(or: How Two Idiots Became My Problem)
Entry 1: On Therion Duskbane
Therion is the human equivalent of a lit firework shoved in your pocket – dangerous, unpredictable, and somehow my responsibility now.
The bastard has the survival instincts of a drunk moth near a lantern. I've seen him pick fights with city guards twice his size, steal from Syndicate enforcers just to prove he could, and teleport into solid objects "for research." Yesterday I caught him trying to phase his hand through a wall to steal pies from the bakery next door. When I asked what would happen if he got stuck, he just grinned and said, "Then you'll have to come up with a creative way to extract me."
I should hate him.
But.
There's this thing he does when he thinks no one's looking – after a bad teleport, when he's shaking apart at the seams, he'll press his hands flat against the nearest solid surface like he's reassuring himself the world still exists. And when he thinks he's alone, he hums this tuneless little melody under his breath, like a child trying to comfort themselves in the dark.
(Not that I'd ever tell him I notice. He'd phase himself into the ocean out of sheer embarrassment.)
Entry 2: On Ardyn Veyther
Ardyn is a tragedy wrapped in too many layers and topped with terrible self-preservation instincts.
The idiot apologizes to door frames when he bumps into them. He once tried to politely negotiate with a mugger ("Perhaps you'd consider taking only half my coin?"). And don't get me started on the way he treats his own deteriorating condition like some minor inconvenience rather than the ticking time bomb it is.
But.
There's steel under all that frost. I've seen him stand between Therion and a Syndicate blade without flinching. Watched him spend sleepless nights researching aetheric theory, not for his own sake, but to find some way to stabilize Therion's worsening condition. And when he thinks no one's listening, he whispers to the Obelisk like it's an old friend, bargaining with whatever gods will listen to take me instead.
(If I ever find those gods, I'll stab them.)
Entry 3: On Why I Keep Them
They're disasters. They're mine.
Therion, who steals my last sugar candy only to slip it back into my pocket when he thinks I'm not looking. Ardyn, who folds my abandoned cloak with absurd care every single time, like it's something precious rather than just another thing I've discarded.
They drive me mad. They'd follow me into hell.
(And they have. Several times.)
I don't know when they stopped being burdens and started being mine, but somewhere between Therion's stupid grins and Ardyn's quiet steadfastness, I realized:
If the world wants them, it'll have to go through me.
And my knife.
(Mostly my knife.)