Chapter 58:Past Acquaintance

Eric and Alaric lay side by side with Alaric's head resting against the wall, his iron ring glinting faintly. Eric, however, stared at the ceiling, silent as ever, his expression unreadable. The heavy air between them was only broken by the distant echo of footsteps—guards approaching.

The metallic clank of the door unlocking pulled Alaric from his daze. Two guards stepped in, their faces hardened and indifferent, as if this was just another routine visit. Neither spoke as they moved closer both gripping a baton.

Eric's body tensed, his breathing slowing to an almost imperceptible rhythm. Alaric noticed it immediately. He opened his mouth to say something, but before a word could form, Eric moved.

With the speed of a predator, Eric lunged at the first guard, his hands wrapping around the man's throat before he could react. The batin being thrown across the floor. The second guard swung his baton, but Eric twisted the first guard's body, using him as a shield. The baton connected with the man's ribs, eliciting a sharp cry, but Eric didn't flinch.

In one fluid motion, Eric snapped the first guard's neck with a sickening crack and dropped the lifeless body to the ground.

Alaric watched uninterested playing with a piece of his hair .

The second guard backed away, but Eric was relentless. He was on him in an instant, his fist colliding with the guard's jaw, sending him sprawling against the wall. Eric grabbed the baton from the guard's trembling hands and struck him across the face, again and again, until his movements were more instinct than purpose.

"Eric" Alaric's voice cut through the chaos. Eric froze mid-swing, the baton raised high. His chest heaved as he slowly turned to look at Alaric.

The silence was deafening, broken only by the gurgling breath of the barely conscious guard. Eric dropped the baton, letting it clatter to the ground, and stepped back, his hands slick with blood.

Alaric rose to his feet slowly, stretching as though the carnage before him was nothing more than a mild inconvenience. His iron ring glinted faintly in the dim light as he rolled his neck, a soft crack breaking the silence. He turned to Eric, his face calm but with a flicker of something darker in his eyes.

"It's pointless, you know," Alaric said with a faint smirk, brushing dust from his sleeves. "More of them will come. They always do."

Eric's jaw tightened, his piercing blue eyes narrowing at Alaric's nonchalant tone. His fists curled, still sticky with blood, and he took a step toward him. Before he could respond, heavy footsteps echoed down the corridor.

"Speaking of," Alaric muttered under his breath.

The door swung open with a metallic groan, and three more guards entered, their expressions grim and determined. They barely spared a glance at their fallen comrades before their eyes locked onto Alaric and Eric.

"Hands out," barked one of the guards, his voice sharp and commanding.

Alaric sighed theatrically, raising his hand in surrender as he stepped forward. "Such persistence," he mused, his tone dripping with mock amusement. The guards moved quickly, one of them snapping cuffs around his wrists. The iron clamped tightly, but Alaric didn't flinch. Instead, he tilted his head toward Eric, his voice dropping low enough for only him to hear. "Don't do anything stupid."

Eric's teeth ground together as he watched the guards shove Alaric forward, dragging him toward the door. His body trembled with suppressed rage, every fiber of him screaming to attack, to tear the guards apart like he had the others. But Alaric's calm, almost mocking, demeanor held him back.

Eric's fists relaxed, but his glare could've burned a hole through stone. He followed a step behind, his movements tense and deliberate. The guards exchanged wary glances but said nothing as Eric trailed them like a shadow.

As they entered the brightly lit chamber, two guards grabbed Eric by the arms, yanking him to the side. He growled in protest, trying to pull free, but their grip was ironclad. Alaric, cuffed and silent, was led further into the room.

"Where the hell do you take him?" Eric snarled, his voice echoing off the sterile walls.

The guards didn't answer, and Alaric didn't so much as glance back. His expression was unreadable, his calm demeanor unshaken as if none of this concerned him in the slightest. That look—cold, distant—made Eric's chest burn.

"Alaric!" Eric shouted, his voice raw with fury.

Still, no reaction. Alaric walked forward without hesitation, his steps eerily steady. The sight of him, so composed, so utterly detached, made something inside Eric snap.

The guards forced Eric toward a separate section of the room, his struggling making their task more difficult. He thrashed and cursed, his rage pouring out like a storm. "Don't turn your back on me!"

Alaric was ushered into another corridor, his figure disappearing behind a heavy door that slid shut with a hollow thud. The sound echoed in Eric's ears like a death knell.

With a guttural roar, Eric wrenched one arm free, elbowing one of the guards in the face. The man staggered back, blood spurting from his nose, but before Eric could press the advantage, another guard drove a baton into his gut.

Eric doubled over, gasping, but the physical pain was nothing compared to the searing ache in his chest. He wasn't sure why it hurt so much—Alaric's apathy, his refusal to acknowledge Eric's fury, his emotionless surrender to their captors. It was like being abandoned, left behind in a fight he thought they were facing together.

The guards shoved him into a separate holding cell, the door slamming shut behind him. Eric staggered to his feet, his breathing ragged. The small, barren room felt like a cage, but the worst part was the silence. Alaric was gone.

Eric slammed his fist into the wall, the impact reverberating up his arm. "Damn you, Alaric!" he roared, his voice raw with frustration and pain. "Damn you for not caring!"

______

Alaric followed the guards, his hands still cuffed in front of him. The cold metal bit into his skin, but he didn't so much as flinch. Instead, his eyes flicked to the walls, the corners, and the small, unguarded details of the facility he'd never seen before.

They weren't taking the usual route to the doctor's sterile chamber. No, this was different.

"A detour? I didn't realize my presence warranted a tour."

"Keep walking," one of the guards barked, but Alaric didn't miss the nervous glance exchanged between them.

Alaric's interest piqued. The guards didn't stop to explain. They pressed on, dragging him forward, but Alaric made sure to take everything in. Every door, every sound, every faint scent of fear that lingered in the air.

"I have to admit," he said, breaking the silence again, "this little tour is almost entertaining,at least I don't get to see the doctor so soon."

The guard on his left muttered something under his breath, but Alaric caught it. "Arrogant bastard."

Alaric chuckled, low and menacing. "Arrogance is only a fault if it's unwarranted. In my case, it's merely an acknowledgment of fact."

As they reached the end of the corridor, a door slid open with a hiss. Beyond it was a room bathed in warm light.

The guards shoved Alaric into the room without a word, the heavy door slamming shut behind him with a metallic clang. He stumbled slightly but caught himself, brushing nonexistent dust from his cuffs. When he turned to examine his new surroundings, his brows raised in genuine surprise for the first time in ages.

The room was... pleasant.

Compared to the frigid cells and sterile labs he'd grown accustomed to, this space felt almost luxurious. A plush chair sat in the corner, upholstered in soft, warm fabric that looked untouched. A low table stood in the center, polished to a sheen, and the walls weren't the usual cold metal but a soft gray, adorned with abstract art pieces in muted tones. There was even a bookshelf, its shelves lined with an assortment of leather-bound books and trinkets that gave the space an oddly lived-in feel.

A lamp on a side table cast a warm, golden glow over the room, and in the corner, there was a small kitchenette with a sink and a single burner stove. The air didn't carry the usual stale, chemical scent of the facility but instead smelled faintly of citrus and cedar.

"Well, this is unexpected," Alaric muttered, his voice dripping with curiosity.

He strode toward the bookshelf first, his hand trailing along the spines of the books. His fingers paused on one, a thick volume with a title embossed in gold, and he pulled it free. Flipping it open, he let the pages flutter, revealing faded text and intricate illustrations. Alaric snorted, unimpressed, and tossed the book onto the table with a thud.

Next, he moved to the chair, running his fingers over the fabric. He pressed down experimentally, testing its softness, before sitting down. It was comfortable—too comfortable. That alone made him suspicious.

"Are they trying to bribe me? Lull me into complacency?" he mused aloud, the sound of his voice filling the otherwise silent room. He leaned back in the chair, staring at the ceiling for a moment.

He chuckled darkly, stepping back and surveying his destruction. Let them come. Whatever game they were playing, Alaric would play it better.

The door opened with a faint hiss, the sound barely registering to Alaric as he lounged lazily in the armchair, legs stretched out, his hands still bound but resting casually in his lap. His gaze stayed fixed on a crack in the ceiling, utterly indifferent to whoever had decided to enter.

The soft shuffle of footsteps caught his ear, followed by a small gasp. Slowly, Alaric shifted his eyes toward the intruder.

A petite woman stood in the doorway, her graying hair loosely tied back, her green eyes bright and wide behind thin-rimmed glasses. Her freckled face seemed to light up with something between shock and elation as she clasped her hands to her mouth, trembling slightly.

"Alaric," she whispered, her voice thick with emotion.

Alaric raised an eyebrow, his expression skeptical but unreadable. He didn't recognize her, though the way she whispered his name—softly, reverently—sent a strange, uncomfortable ripple through him.

Before he could speak, the woman stepped forward, her movements tentative, as though afraid he might disappear. She stopped a few feet away and sank to her knees, her hands trembling as they reached for his face.

"Alaric," she repeated, her voice breaking. "It's you. It's really you."

Her hands, cool and soft, cupped his face with a tenderness that felt utterly foreign to him. She stared into his eyes, tears pooling in her own, her fingers brushing against the curve of his jaw and the sharp angles of his cheekbones as if she were committing every detail to memory.

Alaric blinked, his brows knitting slightly. He didn't recoil, but his body stiffened under her touch. The overwhelming affection in her gaze unsettled him, and yet, something about her presence kept him still.

"You're alive," she whispered, her voice trembling as tears spilled down her freckled cheeks. "After all this time… I thought they'd—" She stopped, her words catching in her throat as she stroked his face lovingly, her thumbs tracing gentle lines over his skin.

Alaric tilted his head slightly, his usual arrogance giving way to curiosity. His sharp blue eyes studied her face, searching for a clue—any clue—that might explain who she was or why she was acting as though he were the second coming.

"Do I know you?" he asked finally, his tone flat but laced with mild intrigue.

The woman laughed softly, the sound tinged with disbelief and sadness. "You don't remember me," she murmured, more to herself than to him. Her hands didn't falter, though, as they continued to cradle his face. "Of course, you wouldn't. It's been so long."

Alaric's lips curled into a faint smirk, his confidence returning despite the odd situation. "Care to enlighten me, then?"

She didn't answer right away. Instead, she looked at him as though he were something precious, something she'd spent years searching for. Her voice, barely above a whisper, finally broke the silence.

"I'm Eleanor," she said, her voice soft but steady. "I—" She hesitated, swallowing hard as if the words were too heavy to speak. "I was there… before. Before everything fell apart."

Alaric's smirk faltered ever so slightly, his gaze narrowing as her words tugged at something buried deep in his memory. Before he could question her further, Eleanor leaned forward, pressing her forehead gently against his. Her tears dripped onto his skin, warm and silent, as she held him as though he were the only thing anchoring her to the world.

"I'm afraid you have me at a disadvantage," he said smoothly, his voice laced with mockery. "You seem to know me, but I don't recall ever meeting you. Care to explain, Eleanor?"

The woman froze, her hands stilling against his face. Her expression shifted, her joy dimming into something more solemn, though the tenderness in her touch remained.

"You wouldn't remember," she said softly, her voice heavy with regret. "Not after what you did."

Alaric arched a brow, his interest piqued despite himself. "What I did?"

Eleanor nodded slowly, her green eyes locking onto his with an intensity that bordered on haunting. She leaned back slightly, letting her hands fall to her lap, though her gaze never wavered.

"I was forced to imprison you," she began, her voice steady but tinged with an undercurrent of pain. "I didn't want to, but I had no choice. My coven… Selene…" She trailed off, her voice catching.

Alaric's smirk deepened, his sharp features lighting up with contempt. "Selene," he repeated, letting the name roll off his tongue. "The witch."

Eleanor flinched, her hands curling into fists in her lap. Her reaction only seemed to amuse Alaric further, his smirk growing as he leaned forward, his bound hands resting on his knees.

"And what about you?" he continued, his tone mocking.

Eleanor's jaw tightened, but she didn't look away. "I'm her mother," she said quietly, her words cutting through the room like a blade.

Alaric froze, the smirk slipping from his face as he processed her words. For a moment, silence hung between them, heavy and charged.

"You're lying," he said finally, though his voice lacked its usual confidence because that would only mean one thing.

"I wish I were," Eleanor replied, her voice trembling slightly. "I tried to find you after you escaped but she wouldn't let me…" She paused, closing her eyes as though trying to block out the memory. "When you slaughtered them all, you didn't stop at the coven. You killed me, too."

Alaric leaned back in his chair, his expression unreadable as he studied her. "If I killed you," he said slowly, "then how are you sitting here, alive and well?"

Eleanor's lips curved into a sad smile. "Magic," she said simply. "A curse, a blessing… call it whatever you want. When you took my life, you tied me to my daughter ,she hold my life in her hands as she pleases .My magic could only do so much. To you. I was forced to watch as they bound you, as they stripped you of everything you once were. And now…" She gestured to the room around them. "Here we are."

Alaric's eyes narrowed, his mind racing as he tried to piece together her story. Part of him wanted to dismiss her as another deluded fool, but there was something in her voice, in the way she looked at him, that gave him pause.

"And what exactly do you want from me, Eleanor?" he asked, his tone colder now.

Eleanor's gaze softened, her hands reaching out as though to touch him again, but she stopped herself. "I don't want anything from you," she said. "I only want you to remember. To understand what you've done."

Alaric's smirk returned, colder and sharper than before. "I remember plenty," he said, his voice dripping with venom. "And if I killed you once, Eleanor, you should pray I don't get the chance to do it again."

Eleanor didn't flinch this time. Instead, she smiled—a small, sad smile.

"You've already killed me, Alaric," she said softly. "What more could you possibly take?"

Alaric's eyes sharpened, a glimmer of recognition flashing across his face as he leaned forward, his voice laced with a dark edge. "You've got a daughter," he said with a sneer. "I could take her, you know. That might be something worth remembering."

Eleanor's expression remained unchanged, her green eyes distant and tired. She didn't recoil, didn't react with fear. Instead, she looked at him as though the threat meant nothing.

"If it will make you happy," she said softly, her voice devoid of any real emotion.

Alaric blinked, a sense of confusion creeping into him. Why wasn't she reacting? Why wasn't she afraid? His thoughts were interrupted as something deep within his memory stirred—something buried, something that made his blood run cold.

He suddenly remembered—Eleanor's face, her eyes full of secrets, her presence looming over him in a way he hadn't fully understood at the time. It all clicked.

She was obsessed with immortality, he thought. He hadn't given it much thought back then, but now… now it made sense.

"You," he whispered, his eyes widening as he looked at her. "I remember. You… You were coveting the secrets of my immortality. That's what you wanted all along, wasn't it?"

Eleanor's eyes flickered with something akin to fear, but she immediately masked it, her expression tightening with resolve. She shook her head, her fingers trembling as they clutched her hands together.

"No," she said quickly, almost frantic. "No, you've got it all wrong, Alaric." She stepped forward, her eyes desperate as she reached out toward him. "You have to listen, Selene doesn't even know I'm here and although I hold some authority around here, once they realise they'll take me away again."

Alaric's heart beat faster, a knot tightening in his chest. His memories felt like a maze, disjointed and unreliable. But this—this—was different. His mind was telling him something had shifted. Something was wrong.

"You wanted it, didn't you?" he insisted, a dark satisfaction growing in his voice. "You wanted to know how I stayed alive—how I never aged. You wanted to use me."

Eleanor's hands went to her face, as though she were holding back the weight of years upon her shoulders. "No, Alaric," she said again, this time with more force. "What you remember… it's all a lie."

Alaric's eyes narrowed, his confusion mounting. "A lie?" he repeated, his tone turning dangerous. "What do you mean, a lie? Everything I remember—everything I know—is real."

Eleanor's eyes searched his, pleading, as if trying to convey a truth that would shatter everything he'd believed. "The sorcerer, Alaric," she whispered, almost too quietly. "The sorcerer who was by your side—he's the one who changed your memories."

Alaric froze, the words settling into him like a poison. The sorcerer. The one who had always been just beyond his reach. He had assumed that everything about his immortality was his own doing, his own power. But now…

"Changed my memories?" he echoed mockingly as if speaking to an idiot.

Eleanor nodded, her voice breaking as she explained, "He's the one who twisted your mind, planted lies in your past, altered your reality that was meant to be me,as your lover. All so you would forget—forget what you really are."