Rest, or Something Like It
Vincent exhaled as he put down his pen. He had any number of other ways to organize his schedule, but every so often the simplicity of paper and ink was reassuring. School, work with Kristoff (including ongoing research into Kassia's friend's affliction), self-study in magic until Mistress Jennifer chose to interpose herself into his education again (he was still her apprentice, after all), tutoring to pick up some spare cash that was truly his own, and then finally, free time.
Free time that was already the subject of an algorithim to determine 'fair' distribution between his 'family' in the building, Shanna's continued acclimation to Earthen culture, his budding friendship with Mackenzie (along with further patching of the wound to it he'd managed to inflict), a few other friends, and, most notably now, Asleif.
All of which was subject to interruption at any time for Fantastic or Asgardian business, or whatever other sort of peril crossed his path. Oof. Still, it was a different life than he used to lead, even if that makes it sound like a much more dramatic change than it really was. He put the papers aside for the night and went to bed.
He was vaguely aware of his surroundings. He was wearing his mage robes, and working on something or other in his reserved space, tomes, potions, and parts scattered about. A voice came over his shoulder, even though the room was empty, which wasn't terribly jarring. Even besides the building's comm systems, he had any number of slightly uppity tomes that occasionally threw their two bits in. Although none so uppity as that oracle he'd left unfinished, and gifted to Asleif.
"What are you going to be when you grow up, Mister Vernard?"
"I'm going to--" Vincent replied, then stopped as he realized he didn't have an answer. As he mulled over his various scientific and magical strengths for a moment, formulating a response, the voice continued.
"You have no idea, do you? A pity, when all those close to you have such bright and clear futures.
Valeria will chart new corners of reality, and Franklin will safeguard them. Andrea has her prince and will grow away, for it is the nature of that which becomes human to move on. The children of Thor and Hrimhari will wage battles and make decisions that will shake the roots of the World Tree. You already see how they outpace you. Kristoff will have his kingdom, to rule more wisely than you ever could, if you were ever brave enough to try. More than that, he has his wife and children of his own, now. What need, want, or use will he have for an ungrateful child, not of his blood?
There is no bright future for you, son of a witch and a tyrant. You will die, in fire and steel, for the sake of a pillar of stone, for nothing. No appointment to glory and honor, nor even the power to protect those you imagine to love, awaits thee. No rank or title, no warrior's death awaits. You will die as you scream and beg for mercy, and none will mourn your miserable passing."
Vincent turned around to protest to whatever was speaking to him, but only found himself facing his work table again. He couldn't quite make out what his current project was. "That's not true... Kristoff is my family. He loves me. He--"
"He has never loved you. He has only thought it terribly appropriate to love you... his master's son by blood."
"Stop..."
"What right do you have to speak of love, half-blood? There is no love in you. All who live, mortal or god, are assets or enemies. You 'loved' Andrea only because you felt superior to her in your body and soul of flesh. Now you hitch your star to Asleif's because you covet power and attention. A sad little child crying out for recognition."
"I was recognized... the All-Father restored me and swore me in as one of the Golden Realm's own..."
"You were cannon-fodder to be scraped from the bottom of the barrel. You are nothing but an amusement to those who are truly gods. Your flesh bruises, you are as a child in body to them, and your arcane learnings are parlor tricks to those steeped in the divine spark...
You will search for yourself, Vincent Half-breed; and you will find nothing..."
"STOP IT!" Vincent overturned his work-table, the focus of his attentions falling to the floor and shattering, even as he still could not see it.
He sits up, catching his breath, and running a hand over his face.
"It... it was a dream." Vincent reassured himself, before getting out of bed and wandering to the bathroom. He washed his face, and looked into the mirror. There were some flecks in his scar. He brushed at them, but they persisted. He brushed harder, and his skin began to flake off. Unable to stop himself, he continued tearing away the brittle flesh, battered and tempered iron framing a still jaw and bloodshot eye coming into view.
"It is time for you to be who you were born to be..." The mirror shattered as a gauntlet came through it, reaching for him.
There is a thud against reinforced flooring as Vincent, gasping, falls out of bed. He looks around, and his hand comes to rest on a notepad on the floor. On it, the words of the first dream are already transcribed.
He fumbles for the phone on his nightstand and calls Doctor Samson to schedule an appointment as soon as possible, then, after as much internal deliberation as he can sit still for, he leaves his room to go see if Kristoff is awake.
