Work Text:
Smoke. Heat.
Andreas falls to his knees, crawling forward. Grabbing at any book he can reach. Codexes. Books of Hours. Whatever there is to take- he has to bring them somewhere untouched by the growing flames.
His life will end, very likely, but it will be doing something worthwhile, and it will be final.
In this, Andreas does find some peace. The roiling chaos of his life will be cut short, no more failures to be weathered, his broken, filth-stained soul put to rest. With a chuckle, he realizes that he has even gone to confession, his sins resolved in the eyes of God. Ah.
It's hot. Stifling. The flames aren't upon him just yet, but from their heat, it might as well be.
"Master Andreas!" comes Caspar's voice, cutting through the heat and smoke.
No. No, Caspar was supposed...
Caspar emerges from the flame and smoke, arms laden with books, dropping to his knees beneath the choking ash.
"Master Andreas! I'm here to help!"
No, no. That-
"I've got these books -- where are you putting them?"
No!
"Caspar, you were supposed to run!" Andreas chokes.
"I couldn't- I just couldn't!" Caspar says, coughing deeply. His voice is raspy, weak.
"You can't die here-" he gasps, grasping Caspar by the shoulders, the books falling to the floor and splaying open, "You were supposed to have a full life. Supposed to be a better artist than me, go back to Salzburg. What about Sebastien? You wanted to see him again!"
"I couldn't leave you alone-" he coughs again, words dying as they leave his mouth, a pallor coming on, "I promised Mistress Maleryn."
And then Caspar is silent, his body falling limp.
“Caspar? Caspar!” Andreas shudders, lurching forward to embrace the slim body of his son.
He doesn’t respond.
Andreas panics, hands flying against his boy’s skin, finding his pulse, his breathing-
It’s shallow. But it’s there.
Andreas, legs and arms weak, ducks under Caspar’s chest.
He will not let this boy die. He won’t. He can’t.
Not again.
Alright. Here we go. Get his legs underneath him. Stand. Stand-
Andreas manages to stand.
He throws his stole around Caspar, keeping the flames from licking his tender face. The hat falls into the flame, the brooch borrowed from his father melting under the heat of the flame.
Okay.
Andreas trudges through the tunnels beneath the abbey, Caspar limp and slung over his back.
Out of the library. Out into the crypt. Then-
The tunnels beneath the abbey.
The air is stale, but not as hot or ashy as it is upstairs. Hot drafts waft in.
Uh. Two tunnels stretch either side. There could be -
No time for indecision. No time to think, even, even though Caspar and he had been in these very tunnels not so long ago.
There was just time to walk, to try and find fresh air.
He trudges. And stumbles. Barely conscious as he goes, breathing labored. But then- here is- the ancient salt mine.
There stands his father, disapproving. "You've picked the wrong way, boy. Should I feign surprise?"
“Father,” Andreas gasps. “I- I didn’t- shit, you’re right. What was I thinking…”
“Fool of a son,” his father says, eyes icy. “Are you going to ruin that boy’s life too?”
Something stokes within his breast. Rankles there, festered and rotten over the years.
“I- No,” he bites, "I am taking care of him. Of my boy. He is my ward -- he is my son. And I will protect him from all harm, as you never did for me."
The image of his father, always stern and biting, falls silent.
"I don't have time for this," curses Andreas, "Live your life, father, since mine is forfeit to you."
He turns, hefting Caspar higher on his shoulder. The boy is still breathing, but it’s shallow, labored. It wheezes in his chest.
Alright. Andreas heads another direction.
The smoke and ash cloud his head. It’s harder and harder to think-
Oh.
Here is the cloister's kitchen. There sits his wife, above the grating and looking down.
"Andreas," she murmurs softly.
"Sabine," he gasps.
"This isn't the right way," she says, slipping down through the grating.
"Oh. Okay-" he panics, looking around-
"Andreas?" She reaches out, ghostly fingertips brushing his cheek, "It's okay. You'll take care of Caspar. You've always been such a good father, even when you were scared."
He breathes deeply. Tries to calm his breathing. It’s musty and damp, but it’s still better than smoke and ash.
"I never felt it."
"You were wonderful. A perfect husband, a marvelous father. August loved you every day of his life."
Andreas ducks his head, fighting the sting of tears.
“Help me save our boy,” he implores.
Sabine smiles, ghosting her lips against his cheek.
“Follow the fresh air.”
Of course, he thinks as he begins to walk quicker, Fresh air means out. Fresh air means the sky, the grass. Fresh air means…
The meadow.
On a low rock, there sits his son, smiling gently. A circle young Paul had traced in chalk sits behind August’s little head, like a halo.
“Hello, little boy,” he murmurs, coughing again at the sudden fresh air. It may be summer, but the night air is cool, and his son glows like starlight.
“Daddy,” his son smiles, “You made it!”
And the boy hugs his leg, before running off, saying, “Tag! You’re it, daddy!”
Andreas laughs gently. It had been so many years since he had run – but now he does, chasing after the little beam of starlight that was his son’s ghost.
The little boy’s ghosts dissipates on the road leading up to town, where a gruesome sight awaits them.
Andreas recoils at the sight of it all, the bodies of his friends and neighbors laying there, the women of the town ministering to them best as they can. Clara Gertneryn sits on the ground, praying over Peter’s body. It is not surprising, but the sight of his host’s body lying in the earth… it doesn’t feel good.
Agnes Steinaueryn stands above all, guiding each hand. Werner, now nursing a black eye, helps to administer poultices and clean wrappings.
“Agnes!” he cries, “Help!”
Agnes turns, scrutinizing the source of the voice, before landing on Andreas’s face- and staring.
"Please," Andreas gasps, "please help this boy -- help my son!"
Agnes stares, a snarl rising to her lips. Werner gapes, a sudden hope, a sudden light in his eyes.
"How many others have lost their sons tonight," Agnes sneers.
“Yes- but-”
Andreas steps closer – Werner downright flinches, as if he’s seeing a ghost.
“Please, Agnes. I know you’re not hard-hearted. I don’t care about myself, but please. Please help this boy.”
Werner reaches to her, resting a hand on her arm. Something unspoken passes between them, something that must have transpired in the last few hours.
"Fine," she hisses. "This whole- everything! Is your fault, Andreas Maler- but I cannot let another young man die because of it. Bring him here!"
-
Caspar thinks he smells burning.
Weakly, he reaches to tap Master Andreas, tell him to blow out the candle- or else to pause his writing for the night. He's tired, his back and shoulders nagging, his face painful.
He opens his eyes.
He doesn't recognize the ceiling.
It's not the Golden Hand. It's not the Gertners' home.
The bed is comfortable.
But he hurts, admittedly. His face, and his hands especially. He turns to look around, but his skin aches as he does, so he doesn’t look far. There are shelves, he sees, and instruments of some kind, but other than that, the ache is too much. To his surprise, he does wake into sunlight. It’s a much gentler light than the fire that raged inside the library.
After a moment, Caspar coughs, a rasping, rattling cough.
Into Caspar’s field of vision pops the head of his master, curls tousled and face ashy and ashen.
His eyes look as though he is Christ risen from the dead, filled with emotion and worry.
"Master Andreas?" Caspar murmurs, weakly. "I- what? What happened?"
Andreas gapes, reaching a hand out. When his hand touches Caspar's cheek, fingers light on the skin there…
Caspar winces. “That hurts.”
Andreas weeps.
"Oh, my sweet boy. My boy."
"I... Oh, Master Andreas, everything hurts..."
"I know, my brave child, my darling," Andreas sobs, "You ran into the Abbey's flames to save me. And you did, my wonderful student.”
“Oh. Then I’m- I got burnt.”
“Yes, love, but not so much. Mistress Steinaueryn and Doctor Stolz have been taking care of you. It’ll ache for a while, but you’ll be right as rain.”
“But why did…” Caspar pauses, never sure how to put this, how to navigate all this. He doesn’t know how to put it in the letters to Mistress Maleryn, to explain that as much as he tries Andreas may never come back… “How did you survive?”
"I couldn't... You needed help. I couldn’t just leave you. I saw you faint and I was spurred by a sudden emotion, a need to help you."
“But you could have… gone, after that.”
“You would have been sad if I had,” Andreas smiles. It’s still tragic on the edges, but the warmth of it is overwhelming.
“You were right,” Caspar warbles, “Can you hug me, Master Andreas? It hurts to move.”
“Won’t it hurt?” Andreas asks, reaching to stroke his hair – the only part of him not currently painful.
“Yeah…” Caspar cries, the cool of his tears nice on his cheeks, “But I want a hug.”
“Okay then,” he murmurs, “You shall have your hug. And anything else you want.”
“I love you, Master Andreas,” he murmurs, as Andreas wraps his arms around his fragile shoulders.
“I love you too, my little son.”