A Gamer's Guide 412 (Patreon)

When Lett woke up, stretching carefully in the bed he’d been provided, the party was still going on outside. They weren’t singing quite as loudly as they had been last night, but he could still hear people cheering and talking, even though it was dark outside the window.

Still, darkness or no, Lett was awake, and that wouldn’t change for many, many hours. Ever since he was a kid, he’d had a knack for getting up at the same time every morning. Eight on the dot, Father had used to tell him. Never earlier, never later. Though Father wasn’t around anymore, Lett still felt a certain need to live up to what he’d thought of him. And so, stomach heavy with all the delicious food he’d eaten the night before (who knew you could cook such amazing things with such small creatures?), he slipped out of bed, wincing a little at how cold the stone floor was beneath his bare feet. 

It was okay, though. He wasn’t a child anymore. In only a few months, he’d be fourteen years of age: a full adult. Being upset over cold floors was beneath him. 

And so, once he’d put the covers back on the bed, he let his eyes wash over the room. It was massive, really, a gratuitous size for something meant only to be slept in. Sure, some ancient kings he’d read about were arrogant enough to hold audiences in their bedrooms, but to do such a thing in this day and age… It would’ve been barbaric. 

Nevertheless, the late archjudge had clearly had some sort of obsession with decorating the room in the most gaudy way possible, filling the walls with family portraits, all the frames gilded, and painting a mural of the first apostle of Pain’s ascension on the roof. Disturbingly enough, even though the ascension in question occurred well over a thousand years ago, the clothes used for the involved members were clearly from the imperial rejuvenation era, only two hundred years back. 

The flagrant anachronism on display brought a deep frown to Lett’s face, and if only to keep himself from making a hoard out of a coin, he turned towards the window. It would be a while before the sun rose, but the fresh air would still do him good.

Taking care to keep himself quiet, Lett stepped through the room, tracing a big arch around the spot on the floor where Garath slept, splayed out like a squashed tarantula. Really, it was quite impressive that he’d fallen asleep in such a place, especially so since the mattress he was supposed to use was five meters to his left, pushed half-way below Kitty’s bed. 

If he’d rather sleep on his bottles, who am I to stop him? Lett mused to himself, making sure not to kick the aforementioned bottles as he walked past him. There were quite a lot of them. Lett would have been more disdainful of the bothersome things if they hadn’t allowed Garath to form a friendship. Maybe even a brothership. 

As Lett crossed his arms along the ledge of the window, he allowed a little smile to grace his lips. Below, the city laid splayed out before him, in all its glory. Unfortunately, there were no churches to spot, but that didn’t mean it was empty of marvels. The lawhouse was a gorgeous building, sat in the very centre of the city, to the west of the river that bisected the town square. Surrounded by massive trees that shadowed the buildings around it, it was a very obvious sight. Then, the prison, also to the west of the river, large and imposing, with its moat and rugged stone walls. It was even bigger than the archjudge’s castle. 

Full of rats, now, Lett thought, still remembering the rats, the rats, the rats. The way Garath’s opponents, colossal and terrifying and exhilarating, had all broken apart into clusters of rats, little dustbunnies in Garath’s grip. And somehow, he had known. There hadn’t even really been any question in his mind, that it had been Kitty’s merit. 

Smiling gently, Lett’s gaze continued through the city, the dawning sun painting crisp outlines around the buildings. Stone foundations, wooden roofs, crossbeams and plaster. Even the four bridges crossing the river, running like stitches through the city, were filled with rows of houses. He didn’t know what the river was called. He’d have to ask someone, once everyone else woke up.

That said, now that the sun was beginning to peek out, the city really was becoming a beautiful sight. It was massive, really. Easily the biggest city he’d ever seen. It seemed to go on forever and ever, even spilling outside the city walls. 

Hopal, he thought to himself. Strange name they’d chosen, but not wrong. 

Looking at the new day dawning over Hopal, Lett felt a sudden need to wake up Kitty, to let him see what a beautiful city he’d saved. Sure, he had never been too fond of early mornings, but as long as he had the option to immediately return to bed, Lett couldn’t see his friend disagreeing with the prospect. 

Invigorated by the mental image of Kitty sighing over the beauty of his city, Lett turned away from the window and padded over to the bed that stood in the middle of the room, walking softly so as to not wake Garath, until he stood right next to Kitty. The human had apparently cocooned himself completely in his covers, covering up his entire form, the only proof that it was even him being that he had put his pink glasses aside on the nightstand. 

“Kitty?” Lett said, very softly. Reaching out, he put a hand on where he assumed Kitty’s shoulder would be, pushing gently. “Kitty, wake up, the sunrise…”

A bit of the blanket slipped off, and now Lett could see who was lying there.

It wasn’t Kitty. 

In a single instant, Lett’s body went cold. Hand still on the shoulder, body unwilling to move, Lett could do nothing to tear his eyes away from the improbable, impossible reality of who exactly was occupying the bed in front of him.

“F—Father?” Lett said, his breath stuck in his throat like a big ripe pirun. 

But Father didn’t move. Father laid there, in the bed, wrapped in blankets, breathing softly, his comically long mane tangled all around him, his face still so wrinkled, still wrinkled in a funny half-style, where his right side was more wrinkled than the left, because he’d spent so much time sitting at his desk, reading, with only one side of his face facing the window. Worse, even worse, when he breathed, when he snored, he did that thing he always did—where every third snore would be a little half-snore, a strange almost whistling inhale, that made it sound like he’d start choking, but he never did. 

It was Father. It was absolutely Father. There was no question about it.

A shiver crossed Lett’s back. 

But it can’t be Father. I killed Father. Father’s dead. He’s dead, and even though Kitty always says I shouldn’t blame myself, it’s my fault. My hands that killed him. 

The Father on the bed, insulting the very concept of logic, simply turned over, muttering nonsense like he had so many times before, eyelids twitching. 

It has to be an illusion, Lett thought, cleverly. A mere trick. The kind that dispels if you get too close. You can’t smell illusions—that’s the secret. The smell is never right.

Lett stepped closer. The floor felt colder than ever. His whole body was covered in goosebumps but all he could think about was getting closer, just a little closer. Until his face was hovering right above Father’s, and he could feel Father’s warm breath against his nose, and he could smell him. He could smell Father, and Father smelled like home. Like old books and warm stones and cheap dryweed and varnished wood and him. 

But it had to be a trick. Somehow, it had to be a trick. It couldn’t be true. It simply couldn’t. It wasn’t possible.

Heart beating through his chest, thumping like the march of a dozen dragons, Lett reached out, and brushed the tips of his fingers against Father’s big drake’s nose.

He felt it. He felt the nose, and the warmth of Father’s skin. Even when he touched his big droopy ears, soft and dry, and his unwashed tangled mane, and the—

Father’s eyes opened. Lett felt his heart stop. 

“Lett?” Father said, in his own accent, tainted by his pilgrimage to the sandy lands and his missionary work in the east. “What’s going on? It’s kind of early in the morning, and…”

Lett stumbled back, his foot accidentally stepping on a discarded bottle, sending him flying to the floor, landing on his behind. Breath burning through his throat, heart once more reaching a deafening loudness as it banged in his ears, Lett stared up, in horror and amazement, as Father pushed himself off the bed, looking down at Lett with worry and care. 

“Oh, my gosh, are you okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost!” Father said, which wasn’t a very Father-like thing to say, but that didn’t matter. Nothing mattered anymore. His mind was crammed full of buzzing insects and his whole body trembled but all he could think about was how Father’s alive. 

Lett staggered to his feet, accidentally kicking another bottle into a roll. It bumped into Garath’s head, who grunted a little, but what did that matter? Father’s alive! Any doubts and reservations Lett might have held were ripped wholesale from his chest with that one, jubilant phrase: Father’s alive! Hope be praised, Father’s alive! 

And before he could let any ounce of realism or logic squash that all-consuming hope, Lett flew across the room, arms wide, leaping on top of Father and catching him in a crushing embrace. “Oh, oh, Gods, Father,” Lett moaned into Father’s chest, feeling the tears—tears he’d never allowed himself to shed—finally reach his eyes. “I missed you so much, oh, Gods, Hope be praised,” he said, pressing himself into Father with enough force to meld with him.

“I, uh…” Father was saying, but what did it matter? “It’s, um, nice to see you too, Lett? I didn’t think you saw me as a father figure—more like a renegade older brother—but… Hey, if that’s how you need me, then…” It didn’t matter, because Father’s arms still folded across Lett’s back, warm and gentle and exactly like how he remembered them. “I missed you too, son.”

And Lett wailed and cried and screamed until he was pretty sure his lungs would go out, and still, Father held him, tightly, warmly, always smelling of old books and warm stone. 

Over on the floor, perhaps roused by the sound of a young man screaming in the morning, Garath roused, grunting as he pulled his limbs together. Not that it mattered much to Lett. He had Father. Everything else was secondary.

“Lett?” Garath said, standing up, rubbing his head. “Lett, is everything—”

And then he saw them. The two of them on the bed, hugging, crying, everything. He saw it.

Over Father’s shoulder, Lett saw Garath’s face twist in surprise, horror, and confusion, and then he didn’t see anything else, because in a flash of moment so quick it might as well have been instantaneous, Lett was on the floor, and Garath stood protectively in front of him, wings splayed out and one arm lifting Father by the throat. 

“HOW ARE YOU HERE?!” Garath roared at Father, dangling helplessly. “TELL ME HOW THIS HAPPENED, FERRUEM!”

But Father wasn’t saying anything. He was hanging, and his face was confused, but not afraid. Not even slightly afraid. 

His heavy brows furrowing, Father let his gaze move smoothly from Garath to Lett. 

“Hm. I think something strange might be happening.”