Chapter Text
You're not some sentimental sap, not when you have better things to think about. But you saw a kid with a purple scarf in the clifflands a year – almost down to the day, but who's counting? – after kicking your old partner off a cliff.
A part of you – a small, weak part – felt some nostalgia at the sight, as his sharp eyes drift to passerby's pockets, judging how much they weigh. You see how his fingers twitch, as if itching to grab something from someone. You're not sentimental, but you want to recruit the kid for some old reminiscence, and what's the point of this power if you can't do what you want with it?
After getting closer, it’s obvious the kid’s remarkable resemblance doesn’t stop there. He’s a good thief, with sticky fingers that act faster and quieter than poison. He's eager to please and easy to convince that you’re on his side – you just say a few sweet words and he'll do anything for you. And, well, if you have to teach him a few lessons? He's a quick learner, just like he was, especially quick when pain is involved.
One day, you ask him to cover his hair; it's been getting annoying to see. It’s jarring to see dark brown where you expect stark white, and the irritation has been getting to you, making it hard to sleep. The wrong name drifts to your tongue when you ask him to cover you because all your brain registers is purple, and when you're in a bind you sometimes forget that you threw your old partner off a cliff. It’s not like you know why it happens, why your brain confuses a new kid for an old one. It's not like he matters, not when he's old news and you’re stronger than that, now and then and always.
Maybe if you don't see the kid's hair, it'll help? You don't know, but you're sure that it could probably fix the problem, and your word is law around here. But when he asks for a reason you all you can see is the red of the cliff you threw him off of. How dare he? How dare he question you? Doesn't he know that you know best by now? He is beneath you; nothing but an ant you could crush underneath your boot, and he should know this like he knows how to breathe.
Now everything in your mind is tangled – suddenly, this kid in front of you is the old one, and all you can think of is how that went to sh*t. Questions are bad, because questions mean insubordination. This kid's going to betray you too, just like the last one did, you just know it. Suddenly you're wishing that you'd stayed in Quarrycrest just a bit longer, because maybe then you could do away with this kid the same as you did the last.
You're wailing on him, your sword slashing wildly into him. Blood trickles out of him like it’s nothing, and the cuts cover his body in rough red lines. A single tear forces itself out of his right eye and that feels wrong for a reason you tell yourself you can’t place.
You only start to stop attacking when he starts begging, pleading, saying he'll do anything for you, figure out a way to make everything right. You pull back slowly, sheathing your weapon.
Good. He should feel bad. Submission is the only way this partnership can work, and you tell him as much. He nods, trying to cover his face with his scarf to hide the tears. Another pang of nostalgia hits you, but you ignore it. You're above sentimentality, you're too good a tea leaf for something as silly as the past to affect you, not when you have better things to think about.
The next day, when you see the kid, his hair is covered with a clever fold of his scarf that only serves to make the style similar to the old kid’s. But you ignore it, because what does it matter? What does it matter that another kid you’ve used was so similar? He's dead, anyway, you killed him because he didn't matter, so what's it matter that this kid uses knives in such a familiar way? You haven't gone soft, so you push aside every reminder of that kid and focus on the current objective you've set for yourself – obtaining all the dragonstones.
With the power and glory you'd get from those glorious stones, you could forget everything else in your life and just swim in riches and power for the rest of your days. You wouldn't have to so much as look at the color purple again if it displeases you. And, well, if a job requiring as much preparation as this one is a distraction from your traitorous thoughts of an old partner, nobody has to know.
So when he comes up to you one day, alive, demanding to know what you want with the dragonstones, you do what you’ve always done best – you hurt him. Your ruthless words make him flinch back and you think good. He should be f*cking hurt by you, it was all his fault everything went to sh*t. It was his fault because he asked too many questions and didn’t follow your lead and couldn’t be happy as it all was.
“Does my betrayal still haunt you?” You ask, as if you don’t know the answer. He always was soft, pathetically so, to the point where he couldn’t even predict your betrayal, so you’re not surprised when he flinches away from your words.
When your subordinate offers to fight him for you, you know he’s going to die. You know that kid you used to be partners with will come back, miraculously alive against all odds, and you will have to fight him. You know it won’t be easy, because now he knows he’s fighting an enemy, and for all the sh*t you give him about being sentimental, the kid’s good with a knife.
So you run. You have another kid die for your sins, and you can’t help but feel a bit of relief. At least this time the blood isn’t on your own hands, ruining your brand new gloves.
