief flowing through his heart and soul when the footsteps turned out to belong to Naib.
At first, Edgar thinks that the look the mercenary gives him is almost concerned. But that must be another delusion brought up by his drugged brain, because when Naib speaks, his voice is so untouched, it could be called conversational.
“How long have you been feeling it?”
Edgar cannot stop himself from shaking his head uncoordinatedly. Clearly, he cannot no longer force himself to maintain integrity while creating complex responses at the same time.
“Since I started drinking, basically,” he answers, trying hard to recall a specific time frame, but failing. “The sun wasn’t setting yet,” he adds vaguely, after realising how dark the sky outside the windows got.
It must have been at least fifteen minutes then. Or perhaps twenty, in which case he left the dining room at the last possible minute. It’s a matter of a quarter of an hour before he falls unconscious, all wet and hot, and Naib seems to realise it too because he curses and then takes a step closer.
Edgar doesn’t want to flinch. In the right state of mind, he would never allow himself to do so, but now he’s driven by instinct more than anything else.
Weak. He's still so pathetically weak.
The mercenary freezes when Edgar moves away from the outstretched hand, and immediately, Edgar feels like choking on his own tongue. He must look like a complete wimp, standing there, flushed like a pig in summer, with a prominent hard-on, drugged almost to oblivion, yet trembling at a single touch from the person he asked for help in the first place.
With a deep exhale through his nose, he tries to get his act together. Perhaps he should apologise, but that never came easily to him. He settles for compliance, then. With a single resigned tilt of his head, he allows the touch, although he still hates to leave his neck exposed.
Although he takes extra care not to look directly at the mercenary, he still cannot escape a glimpse of Naib’s expression. It looks more like a gentleness than an annoyance. Edgar is not sure what to make of it before Naib’s hand lands in a swift motion on Edgar’s throat and checks his pulse.
He had men's hands on his throat more than once. Sometimes he thinks he simply inspires that kind of primal instinct within them, a need to push, grasp, and squeeze his neck like if Edgar was a lethal viper. Not only Sarai liked to be pompously metaphoric at every moment possible. Hypocrites tend to be even more pretentious than real artists.
Naib's fingers are rough, calloused, and precise. Another man would have stroked Edgar's throat playfully and perhaps bruised him a bit to test the waters. But there is no joy, no perversity in Naib's touch. If anything, it feels sorrowfully clinical, almost as if he is a doctor discovering a fatal disease. Yet, in the state Edgar is in, he has to fight the urge to lean to them.
It’s so pathetic, he fears that the corners of his eyes will finally give up on him and water with tears, he has been holding back with the last shreds of his own will. But if Naib has any opinion on it, he politely keeps it for himself. Instead, he pulls his fingers away and frowns. “Who the fuck did you piss off so much.”
It doesn’t really sound like an accusation, but Edgar is not in a condition where he can trust his senses.
He merely rolls his eyes. “How do I know?”
The mercenary doesn’t answer. Instead, he shows his shoulder under Edgar’s, and without prompting he drags him towards his room. It should feel invasive. Offensive, even. But if anything, Edgar feels - good. It is a clear sign that his brain is fully functioning on the drug alone, because if he had any rationality left, he would never let himself be manhandled this way.
Through the veil of intoxication that is conquering his brain, it feels right to be finally allowed to lean towards someone's body. To simply let go and allow someone else to make the necessary choices. It is as humiliating as relaxing. He is well aware it is the drug that is making him think this way, yet he cannot find the strength to complain as Naib effortlessly navigates his body through the hallways.
Clearly, it takes him only one arm to support Edgar's full weight, which could probably be arousing, if it weren’t so ridiculous. Edgar always knew the soldier must be much stronger than him; it's not so difficult to achieve that after all, since Edgar never aimed to gain any significant physical strength in the first place - his virtues lay elsewhere - but he could never expect someone like Naib to be so strong to be able to practically carry him with one arm. Naib is not a tall man. In fact, their height difference is so insignificant, Edgar would actually guess that he is a bit taller than the mercenary.
Yet, the biceps under his hands feel more like a stone than human flesh, and they support Edgar's whole body as effortlessly as if it were made out of nothing but feathers. Were they in a different situation--
The last conscious part of his brain finds it terrific, but the rest doesn't protest the slightest. To his horror, he realises that he would not be opposed to the idea of Naib carrying him like a lady.
He pushes that thought away to hell where it belongs along with other intrusive idiocies the aphrodisiac conjured up. Like the fact that even through a thick layer of fabric he still feels the heat of the mercenary. That he itches at the places where their skin touches.
There is hardly anything sensual about it, he reminds himself. It's gross.
The fact is that he is overheating and sweating all over, but the man does not seem to care the slightest. Edgar supposes that someone like Naib, someone who lived his whole life as a soldier for hire, surrounded by other men, unhinged, unwashed, and drenched in various body fluids, does not care if he gets a bit messy.
Maybe he is into that kind of thing, Edgar finds himself thinking. Dishevelled men, covered in sweat, hah! Really, Valden? Really? The image stays before his eyes for a bit too long for his liking, before he quickly suppresses it.
This drug is surely getting ridiculous.
Still, he could fall asleep like this. No, he would like to fall asleep and let Naib move him through the confusing maze of the manor hallways. It would not take much to become a marionette in the mercenary's arms. A doll moved according to the desires of someone else.
It is unacceptable.
He barely notices that they are already at his door, until Naib coughs.
“Thank you” he says, springing on his legs as quickly as he manages without fainting, quite proud of the fact that he kept his voice and legs steady although he is well aware he is pushing his limits. „I will handle it from here."
Despite his acting skills, the look the mercenary gives him as an answer cannot be interpreted as convinced.
“Will you?”
“Yes. I’ll pay you tomorrow.”
As swiftly as his dizziness allows him, he shows the door forward, trying to shut them for once, but the expected slam never comes. Instead, a heavy boot lands before the doorframe, preventing him from finally isolating himself in safety in his bedroom.
He shoots a dangerous look towards the man, one that says he has stabbed an offender before and he is not afraid to do it again. However, it doesn't seem to concern Naib the slightest.
“You shouldn’t be left alone in this state.”
Of course. As if that would explain the hand holding the door open and the shoe that is slowly making its way in, instead of respecting what should have been a shelter. Perhaps he misjudged the mercenary's character after all, and he was the one to drug him in the first place. It feels like betrayal for no reason. Of course, Edgar had not necessarily thought of the man as safe, he is not that foolish. But he did not pick him for a scheming type.
Maybe Edgar is approaching the issue wrong, and it is not a malicious intent on Naib's side, but a simple opportunism. There are no soldiers who let a free meal pass, and Edgar’s body is very nice, he is well aware of that. So why would a mercenary, out of all people, let go of a singular chance, especially out of something as ridiculous as nobility. Understandable, isn't it. Even if he had put Edgar down on his knees, no one, not even the court, would ever hold it against him.
“All helpful, are we?” he grins cynically at the mercenary, feeling a bit too close to a border of hysteria. It makes his teeth clench together with an ugly creaking noise. “While I am grateful for your assistance, your part ends here. Now, if you insist on further assistance, you can do me the service of removing yourself.”
Naib did not stop frowning since they met in the hallway and now his scowl only deepens.
“You can’t go through this alone,” he urges as if anyone could possibly fall for such a transparent trap. If Edgar had a drink at his disposal, he would throw it in the mercenary's face just for daring to think Edgar was so stupid. All he manages to get out of himself is a ragged scoff, although every breath he takes feels like fighting an iron corset.
“I suppose you want me to express my gratitude. While I hate to disappoint, just politely wait to collect your payment in the morning.” Then, adding more spit to his words, his lips form a bitter smile. “In money, of course.”
He sees how the veteran’s eyes darken and already expects the arguments to come. ‘But, sweetheart, you cannot stay like this.’ or ‘Let me take care of you, you are all hot all over.’ Or something similarly disgusting and fake-
“For fuck’s sake, kid!”
Or, this one. Fine.
Anger is a familiar sound. Edgar knows when he hears it. Rattled by the sudden outburst, he steps back as Naib comes closer. A good half of his body is now inside the room, effectively preventing Edgar from even hoping that he could ever close the door. It is becoming clearer that there is nowhere to run now. Although Edgar is not sure if the wooden board could even hold Naib back in the first place, he feels like he has lost his only advantage.
Suddenly he is even more angry. And astonished. And afraid. It is not like he didn't know he was no match for this man before, that would be stupid. He was well aware of the fact that there would be nothing he could do if Naib decided to have him; not sober and certainly not now. But a rationally based assumption is fundamentally different from facing a real threat. Out of nothing, he feels so small. An pathetic. Terribly stupid and weak like a child. Exactly like the one he once was.
Shit, he might vomit.
“Look-” Naib says and despite everything Edgar expects, it sounds more like a tired sigh. Still, Edgar is not so far gone to believe it. “I am not interested in doing anything to you. No matter how this looks like.”
The mercenary speaks slowly as if he was talking to a frightened animal, and Edgar realises that he is probably more visibly anxious than he should be. He should not let the enemy know he is completely helpless and defenceless. It doesn’t matter that a trained soldier must know it anyway, it only increases Edgar's disadvantage.
Desperate to gain any trace of a solid ground under his feet, Edgar rolls his eyes, "Well, it is not like you could afford me in the first place."
If his answer surprises Naib, he does not let it show at all. His face remains as stone hard as his muscles.
"You have no idea how much trouble you are in," he says, like it is not obvious.
Perhaps he really thinks Edgar is stupid, he would not be the first. There are men who target weak-minded prey because they hope for an easy catch. Edgar despises them. Not only it's humiliating but he does not understand what a thrill that can possibly be offered by a victim who willingly walks into a trap.
It is hardly a surprise when it comes to nobles and spoiled aristocrats who seek royal hunts with tame deer that have been taught all their lives to trust a man, but he would think a goddamn mercenary would have some standards.
He wrinkles his nose in disgust, effectively masking his inner panic beyond the mask of annoyance. He won't allow himself to show the fact his tongue is already heavy, lids beginning to close, and he's seeing double. His time is running out and he's getting impatient. He snarls.
"Don't bother yourself with my wellbeing. It is not the first time I drank chloral-laced wine." And then, mostly to himself, he adds with bitter humour: "Actually, in my childhood they poured laudanum into me every time I merely coughed. I'm practically immune to sedatives by now."
“It wasn’t a fucking poppy, you idiot!"
The doorframe rings as the soldier's fist lands on it, and despite his better sense, Edgar takes a step back and his eyes unconsciously wander down to the mercenary side, where a long sharp knife still rests in its sheath, then back to the man’s face.
“Do you think I don't fucking know?!” he shouts back.
As if there was any possibility that Edgar couldn't figure out that one himself from the state his body is getting into. From the start, it was obvious that the drug was an issue, even compared to similar substances with which he had a history. If it was something trivial, opium, or even chloroform, Edgar would simply go to his room on his own, without seeking any help. He's had quite a bit of experience wandering the halls alone, higher than clouds, thanks to every fucking asshole that showed him it's always the better option. Way too often the gentleman's assistance becomes a greater problem than the drug itself, and it is not always caused by excessive care. The very memory of puts anxiety into his mind.
The silence spreads between them, punctuated only by loud breathing, which, Edgar realises, is coming from him. The air is as tense as a viola string. Maybe Naib wants something more than money after all, his mind erratically goes through options, one more repulsive than other. That's why he's refusing to fuck off, that would make sense.
He looks straight into the man's eyes, checking for any traces of menace, aggression, or anything that coudl tell him what to prepare for, but there is nothing. No sign of ulterior motives.
If anything, the mercenary looks sorrowful.
"Listen," Naib starts slowly, clearly taken back by Edgar's outburst and suddenly Edgar thinks the drug must have already knocked him out and he is dreaming, because he would swear, he had heard a regret in Naib’s voice. The mercenary looks like he's trying hard to find right words, but somehow they keep fleeing from him. "Whoever gave you that shit was pissed off enough to give you a green raʾs al-ḥānūt."
As drugged as he is, Edgar cannot force himself to keep a straight face. He blinks stupidly. "Ras El- I beg your pardon?"
“It’s a mock name, it doesn’t matter,” the mercenary shakes his head impatiently. “Are you familiar with the Spanish fly?”
Lytta vesicatoria. So, cantharidin. Not a real aphrodisiac but toxin. He feels his cheek muscles tense in disgusted grimace. He would think Spanish fly is an anachronism these days, but clearly there are people foolish and stupid enough to keep using it.
Edgar's head is going to combust.
He nods, still disgusted. “You mean it’s terpenoid cantharidin.”
“Yeah, that’s the thing. It’s a powder of poisonous beetles and some other stuff," agrees Naib. "You noticed that bitter powder underneath the saccharine taste?”
Despite his greatest wishes, he does not think the mercenary lies. Cantharidin would explain the hotness of his body and the tension in his muscles. The fact he's so hard, there is no blood left in his head, although there is no trace of desire to be found in his whole being. All he feels is tiredness, repulsion, and sorrow over the fact that this particular poison is also not unfamiliar to him. However, this is the first time he has encountered someone inventive enough to mix the toxin with sedatives. How resourceful and inconceivably evil. How hopeless.
The world has started spinning again, and Edgar blinks as he tries to keep his gaze straight. Finally, he grimaces, only his long-time trained self-control preventing him from spitting like a feral animal.
“I can deal with aphrodisiacs,” he says, a bit too quickly. The repressed panic is growing stronger every second as he tries to keep his body under control.
“Not this shit," Naib says and his voice is so dry it sounds mournful. "They mix it with chloral and more toxins, that’s why it’s named as spice.”
“Who in their right mind would mix cantharidin with fucking anaesthetics?”
“It’s to knock you off but also make you pliant. You’ll have no idea what happened after you wake up, but only if you wake up. Separately, these things are dangerous. Together they are deadly.”
Yes, Edgar already knew that. Hell, mixing cantharidin and sedatives is madness, but anaesthetics mean basically an assassination attempt. This is truly a bad dream. He has heard about kidnappings in opium dens and taverns, or whatever the Orientals were running these days, but he assumed most of these rumours were just attempts to discredit immigrant businesses. On the other hand, what would be the point of creating such a lethal mixture of drugs other than to discreetly put someone on a boat and ship them off to a Shanghai brothel. Fucking crimps, fucking orientals, fucking Royal Navy's fucked up economic that led them to this point.
He frowns at Naib who is still talking, excessively gesticulating his one hand to compensate for his lack of eloquence.
"The issue is that beetle stuff. It damages your intestines and urinary tract, then spreads to your kidneys and causes organ failure. Your heart won't last. While you'll be writhing in agony for 4 hours with a full mast boner, your heart will be slowly dying of exhaustion," Naib continues, clearly concerned and Edgar realises that he has never heard Naib speak at such length. It doesn't add much to his joy. In fact, it's annoying beyond comprehension.
"Fine," he says and tries to pull the door close again. "I suppose I have some work to do then, now if you excuse me-"
Mostly he wishes the man would finally fuck off, but clearly Naib has no intention to leave him to his unfortunate fate of an early evening masturbation.
“But you will fall asleep before you get the toxins out of your body!" objects Naib.
He continues his patronising monologue, scolding as well as pontificating, although it might just be his way of speech. Despite the fact his accent is barely noticeable, he speaks slowly, considering each world, which makes him sound as if there was an angry edge to his words. Perhaps there is. Edgar's mind has every right to be clouded and it does not help that the topic makes him feel particularly uncomfortable.
“You can’t sleep it off because it'll cause swelling of every mucosa you have," the man continues as if he didn’t hear Edgar at all or didn't understand how end of a conversation sounds. "They will bloat like a balloon and then tear your body from inside. You’ll bleed into your guts, but by then the chloral makes you dull to the pain, so you won’t even wake up to see there is blood pouring from all your orifices. You need help. Of someone. To get it out of your body.”
And that's all the proof Edgar needs. Althought the shadow that forms under the mercenary's brows genuinely looks like a concern, Edgar is not so foolish to believe that anyone's care for him could be sincere.
"Stop it." He realises that he doesn't want to hear whatever the man has to say. Whatever it is. Gathering his last strength, he exhales and rests his head on the doorframe and massages his eyes. "I’m not interested in your help. Actually, your lies give me a headache. Go, before I lose my patience and use this very door to cut off your arm."
If Naib's lips could get any tighter, they would transcend the border of nonexistence, but at least he lets go of the door.
“Edgar, this shit is positively lethal if you don’t fuck it out. You will piss blood in two hours.” he presses and Edgar wouldn't ever think Naib to be such a good actor, but well, one's always learning.
“I hope you’ll forgive me,” he mutters through his teeth and hopes the gods will appreciate his patience, because his headache is getting ridiculous, and he'd swear he stopped breathing about ten minutes ago. “But I have no reason to believe a single word you say.”
“I have no intention of lying to you,” Naib states, like it's the most obvious thing in the world. “Fuck, I wish I could tell you jerk it off, but since someone cared to get you this shit, you’ll get knocked out before you manage to empty yourself.”
“You drank it too,” Edgar reminds him, almost laughing at the absurdity of the situation.
Trying to talk himself out of molestation, because his self-appointed saviour is a bit too eager to be helpful, is surely new even for him. If anything, he must admit that the man has solid endurance. Most men would try to simply bend Edgar over instead of fabricating complex lies, but then, Naib is not the one here with an aching erection.
“I barely dipped my tongue in it and spat it back. Such a small dose can’t do shit, but I can tell that you got a portion that could make horny, not just an abbess, but a whole nunnery.”
He sounds ridiculously calm, and it pisses Edgar off. He shakes his head as much as he can with his temple still pressed into the doorframe.
"I don't believe you," he spits out with as much force as he can manage in his state. He feels a bit of regret that the wood he is pressing his forehead on does not provide the comfortable coolness anymore. It is much more difficult to think when there is no escape from unnatural overheating.
“Listen," the mercenary presses, and he makes a point of looking straight into Edgar's eyes. "It starts with a skin irritation. It burns your body like boiling oil and forces water out of your pores. It gets so bad that you can get blisters.”
“Most aphrodisiacs have these effects.”
This time, Naib really groans in frustration. “I know I’m not the most reliable person in this manor, but I’m not making this up. Hell, if I didn’t realise which shit they gave you, I’d probably leave you to your fate, really.”
How comforting to know that he is generally liked enough for a mercenary to refuse to help him even when he offers money. Edgar can no longer hold back a cynical snort anymore.
“All I have to do is to fuck someone then?” He leaves You? unsaid, but he makes sure that Naib hears it.
“That thing won’t let your dick go soft until it's out of your body completely,” replies the veteran evasively and Edgar snorts.
"Do you think you are doing me a service, then?" he says, standing as steadily as his spinning head allows him. Just pretend, he tells himself. He is very good at pretending, after all, that he learned from the best. "Do you believe if you leave me, I will have to fuck someone else and they would not be as forgiving as you? Do you think you are here to save me?"
To his surprise, the mercenary does not even blink. “Should I fetch someone?”
“What?”
“Is there anyone you trust with this? I can bring them to you.” Naib shrugs, as unbothered as a man can be. "I think we have a misunderstanding here. You don’t need me to do this and I couldn't care less. Just tell me a name and my job ends with them in this room.”
Edgar stares in disbelief like a formerly blind man who sees the Sun for the first time. He has to admit that he did not expect that. Could it be that the mercenary genuinely wants to help him?
“You would- I assumed-“
More out of weariness than sentiment, he admits for a moment the possibility that the mercenary is telling the truth. Undoubtedly, he did not lie about cantharidin; Edgar can say so from the state he has been in for half an hour now. He is also certain that the drug was mixed with some sedative, so that it clears out. Most importantly, from the start he sensed something was wrong. More wrong than all the times he has gone through before.
Although he is generally familiar with the effects of aphrodisiacs and sedatives, he could tell this time it’s something much stronger, although he simply assumed that the dose was prepared by an amateur, who had never done this before. Some idiot that thought to give him a dosage suitable for a horse and not a man. But then again, there were no anxious faces of first-time perpetrators around the room, and he checked twice, so that leaves him with the last option.
“Even if there was such a drug,” he says carefully, suddenly uncertain, “why would you know so much about it?”
He didn’t expect to get under the mercenary’s skin at this point, since all his previous attempts have been worthless, but this time the mercenary seems genuinely taken back. He nervously steps over a few times, like a schoolboy who has just been caught copying. And here, Edgar almost believed that the man has no ulterior motives.
“It doesn’t matter,” he grunts, and Edgar immediately sobers.
“Ah?” The arrogant pitch of his voice had disappeared before due to his nausea, but he feels comfortable having it back. It makes him feel more like a human being instead of a helpless, half-dead thing the drug forces him to be. He straightens his posture and does what he can do the best. He spits venom. “Is there more to the story after all?”
Unfortunately, he does not get much further before Naib quickly raises both of his hands, to Edgar's surprise, defensively. He doesn't think he's capable of inspiring anything remotely resembling fear in the mercenary, but the look Naib gives him certainly is something like respect at least. It is the first thing this entire evening that truly feels good.
“Listen, I don’t- I’ve seen the same shit used for interrogations,” Naib says and it’s clear he’s uncomfortable. Extremely so. “It’s a nasty stuff, I-“
So it is an oriental thing; How could Edgar ever doubt that. Nobody in their right mind would mix fucking anesthetics and cantharidin. He wants to take back what he said about dandy asshole noblemen. They were pretentious, cowardly cunts, but at least they weren’t batshit insane as these people.
The mercenary trails off looking for words, but Edgar has already found them for him. There are not many ways an interrogation with a lethal aphrodisiac can go, and if Naib participated only in a single one, it makes this whole thing they have going here much more absurd.
"Disgusting," he says before he can stop himself.
A series of very imaginative insults comes up in his mind. He could taunt Naib whether he was the one doing the fucking or not. Or ask if some war spoils were a bit too juicy to be left alone, how many strikes he has to become an expert in this matter, what amount of money will make a man a rapist, but to be honest, he does not actually want him to elaborate on this one.
“Let’s just leave it for now,” Naib finishes, trying to avoid more questions and in any different situation it could really be one of not many cases when Edgar Valden would be willing to ignore the huge and stinky elephant in the room, because acknowledging it could prove to be way more destructive than he can handle. But then he takes personal pleasure in destroying men at any cost. And he is the drugged one here.
"Did they beg you?" he asks, knowing the grimace on his face must be as ugly as the thought itself.
He knows when to hit the nail on the head. Naib's response is telling enough. Just like that, he is sure that he was not wrong assuming Naib’s role in these interrogations. The obvious shame in the dark eyes of the mercenary is the only reason why Edgar does not actually amputate his arm with the door. Although they are on the opposite side of the scales here, their experiences might not differ that much. But the day never comes when Edgar misses an opportunity to beat a dead horse. Not if the horse is a bastard with a confirmed rape on his record.
The look the mercenary gives him is at least as sharp as the knife at his waist. “Edgar. This is not a game.”
To his credit he keeps his voice level so effortlessly it occurs to Edgar that he might have been trained in negotiations too. Yet, he sounds dangerous. Shit, he is dangerous. Maybe it’s another symptom of being poisoned by that thing, or perhaps it’s just weariness overcoming him, but Edgar doesn’t feel endangered at all. Just like that, all fear he felt a minute ago is gone, replaced by something that is objectively a need for self-destruction. He snorts.
"So they did beg you," he digs, enjoying the way colour dissapears from Naib's face. He takes a step closer to the mercenary and, yes, it is obvious now. He’s a bit taller than Naib. He stares directly into his eyes, pleased when the soldier does not turn away. "Did it get you hard when they cried? Or do you need them asking for it because then you can pretend you are not a filthy rapist scu-"
There is a sharp breath and clench of the arm muscle and Edgar knows the blow is coming. He doesn't need to wait for Naib to raise his hand. He made his remarks with the full expectation of a violent response, ready to take it, because although he might look fragile, he can take violence. It is sharp and quick, and it heals much better than this slow, sleazy pretence, he’s so tired of. One would say he wants it even. Certainly asks for it.
He resignedly turns his face to the incoming punch, hoping that the awkward angle in which they stand reduces the impact of Naib’s fist, although he doubts it would do much good if the mercenary wanted to use his full power. Well, even teeth can be bought, he thinks bitterly as he waits for the blow to come, but it never happens.
A heartbeat passes. Then two.
When he looks back with a silent question, there is still darkness in Naib’s eyes. His face is torn between an offended snarl and telling embarrassment, but his voice is as calm as ever. Perhaps with a faint hint of disapproval. Astounding self-control.
"You are way too nasty for your own good,” he says, each word emphasized as if it stands for its own judgment.
Edgar mentally rolls his eyes. And yet they say that gurkhas cannot be cowards. He knows for sure Naib wants to punch him. He sees how the mercenary’s jaw stiffens in anger, but then lingers to control it, to prevent releasing all that spite. He even refrains from smashing the door frame this time, he just squeezes it so hard that it is a wonder splinters do not fly out of the wood. The power of his grip is fairly impressive, Edgar has to admit, but it is pathetic, nonetheless. It seems like the mercenary really doesn't want to hurt him. Perhaps he is afraid he won't get his money, but he could very well just punch those out of Edgar too.
Weird.
“If you need to know,” the mercenary says slowly, finally collecting himself enough to talk. Perhaps he had reached some decision, because his voice is dark, but Edgar is a bit too tired to feel sorry for him, “It hardly mattered how thought the guy was. By the time they started piss blood everyone begged us to fuck them. But for most of them it was already too late. Is that what you wanted?”
What you wanted, as in answer to his question. Not what you want, like a threat, a promise of what will happen, if Edgar won’t let Naib to feed him the precious antidote that is by chance in his sperm. Shame, his state is too far by now to make another bitter joke.
“Fine,” he replies, reaching his own limits there. It is too much for him to think about at the moment. His head hurts. His whole body aches. And if Naib is telling the truth, he has no time left. “It shouldn’t be so difficult then.” When confusion runs through Naib’s face, he adds, “What is one more after all?”
The key to mercilessness is to take one’s own insecurities and turn them to their enemies. Edgar had learned it slower than he would like to. There was no mysterious forth seeing or magic in verbally destroying the opposition. It was just another polished lie, exploiting the fact that all humans deep inside share the same fears. Perhaps with alterations. He supposes none of them has anything to lose.
"I just wanted to know the quality of the services I am going to receive. But I suppose, we will see soon enough."
With a sigh, he kicks the door open. It’s as much of an invitation as it gets. The mercenary seems to hesitate.
"Edgar.” His name on the mercenary’s tongue is quiet. “If you want anyone else to be with you, just tell me and I will get them. Or I can get you to their room, I don't care."
He wonders if this is pure alibism on Naib's part or if he genuinely isn’t interested. It is a ridiculous thought. Edgar met men who claimed to be into women, and they still railed him as everyone else. Worse so. And he knew for sure Naib is not strange to sticking it up to guys. Being picky wasn’t a luxury given to Lascars- or Nepalis, whatever, it’s not like Edgar particularly cared for the terminology of Naib’s origin.
“There is no one I can trust,” he admits, allowing himself to be uncharacteristically vulnerable for a moment. Not sure why. The drug is making him stupid. “Come.”