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If anyone were to ask him, Ludwig could not say what draws him to the lake at Byrgenwerth. He has no fondness for it, does not care for the way it lies in wait with its waters undisturbed by the wind, and yet he finds himself at it regardless. The shores where he sits are devoid of the students whose distant chatter provides a sense of company, and yet somehow, he cannot shake the feeling that he is being watched.
The days here have been long as of late, filled with tension that has begun to grate on his already fraying nerves. Gehrman and Maria have been scarce since returning from the Hamlet, and Laurence has begun to haunt the college grounds like some sort of vengeful spectre. Sighting him is nearly as rare as finding Maria, and what few interactions they’ve had in the past weeks have been short and polite to the point of being nearly impersonable.
In short, he’s been alone for nearly a month now, and he has never been fond of loneliness. His thoughts cloud far too easily with the dismal reality of his past and the uncertain nature of his future. His mind takes the shape of the catacombs beneath the city, labyrinthine and filled with dangers which he cannot fight and is unlikely to foresee. He cannot escape it, and he often fears it will become his tomb.
Today it is not only his mind which is clouded. Fog hangs over the campus like a funeral shroud, and his fellow students are but faceless shadows moving around him. If the ache at his shoulder is any indication, a storm is coming. The world is holding its breath in anticipation.
This close to the water, Ludwig thinks the stillness might be worse than even the loneliness. It is far too reminiscent of nights spent at home, staring out at the still surface of the lake whilst the rest of his family engaged in discussions of status and how to gain more of it. He had not been invited to such conversations, and neither he nor his family had grieved his lack of involvement. He does not share their cutthroat proclivities, their love for grabbing at power with clawed hands and holding onto it so tightly that they bled. He never has, and doubts he ever will.
In the absence of Gehrman and Maria, the haunting of Laurence, he feels…untethered, somehow. Listless, as if he is once again waiting for something he cannot name while he sits outside the room where everyone decides upon the future. It is an uncomfortable sensation drawn forth from a chapter of his life that he had hoped to be concluded, but he is unsure of how to return it to the past where it belongs.
He is unsure of much, these days.
Ludwig’s fingers dig into the soil where he sits, and his mouth hardens into a firm line. Enough of this. He is far too old to lose hours to pointless contemplation. He has already sparred himself to exhaustion three times this week, but a fourth occurrence will be of no consequence. Better to spend his energy training than to waste it on deliberation.
He pushes himself to his feet and walks, away from the lake and into the fog, and prays his sense of direction will remain true even where his vision fails.
The sparring grounds are all but abandoned when Ludwig arrives, the only other occupants a few regulars who keep to themselves, or else linger long enough to perform maintenance upon their equipment before they too drift away. There is little challenge to be had in fighting against dummies, but even the feeling of striking his sword into burlap and straw is better than the hollow, seeking dread of the lake.
As it often does, the time slips from him in his training. He throws himself into it until his muscles ache, until his forms begin to falter from the sheer exhaustion of relentless labour. His brow and shirt are damp with sweat, and his heart beats in his chest like that of a rabbit who has only barely escaped the hunt.
The weather has not improved in the hours that he’s been lost to his work. The sky has darkened to a desolate grey, and the fog is not lifted. Ludwig trudges into it all the same, grateful that he at least possesses the direction of needing to draw water for a bath. The pathways of the campus are meandering at best, but he has been here long enough that they rarely confuse him as they once did. He knows the path from the sparring grounds to the dorms better than any other, and he is certain he can find his way to his destination.
He has no such fortune. Perhaps it is the fog, or else he has underestimated his own exhaustion. Whatever the reason, he has walked for nearly twenty minutes longer than should be necessary when he is forced to accept that somewhere along the way, his luck has forsaken him. The fog has thickened until he can only see a few feet beyond himself. Overhead, thunder begins to roll like the unsettled footsteps of an angry, shuffling god, and Ludwig curses himself for his overconfidence. The rain may solve the problem of needing a bath, but it will also trap him indoors at the wrong location for hours. It always falls heavy here, coming without pause until the ground is practically a swamp. If he wanders in it blindly, he will be lucky if a twisted ankle is the worst injury he suffers.
He's in the midst of wondering exactly what he should do when a sound pierces across the muted grey of the world around him. High-pitched and shrill, he wonders at first if it is the cry of some injured animal until it quickly descends into an unfamiliar melody. Somewhere, someone is playing a violin. The notes are sharp and keening, somewhere between a scream and a song.
It is simultaneously beautiful and haunting, and the part of Ludwig wise enough to recognise an omen when he sees one whispers that he should not follow the siren’s call. The part of him that has had quite enough of this campus and its unending amounts of mud cares far less about superstition, and this is the part which wins. He listens closely and follows the noise until he finds himself outside a building that he hasn’t visited in nearing a month.
The dorms where Laurence resides with Gehrman and the other elder scholars of Byrgenwerth are nicer than those he personally inhabits. The statues out front are still weathered and the stone façade is equally unforgiving, but the roof is still solid and far less prone to leaking than that of the older dorms. It has been nearly a month since he has seen most of his companions, and he’s had little reason to visit in that time. Still, he glances upward to the second story window where they reside on instinct, as if perhaps he will be lucky enough to catch a glimpse of a ghost.
He's startled to find that he does. The fog obscures him almost entirely, but there is just enough light to make out the familiar figure of Laurence, his red hair tied back as he stares out the window. To Ludwig’s surprise, there is an instrument in his hands, delicate and stringed.
Perhaps he feels him staring. Perhaps it is only chance. Laurence shifts in the window, and suddenly he is staring at Ludwig from above, grey-eyed gaze piercing through the fog with an eerie precision. He pins him with a look, like some dead butterfly frozen eternally in flight within some collector’s case. For a moment, Ludwig does not dare to move.
Laurence appears to study him. Then he nods once, a lone and decisive thing before he turns away, freeing him.
Ludwig lets out a slow breath. The slight acknowledgment is not an invitation by the strictest definition, but Laurence rarely welcomes people openly into his space. It was not a dismissal, and that knowledge alone emboldens Ludwig until he finds himself ascending the stairs to the dorms, following his feet once more through the winding halls until he reaches the room at the end of the hall.
He does not bother with the pretense of knocking. Laurence knows he is there, and for all their intermittent conflicts he has yet to have barred his door intentionally against Ludwig. The handle turns with ease at his touch, and he is relieved to find that despite the distance of the last month, the door remains open.
The room is warm, bathed in the glow of gas lamps and candlelight. In the corner, the heater rattles in a way that is both ominous and familiar. It is a newer fixture, but it breaks more often than it functions, and it often falls to Gehrman to identify and remedy the latest failure. Gehrman shares the room with Laurence and his bedding is disturbed in a way that indicates he has slept here recently, but the man himself is nowhere to be seen.
Across the room, Laurence sits in the windowsill, gazing pensively out of it and not looking up when Ludwig enters. He’s dressed down from his usual garb, wearing only a high collared shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows instead of his scholar’s robes. A violin rests in his lap, and his fingers dance along the neck of it with an almost absent-minded dexterity as he plucks at notes that are not quite the melody Ludwig had heard only minutes before.
In the last month, they have spoken maybe thrice. Ludwig does not know where the sudden distance emerged from, and he finds that he doesn’t care to ask lest he learn of some horrible reason behind it. He remains near the now-closed door and clears his throat, then nods toward the violin. “I was unaware that you played.”
Laurence stops immediately, fingers stilling as if the words have burned him. “I do it rarely, and poorly at that. There are many musicians far better than I, and it has no relevance to my studies.”
Ludwig can hardly say he’s surprised by the reaction. Saddened, perhaps, in a way he cannot explain. But not surprised. “I took no issue with it.”
“Hm. I suppose you are prone to generosity.” Laurence turns at last from the window and fixes Ludwig with another piercing stare, because he has no other kind. “Have you any inclination towards artistry yourself, chevalier?”
Ludwig has little fondness for the title, but Laurence has always been more dramatic than most and Ludwig suspects that this is as close as he can manage to congeniality. He allows the formality and momentarily contemplates the benefits of lying, if only to prevent Laurence from asking him to play something. He eventually resigns himself to honesty instead. “There was… a piano, at my family’s manor, though nobody used it. What I know, I taught myself, but it is…well. I am a swordsman. I lack the delicacy artistry requires.”
It’s more complicated than that, of course. But Ludwig has spent enough time today contemplating the lake that wanted so badly to drown him, and the mother who would have let the water take him. He does not wish to discuss the times that playing the piano, no matter how poorly, had been the only way he’d felt he could make a sound.
If Laurence senses that there is more to the story, he gives no sign of it. Instead, he tilts his head like a bird and looks at him with a raised eyebrow and a sly, teasing smile. “I assume you were out practicing your swordsmanship, then? Or is there another reason for your, ah- rugged appearance?”
Ludwig flushes at the words, suddenly far too aware that he looks disheveled at best. His hair is falling in loose curls from its ribbon, sweat damp at the edges. The first two buttons of his shirt are undone in a way that his mother would call indecent, and dirt lingers on his skin and pants from the lake, from stumbling in the sparring grounds when his footing had been deteriorated by exhaustion. There are bags beneath his eyes from more than a week of sleeping poorly when he sleeps at all. In short, it is obvious that he needs at least a bath and perhaps a draught of laudanum to go with it, but his mind can’t help imagining the other implication. “I wasn’t having a tryst, Laurence. I’ve barely seen another soul all day, until you.”
Laurence has the gall to laugh at him. “It wasn’t an accusation, Ludwig. I doubt you’re even capable of acting in such a manner. You’re far too honourable for that.” Ludwig wishes, desperately, that he could find the smirk on Laurence’s face to be less charming, that he could be less affected by his name in the other man’s mouth. But those thoughts do not belong near the discussion of trysts. In fact, he doesn’t feel they deserve discussing at all.
Laurence’s laughter fades far too quickly, and the silence that follows in its wake is far from welcome. Ludwig has tired of silence lately, and would take nearly anything over it. He will accept more mockery, if only it means that there will be noise. He pulls a rickety chair from a desk and moves it to the center of the room, sitting backwards upon it. “You’ve been gone,” he observes. “Have you been busy?”
“Hm? No.” Laurence’s expression sobers with the question, and Ludwig does not think he imagines the speed with which his eyes return to staring out the window. “Preoccupied is more accurate, I would think. There’s been…a great deal to think about, as of late.” There is a pause, so long that Ludwig begins to doubt that Laurence will continue. But he does, and when he speaks there is an almost forced detachment to his voice. “Have you heard news of what happened at the fishing hamlet?”
Ludwig blinks in confusion at the mention of the hamlet. To his knowledge, there is nothing that happened that merits reporting. Maria and Gehrman had gone with others on behalf of Master Willem, and then they’d returned. Students coming and going upon Willem’s leave has long been a common occurrence, and it has only grown in popularity since the tombs were opened. “I believed it to be research. I’ve not been told otherwise. Is there a concern?”
“It isn’t my story to tell.” Laurence’s expression remains neutral, but his back is straight and his hands are still. It is only because Ludwig has known him for years that he can recognise the infinitesimal signs of the other man’s anger when he sees it. “If you feel the need for inquiries, I recommend you speak to Gehrman before Maria. She has been…changed, by what occurred. I doubt she cares to discuss it.”
“Is that why they’ve been absent? Are they unwell?” A pit begins to form in Ludwig’s stomach. He had thought them tired or busy, perhaps, but he’d not imagined their absence to be the result of some injury. “Do they have need of-?”
“I have given what help they were willing to take,” Laurence interrupts. “They require time. There’s little else we can provide them.”
It is the opposite of comforting. Ludwig doubts comfort was the intention. His mind stirs uncomfortably through a number of possibilities and potential horrors, but when Laurence decides that he will not explain there is rarely any persuading him otherwise. He frowns but does not press for further details. “Maria, Gehrman…You mentioned giving them help. Is that why you’ve been scarce?”
“Among other reasons.” This time, he does not elaborate.
Despite knowing that he will not persuade Laurence to share any truths he isn’t already inclined toward giving, Ludwig tries again. “Your research – has there been a development?”
Laurence tips his chin back with the kind of defiance that Ludwig knows to precede a fight. “I’m leaving Byrgenwerth,” he says instead of answering.
Though it is clear Laurence expects it, Ludwig cannot offer any argument. He would have to comprehend the words he is hearing first, and to understand that he is receiving honesty when he had expected obfuscation. When he doesn’t reply, Laurence’s shoulders slump, his expression losing some of its edge. “I’m leaving,” he says again, more quietly, and his eyes are not so sharp as they were, but they burn like ice instead of fire now. “I can’t stay here any longer.”
There is a pain in Ludwig’s chest, so sharp he has to look down to ensure he isn’t bleeding. His fingers tighten on the back of the chair he’s sitting on until his knuckles are white, and he reminds himself through great force of will that it is pointless to argue with Laurence. He is not seeking opinions. He has said he is leaving, and he will leave. Ludwig knows him too well to have any doubt of that. Instead of asking a foolish question like why, he searches for a more practical inquiry. “When?”
Laurence sighs. “Soon. Next week, perhaps. No later than the month’s end.”
Ludwig can’t quite help the winded noise that escapes him, but he nods as though this is perfectly reasonable. It must be reasonable somehow, at least by Laurence’s often unfathomable sense of logic. “Right.” Laurence opens his mouth as if he means to continue, but Ludwig doesn’t give him a chance. He has to keep going, lest he do something foolish, like give into the urge to walk out and take his chances with the fog. “Are there other institutions in Yharnam?”
Laurence sighs and shakes his head. “I mean to bring the blood and make one of my own.”
Ludwig wishes that he could be surprised. He wishes that he could be angry, that he could summon up enough argument to doubt Laurence’s sanity, to change his mind. But Laurence is as he has always been, and Ludwig knows that he is not enough to stop him. “Master Willem will be furious.”
“I hardly care what Willem thinks.” The words are said evenly, but he knows well that Laurence is far from neutral on the matter. Ludwig watches his hands tighten into fists before he catches himself and sets the violin gently upon the windowsill before harm can come to it. Ludwig does not push for elaboration, but Laurence continues anyway. “Master Willem is beyond reason. He sits upon his rocking chair dreaming at ascension, rotting away without progress. There is so much more we can learn than what can be discerned from the inexplicable whims of a withering old man, and we cannot continue waiting for- We cannot continue as we have.”
It is not an apology. Ludwig is not foolish enough to have expected one, because Laurence is far too intentional in his actions to ever be sorry. It occurs slowly to Ludwig that this might be an explanation, or Laurence’s best attempt at one, but that thought is almost laughable. Laurence does not justify himself to anyone, least of all Ludwig. He is as he is, and he always will be thus.
There has been no mention of company, and that too is unsurprising. Laurence has never been bothered by solitude the way most are. He has never needed anyone beyond himself, and he is not the type for sentiment. Ludwig does not want to ask the question, but he has no other choice. “Do you intend to go alone?”
Laurence does not answer, and that is answer enough. Ludwig presses his forehead to the wooden back of the chair he’s sitting on and lets out a slow breath. In another life, it might have been a prayer for strength or mercy. In this room, it is only air.
Several minutes pass in silence. He’s not sure how long exactly, only that it begins to rain in the interim. The rhythm of the drops against the window is soothing. If he focuses hard enough on it, he can almost believe this conversation to be a terrible dream. Then Laurence walks to the stove and begins to brew tea, and he asks what kind Ludwig would like, and no matter how much he wishes to be somewhere else, he is forced to accept that he is here.
The kettle screams, and Ludwig accepts his tea in silence before walking to the window. Laurence’s violin sits there still, and he does not touch it, instead looking to where the lake rests. He cannot see it for all the fog, but he knows well how the waters swell with a storm. Soon, they will cover the place where he sat earlier. One day, he expects they will swallow him too.
Gehrman does not return to the room, and Ludwig does not ask after him. The storm outside grows ever darker until the rain comes down in slashing sheets and thunder rattles the windowpanes. The silence grows heavier until it is suffocating, but neither of them speak.
After more than an hour, Laurence retrieves his violin from beside Ludwig and returns to the far side of the room where the case is resting. For all his claims of incompetence, there is a surety with which he handles the instrument. With swift, precise movements he runs a polishing cloth along the wood of the body until it gleams. His grip on it is gentle but certain, holding it still as he cleans every crevasse. He handles the bow with a practiced ease as he tightens the strings and runs a block of some kind of resin along them. If he is anything less than confident, Ludwig would not know it from observation.
He's surprised to see Laurence raise the instrument to his shoulder, his thin frame straightening to the posture of the musician he swears he has never been. He’s more surprised still when Laurence begins to play as if Ludwig isn’t sitting in the same room with him, watching his every move.
It’s not a song, not at first. It starts and stops, the notes sometimes low and sweet and sometimes far closer to the clear, high-pitched trill that had drawn him in through the fog. Sometimes he plays for only a few seconds before breaking off with a curse, and other times he’ll make it nearly a minute before doing the same.
Slowly though, so slowly Ludwig barely notices it happening at all, he begins to build momentum. The pauses become fewer and far between until they disappear almost entirely, and Ludwig finds himself watching entranced as Laurence finally settles into his task.
His eyes are closed, and they do not open the entire time that he is playing. Laurence’s mastery of the mechanics of playing are beyond question, his long fingers never pressing a note they do not intend. The sound of strings fills the room until Ludwig can think of little else.
The songs bleed into each other, Laurence barely pausing between them, his form never faltering. One song is high pitched, every clear and desperate note like a challenge to the storm that rages outside. The next one Ludwig recognizes as some bawdy bar tune that he is almost shocked Laurence knows. It gives way with surprising ease into a waltz whose rhythms are as precise as a metronome, Laurence’s foot tapping steadily against the ground as the grey light streams past him through the far window.
It is the last song that catches his attention. Where the others have borne a distinct thread of familiarity, this one is entirely foreign and far more simplistic, though no less beautiful for that fact. It suits the weather outside, slow and deep as the forest that surrounds Byrgenwerth, every note a complement to the heavy fog that had descended before. It slowly loudens, and Ludwig recognises the shift from minor to a major key like light drifting through a darkened sky.
Alongside the music, Laurence’s form is a sight to behold. Though his hands have flittered up and down the violin relentlessly through the other songs, they now remain almost entirely in first position. He shifts fluidly from long, low tones to far higher ones, the bow all but flowing across the strings as his lithe fingers tremble with vibrato on each crystalline note. Though Laurence is turned away from him, Ludwig can see his reflection in the darkened window. For perhaps the first time since he’s known him, the other man looks to be at peace.
Ludwig does not claim to know much of beauty, but in the mix of light and shadow, the echoes of the strings amidst the thunder, he has never seen a more exquisite sight.
The song ends much as it begins, the deep tones of the lowest notes trembling through the air until they fade. A hush settles over the room, and though Laurence does not lower the violin, his bow stills and hovers silent over the strings. In the reflection of the glass, Ludwig sees his eyes open again, a frown returning to his face as he takes in the dismal view outside.
The silence rings even louder after the music ends. The reality which had faded away sneaks in once more, every bit as unforgiving as it was previously. Ludwig feels it like a physical weight upon him – the absence of his friend, the absence of sound. He cannot bear it any longer, and so he breaks it in the only way he knows how. “What was that last song?”
At the window, Laurence hums but does not turn. “I don’t know. I haven’t bothered to name it yet. Perhaps it would be a love song, if I could be bothered with the labours of lyricism.”
“You wrote it,” Ludwig says dumbly, not sure why he’s even surprised. He is surprised to find that he is standing again, having drawn closer to Laurence without realising. “It was beautiful.”
The compliment earns him a snort, soft and derisive. “It’s tolerable now, but hardly as impressive as you think it was. I’ve spent several weeks stumbling through notes until they felt appropriate. You weren’t witness to that part.”
Ludwig has never known Laurence to suffer from humility, and he finds it suits him poorly. “Are you ever satisfied, Laurence? Can you be?”
“No,” he replies with far more honesty than Ludwig expects. “I don’t believe I can.” At long last he lowers the violin, setting it gently upon the windowsill once more. Then he turns to face Ludwig again. “Tell me something, chevalier. Have you ever felt hungry?”
Ludwig blinks at him, certain that he is not speaking about food but unsure of what else he might be referring to. “I don’t understand the question.”
Laurence continues as if he hasn’t heard him. “When I came to Byrgenwerth, I intended to go into medicine. I thought it might be like clockwork, wherein taking something apart would help me learn how to put it back together, to understand the manner in which it functioned. But that isn’t how bodies work. I’m no closer to understanding humanity than I was six years ago, and it gnaws at me like some sickness. I crave understanding. I feel as if I could eat the world raw to obtain it.” His expression is sober, and his eyes fix once more upon Ludwig, intent as ever. “Do you know the feeling of which I speak?”
Ludwig breathes deeply, resisting the urge to close his eyes. He knows, yes, though he is loath to admit it. Hunger has never been something he is permitted. He is the youngest son of a household that cannot admit it is dying. His family has clawed for power for as long as he’s lived, but he has never shared their lust for it. He does not need to be lauded, but he has always hoped to be remembered, to have a purpose beyond the endless obligations that his name brings upon him. But he did not choose the nature of his birth, and he did not choose Byrgenwerth. His path is made by someone who has not asked him his input, and he has never known how to stray from it. “My answer is hardly relevant,” he says, rather than subject himself to the shame of the admission. “Why do you ask?”
“Because the gods don’t hunger. They could never understand the way I imagine you must.” He steps towards him, and Ludwig recognises the expression upon his face now. It is the one he wears when preparing to deliver a lecture, or perhaps an argument.
In another time and place, he thinks he would be able to pull himself from the magnetism of Laurence’s words. In this moment, the room is small and there is nowhere else for him to go. Laurence draws closer until he has to tilt his head back to meet Ludwig’s eyes, then stops. “Our time is ending from the moment it begins, Ludwig. The gods have everything they could want – the certainty of eternity, the knowledge of the cosmos, all the time they could ever desire to become whatever they must. We have an hourglass, and the sand never slows. What impact can a few grains hope to make, trapped within glass?”
There is no answer which Ludwig can give, and surely none which would satisfy Laurence. He is insatiable, and staring at him now calls to mind a memory of the woods near his home, the wolves he had found in traps gnawing desperately at their own legs. There is something wild within the clear grey of Laurence’s eyes, just as unknowable and deadly as the lake behind the manor, the darkness of the forest. It is contained for now, but the chains cannot hold forever.
“So you seek to become timeless,” he surmises, tilting his head to meet Laurence’s gaze midway. “Will you become another Great One upon whose flesh Byrgenwerth can feast?” What will become of me in the wake of your departure? Am I to be left here alone, seeking another path until I find my own grave within the tombs? The questions eat at him, but he does not dare to ask.
Laurence shakes his head. “I have little interest in feeding Byrgenwerth. If ascension is possible, I will achieve it in my own way, upon my own terms, sating no one’s hunger but my own.” He takes a breath as if he is steeling himself, then continues, voice somehow gentler but no less firm for it. “I am going, Ludwig, and I will go alone if I must.”
Ludwig raises an eyebrow at the phrasing. “You seemed to have little interest in companionship when I inquired earlier.”
“I had little interest in answering questions,” Laurence corrects. His mouth tightens into an uncomfortable line, and his gaze lowers until he is staring at Ludwig’s shoulder rather than his face. His brows draw together slightly in the way they always do when he is attempting to puzzle his way through something, but he does not speak again.
Something not unlike frustration swells within Ludwig. Part of knowing Laurence has always involved accepting that he is often needlessly cryptic, that when given the opportunity to speak plain he prefers to speak in riddles. That knowledge does not prevent Ludwig from wishing that just this once, he did not have to attempt to dissect his words in search of the kernel of truth within them.
But wishing has never made it so, and it is no different now. Laurence is within arms’ reach and has yet to move away despite his sudden reticence. Ludwig wants to believe that there is meaning in that, but despite his efforts any sense of clarity continues to elude him. After nearly five minutes, he sighs and stops trying. “If you are considering company, you should ask Gehrman. Maria as well, if you think she could be persuaded. If what transpired at the Hamlet was as horrific as it seems, then they might share your desire to depart this place.” He does not mention that they are his closest friends aside from Laurence, that their departure will tear him to nothing. It is hardly relevant.
He gets no reply. Laurence remains still and silent, lost in contemplation of something Ludwig cannot hope to know as he continues to stare at his shoulder. It makes Ludwig want to shake him, but he is far too strong for that to end in anything other than a dislocated shoulder on the other end. He curbs the urge and turns away.
He barely makes it a single step before Laurence’s hand is on his shoulder. It does not linger, but it stops Ludwig all the same. Laurence does not reach for people, and that he does so now is an event whose significance is beyond question. Behind him, Laurence struggles uncharacteristically to start a sentence. Ludwig waits nonetheless. He thinks he would wait forever, if it was necessary. “I would ask your company, chevalier,” Laurence manages eventually, quietly. “It is only that I fear you will not come.”
The words hit him as solidly as a physical strike. A relief so great it is nearly perverse floods his veins, followed shortly by a sickly sense of doubt. He has a great deal of practise in keeping his emotions from his face, but he does not dare turn around and risk revealing them regardless. He stays exactly where he is and nods once, eyes fixed upon the window. “Why?”
It is not a question he often bothers asking Laurence, because it is not a question Laurence often answers. Lightning breaks the sky outside, dangerously near to the forest. The room feels severed from the rest of the world, as if time is moving on without them. Ludwig breathes deep, and he waits.
More than a minute passes before Laurence continues. “Master Willem surrounds himself with acolytes because he craves no wisdom but his own. He is too afraid of failure to grow closer to knowledge. I will be his protégé no longer, and I do not wish to bring his habits with me. I will need…allies.” It is such a strange phrase on the other man’s tongue, and Ludwig cannot help turning to look at him. He is surprised to find that Laurence is already looking back. “Gehrman and Maria can aid me in research and logistics. That is true. But without people to defend the institution I build, it will never last.”
The rationale is simple enough. The task is well within his capabilities. Ludwig nods, setting his jaw. “You require a swordsman, then. Is that what you would ask of me?”
“No.” Laurence struggles for a moment, then lifts his chin with a familiar defiance. His grey eyes burn, piercing once again. “I will accept you as a swordsman, Ludwig. I would ask you as a friend.”
Ludwig sucks in a breath, unable to quite stop the way it hitches. He has known Laurence for the better half of five years. They have shared countless meals and conversations. They have burnt the midnight oil until it sputtered out and walked every inch of this endless campus beside each other. Still, he has never dared to call what exists between them a friendship, far too afraid that placing such a label upon it would end it entirely. Laurence is not a man prone to connections, and his cards have always remained close to his chest.
And yet here he is, asking Ludwig to accompany him not on a trip across campus, but away from Byrgenwerth entirely. It is the sort of diversion that would make his family furious if they were to learn of it. Ludwig finds that the knowledge does not affect his answer at all. “Then I will go,” he says simply, and reaches for Laurence’s hand.
Laurence takes it, and more surprising still does not let go. He squeezes with more strength than Ludwig would expect to linger in such a slender frame and nods. He does not offer thanks, but Ludwig knows the other man’s gratitude when he sees it. He feels it now where their palms press together, in the space where Laurence does not pull away.
Lightning cracks violently across the sky. The windows rattle again, and the darkening room flashes with white light. It illuminates Laurence’s eyes until they are electric, casts shadows along his face. Ludwig does not know where this path will lead them, only that in this room they are alone, and the fathomless dark of Byrgenwerth’s lake cannot touch them now.
“This rain shows no signs of passing,” Laurence murmurs, looking out the window and past it, ever outward beyond the walls which contain him. He glances back at Ludwig, and the corner of his mouth tilts slyly upward. “I may practise more while its falling still conceals the sound.”
The warmth in Ludwig’s chest spreads, and he nods. “I would not be troubled by it,” he says, and though he is forced to release Laurence’s hand he is not haunted by its absence the way he might have been before. He watches him cross the room and settle the violin against his shoulder, that same peaceful expression descending upon him as it had before as he begins to play again without hesitation, another new song to rival the storm.
Ludwig watches and waits, and does not worry for what will come.